Chapter Text
You never got used to watching someone die in front of you.
It had happened once before, a few years back. She didn’t think it was ever going to happen to her again; it was a fluke, she’d reasoned. And if it did, not like this.
God—not like this.
He was young; surely not much older than she was. They’d just kissed.
The tears were done for the day. Her eyes were burnt and stung by the salt, and all she really felt now was the residual hollow. It wasn’t any new stage of grief—she figured that grief was only just starting to set in—but it was a new way to be for tonight, just to get by.
She didn’t really know where her feet were taking her. She just needed to walk, and keep breathing in clean air. The destination was irrelevant now.
Why—that was the question that kept buzzing through her mind, fluttering up to the forefront until she could get the strength to shoo it away. She knew that she wouldn’t have an answer to it for at least a few weeks, not until all the labs were run. It wasn’t worth all this guessing, it really wasn’t—but that didn’t stop the urge of her brain to search for a reason.
The coroner had posited a heart attack, possibly related to drugs. Realistically, they were probably right. Graham had been acting so erratic earlier; he thought he’d lost his heart . He had to be on something, didn’t he?
She should have recognized it. It was so obvious in hindsight; she’d been so caught up in the adrenaline rush, she’d missed all the signs—and now he was dead.
Guilt, the overwhelming dread and guilt, was gnawing at her psyche; she couldn’t shake the feeling that she could’ve prevented it all. She should’ve taken him to the hospital, not to the fucking cemetery. What was she thinking?
She took a deep breath, and then exhaled it all out, watching the condensation puff like smoke. She couldn’t be thinking like this. She couldn’t spiral, not while she still had to stay alert. She didn’t have the answers, and that was just the way things had to be for now—the autopsy report, in due time, would tell her all she needed to know.
She hugged her jacket closer to her body, trying to ignore the chill of the dusk-time winds. But at least she wouldn’t be cold for much longer—she’d walked herself right back to the sheriff station.
If she wasn’t already on such high alert, she might’ve had a heart attack herself.
“Oh, finally—”
“Christ.” She jumped, a fresh wave of adrenaline sparked. “I forgot you were in here.”
“Clearly…”
Emma had never paid him much mind, honestly. The man in the cell seemed something of a permanent fixture before all this, almost faded into the background; what with everything else going on in this madhouse of a town, she didn’t have the headspace to shift her focus onto anything she didn’t absolutely need to. Graham always had this part of their duties covered until now.
God, everything had just changed, hadn’t it? She felt dizzy.
“Look, I’m sure you’ve been busy, but I’m really quite starved—”
“Yeah, I’m so sorry about that.” She’d gotten used to being out on the field by now—that was well within her skill set already, a relatively straightforward transition—but she had no idea how to handle the mundane stuff. What was she supposed to do for this guy? She didn’t even know what he did to be here in the first place.
This wasn’t going to overwhelm her, she told herself. Breathe. She had a responsibility now, and that was going to keep her head focused, and that was going to be a good thing. She rubbed at the ridge of her nose, swallowing back the anxiety bubbling behind her throat.
“Um…what am I supposed to feed you?”
The guy smiled archly, which instinctively made her bristle. “You say that as if I’m some sort of animal.”
“I’m sorry, I’m just…there’s a lot happening right now—”
“There’s stuff in that side room, just to the right.”
“Thanks.” She’d never even been in this room before, and made a mental note to take stock of everything as soon as she could. The first thing she saw was a box of granola bars; her stomach was hollow, she was realizing, and she grabbed a handful for the both of them.
“Here.” She passed about four through the cell bars, and went straight from there to the swivel chair at the empty desk. He raised a brow, but remained blissfully quiet.
This chair was hers now, she supposed, and she let her shaky legs buckle into it as she bit into the slightly stale chunk of nuts and oats. Without any sense of direction, she began flipping through some folders left sitting by the computer.
Graham must’ve left these here. It felt like getting directions from a ghost.
“So I’m your charge tonight, hm?”
Emma looked up over the stack, still a bit nonplussed about the company. “Yep.”
“Busy night, then?”
She took a heavy breath. “Yep.”
She pushed aside the folder, and yanked one of the desk drawers open in a rush of frantic inspiration. She rummaged through with a shaky hand—it was mostly just office supplies, and she slammed it shut. She tried another; this one had a little medicine bottle, and she pulled it out.
Acetaminophen, apparently. She opened the cap to a pile of even little pills, all numbered the same—they looked legit. She popped one out, swallowed it dry, and closed the bottle back away.
Graham wouldn’t have been keeping drugs here, anyway. Not unless he was stupid, and she just couldn’t believe that read of him.
“Are you alright?”
Fuck. She wasn’t alone in here; why was that so easy to forget?
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Are you looking for something? I might be able to help.”
She spared a glance in the man’s direction, and he wore a face of genuine concern above his half-eaten granola bar. She shook her head; someone else’s concern was the last thing she wanted to experience right now.
“No, it’s fine.”
He nodded, and she stood up, propelling the chair a few inches back. It was late; Mary Margaret was usually getting to sleep by now. She could go back for the night and still be alone.
She needed to be alone.
She couldn’t remember driving to the loft that night, but she’d done it, somehow.
Paranoid thoughts and late-night delusions were buzzing. A weird fear began to creep in—what if Regina had something to do with this?
It was a logical leap. All of her undue warnings, the wrath she’d had when she’d run into her and Graham together—could she have been the one behind it?
Logistically, Emma wasn’t sure when Regina could’ve done anything. But logically? She could’ve poisoned him, maybe in the passion of her anger.
She didn’t want to dwell on it, but she had to keep her guard up. A wave of nausea shot through, and she swallowed hard; if Regina was corrupt enough to murder Graham in cold-blood, who was to say that she wasn’t next?
And then there was Henry. God, her blood boiled at the thought of him being under Regina’s wing all night. But what was she supposed to do? Anything she did would raise suspicion, paint a larger target on her back…she had to let him be.
She sent him a quick text, but it was late enough that he was probably asleep. She didn’t expect a response, but the action helped settle her mind enough to release a breath she wasn’t even aware that she’d been holding. Regina could be evil, sure—but she wasn’t going to hurt her kid. It just wouldn’t make sense.
None of this made sense. Death didn’t make sense.
She could barely sleep that night. But when she did, she kept having the same kind of anxious dream; the faces of Storybrooke were dying in front of her, falling in heaps, and she was running, running, and she could barely tell if she was being hunted or if she was the one doing the killing.