The atmosphere in the Hummel-Hudson household was bleak. The small living room was overflowing with people; the twins had been sent upstairs to their bedroom while the adults attempted to come to terms with the day's events. Carole, scared and uncertain, had begun to make tea that nobody wanted to drink. A scattering of mismatched mugs and cups sat untouched on the coffee table, as cold as the silence that filled the room. Burt was tapping his foot awkwardly against the carpeted floor.
Kurt sat in an armchair by himself, twisting his hands anxiously in his lap. He looked like the bottom had fallen out of his world. Sam hovered uncertainly at his shoulder, uncomfortable but unwilling to abandon the other man. Across the room from them, scarlet beneath Sam's accusatory gaze, Finn sat on the sofa next to Rachel. Tina and Mercedes stood in the middle of it all, looking lost for words. They were in no-man's land, caught somewhere between believing Blaine to be innocent and vilifying him.
"Where are the others?" Tina asked Mercedes in an undertone, breaking the silence. Sam and Rachel's gaze flickered towards them, but neither Finn nor Kurt seemed to notice.
"Quinn and Mike both went home," said Mercedes. "Puck's at his place, I think, and Artie brought Britt back to Santana's."
"Was that a good idea?"
"I don't know," Mercedes sighed with a hopeless shrug of her shoulders. "I think Brittany just wants to be close to Santana, or at least what's left of her."
"And what about... you know..."
"No sign of him. The police have got an alert out though."
"What's the point?" Kurt snapped from his seat, a hysterical note filtering through his voice. "Everyone's already convinced that Blaine and Jesse did it, aren't they? Why don't they just toss them in the electric chair and have done with it? That'd do the trick, right Finn?"
"Kurt," Rachel said softly, beseechingly.
"No, Rachel!" said Kurt, his voice unnaturally loud. "Finn's so sure that they did it, why not go the whole hog? It's not like there's even the slightest chance that they're innocent, is it Finn?"
A lone tear trickled down his cheek as he glared at his step-brother, breathing heavily with exertion. The expression on his face was terrible, a chilling mixture of hurt betrayal and cold fury. Sam glanced from one man to the other, an action mimicked by both Rachel and the brothers' parents. Tina and Mercedes merely fidgeted awkwardly. Finn had the decency to look ashamed, and opened his mouth to retaliate when a loud beeping noise rang out in the small space. Kurt sprang to attention like a hunting hound, and a flicker of fear crossed Rachel's face as she gripped her fiancée's hand in a white-knuckled grasp.
"Sorry," Sam muttered, hastily fishing his cell phone from his pocket. "Maddie's probably wondering why I haven't called..."
He glanced at the screen in bemusement, however; the number was unfamiliar. Hesitantly, he accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear.
"Uh- hello?"
"S-sam?"
"Quinn?" Sam asked incredulously. He would, of course, recognise her voice in a heartbeat. But the tone was unfamiliar to him, shaky and almost frightened. "Quinn, are you OK?"
"Wh- oh yes, yes I'm fine," she replied distractedly. "I'm... Sam, I'm at Puck's. I wanted to stop by, see if he was OK , but he's not in a good headspace. I'm sort of freaking out over here, he's acting really erratic and I was just wondering if... I mean, you two were such good friends back in high school... and he just needs someone here, and I can't do it by myself and-"
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Sam interrupted her shortly. "Hold tight Quinn, don't let him do anything stupid."
"Thanks Sam. See you soon."
Sam hung up and instantly became aware of seven pairs of eyes locked on him.
"It's Puck, he's having some sort of freakout. Quinn needs help. Dude," he said hesitantly, patting Kurt's shoulder. "Will you be OK here?"
"Go take care of Puck," Carole piped up. "We can handle things here."
Sam nodded gratefully. "Call me if you hear anything," he tossed over his shoulder, grabbing his car keys. The door slammed behind him, leaving the others locked in uncertainty. Kurt caught Mercedes' eye with a hint of his old high school mischief.
"Lady Lips still has it bad," he murmured with a ghost of a smile. A short, startled bark of laughter escaped Mercedes, and it was the beginning of the flood. Perhaps it was the hysteria of the situation, but soon they were all laughing, animosity forgotten. Finn and Burt's low bass laughter harmonised with the gentler tinkling giggles of the girls, Kurt's wry chuckle landing somewhere in the middle.
And then a phone rang again.
Kurt wiped a tear of mirth from his eye and answered his cell phone.
"Hello?" he answered lightly. There was a long, tense pause as the caller spoke in a spit-fire monologue. At once, the colour drained from his face and trembles began to erupt through his body.
"Thank you," he whispered shakily, and hung up. He stared down at the phone for a moment before remembering himself and then turned his gaze on Finn. "Looks like you were wrong," he said quietly, getting unsteadily to his feet. "Blaine's in hospital. He's been shot."
/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/
Artie sat hopelessly in his chair in the doorway of Santana Lopez's bedroom. His wife was sprawled across the comforter in a heap, a nightshirt clutched to her chest. She lay perfectly still, with her back to him, but Artie could hear the soft snuffling of her sobs, muffled slightly by the material of the comforter.
"Britt," he said gently, wheeling inches closer to her. "Britt baby, you need to get out of here, it's not healthy."
"She was a good mom," Brittany said in a quiet, broken voice that made Artie's heart twinge painfully in his chest.
"I know she was Britt."
"What'll happen to Carmen now?"
"I- I don't know. She'll stay with family for a while, I guess."
"San didn't like it when Carmen had to go away."
"It's like you said, she was a good mom."
"But now Santana has to go away," Brittany whispered, hugging her best friend's nightshirt closer to her. Artie wheeled himself right into the room and up against the bed. He reached out a hand and stroked Brittany's long blonde hair, spilling down the nape of her neck and across the dark red comforter.
"Yeah Britt, she does," he sighed heavily. Brittany pulled herself upright almost grudgingly, and her eyes were misty with tears. She threaded her fingers into Artie's and tilted her body towards him.
"I'll miss her," she whispered hoarsely, brokenly. Artie couldn't find the right words to give her comfort; he simply nodded gently and allowed her to draw solace from his touch. He wasn't quite sure how long they sat like that, unspeaking and grieving in the dead woman's bedroom, but eventually he became aware of the noise of fist on wood. Somebody was at the door.
"I'll get it," he said tenderly, releasing Brittany's hand and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She gave a sad, sleepy smile. "You should try to get some sleep Britt."
She nodded, and as Artie wheeled out to Santana's front door Brittany laid her head down on her best friend's pillow and closed her eyes, slipping into a dreamless, emotionally exhausted slumber. She didn't hear the commotion outside the door, or the loud clattering noise.
She didn't see the dark figure standing over her either, or the photograph in its gloved hand.
/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/
"Quinn?" Sam called cautiously as he climbed the stairs to Puck's apartment. No response. As he neared the door, he realised with a stirring of unease that it was open. "Quinn? Puck? It's me, Sam."
There was still no reply. Sam gulped and quickened his pace. A small voice at the back of his mind, which sounded suspiciously like Rachel, was telling him that he wasn't supposed to worry about Quinn anymore, that he was with Maddie now. But Sam couldn't help the quickening of his pulse as he neared the door; maybe he was just on edge after what had happened to Santana, but he didn't like the idea of Quinn in danger. Of Quinn scared, like she had been on the phone.
But it was just because of Santana.
"Puck, bro are you here?" Sam called as he stepped across the threshold. Nobody answered him, but when he stood still he could hear sounds coming from inside the apartment. Crying, unintelligible murmuring, the shattering of glass.
"Puck, please..."
Quinn.
Quinn pleading. Quinn afraid. Quinn.
Sam dashed to the door of the bedroom he knew to be Puck's. His breath hitched in his chest as he gripped the doorknob in a sweaty fist and pushed the door open. For a moment he stood framed in the doorway, breathing heavily, as he surveyed the scene before him.
Quinn was standing with her back to him, arms held out in front of. Her shoulders were shaking, and Sam knew immediately that she was crying. She turned to him, her cheeks pale and tear-stained, and made a hopeless little gesture to the figure by the window.
Puck stood swaying, gazing down at the street below with a hollow, deadened gaze. Even from the door, Sam could smell the sharp scent of alcohol, and he guessed that Puck must have had much more than the glass of whiskey in BreadstiX. He was holding a red bra in his hands, and the scene would have seemed sleazy had it not been for the agony which clearly coursed through him. He took no notice of either Quinn or Sam, merely pressing his cheek to the cold glass and taking another slug from the bottle perched on the sill next to him.
"Puck," the blonde woman repeated, a tremor in her voice. "Puck, won't you come back to my place? Just for tonight at least?"
"I'm fine here," he replied, and the quiet lack of emotion in his voice chilled Sam more effectively than Quinn's voice on the phone earlier.
"You're not fine," Quinn persisted, whirling around to Sam with a look of desperation marring her pretty features. "Sam, tell him!"
"Dude, Quinn's right," Sam said in a soft voice.
"I'm fine here," repeated Puck.
"I don't think you are, man," Sam said reasonably. He moved slowly across the room, towards Puck. The other man's face remained surly, stony, but the closer Sam got the more sure he was that he could see despair shrouded somewhere in the hardness in Puck's eyes. "Come on, just one night. Just so Quinn feels better, you know what a mother hen she is."
Puck's gaze slid edgily to Quinn, looking imploringly at him. For a moment he just looked at her, and then he shook his head as though dislodging a pesky fly.
"No, no I can't. I-I just wanna be alone Evans."
"I know you do man, but we can't just leave you here. You can go to Quinn's, and just stay in the guest room all night if you want."
"Of course," Quinn nodded eagerly. "You don't even have to talk to me if you don't want to."
"Neither of you get it," Puck sighed heavily. He turned his body slowly, tiredly, so that he was facing the pair of them fully. "I just want to feel close to her, and here's the only place I can do it. I wanted to go to her place, but I-I couldn't do it. Britt's there, and I think if I saw her I'd just... I'd lose it altogether. So I just want to stay here, where I can remember her the way I want to. In my arms, sleepin'. Peaceful, you know? Human. And making me human. 'Cos when she lay in that bed with me, I could feel, really feel. And I have to hold onto that memory, because if I don't I don't think I'll ever feel properly again. She's the one who made me feel, and I never told her that. And now she-she's gone, and I'm scared, Evans. I'm scared that if I forget how to feel, I'll forget her."
Sam and Quinn stood stock still, staring. Neither of them had ever heard Puck speak so much, or with such raw emotion. The dead look in his eyes was gone, but what replaced it was worse. His brown eyes were wild with emotion and he was gasping for breath, clutching Santana's bra to his chest as though he was holding himself together with it. The whole thing became too much for Quinn, who brushed past Sam and ran to Puck, enveloping him in a tearful embrace. The two of them were crying now, and Sam felt close to tears himself. He watched dumbly as Quinn held Puck to her, the pair of them shaking with suppressed emotion. Puck buried his face in Quinn's pale blue blouse, shuddering and gasping for air. Quinn glanced at Sam over their former classmate's shaven head, the expression on her face pained and lost. Her face screamed "Help me. Help me help him."
It was this, rather than Puck himself, that shook Sam into action.
"Dude," he said hoarsely. "How about a compromise? We can stop by Santana's place on the way to Quinn's, OK? You can take as long as you like there, and we'll be with you the whole time, so you won't freak out. Then you can stay in Quinn's guest room, so you won't be alone."
"We won't let you forget her Puck," Quinn said with quiet determination. She took his chin and gently forced it upwards with a sad smile. "We won't. We'll help you to hold onto her."
Puck nodded slowly, swiping at his red, swollen eyes. He looked almost like a small child lost in the supermarket without his mom.
"OK," he whispered shakily. "OK."
Relief washed over Quinn's face and she beamed at Sam as he came to take one of Puck's arms. The other man looked almost ashamed as, lethargic with grief, he let Quinn and Sam take most of his weight and steer him out of the apartment.
Together they slid him into the back seat of Sam's car. Quinn leaned in and fastened his seat belt before turning to Sam.
"Can I ride up front with you?" she asked hoarsely. "I-I can't look at that face."
Sam nodded wordlessly and the pair of them slid into the front seats. Sam silenced the radio and pulled away from the kerb. They had been driving a little under five minutes when a small hand slid over his on the gearstick and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"Thanks for this," Quinn said quietly. She looked awkward, uncertain. They had left things on such bad terms when they broke up, but now after all these years, they had been thrown back together. She bit her lip, not knowing how Sam would react to this tentative olive branch. Sam smiled slightly and squeezed her hand in return.
"Any time. Haven't I always used to come running when you needed help?"
"I guess so," Quinn said quietly. She glanced into the back seat, where Puck was dozing fitfully. "It's good to see you again Sam."
Sam paused for a moment, considering what she had just said. He wasn't quite sure how to react. After a couple of minutes of tense silence, he shot a glance sideways at Quinn, who looked apprehensive.
"I- it's good to see you too," he said finally. "I- missed you."
The pair of them smiled shyly and Quinn squeezed his hand again. In the backseat, Puck shouted out in his sleep and the pair pulled their hands away guiltily. Quinn looked out the window, a dull flush creeping across her full cheeks.
"We're here," she said softly. "Wait here with Puck, will you? I'll just go make sure that it's- OK to bring him in there."
Sam nodded and she clambered out of the car. She paused for a moment outside the door and then stuck her head back inside the car.
"Sam?" she said tentatively. "I missed you too."
Before he could reply, she had disappeared again, trotting along in her kitten heels. Sam swivelled around in his seat to check on Puck. The other man had woken up, and he gave Sam a knowing look with tired eyes. The pair of them sat there in silence, not certain of what they should say to each other, awaiting Quinn's return. After a couple of minutes, Sam began to feel a prickle of anxiety. Where was she?
And then he heard the scream.
He wasn't sure which of them moved first, but then both he and Puck were hurtling from the car, sprinting towards the apartment block.
"Quinn!" Sam hollered. "Quinn!"
They found her in the doorway, huddled in on herself and hyperventilating. She didn't say a word, just pointed a shaky hand behind her. Her face was deathly pale, and it was with trepidation that Sam moved past her, Puck on his heels.
Sam gagged. Puck swore under his breath.
Artie Abrams lay at the foot of the stairs, spread-eagled. A trickle of blood ran from his ear and his glasses were broken. His chair lay a couple of feet away, a mangled mess of metal. His face was contorted with panic and his eyes stared without seeing. A photo lay by his right hand, a snapshot of Artie and Mr Schue in matching wheelchairs taken after the Proud Mary performance. Artie's face had been scribbled out in red Sharpie.
"Brittany," Puck whispered. Something in Sam stirred and the pair of them took off up the stairs, feet pounding against the old wood. They burst through the open apartment door. Sam paused, uncertain about where to go, but Puck made his way to Santana's bedroom without skipping a beat. Sam almost ran into him, frozen in the doorway.
Brittany sat on Santana's bed, blindfolded, gagged and with her hands and feet bound. On the wall behind her, a message was daubed in red paint.
NOT JUST YET.
/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/
A/N: Apologies (once again) for the lack of updates. Things are just crazy right now, but in a month or so college will finish up and then I'll have loads more free time. Thanks to everyone who's sticking with me, even though I take so long between posts.
Special thanks to those who have reviewed since the last chapter: Em'sPride, swimgirl822, Tinkerbell220, One Fine Wire, xXGleekFreakXx, AngieHM, FireApe, hpfanandgleekx, ajp2281, TheBestDamnThing96, melandra, Lycoris B, laura and M.S. Nyde. I really appreciate the positive feedback!
I'd still love to hear thoughts on who the killer is, and who you want to see survive (or die, if you're feeling particularly vicious...)!
Thanks for reading!