The morning was slow. With nothing to do, Kate simply returned from her shower and resumed watching the television. She did not want to intrude on the Madsen household any more than she already had. She also did not want to call her parents, however much it was the right thing to do. She wanted to stop for a moment, and to rest.
She finally had the chance to see the wound on her side, having grown morbidly curious at how close she came to an end. The bandage had kept the blood from spilling, and a harsh red streak could be seen where her upper torso met the top of the curve of her hip. It stung whenever she touched it, and she had to make sure not to douse it in soap lest she be overcome with pain—but Madsen was right about it being a mere graze. She would live, she would recover.
She had to. There was no going back.
Once she had finished showering, she rebandaged the graze-wound and put on the clothes gifted to her by Madsen. Her new outfit was an interesting choice: she wore a pair of black jeans with a plain grey undershirt over a red flannel. A black belt complimented the legwear, and thankfully so: the jeans were a bit too large around the waist. The belt had the added benefit of completing the look, whatever this might've been. To be truthful, she didn't fit the style of clothes she wore, and neither did she care to modify what she had.
So, she now laid on the couch, stuck between curiosity and consequential diligence. The blanket and small pillow they gave her were folded neatly beside her, no longer needed. She wasn't watching the television either; her attention was placed on the golden crucifix in her palm. The ambient light glinted off the metal as her hand shifted, back and forth.
It should've been me.
She thinks of the way Warren gave her a faint smile when she left him, and the way it didn't quite reach his eyes. He had known, at that moment. The adrenaline had kept her oblivious, but he had spoken his final words to her last night. The thought of it brings her to tears.
Kate blinks, then wipes the regret spilling from her eyes. This was not what he would've wanted, she knew he'd be trying to get her hopes up instead of letting her sulk. Such was the charm that made their conversations special. She imagines his hand in hers, with its reassuring grip, but she puts this thought away—she cannot bear to feel the significance of it.
She then wonders if he sought the Lord in his final moments—so that maybe, even if he didn't hold the faith like she did, that he at least had the courage to face whatever came after his passing. Kate knows it all-too-well: the humble prepare for the judgement that awaits them, for they know that every sin and every slight against their fellow man be counted against them. It is the ignorant and the foolish who believe God's judgement is escapable. Warren was no fool, and she liked to believe that the Lord would recognize that, and let his soul rest.
She also recognizes that she has not proven herself worthy of being spared from this same judgement. Too many times, the whispers of cowardice have enticed her to fail, and too many times she let it influence her decisions. And it is not that the Lord shuns cowards by the simple fact that they are cowardly; He shuns them because they are no longer themselves, they relinquish the gift of free will and enslave themselves to their own doubts. Their souls, which yearn for true freedom, which burn with the divine essence that drives the person inevitably towards the light of the future; these souls are instead chained to their fears, they doom themselves to a torturous life. She has let her fears determine her course these past few days, and she has no one to blame but herself.
Except, there was one small, minute detail…
Troubled silver eyes glance over to the messenger bag. After a moment's contemplation, she reaches in and pulls out the journal. She flips to the familiar page, and reads.
…there's not a lot of time for me to explain what i'm about to tell you. i never wanted this to happen, and i can't explain why it has to be this way. if you are who i think you are, then you know why i'm saying this. i hope you can forgive me…
…i am the Max of the future, coming back through time to give you this message…
…i am the Max of the future, coming back through time to give you this message.
…coming back through time to give you this message.
…coming back through time.
Brows furrow, confused.
Could Max…could she have…?
Kate reads it again.
…i never wanted this to happen, and i can't explain why it has to be this way. if you are who i think you are, then you know why i'm saying this…
Confusion turns into suspicion. Suspicion turns into dread.
Could her best friend have known of all of this, ever since that solemn Monday afternoon?
…I hope you can forgive me…
Dread turns to disbelief. Disbelief turns to…anger. Hands trembled as the thought of betrayal choked her heart, she felt herself curl up in sudden disgust at the implication. She couldn't believe it, but it made such perfect sense if she dared to—and the more she thought of it, the more it hurt. She slammed the journal closed, and shoved it back into her bag. She willed herself to be calm, one breath at a time.
Max knew. The future had surely told the brunette what would come next, and yet she said nothing to warn them. But why…?
Kate shook her head, willing the anger to go away. But she couldn't dismiss the questions in her mind; because after all, why wouldn't Max tell them what was coming? Shouldn't this time travel ability she claims to have, shouldn't it have given them the advantage of foresight, why then would she not give them that advantage?
Why did Max claim to be of the future if it meant nothing to help them? What was the point of specifying that? Kate still didn't understand what it meant to pass through time; and it frustrated her to not know the meaning behind Max's assertion. She ought to know, she needed to know. Maybe then, she could try to dispel the stinging ire in her heart, and know how to forgive her friend for this transgression against them. The prophecies haven't steered them wrong yet, but the foundation on which these predictions were made simply did not have any reason to be.
…because that is what friends promise to each other: to always have each other's backs, no matter what.
…to always have each other's backs, no matter what.
…right?
…was she meant to be here, in this strange living room? Was she meant to be wearing a stranger's clothes, watching their television and helping herself to their hospitality? Was Max intending for this to happen, that she be cut off from Dana and Juliet, that Warren would be—?
Kate is not given the time to ponder this. There is a sudden clatter by the front door. She turns, and recognizes that Joyce has returned. The rustle of plastic grocery bags and muffled southern accent gave the woman away.
Marsh spared one last glance to the messenger bag, and huffed away her unanswered questions in a final, resigned sigh. She let go for now, and stood to fulfill her promise to Mr. Madsen.
Joyce found solace in her cooking. And truth be told, she had every reason to: every dish she made was the manifestation of many years' practice. Kate had no need to doubt the skills that Mrs. Madsen possessed; the blonde would bet her whole allowance that the woman could cook any dish blindfolded if she had to.
"…and I'll have these two cans set for dinner, I'm planning to try out a new recipe tonight," Joyce then gestured to another batch of canned goods on the farthest end of the counter, "Could you be a dear, Kate, and stack these with the rest on the shelves in the garage? They should be somewhere on the right once you pass the door."
"Yes, Joyce," the blonde then scoops up a few cans in the crook of her arm, then reaches for a couple more to carry—
One of the cans in her arm, at first pinched in place by the others beside it, comes undone and slips out. The lip of this can crashes down onto the top of one of Kate's feet, the socks she wears are not enough to save her from the sudden pressure.
"Ah, shit—!"
Kate collapses, the rest of the cans slipping from her hold and clattering to the floor. She gasps, wincing in pain. Joyce is already beside her, "It's alright, it's alright, where did it hit you?"
"I'm fine," Kate dissuaded, but the pain was not merely on her foot. She chided herself, her jaw clenched in self-hatred, "I'm sorry, I just wasn't paying attention, and I…oh God, I'm so sorry…"
The woman's concerned look shifted from the impact, and she recognized what was wrong. Slowly, Joyce eased Kate into an embrace.
"Ma'am, I…" the blonde stuttered in protest, "Joyce, it's fine, I'm sorry for troubling you—"
"Nonsense," came the gentle reply, "Don't beat yourself up, dear. It's okay. I'm right here."
There was something in the way the elder woman spoke, something solemn and knowing. Oh, if perhaps Kate could put a face to the name of Joyce's daughter, then the blonde might understand the true meaning of how heartfelt the woman was with her, how Joyce could care for her like she was a part of this woman's family. Instead, Marsh was a stranger of blood and kin, and thus knew that she was undeserving of this love.
And it was this feeling of dissonance which forced Kate to turn her face as cold as stone, and to detach herself from the concerned woman's embrace.
"I'm fine now, sorry about that."
Joyce said nothing, even when Kate proceeded to gather the cans she dropped. The blonde would not see how many times Joyce tried to say something, but hesitated at the last second.
Only once Marsh had trekked out of earshot would the woman dare to say, "Oh Lord…might you help me with this one."
The shelves in the garage were already busy with other canned goods, purchased from grocery trips long forgotten. It seems the Price-Madsen family was careful to stock up on at least three months' worth of food and necessities. It reminds Marsh of when her family does the same; she remembers helping Mom and Dad stack the shelves in their garage when things became bleak. Sometimes, they would make trades with their neighbors who were in need of certain things, and who could in turn give to the Marshes things that they were in need of. She doesn't see that kind of occasion happen anymore, not in as open a setting as it was in the past.
Kate set the last of the cans upon the cluttered shelf, nudging them closer together to ensure they don't fall off. With her work complete, she carefully passes the automobile and through the threshold into the ancillary room. This space was where she first entered, and she found it to be cluttered with all kinds of cabinets and drawers. Miscellaneous items would catch her eye, like a dartboard and a sportsman's practice target. A taxidermy of a deer inscribed as the winning prize in a hunting expedition from the turn of the millennium, and a fancy wooden cabinet with large glass windows in its frame held a motley collection of handguns and revolvers, none of which she could name. She noted that the only criterion keeping this space from being classified as a proper mancave, was the lack of a small bar with an assortment of liquor to choose from. Fond memories came to her of Dad's office space back at home, where he would stash all his baseball memorabilia handed down from Grandpa Marsh, if only so that Mom would not bicker about seeing it make a clutter of the whole house.
This ancillary room was shrouded with desks, no matter where she looked. To her immediate left was a mechanic's tool desk, some spare wrenches and pliers laid atop its surface. On the other side of the door leading back into the house, a wooden desk with various trinkets reached to the end of the wall, and was flanked by a door leading to the backyard. To the right of this door was an antique machine, one which Kate could not identify. Beside this machine was a mechanic's tool cabinet, this one being shrouded in various items and topped with a couple cupboards. The wall then curved, and a window separated this cabinet with the long countertop and row of cupboards that were off to Kate's right, spanning the majority of the wall.
On this long countertop sat an assortment of heavy wrenches, a small lamp, a stack of manila folders and a computer with a charging cable and port. A board of OSB was pressed against the wall between the counter and the cupboards, and upon this board were various handheld tools and pictures, some of which were schematics, some of which were family portraits. When Kate squinted at these pictures, she became dismayed at being unable to recognize anyone. There was no Max, and no Joyce—perhaps these were family members belonging to Mr. Madsen.
There's nothing left for you here.
Kate concurred this thought with a sigh, and turned to the door leading back into the living room. Joyce would likely need her help—
She stops. Moments pass as she turns her head back to the countertop.
Silver eyes lock back onto the computer sitting on the counterspace. A long moment of silence followed, as Kate turned her pensive frown back and forth between the exit and the computer.
Joyce was busy preparing for lunch. She would be none the wiser if Kate dared to snoop.
It wouldn't be long. Just a quick peek, nothing more.
Her heart drums in her chest. The rush of adrenaline made her breaths shallow and quick. She shakes her head of the doubts, asking herself—
What would Max do?
The blonde slowly makes her way over to the computer. Curiosity gets the better of her when she notices the power cord connected to it, and the small light in the bottom right corner of the monitor informing her the machine was powered on. Strange was this little observation, since it didn't seem necessary for this computer to be left alone like this—
A gentle press of the spacebar gave her a lock screen, a prompt in the center asking for an eight-digit passcode. Kate felt her lips curl into a disappointed pout, and she sighed.
Great, so much for that.
She wasn't willing to make that next step, not unless she knew for certain that it wouldn't backfire. She was already treading upon the family's hospitality as is, to be caught in such a manner by Joyce, or by Mr. Madsen himself—she shudders at the thought. Perhaps, it just wasn't meant to be.
Yet, her eyes strayed over the stack of empty manila folders beside the computer, and she notices a small slip of paper peeking out from the top folder's weathered edge. She takes it, and raises it up into the dim light so she can see it.
It was a receipt from the Two Whales Diner. An old one, she could tell it was because of the translucent whale logo overlaying the faded black text, the iconic design having been removed some time ago for simplicity's sake and to cut extra costs. Handwritten pen gave her insight to Mr. Madsen's signature and generous tip, as well as an exact date written at the top of the receipt.
11/27/2008
Eight digits. She feels the rush come back full force, goading her. Taunting her.
This couldn't be the passcode…right?
Her fingers shake nervously as she presses the number keys, one at a time. She takes a steadying breath as she presses the enter key, cringing in anticipation.
The desktop greets her. It worked.
Ohmygod it worked, it worked! OhmyGod—!
She whips her head over her shoulder, her paranoia kicking in at the successful entry. No movement from the living room. Her ears pick up on a gentle hum emanating from the kitchen. Joyce had not the slightest clue.
So, the blonde scoured the computer, pulling up the files and searching for what she was curious of. Surely David had to have something about Rachel Amber, and it ought to be here of all places—
She pauses on a folder with her name on it. Plain, unassuming. Another folder among many.
It was so bizarre to see such a thing, and so she clicked on it to sate the interest burning at the forefront of her mind. She finds herself instantly regretting it.
A handful of candid pictures of her, taken without her knowledge on the Blackwell campus. A text document with notes David had written. She opens the text document, and reads.
…saw KM retrieving package from corridor just before curfew. Possibility of drugs/contraband? Non-conclusive lead, will need more observation to confirm…
…overheard KM and others talking about attending future vortex club parties. Possible link between KM and Prescott? Need further observation to confirm…
…asked around bible study group about Marsh family, identified denomination as Anglican. Father is clerk typist, mother is active in bible study group on weekends. Definite philosophy: redemption lies in faith, alone…
…KM has kept to herself since first attendance to vortex party. No outside activity except a visit to police station for recording testimony. Possible connection to previously mentioned drugs/contraband? Why go to police if only to save face? Need more information to confirm…
…KM only person to witness aftermath of Blackwell shooting incident in-person. HVT of Prescotts if found out. Testimony inconsistencies need to be buried at all costs to ensure possible opportunity arises…
She feels the righteous indignation flare just as intensely as the dread. Madsen suspected her just as he suspects every other Blackwell student he encounters, but the conclusions he had drawn spoke of her like a criminal, just waiting to make a slip-up. She harkens to that quiet night in late August, when she had asked her parents to leave the tea packets—which she'd forgotten to pack—by the corridor so that no one would swipe them before she could. Truth be told, it was the closest she ever got to "breaking the law," insofar as the last few days would not be taken into consideration. She was so sure of the fact that nobody had seen her return to her dorm before curfew could set in, that there was no way she would be caught doing something that looked suspicious, but Madsen must've started his shift earlier than expected.
And then, there was the implication that she was in cahoots with Prescott. Her cheeks burned red with indignation, her jaw clenched at the desperate conclusion that was drawn. Madsen was ignorant of the confrontation she had with Prescott in the library, lest he surely would know better. Was he simply not there to witness that? Had he been patrolling another part of the academy when this meetup had occurred? She could only assume that was the case. She steadies her anger, and reminds herself that the Madsen of the past is not the same as the Madsen of the present—who was willing to hear her side of the story, to uncover the same mystery she was tasked with. She had no reason to fear, not so long as Madsen was interested in what she had to say about Rachel's whereabouts.
The last note seemed to be the most recent entry, and the one that worried her the most. She knew herself to be unique when it came to witnessing what Nathan had done to her friends, but to be the only one? Maybe this is why Madsen labels her as an HVT…whatever that meant. Someone important, perhaps? A shame it was, since she had no interest in being made important by Madsen nor the Prescotts.
She clicks out of the text document, and retreats from her personal folder. She's half-tempted to right-click and delete it. The mouse hovers over the folder, options weighing on her mind.
Kate sighs, and moves on to what she's truly looking for.
A folder titled with Rachel Amber's name gives Marsh a couple pictures with a text document. She opens this document, and finds a few sparse passages.
…RA's attendance has become noticeably erratic, tally of three consecutive absences in first week of March, twelve absences since start of semester. Wells doing nothing about this due to Prescott involvement. Vortex club affiliation a definite link to consider…
…RA has consistently met up with Frank B. at least once a week since early February. Relationship undefined, but most likely transactional. Frank now sole dealer in Arkadia, monopolizing = high prices. Negotiations over prices probable. Drug-runner for Prescott?
Below these couple of passages was an embedded police report, dating back to the second week of March. In it, Kate learns of the encounter a certain Officer Anderson Berry had with Rachel Amber, by which she was arrested and charged with possession of a controlled substance. An addendum written by Madsen was underneath this police report—
…RA released on bail by father/District Attorney. Charges dropped, scrubbed from record. Need to adjust strategy going forward…
Kate took all this information in, and furrowed her brows at the conclusions she drew from it all.
Rachel was a Vortex club member. That was the only definitive fact she could maintain, otherwise it delved into the limited conclusions that Madsen was trying to piece together. But then again, it's not like Marsh had any better conclusions to draw from. She did not know Rachel, never talked to her—never really saw her aside from passing glances, all of which were fleeting and one-sided. For all her popularity and charisma, Rachel had not crossed paths with Kate in the brief time they attended Blackwell together.
Was Rachel truly associating with Prescott? Was there not something more to her meetings with Frank, especially when…?
Kate remembers the note that she and her friends discovered in the junkyard, detailing Rachel's confession of having an affair. It made sense that this would be Frank, if he was the only one Rachel was skipping class for. Nothing was for certain; Kate frowned when she realized this. Maybe it was Frank. Maybe it was Prescott. Maybe it was neither, someone else. She could not know—
A noise rang from the living room—
Kate jumped in sudden fright, her wide eyes snapping to the exit. Her heart pounded in her ears, her mouth was suddenly dry, the terror of being found out made manifest. Joyce would have no reason to give her the benefit of the doubt, not when she was hunched over the computer like a thief! She was caught, she was doomed!
Her ears now recognized the sound: it was the ringing of a phone. The landline situated close to the kitchen. Footsteps trekked over to the phone and a clatter interrupted the jarring tone, the receiver having been pulled from its place.
Kate turned back to the computer, and closed the files she was looking at. She proceeded to shut the computer down, and silently crossed the room to eavesdrop on the conversation.
"Oh, hey there," Joyce chimed enthusiastically, "I was plannin' on calling you later today. How's it been?"
A pause. Kate was tempted to peek around the corner, but thought against it. The shock of the phone's ringing was still making her shiver.
"Well, that's…that's terrible," Joyce consoled, "Why, I feel the same way whenever David leaves and doesn't tell me where he's going. He's been more open about it recently, but I get where you're coming from. I'm so sorry for that, dear."
Another pause.
"…well, this is…oh, Lord, how do I say this—Evelyn, I know you're worried sick about her, but you don't have to go to the police about it. I'm serious."
Kate gasped, her hands shot up to cover the sound.
Mom.
It was one thing to have Joyce inadvertently notice that Kate was taking her time in the garage, it was another thing to know that the older woman was going to beckon her to speak with her mother—which she was not even remotely prepared for.
"Yes, I know…I'm telling you this because…David and I found her last night. She's been with us ever since," a sudden pause, to which Joyce answered with, "She's…she's alright, nothing bad's happened to her…I don't know, I haven't asked her what happened. Your guess is as good as mine."
Kate clenched her fists, and willed the dread burning her heart to be whisked away. It doesn't. Not that she could afford any more time for herself. She must face what's coming, and she knows this to be fact.
"Yes, she's awake. She was actually helping me with some groceries I had gotten earlier today. She reminds me so much of you, y'know," there was no point to hiding anymore. Kate stepped out of the shadows and into the ambient light of the living room, and was greeted by a soft smile from Joyce, "Yes, she's right here, I'll put her on for you."
Kate walked over, and answered the call.