Kate was numb. Unconscious, yet awake. Unhearing, unseeing. She was a dead girl, walking aimlessly and with no direction to take. Lost, yet not alone.

She heard not the concerned words of Max's parents, nor of Joyce's own when she and David found her wandering down the hall. Madsen had a gentle yet firm grip on her shoulder as he guided her out the hospital and back to the car. There was a look of recognition in his eyes, but it didn't matter to her. She couldn't feel much of anything, even when she bumped her head against the windshield as the car turned at an intersection on their way home. She couldn't feel much of when she was carefully escorted to the living room couch, nor when the itchy upholstery embraced her back as she sat upon it.

She did not fight it at all, for she could not think past those painful words, spoken in that sterile hospital room, rasped from the lips of someone she held most dearly to her heart. They echoed in her head, taunting her. Daring her to try and refute them—yet she had tried and failed. With all her efforts, with all the suffering she had endured, she still could not deny their claim.

You are not my friend, Kate.

That's not true.

You never were.

It's not true—!

"Katie?"

Marsh blinked. Her head turns slowly to face the rather anxious visage hovering above her.

"Hun', talk to me," Joyce pleaded softly, "What happened?"

Kate ducks her gaze.

"…Max didn't want to talk to me. I'm sorry, I…"

Tears were ready to spill again. She raised a shivering hand to rub them away. She felt so empty, yet overwhelmed—a tidal wave of emotion was being held back with every shuddering breath, ready to drown her in its might. She needed something, desperate was she for this thing which could alleviate the pain—but she didn't know what it was.

Joyce stood up and made her way quickly to the kitchen, an idea spurning her on. But the woman was stopped by a gentle arm from her husband, who brought his wife close so that he might whisper in her ear—

"Give her space, Joyce," the trembling blonde overheard his hushed tone, "She'll be okay. You ought to get some rest. You look tired, and even I can see that."

"David, I'm fine—"

"Please," he begged her, "You've been on your feet all day. Let me take care of this. Please, honey."

A pause. A soft parting kiss, then footsteps retreating to the second floor. Another pair of footfalls approached Kate, shifting over to rest on the chair beside the couch. She ducked her head down once more to the carpet. She sniffled, wiping her sleeve against her eyes.

She eventually noticed that David was staring at her, concerned.

"…it happened, didn't it? When you spoke to her?"

Kate nodded absently, her voice barely above a whisper, "She had no idea. She knew nothing about what happened before and after…I tried so hard, I gave her the journal to help her understand, but she…"

He hummed in consolation, looking off into nothing in particular, "…if this really is true, then this is…this investigation of ours might have to involve your friend, Max, a lot more than what we've been doing up until now. We will have to speak to her, again."

"I blew it."

"What?" he glanced back, worried.

"I messed it all up, again," Kate flinched in self-hatred, "She told me…she never wanted to see me again. She'll never talk to me again."

"Now, hold on," David countered, "Just because she said that, doesn't mean it's true. Max was probably just as scared as you were—there's a chance she was just overwhelmed by the truth of it. Even though we may be crunched for time, if we give Max the space to accept what has happened to her, then she'll understand why you wanted to help her so badly. Don't be ashamed of trying to help a friend, Kate."

His words were not what she wanted to hear, but it was better than nothing. She'll take what she can get at this point.

Guide me down the narrow path, O Lord.

"God help us," she rasped, a hand clutching the crucifix on her collar.

"May God help us all," he agreed, standing up from his spot, "Get some rest. We still have some time before we meet with Andy later tonight. I'll wake you when the time comes for us to go."

She nodded silently, and laid down on the couch. Sleep came in fretful bouts, and did nothing to alleviate the pressure in her chest.

Anderson Berry swore under his breath as his car jostled along the uneven dirt road. He came to a stop before a chain-link fence, shutting off the engine and stepping out.

The junkyard lay before him in all its rusted, weathered glory. It was a sore sight to behold, but then again, that's probably why he was called out here by Lieutenant Corn: out of sight, out of mind. Whatever the lieutenant wanted to speak to him about, it would be very important.

It took him a minute or so to find his way through—since nobody bothers to keep the paths between the debris all clean and proper—and eventually reach where his fellow police officer stood. Corn had placed himself in a clearing, where the chain-link fence encompassed a section of the junkyard that remained untouched, as if it were still a part of the surrounding forest. This clearing was the buffer between the mountains of debris and the dense foliage, and it was here that Berry confronted his counterpart.

"Corn?"

A slight turn of the head, then a chuckle, "I oughta smoke you every time you leave out the Lieutenant, y'know."

"Well, pardon me, Lieutenant," Berry jested, "I probably shouldn't forget to salute you every time we meet as well."

Corn laughed at that, a toothy smile disarming the nervousness Berry was feeling. The lieutenant picked up on this nervousness, and with a curious raise of a brow, he asks, "How ya' feeling? Better?"

The smile on his face faded. He hasn't gotten over the way the body had spasmed on the sandy asphalt.

"…more or less."

"Good," Corn claps a hand on his back in a show of support, "Good to hear. So, let's get right into it: I've been thinking about the motive for why and how Madsen is trying to pin the Prescott kid. Came up with a couple ideas."

"How so?"

"Well, if it wasn't obvious enough, he's got history with the Prescott kid. Been workin' as a security guard for Blackwell since 2011, so he's likely seen what goes on at those parties the kid hosts. Do you remember that girl that disappeared about six months ago? Went by the name Rachel Amber?"

Berry nodded his head solemnly, "Yeah, I do."

"There had been rumors about the person who made her disappear, and one rumor had people believing it was because of the Prescott kid and his parties, since that was where she was last seen. It made the most sense when compared to what other rumors were floating about, and so the chief received a call to make the disappearance a top-priority investigation, to give the people something to chew on so that nobody would start digging into the mystery themselves."

At this, Corn sighed, "Maybe…the rumors were more than just that. Madsen likely thinks that way, and I don't necessarily blame him."

Berry frowned. To hear such words from Corn, of all people, was quite the disturbance. It implied many things, but he held his tongue about his concerns.

"His motive might be Rachel's disappearance," the lieutenant capped his spiel, "but we know for a certainty it has something to do with the victims of the shooting. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

"Yes, I do," Berry nodded, "Madsen's profile lists a stepdaughter by the name of Chloe Price. Her profile matches the descriptions of one of the victims seen by witnesses. If she's one of the victims, then the hospital will have a record of her name on file, and we can confirm this as Madsen's motive."

"Have you visited the hospital to check if that's the case?"

"…not yet. I plan to, but not today."

A pause. Corn studied him, then hummed. Berry wasn't sure what was bothering the lieutenant, but before he could ask him, the man turned his head, noticing something over yonder.

"Hey, do you see that, over there?"

Berry looked to where Corn was pointing, and saw a curious formation in the debris of the junkyard. There was a patch of dirt that was cleared in a rather distinct circle, and was surrounded by the debris in such a manner that it reminded him of a stage of a play. And yet, he was not certain of what Corn was referring to, so he asked—

"Uh, what is it—?"

That was all he could say before a fist drove itself up and into his stomach, knocking the air out of him. Gasping, Berry double-over, unable to stop the strike to his back, bringing him face-down to the ground. Anderson choked, curling up on himself as the lieutenant took one of his arms and twisted it into an awkward angle behind Anderson's back, effectively pinning him in place. It was over in but a few seconds.

Then came the sound of laughter. It wasn't Corn, for his voice did not carry into Berry's ear. There, from the same path he took, Berry noticed a figure approach them.

Red letterman jacket. Styled brown hair. Sneering expression.

The Prescott kid.

"God-damn, that was somethin'!" Nathan cheered, his smirk punctuated by his casual stride, "If I hadn't known any better, Corn, I'd say you've been practicing that move."

Corn ignored the comments, and gave Berry no reprieve; the cold and metallic barrel of the lieutenant's service pistol presses against the back of his neck, imploring his cooperation.

"Why were you at the hospital?"

"Why were you—?!" Berry retorted, but this attitude only earned him a twist of the arm. He answered, "I was…I was there to check on Madsen's kid, to see if she would be able to speak about the incident."

"How did she look?" Nathan asked him.

Both men glanced up at him, each of their expressions saying the exact same thing. He shrugged, "What? Just curious."

Corn sighed, then he pointedly inquired, "You wouldn't've happened to run in on Madsen and his little partner while you were there, did you?"

He knew.

Berry sucked in a harsh breath, and swore. He flinches, grits his teeth when Corn applies a bit more pressure of his pistol on the back of his head.

"Y-yes," he confesses.

"Why'd you omit that the first time around?" the lieutenant pressed.

Whatever you do, Anderson…don't fuck this up.

"I…I've been trying to garner favor with Madsen, to see his motives and his plan of action. He trusts me, and that's why I've been quiet about this."

"How do I know you're not pulling my leg, doing the same thing to me?"

Berry hesitated, but spoke the truth, "You don't. But then again, Madsen would become suspicious of me if he saw me hanging around you more often than him, wouldn't he?"

A pause. Long, and dangerous. The cold barrel of Corn's pistol was still pressed to Anderson's head. He sighed, closing his eyes and whispering his prayers. He thinks of his wife and children, and prays dearly for their safety.

Slowly, Corn withdraws his pistol. There comes a long, tired sigh.

"You had a chance to get through this unscathed, Andy," he muttered, "A guarantee, at least. I cannot give you that guarantee ever again, but if you comply, then we can work something out. I'm taking over this case—you will follow my orders and do what I say, when I say it. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Berry muttered into the ground.

Except, the Prescott heir did not agree to this, "Wait just a fuckin' second—that's it?! That's all you've got for this turncoat?!"

"He knows better than to turn his cheek a second time," Corn replied, emphasizing this by adjusting his grip on Anderson's arm, "Ain't that right, Andy?"

"Yes, sir," he complied. He didn't say anything more; he was sure that they would change their minds if he did.

Yet even now, Nathan wasn't satisfied; he crossed his arms and looked down the bridge of his nose at them, frowning, "No."

"The hell do you mean no?" Corn chided, "Now, you listen here, kid—"

"Last I fucking checked," Nathan cut him off, "You ain't my fuckin' father! You can't tell me what to do—not unless you're asking for something that you don't really want. I'm giving you the prime opportunity of a lifetime here; you wanna prove you're worthy of my family's respect? Then do your fucking job. You put this little sleazebag—" a hand points down to Berry, "—in his fucking place, or I will do it because of you. What's it gonna be?"

"He's my problem," Corn countered swiftly, "I can take care of my own problems."

A pause. Tense, and ready to split apart. Like a peal of thunder, the Prescott heir sharpened his glare at the man opposing him.

"Tell me, Corn," Prescott smiled innocently, "How's the missus doing? I know we don't keep up much, but I overheard my mother say that your wife's been under the weather after the docs told her she's waited for too long, and now she's gone dry as a desert. I'm curious: was that her decision, or was it yours? I imagine waiting for the right time to have kids turned into quite the problem, now didn't it?"

Not even the aviator shades could hide the feral, downright malicious snarl that fell over the lieutenant's features. Yet, even despite his hand twitching for the pistol at his waist, he huffed his anger out one breathe at a time. Nathan's smile grew with every second that his words passed unopposed. Berry remained quiet, for fear that this anger might spill over and unto him.

"Glad we're on the same page," Nathan put in his final word, "Now, as for this little…issue, we have here, it'd be best if we do it my way. You call up your hounds in the militia, I want them here just in case things go wrong."

Then the prince turned his sneer down upon Berry, who could not help but cower under the fierceness of this gaze, "And as for you…"

It's evening. The sun has set, deep-red and magenta colored clouds are giving way to shades of nightly blue. Shadows have settled across the land, tinging it dark and dreary. There is the faint sound of a couple ravens cawing at each other, their lithe figures swooping from the perch of a couple pines to fly off into the distance.

Madsen's two-seater comes to a stop at the chain-link fence surrounding the junkyard. Headlights go out, and the two occupants step out of the vehicle, closing the doors behind them.

David pulls his phone out, looking at the message that he received from Berry a half-hour ago.

A. Berry – At the place, waiting for you. Text me when you're here.

He responds—

D. Madsen – Here.

"Alright, do you remember where you found Rachel?"

Kate nodded silently. When she realized her partner was expecting a verbal answer, she stuttered, "Ah, yes, sir."

"Then guide me," he asks, and she did so. They passed 'round the same piles of debris that Kate and her friends had passed before, and eventually turned past a bend to find the clearing. It was the same as before; the dirt stage was barren, the debris still circled the burial site. The only difference was the lone police officer standing atop the churned-up earth, his back facing them.

"Andy?" Madsen called, "Did you find it?"

Berry turned around. His expression was hard to make out, but he spoke clearly, "Yeah, it's over here."

Madsen eased his posture, walking calmly to his buddy, "Right, hope we haven't been keeping you here for too long. I have a flashlight so we can get some decent pictures."

"Pictures?" came a voice off to the side.

Kate squeaks in surprise, shifting behind Madsen as he draws his firearm instantly, zeroing in on the source, "Who the hell—?!"

A silhouette, framed by the dimming horizon, stalks out from some dense foliage near the clearing. His red letterman jacket and styled brown hair are the first details they notice, followed by his predatory brow and tight smirk. His hands were concealed in the pockets of his jacket, his stance was calm and unimposing.

Nathan Prescott speaks again, unafraid of the pistol being aimed at him, "You best be careful, Madsen. Some people would rather you respect the dead than defile them for your own personal gain."

"How did you get here?!" Madsen snarled, his index finger itching on the trigger. He glances to Berry, perturbed by his buddy's lack of a reaction, "Andy, the fuck are you doing, help me out with this—!"

Another pause, for Madsen finally can see the look on Anderson's face, even despite it being shrouded in shadows: it was a look of terror. The man was rooted to his spot, ever-so-slightly trembling. His firearm holster was empty, his service pistol nowhere to be found.

"David," Berry rasped, "I'm…I'm sorry."

Madsen felt his eyes widen at the sudden realization, his head whipped back to the Prescott heir, fury swallowing his whole face.

"What the fuck did you do to my friend?!"

"Me?" Nathan snarked, "I didn't do anything, 'swear on it. Now, if you were to ask my associates, however…"

Three more silhouettes sprouted from the foliage, each with their weapons drawn. David's glare zeroes in on the one he recognizes first, this being Lieutenant Corn. The aviator shades reflected the last slivers of light still clutching to the horizon, glimmering off the side of his service pistol, "Drop your weapon, Madsen. There's no need to make this ugly."

The lieutenant is flanked by two militiamen, their long rifles aimed squarely at him and his partner. Though the rush of anger courses through his veins, Madsen knows he's outnumbered, outgunned, and out of options. Kate's hold on him tightens, she's just as afraid of a gunfight as he is.

He takes a single breathe, having made a decision. He prays his last wishes. Slowly, Madsen drops his handgun, then raises his hands up in surrender.

"…I'm sorry, Kate," he mutters to her, hoping she might understand. He cannot tell if she does; Corn signals his men, and they converge upon them, separating them with their rifles. Kate is yanked away by one of the militiamen, who is supported by the other once Corn shoves Madsen face-down into the dirt, the pistol leveled right at the back of her partner's head. Nathan casually walks over, reaching down to take Madsen's sidearm with one of his hands—which are noted to be adorned with blue latex gloves. The Prescott heir's smirk widens into a murderous grin, a spark of fear touches Kate's heart once she notices.

"No, no-no-no!" she cries, her fear bringing her voice to a higher pitch, "Please, we'll keep silent about this, I promise we will, just don't hurt him, please—!"

"Just shut her up, will you?" Nathan cringed at her incessant begging, "God-damn, she's fuckin' loud."

The militiamen followed their orders with no qualms on their part: a zip-tie and a long piece of duct tape kept the pleading blonde in check. Though she tried to fight against the restraints to reach her partner, the strong grip on one of her restrained arms kept her in place. She spoke again, but nothing could be heard, let alone understood.

With the nuisance pacified, Nathan turned his glare back to Madsen, who was silent yet boiling with rage.

"S'matter, did I scare you with that entry of mine?" the prince jested, "I haven't been practicing for too long, so hopefully I did a good job."

"Go fuck yourself," David angrily spat back.

"I'll take that as a yes," Prescott grinned down at the man, "So, do you have any idea of what comes next?"

"I strongly suggest you take that gun in your hand, shove it up your ass, and pull the trigger," David retorted. His anger compelled him so, and yet despite this, Nathan could tell there was something more to the bitter man's words.

"See, I was thinking about why it is you say that," the prince crouched down to speak, "And I don't blame you for wanting me dead, 'cause of what I've done. Now, surely you can understand why I'd have to shoot you: you are a threat to my life, and no amount of reasoning is going to change that."

The hand with David's revolver comes up, "You see, I had to gun you down like a rabid dog, because that's the only way you would let me live. Surely, a man such as yourself can understand."

"If you have to kill me, then so be it," David rasped, his glare softening as he looked over to his restrained partner, "but there's no reason to take her life. That's all I ask."

"And I would be inclined to agree, except you do not know that your partner is a two-faced liar," Prescott countered, now eyeing the blonde with a vicious glare, "I told you, Marsh, that all you had to do to ensure that nothing bad happens between you and me, was nothing. And yet, I find you tagging along with this armed, dangerous, rogue Blackwell security guard, trying to pin the murder of an innocent girl onto me by fabricating a story about what happened to her. Tell me, Marsh—does that sound like you were keeping your word about doing nothing?"

She's glaring back at him, but it's not with any confidence. Nathan can see the terror underneath the surface, waiting to be exploited.

"That's what I thought," he snipped, turning back to Madsen, "I cannot trust her, and I most-certainly cannot trust you."

There's an sudden, awkward hesitation with the prince when he stands back up, his words reflecting a change of course, "And…as much as I want to, I simply can't get rid of you outright. To leave you in the town's jail would be the only way that I can ensure neither of you end up in a position to hurt me. I hope you understand…this isn't personal. It never was."

With this, Nathan signaled to Anderson, who'd been standing aside as his friend was subdued.

"You, cuff him."

Berry pulls forth a pair of handcuffs, and steps forwards to cuff them onto Madsen's wrists. David sighs in subtle relief over their lives being spared for the time being, as his buddy begins to crouch down—

BANG

David jerks from the sharp and sudden report of a gun, and for the briefest of seconds, he believed himself to be dead. However, this assuredness was snatched from him in the seconds thereafter, for he feels the pressure of something falling down on top of him and then rolling off to the side. His head turns to observe what it was that collapsed upon him, only to feel the ice-cold dread roll down his back—

Berry had been shot. The round had struck him in the neck, for the man clutched desperately to it, choking on the blood spilling out from the wound. He floundered on the ground like a fish out of water, rolling this way and that, searching for a way to save himself. Madsen could only look on in horror, as his dear friend's wild gaze locked onto his own, and a blood-soaked hand reached for him.

He was just out of reach. He was too far away to help him. The life slowly, painfully faded from his friend's eyes, and there was nothing he could do.

Even Lieutenant Corn needed a moment to recover from it, "Christ, kid—what the hell did you…?"

"On second thought," Nathan resumed, uncaring of what he had just done, "I've changed my mind. I've just thought of the perfect story to tell everyone once they find you and your buddy."

He leans down to snicker into Madsen's ear, "A shame it was, that you found out that your friend here was a double-agent. I should let you know that he's the reason you're here to begin with—you fell right into my hands without even realizing it. The betrayal was too much to bear, so you took this revolver here—" the barrel was still smoking from the discharge, "—and you shot him in the back. A cold, calculated murder. A perfect story for spending the rest of your life rotting away in a cell, wouldn't you agree?"

"Alright, kid, that's enough," Corn tried to step in, tried to stop what he knew was coming; however, Madsen had his arms tucked in and braced against the ground, and his target wasn't getting any closer—!

David sprung, pouncing upon the Prescott heir. The rage spilled from his lips with a roar, the man had the height and weight advantage over Nathan and used it well, sending them both to the dirt. Corn and the militiamen were driven into a panic, readying their weapons to try and shoot Madsen off their charge—but there was no opening. The revolver was knocked out of Nathan's hand, and a deadly brawl ensued.

They rolled on the ground, hands grappling and choking and straining each other in a vicious melee. But from the pocket of Nathan's jacket, the prince pulled out Berry's service pistol, and with it, he bid his time for the right moment—which came when Madsen raised his arm to strike down at him with a punch. And though David's fist collided with his face in a rather painful fashion, so too did the barrel of the handgun press against David's abdomen, and the gloved hand squeezed the trigger—

BANG-BANG-BANG

Everyone recoils from the gunshots. Kate's silver eyes widened in shock as her partner seized up, three distinct holes in his back were blooming red petals of blood. She cried out David's name—and wasn't heard.

"Fuck, fuck—fucking fuck!" Nathan cursed, his other hand pushing the dead weight off of him. The militiamen helped him to his feet, but beyond this, Prescott swatted their arms away, brushing at the blood now staining his jacket and shoes.

"Sonuva-fuckin-bitch!" the prince snarled, "Fucker couldn't have the decency to die clean, huh?"

His left eye was twitching, the skin aching from the terrible blow he received from Madsen's fist. It would be swelling within the hour, he knew this to be a certainty.

"Corn," he commanded, gesturing wildly to the two bodies on the ground, "That's your problem. Deal with it."

"What about the…?" the lieutenant noticed the blonde, having been left unattended, now sprint around a bend of debris and out of sight. He noticed thereafter the predatory scowl on the prince's face, a streak of blood not of his own dripping from a gloved hand.

"She's mine."

One foot in front of the other. A heave of the lungs, the fire burning in her chest tells her she's already exhausted. Her legs feel like jelly, so ready to give up and send her collapsing—but she fights the pain, and keeps going.

After all, anywhere is better than there. The ringing in her ears can still be felt, she can't get rid of the image of her partner's lifeless corpse being tossed aside. Death had come for her, on this terrible night; all she could do now was try her best to cheat it of its prize.

There's another pair of footsteps catching up behind her. She feels the dread boil in her heart, and picks up the pace. Faster, faster she goes. Tears sting her eyes as she runs. She would not go into the jaws of death so easily—!

Something collides with her, and they tumble. Her arms are still tied behind her back, so she ends up rolling on her side. Her shoes are crusted with dirt as she tries to stand once more, but before she can come up from a kneeling position, she is stopped by a hand holding one of her flannel-coated arms in its iron grip. A firm tug sends her back onto the ground, the chaser taking his other arm and wrapping it around her throat in a solid hold.

She writhed, desperate to break out of his choking grip. However, he was patient; he lets her tire herself out. And after she had expended all her strength trying to break free from him, he stood up and left her there, on her knees, hunched over from the exertion. She was too tired to stand up on her own, too scared to fight him. The fire in her heart was but a flicker of its former self.

His gloved fists were clenched, his jaw was locked tight with rage; he wanted a fight. He wanted to spill her blood, he wanted to hear her crying for mercy. Yet she denied this from him, for her fear was too great of a burden. It pissed him off.

"I warned you, Marsh."

She whimpers, the tape muffling her words. Nathan takes a sudden interest in the tape, and with a blood-stained glove, he picks at it and rips it off her face.

"P-please—"

"Don't make me tell you twice," he snarled, grabbing at one of her arms and shoving her onto her side, "I told you what was going to happen, and you didn't fucking listen. You forced my hand, and now you're gonna pay."

There was something in one of his hands. She couldn't quite make it out, her eyes were glassy with tears, and betrayed any chance of getting a clear picture. Yet she didn't need to ponder for too long, as Nathan stepped towards her—

"You'll never see the sun rise again. You'll become just like the rest of 'em," he muttered softly, his tone having lost the bloodlust he had naught but a few seconds ago, "You'll end up down there, where the rest of them have gone…the Dark Room."

In his hand was a syringe. The vial was filled with a clear substance, she could tell it was the case when the syringe was struck by the moonlight. She trembles at the shine of the thin needle as its safety cap was popped off. The gloved hand guides it closer, like a snake's head venturing closer to its prey so that it could strike.

"A terrible fate awaits you, Marsh," he mutters still, overcome with a sudden terror. His blue eyes had the light of the moon reflect upon them, to denote that wild, terrible gaze. He was possessed by an evil essence, she knew it to be true—and yet, she could not stop him from reaching down and cupping her chin with one of his blood-stained gloves, nor look away from the madness burning in his eyes. She feels a wicked sense of déjà vu over this burning expression, however there's no chance for her to recall what it was.

"I can't go down there again, you have to understand," he whispers, "it's better you than me."

Her head is forced back, exposing the pale skin of her neck. The needle pierces flesh, and then Nathan depresses the plunger.

A/N - We have reached the endgame. Expect a slight delay as I work through the last couple chapters. Thank you for your patience. - MB