Lindsey Perez

When she heard the apartment door's tumbler click, Lindsey stiffened, her finger twitching for her gun. She stilled herself, still waking from her nap, the foreign green walls and unfamiliar floral upholstery providing comfort. She wasn't back in Virginia. She was staying at her friends' place.

The next click of the knob lock and the leisurely pace the door swung open had her already suspecting the person responsible. It wasn't likely Will, who was currently devoting all her waking free time as Hoffman's emotional support. Will had barely shown her face since Lindsay had come to stay.

The FBI Agent was taking a sabbatical. It had been planned for a while now, this break from murders, kidnappings, and violence. Ally, Will, and she were supposed to be sipping mojitos at some hot springs in Arkansas, but when Angelina Acomb's murder uprooted all intentions for a break, the trip had been canceled.

Lindsey decided to still use her paid time off, to at least keep the flames of her and Ally's romance alive. Will didn't mind - didn't have the attention span to - and Strahm had asked Lindsay to check in on her every so often on his behalf. She owed her partner a favor or two.

But the true, raw reason she decided to muscle her way into Ally and Will's lives despite the inconvenient time, was because she needed a break from Strahm.

Ever since the Heart Stealer case, he had become suffocating. Overprotective. Unhinged. His constant fawning over her had been stifling. He called every day with the same questions. And his temper, which had always been on a shorter size of fuse, had left her feeling like she was walking across a landmine field whenever they conversed.

"Are you safe? When are you getting back to Quantico? Do you keep your gun on you at all times?"

He was treating her like a rookie and a little sister, all at the same time and it was starting to piss her off.

"Your mom worries about you," Strahm would say, and Lindsey knew her mother, too, often liked using Peter as her own personal spy on the goings ons of her daughter.

"How's Ally?" That question usually got a guaranteed hangup these days. Especially when it came to her love life, she wanted her mother out of her business.

"Hey, hon," Ally sounded tired, shrugging out of her jacket and unbuckled her shoulder holster. "You didn't need to wait for me." Ally had put her right hand behind her back, as if trying to conceal something. She made out the faint white glossed bag of a jewelry shop.

Suddenly on high alert, and taking advantage of Ally's sluggishness from a long day at work, she swiped the parcel and jumped back with a smirk of triumph.

Ally had barely tried to stop her and looked more amused than exasperated. "I know how you hate surprises, but damn, I really wanted to make this one."

She dug through the yellow tissue paper, pulling out a long velvet jewelry box. Inside, a delicate gold chain glinted up at her.

"It's not flashy, but happy anniversary, Linds."

It looked real, the yellow glinting. She threw her arms around Ally's neck, pressing her lips firmly on her soft cheek. "It's perfect. I love it. I'll wear it always."

At least Ally didn't treat her like a kid. And that was everything to her.

Amanda Young

How many times had she shown up to this clinic? More times than she could count. Every time she left with pills to help her get over the shakes and aches, promising this would be the last time. She was starting to catch onto herself. The dirty little liar.

There was never going to be a last time.

This was just how it was. She smiled at the nice doctor, who was now looking ready to pop from the size of her swollen belly. Her eyes held a firmness Amanda recognized. It was the same look everyone in her life gave her now.

Wariness.

"Amanda," Dr. Tuck trailed off as she studied her clipboard.

Ah, yes, a long history of opioid abuse and broken dreams. Yes, and you will take the usual? Actually, I'd like to try Lucemyra this round. Excellent choice.

"Amanda?"

She blinked. How long had she been thinking to herself? She had no idea. She had begun to lose track of time, escaping into her mind. It helped distract from the stares of judgment and disgust. Everyone had to wear their opinions with deep frowns and narrowed eyes.

Yes, escape in herself was the best tool she had. It did little with the damn throbbing in her joints though. "Please, doc. I just need…"

"Amanda, we've been over this. I need you to consider attending some group therapy sessions."

"Fuck that. I'm not doing that."

"They're very helpful."

Her arms were trembling and despite the shame burning her guts and keeping her face down to the floor she jumped up with renewed energy and anger. "That's just some bullshit. Just give me. What I need."

"I'm telling you what you need," she was not saying this with accusation. Dr. Tuck was gentle. Compassionate. But Amanda was a junkie. And withdrawal made her the nastiest bitch. She was tired of asking. She just wanted the damn pills. Why wouldn't this quack just give them to her?

"I've had enough," she growled and rushed out of the room, beelining to the exits. Fuck this. Fuck everything.

She stepped out to the waiting room where Cecil, too, had had enough.

"FUCK MAN! I've been here for three fucking hours!" She walked around the corner, seeing Cecil get palm smacked across the face. She knew it was time to ditch this place.

She snuck out while Dr. Tuck ran towards the brawl. The woman's shrill voice followed Amanda as she pushed through the emergency exit doors.

"Stop it! Please, stop it!"

Mark Hoffman

He believed he heard his watch ticking away. But it must have been a hallucination.

He was barely sober - barely awake - but he listened with keen ears.

"We, the verdict, find the defendant…" time had stood still. The ticking had drowned into white noise. He could not breathe. His eyes stung as he stared, unblinking, at the foreperson who looked solemnly down at the paper.

Say it. Fucking say it already.

They had only deliberated for twelve hours. It was short. That usually guaranteed a guilty verdict. Usually. But Mark couldn't consider it. He couldn't dare to hope.

Will had placed her cool hand on his, squeezing it gently. Like a defiant spirit, she moved despite the rest of the room remaining petrified. He felt as though he was watching the scene outside his body. He watched as he watched himself, the baggy eyes and greasy hair, watching with complete disconnection that it could have been strangers he was observing.

His palm felt wet. He realized the pain he was feeling was from his fingernails cutting into the meat of his hand. He had curled his fingers into a fist so tight, his arm was trembling and a drop of blood trailed down and stained the cuff of his shirt.

"Guilty."

The life left his lungs. Will continued to securely hold him, her touch the only sensation that kept him tethered to his body. The word echoed in his mind. Guilty. He was trying to register what it meant.

The court proceedings continued and the realization made the lead in his lungs suddenly soften to air. Guilty. They fucking did it.

"Juror 864. Is this your verdict?"

"Yes."

"Is this still your verdict?"

Guilty. He had thought he would be overjoyed. He was waiting for all the pain to simply stop. He would be patient for a little more. Any moment, it would come.

Guilty. It was exactly what he wanted. The right word.

And Seth Baxter, the bastard that had taken away the only family he had left, who had snuffed out his Angie, his baby sister, was crying as his defense attorney tried to console him. Seeing that, he had feelings beyond pleasure.

Guilty.

Something was missing. Though glad that justice was served, that justice was working, a part of him knew it would not make him whole. That word just wasn't enough to bring Angie back.

But it would have to do.

Justice would keep Baxter behind bars, to never rob another family or ruin another life.

"Are there any post trial motions?" The judge sat back, looking bored. This was just another day at work. As routine as a daily shower and shave.

"Yes, your honor," the defense attorney stood and Mark narrowed his eyes, feeling his neck and ears burn. But he remained stoic and controlled. For some reason, it was easier these days to stay still despite the strong desire to rip everything apart with his bare hands. Because today, justice was being served. Angelina could rest in peace.

"We request a motion for a mistrial and set aside the verdict, under the grounds of the previous proceedings as mentioned prior."

This made him swallow. Will's hand tightened over his wrist. It did little to ease his worry.

"Your honor, the verdict is proper."

Two uniformed officers stood, on each side of the man who murdered his sister. "Upon review, the evidence of guilt is overwhelming. Mister Baxter, you have been found guilty of the count of murder, one count of possession of the weapon to commit the crime, and possession of Schedule II narcotics. The loss and grief you have incurred demands justice. Thus, I sentence you to life in prison."

The courtroom had become a vacuum. Mark heard the faint wail of a woman break through. Turning, he saw Baxter's mother, who had her face buried in her husband's shoulder, the parents devastated.

He felt nothing for them. No pity, no understanding. They raised a killer. A scum sucking parasite who had leached on Angelina and had decided if he couldn't have her, no one would.

The gavel erupted in a crack that echoed off wooden walls. It was a good sound, a final sound.

It was done.

He turned to Will, to the last person in his life he could trust. "Thank you."

She nodded, grave, her eyebrows pushed up, a tear welling up in her eye. She, too, was hurting. He took her in his arms, savoring the warmth and comfort of her body.

He wouldn't forget that it was her that had stayed by his side throughout it all. The occasional break in the clouds, she was a brief ray of sunshine that kept him holding on to sanity. And she had kept her promise.

She had done it her way, the inefficient yet right way. The by-the-book way. And, in the typical Will Maddox fashion, she had pulled through with an effortlessness he used to disbelieve.

Now that it was finally over, maybe he could heal. It had been two years. And he knew he had neglected their relationship, drowning in his self pity. All he did these days after work was go home, drink, and find himself passed out with his shoes off on the couch and a glass of water on his coffee table.

Two years of him being so self-absorbed and she still stayed with him.

"Come on, Mark, let's go," she pulled away, wanting to leave that room. He knew she would want to not look back. It was who she was, not one to dwell too long on the pain of the past.

He wanted to be like her, in that regard, but wondered if he had it in him to move on now that it was all over.

He had to try. For her.

John Kramer

He should have been concerned, when Jill had been seven minutes late. That had never happened before. He was going to go to her, to help her close, until the prostitute slammed against his car door with sultry smile and desperate eyes. He had told her to leave, respectfully.

"Honey, I can show you how nice a girl I can be."

"Go home," he had repeated, Jill temporarily forgotten as he assessed whether this prostitute was going to try to rob him. Should he roll the windows up and lock the doors? He didn't bring a gun and had no weapon to defend himself. It was a terrible neighborhood. And the city had begun to boil over in the past few months.

He feared at any minute, Jill would stroll out and witness the scene and that was the last thing he wished was for his close-to-term pregnant wife seeing him in this predicament.

Finally, the woman left him and he saw Cecil run out of the clinic like a bat out of hell, arms flailing, looking terrified. John knew, deep in his soul, that something was terribly wrong.

He got out of his car and sprinted to his wife. He pushed through the front doors and ran by the stairs, jumping over trash bags left out, towards the glass windows of the Homeward Bound Clinic.

Jill.

He pressed his hand against the glass, staring down at her. She was wailing, her face contorted in pain. The bright red on her white skirt froze him to the glass.

"No," he whispered as he rushed to open the door. Please, he prayed, let them be alright. Please. "Jill," he knelt down to her. There was so much blood. Too much. It was on his hands and stomach. It dripped on the floor. There was too much of it.

She only has three weeks left. The baby is so close.

"Can you stand?"

She wailed. "I can't feel him," she sobbed, "he's not kicking, John!"

He had to suppress the panic. Pick her up. Get her to the hospital. Now. He listened to the rational side of him, the part of him that helped pull him through the worst of times.

But his worst of times had never been so dire. Don't think on that. Just get her to the hospital.

He could carry Jill, easily, and up two mountains if it meant Gideon would live. He couldn't run fast but he walked as quickly as he could, taking Jill out of the building and towards his car.

Please. Let Gideon live.

Amanda Young

Shit! Holy shit!

She was trembling as she drove the car, the rain making it impossible to see. But she would not stop. Not for the two red lights she had passed through. When did it start fucking raining?

She would not press the brake. Not for the bum that had stepped in front of her car, which she had somehow avoided clipping while he screamed out at the two of them in a brief passing of sound. She heard the shatter of glass behind them, flinching.

The bastard had thrown something at them.

"Mahna," the muffled voice coming from the distance garbled through the white noise of the radio and the patter of fat raindrops on the windshield.

"Manda! Stop!"

She jumped and slammed the break, the car skidding and fishtailing before hissing to a stop. How the hell she was so damn lucky with the driving when she was riding withdrawal and guilt for murdering a woman's baby was beyond her.

"Let me drive." Cecil, rarely, looked disturbed. But at that moment he looked fucking mortified. His dark eyes were wide. His mouth agape. She could practically read his thoughts.

We fucked up big time, Manda.

A car blared its horn and passed them, making her jump again before slamming the car shifter into park. "Fine. Fuck!" She got out into the rain, knowing no matter how much the droplets stung, it wouldn't clean the metaphorical blood off her shoulders. Her hands.

Cecil may have slammed the door, but it was because she had made him go. She had grabbed his dick and forced him to go.

The events played in her head, over and over.

"She's been good to us."

"I've been good to you. Please."

Please. She still had an inkling of hope. Maybe it would all be fine? The husband came through and got her, while they snuck out the back. They hadn't left her alone. She had help. The doctors would fix her. Hell, she bet a pregnant doctor could figure out a way to save herself. Right?

She wanted to believe so.

Peter Strahm

"I don't know about you," his partner, Dan Erickson, yawned and leaned back in his seat, loosening his tie, "but I can't wait to get back to Quantico. This city stinks."

Peter smirked back. "Come next promotion cycle, you'll regret taking these work trips for granted. You're going to be tethered to your desk for the rest of your career."

"Oh, I'll get around. I can't let you have all the fun, hotshot."

Peter would miss Dan. He was sharp in the interrogation room and a calming presence when things got too hot for Peter. Especially these days, when Lindsey would start butting heads. But he wouldn't stop him from being promoted to his supervisor. He was a couple years ahead and getting to the point in his life where he was just barely keeping up with the physical fitness assessments.

"So, that's the last of them? You don't have any last minute prisons you want to drive out to?"

"We've compiled enough profiles for the database. The techies say that in another five years, every office on the continent will be able to access it. What a time to be alive." Dan looked more tired and suddenly like the old man he kept claiming he was. "Computers still make my head hurt."

"Come on, you liked Pong when it first came out?"

"I'm not that old! Speaking of age, you good with Perez taking my spot?"

"It's what I prefer. We have good rapport." It was a good way to keep an eye on her, making their partnership official. "Besides you, she's one of the most trustworthy agents I know."

"That's saying a lot." Despite Dan's neutral tone, Peter caught on to the twitch in his mustache. Dan didn't approve of Lindsay's 'lifestyle'. He was a bit too old fashioned.

"You and her, I'd take a bullet for."

"And the others?"

"Depends on my mood."

They both laughed. "Well, you want to grab some beers before crashing?"

Peter shook his head. "I have a friend I want to meet up with."

Dan raised an eyebrow. "Oh? A lady friend?"

Peter shrugged. "Just a friend. Who happens to be a lady. She's already spoken for."

"Hmm," the way his partner sounded, there was that silent comment of disapproval thick in his tone. "Married?"

"No." But by how long their relationship has been, might as well be.

"Then there's still hope." Dan smacked his back. "Keep your nose clean. I'll see you at the airport tomorrow morning."

"Night, Dan."

While Dan took off with their rental car, Peter went to the nearest payphone on the corner of the city street, dialing her number from memory.

It was Saturday, her off day, but there was a low chance she'd be on duty. After a few long rings, he got voicemail.

"Hey, you've reached Ally and Will," Allison's voice was low and husky, almost more so than usual as if to allure to random callers, "You know what to do."

"This is Peter. Strahm. Hey, Will, if you're around, page me. I'll be at this bar called the Dead Rabbit on Water Street-,"

"Peter? When did you get here?"

He smiled, her voice filling him with soothing nostalgia. "Hey, Will, been a while. I happened to be in town on assignment. You free?"

A deeper, male voice broke through the happy moment.

"Well," Will trailed off and a muffled exchange that sounded heated followed.

Peter frowned.

"Go ahead," the unmistakable growl from Hoffman. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait," the distant protest from Will, "Mark!"

A slam of a door.

Peter grimaced. It was clear, despite almost five years since the Heart Stealer case, that Hoffman still didn't think much of him.

A flash of guilt kicked Peter in the gut for rocking the boat. But another part of him, the more selfish defiant part, swelled with a masculine pride. You threatened by me, Hoffman? Peter knew it was toeing the line of delusion that he maintained a flicker of hope on something more with Will, after all this time. It was low brow, but frankly, he didn't give a fuck these days.

He was in his forties now, and Hoffman still hadn't put an end to Will's availability. He hadn't heard the ring of wedding bells anytime soon. Linds had never dropped any bombshells on diamond rings or bridesmaid drama. He was confident that Hoffman was just sitting on his hands when it came to popping the big question and whisking Will away to the happily-ever-after she deserved. The idiot.

But still, at that moment, Peter was calling just as a friend. He needed to remember that. "Sorry, guess I shouldn't have called."

"No, no, Mark's fine. He's just been on edge lately, with Seth Baxter's latest appeal." Her voice had a tremor he had never heard before. It was so subtle but he had an ear for these changes. She was straining to sound cheerful. It had a forced lilt to it.

"Well, if you want to come out tonight, drinks are on me. You can tell me all about it." You can tell me anything, Will.

"Sure," the tremor faded, followed with relief. "I'm on my way."

He made sure they had a decent table by the front windows and watched young couples linked at the elbows, enjoying the warm summer evening. He felt a pang of nostalgia for Jessica and how she would drag him out on walks when he didn't feel like it, griping but obliging her. I should have complained less, he fumed and sipped his drink. He should have done a lot of things differently, when he was younger.

The familiar pang of loss and emptiness had him clear his throat, distracting himself with thoughts of what must have transpired for Will since they had teamed up to take on serial killers together. He was glad that the country had been experiencing a lull in serial murders, but he missed how they brought them all together. What had happened after they captured the Heart Stealer?

She had to leave for Hoffman's friend's suicide. Knox was his name. And not long after, his sister died.

The man had rotten luck.

Peter began to remember why he never tried harder with Will. He had kept his distance this long, partly out of respect but mostly out of pity for Hoffman. Will was probably one of the few good things in his life. As a man, he felt it went against some moral principle, something unspoken but instinctual, to meddle with that.

But he was lonely too. And no other woman captured his intrigue and attention quite like-

"Hey, Peter," Will's voice had him rise to his feet and he turned to smile, captivated by the dark freckles and orange curls. Pippi Longstocking, all grown up. They hugged and right away he could feel the bones in her shoulders and spine.

He suppressed the frown and they sat, him probing the notable lines under her eyes and the haggard way she held herself, as if she was about to collapse from exhaustion. She was still beautiful but looked as though she was not being taken care of.

"Geeze, you're not saying anything," she shrugged and forced a small laugh. "I look that bad?"

"I wasn't going to say anything, but yeah. You've seen better days. You okay?" He leaned forward, wanting to put his arms around her and comfort her.

She kept the tough girl routine, pursing her lips and forcing a grin. She lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. "I've had worse."

He raised an eyebrow but the waitress came by to take her drink order, giving him time to process this. All pity he felt for Hoffman evaporated away. If he hadn't known, he would have been under the impression that it was Will who had lost her sister. Despite not seeing her in years, he had been confident in his reading of her character and her being so drained from this ordeal meant Hoffman was taking every bit of life force out of her.

The bastard's bad news. I knew this.

He knew her history. Her tastes. She had a tendency to gravitate towards men who used her, the hairs on the back of his neck standing as he promptly went through the mental checklist he always had ready to go. He searched for any sign of abuse. Bruises, cuts, her body language sinking into itself, the need to defend.

She ordered a glass of Bordeaux, another notable difference in her typical preference of whiskey sours or long island ice teas. "I've been cutting back," she answered his silent question, the both of them able to read each other a little too well. "I know what you're thinking. And please, spare me your shrink talk. I don't want tonight to be a therapy session."

"Then why bother coming here, to me, your friend the shrink?"

It was one of the benefits of their lines of work, the ability to fully understand each other without needing to say much. Despite the years apart, it was like putting on a well loved pair of shoes. But the other side of that sword was that they couldn't hide their feelings, even when they wanted to. The shoes sometimes pinched.

They just locked eyes until Will sighed and wallowed like a wilted flower, bowed her head, and covered her eyes with her hand. He put a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey," he softly cooed, "I'm here, now. It must be hard, dealing with all this." With him.

"You don't know the half of it," she sniffled, wiping her cheeks and looking down at the table. "I feel like something bad's coming. And I know it's going to be all my fault."

This alarmed him. "Will, what are you talking about?"

She was chewing her lip, looking as though she was one of his suspects in interrogation, about to confess a terrible crime. Why was that?

"I did something. That's been eating me up."

He could only imagine the wild scenarios. "Professionally, or personally?"

"Both. Oh, it's such a mess."

"Start from the beginning."

"There isn't a beginning. There was just Seth Baxter and him needing to go to jail."

He now understood. Ah, she broke some rules. For a stubborn, moral-leaning person like Will, this was likely weighing heavily on her. "What did you do to make sure he went to jail?"

"It's not something I thought would be a big deal at first. Just threw on additional tests prior to the paperwork being filed. I expected the judge would eventually sign off on the warrants. But she never did. Only DNA. No toxicology, until later. The dates are wrong. Most lawyers wouldn't catch it. But Baxter's are breathing down my neck about it. I've got maybe two months tops before it all comes blowing up in my face. I haven't told Mark. But I'm so fucking afraid that they're going to consider a mistrial."

"That won't be for another few years, though. There's still time." For what, Peter wasn't sure. City police was not his bureaucracy. And he hadn't ever been in a situation like hers. "Will." Normally, he would have lectured that she did a wrong thing, going to such lengths. That it was beneath her.

He had always seen her as a person who would never bend her code of ethics. But that was an unfair pedestal he had put her on. It hurt, knowing that for Mark Hoffman and him alone, she had been willing to break the rules.

"I know, I should turn myself in. But then Baxter will walk. I can't have him do that. I promised Mark."

He clenched his jaw. She was unraveling before him. Wiping her cheeks and trembling. People were watching. "Maybe we should get out of here. Go somewhere quiet. I can help you with some breathing exercises."

"No, no therapy. Not right now. I - I just want to sit here, have a drink with my friend." She took her wine glass and downed it, a pained grin pulling her cheeks as her eyes glittered. "So, what got you coming all the way out here? Come on, spill." Her mask was back on, spunky cop girl, acting as though she hadn't just cried in front of him.

It was as if she had slapped him but he kept his composure. Friends. That's all. "Sure, Will, whatever you want." All he could do was play her game, dance to her terms. He hated seeing her like this, so frayed, but he could do nothing but watch.

She just wouldn't let him in.

Mark Hoffman

He knew he had acted childish, storming out like that. But seeing how she had lit up at the sound of that prick's voice and picked up the phone with a smile had struck a primal chord in him. It had made him feel small. It was petty jealousy, pure and simple. Irrational, because he was confident Will would never betray him.

Yet if he had faith in her loyalty, why was he there? He couldn't explain to himself why he had followed her, like a common stalker, his Crown Vic shadowing her in the distance as she walked to the bar. She wasn't dressed to attract, which helped relax his knotted stomach. She had thrown on her everyday jacket, no bright lipstick or change in appearance from when he had left her.

But she had still gone out. Without him. This used to not bother him. She was a looker. And she was his.

Even after her fortieth birthday - which she insisted to not make a big deal out of because she was so damn insecure about her age - she still turned heads. Now, on their usual rounds of cases, he felt nervous when a young smooth-faced rookie would flash her a smile looking trim in his uniform. She was desirable. And though this used to be a point of pride, he had grown paranoid at the side glances of the boys in the office to the point he almost wished she wasn't so damn beautiful.

At least then, she would only be his and no one else would want her to take her from him.

Lately, he had become… needy. He needed to know where she was when she wasn't with him. He needed her by him, promising she would stay with him. He had even suggested she move in with him.

It was her hesitance that had worsened the possessiveness he had developed as of late. "Mark, are you sure? I mean, I'm just settled with Ally. I don't want to break the lease. How about when it ends, we'll talk about it?"

He didn't understand why she had resisted. He believed she was hiding something from him and he didn't enjoy not knowing what it was. He didn't know if he could handle whatever it was she was concealing from him. He suspected it involved another man. Which meant he'd have to take care of this man.

Will was all he had left. He wasn't about to lose her. And he wasn't going to lose her.

He trusted her. Will was loyal to him.

So why was she out tonight?

There was a small doubt planted in his head and it was taking root.

Why else would she go out, if she didn't have feelings for Strahm?

What made it worse was Strahm looked exactly the same despite the years. Tall, slim, good-looking bastard.

Mark hated the way he looked these days, the long months of binge drinking and him no longer in his twenties taking its toll on his waistline. Just another reason getting old sucked.

And Will was out, having drinks with her old FBI colleague instead of with him. And it looks like she was crying? He cursed himself for not bringing binoculars. But he squinted. Why was she crying? And the bastard put his hand on her.

Don't touch her. She's mine.

He gripped the steering wheel but stayed seated in his car. His jaw was hurting and his vision was starting to burn into a faint red film. But he kept still. There wasn't much he could do, at the moment.

But Peter Strahm was a dead man. He just didn't know it yet.

Jill Tuck

The sun didn't feel warm, even with the heat wave warning proclaimed in the news. She sat in her wheelchair, wondering when it would begin to feel like sunshine again. It felt like snow.

She felt so empty, Gideon no longer inside of her. She missed his kicking. She missed knowing he was on the way. That he was going to be hers.

A tear slipped down her cheek but she didn't bother to wipe it.

John sat beside her, on the bench as they stared blankly at the birds that tweeted and skipped on bush branches without a care in the world.

She wished she could have joined them, to turn into a bird and forget all of this had happened.

She had just wanted to help them. She wasn't sure if she could go back to the clinic after all of this. Cecil. Why? Why was he so rushed? Why?

"Jill," John whispered, "Let's go back inside. You'll get sunburned."

She blinked and looked up. John, sparing her the brunt of the rays, casted a shadow over her.

Oh, poor John. Despite all this pain, he somehow managed to push through it and look after her. But he barely looked at her, now. She knew he blamed her, despite never saying it out loud. She could feel his resentment, in the way he only lightly touched her hand when it was absolutely necessary. Something between them was severed.

Gideon. That was the connection.

He had been so careful with this baby. He had it all surveyed and foreseen. He had told her to take a break from the clinic. To stay at home, until the baby was born, for safety.

"I hate seeing you, there, when those junkies and lowlifes brandish their knives just because they can't stand waiting a couple of fucking hours."

"John, they're in pain."

"They're causing others pain. They're causing you pain, Jill. That's the whole motto of this clinic. Cherish your life. Well, cherish your life. Your life."

And yet she hadn't listened. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry. That he was right. But it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring Gideon back.

John turned the wheelchair and pushed her back into the hospital, the dutiful husband he was. There were no further words shared between them.

John Kramer

His head was killing him these days. He ignored it, popping aspirin and focusing on helping Jill get better. He would sit with her while she stared at the television. The nurses said she would be cleared to leave in two more days.

They also mentioned they would release Gideon's remains for them to bury.

The year of the pig. Renewal. Resurrection. Ruined. Robbed from them. And all that would remain would be a tombstone and a plot in a graveyard.

You were taken too soon, my son.

When Jill slept, he fantasized what he would do to Cecil when he saw him again. He recalled a trip to Spain in his youth, before he had met Jill, to Galería de la Inquisición. A particular chair with sharp pins protruding from every seat, back, and arm rest surfaced from his memory. He imagined Cecil, strapped to it, bleeding out a slow and painful death. But he was no murderer. No, he would not kill Cecil, no matter how much the desire arose.

He liked to imagine forms of punishment. Especially when the police were of no help. He had filed the report but, like so many cases in this corrupt city, the case would be buried and run cold.

It was all John could do to resist flipping tables and screaming to the heavens a curse for their disregard to everything he had built.

He rubbed his temple, sighing at the sharp pain that dragged rusty nails from his skull down to his spine. Perhaps he'd need to speak to a therapist. It had to be psychosomatic, a phantom of the subconsciousness to cope with this trauma.

He would attend to these matters after he took care of Jill and Gideon.

Jill had whispered, in passing the day before, "I'm so sorry, John. All I wanted to do was help them."

She had no reason to apologize. Like the tide, a slow roiling anger built within him. It was Cecil and all of those like him who should apologize.

His son. His legacy. Were gone, forever.

And it was Jill, blameless in all of this, who begged for his forgiveness.

"You can't help them. They have to help themselves." He had whispered back to her, so only she could hear.