Chapter 12: Guilty Pleasures

Gazing down upon a fresh plot of land, three graves lay before Ray, lined up neatly side-by-side, two older and settled, the last new and packed with fresh dirt. Reading the names upon the matching headstones one last time, the young girl closed her eyes, her held hands together at chest level.

Dear Lord,

Please allow me to save others, and let me be saved. By my acts of intended heroism, forgive my sins, and allow my soul to—

"Rest peaceful."

To Rachel's surprise, the voice that resounded at her prayer's conclusion wasn't her own this time, the ritualistic "amen" going silent and unspoken in her mind. Looking over to the source of the sound, she peeked to the side from the corner of her eye.

There stood another person, the body of a young man, taller than she, probably older, too. While his voice was unrecognizable, the ghosts of her past seemed especially persistent lately, because he was all too familiar. He wore a brownish leather mask that had holes cut out for the eyes and mouth, and while she couldn't see his face, she had an idea of what he might look like underneath the disguise. Shifting slightly to pull her already risen hood to better hide her face, she remained facing forward. From the corner of her peripheral gaze, she saw the boy look her way. "Were you friends with them?" he asked, acknowledging her even as she didn't say anything. Ray gave a pause before her careful reply.

"I knew Eddie," she said, intentionally vague.

The boy released an exhale, a sense of fondness resounding clearly. Rachel could almost hear a smile on his face as he went on to speak again. "Sweet kid, wasn't he?" She didn't say anything, but after a moment, the girl gave a silent nod, hoping her blank expression betrayed the guilt in her chest, stronger than ever after recent events. "Sometimes, he was too nice for his own good. He didn't deserve what happened to him," he shook his head. "George neither." Looking upon the remaining grave, Ray wondered if it'd be rude to ask the obvious.

What about—?

"Albert?" the boy finished, despite her unspoken inquiry. "He wasn't like the other two. Al, he… well, he had a lot of problems," more than anyone else in the family wanted to believe for a long time, besides young Edward, who seemed to recognize his pain despite everything else that was going on. "After Eddie died, I think he really regretted a lot of things," to say the least. "It got to be too much, and he took his own life," but as their parents seemed to think, it was just a matter of time. "I miss him a lot, but it's a little different than our youngest brothers," he almost felt bad saying. However, in all fairness, "They were both murdered by that escaped serial killer."

The notion hit Ray's heart personably. She lowered her head.

"I'm sorry," her vacant voice clipped.

With the truth of her condolences lost, he gave a sincere return. "Thank you," he replied kindly. "I'm Carl, by the way. Carl Mason." He shifted to try to look at her a little more closely, but she actively turned a bit as he did; he could only recognize the long blonde fringe falling from her hood and the plaster on her cheek, concealing the skirmish's aftermath from a few days prior. Regardless, something about the fact seemed to catch his attention. "Say," he went on curiously, "how did you know Eddie?" Rachel paused, hesitant, but she supposed there was no harm in telling the truth.

"We… didn't know much about each other," she was clearly starting to realize, "but he still liked me, I guess," to say the least (so much so that he wanted to put her in the ground for it and keep her.) After a moment of being caught off-guard by the bold explanation, the way she seemed so matter-of-fact about it, the brother only laughed, as if realizing something interesting.

"Yep, I knew it," he said, as if it all made more sense now. "Blonde hair, cute, about his age, I know exactly who you are!" Alert, Ray's concealed gaze grew wide. In her pocket, her fingertips flinched tighter on her well-used pocket knife, which after being stabbed through a man's head (and, oh, his boy's youngest brother foot,) was growing dull at the edge. "You're that girl he used to visit in the graveyard every night!"

Wait, what?

Ray's brow knit together, her hold on the switchblade growing slack, and while that clearly didn't sound like her—as she'd only known him for only an hour before Zack laid him to rest right in front of her eyes, she cautiously didn't correct him. She said nothing for a moment, wondering if she had a doppelgänger somewhere in the world she didn't know about, or maybe Eddie just had a type. Perhaps it was a little of column A, a little of column B.

"Yeah, he had quite the crush on you—used to talk about you all the time." His voice lowered gently. "How have things been for you lately?" he asked kindly. While the question's specifics were lost upon Ray, she gave yet another wide response.

"Complicated."

"I bet," he said. Still covered, Mason's expression grew gentle, perhaps a touch concerned, and with the way she didn't look him in the eye, he could only imagine her meaning. "That's why you've been camping out in our tool shed for the last week, right?"

Swiftly, Rachel finally turned to him, the look on her face yet mild by comparison, but she was clearly shocked that he realized as much. The boy only laughed. "It's okay, it's okay!" he said quickly, waving his hands. "I'm not gonna kick you out," he assured her softly.

Eddie had mentioned vaguely about the way she was constantly covered in cuts and bruises. Like his younger brother, Carl could only assume the reason why, perhaps the same reason she was only able to sneak out late at night. While he could never hope to be as kind as Eddie, he wasn't about to send her back to whatever it was she was trying to avoid.

Ray looked down guiltily. "I," she muttered softly, "I can leave tonight."

"Don't worry about it," the older boy told her with a shake of his head. "No one goes in that shed beside me," if only because there was no one else left besides him. "It's old and we don't use it anymore, so you're welcome to stay there as long as you like."

Ray's brow knit together, almost confused by the stranger's gracious gesture. She couldn't help but feel guilty accepting such a nice offer. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?" she asked, really hoping he'd say yes, perhaps more for the sake of her conscience than anything else.

Carl hummed, tilting his head to the side. "Nothing I can really think of," he said to her disappointment. Kneeling down and picking up the shovel in front of the middle plot, he looked upon the grave, and as he did, he seemed to think of something. "Ah, but, you know," he peered over to Edward's grave, a sort of fondness returning to the tone of his voice, "there's a local child's art exhibit in town right now. I submitted one of the last gravestones Eddie made, and they're featuring it in the main event. Even though he can't go himself, I think," he peeked back to Rachel, "I think he'd really like it if you went and saw it."

Gardner seemed surprised. "Me?"

"Yeah," the older brother nodded, "he really liked you, after all." Turning, the man set his path on the dirt trail leading through the graveyard, opposite the way Ray came in. "It's going on till the end of the weekend, and kids get in free, so if you have time, you should check it out." Ray watched as he began to walk off, something sinking in the pit of her chest.

"Mr. Mason?" she called out suddenly.

He looked over his shoulder, curious, then giving a little laugh. "Carl," he corrected her, and Ray, peering down at the ground, to the three graves, gave a pensive pause, the depth of which was certainly unknown to the boy in front of her.

In no uncertain terms, she was the one who killed Eddie. Then, after he died, his eldest brother ended his own life in mourning, which made his death her fault equally. Finally, just a few days ago, she'd also been the cause of the youngest child's parting. She was the one who brought so much suffering to this family, yet here the remaining middle child stood, unbitter, giving, and thoughtful for those who passed, and what's more, to those still alive. Something about the fact felt so distant, but given the lack of outward grief he showed, close to her own heart.

Certainly, this boy kept a lot inside.

"Carl," Ray finally repeated, reiterating for a second time, "I… really am sorry." Looking up, she caught a glimpse of the boy's familiar emerald gaze behind his mask. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said, and f or a long moment, Mason didn't reply, merely remaining still with a stoic and concealed expression. When he did find his voice, it was nothing if not full of sincerity.

"Thank you. Really," he replied. "You're a real nice girl," he told her, ultimately turning back around to walk on. While Rachel couldn't see his face yet, he gave a warm smile, sincerely appreciative, and despite her ignorant eye, she could discern the genuine feeling in his words. "I can see why my brother liked you."

More than ever, Ray herself couldn't understand at all.

Despite the boy's generous offer to allow her to stay on the family's land in secret, Ray was naturally restless as he'd come to realize her presence. Sure, maybe he didn't know who she was in truth, but should he become wise to the other occupant, she knew things would get a lot more complicated, his identity not forged so easily.

Entering the mentioned gravedigger's quarters, she closed the door behind her gently. As she hoped, Zack was still sleeping on the modest bed in the corner. In her hand, she held a plastic bag, having made a trip to a nearby gas station to pick up a few necessities. Making her way to his side, she set it down, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Ray could discern his steady breath by the rise and fall of his chest, much less shallow than it'd been the last few days, and at the very least, he seemed restful. Part of her felt tempted to wake him, just to check in, but gazing upon his visage, she didn't want to disturb him. Almost on its own, her arm rose, hand shifting to brush his long fringe from his closed eyes. If only when he was asleep, he seemed peaceful.

It had been a few days since their narrow escape from the police, and if nothing else good had come from the encounter, Zack was unable to resist how deeply he'd been worn down after, and Ray was finally able to convince him to stay in the city until he was able to, at the very least, walk properly again. It gave her time to nurse his wounds back to health, and he'd spent a good portion of the last week completely out of it. His hand was looking much better, and even if hadn't sewn up his forehead, it was making a decent enough recovery, too. Simply remembering the fuss he'd made was enough for Ray to mind his insistence, but the memory itself also made her heart race with a desire to be nearer.

Gradually, her gaze befell his face lower, and upon his cheek her hand shifted, ring finger gliding smoothly from one end of his lower lip to the other with a fond touch.

In a flash just as quick, Zack's own grip rose, if only out of reflex, snatching her hand in his, her fingertips still upon his person. His eyelids parted thinly, remaining level as his gaze was met only by hers, much to his restless relief. Ray didn't so much as flinch, and Foster, realizing it was only her, felt his nerves dissipate equally.

Wondering if he was still dreaming, in his delirious, bed-ridden state, he'd be lying if he said he didn't have the reflexive urge to indulge further her fingertips as she dare draw so near in the first place.

But, he also supposed doing what-so-ever his heart desired was also what provoked Ray to think she could touch him in the first place. On the contrary, he merely allowed his release of her hand and the girl was none the wiser. "How are you feeling?" asked the girl tenderly, and it took him a minute to process the question. Slowly, Zack shifted to sit up somewhat, taking a moment to reacquaint with the world of the living before his injured palm rose, grip flexing despite the healing injury. It still hurt, but less like hell.

"Better," he realized after a minute, not only to his own relief, but much to hers, too.

Feeling a touch more relaxed, with an exhale, intending to stand, she felt Zack put his hand on her forearm to halt her in place. She was almost curious of his intentions—that is, until his hand rose and took the edge of the bandaid between his fingertips, swiftly ripping it off, her flesh beneath revealing her healing BB wound. Ray flinched slightly, not at the pain but at the surprise of the sensation. Gentle as he was harsh, Zack's thumb brushed against her reddish skin.

"Gotcha good, but yours is lookin' better, too," he said simply, a moderate fondness showing on her face in reply.

With his arm lowering, he shifted to sit at her side, legs slung over the edge of the bed, his gaze falling upon the little plastic bag Ray had brought in. Realizing as much, she leaned down, reaching into it. "I got more medicine to put on it—and your stitches, too," she explained, taking out a tube of some antibiotic cream, and an assortment of bandaging: a thing of colorful children's plasters with characters on them for her, and plain white wraps for him. She stopped rummaging for a moment, "And… I thought," she pulled out a bright red can of soda, and towards the fact, she could see his expression light up moderately, "you might want something sugary when you woke up."

The best medicine he could have asked for.

Were he a different person, he might have thought to comment on how sweet the gesture itself was, but even if he was grossly taken with her, he wasn't fuckin' sick in the head. Merely, he reached out, taking the soda, popping the tab open before taking a sip, to which Ray seemed perhaps even more gratified than he. She was glad to be useful to him, even if it was just for something small like this.

Ray stood, walking over to the modest, rusting sink in the corner of the room. She peered in the cloudy mirror that hung on the wall, in which a large crack ran through. "You think you'll still be ready to leave tomorrow?" she asked, and gave a quiet "mhm" as he chugged his soda, realizing himself thirstier than he thought. (Ray wanted to comment that there were little hydrating effects of caffeinated beverages like cola, but he probably wouldn't believe her. Drink = hydration.) Turning the sink's knob, running her hands beneath the hard water, splashing it on her face, rinsing the wound clean. As she pat dry her cheeks, Rachel looked up, seeing Zack in the mirror behind her; she was a bit surprised, as she hadn't so much as heard him stand. Ray looked upon him curiously, heart beating a touch faster in anticipation for what next he may do, but saying nothing, she couldn't ever quite predict him.

"What are you—?"

Yet more with soda can in hand, he placed it atop her head, now empty and perfectly balanced given her delicate posture.

"Thanks," he showed a small smirk.

Rachel gave a soft exhale. As reached up, taking the tin in hand, she removed it from her head, turning back to him. Her demure blue gaze caught his once more, his darker eye shielded by the fall of his fringe. She was tempted to reach up and brush it behind his ear, but the view seemed to intrigue Ray even farther, as if she realized a better alternative. Forever unable to predict her equally, Zack watched as she turned towards the little toolbox in the corner. Rummaging through it intently, as if she already knew what she was looking for would be there, she easily found what she sought: a pair of red-handled scissors. Turning back to stand before Zack, she peered up at him with expectation.

"I want to give you a haircut," Ray said.

He raised an eyebrow, unsure he ever liked when she had something sharp in her hands focused on him. "Because I need one, or because you want to?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Ray said nothing, looking up to him blankly, as if simply waiting for him to give in. Zack exhaled with a roll of his eye. "Have you even given a haircut before?"

A pause.

"No."

He would've been more surprised if she had. Welp, they both knew he wasn't about to tell her no, and ultimately it didn't matter to someone like him. "Guess my mug can't get much worse," he supposed, shifting to sit back at the edge of the bed. "First time for everything, right?" Certainly, one of many firsts for them recently. He could tell he'd appeased her by the way her gaze lit. "Go crazy."

Taking a step, Ray stood in front of him, the duo thereabouts eye-level now. While she looked intent as always, Zack could discern her attentive, if only by the way she centered her concentration with a nod, clearly accepting the responsibility with seriousness (probably more than she did most things.) Situating herself properly, the girl reached up, tepidly taking a tuft of his fringe between her middle and pointer fingers. Raising her other hand with the open scissors, she snipped it thoughtfully.

Even by the first cut, letting his hair fall back in place, she could see his face much better, as she'd always prefer. Peering upon him carefully, she made a few more tentative snips, slowly feeling more comfortable (even as she may have accidentally made a few shorter cuts than she'd intended.) It'd certainly be cooler as the summer days got warmer, right? "How does it feel?" she asked curiously.

"Better," he said yet again. "Won't have any trouble seein' the next motherfucker I cut to pieces." Ray could almost hear his smirk, and clearly he was excited by the mere prospect. She needn't ask to know exactly whom it was he had in mind for such an honor, almost feeling a little jealous.

"There's another cargo train going to [REDACTED] around five tomorrow evening," she explained. Finally satisfied with the front fringe, the focused Ray moved to crawl on the bed, propping herself up on her knees as she went on to the back. Something about the fact seemed to make him a little more tense, but simply discerning him impatient as typical, she resolved herself to a timely, effective job. "We should be able to catch it back, but if… if we have time," she drawled on slowly, "there's somewhere I'd like to stop at before we leave tomorrow."

He shrugged (and she swatted him for moving,) muttering an uninterested "sure" as she went about her work. Trimming the ends just enough, the length of his bandaged neck showed more clearly. "All done," she finally said, running her delicate fingertips through his ends, smoothing it to lay flat again. Ironically, Zack felt his hair stand on end towards her caress.

"Want me to give you one next?" he laughed, clearly facetious.

Naturally, she parroted him, a teasing tone about her voice that made his heart beat a little faster. "Have you ever given a haircut before?" she asked, to which he reached back, a small smirk on his face.

He took her hand in his as she gripped the scissors, pulling her nearer to him but still behind. "Hell nah," he told her, "but I'll gladly take a blade to you any day." Despite the dark truth of the matter, Ray's heart fluttered by his touch and warning, his mood and liveliness.

It seemed like he was starting to feel like himself again.

The Zack she knew—her Zack.

She reached forward, lashes narrowing as she rested her cheek against his back, more or less embracing him now. Even if she tried, she couldn't forget the feeling of his arms wrapped around her just like this, face buried in her hair, the agony of his words and reluctance to do what he typically so enjoyed best. I don't think I'm strong enough, said the strongest man she knew, and she wanted that version of Isaac Foster laid forever to rest.

"Zack?"

"Hm?" he replied, and she gave a pause. As she spoke softly against his back, he could feel her hands grip him a little tighter, apprehensive.

"You still want to kill me, right?"

For the first time in his life, he almost wanted to laugh at her signature, penultimate question.

With her smaller palm still in his, Isaac swiftly swiped the scissors from her hold. He shifted with an abnormal grace, or perhaps just certainty as he knew his answer. He turned to Rachel, looking her in the eye, his free hand raising to brush away the long blonde strand that parted her face. After a moment, she felt the cold tip of the scissor's peak just barely upon the skin of her neck. Slowly, the edge harmlessly glided from one side of her throat to the next, lazily clinking and dragging along the glass cross pendant of her choker, the same one he'd gifted to her so long ago now. Zack leaned forward to whisper in her ear, offering a confidence only he would ever be able to provide.

"More than ever."

Rachel stood before a large, stone monument, masterfully sculpted out of the most basic and universal of stones, but despite its humble beginnings, the beautiful silhouette of an angel reached high towards the heavens, blocked only by the fluorescent lights that bore down from the roof of the art museum.

Seraph, Edward Mason

Gentle and sincere, Edward was a boy who dedicated himself wholly to his craft, laying to rest those who have passed with beautiful generosity. He was taken from the world all too soon, and may his soul rest in eternal peace.

With an empty gaze, Rachel peered back up from the description in front of her to the statuette. Like everything else he'd ever made, she easily recognized the craftsmanship that went into such a masterpiece, but Ray couldn't help but feel oddly detached from the sculpture. For whom was such a grave made, she wondered? She supposed she'd never be able to ask, and thus, could never really know, but regardless of who it was meant for, Eddie always did his best to make their rest ethereal and exquisite, nothing less than beautiful.

"Bow…Beau…"

Suddenly, at her side, the small voice of a young girl resounded, as if echoing her thoughts, however unable to bring them to fruition.

Sure enough, from the corner of her eye, she caught the glimpse of a shorter girl. Looking upon the plaque before her, the child wasn't, in fact, a mind reader, as she merely pondered the word she had attempted to recite. To someone like Rachel, it was easy to understand, but given the age of the little girl, being notably younger than Ray herself, it was no surprise that the word's nuance was difficult for her.

"Beautiful," she concluded in the girl's stead.

Towards her sentiment, the child looked over to her. By a mere glance, if Ray had to guess, she was probably five to ten years younger, though it was a little difficult to tell exactly. Ray could discern that she had silky, auburn hair, and she was very cute, but precious as she was, Rachel couldn't describe the odd feeling that arose within her chest as she was drawn to look the girl in the eye, as if pulled by the opposite charge of a magnet. A cold chill ran down her spine.

Captivated completely by the odd child, Rachel was unable to resist turning towards her fully now, and she did the same. In the middle of the art gallery, the two young girls looked upon one another for a long, long moment.

In a shade of deep brown, practically red, the gaze peering back was but the mirror image of Rachel's in all but color. Frigid, vacant…

Void of all life.

"Beautiful," the little girl repeated, looking upon Rachel's visage with a delicate expression.

After a moment, the child gazed back to the plaque, seemingly about her business as if nothing had just happened, maybe even more lost to social etiquette than Ray, herself. She took a step forward, pointing to a word on the display's description, to which Ray peered over her shoulder. "Ded…dedication," she recited haphazardly, and the way she spoke indicated she may be a bit confused.

"That's right," Ray nodded. "Dedication. You know," she went on, "when you… when you want to do everything you possibly can for the sake of someone else."

The child showed about as much of an expression as Ray ever could, distracted at best as she thoughtfully contemplated what she'd been told, looking back up to the gravestone. For once, Ray was surprised that she wasn't the less-talkative one in the conversation.

"Beautiful," she repeated decidedly, much more confidently in a newfound understanding.

Even though the girl was old enough to maintain full conversation, her one word repetition seemed odd, as there were many children her age who almost never stopped babbling. This one was near silent, merely raising her arm to call Ray's attention as she pointed to the next work. Ray followed the tip of her finger to its source, an acrylic painting of a pretty white bird, a dove. "That one?" Ray said, she took a step closer to read the title card as the little girl followed at her side. "It's called 'Halcyon and Hope'."

"Beautiful?" the girl said simply, though it sounded more like a question, like she was asking the older for her opinion.

Rachel was almost surprised, or maybe just confused—not used to anyone asking her consideration. "It is," she confirmed. The girl seemed appeased as she walked to the next one, and while Rachel wasn't sure why, she felt an odd, almost inexplicable need to follow. She pointed to another painting, one of a sun and moon, a bit more juvenile than the last two, but no less worthy of its spot. "Yeah, that one's nice, too," said Ray, and the girl turned to the next piece, this time, a little clay pot. It had a weird, unsightly face molded into the side and it was shaped funny with clashing, unflattering colors.

"Not beautiful," the girl declared confidently.

Rachel couldn't help feeling a bit amused. If only performatively, the corners of her lips twitched upwards, and she shook her head. "No," she agreed, "not beautiful." In reply, the girl showed the shadow of a smile just the same. Like Ray's, it struggled to reach her eyes.

In that sense, it reached Rachel's own gaze perfectly.

With an understanding, they went on to the next piece. Then the next, and the one thereafter. Together, they made their way around the gallery, the little girl asking Ray her opinions every now and again, or the meanings of words she didn't understand. She didn't say much otherwise, her concentration centered upon the art with a focused attention. Ray found her behavior unorthodox naturally, but not unpleasantly so, and in fact, it was almost the opposite. The tepid pace of the conversation was oddly refreshing, one she was actually able to keep up with. After having walked nearly the circle of the gallery floor, the duo came to the final piece. Crafted with talent that even rivaled that of Eddie's, she was almost taken aback to see such a display among the work of children.

It was a sculpture of a wilting, black rose.

Essence of Soul, Evangeline Lovett

Stunning from a distance, it's best admired from afar and dangerous to the touch. It withers unnourished in the darkest of hearts.

"Beautiful," Ray whispered breathlessly.

Suddenly, her heart welled for its only fondness. Reaching in her bag, her hand fell upon the spine of a hardback Bible, one she'd found after they left Faraday manor. While she didn't open it, she knew that in the middle of the pages, the remains of the black rose Zack had given her and destroyed on her birthday were pressed eternal. The little girl realized Rachel's change in demeanor, looking at her curiously.

"Sorry," Gardner shook her head slightly, allowing herself to return to the moment. Her hands rose from her sides, meeting together at chest level. "I was just... reminded of something," or more specifically, someone.

Someone she needed to be getting back to, in fact, knowing she'd already stayed longer than she'd told him she would. As if on cue, the sound of the closing bell chimed over the intercom, followed by a woman's voice resounding through the speakers. "The museum will be closing in ten minutes, please make your way to the main exit. Thank you."

"Ah," Ray trailed off, feeling a little sullen for some reason, though she wasn't quite sure why. There was nothing else to see, after all. Gazing back to the little girl at her side, the younger child merely looked to the floor with her head lowered, as if she were disappointed, too. "I guess it's time to go, then," she told her, and the girl nodded, remaining however still. Rachel felt a little awkward, wondering if she was supposed to do or say something more. "Are… are your parents waiting for you?" inquired Ray, and the girl gave a pause. After a moment, she merely shook her head.

"Lost," was all she said.

Wondering if she understood her meaning, Rachel's brow knit together, a sense of concern growing in her chest. "Lost? You're lost?" she repeated. "Did you get separated from your mom and dad?" she asked.

The little girl paused before nodding slowly.

"I see," Ray said simply, her expression growing empathetic and gentle. "Me too."

"Alone?" she asked, but interestingly, for maybe the first time in her life, Ray realized, she could confidently shake her head "no". Maybe her parents were gone, but she wasn't on her own at all. The girl tilted her head to the side, seeming curious, and while Ray supposed it'd be hard to explain to anyone what Zack meant to her, especially a child, she settled for the simple truth.

"Dedicated," Ray said simply.

The girl seemed to take her meaning much more clearly than most would, as very much to her surprise, she merely rose her finger, only to point to herself, to the center of her chest, her heart. It'd seem a void gaze wasn't the only thing they had in common.

"Dedicated."

The sound of children's laughter rang out in the distance among the chatter of adults. The bright daylight illuminated the far end of the alley, but cloaked in the darkness of the tall shadows cast, Zack leaded back against the brick wall of the surrounding building.

While he was usually a little more low profile than this, not often going out during the day, when Ray had seemed especially interested in visiting the museum exhibit (for the lamest reason, by the way,) he saw no harm in indulging her. For as much as he hassled her for being so needy, she didn't often want things—so when she did express the desire for something, he found himself growing more and more anxious these days to appease her like the spoiled brat he let her be. Still, she'd already taken much longer than she had led him to believe; supposedly it should've just been a quick pop in, pop out kind of thing, and he couldn't help but feel a little restless. Growing anxious, he hunched his shoulders.

"Smoke?" a voice asked suddenly.

Breaking Zack from his typical back-alley brooding, the sound of another's voice, one unfamiliar and almost chipper, rang out to his ears. From across the way, the only thing separating them being a few tin trash cans, another man stood, nearly as tall as Zack, but different as could be in appearance. He wore a seemingly "fashionable" outfit, a coat with fur despite the fact that it was summer, rather like Zack who adorned not only a hoodie but also the leather jacket Ray gave him, also year-round but surely for reasons otherwise. His skin was pale, hair dyed and styled intentionally, and the man's wavy fringe befell his left eye. In his hands, he held a pack of cigarettes.

Ugh.

Honestly, did he even need to be killing people anymore? They were all so eager to do it on their own, suckin' down cancer sticks one pack at a time. Zack said nothing, a low growl reverberating in his throat as he merely leaned back against the wall. While his scythe was concealed by the angle between them, the look of eternal animosity on Zack's visage was apparent as ever, as if warning the stranger to walk away. "A-Ah," he laughed tepidly, peering back now, the look in his visible eye one of understanding for Zack's contempt, "I'll take that as a no," he said, and with another grunt, Zack assumed the conversation would end there, as it usually did, and while he had no problems (literally) cutting him short, the guy…

Didn't seem to get the picture.

He merely put a cigarette to his own lips, lighting it up before sticking the pack and lighter into his pocket again. "It's a bad habit, I know," the man went on, carrying the conversation on his back, taking a drag as he gave a smile, "but no matter how many times I try to quit cold turkey, I can never seem to stick to it." He laughed lightly, as if nothing were odd about the situation, nothing odd about talking to a man with a bandaged face in a dark alleyway. Beneath the shade of his hood, Zack rose a brow, feeling almost confused more than anything else now. With a sinister double meaning, Zack replied finally.

"Good way to get yourself killed," he told him lowly, hoping he'd read the room already and back the fuck off.

To his disappointment, he merely laughed, as if what Zack had said was funny. "You sound like my little one." Tapping his foot, he peered over to the other man, who didn't look back. "I know I should stop for her sake, but..." he trailed off with a little chuckle, but Zack didn't find it so humorous.

Did this fucker really not know who he was talking to?

Sure, it's not like everyone was supposed to know who he was, he'd come across a lot of victims who didn't (like Ray herself, who didn't have a damn clue about him till she read it on a paper,) but certainly, even when someone didn't know of his legacy, this was not the kind of exchange people typically tried to strike-up with someone like him. Most took one look at him and ran the other way, Back Alley Murderer or not.

To make his mood even worse, the scent of smoke wafted the distance between him and the stranger. Reminded of the exchange he'd had a week or so earlier, the healing burn on the side of his neck began itching suddenly if only in reflex. He hated the smell of cigarettes. A familiar feeling of irritation began creeping up his spine, and Ray wasn't even here to curb it.

Reaching in his pocket, he decided to check himself in her stead—pulling out the chocolate bar she had given him a while back and was saving for a rainy day. (Geez, that felt so long ago now.) He opened the plastic, peeling it off, taking a bite out of it to sedate the aggression provoked by the disgusting scent of smoke.

Despite all his flaws, at his core, Isaac Foster was more-or-less what most would consider a straight edge—his indulgences of choice being few and far between. He didn't smoke, drink, do drugs, so on, as most would presume for a person of his lifestyle. Sure, in all fairness, on the far end of the scale, he was a cold-hearted killer who's insatiable bloodlust drove him to a life of serial murder, but other than that, his greatest sin manifested in the way of a relentless sweet tooth—and to his credit, the ladder almost seemed more irresistible than the former at times.

He didn't much think about it, but one of the very few memories he'd retained from his early childhood (aside from being lit on fire by some trick of the week who was fuckin' his mom) was the comforting taste of cereal that he'd wake up to in the morning, afternoon, or whenever. More days than not, if felt like his mother would settle him in front of their old CRT, putting on cartoons after shoving a bowl of sugary corn flakes in his hands, leaving him occupied just long enough for her to go suck dick and shoot up in the other room so she could forget about him for the rest of the day. As Ray had told him a few times now, cereal was affordable and tasty as it was cheap and unhealthy ("you can't live off it", "you need the four basic food groups", "I think I know everything and I'm annoying as fuck blah blah blah",) but clearly, he was never keen on letting go of the things even if they were no good for him. Foster knew that when he wanted something, there was no use resisting it.

Given that the only taste he rather have upon his tongue right now was that of the girl's who gifted the chocolate bar to him in the first place—

"I'm a slave to my guilty pleasures."

The other man spoke suddenly, as if reading Zack's very mind and repeating his thoughts verbatim. With his teeth crunching through the chocolate, Foster gave a pause, seemingly stopped in his tracks, as if the man's sentiment had touched upon something deeper in his mind.

Zack wasn't sure he'd be able to explain why, but he felt somehow even more irritated.

"Ah, so sorry!" he perked up suddenly. "Haven't introduced myself, have I?" He took a step out to stand before Zack now. "Name's Lawrence," he held his palm out for a handshake, looking upon his clearly wrapped and tattered visage now without an ounce of reaction showing beyond a casual smile. Zack was perhaps the one more shocked, because somehow still, he didn't seem fazed…

The fuck was up with this guy?

Zack glared down at the polite hand offered to him, knowing the only way he'd take it was by slicing off his whole arm. The man—Lawrence, as it were—seemed to realize his Zack's discontent finally. "H-Ha… ha," he cleared his throat, "sorry," he pulled back his hand and took another drag, "didn't mean to bother you! Just… waiting on someone till the exhibit's done," he explained nervously, cowardly. "Would'a gone in too, but those ticket prices are highway robbery! Guess it makes sense that children got in free, though. Kids these days—they're lucky, aren't they?" he said, and Foster rolled his eyes, supposing he was glad he just stepped away before he could strangle him to death.

More like spoiled as shit.

Because damn if there was anyone else in the world besides Ray whom he'd hang around a motherfucker like this while she went about her happy little business to pay her respects or some shit. If she made him wait much longer, he was gonna kill this guy, resuscitate him, then cut him down again just to get his point across. "Speaking of," lucky for him, "here comes mine now," the man motioned towards the light. Taking a final puff off his cigarette before putting it out beneath his boot, he politely threw the extinguished end in the nearby trash. Zack peered up, not surprised by the fact itself, but in seeing Ray at the side of the other child. "There's my special girl!" he called fondly, holding his arms out to her in anticipation.

"And there's my terrible one," Isaac muttered beneath his breath, taking a slow step to follow at a distance.

On the other end, Ray was surprised as the girl at her side finally showed a faint sense of emotion, her eyes lighting as she caught sight of the man across the street. Rachel, doing the same, examined him carefully, thinking his appearance rather odd in comparison to the child's (she'd describe his "fashion" sense as, ehem… nouveau riche?) Making sure to look both ways, the younger child sped across the sidewalk with arms extended equally as she called back sweetly.

"Larry!"

Reaching him, the little girl was scooped up into his arms, swinging her in a circle before he held her propped up, and they looked nothing less than wholesome, like he was meant to carry this girl from the day she was born. Ray tilted her head to the side, intrigued as she followed, if only by the familiar shadow lurking in the alley behind them. "Did you have fun, Sunshine?" he asked, and the child nodded. "Well, don't keep me waiting," he bounced her slightly. "Your verdict?" The little girl took a deep breath, thinking carefully before she spoke.

"Beautiful," she said confidently.

With her conclusion, the little girl looked over her shoulder to gaze upon Rachel, as if expecting her to provide some profound addendum. Ray looked a bit surprised, as did the strange man. "Oh, my, did you make a friend?" he asked preemptively.

"We met in the gallery," Rachel explained in her stead, striding to stand in front of them. "We walked around and looked at the exhibits together."

"My goodness!" he exclaimed. "You're really coming out of your shell these days, aren't you? I'm so proud of you!" The man, Larry, she supposed, appraised the younger child before peering back to Ray. "Your name, dear?" he asked, and while she wouldn't give it out at all on a normal day, she felt the desire to do so now. She could probably make up a fake one again, but lying didn't seem right either. Ultimately, she walked the middle line, deciding on a happy medium.

"Maria."

Her middle name, given to Rachel after her mother first.

"Well, Miss Maria, thank you for spending time with my little one," the man said, and Ray merely nodded. She heard Zack snicker at her new moniker, and despite the meeting in daylight, he remained hidden in the alleyway shadows. Taking that as her cue to calmly return to his side, she wished could run up to him so easily and jump in his arms, simultaneously knowing full well he'd probably fake her out and let her crash into the brick wall.

"Oh? You know one-another as well?" Larry asked, and Ray was more surprised that he seemed to know Zack somehow. For better or worse, Rachel offered a simple "yes" as Zack merely took another bite from his candy bar, ignoring the question. "Siblings, I take it?"

A beat.

"Something like that," Ray said flatly.

Zack coughed suddenly, choking, the remaining piece of chocolate slipping from his fingertips before falling to the ground. Ray gently patted his back as he hacked, and he peered over to her, visibly uncomfortable. Rubbing his lips with the back of his hand, he muttered an "ugh" as he hunched over slightly.

Well, he supposed it would've been worse if she'd told the truth.

He merely sighed, knowing it was all par for the course, looking towards the befallen chocolate bar on the ground. The last bite was always the best, too. Suddenly, however, standing up tall, he was taken even more by surprise, greeted with an odd and unexpected sight. From her satchel, the child, still in Larry's arms, had taken out a small box, wrapped up in a delicate, white lace handkerchief. She held it out to Zack.

"For you," she said simply, as if offering it in place of the chocolate bar he'd lost.

The offer alone was naturally surprising, but what truly caught him off guard was the completely unfazed look upon her visage. Even more-so than the man that held her, it was a rare day when a child (well, one besides Ray) could gaze upon his nightmarish visage without so much as flinching. Zack was almost dumbfounded, and if only out of intrigue, he took the small item in hand. He rose an eyebrow, turning it up and down slightly as if trying to discern what it was.

"My—that's your last macaron, isn't it, sweetheart?" Larry stated. "That's thoughtful of you." Clearly proud of her givingness, with his free arm, Larry reached up, settling his hand atop the girl's head to pat her; it reminded Rachel of the way Zack would do the same to her, firstly back in the building when he spoke upon his intention of killing her per his own terms, objectively, a lesser-wholesome reason.

"It's a pastry," Ray explained to him, recognizing his confusion. "You'll like it," she already knew. "They're sweet and colorful, come in lots of different flavors."

"Strawberry," the younger girl clarified.

"It's from the café we own, 'Amour Rosé'. We make all their treats in-house," the other man explained. "You should try our lemon candies." He winked at Rachel. "We're not local, but if you like it, we'd love for you to visit if you're ever in our area!" He pulled out a business card from his pocket, handing it to Ray. While Zack didn't say anything towards the gesture, Rachel being the only semblance of a given "thank you", he couldn't help but note the flavor.

His favorite.

Turning the other way to walk down the sidewalk, both the child and adult looked toward the other man and girl one last time. "Now then," said Larry, "we best be off—piano lessons this evening. It's someone's first recital's next month!" he booped the tip of the girl's nose and she did the same to him. "It was wonderful meeting you both."

Turning back down the street as he went on with his conversation with her ("so happy you enjoyed yourself", "tell me all about it", "which piece was your favorite?") Ray watched as he opened the back door of a shiny parked car, gently settling her in before climbing in the driver's seat himself. After a moment, they pulled out to the street, driving past the other duo, and as they did, from the back window, the little girl waved to Ray one last time.

Rachel waved back.

She felt a weight upon her shoulder, Zack's arm, using her as a shoulder rest. "Looks like you made a friend," he said from behind her, a hint of sarcasm resounding. The girl turned to him.

"Looks like you did, too."

An unnerved look showed upon his visage. "Guy was weird as shit," he shuddered dramatically. "Gave me the heebie-jeebies."

Rachel merely shrugged. "He seemed nice enough to me."

Uh, yeah, and that was the weird part. He couldn't dismiss the image in his mind, the sight of the stranger's friendly smile aimed his way as he held out his hand for Zack to take. Regardless, he brushed off the thought with a shake of his head, peering down curiously at the item in his hands. Ray noted the intent look on his face after a moment, seemingly perplexed about something, but before she could inquire, he spoke on his own.

"E," Zack said suddenly.

Rachel tilted her head to the side, confused, repeating after him, "…E?"

"This letter at the end," he said, taking off the handkerchief and holding it out to her. "It's an 'e', right?"

Ray peered down to see pretty stitched embroidering at the edge. Sure enough, "It is," she nodded, surprised that he'd actually been practicing reading and writing enough to show improvement. He was getting better, if only with his vowels. "The one at the beginning is too, just capitalized."

Zack hummed, still a bit confused about the difference, not that he cared much. "What does it say, then?" he asked, and looking down at the hand-embroidered monogram, Rachel ran her fingers over the delicate lettering, the name suddenly withholding a deeper meaning as she read it aloud.

"Eve."

It was dark by the time they arrived. As planned, Zack and Ray caught the train back to town, sneaking on easily as the previous time, the trip fairing substantially better than the agonizing last. Like most things with them, the tension seemed to dissipate, and all it had taken was a little close encounter with death.

Even as they didn't know H's real name, with the burner phone Ray had picked up off the drug dealer a while ago, she was able to search the previous addresses of all John Smiths in town. As one may imagine, the list was longer than convenient, but it was the quickest option they had. They went around, carefully peeking into the windows of all the locations that came up. The first two places were both busts, one being a family and kids, the other an old man on his own, but coming to the shadier part of the already shady town, a large house (certainly the largest in the neighborhood) with a bright red door was their next address. In the driveway was an expensive looking car, the ground littered with crinkled cigarette remains.

Needless to say, good feeling about this one.

Cut to Ray sitting on Zack's shoulder, reaching up to look in the only open window. She hoisted herself slightly, peering over the sill with a narrowed-in gaze. "Well?" said Zack expectantly, impatient. Sure enough, sitting in a recliner chair with his back to the window, Ray could discern their target even by the back of his head, fancy haircut unmistakable. Still on Zack's shoulder, she looked down to him, and he looked up to her.

"It's him."

It'd been a while since she'd seen that wild, bloodthirsty grin he'd all but trademarked, but now it showed upon his face clearly.

Without warning, he shifted, suddenly lowering to hold Ray bridal-style in his arms, gripping her tightly as she gave an almost inaudible gasp of surprise. Looking her in the eye, he smirked devilishly, stifling an impish giggle. She could easily tell he was excited that he didn't have to hold back any longer—further proven by his next impulsive action.

He canted his head forward, shoving his lips against her own in a quick, haphazard kiss.

Satisfied and eager to move on, he abruptly lowered her, basically dropping her to the ground, forgetting all suave as he was more anxious to kill. In her whiplash, she fell over, but despite his lack of gentleness, her only resulting ailment was fluster as she lay unmoving upon the grass, looking up at the starry sky, processing what had just happened.

Safe to say, he was definitely acting like his old self again.

The sound of him picking his scythe up brought back her attention to the moment, and she rose, trailing behind his quick step. He marched right up to the back door, kicking it open with a force that would have broken the lock were it even sealed. She followed tentatively as they made their way to the upstairs bedroom. With another repressed laugh, Ray could practically hear his pulse racing in his veins, anxious to exact revenge. Again, he broke open the door, scythe at the ready for anything.

But somehow, nothing could have prepared them for the sight awaiting their arrival.

"What the—?"

H Smith, still sat in his chair, was slumped over slightly, unmoving, covered in blood pouring from multiple, horrific stab wounds.

Unmistakably, he was already dead.

Zack was almost taken aback, stunned silent, all sense of amusement draining from his visage in place of confusion. Ray merely stood behind him, equally wide-eyed, having not been able to discern his state from the back angle, however made fully aware now. By how bright red the blood still was, she could tell the wounds were fresh; if she had to guess, he'd been alive not hardly an hour ago. Given his line of work, she wondered if it was just some freak coincidence, that it wouldn't be a far cry to think he'd made enemies besides them, but the train of thought was quickly put to rest as she looked upon the weapon still protruding from his body. Reaching forward, her slender hand took in grasp of the blade handle extending from the peak of his chest. Slowly, she pulled it out.

It was none other than Zack's childhood knife.

It was just as they both remembered it: chipped, rusting at the edge, stained deeper with the blood of a fresh kill. Wiping clean the crimson onto her jean shorts, her and Zack's mirror images were now clear in the blade's reflection on either side. At a loss, for a long moment, neither said anything in their shock. Finally looking up from the weapon to face one another, Ray wore a clear concern. "What does this mean?" she asked quietly, and upon her, Zack's gaze narrowed thinly.

More than anything else, just like his last bite of chocolate—it meant this was another guilty pleasure the universe said he'd have to pass on today.

"It means someone's trying to send me a message," he replied, tone lowered equally, looking upon the dead man with contempt and malice. He huffed a humorless laugh. "Too bad for them, I still have no idea how to fuckin' read." Clearly disappointed, Zack turned towards the door. "Let's go." Among everything else, Ray couldn't resist feeling a little sullen too, knowing how excited he was, and she looked down at his knife, wondering if it was the fate of god or work of a devil, or maybe something in between like them.

At the very least, there was one good thing that came out of it.

Zack's knife had really found its way back to her… or perhaps more accurately, the other way around. As if proving that this specific item found itself in her hands again, Ray pressed her ring finger to the sharp edge. Dragging it along the blade, a thick line of red blood bubbled on her skin. Sure enough, it was real, and fondly, she held it to her chest, cradling this important part of him once gifted to her, but as she did, she was suddenly reminded that she needn't settle for a mere extension of him anymore.

Zack abruptly took her petite palm in his, as if alerted the moment her blood hit the air.

She was surprised of course, but to only further Rachel's confusion, Zack brought her hand towards his face, something she'd thought him vehemently against, but there was no denying the feeling of his hot breath against her skin as she was so near, the droplet pooling thick as if it were about to fall.

Sliding her ring fingertip between his lips, he flitted his tongue to lick the blood swelling on her skin before it could cascade to the floor.

Ray's breath hitched as a sudden, unfamiliar heat rose in her chest by the faster beat of her heart rate, but she didn't make an effort to stop him—merely peering away after a moment. Even despite her perpetual poker face, Zack could still tell she was seemingly affected in some manner, and her reaction provoked a subtle smirk across the man's lips, the same ones whom she'd desired so much to caress the day before.

She was one indulgence he was done letting himself be deprived of.