Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf or any of its characters. I only partially own Joanne since she was inspired by a name on The Deadpool, but any other OCs you happen to come across are 100% mine.

"Cloud Atlas End Title" – Tom Tykwer, Johnny Klimek, Reinhold Heil & Gene Pritsker

Chapter 3

Understandably, Joanne had been given a pass from both school and work. She was left alone at the Stilinski house while the Sheriff went to work and Stiles to class. The teen had tried to get out of it, claiming it'd be better if Joanne wasn't left alone. The teen witch had rolled her eyes and scoffed at the notion; as if Stiles would skip school to hang around his house with her. More than likely, he'd ditch her as soon as his father's squad car was out of sight. His father seemed to know that and gave his son a none-too-gentle push out the door, complete with a lecture. After a boring, listless breakfast of toast and bland coffee, Joanne tried to work on her paper but found she lacked inspiration. Every time she tried to start her draft, she remembered that Grams wouldn't be around to proof read it and give her notes. Slamming the MacBook shut, Joanne hopped of her bed in the guest room. This was madness. It was too quiet. There was none of Grams' jazz music playing in the house. Grams wasn't laughing with her colleagues over the phone, and she wasn't clacking on her keyboard as she emailed her students and updated their grades. Joanne didn't just need her grandmother; she needed her home.

She sat up at the realization. Joanne wanted to go home; who said she couldn't go? Throwing on her jean jacket, Joanne jogged down the stairs and hustled out the door to her car. Getting to her house didn't take long, but the sight of the yellow police tape and the wooden board in place of the dining room window was unbearable. She didn't care if any neighbors were watching her sneak under the tape; one couldn't break into their own house, even if it was technically a crime scene. Joanne hadn't really thought about what she was going to do once she was inside. She'd been so focused on going home, on getting back something familiar. Walking around the eerily quiet hallway, passing through the mess in the dining room and trying to ignore the coppery scent of blood. Across from the dining room was the sunroom and that was where she found her salvation.

Joanne sat at the bench with a heavy sigh. She just sat there a moment, starring down at the piano. Taking a deep breath, she carefully lifted the lid. It took her another moment to actually touch the keys and, once she did, it was just barely so. Joanne reverently ran her fingers across the ivory keys and tried not to cry. This was her mom's piano. This was Grams' piano, and her great-grandmothers. This piano was over sixty years old and had so many memories attached to it. Grams told her that her daddy had bought it as a present for her mama back in the 1950s. The Civil Rights movement had steamed ahead and Jim Crow was, while not at an end in most people's minds, at least legally over. Their daughter and her friends could gain an education at a better facility with the white kids. They could ride in any seat they wanted on the bus, even buy a car from the best dealer without being turned away. They could eat at any restaurant they wanted, drink from any water fountain, even buy a house in the nice white neighborhood if they wanted! And her great-grandfather could go into the shop he'd been thrown from two years previously and buy the piano his wife wanted with the money he'd scrimped and saved for her birthday.

This piano carried all the blood, sweat, tears, and joy of her family and now it was Joanne's. It was just hers. There would be no more weekend lessons with Grams to make sure her skill stayed in tip-top shape. There would be no more singing carols at Christmas together. There would be no impromptu jazz concerts. There would be no more music in this house, not without Grams. Joanne's mentor and musical partner, her best friend, was gone and nothing was going to change that. Knowing she was alone and saying it was one thing, but for the reality to actually hit her, in her home, that was so deathly quiet was another. She was alone. No father, no mother, no siblings or cousins or other relatives, and now Grams was gone. She was completely alone. Joanne's eyes welled up and she started to hyperventilate at the realization. She knew she was alone! Logically, she'd known that but it was as if the notion had just run her over like a freight train.

"The great thing about music, Joey, is that, when it hits you – when it really hits you, deep down in your soul – you feel no pain," she heard Grams whisper in the back of her mind.

"No pain…" Joanne whispered. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her eyes clean and set her fingers on the keys.

She started slowly, in C major, and progressed from there. One note at a time, Joanne played the familiar song to will her pain away. Maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn't, but she could pretend at least for a little while. She could hear the strings so clearly in her mind. She sat on the bench, eyes closed, bobbing her head, playing along to the imaginary beat. The strings were in full swing now, sweeping and twirling like a ballerina twirling across a stage. Up and down they went, soft and quiet to full and boisterous. The winds came in next, swaying the ballerina in her mind. The flutes were so sweet sounding, so pure. The strings picked up their pace. Eventually, Joanne began to hum the melody, never loosing track of her place on the keys.

"That's nice." The voice didn't startle her. Joanne had practice of keeping distractions out and her focus solely on the music when she played for too many years to be startled so easily. Perhaps it should have worried her that there was some boy in her house with her but she figured, if he was the guy that attacked that lacrosse player, he wouldn't waste time talking to her. "Did you write it?"

"No. It's from Cloud Atlas," she answered easily, her fingers moving quickly across the keys for the crescendo.

"Never heard of it." She felt the bench move as the person sat next to her, but she didn't let that disrupt her playing. In her mind, she was still in the middle of playing with a grand symphony.

"It's a movie about the continuity of the soul," Joanne murmured. The music was beginning to swell inside her head, the horns and drums loudest of all; it was almost over. "Its about how the actions of individual lives impact one another throughout time. It really focuses on one soul and how it takes different shapes over hundreds of years and, no matter what form that soul takes – friend, lover, stranger – they're always, somehow, reunited with other souls they've touched, with their mate."

"Sounds cool," he speculated. Surprisingly enough, his tone actually confirmed that he was being honest in his declaration. He wasn't just being nice for the sake of being nice. That was different.

"It was…thought provoking." The music quieted in her mind and Joanne played out the last note. She felt calmer, but not better. The pain was still a dull ache that thrummed across her entire body. Opening her eyes, she looked at the person to her right and was surprised to see Scott McCall. "Hi…"

"Hi." Smiling sadly at her, he wondered, "You know you're not supposed to be here, right?" Joanne looked back down at the keys with a shrug and played some random notes.

"Its my house," she retorted stubbornly. "I can come and go as I please." Scott wanted to argue that she couldn't when her house was the scene of a murder that was still under investigation, but thought better of it.

"People are looking for you," he chided.

"I doubt that," Joanne scoffed. Scott informed her that the Sheriff had stopped by the house on his break to check in on her and, when saw she was gone and her phone had been left behind, he'd started a search party. "Search party, right," she muttered sarcastically. "The only person that cares about me is dead." For anyone else, that would've sounded like she was being dramatic for the sake of being dramatic, solely for the attention. But the sad fact was, for Joanne, it was true. At least, to her it was.

"What about your mom?" he wondered curiously. Chuckling mirthlessly, Joanne shook her head and gave her old friend a pointed look.

"Fine. The only person who cares about me and is actually able to do something is dead," she amended with a bitter smile.

"That's not true!" Scott argued. Joanne quirked a brow, as if daring him to continue. "The Sheriff is looking for you. Stiles," he listed easily. "his girlfriend, Malia, Lydia—"

"Lydia Martin?" she questioned, face screwed up skeptically.

"Yeah," Scott insisted, even as she rolled her eyes. "Mom promised to keep an eye out for you at the hospital." Joanne didn't react, knowing that hospitals were always the first informed to look for people on their grounds in missing person cases. "And me," he assured her. "I've been looking for you." Joanne stared at him a moment, perplexed and refusing to believe the boy she'd once been friends with actually cared if she disappeared.

"Mr. Stilinski is looking because my grandmother was murdered and I'm under his protective custody; he's obligated to keep an eye on me," Joanne stated certainly. Scott began to argue but she effectively cut him off, continuing her dissection of his previous assertion. "Stiles is looking because his dad told him to and his girlfriend, who I've never met, would only help because Stiles dragged her along." Scott conceded with a slight nod; he couldn't exactly say she was wrong. "No clue why Lydia Martin cares, but I'm sure it has nothing to do with me personally since she's never deemed me worthy of her time, even when we were six. Sheriff probably asked your mom for help and she, in turn, asked you. Go ahead," she dared, "tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," he immediately countered. Joanne titled her head, pinning him with an all too familiar look. He remembered Grams giving him that same look when he was little a time or two. "I mean, yeah," he stuttered reluctantly, "Sheriff asked us to look for you." Joanne smirked and nodded, turning her attention back to the piano. She'd been right: they hadn't been looking for her because they cared, but because they'd been told to. "But we were already looking for you anyway!" he insisted emphatically.

"Why?" Joanne wondered. Staring him dead in his eyes, she reminded him, "We aren't friends, Scott. We haven't been for a long time." He'd be lying if he said that didn't hurt him. She wasn't entirely wrong, but Joanne was back in his life now – whether she liked it or not – and Scott was bound and determined to keep her around.

"Its not safe for you to be alone right now."

"Because Grams' killer is after me, too, I know." Scott tried to protest but she shook her head. "Sheriff tries to act like that's not his concern, but I'm not dumb. Killer sent me a text to lure me back here. I was her target as much as Grams was."

"If you know that there's a killer after you, why'd you take off alone without your cellphone? Isn't that…stupid?" She had her cellphone, it was just off but that was beside the point.

"Why do you even care?" she demanded, incensed. She turned from her beloved piano to glare furiously at him. "We haven't spoken in years, so why the sudden outpouring of concern? Huh? Why are you being so nice to me? Why, Scott?!"

"Because you need a friend," he answered easily. He was so calm and sure in his response, not an ounce of judgment or pity in his tone or expression. Scott shrugged sheepishly as he added, "And I've missed you."

"You don't even know me," she countered. The person he remembered and who she actually was were two totally different animals. "You remember a girl who loved to build mud-castles, caught lightning bugs, and pretended to be an astronaut dinosaur princess."

"Princess Yep-Yep, Captain of the USS Treestar," Scott recalled with a laugh. Joanne pursed her lips and nodded, trying not to laugh in embarrassment at the character she'd created forever ago. "I thought USS was just for boats?"

Cringing and chuckling, Joanne confirmed, "It is." Scott laughed.

"What kind of dinosaur were you again?"

"Saurolophus," she recalled with easy embarrassment. Ducky from The Land Before Time had always been her favorite and Yep-Yep had been modeled from her. A little amazed, she said, "I can't believe you remember that."

"Why wouldn't I? I was Prince Spike, your First Officer." Joanne sucked in her lips, trying not to laugh as her shoulders shook. But Scott started chuckling and she couldn't stop herself from echoing the sound. "I liked that girl. She was cool and fun," he replied, nudging her shoulder with his own. Smiling easily, he added, "And I'd liked to get to know this one, too. I bet she's just as cool."

"I'm really not," Joanne told him, shaking her head with a bitter smile. "I'm a freak," she whispered forlornly to herself.

Grams would've promptly scolded her for saying that word – "freak" was not a word she allowed in her house, especially in reference to their powers – but Grams was gone and she wasn't coming back. Joanne was the orphan girl who had to live with her grandmother because her mother was crazy and her dad didn't want her. She was the girl who worked at the local loony bin just to be close to said crazy mother. She was the genius all the teachers adored so the student body automatically hated. She was the girl who would probably have her pick of colleges, but didn't a clue what she wanted to do with her life. She was the girl who broke into her murder house to play piano. She was a witch, who probably got her grandmother killed because she wanted to fight when she should've run.

"We're all a little freaky," Scott assured her. "Byproduct of living in Beacon Hills. I mean, look at Stiles," he joked, hoping to make her smile and it worked. Not only did she smile, she cracked a little laugh and nodded. "You aren't alone, Jo," Scott pledged, taking her hand in his and squeezing it reassuringly. "I promise, you aren't. We're all here for you." Joanne nodded, wanting more than anything to believe him. "Come on, I'll call the Sheriff." The teens rose to their feet and walked out of the house, Joanne shutting the door and locking it out of habit.

"He's gonna be pissed," she noted blandly as she trudged over to her car.

Scott just nodded and replied, "Probably." Joanne watched as he walked to a dirt bike and picked up the helmet that was hanging from one of the handles.

"You ride that thing?" she questioned incredulously. Scott grinned and nodded, looking quite proud. Joanne had to admit, she was impressed! She never, in a million years, thought that Scott McCall would have let alone actually drive a motorbike. "Cool."

"Not bad for a First Officer," he replied with an easy grin. Joanne rolled her eyes at him, trying not to smile. What an absolute dork.

The next few days had been a cycle of one hellishly exhausting experience after another. First, she'd been forced to endure a lecture from the Sheriff, with plenty of snarky input from Stiles, which led her promising to have her phone on her at all times. On and fully charged had been a very pointed stipulation. It also meant having to deal with a deputy being posted outside the house at all times, which meant he'd follow her if she tried to take off again. Joanne was effectively on house arrest with a semi-permanent babysitter. Not ideal, but it was what it was. Then she'd set up a protective barrier around the Stilinski house when the other occupants were gone for the day. Maybe the barrier wouldn't be necessary, but she wasn't taking any chances.

The funeral itself had been the worst part. It had been short, simple, and unbearably agonizing all at once. Trying to prepare for it had been a burden she'd imagined undertaking when she was much older and prepared, Grams having died of old age or maybe some disease at a hospital or care facility, not from having her throat slit and choking on her own blood in their living room. Grams, it seemed, had been prepared and her wishes were detailed in her contract with the funeral home and her Last Will. Joanne honestly wasn't sure what she would have done if the Sheriff hadn't been holding her hand every step of the way. There'd been a viewing but Joanne had hid in the funeral home's break room to avoid people, letting the Sheriff take the lead in greeting visitors. So many people had come, mostly Grams' colleagues and even some of her students, if some of the more interesting emails written in the register book were any indication.

She'd only come out of hiding when at the end of the viewing, when people stepped forward to speak. Joanne had stayed towards the back, listening to people talk and their prayers. While one of her colleagues was speaking, she noticed the tall, olive skinned man walk in. Like her, the stranger made no effort to join the others. Instead, he hung back and leaned against the door-jam so Joanne took the opportunity to take him in. She didn't recognize him. Granted, she didn't recognize a lot of the people in attendance but this man didn't look like any friend of Grams'. Black hair streaked with some gray, dark jean jacket with colorful tribal patterns etched into the shoulders, a dark plaid shirt, and tight jeans with a rather prominent oval belt buckle. It had a buffalo etched into it and he wore cowboy boots, something not seen in Beacon Hills let alone in their part of California. He even had an honest to God cowboy hat that he respectfully removed once he entered the room. As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked over and held her gaze. He didn't blink, he didn't falter; he just stared right back at her. Joanne felt herself warm, partially in embarrassment of being caught but also from something else. Something she couldn't quite pinpoint. Joanne knew she didn't know him, but something inside told her she did. The stranger nodded his head to her and, for some inexplicable reason, she nodded back and whatever moment they had passed as his gaze turned to the other mourners. Unable to take listening to the people and her confusion about the man, Joanne bolted from the room to cry in the private room in peace.

At the actual funeral, it had been expected she'd give a eulogy but she found herself frozen in her pew, barely able to breathe let alone speak. The Sheriff and Stiles sat on either side of her, a protective wall. The elder held her hand the whole time, until time came for her to speak. He knew she couldn't do it and didn't try to press, so he spoke for her. A few people had come up to her, shaken her hand and offered their condolences, wishing her well, and telling her Grams dying was such a tragic loss. As if she didn't know that. The one person who didn't step up to wish her well was that cowboy. He was there, lingering in her periphery. As the last line of mourners said their final farewells, Melissa McCall stopped to hug Joanne and she couldn't stop herself from clinging to the woman who'd always been like a mother to her until the distance life created separated them. Scott had been right behind her and, awkward as it was, he hugged her, too.

"We're going to find who did this," Scott whispered quietly. "You're gonna be safe, Jo. I promise." She didn't know what to say so she just tucked herself into his shoulder and hugged him tighter, trying like hell not to cry and failing miserably. When it was her turn – as Grams' only living relative, she went last so she could be alone with her before the funeral home packed her up for the cemetery – Joanne still couldn't find her voice. All the courage she could muster allowed her to lean over and kiss Grams' forehead before hightailing it to the Sheriff's car for the procession.

She just wanted it to be over.