Something about Kellerman's new behavior was suspicious to Lincoln. Too thoughtful. Friendly. Out of character. The whole lot was simply too convenient – yes, that was just the word for Paul Kellerman's brand-new attitude. Convenient. His timing was spectacular: he showed up only when Sara was by herself and was always gone a few minutes before Lincoln stopped by. And they were always times when Sara appeared in a particularly despondent mood, her ever immaculate eyes betraying a tearless but bone-deep melancholy.
No one ever said grief was easy.
It wasn't easy for Lincoln either, but he did his best to make it work, for his family's sake. And Sara was family, had become family from the moment she'd stood on that altar, stared at his little brother in the eyes and said: I do. Lincoln had grown protective of his sister-in-law, which made it not only annoying but worrying that Paul Kellerman should pay such frequent visits to Sara's house. Every time she told him that he'd been by, bile would swarm to Lincoln's mouth, the taste of unforgotten, unforgiven anger.
It was never a secret that Lincoln hated the guy, but he so happened to hate him more since he'd graduated from near-murdering his dead brother's wife to stalking her. In truth, Kellerman was behaving too much like a predator, feeling the territory around his prey, enjoying the chase almost as much as he'll enjoy the catch.
But what Lincoln hated most was how powerless he was to stop it. Because Sara tolerated, perhaps even found comfort in those visits. As weeks went by, he'd noticed her way of talking about Kellerman was changing. From the first, she'd been rightfully infuriated at his unwanted attention, but perhaps even then there had been invisible relief in her eyes – at feeling anything more powerful than the calling of the dead, of the ghost-memories that lurked in every corner of this house.
When Kellerman was there, exasperating, outrageously insistent – maybe Sara felt at least briefly recalled to life.
Lincoln often disregarded how few ties Sara had left, apart from him. He had Sofia and LJ, but Sara, she had that cold, lonesome diamond on her slim finger, married no longer to a living and loving husband, but married nonetheless, married eternally; to his grave or hers.
It was a cold and dreary thought, and Lincoln shook his head clear of it.
But he couldn't deny that although Paul Kellerman was wicked, no doubt about it, although their relationship was merely friendship and not even that, although his attention had to be the last thing Sara deserved, chances remained it was what she needed – maybe even what she wanted.
Still, from the deepest of his primal instincts, he didn't trust the man. Didn't trust him because though he'd put colors back into Sara's cheeks, his grin was turning wider at her mourning-black dress, like he was playing, and winning, to make matters worse. Didn't trust him because men like Kellerman were like mindless children, and they tossed one toy aside without a second thought when another game caught their attention.
…
A MONTH EARLIER
"Aren't you even going to ask me what I'm –"
"No."
"Fine." Kellerman conceded, pushing a polite smile. "Will you listen to me then?"
Sara's lips morphed into a white, near-invisible line. "I believe we've had this conversation at my husband's funeral, and I've been clear as to how I felt about seeing you."
"Yes, you've been very clear."
Prudence veiled her eyes.
"Still," Kellerman resumed, "I'd like you to hear me out. Not because you owe me anything," he said, watching her eyes flare up at the reminder of his saving her in court. "Of course, you don't," he smiled compliantly.
"Please, don't tell me you're here to make amends."
"Would it be so awful?"
"Not awful. Just uncalled for. I don't want anything to do with you. If that's everything, I'd like you to get out off my doorstep now."
"So adamant," he laughed. "You'd make a great negotiator. If we hadn't ended up on two opposite ends of the checkboard, I'm sure I could admire that. I do," he said.
"You make it sound like you were just born on that side," she said. "Not like you chose it."
"Well, as I've told you, Sara. I'm a changed man."
She fled his gaze. "That's nothing to me, Paul. I don't care what you do with your life as long as you stay away from mine."
"That's it then?"
"Of course. What else were you expecting?"
He allowed himself a short pause, going over her slightly distraught eyes, her lips parted as if ready with a reply. Her walls were drawn up, her weapons in hand. The silence between them was meant to make them feel unnecessary, heavy, impractical.
"We were friends, once," he answered finally. "Weren't we?"
She was so prompt to look outraged he knew he'd given her the right bait. "I think that friendship came to an end the moment you strapped me to a chair."
She shut the door before he had time to say anything else. Though it might look like a lost battle, Kellerman actually viewed this exchange as progress. Slow, laborious progress, but the best rewards are always at the end of such strenuous paths, aren't they?
For starters, Sara had to know by now Kellerman would be back. And one day, maybe not next week, but soon enough, she'd find relief despite herself in his relentless attempts. Why shouldn't she, when his gaze was warm, when his only rival was dead underground? Part of her had to know that in vowing loyalty to her late husband, Sara was like a little girl sitting in the dark, playing hide and seek, when everyone has long stopped playing and left the party. And that girl would need to step out of the shadows at some point.
Kellerman smiled, walking away from Sara's house. He'd gather her into his arms and carry her straight from the grave onto silky sheets. He'd warm her skin with kisses until she remembered she was alive, and when he'd had enough, he'd leave her to die.
Maybe the universe should have thought twice about making Sara Tancredi a beautiful woman.
…
Sara stood by the unlit fireplace in her living room, fists and eyes drawn shut. If there was such a thing as a higher power, it'd strike Paul Kellerman dead at this very second. It'd spare her the weariness of enduring his attempts at friendship, the energy of fighting him off.
He'd be back. She knew it and he knew she knew it. For whatever reason, this wasn't the end of it.
Considering her options, Sara thought she might have to tell him she'd forgiven him. He'd tried to kill her, she'd tried to kill him. You can go on with your life and your quest for redemption. We're even now. Even Steven.
"As if," she muttered under her breath.
It was a few minutes before her doorbell rang again. Lincoln walked in with an immediate wave of friendly warmth, bringing in the familiar smell of jeans and sea salt.
"Sara," he said, instead of hello, with an unusual blend of shock and concern. "Did I just have a hallucination?"
"Did you?"
"It's the only explanation I can think of for seeing Paul Kellerman drive past me, just one street away from your house."
Sara shook her head, with a tired, "Oh."
"Oh?"
"What can I tell you? He said he wanted to make amends."
"And you believe that?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
Lincoln made some coffee and sat opposite her, on the wicker chair Michael had picked for the living room. The whole house probably gave away the fact that both he and Sara thought of this country as a place of never-ending summer. Which it had been, in a way, for those few months of marriage before Michael died. A brief and immortal summer.
"Listen," Lincoln said, "has that creep been – you know, bothering you?"
"Who, Kellerman?"
His arched brow was exaggerated, a parody that said Like you don't know, as if there only existed one creep on the planet. "I don't like the thought of him lurking around. If you want, I can have a very persuasive conversation with him about troubling a bereaved pregnant woman."
"So that's what we're calling me?" Sara sighed. She'd grown fond of Lincoln, probably earlier than she'd realized. "Look, there's no need for you to snarl like a wolf defending his pack. I hadn't seen Kellerman since the funeral, before today."
Lincoln relaxed a little. Soon enough, they were chatting about LJ's grades and how fortunately he's picked up more after his uncle than his old man.
Sara hardly thought it was fair to ruin Lincoln's mood by adding that, though she really hadn't seen Kellerman for a long time, she knew in her bones that she'd see more of him in the future. A lot more than she cared to.
…
The imperceptible swell of her belly had turned into a slight yet undeniable bump, giving Kellerman an almost irresistible urge to grin. Some women never bloom more than when they are expecting their first child, and he had trouble thinking this stereotype would fit one better than it did Sara.
She had looked beautiful before. That afternoon, she looked radiant. He wondered in how much trouble he'd be in if he told her.
It had been difficult enough to get her to agree to a rendezvous. He'd suggested a café, where he expected she'd be drinking anything but coffee. This was just the right place, a restaurant would be too intimate while her house would be intrusive.
Before she took a seat, the bump not quite concealed by her red summer dress had Kellerman struggling not to betray amusement. How well he could picture Michael's helpless ghost turning and tossing in his grave. In truth, scheming bastard that he was, Kellerman could almost feel sorry for the unborn fetus, and for the father. Surprisingly enough, not for the mother.
He'd long learned long that first unrivaled rule. Never take pity on your target.
"Well?" Sara spoke expectantly after sitting opposite him, without wasting a second, without even pretending to check the menu.
Kellerman remained silent, impassible, and repressed yet another smile when a waiter came near their table. A flush of red spread to Sara's cheeks. He thought of what the warm skin would feel like beneath his lips.
Clearing her throat, Sara mustered a polite tone and said she'd have a glass of lemonade, waiting until the waiter had walked away to plant those angry brown eyes on him again. "Well?" She repeated.
Shrugging his shoulders with mock innocence, "Well what?"
"What will it take? Fifteen minutes, half an hour?"
"It would help me to know what you're talking about."
The exhale she let out made it useless for her to call him a bastard. "You said you'd stop harassing me if I agreed to meet you."
"What I said," he countered, "was that I wouldn't have to stop by unexpected if you agreed to see me. Besides, I'm hardly harassing you."
For a moment, there was a fleeting look of distress in her eyes. Without thinking, Kellerman nearly expected that she'd tell him, Stop. It would be simple, like people you're about to kill telling you they don't want to die. Please, stop. Leave me alone. Leave me to my grief. I feel very at peace here, sitting in the dark.
But a few seconds went by, and Kellerman had time to stiffen his resolve. He'd bring light into her life whether she wanted it or not. And wouldn't stick around to watch whether he'd made her alive or blind.
"All right," Sara said, now not with impatience. Quietly, she picked up her purse, near-threw a five-dollar note on the table for the drink she'd apparently do without and actually turned, as if to walk out on him.
"What are you –" It took a moment to compose himself. Raising his tone on her, under any circumstances, would always make him look like a jerk. "You're leaving?" He pretended this was surprising.
"Unless this is the last I'll see of you, yes. You've promised to leave me alone."
"No I haven't, and I won't." On a calm and patient tone. "What I've said is I understand you wished me to stay away."
"Then why won't you?"
"I'll explain," he smiled, "if you'll just sit down and listen."
She appraised him for maybe ten seconds, her breath caught in her throat, her eyes brimming with wariness. Remember how quick he was to pin you down into a porcelain tub. There's always something he wants. All snakes ultimately bite.
Finally, Sara sat down and he thanked her with a tilt of his head. "You have five minutes." She warned.
So he decided not to waste them. "I'm not the same man you knew once."
"I don't see how this is an explanation."
There was irony in how cold she sounded. Probably, she thought she was the merciless one.
"I meant it when I said I cared about you. Believe it or not, you're the only person I regret wronging who isn't dead, Sara."
"You mean," with a cold scoff, "I'm the only person who's survived you."
"Which is precisely why I want to help you."
"By stalking me?"
"I'm not stalking you. And you are going to need help, Sara. Humor me for a minute, think about this. I don't know if you've been looking for a job and I don't mean for to sound like a prick. But I think the recent scandals in your life will make it awfully hard."
"It does make you sound like a prick. What are you saying exactly?" She arched a brow, remarkably composed. Not angry, surprisingly enough. He hadn't seen her lose control, he realized, since she'd tried to strangle him aboard that train wagon. "That you want to blackmail me?"
"I want you to let me help you. America doesn't go easy on single mothers, or ex-addicts, or prison doctors who've aided and abetted convicts."
"You sounded like prick before. Now, you just sound desperate."
It flashed through his brain that she was trying to anger him. He'd not lose his cool, either. "Do you think Lincoln's wages at that swim shop or whatever he calls it will support you?"
Her laughter was more shocking than anything else she might have done. Honest to God, he'd been expecting her to slap him.
"Support me." She repeated, half-sounding like a question. "Is that what you think I'm in need of? You coming here, paying off your debt."
"That's not –"
"I can't think of anything I'd hate more."
The money had been nothing but a practical excuse, maybe something like a peace offering he thought he could wave at her. He hadn't expected her to take it.
"I don't want your help, Kellerman," she resumed, "and I don't care for your money. Take my word for it. I grew up in a house with money and no soul, if my child has to be raised the other way around, I'll get by."
"I don't doubt you will, and I never thought for a second money could buy what I owe you. I don't think anything can."
"Then what are you really offering me?"
His mouth broke into a smile before he could help it. That was okay. It was a good smile.
"You want to be my friend," she said, still not angry. "Is that it?"
"Not your friend. Friendship is mutual. Friends get something out of each other. And friends are easily offended, you mind what you say to them, you care for appearances." He chuckled. "There's ugliness in grief friends aren't the best suited people to see. What I want to be is whatever you need, whenever you need it. I've used you in the past, it's only rightful you should use me. I'd be most glad you should find use in me at all. After a trauma, some people are given anger dolls to channel their rage."
She chuckled.
"I guess I could be that," he continued. "Someone who'll one-sidedly accept whatever you want to take without ever expecting you to give anything in return."
"And you think I want that?"
"I just thought I'd let you know the offer was yours to take. We don't have to be friends. You don't have to like me. But I'm someone with whom you won't ever have to pretend, someone you don't need to impress. If you're ever in trouble, Sara, you can call me. If it's money, if it's legal help you need, if it's something the police or your brother-in-law can't help you with. I've also been told I'm a good listener, if you get lonely."
A few minutes of silence filled the air between them. The pause wasn't hostile or exactly uncomfortable. "I want to know why," she said.
The answer was unprepared, yet it came to him immediately. "You seem to be the last person in the world I'm interested in."
It took him a little while to realize that was true. Then he focused on studying Sara's reaction. He didn't care, whether or not she made it easy on him. What amused him was the tension, was trying to figure it out. Come on, sweetheart, throw your drink at me. Walk out and threaten to get a restraining order. Or fall melting in my lap, tell me I'm the brother you never had. Make me forget I'm bored. Remind me what I'm in it for.
He could tell she was tempted. No, it wasn't temptation yet. She was interested. Kellerman did the same thing, marveling at how simple the whole thing seemed.
While going over the side pastries, he noticed blueberry pie on the list. He was probably the wiser not to point it out.
…
ONE MONTH LATER
Truly. Lincoln gave a lot of thought to Kellerman, and how he had pried his way into the life of his sister-in-law. It was just out of character that he would be her friend if there wasn't something he wanted from her. Nothing good would come out of this.
It wasn't Lincoln's place to tell Sara who she should or shouldn't see. The worst of it was that he actually seemed to be helping her, in ways. Time had done its job as well, of course, but that friendship between her and Kellerman, it was the high of her week. Lincoln could tell, because she was always lighter and more cheerful after she'd seen him, whether or not she was even aware of it.
Lincoln's annoyance grew into anger, at the thought. Paul Kellerman had become her ray of sunshine.
It was late, too late at night to be having such thoughts. Sofia was asleep at his side, and Lincoln should probably get some rest as well. But he couldn't help thinking of that moment when his brother had given Scylla up to Paul Kellerman, when they all signed that piece of paper and became free members of society. It seemed to him there was something off, lurking in the memory, but he couldn't put his finger on what.
But then he remembered Sara handing hers over, how it'd caught his eye even from a distance – he had been talking to Sucre and only half-paying attention, but now it was coming back.
When Kellerman had taken Sara's paper, he'd brushed a finger over hers. The touch had been slight and may have well been accidental. At the time, it was what Lincoln must have thought since he had dismissed it immediately, but now?
That index touching Sara's felt to Lincoln like a bad omen, as if it had foreshadowed the unexpected misery ahead, Michael's premature death and Sara's grief.
For whatever reason, Lincoln thought it would make sense for him to rush out of bed and scramble to his car, to drive all the way to Sara's place and warn her: don't trust him. Don't trust him.
He's got something up his sleeve. He's always got something up his sleeve.
He'd be sick enough to fix you for the mere kicks of tearing you apart himself.
Only a second later, the idea felt ridiculous, because he'd wake Sofia up and he wouldn't be able to explain why. That was just the silliest of feelings.
But the thought of Kellerman's polite grin, after he'd taken Sara's paper and watched her uncomfortably walk away, kept Lincoln from sleep for the next two or three hours. That reptilian smile and the playful flicker in his eyes now seemed the worst of omens.