Graham hears muted footsteps coming down the hall and the hushed swish of denim. They're approaching ploddingly, almost hesitantly. Something most wouldn't care to hear. His instincts have always been fine-tuned, honed like a weapon. He flicks his gaze to the clock. Seven-fifteen. The new deputy's early.
Some odd feeling, a lightness in her, compelled him to offer the job. But his pragmatic argument still stands. She proved effective. Emma Swan delivered results. With the fire, set up from Gold or not, she proved she'd put the town first by bravely and recklessly running back into a burning building. In the bar fight just before, she proved she was tough as nails. She's also a rambunctious adolescent who required a nudge in the right direction. What she needs is a second chance.
Graham has a few vague memories of his own youth and an officer who encouraged him to be better than he was after a brawl. All he recalls about the fight is that it was one he didn't initiate. He started outnumbered, and he left them bleeding on the ground when the officer showed up. Bizarrely, for someone who supposedly had such a monumental impact on his life, he can't remember if the officer was a man or woman. He can't remember his or her name. No facial features either, just a faceless officer with an indistinct voice encouraging him to attend the police academy. He can't even recall how old he was. He has one or two vague memories of attending a police academy, somewhere. Maybe Augusta? The questions begin causing a headache, so he shakes his head. What he does recognize is that the nudge helped encourage him in a promising direction, before going too far down a destructive path. If he can be that force for her, he's prepared to do it.
Emma Swan ducks her head into the bullpen with darting eyes taking in every detail she can and a nervous smile. "Good morning, Sheriff," she greets. A grunt escapes Leroy from his second home in the drunk tank.
"What little punk is this chipper, this early in the morning?"
"One used to waking up this early in the morning." She shrugs.
Graham unlocks the drunk tank with a weary sigh. "Leroy, be nice. Emma's going to be around in the mornings from now on. If you don't want to be around someone so cheerful in the mornings, perhaps don't make me stow you in the drunk tank. Now, if I'm going to let you out, you need to behave. Put on a smile and stay out of trouble." In something that feels routine, Leroy grimaces a sarcastic smile as he exits the cell, grumbling down the hall. The words, the actions, they feel like a memorized script from a play, one he's been performing on and on for years. Maybe it's just repetitive behavior. A rut of some kind?
"Is he here every morning?" Emma asks from a perch against a desk.
"Ah," Graham rubs his forehead in thought. "I suppose most mornings he is." Emma tilts her head at that, eyebrows quirking on her face in thought without voicing anything. "I suppose…" Graham shakes his head against the strange feeling of deja vu. Letting a whistling, sarcastically-smiling Leroy out of the drunk tank just became a standard part of his morning. How long has that been the case? How many times has he done it? "Well, you'll get used to him, at any rate. Maybe one of these mornings, he won't be such an ass."
"So," Emma says, hopping off the corner of the desk and glancing around.
"Why don't I show you around?" Everything she'd need to know where it was, the supply closet and bathrooms past the holding cells, the 'armory' as he liked designating it kept locked up tight. In actuality, it's a few handguns, two rifles, a shotgun, and a few cases of ammunition. Underneath it, he keeps other tools, a few knives, a crowbar, several flashlights, more just a place for miscellaneous items. Graham looks Emma dead in the eye as he states, "Never without supervision, understood?"
"Yes sir," she answers.
"Sir's a bit formal. Makes me feel old. Let's go with Graham, eh?"
She shrugs. "Cool, Graham. And yeah, no weapons without supervision. Understood."
He nods. "I'll instruct you how to handle them. Clean them properly and handle them safely. Something everyone should know. And no," he continues, "I'm not issuing you one. You don't require one for a desk job."
"Understood," she nods.
Graham displays his particular filing system and chuckles a bit at the slight cringe on her face. He's under no circumstances a particularly organized person. "If you like, you can rearrange them. In fact, based on all the records that got burned at City Hall, I'm likely going to ask you to digitize them. Just keep it to a system I can understand, alright?" She nods with a grin. "Besides, I've never been adept with the computer. Knocking on doors, pounding the pavement, that's been my approach. Young people know computers, right?" Her bemused smile answers his question.
"Something about them makes you feel old, right?" she mutters. He chuckles.
They cap off the tour with the mention of a uniform. "A tie? Really?" She holds up the pale brown uniform shirt with the dark brown tie to her chest with a look of distaste. He smiles. "You know you don't have to dress a woman as a man to give her authority," she remarks, propping her chin against the collar.
"So you think you can get people to do what you want in that red coat?" He points to her jacket.
"I'm getting you to do what I want right now." She tosses the shirt aside with a victorious little smirk and sets her hands on her hips. He sighs. It's not like he's actually going to challenge her on the uniform. He doesn't care enough about the uniform to provoke that fight.
"Well, at least wear the badge," he holds up the deputy badge. "Go on, take it," he holds it out. "If you really want to be a part of this community, you have to make it official." She steps forward and accepts the badge. As their hands brush, static sparks shoot up his arm. Emma's wide eyes meet his as she hops back a step.
"Static, sorry," she mutters as she attaches the badge to her belt.
Graham stumbles back a step, ears ringing, eyes wide and unseeing. Images instantly project themselves before his eyes. All of them are blurred. They assault him in a rush too quick to grasp the meaning. Trees covered in green foliage and green moss whip past in dizzying circles through a sunlit forest. He's running through the woods. A gray wolf stalks through the trees. One eye is blood red. The other is pitch black.
"Graham? You okay?" Emma's faint voice tows him from his visions.
"Did you see that?" he whispers. He realizes he's leaning against a desk, having knocked the chair to the ground. She's regarding him with nervous and concerned eyes. He's struggling to regain his breath. An odd, hollow feeling echoes in his chest. It's a sort of numbness, but also like something's missing. Something should be there and it isn't. He's been feeling that a lot lately, since Emma came to town if he were to put a date on it. His heart feels both like it's racing in his chest and somehow distant, hollow. Like a rapid-fire staccato of a snare drum, when it should possess the depth of a bass drum. Graham turns away, rights the chair, and presses the heel of his hand into his sternum.
"See what?" Emma asks.
"Nothing, never mind. Just got in my own head for a moment there," he answers.
He takes Emma outside and sets up an obstacle course for the cruiser, something she passes with flying colors and a smirk. Witnessing it, Graham thinks he should feel something. Maybe pride, maybe concern, maybe happiness from the contagious smile. But there's nothing. He's numb.
Packing the bright orange cones away, he frowns and tries to puzzle it out. Something's always felt that way, he supposes. He tells Emma to start digitizing files while he heads out on patrol. Some odd feeling compels him to go to Regina's and he drives past, only to keep driving. The numbness in his chest, he knows, has never felt better after his times with Regina. He's not even sure how it got started. He doesn't feel anything with her. He's not even certain he wants to be around her. It feels more like an… obligation? Is that right?
A call comes in. "Sheriff, if you could, I need some assistance. There's a man threatening me, standing just outside of my shop. He won't leave." Gold's voice crackles through the phone. Graham frowns for a moment, confused. Since when does Gold ask for police assistance? He shrugs, reverses the car around, and drives back down Main Street towards the blue storefront of Mr. Gold's pawnshop. In something that's become a frequent sight, he sees Captain Jones, clad in a black leather duster, skulking outside of Gold's pawnshop. He seems to be marking every move the proprietor makes like a hawk.
"Captain Jones," Graham calls out in warning. The man turns, unconcerned.
"That bastard set fire to City Hall. He tried manipulating her into keeping quiet. That son of a bitch could get away with murder. Everyone in this gods-forsaken town is too bloody terrified to do anything."
Graham sighs. "While the cloth may not be evidence anymore, there are security cameras. City Hall's have been ruined, but there are plenty of cameras on surrounding buildings." He doesn't seem to accept the answer. "Look, you skulking around outside his shop isn't helping matters. Do you mind?" He arches a brow. Graham thinks for a moment, then tries another tack. "I'd hate for Emma to have to arrest you on her first day."
Jones grudgingly nods with a scowl. "Aye." He sighs. "How's that going, by the way?"
Graham nods. "She's doing fine. Keeping out of trouble."
"Keeping out of trouble for now," Jones chuckles. "I swear she's a bloody magnet for it." Graham shrugs a bit in acknowledgment. Jones looks him in the eye, then scrutinizes his face. "You feeling alright, mate? You look a bit feverish."
"I'm fine," Graham answers. "Just leave Gold alone, alright?" He nods as Graham leaves.
Returning from patrol, he parks at the station. As he emerges from the patrol car, Graham drops his keys. Crouching to retrieve them, he hears the gentle crackle of something moving over the pavement. He glances up to see the wolf from his vision earlier. Large, gray, one eye blood red, the other dark as night. The wolf merely stands there, meeting his eyes as Graham remains dazed.
When the wolf realizes it commands Graham's attention, it turns and lopes off through town, into the woods. Graham is conflicted. Part of him wants to follow the wolf through the woods. He feels like there's such intelligence in those eyes, urging him to act. Something about the wolf feels familiar. Something about that wolf is calling to him to follow. The other half of him knows exactly how crazy that is. That half recognizes the insanity of following a wolf through the woods. And for what? What purpose would he have to follow a wolf? So, he scoops up his keys and walks into the station.
He sends Emma off for the night, nodding approvingly at the stack of files about three feet tall already digitized. In the silent station, he plops down in his chair. Graham scrubs a weary hand down his face with a sigh. His muscles are screaming for a release of some kind. His heart is racing in his hollow-feeling chest. There's only one thing he can think to do.
Getting in the car, he's in Regina's driveway before he entertains a second thought. He squashes down the feeling of not wanting to be here, of feeling trapped here, as he strides to the door. Knocking hard, he barely allows Regina a word before he takes her face in his hands and crushes his lips to hers. She hesitates for just a moment, then responds, shutting the door and leading the way up to her bedroom.
Hours later, he bolts upright in bed from a dream. A deer leaps through a verdant forest. An arrow pierces its shoulder, killing it instantly. Graham kneels on the ground beside it with tears stinging his eyes. "You have died so that I may live. Forgive me. Your sacrifice is honorable. I thank you." The gray wolf with multicolored eyes approaches gently. There's a familiar feeling about the wolf. Like he's family. "Don't worry, boy. You won't go hungry tonight." Cold sweat beads his brow. That constant feeling is hammering away in his chest, not as full as it should be but racing. Graham pants to recover his breath. Beside him, Regina awakes.
"What is it?" she asks softly.
"I had the most intense dream. I was in the woods hunting and I killed a deer. There was a wolf…" Graham trails off, explaining hoarsely without looking at Regina. He swipes his hair away from his forehead, mussing it in thought.
"A wolf?" she asks with a harsher voice.
"Its eyes, one was blood red and the other was black as night." Graham explains breathlessly, heedless of Regina's hardening expression. "The funny thing is, I think I've seen the wolf before."
She kisses his bare shoulder softly. "Come back to sleep, Graham. It was only a dream."
He's far too wired from the dream to attempt to sleep. He's almost shaking. The cold sweat beading his forehead hasn't gotten better. He jerks his head. "It didn't feel like a dream. It felt like a memory." Graham rises from the bed and starts getting dressed.
"Graham," Regina protests gently. Delicately, she tilts his chin and presses her lips to his. In the back of his mind, Graham is perplexed by the gentleness of her touch. Regina was never this soft, never this gentle. She was aggressive. She took. Never before has she tried giving. The confusion prevents him from falling into her touch and lying back down.
"I need some air. I need to think," he shakes his head.
"Graham, please. Come back to bed," Regina urges.
"I need to go. Clear my head," he mutters, pulling his boots on.
"Graham, listen. It's late. You're tired. You're acting like you're drunk. Don't leave."
There's a feeling in Graham, growing stronger and stronger with each command. He should listen. Resisting feels odd, like pressure building up inside of him. "Since when do you want me to stay anyway?"
"You're not well," she protests.
"I'm fine," he insists. Graham departs from the house. At the end of the driveway, he fumbles his keys from his shaking, over-excited hands. Crouching to gather them up, he distinguishes light gray fur in his periphery. Glancing up, he meets the blood-red and black eyes of the wolf from his dream and the day before. The wolf huffs, sniffing the air a bit, then turns and trudges away.
Following some impulse he can't understand, Graham hastily rises and follows the slow, trudging footsteps of the wolf. Twice, the animal swivels its head back over its shoulder, just verifying that Graham is still following. Graham reaches the edge of the woods and hesitates, wiping sweat from his brow.
In that moment, he loses sight of the light gray fur he's been following. Graham strains his ears. For a moment, all he discovers is the mild breeze blowing through the trees and birds singing. If he listens intently enough, he can hear the gentle stream bubbling past, falling over stones. A wolf's howl in the distance shatters the peaceful chorus. Then, far closer than the howl, he recognizes the odd sound of something metal cutting through dirt, followed by footsteps.
Mr. Gold, apron over his expensive suit, steps through the trees. He's holding a shovel in one gloved hand and his cane in the other. "Good morning, Sheriff. Sorry if I startled you," he greets politely.
"Right. Sorry, I, I thought you were a wolf," Graham explains uneasily.
"Did I forget to shave?" Gold asks with a slight smirk.
"What are you doing out here so early?" Graham asks suspiciously.
"A spot of gardening. Yourself?"
"I was looking for…"
"A wolf. Yeah, I think I've been able to catch on." Gold completes the statement for him. "You know, to the best of my knowledge, there are no wolves in Storybrooke. Not the literal kind anyway. Why are you looking?"
It's a fair question. "You'll think I'm crazy."
"Try me," Gold challenges.
"I saw one, in my dreams," Graham starts uneasily. "And then I saw one for real. Just a few hours ago. I, I followed it here." Gold's calculating eyes widen slightly, but otherwise his face remains impassive, listening to Graham ramble. His explanation sounds insane, he knows. But Gold was here. He could potentially be a witness. Training and experience as a sheriff have him ask, "Did you, did you see anything unusual right there?"
Gold examines his shovel as he answers. "I'm afraid not. I do wish I could be more helpful." He walks past Graham, leaving the woods. "You know, Sheriff. They say that dreams," he pauses and turns back, meeting Graham's eyes. "Dreams are memories." He pauses again. "Memories of another life."
That's what it felt like. The dream, it felt like a memory. It didn't feel like a dream of him hunting a deer. Dreams didn't feel quite so concrete, so consistent. It felt like a memory. A detailed memory that's almost shrouded. The details were there, if only he could access them.
"W-what do you believe?" Graham stammers.
"I never rule out anything." Gold replies quietly. "Good luck, Sheriff. I do hope you'll find what you're looking for."
Graham continues trudging through the woods. Up and down tree-covered hills. Over the mossy rocks. Further and further towards the town line. He's following the muffled sound of paws against the ground, listening to them above the calls of birds and buzz of insects. Cool wind whips past his face and chills him in his disheveled clothes.
Another howl prompts him forward, running this time. Over the adjacent hill, he finally catches sight of light gray fur standing out against the green leaves and moss and the brown trunks and soil. Once again, the wolf hesitates, standing still and sniffing the air. Graham approaches it cautiously. The wolf's stance is calm. It sniffs at the air around Graham, tiling its head curiously.
"What do you want?" Graham demands. It doesn't occur to him to feel ridiculous, making insane demands of a wolf. The wolf turns again and trudges away. "Hey!" Graham shouts. He whistles and the wolf stops. Those trudging footsteps lightly approach him, padding quietly against the dead leaves and pine needles that blanket the soil. With trepidation, Graham reaches out a shaking hand and places it on the wolf's soft, shaggy head.
Instantly, images bombard him, staggering him backward. This time, the vivid images of a forest shatter with the gleam of a steel knife. Is that his hand? A familiar-looking, heart-shaped, pale face surrounded by long, black hair. Is that Mary Margaret? Her green eyes are wide with fear as she sits on the ground, awaiting the knife, bracing herself for the blow. A wolf howls. The forest is replaced with white marble and a black symbol like a laurel wreath made of antlers. Something about the marble chamber feels like he's trapped. Like he's suffocating. There's a tightness in his chest merely looking at the symbol. An emptiness inside of him, a compulsion forcing him forwards like a string pulling from his sternum.
Graham staggers backward, panting. He stumbles over a branch and catches himself on the tree. The wolf is gone. He's alone. Eyes blown wide, he stares around. His heart feels like it's hammering away, but again feels faint and distant. Graham rubs the heel of his hand against his sternum, pressing down to relieve the odd feeling. Gradually, catching his breath on the way, he staggers back to town.
He walks down the street toward town in a daze. Sturdy trees flanking the sides of the curving road blend together in a haze of green, gray, and brown. Intermixed are the varied hues of fall, oranges, reds, yellows. His thoughts tumble over one another like pebbles in a creek. Nothing comes into focus for him, though. Graham feels vaguely confused, but mostly just numb. The feeling is barely there. It fails to overpower the numbness.
Rumbling captures his attention before he stumbles into the street. His eyes shoot up to see a bright yellow school bus, full of chattering kids. It presents him with an idea. Lit by this new idea, almost like a fire inside of him, Graham turns and runs to the school.
Sweaty and disheveled, the sheriff walks into the school building without a fuss. Graham makes a beeline down the hall and around the corner to Mary Margaret Blanchard's classroom. He hasn't found much opportunity to speak with her more than small talk since the John Doe incident.
Graham raps lightly on the door of the empty classroom. Mary Margaret startles by her desk, twirling a ring around her finger. "Mary Margaret, can I talk to you?"
She turns with wide, concerned eyes. "Graham, what's the matter? Are you okay?"
"I think we, I think we know each other." Graham stumbles over his words as Mary Margaret gently guides him to sit at a desk. His tired limbs collapse into the small seat as Mary Margaret lowers herself into the chair opposite.
"Of course we do," she answers with a kind smile.
"No, no, no." Graham shakes his head roughly. "Not from here. Not from Storybrooke."
"From where, then?" Mary Margaret asks softly, tilting her head.
"Another life." He frowns, sifting through his memories. Something about that memory after he touched the wolf, he doesn't want to think he'd ever hurt her. Graham has to know, though. There are answers. There has to be an explanation. Memories of a past life. "Mary Margaret, how long have we known each other?"
She frowns and tilts her head. "I don't know. A while."
"Do you remember when we met?" He can't. Unless it's the image of him about to plunge a knife into her. He should be able to remember. They're friends. They should know when they met.
Mary Margaret considers for a moment. "No."
"Me neither. I can't remember when I met you or when I met anyone. Isn't that odd?"
"I don't know. I, I suppose." She shrugs. "I think that's just life. Things get hazy."
"Have I ever hurt you?" Graham asks desperately.
"Oh Graham, no. Of course not." She places a hand on his shoulder. "What is going on?"
"Do you believe in other lives?" Graham asks in a low voice, grasping for an explanation. Gold's from this morning seems to be the only one available. It might explain his vision, the odd one that seems like a memory.
"Like heaven?" Mary Margaret asks.
"I mean like past lives," he clarifies.
She shrugs. "I think it's a very large world and pretending we understand everything about it is crazy. Maybe there is such a thing as past lives. I don't know," she shrugs. "But I do know one thing, Graham." She squeezes the hand on his shoulder. "You would never hurt anyone. You're a good man." Mary Margaret smiles gently. "Some of the things you're talking about, they sound like Emma's storybook."
Graham furrows his brow, staring at the floor, pondering for a moment. Emma's storybook of fairy tales, the one he found her reading in the library. The one Mary Margaret was apparently reading John Doe when he woke from his coma. Maybe he's desperately grasping at straws, but maybe the answers are in that book. He'll just have to ask his deputy to bring it in.
A cool, gentle hand lays across his forehead. "Graham, you're burning up," Mary Margaret declares worriedly. She smooths his hair back softly. "Go home and get some rest. I think you'll feel much better after you've had some sleep," she says gently.
"Right, you're absolutely right. I'm sorry I've disturbed you. Thank you."
"Of course," she answers as Graham leaves.
He tries heeding Mary Margaret's advice and goes home. He attempts to rest, but suffers a sleepless night, tossing and turning with another carousel of images, running through the woods behind a pack of wolves. There's that odd, familiar bond between him and the wolves again. The next morning, more accurately afternoon, he rolls tiredly out of bed and prepares for his day. As he completes his daily tasks, he considers how to approach Emma about the book. Coming right out and asking for it would sound insane.
He makes his way back to the sheriff's station and identifies Regina's car parked outside. Graham groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. As he enters, walking down the hall, he can overhear a conversation from in the bullpen.
"Our tax dollars hard at work, I see," Regina's condescending voice carries.
"Graham's not here. I assumed he took a sick day," Emma's hard voice replies.
Graham can't hear what else is said, simply a flopping sound of a stack of paper and Emma's creatively cursing grumbles before Regina's hard voice snarls. "Stay away from Graham. You may think you're doing nothing, but you're putting thoughts in his head. Thoughts that are not in his best interest. You are leading him on a path to self-destruction. Stay away."
"Lady, what the hell is your problem? What the hell did I do to you?" Graham enters the bullpen to find Emma fixing a stack of files on the floor and Regina turning to leave with a condescending glare.
"Regina, what is this?" Graham asks. She offers no explanation. She actually appears shocked and offended at being asked to explain herself. He sighs. "If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop harassing my deputy. Please leave, Madam Mayor." Graham dismisses, then crouches to help Emma finish with the file folders. When he looks back up, Regina's gone.
"Thanks," Emma mutters. She glances up. "Hey, are you okay? You look like hell."
Blunt honesty. Always appreciated. "I was wondering if you could help me."
Emma glances between the stack of files and the computer, thumbing the deputy badge. "Kinda thought that was what I was doing here, Graham," Emma deadpans, but ends with a slight quirk of a smile.
Graham shakes his head. "Not like that. I meant," he pauses. The insanity of what he's about to request enters his mind. He's about to turn to a book of fairy tales for answers about why he felt compelled to follow a wolf into the middle of the woods. Why he's been going around town like a chicken with its head cut off for days. Why he's been having visions that feel distinctly like memories bombarding him since she put on the badge. Fairy tales as a solution, that's where this insanity has lead him.
"Meant what? Kinda leaving me in suspense here," she asks jokingly.
Graham encounters her eyes. "It's about your book." Her eyes widen. "Am I in it?"
Emma pauses in consideration. "Wait here a bit. Why don't I go get it?"
Graham nods at her suggestion. Emma turns and sprints out the door, tearing off in the direction of the docks. While he waits, Graham sits on the couch, sipping some water to calm himself down. He attempts to compose himself.
Half an hour later, Emma walks through the door of the bullpen, Captain Jones behind her with a skeptical look on his face. Blue and black appear to bloom around her neck underneath her collar and Graham narrows his eyes at the sight.
"Are you alright?" he asks quietly as Emma approaches, holding out the book.
"Yeah, totally," she answers brightly. "Just tripped and fell in an alley." He doesn't believe it for a second. Emma moves on before he can push further. Besides, he's not confident she'll talk with anyone else here, or at all. "More worried about you. Here's the book," she offers with a smile. She turns back to Captain Jones with a victorious smirk. "Told ya he wanted it."
"I'll never doubt you again." He answers with an eye roll, leaning against the doorframe.
"So what's going on?" Emma asks, voice serious as she perches on a desk.
"I've been having these flashes," Graham answers quietly.
"When did they begin?" she asks.
"Right after I gave you the badge."
Her eyes widen with the answer, flicking to that spot in the bullpen. "What did you see?"
"A wolf. I saw that I had a knife in my hand, and I was with Mary Margaret," Graham answers steadily.
"Were you about to hurt her?" Jones asks quietly.
"Yes!" Graham's eyes shoot up, flicking between the two, wide and imploring for understanding. Neither appear to condemn him. Emma appears concerned. Jones appears to have already derived a conclusion. "How'd you know that?"
"Because Mary Margaret is Snow White. Which makes you the Huntsman, mate."
The Huntsman, Graham thinks to himself. A Huntsman. Someone cold and heartless, bereft of mercy. Is that him? Or supposed to be him? He considers Mary Margaret's words and her absolute confidence in the statement that he's a good man. He equally considers Mr. Gold's remark about past lives and memories. "So you really think I could be another person?"
Emma flicks through the pages of the book. Landing on one, she rotates it back to him. It's a picture, an illustration that looks surprisingly like him, dressed in furs and a cloak. "Makes total sense. You were raised by wolves. That's why you keep seeing one. It's your friend, your guide. It's trying to help you."
Raised by wolves, that explains his dream from the night before, running with them. It explains why the wolf felt like family. But this is insane, a voice in his head screams in a shrill sound. This is insane! "I'm remembering this because I gave you the badge?" Graham asks. "H-how is that possible?" he stammers.
"Well, apparently the clock tower started moving just because I came to town. So, I'm just that good, don't mean to brag." Emma chuckles. Captain Jones scoffs behind her as she tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Nah, not really. Ask him. I fly by the seat of my pants half the time. It's great." She shoots him a double thumbs-up and a crooked smile.
"You've been cursed, and Emma's influence is weakening it." Captain Jones explains.
"So, you said you were with Mary Margaret and had a knife. But she's alive. You know what happened?" Emma asks carefully. Graham shakes his head. She gently gathers the book back and flicks through a few pages, shifting it back to him. "You spared her," Emma states the obvious.
Even cold and bereft of mercy, he spared Snow White. Maybe the Huntsman was different from what the Evil Queen expected. "Wh-what happened after I spared Snow White?" Graham stammers, pushing the book back uneasily. It's a tangible explanation, right in front of him. Something, however, is screaming at him not to take it. This is absolutely insane.
Emma sighs and flicks another page, rotating it back around. "The Queen took your heart. Ripped it out," she explains gently. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Captain Jones appearing uneasily stoic at the mention of hearts being ripped out. "It's kind of her thing," Emma continues quietly. "She never wanted you to feel again." Is that why he's been numb? Is that why emotions haven't felt vivid or passionate, for as long as he can remember? Why he has felt disconnected and withdrawn from them? "Or, she wanted control." Her eyes flick back to Captain Jones, then down to the book as she explains. "You hold a person's heart, you hold their free will." His mechanical movements, her behavior in the bedroom, his reluctant compliance…
To stave off the nausea beginning to churn in his stomach at that thought, he stares at the book in Emma's hands. "Let me see that," he asks feebly and she hands it over. He stares down at the illustration. Regina, her dark hair long and dressed in a dramatic black costume, stands in front of a white marble wall. A vault, of some kind. Above the door lies a familiar-looking symbol, black, like antlers forming a wreath. "What's that?" Graham jabs his finger at the picture. "I saw that too. The wolf was howling at it?"
"That's her vault. That's where she put your heart." Emma answers thoughtfully.
"The wolf wants me to find it. Thank you, Emma." Graham moves to stand.
"Wait," she says, setting a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "It looks familiar. I might know where to…" she trails off quietly. After a moment, her eyes widen and flick up to meet his. "The Mills crypt, in the cemetery. That's the symbol above the door." Emma taps the illustration with her finger a few times excitedly.
Both men frown at Emma. "Hey, recon around town pays off," she explains with a shrug. "Point is, if her vault is over here, in this world, it's gotta be around that symbol. Meaning the Mills crypt is a decent place to start looking."
"I need to find it. I need to get my heart back," Graham says breathlessly.
"Here, I'll help," Emma answers without hesitation. They both turn to the door.
"Wait, both of you. Whatever you're about to do, wait just a moment." Captain Jones halts them. "It's Wednesday." Graham pushes past the arm impeding his path, only to get pushed back into the bullpen. He doesn't have time to waste on a complete non-sequitur. "Every Wednesday at about eight-thirty, the mayor enters the cemetery with flowers. She then departs the cemetery about fifteen minutes later. Whatever you're about to undertake, either complete it by eight-fifteen, or wait until nine. Should allow you ample time to complete your mission without interference from Her Majesty."
In his urgency, he doesn't want to wait. Every second he waits, Regina possesses his heart that much longer. Graham desires nothing more than his free will back. Those decisions, those choices, they should be in his hands. His heart should be in his chest, not an imitation hammering away.
Emma's eyes flick to the clock. Graham's eyes do as well. Whatever they're about to do, they don't have much time to complete by eight-fifteen, as somehow it's already six. "So, we break into the crypt, that should be easy enough. Then we find her vault, slightly more complicated. But then what?" Graham turns to look Emma in the eye. "How do you put a heart back in someone's chest?" Graham might be surprised for a moment at the complete lack of hesitation from Emma. She isn't hesitating to assist him. If he hadn't known about her running back into City Hall after Marge Smith, he would be.
"I'd assume the reverse of taking it. Never seen someone restore a heart, myself. More often than not, people are unwilling to relinquish that kind of power once they hold it." Emma nods uneasily at the description. Graham grinds the heel of his hand into his sternum, a bit unnerved by the racing pulse he now knows is a result of the curse.
The flicking of pages draws him back. Graham turns to the desk to see Emma bent to the storybook, head tilted as she considers the illustration. "There's a lot of hearts in her vault, then. Not just yours," she murmurs. Graham watches as she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin to the challenge.
"Suppose we wait until nine, then," Graham mutters.
"Captain, can I ask you a really big favor? Please?"
"Of course."
Emma pulls him aside gently by the sleeve, lowering her voice. Graham can still hear her loud and clear. "You know how you stake out Gold's shop?" Jones nods. So that's a repeat occurrence, then. "Any chance you could keep an eye on Regina as well? Just for tonight. And maybe give me a heads up if you see her coming towards the cemetery? Please?" Graham sees the profile of Emma's hopeful smile and big green eyes.
"Aye, I can manage that. Communicate a warning how, though?"
Graham turns to his office and grabs two walkies. He offers them. "Here."
"Thanks," Emma responds with a beaming smile. Jones furrows his brow, tilting his head. "Oh, right. This world stuff." She accepts both and sets them down on the desk to tune them into the same frequency. She turns back and hands one to Jones. He casts a slightly less wary eye at the device. "Here, you just hold down this button on the side to speak, release to listen. Hold it up to your mouth when you do wanna talk," she demonstrates. "You don't have to scream, but don't whisper either." An echo of Emma's voice crackles out of the other walkie. Captain Jones visibly attempts to resist reacting. "Everything else doesn't need messed with. Just hold down the button, and I'll be able to hear you on this one." Jones accepts it with an almost fascinated look in his eye.
"How does this work?" He tilts it in his hand, examining the walkie from every angle.
"Something about radios and frequencies, I don't really know. Just trust that it's science and it works. That's about as far as anyone else questions it." She shrugs with a half-smile.
"There's a user's manual if you'd like that," Graham offers, holding it out. Captain Jones accepts it, clipping the walkie to his belt first. "So you usually lurk outside Gold's shop, then?" All Graham receives in answer is a smirk.
"Well, I'm off to keep an eye on Rumplestiltskin. If I see anything, I'll let you know."
Graham balks a bit at the name. Rumplestiltskin. A fairy tale character. Mr. Gold and the rest of the town, they're all fairy tale characters. In what world does this insanity make sense? Maybe he just needs some sleep. His chest gives an odd twinge, and Graham pushes down with the heel of his hand again.
"Swan, whatever you're about to undertake, stay safe, aye?" Emma nods.
"Don't I always?" He shakes his head.
Graham turns to Emma after Captain Jones leaves. "Are you okay?" he asks.
She frowns. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" He silently gestures to her neck. Her eyes widen just a fraction. "Oh, no. I'm totally fine. That's old. I'm okay." She's able to meet his eyes as she explains.
"If something's going on," Graham starts.
"If something's going on, I'll tell someone. Probably you. But no, nothing's wrong. I'm good." She concludes the statement with a smile. "You think you should lie down or something? You look dead on your feet."
He sits at his desk and pages through the book. The words blur before his eyes. He reads his own story. Pieces cause images to dance in his mind. More of the details of his visions clear up. His memories start to make more sense. Emma turns back to digitizing files, humming a tune he can't make out. After a bit, they both turn to the clock, as it reads eight-fifty.
"You ready?" Emma asks, clipping the walkie to her belt. He nods. They both get in the cruiser and Graham drives to the cemetery. Walking swiftly and silently, they cover the ground to the Mills crypt, an imposing, white marble mausoleum. The symbol above the door unnerves him. Laying down beside it is a patch of light gray fur, contrasting against the dark ground in the night.
"Uh, Graham?" Emma asks, her voice rising with her nerves. The wolf's head pops up from its paws. Lazily, it stretches as it rises to its feet and lightly pads over. Graham reaches out a hand to greet his lifelong friend as Emma takes a step back cautiously.
"Don't worry, he won't hurt you. He's a friend," he reassures her as he strokes through the wolf's thick fur on its head. Emma nods doubtfully a few times but maintains a wary eye on the wolf as she gives it a wide berth approaching the mausoleum. The wolf cocks its head to either side. Emma glances over either shoulder, peering around into the gloomy night before reaching into her pocket and withdrawing two pins. She crouches down and picks the lock.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't see that," he mutters with a weary smile.
She stands and smirks over her shoulder. "Well, if you've got a more effective way of getting in," she replies, sweeping a hand out in invitation to the currently ajar door. Inside is just a plain mausoleum. A large, marble sarcophagus lies in the middle of the room. A bronze plaque is inscribed Henry Mills, Beloved Father. Fresh, white flowers lie on top. A narrow window on the far wall lets in a small shaft of moonlight, catching on dust floating in the air. A small, black urn sits in a nook on shelves lining the walls.
Graham casts the flashlight around, frantically searching. Something here feels right. He knows in his bones that a piece of himself, a piece he's been missing, is nearby. He's close to being reunited with it. All he has to do is find it. He reaches for the urn, struggling to open it.
Emma's footsteps echo in the small room as she paces on the other side of the sarcophagus. The beam of her flashlight casts away from his face. He glances, and she's shining it down on the floor. "Scuff marks," she whispers quietly, frowning at the ground. Quickly, she moves to his side of the sarcophagus. "Here, give me a hand. Push," she implores, pushing against the marble. It budges a fraction when she puts her full weight behind it. "Graham, the scrawny little girl is pushing the giant marble coffin. Give me a hand here, would ya?" He nods, sets down the urn, and pushes beside her.
In fits and bursts, deafening in the tranquil night, they manage to shove the sarcophagus aside to reveal a set of stairs leading to a stone chamber. "Creepy," Emma pants out, shooting Graham a half-smile. Something, or several somethings, tick downstairs in the stone chamber. The sounds are off-tempo from each other but steady. Deep thumping, it sounds like, as Graham considers it.
"Are those heartbeats?" Emma whispers. They greet each other's widening eyes, horrified. Descending the staircase, they turn the corner, following the thumping sounds. Behind a plush, velvet curtain is a wall covered in drawers. Behind each one is a louder thumping sound. "Whose hearts are these?" Emma asks in growing horror. Her wide green eyes meet his in the darkness. "How do we tell which is yours?"
"I don't know," he answers.
"You think it'll just call out to you or something?" she shrugs as she suggests. Graham shakes his head lightly, uncertainly, staring transfixed at the wall. Over the heartbeats, he hears Emma's footsteps pace lightly back and forth behind him as he approaches the wall, reaching out. He's hoping for a reaction of some kind, but nothing. "Maybe," he hears her whisper. "Graham, I think I have an idea. You mind if I…?" Emma outstretches her hand, hovering over his chest. Her eyes meet his in question. He nods his consent. Her hand spreads out flat over his chest, the other reaches to the wall. Her eyes close and a drawer pops out with a small click.
They both jump backward as if electrocuted, staring in shock. "Did you just do that?" Graham asks. Emma shrugs, wide-eyed and still staring at the wall, answering with an inarticulate hum that sounds like 'I don't know'. Inside the drawer is a small wooden chest. Cautiously, Emma approaches the wall, lifting out the chest as though it's made of glass. She sets it down and uncovers it. Red light illuminates the dark chamber. A pulsing scarlet glow emanates inside. It's a heart, beating steadily and calling out to him.
"Do you want me to…? Or do you want to…?" Emma asks.
Put it back where it belongs are the words she's clearly too spooked to say. And he can't blame her. "I'll try, but since you were able to get the drawer," he answers. It feels oddly warm in his hand. He's donated blood before, and the heat of the heart in his hands feels like the heat of the tube against his arm did then. The feeling of it expanding and contracting, pulsing in his hands is unnerving. Graham lifts the organ to his chest and tries pushing it. He hits flesh, and it won't go any farther. He meets resistance. His chest twinges and he hisses at the pain.
"Emma, would you mind?" He asks, holding out his heart.
She stares with her eyes nearly bugging out of her head. Her hands hold it gently, as if his heart is the most fragile thing she's ever held. "If you couldn't, what makes you think I can?" she whispers, stepping forward lightly to place his heart.
"Just a hunch," he murmurs gently, not wishing to unnerve her any further.
"Okay, count of three," she breathes out nervously, staring between his heart and his chest. "One," she steps forward so she's only half a step away. "Two," she meets his eyes for reassurance. Graham offers the most reassuring smile he can muster given the circumstances. "Three," Emma pushes his heart forward quickly. He can feel it in place. He grunts slightly with the swift movement and collapses against the wall. "Oh God, Graham, are you-"
"I'm fine." Images and memories flood his mind. His life, the wolves that were his family, the Queen assigning him to kill Snow White, the princess' letter of mercy and forgiveness compelling him to spare her life, offering the Queen the heart of a stag, his heart being wrenched from his chest, the Queen's lips instantly crushing his. Feelings, intense burning emotions follow, overpowering the years of numbness. An odd mix of anger at Regina, relief at his heart being returned, and overwhelming gratitude to Emma churn through him. "I remember," he whispers. As gently as she held his heart, he cradles her face. "Thank you." Emma slowly smiles.
"You remember…wait, you remember the Enchanted Forest?" He nods. Her smile grows.
The thumping sound draws Emma's attention. Her face snaps to the side, looking at the vault. She turns to face the wall head-on. He watches the smile fall from her face to a confused frown. "Well, fuck. How the hell do I figure out who these belong to?"
Graham sighs before answering. "Regina, she would use the hearts to summon people, to order them about." He recalls what must have been years ago, the last time visitors came to Storybrooke. Kurt Flynn and his son Owen, the oddest compulsion to arrest a man for driving under the influence while standing in Regina's office. He remembers the shooting pain in his chest when Kurt knocked the wooden box off Regina's desk in his scramble to escape. He remembers that same feeling compelling him to madly run down a truck with New Jersey license plates, arresting Flynn while the boy ran across the town line. "It works here as well," he grits through his teeth. "Just speak into the heart. It'll bring them here."
"Command the heart the way she did," Emma mutters. Graham nods, empathizing with the girl's discomfort at the thought. She cracks her knuckles, facing the wall. Emma licks her lips, rolls her shoulders, and tilts her head to either side. "Alright, here goes, I guess." She reaches out to the top corner on the left side of the wall. The drawer pops, revealing a wooden chest similar to Graham's. From inside, Emma withdraws a glowing, pulsing red heart. Holding it delicately in the palm of her hand, she holds it to her mouth and whispers, "Come to me so I can return this to you."
A few minutes later, silence only filled with the unnerving pulsing of heartbeats and the quiet feedback from the walkie, he hears footsteps approaching the crypt. His muscles tense on alert and he sees Emma do the same. A young man Graham recognizes from around City Hall walks down the steps as if pulled by a string attached to his chest.
"Hey," Emma greets quietly. "I know this is bizarre. But on the count of three," she approaches him lightly. The young man stares at the glowing heart in Emma's hand. "One," she counts with a deep breath and an encouraging smile. "Two," Emma places her hand on the man's arm to brace him for impact. "Three," she thrusts her hand forward. They both stumble backwards, both rubbing and clutching their chests. The young man gasps for breath, eyes wide and clear.
"My," he gasps and shakes his head roughly, like a dog trying to clear its ears. "Oh my God, my fiance, she and I," he shakes his head again. "I have to go to her. I have to, oh my God! She's with, and I'm… Thank you." He gasps and squeezes Emma's shoulder, nods to Graham, and leaves quickly. Emma grins.
"Let's see who's next," she murmurs as she turns back to the wall. She reaches for the next heart, moving down the first column of drawers. Once more, she withdraws the heart tentatively, holding it delicately as she whispers the same command. "Come to me so I can return this to where it belongs."
A few anxious moments later, a middle-aged man walks down the stairs with a bewildered look on his narrow face. His eyes flick to the heart pulsing in Emma's hand. She steps forward with an encouraging half-smile. "Count of three and you're good to go." Once again, Emma braces the man's shoulder and pushes his heart back to where it belongs. They both stagger backwards, rubbing their chests.
"The Queen," he whispers, wide eyes staring at the stone floor. "She took…and I couldn't, but now I…this is a lot. Oh my God, this is…" Graham nods his understanding. It is a lot. It's overwhelming to suddenly feel so whole, so full, after so long of emptiness. Both lives suddenly in his head, his experiences in Storybrooke with the curse-imposed identity and his life in the Enchanted Forest. "Thank you, oh God, thank you." He claps Emma on the shoulder before he turns to leave.
As Emma turns for the next drawer, Graham asks about his observation. "You keep grabbing your chest as well." She turns away from whispering the order into a red, pulsing heart with her eyebrows lifted. "Why?"
"Oh," she shrugs. "Just because I can kind of feel it too. It feels like being shoved in the chest really hard. It doesn't hurt, but it feels weird." Not an inadequate description, he thinks. An old woman walks slowly down the steps a few minutes later, gray hair full of fly-aways from her braid, arms wrapping her sweater around herself. "Count of three, ma'am," Emma says as she approaches the woman, bracing her.
"Oh!" the woman gasps as they stagger backwards. Her wide eyes dart up from the floor to Emma's face. Her round, kind face splits in a smile. Slowly, she approaches and holds Emma's cheek. Emma's eyes dart around the room uncomfortably, meeting Graham's. "Oh, my dear girl. You look so much like your mother."
"My mother?" Emma asks.
"Snow White," the woman answers softly. Graham balks and stares at Emma. Now that it's been pointed out, he recognizes an uncanny resemblance between Emma and Mary Margaret. Aside from the hair, they look incredibly similar. "I helped take care of her as a little girl. You look so much like her." The woman smiles, patting Emma's cheek fondly. "Thank you, dear. Oh, thank you. Bless your heart."
Emma nods and smiles thinly before turning delicately back to the wall. Her back and shoulders are stiff, rigid. The woman reaches out a hand, then seems to think better of the gesture as she lowers it and retreats up the stairs. Graham moves forward to assist her, thinking Emma may need a moment.
He accompanies the woman up into the moonlit cemetery. "You knew Snow White?" he asks.
"My name is Johanna. I knew Princess Snow from the time she was a little girl." The woman sighs profoundly. "I was with her as her mother, Queen Eva, fell ill." They both see a young man walking towards the crypt, adjusting his baseball cap, face expressionless. "She has her mother's goodness."
"Emma does," Graham answers. He sees the same honor and goodness in Emma that he saw in Snow. He sighs. "Regina, she summoned me to execute Snow. She figured out I was not, in fact, a knight escorting her and ran. When I found her, she had stopped to compose a letter." He meets the woman's wide, watery eyes. "She forgave Regina. Rather than seek mercy for herself, she begged for her people. So I spared Snow."
Joyful whooping echoes through the cemetery, causing both Graham and Johanna to jump. The young man from before is practically skipping out of the crypt, flinging his baseball cap in the air like a graduation cap. Both smiling, Graham helps Johanna back to her car as a pickup truck pulls up and an old fisherman enters the cemetery.
On it goes like that. A few dozen people cycle in and out of the Evil Queen's vault. Men and women, young and old, from all walks of life both here in Storybrooke and in the Enchanted Forest. A few, Graham recognizes from here and back there. Many, he doesn't. They're the faces of those in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those who helped their true sovereign, Snow White. Those who were in the Evil Queen's proximity when she had a bad day.
Many he sees clap Emma on the shoulder. She seems to shy away from any greater form of affection and any form of thanks, always awkwardly turning quickly back to the wall and opening the next drawer. "You're doing a good thing here, you know."
Emma shrugs. "I'm still deputy, right?"
He blinks in surprise at the question. "Well, you ran into a burning building and stood up to Gold to earn the badge. If this isn't protecting and serving the community, I don't know what is. Far as I'm concerned, I'd make you sheriff right now if you asked." Her eyes are blown wide and nervous as she turns to him over her shoulder.
"I appreciate that. I'm good to stay deputy." She shakes her head. He sighs.
He realizes what she just did. The same to him that she's been doing to others trying to thank her. Emma just effectively changed the subject to avoid acknowledging praise. Graham frowns, trying to puzzle out why.
"Come to me so I can return this to where it rightfully belongs," she whispers into a pulsing red heart in her hands. Graham once again notes how delicately she holds it, how she's held every heart. Like they're fragile, precious. Regina gripped them like tools, without concern or care.
A man quietly walks down the stone steps. In the faint light, Graham can see a cut and bruise on his temple. Emma approaches the man cautiously, more uneasily than she has any others. "On the count of three," she warns, counting and bracing the man as she has all of the others.
As they both stagger back, gasping and gripping their chests, the man looks up with wide eyes. Instantly, his face collapses in guilt. "Oh God, I…I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. You're, you're the girl, she told me to…"
"Hey," Emma whispers gently. "It's alright. I get it. Your heart wasn't in it."
"No, it's not alright." The man shakes his head, running a rough hand through his hair.
"What's not alright?" Graham asks, narrowing eyes assessing both.
"Nothing, everything's fine," Emma answers quickly.
"Regina, she ordered me to…But I didn't, I didn't want to. I'm sorry."
Emma lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I believe you. Your heart was under her control. You weren't in control of your actions. It wasn't your choice." His wide eyes meet hers. Graham can't see Emma's face, but he follows her pale head of hair as it nods. "Head on home, alright?" The man nods uncertainly, then stumbles to leave.
Emma sucks in a deep breath and slowly releases it before turning back to the drawers. Both of her hands scrub over her face then brush through her hair. Graham can't make out what she's saying.
"Care to explain what that was?" Graham asks again, this time more forcefully.
She sighs, and turns to confront him head on. "I got beat up in an alley." He rocks back a step. "That's where the bruises were from. Turns out, it was that guy being forced to be Regina's puppet." Graham blinks in shock. Emma's already moved on to the next drawer, discarding the old wooden chest into a growing pile of empty ones.
"Why didn't you say anything?" She shrugs silently. "Does Captain Jones know?"
She turns to him and shakes her head. "I think he suspects something's off, but I haven't told him. In fact, when he asked, I lied. And now, there's no point in telling him." She turns back to the heart. Graham vehemently disagrees. "Come to me so I can return this to its rightful place."
An old man dressed in pajamas and a robe walks carefully down the stone steps a few minutes later, and Emma continues. She offers her countdown warning, bracing the man by the shoulder, and thrusting his heart back into his chest. They both stumble apart, rubbing their chests and gasping.
"Thank you, dear girl. Thank you," he gasps, gripping her hand in both of his.
The old man leaves quietly and Emma turns back to the wall. The second to last drawer pops open with an ominous click. Emma pops the wooden chest and tilts her head with a frown. "This one's smaller than the others were," she mutters. Her eyes flick to Graham's as she whispers, "Come to me so I can return this to where it belongs."
Graham shrugs. "I have no clue why that is."
The explanation toddles down the stone steps, one at a time. One slippered foot hits the step. Its opposite meets it on the stair before advancing. One hand cradles a small, stuffed rabbit, the other holds onto the wall. Black hair and big green eyes peer around the darkened corner. Graham and Emma look at each other in horror. She's just…
"You're just a kid," Emma whispers. The small girl can't be much older than seven.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" Graham asks gently.
"Sophie," the girl whispers quietly.
"Okay, Sophie," Emma says gently, dropping to her knees to the girl's eye level. Sophie cautiously approaches her. "I'm going to put this back. It's going to feel strange. Sort of like being shoved in the chest. It shouldn't hurt. I'm going to try and make it not hurt, okay?" Emma promises and Sophie nods. "You're probably going to see some things that feel strange as well. You ready?" Sophie nods again. "On the count of three, one," Emma looks Sophie right in the eye. "Two," Emma braces Sophie's shoulder with the hand not holding her heart. "Three," she thrusts Sophie's heart into her chest.
Sophie stumbles backward, falling on her butt before Emma can catch her. Wide green eyes dart around the room, uncertain. "I want my mommy and daddy," she whispers.
"Okay," Emma answers quietly. "Graham here is nice. He's the sheriff. We'll both help you find your mommy and daddy." Emma promises. Sophie smiles uncertainly before throwing her arms around Emma. Graham watches with a smile. "Can you go with Sheriff Graham? He'll take you to the station so he can figure out who your mommy and daddy are." Sophie nods, now smiling brightly.
"Come with me, sweetheart," Graham says. Sophie scoops up her stuffed rabbit and clings to Graham's hand with the other hand. She looks up with a smile. Emma rocks back on her heels, clutching her hand to her chest and yawning before turning back to the drawers. Graham turns back. "Are you gonna be alright?" he asks.
"Yeah, totally, I'll be fine," she yawns, stretching her arms behind her back. "I'm just gonna sit down for a minute, take a breather before the next one." Even though she won't meet his eyes, Graham nods. "Go on. It's a cold night and she's not dressed for it." Sophie's tug on his hand prompts Graham to move forward up the steps.
He transports Sophie in the cruiser back to the station. Graham hands her a blanket, and she almost instantly falls asleep on the couch. Through the window, he sees a black Mercedes drive past. A gut feeling of dread has him racing back to the cruiser. He fumbles with his keys twice trying to turn over the ignition. As soon as the car starts, he tears out of the parking lot with a deafening screech, racing like a mad man to return to the cemetery.
Slamming the door, heedless of the noise, he runs towards the Mills crypt. His heart hammers in fear. He doesn't see anyone. He can't hear anyone moving around him. Within thirty feet of the crypt, he hears the echoing feedback of the walkie crackle. "Swan! Get out of there!"
Muffled by the door in his way, he hears a voice respond, a voice that sends shivers down his spine. "I'm sure she appreciates the warning, Hook." Graham runs faster in the direction of the crypt, tripping over a grave in his haste to reach Emma. Footsteps pound against the ground in the distance behind him, racing towards him.
Hastily scrambling to get off the cold, hard ground, Graham races towards the cracked door of the crypt. "This box was supposed to hold your mother's heart. Now, it will hold yours," he hears Regina sneer. A strangled, pain-filled cry shatters the peaceful night.