What do you know? I'm posting on TIME this week, haha. It continues to get more and more bittersweet with each chapter because I know with each update that the end is getting nearer. But I'm excited nonetheless.
This was my ABSOLUTE favorite chapter to write. Partly because of the tortured-soul-meets-validation-via-god-complexed-best-friend-who-gives-great-hugs element, but mostly because everything finally gets put together and the truth finally set her free.
Well sorta. You'll see what I mean *evil wink*
Please read and review! I really want to know what you guys think
xXxXx
Chapter Four – The Ides of March
xXxXx
Fillmore gave up searching for Ingrid after twenty minutes of lurking throughout the halls of X and instead took it upon himself to patrol the empty halls, keeping an eye out for anything out of place – including his partner.
It couldn't be the case that was getting to her; granted, it was making matters worse, but she'd been acting strange before they caught wind of the case. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when he started noticing her behavior start to shift. Who's got the photographic memory when you need it? He opened the door at the end of a hall that lead to the staircase and went up to the second floor.
He hadn't been able to shake the uneasiness sitting like a boulder in his gut since they'd been put on this case. Everything about it unnerved him – from the eerie messages to how close Ingrid was to it. It didn't seem like a coincidence to him that Shakespeare was Ingrid's favorite poet, the two plays in question were her favorites, and whatever it was Barrow said to her when she collared him in the hallway. She never told him what it was but he still couldn't piece together an explanation. As much as he wanted to bring this to Vallejo's attention, he didn't want to risk losing Ingrid as his partner on this case, despite her current state of mind. He knew she wasn't in a good place but this case seemed to be the only thing keeping her on the ground.
Fillmore sighed and walked into the next hallway. He hated not knowing what his next move should be and he was bitter that he couldn't figure out how to help his best friend – rather, that she wouldn't let him help her. He approached the AV lab and stopped just before the door. Ramone is the AV club pres, he recalled, and an idea hit him. It was a bad one, but he wasn't the best on the force for all of his good ideas.
He took in his surroundings before pulling a pair of seasoned bobby pins from the back of his belt, knelt down in front of the doorknob, and worked them into the keyhole. He kept an ear out for anyone approaching and the lock gave way. He slipped in and shut the door quietly and relocked it behind him. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before making his way over to the front desk. He stopped in front of it for a moment, reading the name plate: Joseph Ramone, President. He scoffed before walking around and sitting in the worn out swivel chair.
"If I were involved in something big," he murmured to himself. He started looking through drawers. "Would I be stupid enough to keep evidence in my desk?" He rummaged through the top two and didn't find anything worthy of note and almost gave up on the third one when he noticed a small nick at the edge of the drawer which made him look twice. He pulled out the contents – a few files and some tapes – set them on the top of the desk, and felt around the edge of the bottom of the drawer. A similar nick on the opposite side snagged the calloused skin on his fingertip and he lifted up, the bottom giving way. He glanced in.
"Disco."
Packaged burn phones.
Now only if this was a warranted search, he thought. He shook his head at himself before looking at his watch. 7:23. Damn. He quietly put everything back where he found it, slid the drawer shut and stood up. He made his way to the door and slipped out without a trace.
At least now we know we're looking in the right direction, he assured himself as he made his way back to HQ. Just need to make it official. And figure out what's going on with Ingrid. His head throbbed as he descended the stairs, wondering if he could figure out his next move before getting back to headquarters.
xXxXx
Thirty minutes after waking up on the couch in Holman's office, Ingrid walked back into HQ, ignoring the myriad of eyes watching her the moment she entered. She saw no sign of her partner and inwardly berated herself. He's probably pissed at you. Rightfully so. She made her way to her desk to go through some files before her first class, stealing a glance at the clock: 7:33. The way you blew him off this morning probably did the trick.
She collapsed in her chair and rubbed her eyes, still worn out from her episode this morning. Dr. Holman called it a panic attack, which was accurate. She woke up lying down on a couch with an ice pack on her chest with hardly any memory of how she ended up there. It all came back in bits and pieces but she had been fairly disoriented upon waking which almost triggered another episode itself. Ingrid reached into her pocket and pulled out a pocket-sized container which held a small ball of "thinking putty" Holman suggested she used to ground herself in case of… well, "emergency". She stared at the galaxy pattern on the case and set it on her desk.
That's when she noticed her splatter-print coffee mug – which had been filled – sitting patiently on her mug warmer next to something that was wrapped in a paper towel. A yellow sticky note with Fillmore's crooked handwriting was stuck on top of it. She peeled it off and read it: Eat something.
Ingrid sighed, sticking the note to the surface of her desk and unwrapping a blueberry bagel, her favorite, and staring at it. Her stomach growled, finally noticing that she deprived it of breakfast this morning. She took a bite of the pastry and stared at her blank computer screen.
He deserves to know, she convinced herself.
She took a deep breath, a sip of her coffee, and looked up just as her partner walked in the door. Their eyes met for a split second – she swore her heart skipped a beat – and watched him walk towards her. Her heart raced as he wordlessly approached her and sat down at his desk. Anxious thoughts swirled around in her head as she ripped off another piece of her bagel and popped it in her mouth, focusing on the taste like Holman told her to. Should I say something now? She washed the bite down with a sip of coffee, the hot liquid stinging her throat. Should I wait for him to bring it up? Should I do it at all?
Fillmore abruptly stood up, pushed his swivel chair next to hers, and spun it around. He sat down, leaning against the back of the chair, and started to speak, softly. God, here it comes.
"I just found burn phones in Ramone's desk."
Wait, what?
Ingrid looked at him quizzically. "What?"
He nodded. "I snuck into the AV lab while you were gone," he explained, keeping his voice low. "Found them in a hidden compartment in his desk. They're all the same model as the one we found on Barrow." Ingrid paused to try and process what he was telling her. She had been bracing for a lecture or passionate plea, not information on the case.
"You got a warrant to search his desk?" she asked, matching his soft tone, but by the way his lips formed a straight line, she knew the answer. She scowled at him. "You didn't get a warrant to search his desk."
"Which is why I need your help so we can get one," he countered, matching her scowl with his own signature mischievous stare; a raised eyebrow followed by a subtle wink. "That way I don't get in trouble." Ingrid scoffed, suppressing a smirk, but reached into her left-hand drawer and pulled out Ramone's file.
"Well, all we know is that he's the president of the AV club," she started, flipping open his file and sliding it over to him. He skimmed over it as she continued. "That, and he's got a lot of roots and connections in the counterfeiting industry. Nothing solid. If we want to get a warrant, we'll have to nail him for something of that nature because everything we have tying him to this case is purely circumstantial."
Fillmore nodded at the file. "Meaning we have to dig deeper. And by the time we can do that, the phones might disappear which means we've gotta move fast." He flipped the file shut and looked at her sincerely. "I just need to know that you're up for it."
There it is.
Ingrid bit her lip and stared at her computer screen, leaning against her desk with her elbows. "I should have seen that one coming."
"Ing, you know I'm just worried about you," he murmured, nudging her with his shoulder. She took a deep breath in, stroked the handle of her coffee mug, and nodded as she exhaled. "Really worried." She leaned her head slightly in his direction, debating if this was the right time to have such a loaded conversation when the starting bell shrieked over their heads. Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut as the noise intensified the pressure in her skull. When the bell finally silenced, Ingrid opened her eyes and looked in her partner's soft brown eyes and sighed.
"I know," she admitted, looking back down and running her hands over her face. She left her face in her hands and stared down at her keyboard. Between the flashbacks, the case at hand, and sorting through her emotions, her mind felt like a battlefield. The idea of getting some of it out and being seen as weak – and by the one who counted on her strength – scared the hell out of her. She had no idea how she could let it all out without breaking down. Taking into consideration what happened that morning, she assumed her chances of avoiding another one were slim to none. Fillmore rested his hand on her back, stroking her spine with his thumb. The gentle contact sent a chill down her spine, but finally, it was not from fear or panic.
She wanted his touch. She needed it. She needed someone to touch her, to ground her, and she wanted that someone to be him. She may be closed off to most people, but Fillmore wasn't one of them. Granted, they rarely shared intimate moments together, but she relished them when they did. Those moments revived her.
"The last thing I want is for you to feel like you can't come and talk to me."
Her heart twisted in her chest as she remembered that night: the way he fought for her when she was in danger at the expense of his own safety; the way he held her like if he let her go, he'd never see her again; the way his hand felt in hers and the way he told her he was always there for her.
Ingrid's eyes burned as she looked back over at him; she'd made up her mind.
"Fillmore…" she swallowed the plug in her throat. He frowned at the way her soft voice broke as she spoke his name, but nodded. He would be there for her. "Can-"
"Fillmore, Ingrid."
Are you kidding me?
The duo scowled at the owner of the voice in front of them. Anza lifted his hands defensively. "Whoa. If looks could kill."
"What is it, Joe?" Ingrid asked plainly.
"Barrow's in with his sister," he explained, his cerulean eyes flickering nervously between the partners. He jerked a thumb behind him in the direction of the interview room. "Karen's getting the sketch started."
"And?" Fillmore snapped with raised eyebrows.
Anza lifted his hands again and backed away. "I was just supposed to let you know," he defended, walking towards the interview room. "Don't shoot the messenger." Fillmore scoffed and shook his head as their teammate retreated.
"We knew that was going down," he complained and Ingrid rubbed her eyes. It's now or never, Third. "Why'd they feel the need to-"
Ingrid interrupted him by grabbing his hand. Taken back by the sudden contact, he stared at her as she rose to her feet and said, "Come on." He got up and followed her out the door.
I'm going to do this, she tried to convince herself as she led Fillmore down the hallway, not letting go of his hand. She could feel the flashbacks starting again and she needed something to hold on to. She scolded herself for clinging to him when she hadn't even explained herself yet, but he would understand. He will understand. He has to. She took her ID from her pocket and swiped it in the card reader by the elevator. The light turned green and the red "up" arrow flashed before them.
Fillmore stood next to her and stared at their warped reflections in the elevator before them. His brain was firing on all cylinders and his pulse raced. He had no idea what he was about to hear. He knew that it could be anything but that whatever it was, it was hard for Ingrid to talk about. He could count on one hand how many heart-to-heart conversations they've had – two, not including the one they're about to have – but none of which involved a version of Ingrid who couldn't handle everyday tasks like getting out of bed on time. Honestly, he had no idea how he was going to react to whatever she needed to tell him.
So he squeezed her hand, and she did the same. The elevator dinged and the doors opened, welcoming them in. Ingrid led him into the elevator and finally let go of his hand as the doors shut. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground, mentally preparing himself. Don't interrupt her. You don't want to shut her up, he ordered himself. Just shut up and listen. Ingrid pressed the button to the third floor and they ascended in silence.
Ingrid pressed the emergency stop button halfway through their trip, bringing the elevator to a stop, and stared at her trembling hand which was still hovering over the button. I'm doing this. You're doing this. She swallowed the anxiety creeping up her throat. You can do this.
Fillmore looked up from the ground at his friend. He watched as her shoulders trembled. She whispered something to herself that he didn't catch and she started to face him, but she didn't make eye contact. She kept her eyes closed. Where do I even start? she wondered, when her thoughts wandered to this morning. There.
"This morning I…" she trailed off, pressing her sweating palms against her forehead. Say it. Say it. "I had a panic attack and I-I passed out in Dr. Holman's office." Her chest tightened again, forcing some of the breath from her lungs, and she felt Canton's hands on her again. No. Please, not here. Not now. She blindly reached out for Fillmore and her hand landed on his chest, grabbing a fistful of his grey t-shirt. Fillmore is real. I am okay.
"Ingrid?"
"Just relax."
She gasped for air, backed into the elevator doors, and put her other hand on his chest. Fillmore's hands flew up to cover hers and he squeezed them tightly. He was on the verge of switching the elevator back on and getting her help. "Ingrid-"
"I've been having flashbacks that I can't stop anymore," she rambled, forcing herself to breathe and pressing herself further into the cold elevator doors as Canton pushed her into the couch. The couch is not real. These doors are real. I am okay. "Th-they happen all the time and I-I can't-"
"Are you having one right now?" Fillmore interrupted her, squeezing her fists tighter against his chest. She nodded repeatedly as she forced herself to take deep breaths, despite feeling Canton's hand trying to squeeze her throat shut. "God Ingrid, what can I do?" he asked, moving closer to her.
"Stay." She forced him back away from her the way she couldn't force Canton. "I just need t-to let it pass. Just stay." She whimpered and shut her eyes, focusing on the cotton fabric of Fillmore's shirt in her fists, the solid door behind her, and Fillmore's faint cologne.
"Come on, Dee."
Fillmore stood powerless, watching her tremble and shake in front of him. His mind swam as he tried to process what was happening. Flashbacks of what? He started to wrack his brain for the answer. She's got that damn memory. It could be anything. So what could leave her like this?
That's when it hit him.
Canton was on top of her, pressing himself against her, but Ingrid held on to her partner's shirt. It's not happening right now. It's over. Canton forced his tongue into her mouth and his hand up her shirt. Breathe. She felt his jeans swell against her leg and her breath hitched in panic. Don't stop breathing. This will be over soon.
Canton finally let go of her throat and she took a deep breath in. He got off of her and she felt the weight lift from her chest. Ingrid finally relaxed, loosening her grip on Fillmore's shirt but he tightened his on her hands.
"Ingrid?" he asked tentatively as he watched her relax. She kept her face level with the ground and worked on catching her breath. It's over… she took a deep breath in. It's over. She opened her hands, pressing her palms flat against Fillmore's chest. God that must have been a sight.
Fillmore inched closer to her, not sure if he should give her space or take her in his arms and not let go. He had never seen her – or anyone, for that matter – experience something like that, and Canton was the cause of it… Fillmore didn't know if he could cope with it without hunting the sick bastard down and beating him to a pulp. And not to mention the guilt he already felt for not being there for her when it went down, for not protecting her.
But you can protect her now, he told himself. Help her now.
Ingrid took her hands away from his chest and rubbed her face, pressing her palms against her forehead. Fillmore's overbearing sense of responsibility towards her burned in his chest, prompting him to do something, anything, that would make this better for her. But he still didn't know for sure what was happening despite having a good clue about what it was.
"Ingrid…" he started as she ran her hands through her hair. She finally looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. He swallowed. "They're about Canton… aren't they?"
She cringed when he said his name… but she nodded.
"I… I have photographic memory and I…" She pressed her palms into her eyes again, trying to force the words out of her mouth. "I can't – forget – anything," she gasped. Her senses suddenly flooded with everything she ever associated with Canton. Her gut twisted with nausea as she began pacing the elevator. "I can't forget the way his mouth tasted like cigarettes or the smell of his aftershave or the sound of him groaning and begging for me in my ear or his breath on my neck and it's so bad that I can't walk down the hallway without feeling like he's all around me-"
Ingrid was shattering in front of him. Her words were pouring out of her mouth like an avalanche and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to grab her and pull her into him… to make her feel safe. But he knew that what she needed right now wasn't a savior. She needed someone to listen. So all he could do was watch her break and wait for the right moment to step in.
God, was it killing him.
"-and I can't sleep without him touching me again and I feel like it's breaking me and there's nothing I can do to stop it because I can't forget any of it," she stopped at the wall opposite of her partner, her hands overlapping on her heart, and she stared at him with tearing eyes. "I can't fight this anymore, Fillmore." Tears fell down her face. "I have never been so afraid and I'm not strong enough."
He couldn't take it anymore. Fillmore closed the space between them and held her tightly in his arms.
"I can't do it, Fillmore, I just can't," she sobbed, burying her face in his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek there.
"Ing, it's okay," he tried to reassure her even though he knew it probably wouldn't do much good. She continued to mumble into his shoulder as he tried to process the scene playing out in front of him. This was Ingrid. His Ingrid. Strong, independent, smart, and tough-as-nails Ingrid. He had never seen her like this... he had hoped that he never would, but there she was. He was speechless.
He buried his face in her hair and squeezed his eyes shut to force away the moisture. How could I let this happen? He had obviously seen the signs: she wasn't sleeping, hardly eating, was hyper-focused one minute and completely checked out the next, and she flinched away from anyone's touch, including his own. He berated himself for not doing something sooner. But of course, Fillmore knew that's exactly why she didn't tell him what was going on. She knew that he would run them both ragged while he tried to fix something they both knew he couldn't. She didn't tell him because she was trying to save them both the trouble.
He kissed the top of her head and tightened his embrace, knowing that no amount of comforting words would make a difference, but he prayed that he could be what she needed. This had to be what she needed… it was all he had to give.
The tighter he held her, the easier it became for her to breathe. With him, Ingrid felt safe. Fillmore had been watching out for her since day one when she had been framed for those stink bombs. Her life had been in chaos before she was thrown into X as a last resort. He turned out to be the one who would make that last ditch effort a successful one. Suddenly, he became a constant in her life, a fixed point, and time after time again he proved himself to be the one person who would stick by her through everything. He was her safe place.
And when he kissed the top of her head, she could finally feel her feet touching the ground. The sobs stilled in her chest and her heart rate finally started to slow down. He ran his hand repeatedly up and down her back, sending chills down her spine as her system started to return to normal. I'm safe, she told herself. I'm okay. Fillmore's heart beat steadily against the side of her head. I am safe.
And boy, did you just give him a show.
Suddenly she didn't know if she should keep hiding in his shoulder or break away from his grasp and hide somewhere else as shame creeped up from her stomach and settled like a lump in her throat. So much for keeping it together, she scolded herself.
She backed away from him and wiped the tears off of her cheeks. He let her distance herself from him but watched her with these tortured brown eyes which she couldn't stand. "I feel like I can't even function, Fillmore," she started, trying to avoid looking at him. "I see glimpses of him in every person that I pass and I see his trademarks on every shred of evidence we have." She ran a hand over her face and walked over to the opposite side of the elevator. She leaned against the railing, focusing on her feet while Fillmore focused on what she was saying. "I keep making these connections that aren't even there and I've been running myself ragged trying to prove to myself that I'm wrong and that he's not involved in this case and that I'm just losing my mind."
Fillmore was torn. He wanted to reassure her that Canton would never touch her again… not if he had anything to say about it. He wanted to tell her that it would all go away and that everything will get better. That she wasn't losing her mind; she was just traumatized.
But he remembered how determined Ingrid was while interviewing Barrow and the way she convinced Vallejo to make a deal. She was the one who personally figured out how to get a protective detail set up outside of their jurisdiction. He watched the way she poured over every file, every piece of evidence, and every second of the phone taps. She only did so much work when she knew there was something about a case that separated it from any other case.
Ingrid was intelligent. Attentive. Motivated. Traumatized or not, any connection she made had significance. And as much as he only wanted to focus on Ingrid in this moment, the detective in him screamed at him: Ingrid knew Canton better than anyone, as much as it killed him to admit it. If Canton was involved, Ingrid would be the first to catch it.
And the churning in his gut told him that she did, but she had been too afraid of her own mind to admit it.
"You think Canton is involved?" he asked, cautiously.
Ingrid shrugged and met his eyes. "I don't know what I think anymore."
"Well, what connections do you think you made?" he asked, taking a step towards her while crossing his arms.
She threw her arms out at her sides. "I don't think there is one, Fillmore, that's what I'm saying." She ran her hands through her hair in exasperation. "I'm saying that I feel like I've been so caught up in this crap that I forged a connection as some sort of… I don't know, projection of whatever's going on in my head." She sighed and slid down the elevator wall and put her head in her hands. "And I feel so stupid."
Stupid because you let him get as far as you did, she accused herself, swallowing the lump in her throat. Stupid because you're letting him affect you even now, almost two months later. The heavy weight of guilt grew in her chest as she remembered how close she came to falling for him. The look in his eyes was much similar to her own as he was dragged away in handcuffs after her identity was revealed. Stupid because you still care. You still think he can be saved, even after what he did to you.
Stupid. You deserve these flashbacks. The tears returned to her eyes. You need to be reminded how much of a monster he is.
"Ingrid," Fillmore knelt down in front of her and place his hands on the tops of her knees, "You're hurting. That doesn't make you stupid." She let her hands fall in her lap and she looked down at them with sullen eyes. His chest ached as he watched her picking at her fingernails timidly. Seeing her behave so uncharacteristically had his nerves frayed at the seams. "Ingrid, could you look at me?"
She didn't know if she could. She felt the guilt eating at her insides; the unworthiness sat in her gut like a brick, making her nauseous. But Fillmore tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up, forcing her to look in his dark eyes.
"You don't make insignificant connections, Ingrid." He put his hand on the side of her head, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. "Caught up in your 'crap' or not," he joked, hoping to lighten the atmosphere ever so slightly. She scoffed, hiding a ghost of a smile, and placed her hand over his, turning into his touch. He pulled his hand away and sat down beside her, propping his elbows on his knees. "So what was it, mama?"
Ingrid wrapped her arms around her stomach and brought her knees up to her chest, trying to bite back the shame long enough to spit it out. "I just…" She bit her lip while he waited patiently for her to continue. "I noticed that Ramone had been a suspect in the Christmas Carol disaster in November." Fillmore squinted at her, unsure of how she made the connection. She shrugged her shoulders. "That was the first and only case where we had solid proof that Canton was responsible for all those heists."
"And then we connected him to his other heists and set up the sting."
Ingrid nodded and took another deep breath. "And when I got home yesterday," she started, swallowing the lump forcing its way back up her throat, "I spent the rest of the night digging through everything we had and I just noticed how…" she trailed off, unsure if she should bring it up, but Fillmore nudged her softly with his elbow. She squeezed her eyes shut and continued. "Remember how you thought maybe the connection between the teachers was a common student?"
"Yeah," Fillmore nodded. "When we were trying to find the student making the calls?"
Ingrid nodded, wringing her hands together in her lap. "Looking through the files again I found myself… slipping back into Deana's cover." Fillmore's eyes narrowed in confusion, wondering how it was related, when she looked back up at him with glassy eyes. "And I realized the common student was her."
Fillmore bit his lip as his gut lurched. She got him.
"I know it's just a coincidence," she defended herself, rambling now. "That's why I haven't said anything. I've been trying to find anything that contradicts that but I can't prove or disprove it and I feel like I've just been going around in circles trying to reassure myself that it's not him and I'm just crazy."
Fillmore shook his head as he started to absorb everything she was saying. "I don't think you're crazy, Ingrid."
Her head snapped in his direction. "What?"
He sighed, knowing he would regret these words the moment they left his lips. Ingrid, in a sense, was a martyr; the second she felt responsible for anything, she would do anything she could to make it right, even at the expense of herself. He knew she would take this to heart… but he knew it needed to be said.
"You said so yourself," he started, cracking his knuckles, "Canton was falling in love with you." Ingrid stared at the wall opposite of them. "And whoever Buckingham is, his target is someone in power who had wronged him in the past." He braced himself, looked down at his partner, and continued softly, "And who could hold a bigger grudge than someone with a broken heart?" Ingrid looked up at him, too stunned to speak. "Do you remember ever referencing Shakespeare when you were together?" he asked. She looked back at the wall.
"This one was my personal favorite, if I had to choose." Canton pulled out a manila envelope and dumped the contents out on the glass table in front of them: pictures of Folsom's destroyed office. Ingrid of course knew what they were, but "Dee" was new in town. She had no familiarity with the staff, so she played dumb.
"Ooh, you trashed an office," she mocked, flipping through the photos. "You're such a badass."
Canton laughed. "Nah, it was just personal." She came across a picture of the woman in question – a picture which had obviously been taken from a distance – and he pointed at it. "That's Folsom, X Middle's pretentious head bitch. She made my life hell. This was just a little payback." She handed him the stack of photos and he slipped them back in the envelope.
"I get it," she admitted, watching him reseal the envelope and toss it on the green chair next to him. "I've a personal vendetta of my own I haven't settled yet back in Richmond."
Canton tilted his head, his green eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Do tell."
She shrugged, leaning back into his couch. "My English teacher there had it out for me because I knew more about his material than he did. He doubled as the director of the drama club," she explained, then stared wistfully at the ceiling. "I got kicked out before I had a chance to say 'Macbeth' at their adaptation of Henry VIII. Which is actually my favorite play, mind you."
Canton grinned, "Are you serious?"
Ingrid nodded. "As a heart attack."
He shook his head, the grin not leaving is face. "I never would have pegged you as the type who likes plays, Dee."
She shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a slut for dramatic flair."
"Fair enough," he chuckled, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "But you wanna know something funny?" She nodded. "I actually did that at this year's Christmas play," he admitted, his grin stretching from ear to ear. Ingrid already knew this, but plastered a look of shock on her face anyway. "Of course, I pulled the right strings to make sure Macbeth actually did some damage," he continued, stretching his arm across the back of the couch behind Ingrid. "But either way, Macbeth still lived up to his name."
"Wait, the Christmas Carol play? That was you?"
He lifted his hands with pride. "The one and only." She nodded.
"Wow," she started. "Looks like someone's got their finger in every pie."
Canton did a double take. "What?"
Ingrid acted annoyed. "It's a metaphor from Henry VIII. Duh." He put a hand on her shoulder and she shuddered.
"Ingrid? Are you with me?"
Ingrid gasped back into reality. Fillmore was squeezing her shoulder and watching her with worry.
"Henry VIII," she blurted. She looked her partner in the eyes, her heart now racing with pure panic. "I quoted Henry VIII." Fillmore, recognizing the panic in her eyes, placed a hand on her knee in an attempt to keep her calm.
"It's not your fault."
She turned her body to face him fully. "But he was arrested, he can't be behind all of this. He's not even here!"
"But it's only house arrest. He can still pick up the phone," he told her, trying to keep his voice calm, hoping she would do the same even though he knew it probably wouldn't work. "He ran X's underground for a long time undetected, Ingrid. He probably still has a lot of connections around here, meaning he's got motive and the opportunity." Her chest tightened with the weight of his words. It's him. It's him.
Her mind cleared. It all made sense. She was the traitor who passed judgment. She was the one who wore the disguise and became black like him. He was the beggar and she was the prince. He had been telling them who he was all along and what he wanted.
And when he wanted it.
She felt around her pockets for her phone, but she didn't have it on her. She must have left it in her bag or on her desk. Fillmore watched her quizzically. "Fillmore, what's today?"
He raised an eyebrow. Why did that matter right now? "Tuesday."
She shook her head. "No, not the day, the date. What is it?"
He looked down at his watch to the little square on the right. "The fifteenth. Why?"
Her heart jumped into her throat. No. She shot up and ran over to the console to turn off the emergency stop button and they started ascending. Fillmore shot up as well.
"Ingrid-"
She kept her eyes on the doors. "We have to get back to HQ."
"Why?" he asked, turning her to face him. She almost couldn't hear him over the pounding of her heart in her ears. "What's so important about the fifteenth?"
"In the beginning, the soothsayer stopped Caesar when he came back from war to warn him about the ides of March," she explained, frantically. "But he brushed him off, and that's when he was killed."
"The ides of March?" he asked.
She took a deep breath, trying to stop her voice from shaking. "March fifteenth." Fillmore's eyes widened. The elevator dinged and opened its doors.
"He's making his move today."
She nodded. "We have to warn everyone."
The duo exited the elevator at a run and headed straight down the stairs towards the patrol office. Suddenly it felt like things were back to normal; she had her partner at her side, a case to close, and a clear mind.
But things weren't normal. This reality hit her as they neared the HQ and she slowed to a stop. Wade Canton was ruthless. No crime was too big for him. He had unlimited resources and a score to settle. Whatever he had planned, it was personal, and it had the potential to be devastating. Fillmore noticed that she stopped and he followed suit. "Ingrid, what's wrong?"
She looked at her partner, the one who beat the crap out of Canton the night of the treasury heist, and fear struck her like a fist in the gut. What if he was after Fillmore too? She looked between Fillmore's worried eyes and the safety patrol door and she knew what she had to do.
She had to protect her partner.
"I just…" She trailed off, wringing her hands together nervously. She wasn't worried about setting off any warning bells in her friend's head; after her display in the elevator, it probably wasn't an unusual behavior. "I think I just need a minute."
She was right. Fillmore just nodded and put his hands on her shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze. "Do whatever you need to. I'll go and fill them in." She nodded and started to look down but he put a hand on the side of her face, keeping eye contact with her. His eyes poured into hers, sending a chill down her spine. She prayed he didn't see what was going on in her head. She reached up and held his wrist. "It's gonna be okay, Ingrid."
She nodded. "It has to be."
He bit his lip, unsure of how to respond. For a moment, he pulled her close and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut, savoring that rare moment of intimacy while forcing tears away. She knew that Fillmore could take care of himself… but she couldn't risk putting him in the way of whatever Canton had planned. She needed to stay away from him. She needed to run. He pulled away from her and squeezed her shoulders once more before jogging down the hall to the HQ.
Ingrid lingered at her spot in the empty hallway and she swore her heartbeat was echoing off the lockers around her.
Think Third. She took a deep breath in as she recalled what Fillmore told her in the elevator: "He ran X's underground… he probably still has a lot of connections around here." She looked around, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary and her eyes fell on the security cameras. He's probably got eyes everywhere. You need to get out of here. She started to walk towards the HQ for her things but stopped. No. They'll stop you. You have spare keys in your locker. Get them and go. She turned and ran, keeping her destination in the front of her mind. Don't look back. Draw Canton away from here.
Minutes passed and one floor later, she was in front of her locker, spinning the knob and opening the door and something fell out at her feet. She jumped back, adrenaline pumping at full speed. She eyed the folded piece of paper sealed with red candle wax cautiously. Still catching her breath from the jog, she looked down each end of the hallway for anyone who might have left it. Seeing no one, she looked back down at it and her gut screamed at her: Don't look at it. Run. Don't look back. It's probably a trap.
But the detective in her reached down and picked it up, trailing her finger over the seal – the letter "B". Her heart skipped a beat… but she took a breath and slid her finger gingerly underneath the flap and peeled the seal away. It was handwriting she didn't recognize but didn't expect to. East Wing Gymnasium. 8:30. She looked at her watch – 8:23. It was on the other side of the school, but she could make it if she ran.
Don't. Trap. Run.
She took a shaky breath before making her decision. She snatched her keys from the hook at the back of the locker and shoved them in her pocket before slamming her locker shut and running off.
xXxXx
Fillmore entered the patrol room and headed straight for Vallejo's office. He had no idea how he was going to explain what just went down without causing panic, but Ingrid would be right behind him – she could help fill in the blanks. He didn't bother knocking before bursting in and shutting the door behind him. Bishop, Anza, Tehama, and Vallejo all looked in his direction as he entered, their expressions vaguely grim.
"Vallejo, we've got a problem."
He nodded. "You're damn right we do." Fillmore paused; that hadn't been the response he was expecting. Karen stood up, sketchpad in hand, and revealed the sketch on the front page.
Wade Canton.
Fury flared in Fillmore's chest at the sight of that bastard, but then he remembered what he was there to tell them. And Vallejo would not be happy about it.
"Yeah, I know," he admitted, running his hand over his bald head. The four in front of him stared at him in shock.
"You know?" Bishop asked with crossed arms while Vallejo watched Fillmore warily, waiting for the explanation.
Fillmore nodded. "Yeah. Ingrid just told me."
The glare Vallejo sent Fillmore was cringe-worthy.
"Ingrid just told you?" he asked, walking around his desk and towards the detective. His glare intensified and his voice rose with every word he spoke. "And how the hell did she know? When did she know?"
"After we talked to Ramone-"
Vallejo froze a foot in front of him. "She knew this yesterday?"
"She thought she was imagining things, Vallejo," Fillmore explained, squaring his shoulders towards the fuming Commissioner, but did his best to keep a level head. The last thing they all needed was tension in the force. "You need to take a step back." They were eye level now and the space between them was decreasing when Anza stepped in, trying to pry them away from each other.
"All right ladies, let's take it down a notch."
"Are you telling me she withheld evidence on a high-threat level case because she thought her old boyfriend might be involved?"
Hearing those words, something in Fillmore's chest snapped. The air in the room thickened with heavy tension as the four watched his expression grow dark, each one of them regretting the words that left the commissioner's mouth. Anza grabbed Fillmore by the shirt and pushed him away right before he tried to lunge at Vallejo.
"Fillmore, don't!"
"Don't you dare call him that!" Fillmore shouted, pointing an accusing finger towards his superior. The room fell silent, stunned by his sudden display of aggression. Anza let go of Fillmore's shirt and Fillmore pushed him away, but he didn't make any moves towards Vallejo, who was watching him warily. Granted, he was the boss, but Fillmore's fury terrified him. He never wanted to be on the receiving end of that, and to this day, he had been lucky enough to avoid it. He wanted to keep it that way.
Fillmore's fists were balled at his sides and he began to wonder where she was. "She's been running herself into the ground for the last twenty-four hours trying to make sure that she wasn't gonna lead us on a wild goose chase because she might have just been paranoid." Fillmore pointed towards the door. "She's out there right now trying to pull herself together because we just confirmed what she was most afraid of." Vallejo's demeanor softened as the detective spoke and everyone's eyes were fixed on Fillmore. "And now we've got bigger problems."
Anza raised his eyebrow. "What could possibly be bigger than this?"
Fillmore ignored his question and instead looked to Bishop who was standing close to Vallejo, ready to block Fillmore from swinging at the teenager if necessary. "Care to explain the significance of the ides of March, Bishop?"
Bishop shrugged. "That's the day they killed Caesar. Why?"
"And what day was that?" Fillmore asked. Everyone turned to Bishop, whose face suddenly paled as he came to the same revelation Ingrid did.
"Today."
Silence fell like a blanket over the room as that revelation sank in. Vallejo turned to Fillmore.
"Where is Ingrid?"
xXxXx
Ingrid pushed through the doors, sending an echo through the deserted gymnasium. The stench of stale sweat and old basketballs washed over her and she grimaced. This gym had been "awaiting renovation" for about two years now; in the meantime, it served as a storage room for all of X's damaged or spare athletic equipment. She walked towards the center of the court and glanced at her watch. She was only a couple minutes early. Turning on her heel, she took in her surroundings: cobwebs hung from the ceiling, slightly swaying with the breeze which came through when she opened the doors. The stadium seats were covered in a thick layer of dust and transparent tarps were spread out haphazardly over some of the leftover equipment, with dead insects scattered on the floor around her.
That's when she noticed the footprints in the dust.
They were barely noticeable; if it hadn't been for the light coming in from the exit on the far side of the gym, she wouldn't have seen them. She followed them with her eyes first and they stopped at a door to her left. Her heartbeat echoed off the walls as she took a deep breath. She slowly placed her feet onto the existing footsteps, one foot in front of the other, agonizingly slow.
Anything could be behind that door. Anyone. Ingrid tried to still her shaking hands as she got closer to the door. She was mere steps away when the intercom above her head clicked on. She froze mid-step as a low, gravelly voice bellowed through the speakers.
"Beware the ides of March."
Ingrid gasped as the fear swept over her like a tidal wave as she looked at her watch again: 8:29. It's happening. Run. She started to head for exit door to the east lot when she heard a faint beep, stopping her in her tracks once more. She looked back towards the door she had been heading for and she listened for it again: beep. beep. beep. She reached for the doorknob, twisted it, and peeked inside.
All she saw was a timer, but she knew. Her heart plummeted to her feet as she watched the number decrease. Fourteen seconds. Thirteen. Twelve.
She slammed the door and ran, nearly slipping in the dust as she made a break for it. She fell through the gymnasium doors, pure dread surging through her as the countdown continued in her head. Eleven. Ten. Nine
She sprinted down the hallway in the direction that she came, spying the small red box on the wall halfway between her and her escape. Eight. Seven. Six.
She wasn't going to get out in time. But she could give everyone else a chance.
Five.
She reached the alarm and pulled down. Four. Warning bells screamed above her head.
Three. She sprinted towards the doors.
Two.
xXxXx
"Someone tell me they know how the hell someone hacked the intercom system!" Vallejo bellowed into the now scrambling patrol room. The five had poured out of his office after the threatening announcement. There was no doubt that Appleton was on his way and Vallejo wanted to have something to give him.
"O'Farrell!" he shouted towards the redhead typing rapidly on his computer. "Talk to me!"
Fillmore quickly scanned the room for Ingrid. His terror grew when she was nowhere in sight. Where could she be? He would have thought she'd have run straight in when the intercom had been hijacked. Panic ripped through his chest and he headed towards the exit to find her when the fire alarm shrieked, causing everyone to cover their ears. Vallejo circled around, hoping to make eye contact with anyone who could have an answer for him.
Seconds later, the lights flickered and the room shook, accompanied with the sound of an explosion coming from the other side of the building. Gasps and shouts sounded throughout the headquarters as patrollers were knocked off balance and stumbled to the floor, some catching themselves on nearby desks, and some catching each other.
Fillmore caught himself on Ingrid's desk, hardly noticing the commotion around him as he zeroed in on Ingrid's still-hot cup of coffee, sitting patiently on its warmer and absorbing the chunks of ceiling tile that fell into it. His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he registered what was happening and the fact that his best friend was still missing.
She can't be…
xXxXx
TBC… Next Friday! Please review and let me know how upset you are that I left you with such an AWFUL cliffhanger!