Chapter Text
Chapter 6: Time and Tide
One for sorrow, two for mirth, Jason Dean mused. His black boots clicked against the linoleum floor as he wandered the dilapidated aisles. What better way to celebrate a failure than to freeze it away? The three jet-black birds circling the 7/11 seemed to agree.
Consistency had always been calming for JD, even if it meant glaring fluorescent lights and half-melted ice drinks. Anything was better than being home, really.
Three for death, four for birth. Shakespeare himself had said so. Who would JD be to argue with the high king of thieves?
He pulled a gilded compass out of his pocket, fingers nimbly springing the rusty clasp. His suspicions were confirmed as he opened the device to find the protective glass splintered. Death it is, he concluded. Time was not on his side. Or his dear Veronica's.
***
September 23rd, 1989, Continued
Dear Diary,
It's almost 7 and I've spent all day thinking myself in circles. Things went well with Heather, but I owe Martha an apology. Unlike a certain stuck-up bitch, she did nothing wrong. I can't believe I shut her out like this again. She deserves so much better. I've accepted my fate, but I might as well call her to confirm it.
***
Veronica sighed, closing the latch on her journal and falling backward onto her pillows. She leaned over and reached into her (hopelessly disorganized) nightstand drawer, carefully digging through a sea of lost pens and used tissues for her jewelry box.
To her immense relief, the hourglass still sat inside. The sands, however, were dripping from the top again. That was definitely new. She could've sworn the hourglass had been drained to the last yesterday night. Maybe she'd done something right after all.
Looking back over at her journal, Veronica was reminded of the task at hand. No time like the present.
The brunette exhaled as she picked up the landline. It was now or never, really. Black cables twisted around her finger as she dialed a familiar number.
A gruff voice quickly cut through the static. "This is Robert Dunnstock, how can I help you?"
"Hi, Mr. Dunnstock, this is Veronica."
"Sawyer," she added, "is Martha home?"
The man gave a pause. "Well, Miss Sawyer, let me go grab my wife. But that'll be Mrs. Dunnstock to you," he finished, giving a forced chuckle.
Veronica felt her brows furrow. She knew Martha had been named after her mother, but this was quite strange. Ms. Dunnstock had died giving birth to Martha. Unless time had reset that, too?
"Alright, thank you, sir!" she replied.
"Hello, Martha Dunnstock here, what can I do for you, Miss Veronica Sawyer?" A melodious voice chimed. Veronica felt a lump forming in her throat. God, she sounded just like Martha. Well, the Martha she knew.
"Hello, Mrs. Dunnstock, is your daughter home?" the brunette choked. By now, the landline wires were wound so tight around Veronica's pointer finger that she could barely feel it.
"Daughter?" Mrs. Dunnstock replied, obviously confused, "I'm sorry, but Robert and I don't have a daughter. I think you called the wrong Dunnstocks."
"I don't mean to be rude, Mrs. Dunnstock," Veronica cut in, struggling to hide the horror congealing in her veins, "But are you sure? We used to be friends..."
Mrs. Dunnstock chuckled, quite a pleasant sound. "Veronica, Robert and I have known your family since we moved to Sherwood. I can confidently assure you we've never had a daughter. Are you sure you meant to call me, dear?"
"Oh," Veronica replied. Never had a daughter? What was that about?
"Well, I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs. Dunnstock. I'll leave you alone now. Have a great day!" Veronica forced.
"Of course, it happens to the best of us. See you next Sunday, Veronica!" Mrs. Dunnstock cheerily replied. The call clicked to an end, and the brunette was left alone with her thoughts and the static.
"Veronica, Dinner!" Her mother's voice called, bringing her back to the real world.
"Be right down!" She exclaimed, glad for the distraction.
The brunette practically flew down the stairs, encouraged by the exquisite smell of her mother's spaghetti. May Sawyer was quite the cook for a woman who didn't believe in tomato sauce.
"Leonard, newspaper away," Ms. Sawyer chided, heaping food onto three plastic plates. "Let's talk to our daughter like a real family."
Veronica's father obliged, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
"Sit down, Veronica," her mother continued, handing her daughter a steaming plate.
Veronica turned to her mother.
"Mom, do you know anything about the Dunnstocks?"
"Why of course, they're lovely! Mrs. Dunnstock helps coordinate the youth group at our Church! You've known her all your life, Veronica, why do you ask?"
"Oh, just curious," Veronica answered, twirling a fork through her spaghetti.
"Tomorrow's Sunday, you can ask her whatever you like at Church," Mr. Sawyer added.
"I don't know about that, my questions are a little personal," Veronica said, shoveling the noodles into her mouth.
"Why don't they have any kids?"
"Well," Mrs. Sawyer began, "They always had fertility troubles. Martha managed to get pregnant around 17 years ago, but their little daughter was stillborn. Such a shame, seeing as they're just such wonderful people. She and Robert would've made great parents."
Stillborn hit the youngest Sawyer like a slap in the face. There it was. Thanks to Veronica, Martha never existed.
Veronica took a sip of water to hide her shock.
"Where'd you learn all that, May?" Mr. Sawyer asked. "don'tcha think that's a little nosy?"
"You'd know if you'd been paying attention, Leonard," Ms. Sawyer snapped back, "Everyone knows everyone's business around here. Maybe if you took your head out of the clouds every once and a while-"
Her parents talked around her, but Veronica couldn't focus on anything they were saying.
"May I be excused?" She asked, standing and pushing in her chair.
"You barely touched what your mother made. Eat some more, there's starving kids in Africa," Her father replied.
"Sit back down and have some more, you've barely eaten all day," her mother agreed.
Veronica dutifully sat, finishing her foot on autopilot. She trudged mechanically up the stairs and tried her hardest not to slam the door.
***
"She's grown up so fast, hasn't she, Leonard?" May sighed.
"I guess so, May, I guess so," Leonard answered, pushing in his chair.
"Where do you think you're going, Hotshot?" May asked, arms crossed and eyebrow cocked. "It's your turn to do the dishes."
***
September 23rd, 1989, Continued (again)
Dear Diary,
I found out what the hourglass does. We're going to Church tomorrow, but I don't think any god can help me now.
***
As she drifted into a dreamless sleep, a raspy voice echoed across the brunette's mind. Two strikes.