Chapter 13: The Only Blood

"Hey, Zack?"

"What is it?"

Rachel leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder as she held his arm in her hands. He was hunched forward slightly as the two sat side-by-side atop the brick roof, legs dangling over the building's edge. They peered down to the street far below, illuminated only by the flickering lamps that lined it.

"What were you like at my age?" Rachel asked curiously, the abrupt question seemingly coming out of nowhere.

He drew out an "uhhh" before clarifying: "How old are you again?"

"Fourteen," Ray told him simply, to which an uncomfortable expression showed beneath his shaded hood in reply, and he gave an "ugh", wishing he hadn't asked. Ray puffed out her cheeks, hands gripping his arm a little tighter, as if to say, "just answer the question".

"Alright, alright," he huffed, taking a moment to ponder the question. "Well," he started slowly as he recollected that time of his life, "think I'd been on my own for a while by that point." He wasn't exactly sure, but he guessed he was around ten or eleven when he killed his foster parents and ran away. "Just kinda did whatever the hell I wanted, went wherever the hell I wanted. Caused trouble for anyone I met, got in fights a lot," and of course, "killed people."

So, basically the same as now.

"Did you have any friends?" she asked next.

"No," he huffed a deep laugh, as if the idea was ridiculous, "never wanted any." He nudged her as she held his arm yet. "Still don't." Ray looked at him, faint amusement showing as she rolled her eyes, and he put his free hand atop her head, ruffling her hair. Again, she settled against him after a moment, cheek once more pressed to his upper arm. She looked back to the distant ground far below, still curious.

"What about your family?" she went on, and she could discern the rise of his disinterest by the bored turn of his voice.

"What about 'em?"

"What were they like?" Ray clarified. "You know, your parents, grandparents," so on. "Did you have any siblings?"

With a sigh, Zack seemed less eager to talk about the fact, but appeased her curiosity regardless. "Didn't know my grandparents. Think they died before I was born," he shrugged. "My mom was a class-A bitch and good for nothin'," (Ray had already discerned from the little she knew about her.) "Seein' how she didn't know how to keep her legs closed, I'll be damned if I'm an only child, but if I have any brothers or sisters, I never met 'em," he said, and it'd seem that he knew as much as she did about his family, which made Ray sort-of relieved in a selfish way, but there was one lasting question that she still had in her mind.

"And, your father?"

After a moment, Zack merely shrugged as if his answer withheld no weight at all.

"Never knew him."

Ray didn't know why, but hearing as much was a bit surprising. She knew it shouldn't have been, he'd never so much as mentioned his dad before. It had been his mother's boyfriend who set him on fire, so she had assumed his biological father wasn't in the picture, but for Zack to have never known him at all? Ray couldn't help but feel a little sullen on his behalf, but she also supposed that might explain a few things. "Probably better that way," Zack concluded ultimately, and it was probably good he had no idea where his mom was, either—because if he did?

He'd have certainly killed the both of them a long time ago.

Even if it wasn't a friend or family member: "Was there ever anyone important to you?" Towards the question, Zack grew oddly quiet for a long moment, head tilting to look up towards the dark, starry sky.

"There was, yeah," he said, very much to her surprise. "One person."

Naturally, the revelation was an unexpected one. There was someone important to him? Someone other than her? (Which, some days, she still questioned.) "Who?"

Zack wasn't quite sure how to explain said person in question, or why he considered him different, as Zack still, to this day, didn't really know himself. "An old man who gave me my knife," he settled to say, not that it was really given to him, so much as he stole it. "Didn't know him for long, but I could tell… that I didn't wanna murder him," something almost unheard of for Isaac Foster, but the makings of an important person indeed.

"What happened to him?" Ray asked curiously, to which Zack withheld a heavy pause.

At the hand of another: "He was killed."

The feeling of Ray's grip on his arm grew a little tighter again. After all this time, there was still so much about him that she didn't know. "I see," she said simply. To Rachel, it often felt like if something didn't exist in the present, it didn't exist at all. Sometimes, she forgot that life didn't start the moment they met one another, and Zack had lived twenty-plus years without her. Given the fact that they essentially spent all their time together since they reunited, it was odd to realize that Zack was probably alone for most of his life—just like her. However, unlike her, Ray knew he didn't let things get him down easily, it was another thing she admired about him, but she couldn't help wondering if he'd always been that way.

Before she could riddle him with more questions, the sound of a shop bell chimed up loudly from the ground below. Back at attention, the reason they were there, the duo peered down, seeing a man stumbling out to the street from a bar. He wore a familiar black-leather jacket, which, recognizing it, Zack smirked, the sharp grit of his teeth apparent even within the dim light. "Jackpot." The killer stood, helping Ray to her feet equally.

"I'll draw him out and meet you back here in a few minutes," she told him, and he nodded, to which she nodded back. With an understanding, Ray turned towards the fire escape nearby, putting her hand to the cold, rusting handrail as she made her descent.

It'd been about a month since the lost kill that was H Smith, and they'd had a few eventful encounters since then, the hit list given to them proving useful enough despite the questionable source. Their kill-save count had gone up (but true to character, Ray still couldn't quite discern where her penultimate morality lay.) Regardless, today's man in question was proving to be one of particular interest, as his was another name given to them, and while Rachel didn't immediately recognize it, the victim in the matter did catch her consideration.

Rebecca Carlisle.

Hers was a name Rachel had recognized not long ago, towards the start of her and Zack's journey, and while she, at the time, couldn't remember how she knew it, as fate always seemed to have it, she came to understand God's divine plan when she was brought back to her again.

Rebecca Carlisle was a someone she'd gone to the same catholic, all girls school with.

Not only that, she was a girl who looked strikingly like Ray herself, her garments Ray had taken from the clothing line befitting her almost too perfectly. She had long, blonde hair, was of an average height and stature for a girl their age, often described as "cute" or "pretty". However, the notable difference between them was the contrast in their gazes, because, sure, they had the same blueish eye color, but, contrary to Rachel—Rebecca's was full of happiness and life.

A few days prior, Ray had visited the girl in question, as it would happen, in the hospital, making up an alias as her cousin (an actual girl who also went to their school,) disappearing before anyone could catch her. Despite the fact that she was debilitated, bedridden—somehow, she was still excited to see Ray after all this time, and it struck Gardner as odd, because it wasn't like they were even close or anything, the most connection between them being when teachers mistook them for one another. As it turned out, she'd been sent to the hospital after she'd foolishly fallen off a cliff when hiking, and while one may simply assume it a horrific misstep at first glance, interestingly enough, not more than a year ago, her older brother had died in a similar way. (It was a shame, Ray remembered that he was the star player on the school baseball team.) It'd seem the Carlisle family was perhaps simply low on luck, because Rachel also recalled the last year she'd been formally enrolled in school, Carlisle's parents had died in a freak accident, and surviving children were sent to live with their godfather.

Their godfather, the one who'd taken Rebecca and her brother hiking on both occasions.

Her godfather, whom on this night, had spent the last three hours at the bar she and Zack observed so closely.

Unlike the miserable Ray, Rebecca seemed so happy all the time, surely she'd cry out for help if it was bothering her, right? Well, maybe not, because, while was no definitive proof to be had, at least to most, Ray remembered in gym class once, changing in the locker room, she saw a large bruise on Becca's back. At the time, it didn't seem odd to Ray, thinking it normal given her own household, but as she'd gotten older, she realized there was perhaps something dubious going on, something that needed to be ended.

Pulling up her hood, Ray stepped out into the road, illuminated beneath the flickering orangish glow, seeing the faint shadow of an older man slowly fumbling her way. Waiting for him to draw near, her attention was drawn upon a flapping paper pinned to the streetlamp she stood under. To no one's surprise, it was a wanted poster, calling for one Isaac Foster. The picture of him wasn't a photograph, but rather a police sketch rendition, seeming almost cartoonish, emphasizing the crazed look he was known to wear when he killed. Ray's blondish brow knit together in dissatisfaction, as if personally offended.

He was much more handsome than that!

Regardless, the man in question wasn't that caught her attention, but rather the posted reasoning for his sought-after arrest. "Wanted for serial murder. Recent victims: George Mason, Harrison Smith, William Hefty, David Reed, Jane Wilson." Wait a second, Ray thought, as she could place all the listed victim names to faces besides one: Jane Wilson.

A woman.

They'd not killed any women.

An uncomfortable, creeping feeling ran up her spine as she recalled Zack's declaration that he'd not killed John Smith, and Ray knew first hand he couldn't have killed H ("Harrison", she supposed.) Now, there was another death he'd falsely been blamed for? A cold chill ran down her spine as she looked at it for a moment longer, her expression growing tense at what the meaning behind all of this could possibly be.

Someone's trying to send me a message.

Knowing she had little time to think on it right now, Ray ripped down the poster, merely stuffing the flier in the pocket. The sound of footsteps signaled her attention towards the man lazily stumbling about the street. He looked back, seemingly drunk and confused as he gazed upon the girl in front of him, her delicate form casting harsh shadows below the intense lamp light. Her true face, completely shield by darkness, went unrecognized in place of the hood she wore, that being the very same one she'd stolen from Rebecca so long ago, and the man seemed to recognize as much.

"R…Rebecca?" he said in disbelief. "You're… you're supposed to be in the hospital, aren't you?"

No, but you should be.

Ray said nothing, realizing his attention captivated effectively, running back the way she'd come. She heard him call out to her again, "Sweetie, wait!" His heavy footsteps followed behind her with far less coordination. "I'm sorry, Rebecca, I'm so sorry!"

Oh? And what do you have to be sorry for?

Ray ran up the fire escape, the man following in an intoxicated pursuit. She almost had to slow down because he was such a mess, but she minded her patience, knowing all good things took time. As they reached the top of the stairs, Ray turned towards the nearby scaffolding that extended from the edge of the building.

As if it were nothing at all, her careful step led her to walk across the steel girder, a fatal drop now beneath her feet.

Panting heavily, the man stumbled, bracing himself on a nearby pole. "W-What are you doing, Becca? Get down from there, it's dangerous!" he demanded, but Ray said nothing yet. Slowly, her arm merely rose from her side, open palm extended his way, beckoning him to follow her. He fussed a bit more on the contrary, but as she didn't move, he relented. "Fine," he groaned, "I'll come get you!"

Tentatively, he took a few shaky, wobbly steps. Ray could see the gleam of sweat sliding down in drops about the side of his head. As he drew closer, the unpleasant and familiar aroma of vodka grew heavy, and remembering the taste, she fended off the urge to gag. Just as he reached her, Ray took a quick step back, precise to remain balanced. The victim was caught off guard, stumbling, barely keeping it together as he exclaimed in terror. "W-Wha—!"

Finally pulling down her hood, Ray's vacant gaze wasn't the bright, lively one he recognized.

"You're… not Rebecca," he said dully. The expression on his face shifted with anger. "What… what the hell are you—!"

"Oh, would'ja look at that," another voice interjected from behind the man. With a gasp, he looked behind him, greeted with Zack's smirking visage. "We're wearing the same jacket," Zack noted, sounding cocky, knowing himself the very reason Carlisle had to replace his in the first place. The younger man rose his scythe in the air, readying an attack as he reeled it behind his head. "Well, one of us is gonna have to change."

Swiping the blade horizontally in front of him, Zack tore through the man, jacket and all, blood splattering horrifically from his chest.

He let out a fatal scream, drowned out by the sound of laughter as Zack slashed into him. The heavy force of the attack dragged him from the safety of the steel beam, throwing him off, and he fell to the ground below. On impact, the sound of bones shattering echoed up the building's edge. Putting a hand to his hip, Zack cupped his mouth like a megaphone as he called down to the corpse of a man. "Looks like you got a little blood on yours!" He snickered, thinking himself hilarious (Ray almost commented that he almost always had blood on his, but she couldn't really talk.)

Ray didn't know where Rebecca was to go next, but unlike her godfather and brother, at least her final fate wouldn't be found at the bottom of an edge. Ray, too, stared upon the crumpled man below without so much as an ounce of remorse, feeling little more than relieved. With fingertips lacing together at chest level, she closed her eyes, reciting the words she knew well and lived by. "Dear God," she began softly, and by the gentle sound of Ray's tone, a stark contrast to his, Zack's attention was drawn back to the girl in front of him.

As it did, he was met with a sight that almost, were he less keen to this kind of thing, may have even caused him to lose balance himself. It was just…

Ray.

He wasn't sure why he felt so mesmerized, because there wasn't anything astounding or unique about her in this particular moment. She merely stood there in prayer, like she always did after they killed. Her long blonde lashes had drawn closed, and in the wind, her hair fluttered freely through a warm gust. The city lights below hit her visage in a way that fully highlighted her every delicate feature. It was just her, nothing more, nothing less, and yet, for some reason, even if he wanted to look away, he felt it impossible—unable to help wondering if he was the one who'd just fallen to his untimely death as gazed upon the radiance of the only angel he'd ever believed in.

"Amen," she said softly.

Unlacing her fingertips and peering back up to Zack, Ray couldn't help noticing how very distant and focused he seemed simultaneously. The duo remained silent as they stood upon either end of the steel beam, only stepping closer as Zack rose an arm, holding his hand out for her to take. Ray put her smaller palm in his, accepting it always, but neither made an effort to move.

"Hey, Zack?" she called softly.

"What is it?" he replied in a tone to match.

After a moment, Rachel huddled up to him, resting her cheek against his chest. Allowing her to do so, he lazily wrapped his other arms around her, minding her as he still held his scythe. His neglectful parents, his broken childhood, losing the person he cared about: "Does thinking about the past ever make you feel lonely?"

Despite her fine balance, in the middle of the scaffolding, he held her more securely to him, intending to protect her from anything, even gravity. Zack was quiet for a pause longer before he gave a single shake of his head.

"Nah," he said confidently.

After explaining the revelation of yet another murder pinned on him, Ray convinced Zack to let her go to a local internet cafe so she could print out an extended list of victims linked to the Back Alley Murderer, a catalog expanding over the course of nearly a decade. Ray looked down at the papers in her hands as she pushed past the cafe's large metal exit door, flipping through the stack of articles and obituaries. While Zack's passion for his very favorite thing wasn't any surprise to Rachel, she had to say, he…

He killed a lot of people.

She only printed out the victims with recent pictures or detailed descriptions, knowing likely that he'd never known their names in the first place. They'd look them over tonight and see if there were any he couldn't recognize. Part of her wished it'd somehow make sense to him, that recent events were all but mere coincidence—but she was smarter than to assume things might be simple for once. Stuffing the print-outs into her side bag, Ray merely sighed as she went about her way down the street.

She'd only known the internet cafe was here after seeing it a few months ago, this was the same area with the store her choker had come from, she noted, casually walking past the very display window Zack had once shattered, though they'd since replaced the glass and the product assortment inside. Admiring the cute shops one by one, her destination was set otherwise for the far dingy alley nearby, yet she couldn't help but stop as she came to stand before a particularly eye-catching exterior…

A pretty cafe with pink walls, bearing a big red door and a motif of fresh roses. Ray peered up at the shop's nameplate.

Amour Rosé

The eidetic Rachel reached in her pocket, pulling out the card Mr. Lawrence had given her about a month ago now. Sure enough, the address on it was that of the same place she stood now. Rachel gave a pause, because she already knew… she really shouldn't go in. She'd probably get in trouble with Zack if she did, but as she peered over her shoulder to the nearby alley, there was no one looking back.

If it was just a minute, he wouldn't mind, would he? He wouldn't even know, right? Oh, who was she kidding, of course he would.

Oh well. Doing it anyway.

Pushing past the large red door, the sound of a pretty entry bell chimed. It was just as lovely on the inside as it was out, fancy chairs tucked into tables with floral-pattern cloths covering them, a vase of red roses on every one. After a moment, the sound of the door leading to a back room opened, and sure enough, she recognized the person before her.

The little girl she'd met in the art gallery, Eve.

It'd seem she remembered Rachel as well, her big, otherwise empty eyes lighting up slightly. She trotted over to Ray, saying nothing, however clearly excited, and Ray couldn't help but think her behavior cute, like a small puppy running up to its owner for a treat. "Maria," she greeted simply, reminding Ray of the half-true identity she'd given her, simultaneously feeling a little guilty. Before Ray could reply, the back door opened again, revealing another familiar face, that of the man she was with before, Mr. Lawrence.

Catching sight of Ray, he showed a friendly grin. "Oh, my, what do we have here?" he asked, walking up to the two children. Eve pointed at Ray while looking back to Larry.

"Maria," she repeated.

"That's right, sweetie," he laughed lightly. "It's Maria." He turned to gaze upon the taller girl. "We were wondering if you'd be able to stop in. Don't tell me you traveled all this way here just to see little ol' us, did you?" he asked, and Ray shook her head.

"We were… in the area," she said vaguely. "Actually, we spend a lot of time around here," to say the least.

"Oh? What brought you around today?" he asked naturally, peeking to the papers visible from Rachel's open messenger bag. She flipped the tab closed quickly. Uh...

"Homework."

Larry hummed in reply. "Well, we're very happy to see you, far as it may be from where we met," he turned to the counter, taking a little ceramic plate in hand. "And in fact, you came at just the perfect time! Eve got an A+ on her spelling test at school today, so I made a fresh batch of cookies." He showed Rachel the plate in his hands, sure enough, steam wafted from a batch of warm chocolate chip cookies. "Would you like to join her for an afternoon snack?" he offered kindly, and the smaller girl seemed excited about the prospect, looking to Ray with expectation.

Ray's expression fell slightly. "Thank you, Mr. Lawrence, but I can't. I'm sorry," she shook her head, and the disappointment on the smaller girl's visage was equally visible in turn. "I need to be getting back."

"Oh, is your brother waiting for you?" Larry asked. Ray nodded, carefully not correcting him about the true nature of their relationship. "Well, invite him in too! We have more than enough for everyone," he said, as if it were that easy, and Ray's gaze befell the floor.

"He... doesn't really like crowds." Or public places, or people.

Or pretty much anything.

Towards the fact, Larry only laughed. "Well, what do you know? My Eve prefers it quiet, too." He put a hand atop the girl's head, running his hands down her silky smooth hair. "We have a private table out back in our garden?" he smiled, offering a kind alternative. "There's no pressure, of course, but we'd love to have you." Ray peered back up to Eve, and despite the assurance that they wouldn't be upset if she didn't, the look in the child's reddish-brown gaze seemed almost hopeful as it was distant, and in that moment…

Rachel almost thought that she felt something.

She couldn't entertain the idea of telling her no, of letting that distant glimmer of happiness in her junior's eye fade. It left Rachel with a manner of guilt that even committing murder couldn't hope to invoke. She'd sooner deal with a cranky Zack any day, and come to think if it: it was true he didn't like being out in public…

But he did really like the macaron from before.

Anyway, cut to Isaac Foster, forced into yet another scenario that he would have never in a million years imagined himself in, all at the will of his victim-turned-paramour, and like usual?

He wasn't fucking happy about it.

At a small, circular table, Zack sat at Ray's side beneath the cover of a large parasol, shade catching him while she remained in the sunlight. The stark difference in their personalities was demonstrated by posture alone—Ray sitting upright with her back straight, Zack slouching low as he propped his arm up on the side rest. Across from them, Larry sat with little Eve in his lap as she politely munched a cookie, leaning forward to prop herself up on the table while she colored with crayons. From the plate, Zack swiped one too, shoving it in his mouth—the reason Ray was able to convince him to go along with this in the first place. Ray almost wanted to fuss, telling him to mind his manners, but she knew she was pushing it already. Luckily, it seemed like she was the only one who cared.

"Don't be shy, dear," Larry told Ray as she notably didn't indulge in the contrary. "You can have some too."

With an apprehensive nod, she reached out, seemingly hesitant to take a cookie in hand before giving it a small nibble and setting it down on her napkin. Eve put a hand on Larry's arm, tugging his sleeve to get his attention. "Milk?"

"Oh, goodness, how could I forget?" he shook his head, standing and setting Eve down in the chair. "Would either of you like something to drink?" he asked, and Zack felt uncomfortable as the other man attempted to make eye contact with him. He muttered beneath his breath.

"A piping hot cup of go fuck yoursel—"

"Two coffees," Ray spoke up to cut him short. "One with cream and five sugars, the other black." Larry nodded as he walked back into the cafe, and as he did, Eve scooted closer to Ray, who peered towards her curiously. She leaned in, whispering in her ear as she subtly motioned to Zack.

"Swear jar."

A beat.

"He'd be rich."

The two girls exchanged expressions of moderate amusement. Zack rose an eyebrow, merely growling in annoyance, not caring about the nuance of their secrets. After a moment, as if getting slowly more comfortable, the child held up the picture she'd been doodling for Ray to look upon. It was a picture of various small animals, Rachel could easily tell—she was talented for her age.

"It's cute," she praised her. "I like pets too," she said, to which Zack muttered a "yikes". Under the table, Ray nudged him with a jab of her foot, causing his knee to hit the table leg. Eve merely tilted her head, curious but for reasons otherwise.

"Flowers?" she asked.

Ray was almost confused towards the statement. "Flowers?" she repeated. She was asking if she liked flowers?

Eve nodded.

That's right, Ray recalled. If the cafe's motif itself wasn't any indication, it'd seemed like she really liked roses. She remembered vividly the beautiful, black wilting sculpture they'd viewed together at the art gallery, the name credited upon it. She really was talented for her age.

"Yeah, I like them," she affirmed. Rachel could tell she'd appeased her by the way the child excitedly took her palm. Eve stood up, and just like in the gallery, it was almost impossible to resist following the child, like she was born to be a leader, the main character of a story. Hand in hand, Ray was led to the other side of the garden, before a hedge of multicolored roses—the primary colors. The scent was pleasant, and they were very easy on the eyes. "They're pretty," Ray told her. "Which color is your favorite?" Gardner asked her, and her response was a bit surprising.

In a deep azure shade, she pointed to a prominent blueish one.

Both the other day and now, the girl adored a reddish outfit, and it looked befitting on her, matching her eyes, and Ray would have certainly assumed her answer by the fact. Regardless, Ray could respect the choice, blue wasn't a color that occurred naturally in roses, they'd been genetically modified and were rare in their breed. "Favorite?" Eve asked her in return.

Ray already knew her own answer. "Black."

Tilting her head, as if the answer intrigued her, the child took Ray's hand again, leading her farther down the path. After a short walk, they came to another hedge of more mixed roses, sure enough, in shades black and white this time. Ray exhaled softly, yet her expression fell slightly after a moment, as she'd almost forgotten what a healthy rose could look like. She recalled the way Zack stomped the life out of the one she loved so much, reasonably irate to his credit. Regardless, she wished she could've had a chance to keep it healthy.

"Maria?" Eve said suddenly.

She peered over, seeing a vaguely concerned expression on Eve's face as she observed Ray's shift in mood, but, of course, Rachel wasn't sure why she looked at her that way. The two children studied one another's expressions, as if trying to discern what the other was feeling, though Ray was none the clearer. If nothing else, once more, Ray at least felt like she wasn't the only one who longed dearly to understand the heart of another.

"Rachel," she corrected her suddenly. "My name is Rachel."

She wondered if the child would be reasonably upset that she had been dishonest, but on the contrary—Eve withheld an expression of clear understanding. The corners of her lips turned upwards faintly, like she was merely happy to know the truth, rather than feeling angry she'd been lied to. Again, she took the older girl's palm in her own, though simply to hold this time. With her free hand, she reached up, pointing to a white rose, and then to the center of Ray's chest, her heart.

"Rachel."

"Looks like they're having fun," Larry's sing-song voice rang out from back at the table, simultaneously gratified by the fact. By the mere sound of the other man's jovial tone, Zack wasn't so chipper.

Ugh, not this shit again.

Zack, never one for small talk in the first place, didn't say anything back; he rolled his eyes as he watched the two girls disappear farther into the garden. Silently reaching out to take the mug's handle as Larry set the coffee cup in front of him, he brought the drink up to his lips to take a sip.

Zack's eyes snapped wider the moment the liquid hit his tongue.

He turned to the side, crudely spitting it out on the ground. His company was startled naturally, "Oh, I'm sorry, did I make it too strong?" he asked, to which Zack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, groaning as if to say "no shit".

Actually looking at the cup's contents, he realized it was black—the lighter, sugary one being set in front of Ray's seat. While he couldn't really blame him for the honest mistake, he aggressively slid his cup over, and it splashed onto the table slightly. Grasping the other mug in hand, sure enough, with a sip, it was much more to his palette.

(Ugh, why the hell would anyone ever want to drink something so bitter and nasty? Were Ray's taste buds as fucked up as her mind or something? No wonder she was so dead inside if that's what was good to her.)

Larry, on the other hand, only seemed amused by the revelation of their respective orders. "Quite the unique pair, you two," he noted with a laugh, studying Foster with a pensive expression, as if he were somehow intriguing, only to be met with disregard as Zack went about his drink—but it'd seem he wasn't let off the hook so easily. "That girl," Larry said suddenly, a sort of knowing about his tone as motioned in the direction of the children, "she's not your sister, is she?"

In the middle of a sip, Zack peered up from the coffee cup as it was still on his lips, a narrow glare appearing in the same beat. He leered at the other man skeptically, who only remained calm. Had he really caught on?

It would seem so—because he read him for filth.

"She's your everything."

Once again, Zack found himself caught off-guard by the odd man, just like the day they'd met. In an attempt to prevent revealing anything further about himself, he avoided eye contact yet, the stern expression on his face betraying what he may have really felt, because even if he wanted to contest the notion, knowing the horrific lengths he'd gone to for Ray, the lengths he'd still go to, he wasn't about to lie, not even to a weird fuck like this.

He supposed he should just be happy that he could at least cross off "incest" from his list punishable offenses, right below "serial murder" and "robbing the cradle".

Lawrence leaned back in his chair with fine posture, crossing his legs. "I know," he went on, and by the tone of his voice, it almost sounded like he was trying to reassure Zack of something, "because Eve's the same to me."

Oh, wait, Zack realized. He meant "everything" in like, the good way. Yeah, no, Ray was the all-encompassing, "for-better-or-usually-worse" kind of everything.

"You see," he began, "five years ago now, I found her alone in the same gallery where the girls met. Her mother and father left her behind, then disappeared shortly thereafter," Larry explained, and the lack of reaction on Zack's face may have been off-putting, he knew, but he couldn't bring himself to actually care or think it tragic, because, hey, at least she was still breathin'. "Losing her parents left my dear girl so traumatized that she couldn't speak at all," he said, as if it were truly heart-breaking, the most terrible thing in the world.

Cool. Mine turned into a murderer.

"As I was adopted myself, I fully understood her pain," he explained, and Zack rolled his eyes inwardly, resisting every urge to smack him and tell him to join the club. "I took her in, and we've been together ever since."

Wow, how beautiful.

I'm wanted for kidnapping.

"But, if I'm being honest," he continued tepidly, as if hesitant to say more, "truth be told, she's the one who saved me," he exhaled. "If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be here right now," he withheld a pensive pause, his meaning deep and sincere, "I love that little girl more than anything in the world." If only to a trained view, Zack's heterochromatic gaze grew wider by a narrow, narrow fraction as he finally dare attempt to look the other man in the eye—only now, Lawrence didn't look back. "More than she could ever know."

In that very moment, for as much as he wanted to deny it, Isaac related to the other man, however morbidly.

Wishing dearly that he couldn't, simultaneously knowing his feelings stemmed from a place much more heinous and corrupt, by the man's heartfelt word, an intense stinging suddenly burned in his chest to his lower stomach, on his charred skin, like the prick of a thousand sewing needles, a feeling he'd surely know again, and again, and again.

The one who saved me.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am—that she's finally breaking out of her shell," he went on, the note of his voice fond as he peered towards the girls fiddling with the rose bushes far off. "As you can imagine, since then, Eve… Eve's had trouble making friends," he said reluctantly. Zack exhaled through his nose, wanting almost to warn him that if they were hoping to avoid more trouble, they were taking the horrendously wrong path. Somehow, his kid found the only girl in the world who was even more antisocial.

But, like, serial killer antisocial.

"I'd do anything to see her happy," he said, and perking up from his seriousness, he gave a faux sigh to lighten the mood, "and now," he went on, "I'm a slave to her every little desire! Whatever my princess wants, she gets." He laughed to himself, as if it were a joke, but Zack resentfully didn't doubt his honest patheticness. Afternoon trips to an art gallery, piano lessons, freshly baked cookies. Their lives couldn't be any more different.

Bitter and sweet.

"Do you really," Zack finally spoke, voice low and serious, critical and intense, "not know who we are?"

Larry, curious, merely peered over, seeming unfazed as he ignored the acute expression Zack withheld upon him, only surprised that the other man finally said anything. "How could I?" he laughed lightly. "You've not told me your name yet."

By the notion of his clear sincerity, Zack was all the more surprised he had to ask, or in the first place, still wanted to know. Foster peered down to his bandaged fingertips gripping the mug, up to Rachel's distant and lifeless expression far off, who looked so perfectly out of place. Truly, he wondered how she was able to do something like this so easily—as if they hadn't straight-up killed a man the prior night, but what was more surprising?

How was he?

While his life had never been simple, this may have been the strangest situation he ever found himself in, and he wondered how he'd fallen even farther from grace, all on account of the girl who brought him here. He could criticize this fucker all he wanted, but Zack knew he was no better when it came to bending over backwards for Ray. He had to say, he was gettin' real sick of the way she thought she could bat her pretty little eyelashes at him and get whatever the hell she wanted.

Because she was absolutely right.

"Zack."

Finally, he relented, allowing the offer of his honest denomination, perhaps more to his own surprise than anyone else's.

"My name's Zack," he repeated, motioning to his younger companion far off with a slight nod of his head. "She's Rachel. She didn't give you her real name because I told her not to," he said simply, as if the fact weren't odd at all, what's more, offering an excuse in her place. For a moment, Larry was surprised as anyone would be, but Zack's poker face remained, almost hoping he'd call him out over it so he'd have an arguable reason to grab him by the neck and bash his nose into the table.

On the contrary, his company merely smiled again.

"Protective, aren't you?" he said, and it almost sounded like he was teasing Zack, which annoyed him of course, but he couldn't deny it. Leaning forward slightly, Larry rested his elbow on the table, settling his chin in the palm of his hand. He spoke politely, in a manner that reminded him of the way Ray used to address him when they first met. "It's a pleasure to properly meet you at last, Zack."

Eaugh, creepy.

"Say," the other man reached into his pocket. He took out a pen and scribbled a few numbers on a napkin that sat on the table. He slid it over to Zack, who recognized it well enough to understand it was probably a phone number. He was almost dumbfounded, wondering if he took his meaning properly. Sure enough: "Here's my cell number."

Oh. Oh, hell nah.

"Don't swing that way, bro," he said quickly.

Larry put a hand to his mouth, covering a giggle. "Oh, goodness no," he assured him. "No offense, you're not really my type," he gave him with a wink. "Right track, wrong train." Zack let out a breath of relief, simultaneously knowing the same could be said for himself. (Kinda felt like life would'a been easier if he just liked guys instead of Ray, and Christ, that was saying something.) "I was just thinking—it's Eve's ninth birthday in about a week, August 1st. It'll just be me and her otherwise, but if you'll allow it, and Ms. Maria—ehm, Ms. Rachel would like, maybe we can all meet for a tea party. We'll have cake and the girls can play together in the garden again," he said. "Just think about it and let me know. It could be fun for them. It seems they really like one another, after all."

Naturally, towards the suggestion, Zack could help but feel uncomfortable, though he neither agreed to nor denied the offer outright, merely looking off to Ray in the distance and she held the other child's hand. Of course, he didn't like the idea on principle, if not only for the obvious fact that this was absolutely not something they should be doing, but because ol' Larry here was right.

Ray did seem to really like the little girl. Genuinely. Clearly, she wanted more out of this situation than a few free snacks.

And Zack knew first hand that nothing good had ever, ever come from Ray wanting things.

Later that evening, Ray and Zack had decided to get a hotel for the night. After looting their last kill, they had the money at the moment, and Ray wanted a clear place to focus on concluding whatever patterns may be found in the victim records she'd printed out.

However, unlike the first time they got a hotel, Ray made sure to get a room with two beds.

They sat on one of the twin mattresses, shuffling through the mess of papers. Ray read out the descriptions to him, some sounding more familiar than others; the ones with pictures were a bit easier to discern a definitive answer. They started with a hard "yes" pile, that being most of them (five thus far,) deciding to throw in a "I don't know, probably" category (two), before they came to an article about a family from a few years ago: a single mother and her two teenage children.

While Zack didn't have a criteria besides his heart's desire, he could safely say he'd not been the culprit. Truthfully, it was rare he killed more than one or two people in one go, whomsoever unfortunate enough to wander into his dark alleyway at night. Not many families found themselves in such a situation besides the terribly unfortunate, but it'd definitely be a kill he'd remember.

The next "no" came about in regards to sex worker, which, wasn't a victim unheard of (on the streets at night, one could imagine he'd been approached by a fair number of them in his life,) but Ray herself felt certain in his answer of "ah, hell nah", because the woman had been sexually assaulted before being brutally murdered.

There were a lot of things that could be said about Isaac Foster, most of them probably true—but Rachel was certain that this wasn't one of them.

She recalled even attesting to such after she was taken into custody, yet they still ran tests on her and everything, questioning her extensively, as if trying to urge her to say that it happened regardless of the truth. They were looking for an M.O. that simply wasn't there, and plus, this victim had been a one-off occasion, so to act like it was a pattern (when it wasn't even him in the first place,) was simply inconclusive. If that was his intention, it'd be clear, and Rachel knew, perhaps better than anyone, exactly the nature of rush the Back Alley Murderer sought.

Simply, it wasn't at all this.

Another notable kill was that of an elderly couple killed in their sleep. It was thought to be the work of the Zack given the nature of the brutal crime, in combination with the fact that he'd likely killed in the area that very same week. The couple had spent their anniversary together earlier their evening, a milestone at that, so the motive of joy was to be discerned equally. Again, Zack dismissed the crime as his work, both he and Ray knowing he would never be so methodical as to wait till they'd gotten home and gone to sleep, being the creature of impulse that he was.

They went in through the lists, approaching midnight before they finished. The "yes" pile was heaving, the "maybe" pile moderate, and while it was the smallest—the "no"s were still definitely existent, dating back farthest about seven years. Truly, the fact that the falsely accused kills went over his head for so long wasn't really that shocking, he clearly didn't care much about what was said of him, the media always eager for the most dramatic story rather than what was true, and it wasn't like it had much baring on Zack one way or another. But, on the contrary, it left Ray with a bitter taste in her mouth.

The thing that made this so difficult: "It's like… they're trying to be you," she said. Vaguely motivated by displays of emotion, usually in a dark secluded place. "I can't see any unique pattern," even with the details only they personally would know. She looked up to Zack with disappointment. "Can you?"

He shook his head. "If you can't, I definitely can't." Peering down at the papers, Rachel's brow knit together, overwhelmed by the information intake. Zack watched as she put two fingers to the side of her head, something she did when she was solving problems.

"Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against you?" Ray pressed him.

He deadpanned.

"Uhm. Yeah, a few."

Ray sighed as she began shuffling the papers, stacking them neatly. "I mean," she clarified, "someone who may know you personally." Not one of his victim's loved ones, not like Smith or that Gregory boy. "Someone who could get inside your head, and think and act like you." Besides a few keen details most wouldn't recognize, and his trusted word: "These are all victims that could've easily been yours. That's why they were all blamed on you."

Considering the only people who'd really known him on this level were either burnt to a crisp at the bottom of a wrecked building, an old missing priest who really did not seem likely, or the girl in front of him? He shook his head. No one.

Ray's concern was clear, decidedly left with no clearer an answer, and maybe that's what made it crystal. First his knife, now this. Reaching over to take her bag in hand, she slowly pulled out the aforementioned blade, and as if trying to comfort herself, held it to her chest, over her heart. "What if the message were being sent," Ray hunched her shoulders, "isn't meant for you? If… if there really is someone trying to get in our way—"

"I'll make sure to get in theirs first."

Ray was almost taken aback by the tone of his voice—raw, sincere in its sinister nature, as if reflecting the most dangerous him. Ray peered up to him as he gazed out the distant window with a terrifyingly intent glare that no one would ever want to be on the other end of. That is, beside Rachel, who's heart merely fluttered as it turned on her.

If someone was out to get him, that was one thing, but her?

After a moment, he put one hand on her shoulder, his eyes locked to hers intently, and Ray's delicate fingertips rose, hand placing itself atop his firm touch. He wasn't lying when he gave her his answer from the night prior: loneliness was something all but forgotten to the man known as Isaac Foster, and he wasn't about to let it be something he'd be forced to remember. He never needed his parents. Just like how they never wanted him, he never wanted them either. He'd gotten by fine without his dad, and he'd have been happier to never known his mom at all. The blind man was someone important to him, yeah, but he'd since found something even more precious, and he wouldn't let it be stolen so easily this time.

"I'll slaughter anyone who tries to take you from me again."

Rachel's cheeks grew hot, a light but ardent flush showing even in the dim light, one that made her delicate visage all the more beautifully bewitching to the man gazing upon it. Slowly, he leaned in closer to her, head slanting slightly as his eyelids drew shut, narrowing in on her as if to solidify his declaration with a brush of the lips.

Much to his surprise, the only contact made was the feeling of cold, flat metal on his skin.

Confused, he opened his eyes, quickly realizing that Ray held up his knife, separating his mouth and hers before he could kiss her.

"Hey, Zack?" she said abruptly.

Godammit.

"What is it?" he sighed, unmoving, voice muffled slightly as he spoke against the blade. After a moment, Ray blinked with a curious tilt of her head.

"Do you remember what today is?" she asked, seemingly out of nowhere for the moment.

Clearly not my lucky one, that's for sure. He shifted away finally, shaking his head. "No, but I'm sure you're gonna tell me," he sat back. Ray got up from the bed, kneeling to rummage in the bottom of her bag again on the floor. (Oh, if she was really about to take out more papers at a time like this, he'd rip 'em to shreds.) To his surprise, what appeared in her hands was something he couldn't have predicted in a million years, and kneeling in front of Zack, she offered it up to him.

A lone, flourishing white rose.

Nothing less than confused, Zack slowly reached out, taking the stem in hand. He said nothing in return, merely gazing upon the flower, befuddled, as if he didn't quite comprehend what it was, its meaning, however suddenly recalling the crushed remnants beneath his boot of one black just the same. He had a sneaking feeling that he... may have understood.

"It's your birthday."

Even more to his surprise, Ray leaned forward, sweetly laying her head against his knee as her arm wrapped around his calf, holding him lightly. Innocently, she rested her head in his lap, and he looked from the rose in his hand to the mess of blonde falling over his leg. A minute passed, then another, and another as he let her stay exactly where she was; he said and did nothing, just like she. They lost track of time as they remained unmoving against one another, until suddenly, she felt his arm on her upper bicep. He pulled her up.

Ray almost couldn't comprehend what happened next.

Next thing she knew, Zack was holding her against him as they lay side-by-side on the small, twin bed, his bandaged fingertips carded in the back of her hair to press her face to the center of his chest. She could feel his features against the top of her head as he buried his face in her hair, and it took Rachel a long moment to realize the situation, relaxing against him completely as she did.

An unspoken understanding was had as their fingertips intertwined at chest level.

Ray recalled that night they'd spent in the hotel towards the start of their reunion—how they'd gotten a single bed, and in the end, she slept on the floor. Now, even though there were two mattresses, smaller and cramped as it may have been, they ended up only needing one.

More than ever, Zack was certain: the only blood that ever mattered was that fated to spill when he killed the girl in his arms—the same blood once shared between the very hands they held now.

"Happy birthday, Isaac Foster."