A/N: Just a few historical notes. Yellow police tape/crime scene protection was not standard practice until the 1960s, hence the casual movements here are more time-period specific. Misquamicut is a coastal town, part of Westerly, Rhode Island, and took the brunt of the hurricane as it made second landfall after ravaging New York. It made landfall as a Category 4 with sustained winds of over 150 miles per hour. Most of the 564 deaths recorded in New England were in coastal towns in Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts. Fifty-seven people died in the town of Westerly, 41 of those in Misquamicut, on Septemeber 21, 1938. Three hundred sixty-nine homes were destroyed.

NOW

When you're not here

It's hard to pretend

It's all alright

Again

"Angel"

Dave Matthews Band

April 18, 1952

Worcester, Massachusetts

Chuck only became aware of his surroundings again when the blood on his hand smeared the surface of the rainy car door handle. In a daze, he stooped and plunged both hands in the puddles around his feet, shaking them, then dried his hands on his pants. He pulled on the reddened chrome handle, opened the door, and then fell into the driver's seat. He slammed the door shut. Time seemed to slow, almost stop. He gripped the top of the steering wheel and rested his forehead against the back of his hands.

He wept. No matter how many years had passed, how he had aged, when he cried, he was young and helpless once again. Broken-hearted children, no matter how well nurtured, grew into incomplete persons. There was a permanent hole inside him, empty but for the tears that fell into the inner abyss.. He had initially cried only for Jack, his sudden death gutting him. But his grief wasn't just for Jack; it was never just one thing. All the loss he had ever felt would return in times like this, a gathering darkness.

Sarah had always known how to reach him, even in the dark despair in which he sometimes hid. Looking into her eyes, seeing the way she had always looked at him…nothing ever seemed quite as bad as he had imagined…so long as he knew she was there, that she would always be there.

But now…now… Sarah…

He had always been able to feel her pain as if it were his own, like there was some invisible wire that connected them at their hearts. Two bodies but one experience. As imperfect, as flawed as Jack had been, Sarah loved her father. Chuck knew that. He was her only family, the center of her world for all the time Chuck had known her. The screaming tears and helpless rage, regardless of her perception in the moment, were fueled by her love for him.

He couldn't erase the searing memory…Sarah, on her knees with Jack's bloody head in her lap. The gunshot must have woken her up…

Damn it, Jack, how could you do that to her?

Anger battled the sadness…and he welcomed the anger, if only because it gave him strength, a strength he otherwise wouldn't have possessed. The anger also cleared his mind, sharpening it.

Through his grief and helplessness, Sarah came into focus, as if under a microscope lens. It was the middle of the night…and except for the police and the coroner…she was alone in her house. The chill of the rain on the car seeped inside him somehow, until the cold almost froze his heart. Fear commingled with his anger.

He looked up, suddenly blinded by a set of oncoming headlights, the fear seeming like a premonition. He turned away quickly, blinking to restore his vision. A black car. Not part of the law enforcement presence. Who would be here, in the middle of the night like this? Less than an hour after Jack had called Chuck's home. Who else would have even known?

No one, logic told him. His eyes followed the car, scanning to see the license plate before the visible light disappeared. He knew the car. The dread hammered away at him. Daniel Shaw. Chuck's mouth was dry, his lips cracked and sticking to the front of his teeth. There was no way Shaw could have known Jack was dead, not that quickly, Chuck reasoned with himself. It was impossible. No, Shaw was here for some other purpose, unknown. Chuck's imagination could conjure only dark reasons.

My god, Jack, what did you do? Chuck asked in despair.

Holding his breath, he watched the scene play out, hoping to gain understanding. The car rolled to a stop and the headlights died. Chuck watched as Shaw emerged and ran from the car, covering his raven black hair with one hand, as if that substituted for an umbrella. The policeman stationed at the front door stopped him. They exchanged words, the entire conversation normal in appearance from afar, although what he told the police officer had to be a lie. It had to be. Was the officer on the scene astute enough to know Shaw was lying?

When Shaw turned away from the police officer, Chuck saw his face in the beam of light from the house as it shone from the doorway. Even at a distance, Chuck saw the anger, the fuming hatred in Shaw's eyes. Shaw returned to his car, not even shielding his head with his hand on this trip. When he was back at his car, he kicked a tire—hard. Chuck saw the car rock slightly from the blow. Chuck felt this kick as if it had been aimed at his car's tire. Shaw punched his door before he opened it, rage spilling into frustrated action. Then he was behind the wheel once more. The headlights came alive again. Chuck ducked down in the seat to avoid being revealed in them. He observed Shaw's face as he passed. Had Shaw seen him? He wasn't sure.

Chuck had no idea how much longer the police were going to be, if they would let Sarah stay in the house…or if she would even want to.

Where would she go? The only other person Sarah could have stayed with was Carina, her friend, but Carina was still away at school, not due back until mid May. Now that Jack was dead, Sarah honestly had no one else. Mrs. Winterbottom, Jack's housekeeper, wasn't due until late morning.

Sarah had always had Chuck. For so long, she had been content with that. But now…now she hated him. She couldn't stand the sight of him in her house. But, she still had him. He would not abandon her, no matter what she had said, how much it lacerated him.

He thought about Casey and Gertrude, thinking they would worry if he was out until the morning, no way to contact them to let them know what had happened. But he couldn't leave her alone in the house, most certainly not after he knew that Shaw had come calling. He vowed to stay, drenched and cold, in his car, until the morning, to ensure she was safe. A vigil. He owed her that, the very least thing he owed her.

He waited in his car, shivering and damp. Hours passed. The ambulance left…the coroner's vehicle taking its place. Another car, this time driven by the police detective, in plain clothes. Eventually, the police lights stopped flashing. One police car left, then a second. Only one remained. The final officer stood in the doorway as Chuck saw more headlights coming up the drive. Two vehicles, one following the other. He watched as Diane Beckman parked her car closer to the house, followed by a car Chuck didn't recognize.

Diane stepped from her car. She looked pristine, her clothes Monday-morning pressed, even though it was the middle of the night. Her red hair was coiffed in a tight bun swirled behind her head. She wore a crisp black skirt suit and high heels, and held a leather attache case in one hand. She was short of stature, but she radiated confidence and purpose, a commanding presence that added inches to her height. She spoke to the remaining police officer and then brushed past him to go inside. A few moments later, the occupant of the other car got out and ascended the stairs at the front of the house.

He was tall, probably as tall as Chuck, with broader shoulders. He was blond with a strikingly handsome face. He wore a tweed jacket and matching brown pants over soft shoes. He had a small, black leather bag in his right hand. A doctor. Not the coroner. This man was here to tend the living. Chuck felt his stomach twist, realizing Sarah's hysterics would have keyed the police to call for medical attention for her. He realized at the same time the police had to have called Diane Beckman at Sarah's request. They had probably asked her who they could call for her, who could help her. It should have been Chuck. He reeled. It felt like a tragedy, the fact that Jack's lawyer was Sarah's choice. However, Diane had known Sarah since she was very young, and any comfort was better than none, he acknowledged. But it hurt.

The doctor was there for over an hour. Chuck watched him leave.

A few more hours passed. The earliest glow of daylight was just visible at the horizon, a fine ribbon of pale blue pushing up against the charcoal gray of the cloudy night sky. With the approaching dawn, the torrential rain from the night before stopped. Chuck saw the front door swing open once more. Diane was on her way out.

Chuck jumped out of his car and leaned against the door, waiting for her. Once she stepped from the porch, he saw her squint in his direction. She reached her car, opened the door, and flung her briefcase inside her car. She strode to him.

"Chuck?" she demanded, stopping a few feet from him and crossing her arms. "What are you doing here like this? Have you been here all night?"

"Gertrude…called the police, Diane. Jack…called my house…before he…" He couldn't finish, his eyes shifting to the ground.

"Oh, god, Chuck, how awful," she replied, her tone softening. Her brow furrowed in confusion. "Why are you out here? Sarah–"

"Why did they call the doctor?" he asked sharply, needing to know.

Diane looked at him silently for a long time before she replied, her green eyes soft with compassion. "The police couldn't get her to calm down, Chuck. The doctor had to sedate her."

He crushed his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes. "Thank god they called you. Diane, she's alone…in the house. She has nowhere to go."

Diane sighed, heavily, her shoulders drooping with fatigue and defeat. "I know there's a story here, probably one I don't want to hear. Why are you out here while she's in there alone, Chuck?"

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, clenching the internal fabric in his fists in his anxiety. He turned away, unable to face Diane, the situation. "Because she thinks this is my fault," he whispered. "And she's right," he added, almost too quietly for her to hear.

Diane reached for his arm, grasped his elbow. She was silent, squeezing his arm like she had something important to say to him, but couldn't quite find the words she needed.

"I only know part of this. I'm sure…in the days to come…I'll know more. Me talking to you like this is a conflict of interest…one I fear is more complicated than I know. But I've known Sarah since she was a baby…and I care about what happens to her," Diane explained.

"So do I," Chuck replied fervently.

"I know you do, Chuck," she replied, with the abstracted tone of someone answering a rhetorical question. She looked at him in silence, finally taking a deep breath and lifting her chin. "You think this has to do with Grimes? The fact that you requested a forensic audit?"

"Morgan told me he was sending the accounting report to you as well as Roan. You did see that, didn't you?" Chuck asked.

She sighed in defeat. "I was busy, Chuck. Jack wasn't my only client, regardless of what he thought or how he treated me. And I guess now…I work for Sarah. Although I have a strong suspicion that may not…continue."

Chuck's breath shuddered. "I don't claim to understand it all. I'm not an accountant, Diane. But Grimes is the best when it comes to analytical accounting. And it's…bad. Very bad."

Diane's eyes changed, becoming small, green pools of anguish. "Bad enough to end his own life?" she asked quietly.

Chuck wiped his hand down his face. Bad enough that Daniel Shaw was here an hour after he died. He thought that, but he didn't say it. It was more than he wanted her to know, especially since he didn't completely understand it.

Diane spoke again. "Chuck, this trouble has been brewing for 14 years. Ever since your father died. Jack was supposed to be caretaking that business for you and it looks like he drove it into the ground instead. This is not your fault." Her mouth twitched; she straightened her posture. "I've said probably more than I should have," she grumbled.

She sighed, crossing her arms, briskly rubbing to add warmth through her jacket. "He was never the same after Emma died. Don't get me wrong, Jack had many flaws. But, she brought out the best in him, kept him upright. Once she was gone…it was like he lost all his motivation to be better."

"Not even for Sarah," Chuck hissed, angry still, feeling her pain inside him as if it were his own.

In a hushed whisper, she added, "I've never seen her so upset. Not since…"

Chuck thought he heard her gasp, like she had stopped herself from saying too much. "Since Bryce was killed?" he blurted, the departed storm returning to flash in his eyes. He regretted the words once they were out, hating the ugly jealousy in his voice. Diane nodded, although to Chuck the nod seemed hesitant. Why, Chuck didn't know.

She covered her eyes with her slender hand, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. "Jack failed her, Chuck, and I honestly think he was totally aware of that. Doesn't make it any easier to accept now, I know."

Diane changed the subject, he thought. He didn't press, not wanting to talk about that. He debated for a few seconds if he should say the words that he held in his mouth. Too exhausted, he just blurted it out. "Casey was right, wasn't he?" At her scrunched expression, he elaborated. "When I was little…and Jack tried to contest my parents' will. He was after my trust, wasn't he?"

Her face reddened, with anger or shame, he couldn't tell. Her eyes shifted to the ground. "Casey certainly believed that. Jack insisted on the exact opposite. I'm sure the truth was somewhere in between. What I do know, Chuck, and what I'm not sure you do…is that he withdrew the petition back then…because Sarah requested it."

"Wh-what?" Chuck stammered, his eyes wide.

Diane's mouth pressed into a crooked line, trembling with emotion. "Whatever his real motivation was back then, what Sarah wanted was more important to him. Try to remember that, when you remember him."

He needed to have a long conversation with her, but he was bone tired, too cold and damp and weary to contemplate another thought. He shook his head from side to side, to clear the confusion. "Diane, please, I know it's late…and you've been here almost all night. But, please, don't leave her alone in the house. Take her home with you…or, if she's too heavily sedated, stay here with her. Please."

Beckman was a stern woman, unbending normally, but she could be kind, in the right situation. "She's sound asleep, for another maybe six hours. Dr. Woodcomb gave her a heavy dose of valium." She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Why are you so worried? What's going on? What do you know that you aren't telling me?" she asked.

Frustrated, he sighed. "It's a long story, Diane…and I…I don't…I mean, I can't…" He growled. "She may be in danger. That's all I can say."

She kept her narrowed-eyed squint directed at him. "This is more about Jack, isn't it? You know something…"

"I promise I will explain, as best that I can. But for now, please, will you just stay here? If I thought she wouldn't scratch my eyes out I would do it…but I can't," he told her.

Bewildered, Diane shook her head. "I would never believe Sarah would ever act like that, certainly not towards you." Something on his face stopped her, and she conceded. "But, ok, Chuck, I'll stay. You need to go home and get some sleep, too."

Over Diane's shoulder, he saw the police detective walk out through the door and down the steps. He approached them with a slow, measured gait. Chuck nodded to her as he waited for the detective.

"Mr. Bartowski?" Chuck heard as the detective stopped just behind Diane. He turned to acknowledge the older man, his notepad and pen poised in his hand. "I'm Detective Mead. Since you're here, I'd like to take a statement from you, if it's at all possible right now. Just a formality, I assure you." Diane nodded briskly, then turned on and strode back towards her car.

The detective waited until they were alone, until Diane went back to the house. "I know this has been a long and…trying night for everyone, so I'll make this as quick as I can. You told the officer on the scene you received a phone call from Mr. Burton?" Chuck nodded. "What time was that?"

"My housekeeper, Gertrude Casey, answered the phone. It did wake me up, but it was dark in my room. I believe it was about one thirty. I left my house at 1:45," he explained.

"I will probably need to speak with Mrs. Casey at a later time, but did she tell you what Mr. Burton said?" the detective asked.

"He told her it was too late. But he was finally doing the right thing," Chuck said, each word an effort now that he knew for sure what they had meant.

The detective scribbled on his pad, but one eyebrow lifted. "That was enough to send you out here at two in the morning?"

Chuck forced a cough to cover up the crack he knew was coming. "He…also told her to tell me to…take care of Sarah."

"Miss Burton?"

Miss Walker, he thought, but didn't correct the detective. That was also a long story, nothing important at the moment. Important to her maybe, but inconsequential to the detective. "Yes," Chuck offered. "We're…friends." Or at least we used to be.

"The same girl who blamed you for all of this in front of the other officer?" the detective asked, pointing over his shoulder with his pen.

"Yes," Chuck answered breathlessly. "Jack was my business partner. Burton Carmichael?" Chuck added as a question, thinking the detective would know the name if he was familiar with the city at all. "And he was about a week away from being indicted for embezzlement."

Both of the detective's eyebrows rose far on his forehead, but he continued writing quickly across the pad. "You said you left your house at 1:45. What time would you have arrived here?"

"Two," Chuck replied. "I live about ten minutes away…but the rain…"

"Any particular reason you stayed out here all night in your vehicle, Mr. Bartowski?" Mead asked.

He was afraid to tell Mead the whole truth, so he parsed. "I was worried about Sarah. She might blame me…but she's…alone. I couldn't just leave her. I asked Miss Beckman to stay." Chuck gestured to Beckman's car.

Mead's hooded eyes flashed with sympathy. "Thank you. I'll confirm your facts concerning this with the District Attorney's office, Mr. Bartowski. Thank you for your honesty and your willingness to talk to us." Mead flipped the notebook closed with his pencil. "Sorry for your loss, Sir," he added before he walked away.

Loss. Hearing the word made him feel like the ten year old he had been, the first time he set foot in Jack Burton's home. That was the first time, tonight was perhaps the last time. The crushing pain of that thought took his breath away. It took a moment for Mead's words to register…Chuck understanding he had meant Jack, not Sarah. Chuck had lost his mentor, his business partner, his friend. Instinct, and the quick associations his mind made weren't about Jack, though. He had been thinking about her.

Sarah.

The realization that he had lost her, forever, crushed him beneath it. He almost couldn't breathe. He stumbled towards his car door and fell into the front seat again. He felt as if he were drowning, the air burning in his chest as he fought to breathe. It felt as if the waves that had stolen everything he had loved as a child had returned to steal the only thing left.

Like he had done so many times as he grew, he silently wished he would have died with them, instead of being left behind. At home with Casey and Gertrude because of a cold, saved by a bug.

He still had nightmares, as an adult, about what Casey had explained upon returning from Misquamicut when called to identify their bodies. And later, the tragedy of it, the senseless loss of life. Never once had he heard either of them say how awful it was that he alone had survived. They didn't believe that. No, they thought it was a miracle. God's will, whatever that was. If God willed him to survive when everyone else he loved had died, then it was a god Chuck wanted no part of. An inscrutable god.

His survival wasn't a miracle. It was a curse. The real tragedy was his survival, when all he wished was to be with his family.

Stop! He commanded himself. That spiral had no end, he knew, and as appealing as it felt like this, he had no time and no right to indulge in anything like that. Sarah was in danger and she had absolutely no idea about the nature of the danger. He was the only one left who could protect her.

He needed to talk to Casey. He needed to figure out a way.

A/N: Another word of thanks to my pre-reader, Zettel. If you are enjoying this story, let me know. Thanks for reading.