Chapter Text
Five men had been friends for most of their lives. Not the sentimental kind of friendship, but the kind forged through routine—early morning golf, evening drinks, and conversations that always circled back to the years when they’d worn badges and carried guns. Rick Grimes’ country estate had become their gathering place in retirement, a quiet stretch of land where the past felt contained.
Until it wasn’t.
One of them died inside Rick’s home, under circumstances vague enough to invite speculation. The kind that stuck. The kind that turned memory into motive. Four men remained. All former police. All suspects.
Rick held fast to one belief: innocent until proven guilty.
It was Shane who suggested the lawyer. Claimed she was the best in town, though none of them had ever dealt with her before. A community lawyer, Shane said. Smart. Relentless.
Rick hadn’t known what to expect.
“Michonne Bethune. Nice to meet you.”
Her hand was warm when Rick shook it. Firm without force. Confident. The kind of grip that suggested she was used to being underestimated—and correcting it.
“Miss Bethune,” Rick said, stepping aside to let her in. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
His home opened around them—wide windows, high ceilings, walls meant to feel calming even when tension crept into every corner.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she replied, already taking in the space, her eyes sharp, observant.
The others stood scattered throughout the room, each keeping distance from the rest. One lingered near the window, gaze unfocused. Another sat stiffly on the couch, leg crossed, jaw clenched. No one spoke. Tension lived between them, thick and unacknowledged.
Michonne acknowledged them with a nod before opening her iPad case, fingers steady as she reached for her pen. She paused when she noticed their attention lingering.
“I think Michonne would like—”
“Of course, Rick,” Merle interrupted. “We were just heading out anyway. Long afternoon.”
Merle’s gaze lingered on Michonne a beat too long before he turned toward the door. “You let us know if you need anything, alright?”
“Alright. Thanks,” Rick replied.
“See you, miss,” Merle added as he stepped onto the patio.
Rick closed the door behind them and locked it, though it had already been shut.
“You noticed them staring,” he said, head tilting slightly, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Michonne slid a book back into place on the shelf, aligning it neatly with the others.
“I’m well aware,” she said. “It’s not common for a Black woman to visit these parts—especially not as a lawyer.”
Rick raised an eyebrow, momentarily caught off guard by her bluntness. He didn’t dislike it. If anything, it was refreshing in a place that prized politeness over honesty.
“Then why did you—”
“Agree to come?” she finished, turning to meet his gaze. “I was told I was the best person for this case. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take my work outside the city. Leave the office for a while.”
“Do you live far from here?” Rick asked before he could stop himself. “How long was the drive?”
The words escaped too easily. Heat crept into his cheeks, subtle but unmistakable. Michonne noticed. Her expression softened—not amused, not dismissive. Curious.
She gestured toward the living room carpet, the space still marked by absence—the place where forensic teams had worked hours earlier, lifting prints, sealing evidence, stripping the house of whatever truth it had held.
Rick followed her gaze.
Something in his chest tightened.
“I just want my gun back,” he said suddenly.
The words came out rougher than he intended. Bare. Emotional.
Michonne turned to him fully this time. Not as a lawyer assessing a client, not as an investigator weighing a suspect—but as someone recognizing the weight behind the statement.
“I understand that,” she said evenly. “And you will. But before that, we need to build a solid reason for why your fingerprints were found on your friend’s body.”
She let the silence sit between them.
Then, “What’s your relationship with the gun?”
Rick’s hand moved instinctively to the ring on his finger, thumb tracing its edge.
“I used to be a sheriff,” he said quietly. “That gun… it meant something. Still does.”
Michonne nodded once.
“Then we find it,” she said. “We clear you. And we clear your story. Every last one of you.”
Her smile was professional—measured—but not unkind.
“Sounds like a plan,” Rick replied, extending his hand.
She hesitated just long enough to acknowledge the moment, then took it.
They shook once.
And when they let go, the house still felt heavy with unanswered questions.