Chapter Text
There are two kinds of people on this earth.
When a flower wilts, some refuse to give up on it. They think about what they did wrong, what caused their flower to wilt, what they can change to make it grow back.
They cut it down, change its position, keep on watering it, keep on caring for it until eventually, it grows back.
They don't simply give up because they believe these flowers deserve a second chance. Because they believe that they are able to keep their flower alive this time. That they are able to learn from their mistakes and make sure they won't repeat them.
And then there are those who throw it away.
When a flower wilts, they don't see a fresh start. They see a dead flower and they believe there is no way it could ever regrow. They stare at it, maybe keep it in a corner of their room, letting dust settle over it, and maybe even keep doing to it what they've always done. But if that made the flower wilt once, why would it regrow if they treat it the exact same way?
Those people don't realize that they are doing something wrong. Or they do realize, and simply see no point in changing.
And eventually, the wilted flower starts to mold, and they throw it out.
People treat themselves like they treat their flowers.
After losing someone loved, after letting the grief settle, after letting themselves break apart, some people reflect on it and decide they deserve a second chance. They change the scenery around them and treat themselves differently, trying hard to regrow and then come back stronger than ever.
And some people just give up.
_
They see their wilted reflection in the mirror- empty eyes, pale skin, defined cheekbones- and instead of realizing there is saving, if only they work hard enough for it, they let dust settle over themselves. They keep themselves alive until eventually, they mold from the inside out and then simply stop.
Grief never goes easy on anyone.
The loss of a loved one, of a person you believed you would never have to go without, a person you believed you would spend the rest of your life with, breaks everyone. Losing someone you have built your entire future around, with no warning, no goodbye, leaves you hollow in a way that doesn't heal. It just becomes something you carry.
In most cases it leads to self-destructive behaviour- whether it's isolating oneself, drinking alcohol, taking drugs, smoking cigarettes, hurting or starving oneself. Everyone finds their own beautifully destructive way of coping with loss.
The big difference is the path those people choose after realizing what they are doing. After realizing that what they are doing might be wrong- if they ever realize. As long as they don't, or simply refuse to be better, nothing will ever change. Nothing will ever get better. Nothing will ever make them grow back stronger and more beautifully.
Andrew threw his flower away once he realized it was molding.
Losing Neil hit him harder than he'd ever admit to himself. It cut him deeper than any knife ever could. It left him hollow and empty in a way that no person, no drug, no amount of alcohol would ever be able to fill. The hole this boy had left behind had sharp edges. Andrew had learned that the hard way.
When he'd met Neil back in high school, he had already thrown his flower away once. After everything he had been put through as a child- the foster families, the men, his own mother- Andrew had simply given up. The mold had been eating its way through him for years. The dust had already settled over his heart.
There was no saving. There was no amount of water, of sun, of fresh air that could ever let his flower regrow.
At least, that's what he believed.
Until this stupid auburn-haired boy transferred to his school. He looked at Andrew's flower, told him how stupid it looked, picked it out of the trash and taught Andrew how to let it regrow.
Neil himself wasn't aware of just how badly his own flower was molding when he'd met Andrew.
He was too focused on helping Andrew, on teaching him how much water it needed, how much sunlight, which temperature was perfect. Neil was the water, the sunlight and the perfect temperature, all at once, without even knowing it.
He clung to Andrew's side no matter how hard Andrew tried to fight it.
His flower was dead. There was no point in trying to let it regrow.
But Neil never gave up on it, and eventually he managed.
It was messy. Andrew's flower was far from strong, far from independent, far from beautiful. But it was alive and it was trying so, so hard.
Back then, Andrew didn't understand what Neil's problem with him was.
This boy just stumbled into his life- a sauce stain on his oversized shirt, a hole in his jeans, scars scattered across his arms, his collarbone and his face like a map of places Andrew wasn't allowed to ask about yet. His hair was dyed badly, the colour uneven at the roots. He wore stupid contacts that hid the most honest pair of eyes Andrew had ever had the misfortune of looking into.
It took eight months for Neil to open up to him. To tell him that his mother died when they tried to flee from his father. To tell him how one of the teachers at his school had found him- half starved, running- and given him a second chance and a place to belong.
Andrew wasn't surprised when he heard Mr. Wymack's name.
Neil told him how he'd spent years on the run, how he'd never had a home, and how suddenly he had it all. He told Andrew that he wouldn't be able to stay forever. That his father was still after him. That this was just a temporary heaven he was trying to enjoy before he had to leave again.
And of course, Andrew had to fall into this mess.
Of course this stupid, reckless boy drew him in like a moth to a flame, like a meteor into a planet's orbit. Like something that had no other choice.
They started meeting after school. Started kissing. Started making out, started sleeping with each other.
They never labeled it. Andrew hated labeling things.
Labeling them made them real, and real things were never meant to be good. Throughout his entire life, he had been taught that. From several foster families. From several men. From his own mother and from his twin.
So he never talked about it with Neil.
And Neil, who had been on the run for his whole life and had never been taught the concept of love or relationships, probably didn't even think it was a possibility.
They graduated together, then went to college together.
Neil built a new life there. Found friends. Shared his passion for sports with Andrew's closest friend Kevin, stayed up too late rewatching games, filled the dorm with noise and warmth that Andrew pretended to hate. They kept going for three whole years- until suddenly, Neil disappeared.
The night before, they'd spent the entire evening watching a stupid sports show Neil loved so much. Andrew fell asleep next to him on the couch, and when he woke up the next morning, there was a blanket draped over his body and Neil was gone.
He hadn't taken anything with him. Everything was the way it had always been. His clothes scattered all over the dorm room. His laptop on his desk with several tabs still open. His phone on his nightstand, screen cracked on the bottom left corner the way it always was.
It was as if he'd just left for class. But he never came back.
At first, Andrew didn't believe it. He didn't believe that Neil had just simply left without saying anything, without taking anything with him. He looked for him. He tried so hard. He tried so, so hard to keep his and Neil's flower alive.
Andrew didn't go to the police. He had stopped trusting them ages ago. They were all pigs. Nobody gave a shit and nobody would ever be able to help.
Neil's best friend Matt did, though.
The police contacted the college since they couldn't find any traces of Neil's family, and found out that Neil had legally signed out. He had left. He had signed a contract and spoken to people before he disappeared.
He didn't just run. He planned it.
Knowing that, the panic and fear for Neil slowly curdled into something uglier. Andrew hated Neil for what he did- but how could he ever really hate him? He had no answer for that, and the question sat in his chest for years, getting heavier.
From that day on, Andrew stopped watering his plant. He simply let it die, let it get dusty and moldy and then threw it out.
The anger never vanished. It just became stronger, and brought a sickening emptiness along with it.
Graduating from college was a hard road and it was nearly impossible without the people around him. He hated the people that called themselves his friends, but they were the ones who forced him to study, who dragged him out on sunny days, who took him to clubs and who kept pulling his dead flower out of the dirt, trying so hard to revive it.
But he had given up.
He had barely managed to graduate, and even though he was still alive, he had stopped living the day Neil disappeared.
After graduation, Andrew became a criminal justice lawyer.
His job was draining and hard, but it kept him busy. Kept him distracted from the awful life he so desperately wanted to escape from.
"Andrew."
Andrew's head snapped up and he found himself staring directly into his cousin's bright eyes.
"I was talking to you," Nicky muttered, a small frown tugging at his brows.
Andrew looked around. It was a hot summer day. The heat of the sun pressed down on him like a heavy blanket. They sat outside a small coffee shop, drinking homemade lemonade and eating ice cream. Around them, the tables and streets were full of people- old and young, chatting happily, enjoying the weather, making plans for the weekend. The kind of easy, careless noise that Andrew had never quite understood how to belong to.
He turned back to Nicky.
He blinked and glanced at his melted ice cream.
Fucking sun.
Andrew sighed as he reached for his spoon and tried salvaging as much of the melted ice cream as possible. He quickly lifted the spoon and shoved it into his mouth before it could fall off.
Nicky watched him for a moment. Andrew could feel the weight of his stare and chose to ignore it.
"I was thinking we should go on vacation soon. Maybe you can take a week off and we-"
"No." Andrew interrupted him flatly.
When he saw Nicky's worried expression, he sighed impatiently. "Work has been insane lately. There is no way I'm getting a week off right now. Too much to do, too few people to do it. It's impossible, Nicky."
Nicky sighed and nodded. He reached for his lemonade and took a long sip.
The afternoon passed slowly.
Andrew was glad when he was finally back home. Every Friday he met with someone. It was almost like they took turns making sure he was still alive. It was depressing, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to put a stop to it. A free sweet treat once a week was convincing enough.
The next morning started rough.
Andrew had barely been awake when his boss messaged him to come in early- there was a big case that needed his attention immediately.
The sun was way too bright as it forced its way through his curtains. A patch on his bed had grown almost warm where the light had been sitting on it for too long. Andrew lay there listening to the city outside- cars, people, children, sirens weaving through each other- and already knew that this day would be hell.
It took him ten more minutes to force the blanket off himself and sit up. The following five minutes he spent staring at his own feet, seriously debating whether he should quit his job and just start robbing people instead.
Andrew yawned, stretched his arms above his head, and dragged his body under the shower.
The cool water finally managed to wake him up. He spent more time than necessary under it, letting it wash away the sleepiness and the tension from his shoulders. Then he put on his work clothes- he hated wearing suits and would have much preferred an oversized t-shirt- and smoked a cigarette on his way to the car.
Outside he dropped it to the ground, stubbed it out with his heel and drove to the nearest coffee shop. The woman behind the counter was way too cheerful, way too excited about preparing his coffee and his croissant. He watched her gruffly and wondered what she could possibly have taken this morning to feel that enthusiastic about being at work.
Once he had his order, he went back outside into the blinding sun, slumped into his car and drove to work.
Andrew parked outside the big courthouse and sat in his car for a moment, taking several slow, deliberate breaths before he could bring himself to get out. With his coffee and his croissant he went inside, nodded at the woman at the reception who greeted him, and took the elevator up to his office.
The second he opened the door, he was very tempted to shut it again and go back to his car.
A huge new file sat on his desk.
Of course. The case his boss had mentioned.
Andrew sighed, and since it didn't disappear after several seconds of staring at it, he walked in, pushed the door shut behind him with his foot, and dropped his breakfast on the desk. He went to the window, wrenched it open and let the outside air rush in, then slumped into his chair.
Andrew really hated this day.
He took a sip of his coffee and opened the file.
Marcus Hale. Convicted of the murder of Casey Bloom.
Easy enough.
Until- the file looked wrong.
Several murders over the past few months, no suspect found. Marcus Hale's fingerprints had been discovered on the latest crime scene, so the police had taken him in, seemingly satisfied that they'd finally found their answer.
Idiots.
Andrew scoffed as he unwrapped his croissant.
He read through the files on every murder over the past few months- all of them carried out through either poisoning or guns. There was no way Marcus Hale had committed that many killings without leaving a single trace, only to suddenly get careless enough to leave his fingerprints directly on the body. This was too easy. Too convenient. Too stupid an assumption to take seriously.
Casey Bloom, the latest victim, had been found in her apartment. Shot three times in her kitchen, discovered approximately three days after her death. His fingerprints were found on her body.
The following two hours Andrew spent rereading the files and doing research on Marcus Hale. Then he left his office, locked the door and drove to the police station.
A meeting with Marcus Hale was quickly arranged, and only a few minutes after arriving at the station, Andrew found himself sitting across from the man he had been assigned to work with.
Marcus was not what Andrew had expected.
He was wearing a suit, his hair combed back neatly. He had a wedding ring on his finger and fine lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth- the kind left behind by years of laughing. He sat with an ease that had no business being present in a room like this, in handcuffs, accused of murder.
Andrew pulled out the file and placed a blank sheet of paper on top of it to write notes on.
"Hello, Mr. Hale." He set his recorder on the table between them. "This conversation will be recorded. Don't lie to me and answer my questions honestly. If you're innocent, you have nothing to be afraid of."
Marcus Hale smiled. He shifted slightly in his seat, the handcuffs around his wrists making a quiet sound.
The room was empty except for the table and the two chairs, one on either side. Andrew glanced at the emergency button on his side of the table- the second he was in danger he could press it and people would come running- and then looked back at Marcus.
"Oh, I'm not afraid, Mr. Minyard," Mr. Hale said.
Andrew's eyebrows shot up. He looked at the man across from him again and watched him for a moment. Marcus Hale looked way too calm. Andrew had done this many times before. When a person accused of murder was truly innocent, they were scared. They were worried and unsure, they second-guessed their every word.
"Alright. Let's begin. On the 8th of July, Casey Bloom died in her apartment. Your fingerprints were found on her body, which makes you the first suspect. Let's start from the beginning. What did you do on that day? Tell me every detail- start from the moment you woke up and stop when you fell asleep."
Marcus leaned back. He looked too comfortable.
"The 8th of July. That was a Wednesday, right?"
Andrew frowned and hummed.
"Right, Wednesday. I'd slept in that day. I work at a restaurant and had a late shift the night before. My shift started at noon on Wednesday.. I woke up at eleven." He paused, just long enough to watch Andrew for a moment. Andrew took a note of it. "So I got ready quickly, had an apple for breakfast and then left. The shift at the restaurant was eventless. There were a lot of customers, so I worked eight hours straight. My shift ended at eight."
Marcus took a short pause. Andrew looked up from his notes and watched him steadily. He had no issue with silence. If this man was trying to unsettle him, he had found the wrong lawyer. Marcus seemed to notice, because after a moment he continued with a quiet sigh.
"I was really done for the day and didn't want to just go straight home. So I went to a bar, and that's where I met her."
"Casey Bloom?" Andrew asked.
Marcus nodded. "She was sitting there alone. She looked pretty, so I thought I'd try my luck. We started talking and I bought her a few drinks. It was a nice evening. Afterwards I was quite drunk. I called an Uber and went home, where I fell straight into bed."
Andrew nodded. He wrote a few more things down before he looked back up.
"What time did you meet her, approximately?"
Marcus shrugged. "I don't know. Around nine thirty, maybe."
"What did you talk about?"
"I was straightforward and told her I thought she looked pretty. She laughed about it, and then I asked her about herself. What she did for work, how her family was, what she liked to do in her free time. Basic questions."
"Did you leave at the same time?"
"No. I think she left before I did."
"What did you do after she left?"
"I don't know. Just drank a bit more and talked with the bartender."
"Your fingerprints were found on her body."
"I was flirting with her. Of course I tried to touch her when I could. She told me about some issues with her family, so I tried to comfort her. That sort of thing."
Flirting with another woman whilst wearing a wedding ring. How remarkably pathetic.
"You said you had a nice evening."
"Oh my god, I was getting to know her. We also had some serious conversations."
"What kind of family issues did she talk about?"
"Just her brother. He got divorced and now her family was split in two because apparently he cheated on his ex-wife and part of the family sided with her instead of him."
Andrew nodded.
Something was rotten here.
Casey Bloom died on July 8th. Three days later she was found in her apartment. It took three more days to track down Marcus Hale. So how could this man remember details as small as what he had for breakfast after six stressful days? And how could he sit here and speak about a dead woman with the affect of someone discussing the weather?
"You don't seem troubled by her death. You don't seem fazed at all."
Marcus shrugged. "I mean, we had only known each other a few hours. Of course I'm sad about it, but it's not as though I'll cry myself to sleep over it for the rest of my life."
Andrew frowned.
Death didn't usually leave people that cold, regardless of how brief the connection had been.
After Neil had left, Andrew had spent a long time trying to convince himself that he was dead. It was easier to accept than the alternative- that he had simply left, of his own free will, without a word. Andrew had spent his entire life learning to handle the loss of people, learning how to work around it, how to grow around it the way a tree grows around a wound. But the loss of Neil- the thought that he might be dead somewhere, undiscovered- hadn't left him cold. It had hollowed him out completely.
So how could this man look so thoroughly bored?
"You're not worried," Andrew observed, setting his pen down.
Marcus smiled. "I didn't kill anyone."
...
Only an hour later, Andrew was tempted to slap himself for not catching it sooner.
I didn't kill anyone. Said with such ease, such complete confidence. Not I didn't do anything. Not I have no idea what happened. Specifically and deliberately- I didn't kill anyone.>
Because just because he didn't kill anyone didn't mean he didn't know something. Didn't mean he had no part in it.
Andrew was fuming as he shoved cold pasta into his mouth at his desk and stared at his research notes. His mind had wandered back to Neil in that interview room, and he had walked straight past something obvious. An open door he hadn't even glanced at.
He hated himself a little for that.
Marcus Hale was 42 years old. Married, three children. No criminal record. Worked at a local restaurant downtown. On the surface, nothing.
But something didn't add up. The way Marcus had talked through that Wednesday felt rehearsed- too smooth, too even, the rhythm of someone who had already decided exactly what they would say before anyone came to ask them. As if he'd been waiting. As if there was a script.
Andrew groaned and leaned back in his chair.
Usually reading people was easy. Defending people who were genuinely innocent was never that difficult, because their fear and confusion did most of the work for him.
Marcus Hale seemed neither innocent nor guilty of the murder itself.
There had to be more behind this.
After a break to clear his head, Andrew went back to work. The worst of the midday heat had passed, replaced by an uncomfortable but bearable warmth. At some point he had shut his window again- the train station in front of the building did nothing to help him concentrate. People shouting, trains running, cars and bikes and buses weaving past each other, everything just endlessly loud.
Andrew had a bag of chocolate cookies open on his desk and reached for one as he tried to find connections.
His first move was obviously Mrs. Hale. Finding her number was easy enough. Getting her to answer took most of the afternoon. She finally picked up around six in the evening.
"Hello?" She sounded hoarse. Tired in the deep, settled way that went beyond a bad night's sleep.
"Good evening, Mrs. Hale. My name is Andrew Minyard. I'm currently your husband's lawyer and I'm investigating his case. I'd like to talk to you about a few things- do you perhaps have time to meet tomorrow?"
The woman went silent.
"Marcus. What did he do again?"
Andrew's eyebrows shot up. She didn't know that her husband was in custody, accused of murder?
"There have been a series of murders over the past few months, and Mr. Hale's fingerprints were found on the most recent victim," Andrew said carefully.
He heard a sigh. Long, and very tired.
"Yeah. When do you want to meet?"
His surprise turned into a frown. She wasn't shocked. She wasn't even startled. What was going on?
"I'm flexible. Whenever works best for you."
"Mhm. Around lunchtime would be good. The children are at school then."
Andrew tilted his head, wedging his phone between his ear and shoulder. He reached for a pen and a piece of paper.
"What about 1pm? We can meet at my office or somewhere more public if you're more comfortable."
"No, your office is fine," she said.
Andrew gave her the address, wrote down her number by hand so he had it somewhere physical, and hung up.
Everything about this case was strange.
Nothing added up. Did she know what her husband was involved in? Was Marcus actually guilty after all? What if he was exactly what he appeared to be- a man who knew precisely how to seem unthreatening- and Andrew was falling for it completely?
God, Andrew hated and loved cases like this in equal measure.
After the call, he wrote a brief report to his boss before he shut down his computer, got up and collected his things. He made sure his window was closed properly and turned off all the lights before he left his office, locked the door, tugged at it once to confirm it was actually locked, and walked down the long hallway to the elevator.
He rode down and stepped outside into the cool evening air.
The sun was far from setting. The sky was still bright and the air was warm, carrying the faint smell of rain that hadn't come yet. A few heavy-looking clouds sat along the horizon, and the humidity in the air promised they wouldn't hold off much longer.
Andrew took a deep breath and stretched his back. Sitting in an office chair all day was genuinely awful for his body, and he felt it every single evening.
His boss had suggested a physical therapist several times. A proper massage once a week. Andrew had declined every single time.
He hated having people close to him. Physical contact was something close to torture. There was no version of the world in which he would take his shirt off in a closed room and let a stranger touch him for half an hour straight. He would rather live with the pain.
In his life, there had been only one person who had ever been allowed close to him in that way.
And that person had been gone for four years now.
Andrew pushed the thought away before it could fully form and started moving toward his car. He shoved everything as far down as it would go. Thinking about Neil never did him any good.
Still, he found himself turning the music up too loud on the drive home. Found himself taking corners a little faster than he needed to. Found himself standing in his kitchen with a bottle of rum before he'd fully decided to open it.
Andrew sighed as he poured some into a glass. For a moment he considered drinking it plain, but then decided against it and added some Coke.
Cooking dinner after a day like this was absolutely not happening. He dragged himself to the freezer and felt a small, tired relief when he found a frozen pizza inside. He took it to the oven, set it to preheat, and slumped into one of the kitchen chairs while he waited, drinking slowly and letting the quiet settle over him.
...
"Hello, Mrs. Hale. Thank you for coming."
Andrew got up from behind his desk to shake her hand. Mrs. Hale smiled tightly as she took it, and Andrew was quietly relieved when she let go a second later.
She looked around the office before she pulled out the chair across from his desk and sat down carefully, as though she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be here. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail, her round glasses slowly sliding down her nose. She pushed them back up and looked at him.
Her brown eyes were tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Dark circles sat beneath them like something permanent.
When she didn't say anything, Andrew placed his notes in front of him and tore out a fresh page to write on.
"I'm sorry about what's happened to your family. Can you describe your husband to me?" he began, reaching for a pen.
She reached for the glass of water on her side of the desk, took a sip, and then sighed.
"Marco is not a good husband and father. He's barely home, and when he is, he's drinking. I barely know him anymore. He used to be a very kind and loving person but now he's just- distant. He gets aggressive when he's been drinking, though he's never been physically violent." She paused. "Not yet, anyway."
"How would you describe your relationship with him now?" Andrew asked, writing as she spoke.
"I think we'd be divorced already if it weren't for the kids. Maybe he already has someone else. I don't care anymore," Mrs. Hale answered.
Andrew nodded. He bit the inside of his cheek before looking back up.
"You didn't sound surprised when I told you he's been accused of murder," he said.
She looked up. For a brief moment her eyes shifted and her posture straightened just the smallest fraction.
Nervousness. Andrew wrote it down.
"I don't know what he's up to. As I said, he's barely home and he drinks a lot. I don't think he did anything- but I just don't care about him anymore. If he murdered someone, that's awful and prison is the right place for him. But I don't believe he did anything."
"So you weren't surprised simply because you've stopped caring?" Andrew said. "What about your children? Their father being accused of murder isn't any easier than a divorce- and you told me that the divorce itself was something you were avoiding for their sake."
Mrs. Hale went still. "Do you believe the accusations?" she asked.
Andrew tilted his head. "I don't believe anything. I base my conclusions on facts, and right now I don't have enough of them."
She nodded slowly. "It would be awful for the children. But I doubt he's guilty. He's an asshole, but he's not a murderer," she said.
Andrew continued with a few more questions- about their relationship, about what Marcus had been doing on July 8th, about how he'd behaved in the days after. None of her answers led him anywhere useful.
After she left, Andrew dug deeper.
His work was interrupted around 3pm by a knock at the door. Andrew looked up from his screen- he'd been scrolling through an Instagram profile belonging to someone tagged in one of Marcus Hale's posts- and only looked away when he heard someone clear their throat.
Kevin.
"I brought you some food. Nicky said you were working on a hard case." He closed the door behind him and crossed the office, dropping into the chair Mrs. Hale had been sitting in a few hours earlier. He placed a bag on Andrew's desk that Andrew recognized immediately- the local pastry shop he went to often. Inside the bag was a small box. Two cinnamon rolls. A blueberry one and a salted caramel one.
Andrew hated how well Kevin knew him.
"I didn't know you were in town," Andrew said, letting go of his mouse to reach for the box.
"Yeah. I had a game two days ago and now I've got a week free. After that I've got a match in Italy- I'm actually kind of excited about it," Kevin said as he leaned back and watched Andrew.
Andrew reached for the little wooden fork beside the box and cut a piece from the cinnamon roll.
"How did the game go?" he asked.
He didn't really care about sports. He never had. But he knew how much it mattered to Kevin, so he tried anyway- even though both of them knew that Andrew stopped listening the moment Kevin started getting into specifics.
Back in high school and then in college, Kevin and Neil had played the same sport. They had shared that obsession and spent entire evenings in Andrew and Kevin's dorm room watching games, voices overlapping as they argued about plays and players and results. Andrew had never understood what was so interesting about any of it. But somewhere underneath all the indifference, he had always found himself quietly looking forward to game days, because game days meant Neil would come over.
Andrew pushed the cinnamon roll away from him.
The uncomfortable twist in his stomach ruined his appetite.
Fuck you, Neil.
Andrew's head snapped up when he caught Kevin mention Eden's Twilight.
Kevin huffed a short laugh, well aware that Andrew hadn't been listening for the past several minutes.
"Tonight? With Aaron and Nicky to Eden's? Maybe the others can come too- it's been a while," Kevin suggested.
Andrew glanced at the cinnamon roll sitting in front of him, untouched, before he leaned back in his chair.
Getting drunk actually sounded beautiful right now.
"Sure. We leaving at five?" he asked.
Kevin nodded. "Yeah. We can grab dinner together first and then head over."
Kevin stayed a while longer, talked about everything going on in his life lately, and then left to let Andrew get back to work.
At half past four Andrew locked up his office and drove home. He took a quick shower and changed into fresh clothes. He'd barely finished pulling his jeans on when the doorbell rang.
Of course they'd meet at his place. Of course he'd be driving. As always.
Andrew ran his fingers through his hair and went to answer the door. He could already hear Nicky's voice before it was even open. He let them in. Aaron looked bored out of his mind. Kevin looked like he might have already had a drink somewhere. Nicky was just happy, which was his default state.
Behind them, Matthew Boyd and his girlfriend Danielle Wilds strolled in.
Andrew watched them for a moment.
Matt had been Neil's best friend. Andrew hated him for it, because he always made him think of Neil.
He turned away and went to the living room to grab his phone and wallet. The others waited in the hallway, voices layering over each other easily.
The drive was uneventful. They took two cars- Matt drove the second, Dan rode with him, the others came with Andrew. Their first stop was a small restaurant where they had a proper dinner together. Back in college they used to have ice cream before going out, but they had all grown up enough to know that real food mattered before a night like this.
Nicky owned a house near the club, so driving back wasn't a problem. Andrew never let anyone else drive his car. The others had stopped trying to argue about it a long time ago.
After dinner they drove on to the club. Andrew and Matt let everyone else out at the entrance while they parked. Andrew lit a cigarette on his way back to the group.
"You seem uncomfortable," Matt said as he locked his car and checked his pockets.
Andrew took a long drag and blew it out slowly. "I'm not," he said simply.
Matt watched him for a second. Andrew chose not to look back. He walked toward the others, hearing Matt fall into step behind him.
The bouncer out front recognised Andrew immediately and greeted him with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he'd been waiting for this all week. "Andrew! Long time no see- I thought you'd never show up again. How have you been?"
Andrew took one last drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out in the small bin by the door. "Good. Work is exhausting. We're not nineteen anymore."
The bouncer laughed. "Who are you telling," he said, amused, and held the door open for them. "Have fun," he added, with a wink, before Andrew and Matt disappeared inside.
The music hit them immediately- loud and heavy, thrumming through the floor and up through Andrew's feet. The air was thick and warm, carrying the familiar smell of sweat and alcohol. Close bodies and flashing lights and the particular kind of noise that made it impossible to think about anything except what was directly in front of you.
Andrew had missed that.
It didn't take them long to find the others. They'd claimed a table in a corner- a good one, with a couch and a few beanbags instead of the usual standing table with three barstools that they normally ended up with. A rare win.
Several empty and full shot glasses were already on the table.
Aaron and Kevin were talking on the couch. Nicky greeted Matt and Andrew when they arrived. Dan stood beside him, smiling when she saw them.
Andrew dropped into a beanbag and reached for a shot without sitting down properly first. He felt the burn travel from his mouth down his throat and let out a slow breath.
God, that felt good.
Not that he hadn't been drinking last night already.
Once the tray was cleared, Andrew and Nicky went to the bar to get another round. Roland, the bartender, greeted Andrew with even more enthusiasm than the bouncer had and tried to pull him into a conversation. He gave up after a few attempts when it became clear Andrew wasn't in the mood. Then he switched to Nicky, who was more than happy to oblige.
They made their way back to the table with a fresh tray of shots.
Andrew's eyes went to the table before he got there. A small frown formed.
There was a man he didn't recognise sitting on the couch next to Aaron. He was there comfortably, like he belonged. Andrew glanced at Nicky, who looked just as confused and simply shrugged.
They set the tray down. Kevin immediately reached for another shot.
"A doctor, huh? That's pretty impressive," Andrew heard the man say.
He had dark hair styled neatly back. His clothes were too formal for a club. He sat with the ease of someone entirely comfortable wherever he happened to be.
"I worked hard for it," Aaron answered, accepting a shot glass from Nicky.
Andrew looked over at Matt, who caught his eye and shrugged helplessly before leaning in.
"He just appeared a few minutes ago and started talking to Aaron. Seems nice enough," Matt said, low enough to stay between them.
Andrew nodded and settled back into his beanbag.
At some point, Nicky clapped his hands together. "Aaron- dance floor?"
Aaron looked up and nodded. When he stood, the man smiled at him. "Mind if I join?" he asked.
Aaron shrugged. "This is a public club. Do as you please."
The man got up and followed them into the crowd.
Dan watched them go. "He's definitely taken an interest in Aaron. Is Aaron into men?"
Kevin nearly choked on his drink.
"No," Andrew said simply, watching them disappear.
Two hours passed without incident.
Aaron, Nicky and the stranger appeared occasionally to grab more shots before vanishing back into the crowd. Andrew took a shot every now and then, stepped outside for a few smoke breaks, and listened to Kevin talk. At some point Dan and Matt drifted off to the dance floor as well, leaving Andrew and Kevin alone at the table.
Two hours. And then- Andrew's phone rang.
He looked at the screen and frowned.
Aaron.
Aaron never called him. He hated Andrew- had hated him for years, for their mother, for the withdrawal Andrew had forced him through at sixteen, for a list of things that was long and complicated and never fully spoken. Aaron barely talked to him. He didn't text. He certainly didn't call.
Andrew felt his posture go rigid as he picked up.
The line was quiet. He could hear the music from the club, but it sounded muffled, like Aaron was somewhere nearby but closed off. Not on the dance floor.
"Aaron?"
Nothing.
Andrew waited a few seconds more, then stood up. The room shifted briefly as he found his balance.
"Kevin." He kept his voice level. "We need to find Aaron."
Kevin's head came up. He'd been looking at his phone. He put it away slowly, reading Andrew's face, and got up.
Pushing through the crowd was awful. Too many bodies, too much heat, too much noise pressing in from every direction. Andrew felt the world narrowing around him and shoved his anxiety down hard, kept moving, kept his eyes scanning.
Aaron hadn't left through the main entrance- he would have had to pass Andrew and Kevin to get there, and Andrew hadn't seen him. First stop: the back door.
Andrew pushed it open.
The cool night air hit him like a wall. The sky was dark, the moon straining to push through thick cloud cover. Andrew took a sharp breath of clean air before turning back inside.
"What's wrong?" Kevin asked from behind him.
"Aaron called me and didn't say anything."
"Maybe it was an accident?"
"No."
Back inside. Andrew pushed through to the bathrooms, shoved the heavy door open. The smell hit first- sharp and unpleasant. Wet floors, graffiti covering every surface, the kind of grime that accumulated fast in a place like this.
Andrew pushed open stall after stall.
He stopped at the last one.
Aaron was on the floor, back against the wall, head lolling. His nose was bleeding. His knuckles were split open.
Andrew dropped down beside him immediately and checked his pulse. Alive.
"Aaron, what the fuck?" He heard Kevin behind him, voice sharp.
Aaron raised his head slowly. His eyes were unfocused, glazed in a way that wasn't just alcohol.
Drugs.
"Aaron. What happened." Andrew said it through his teeth.
Aaron coughed. "This guy- thought I was you." He tried to sit up straighter, managed it halfway. "Someone's after you."
"What did he do? Where's Nicky?" Andrew pressed.
"Beat me up and then tried to force something down my throat. Nicky shoved his fingers down my throat, then went after him." Aaron's voice was weak but steady enough.
-
"This asshole I knew something was off," Kevin muttered, already moving to the sinks to grab paper towels. He handed them to Aaron, who pressed them against his nose and mouth.
"Do you need an ambulance?" Kevin asked.
"No. Nothing's broken. I got everything up." Aaron lowered the towels and looked at Andrew with exhausted eyes. "Let's just go home."
Kevin stepped into the stall to help him, and Andrew took that as his signal. He straightened up, left the small stall, leaned against the sinks, and pulled out his phone to call Nicky.
The line rang twice.
"Andrew?? Where's Aaron, are you with him?" Nicky's voice was rushed, higher than usual.
"He's here. We're leaving. Are Dan and Matt with you?"
"Yeah. We'll wait outside."
Andrew hung up.
On the drive to Nicky's house, Andrew's thoughts kept returning to what Aaron had said. Someone thought he was Andrew. Didn't know he had a twin. A beginner's mistake- but that only made it worse, in a way, because it meant whoever sent this person wasn't working with complete information. Which meant there were things about this situation Andrew didn't know yet either.
He didn't have a name. The dim and strobing lights of the club had made faces impossible to hold onto. Tracking this man down would be nearly impossible.
Andrew grunted under his breath and turned sharply into the driveway, bringing the car to an abrupt stop.
Kevin jumped out of the passenger seat and opened the door for Aaron, who immediately snapped at him that he didn't need to be treated like royalty just because he'd been beaten up in a club bathroom. Nicky followed behind them. Dan and Matt drove back to their own apartment- Dan had an early appointment and had declined Nicky's offer to stay.
Andrew didn't mind not having Matt around.
...
The weekend passed, but the case didn't let him rest.
Andrew spent it at home anyway, working. He curled up in his armchair with his laptop balanced on his knees and a mug of hot chocolate on the side table, and by Sunday evening he had identified three more people who seemed close to Marcus Hale. He sent them all emails suggesting appointments.
Only one replied before Monday.
They met Monday afternoon. An older man- Patric Sterne, somewhere in his early sixties. He seemed friendly when he came through Andrew's office door. Andrew worked through his usual questions, but nothing came of it. Patric had known Marcus from the restaurant where they'd both worked, until Patric had quit and they'd stayed loosely in touch. The conversation moved quickly and gave Andrew nothing new.
He was already beginning to feel like he was moving backwards rather than forwards.
Just before Patric left, he paused. His hand was already on the door handle. He stopped and turned back slightly.
"You don't seem to be getting anywhere with this, sir. Maybe you should step back from the case and accept that your client is innocent. Doesn't do you much good to keep digging when all the evidence already speaks against it." He smiled pleasantly.
Andrew froze mid-sip of his coffee.
"Mr. Sterne," he said carefully, "do you know something I should know?"
The man shrugged. "No. I just know that Marcus is innocent." And then he turned, opened the door, and left.
Andrew set his cup down and looked at his notes.
At the start of their meeting, Patric had needed Andrew to explain the situation to him. He'd claimed he hadn't been in much contact with Marcus lately, that he didn't know anything had happened. So why did he leave this room with such complete certainty that Marcus was innocent? Why did he sound not just sure, but comfortable? Like a man who already knew the ending of this story and was mildly curious about how long it would take Andrew to catch up.
He knew something.
He was scared Andrew was getting close.
The picture here was bigger than Andrew had initially thought.
Andrew reached for his laptop and hated himself a little as he typed out a new email to Mrs. Hale.
Good evening, Mrs. Hale.
I hope you're doing well. I'm still investigating your husband's case and I'm asking for your support. I would like to interview your children. Since two of them are under eighteen, I would need your consent, and I'd need you to be present during those interviews. I cannot proceed otherwise.
Please take time to think about this and talk to your children. I have no intention of forcing minors into this if they are uncomfortable.
Sincerely, Andrew Minyard.
He sent it before he could overthink it and then leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
He hated pulling children into the wreckage of their parents' lives. They had nothing to do with any of it. None of this should be any part of their world.
But he needed more. Children noticed things. They picked up on details that adults had learned to overlook, and interpreted them differently- sometimes more clearly. There was no other way forward.
To his surprise, Mrs. Hale replied almost immediately. She agreed and suggested the following evening.
Andrew confirmed, set his laptop aside and breathed out slowly.
Nicotine. He needed nicotine.
He locked his screen, grabbed his cigarettes and left the office. Locked the door behind him, tugged it once. Walked down the long hallway to the elevator.
Outside, the air was cooler than it had been in days.
The cigarette was between his lips before he'd finished stepping through the door. Andrew lit it and inhaled slowly, letting the familiar warmth settle in his chest.
God, he didn't know why he kept doing this to himself.
His job was like two opposite poles pulling at him at once. He hated the hard work, hated the complications, hated when people made everything unnecessarily difficult. But on the other hand, he loved what the work actually meant- helping people out of impossible situations, solving cases that seemed unsolvable, giving someone a reason to keep going when they'd already stopped believing in one. It mattered to him. He would never say that out loud, but it did.
He existed in the space between those two poles, always thinking about walking away and never quite letting himself rest long enough to do it. Drowning himself in work kept his mind from going other places. Kept him from thinking about-
"Fuck you, Neil" Andrew muttered once again, and took a drag too hard, burning the back of his throat. He coughed sharply, eyes watering.
He waited, then lifted the cigarette again. More carefully this time. The burn faded into something almost comfortable.
"Andrew."
He looked up.
White hair with soft, colourful tips. Gentle eyes. A silver cross necklace catching the light as she walked toward him.
The tight thing behind his ribs loosened just slightly.
"Renee. What are you doing here?"
"I was just about to come find you," she said as she reached him, unhurried. "You work too much. Come get dinner with me."
"I have work to do," Andrew muttered, taking another slow drag before dropping the cigarette and stepping on it.
"That's exactly what I'm saying." She smiled- the kind of smile that didn't push, just waited. "Are you free now?"
Andrew sighed. Renee was stubborn in a quiet, unmoveable way that he had never found an effective argument against.
"Yeah. Give me five minutes."
When he came back out- jacket over his arm, hands shoved into his pockets, Renee was in exactly the same spot, with exactly the same expression.
"How did you get here?" he asked as he unlocked his car.
"I walked. The weather was nice and I needed to clear my head."
Andrew glanced at her as he pulled the driver's door open. "Something happen?"
"Not really. Just a lot of work." She slid into the passenger seat. "Working at a hospital is not for the weak."
Andrew nodded and started the engine. He turned the music down and pulled out of the lot. "Where do you feel like going?"
"I thought I'd let you decide. Go wherever- I'm hungry."
Andrew drove. He didn't have a destination in mind. Fifteen minutes later he pulled up outside a small Mexican restaurant and sat there for a moment after he'd parked, hands still resting on the wheel.
Of course he'd come here.
Neil used to love Mexican food. They had been to this exact place many times in college, sat in the same booths and ordered the same things and argued about nothing in particular and it had been -
He noticed Renee watching him quietly. She was already unbuckled, waiting.
"Something on your mind?" she asked carefully.
"No," Andrew said, and got out of the car.
Inside, an older woman who knew them both led them to a corner table with a warm smile. Andrew reached for the menu the moment he sat down.
Renee gave him about thirty seconds before she gently pushed it down with two fingers.
He shot her a look. She didn't flinch.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly.
Andrew set the menu down. "Work. A hard case."
She held his gaze for a moment, then let it go without pushing. "Have you made any progress?"
He breathed out slowly. "Not really. A lot of theories and not enough proof. I need to interview my client's children tomorrow." He paused. "Two of them are minors."
Renee's expression softened. "That's hard. But if they've agreed to it, that means something. And you're good with children, Andrew- even when you'd rather nobody knew that."
"Don't say that."
She smiled and let it go.
A waitress came and took their drinks orders. They both got Fanta. Andrew took a long sip and felt the sugar settle him slightly.
"How old are the children?" Renee asked after a moment.
Andrew looked up from his glass and put it down. Her silver cross caught his attention and he watched it for a second. "Thirteen, sixteen and eighteen," he said. She nodded.
"They can handle it," she said simply.
Andrew hummed and reached for his glass again, his fingers restless.
"Matt wants to propose to Dan next weekend," Renee said then. Andrew's eyebrows lifted. It wasn't entirely surprising, but it was something pleasant to hear. "He rented a hot air balloon. Apparently Dan's mentioned a few times that she's always wanted to go on one."
Andrew nodded. That sounded exactly like something Dan would love.
"How are things going between Erik and Nicky?" she continued.
Andrew shrugged. "Good, I think. Nicky wants to travel to Germany in a few months."
"For how long?"
"A few weeks, I think."
From there the conversation drifted back to the hot air balloon proposal, and somehow they spent the entire dinner mapping out every possible disaster scenario- a bird popping the balloon, the basket catching fire, emergency landing physics, whether you could survive by jumping into a tree. It was a completely absurd conversation and exactly what Andrew needed. He ate his food and let himself be carried along by it, and for a while the tight thing in his chest loosened enough that he could breathe without thinking about it.
Renee always knew when he'd forgotten about his flower. She always showed up when it was getting dangerously close to being thrown out again, and she never made a thing of it. He never thanked her. He didn't really know how to.
Afterwards, he drove her home. The sky was settling into deep pink and blue along the horizon, the sun nearly gone. Andrew drove back to his apartment with a cigarette going, which he didn't usually allow himself in the car- but today was the kind of day that earned it. He managed it one-handed, wedging it between his lips when he needed both hands for a turn.
...
The next morning arrived grey and slow.
Andrew woke to birds, to traffic, to someone yelling outside his window. He reached for his phone without sitting up. 11:23 am.
He lay there for another few minutes. Then he pushed the blanket off, swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretched- back, arms, neck, the quiet series of cracks that had become part of his mornings- and dragged himself to the bathroom with heavy steps.
Once he'd showered, dressed and brushed his teeth, he went to the kitchen. Andrew was grateful, as always, that he had no fixed hours at work. A specific number per month, distributed however he chose. Today felt like a slow day, so today would be a slow day.
He set the coffee machine going and turned to look out the window. While he watched, it started to rain.
Thick drops hit the glass and the windowsill. The world turned deep grey, the kind of grey that settled over everything and made the city look like somewhere else. Andrew watched it and felt his thoughts drift the way they always did when it was quiet enough.
Where was Neil right now?
Was he somewhere dry? Was he out in this, head down against the weather, looking for shelter? Was he on the other side of the world somewhere, with a new name, a different life, people around him who didn't know where he had come from? Did he have a family? Did he ever think about the morning he'd put a blanket over Andrew on the couch and then disappeared without leaving a single word behind?
Whatever he was doing- Andrew hated him for leaving.
He knew Neil had always said he'd have to go eventually. He had never pretended otherwise. But Andrew had never imagined it would happen like this. So quietly, so completely, with nothing left behind except absence.
Every time he thought about it something cracked open a little deeper.
He could be as angry as he wanted. Underneath the anger was just pain. Pure, raw, crushing pain that four years had done absolutely nothing to soften.
Andrew bit down on his lower lip and turned away from the window.
The coffee machine beeped. He reached for a cup, poured, added too much sugar and enough milk, stirred it and threw the spoon into the sink. He took a sip. Still too hot. He flinched and cursed at his coffee.
This day was already shaping up to be awful. Lately most of them were. This one just seemed especially determined.
After his first coffee and then a second one, Andrew picked up his phone with a deep sigh. Almost 1pm. He put it away again, put his shoes on in the hallway, grabbed his wallet and keys and an umbrella, and left.
On the way he stopped at a snack bar and got fries with fried chicken. It would have to be enough.
At the office, he opened his window and let the cool, rain-soaked air in. He started his computer and worked his way through fries and chicken, not particularly caring that his keyboard was getting oily. He'd wipe it down later.
Around six, someone knocked.
Andrew looked up and said come in, and the door opened.
Mrs. Hale stepped inside with all three of her children behind her.
Andrew's gaze moved over them immediately.
The youngest was a boy- dark, messy hair, the kind of shadows under his eyes that had no business being on a thirteen-year-old. He watched Andrew shyly from the doorway. He reminded Andrew of Kevin´s close friend Jean. Beside him stood his sister, dark curls half-up and half-down, wearing a hoodie that was easily two sizes too large, staying close to her brother. The eldest had his mother's blonde hair and looked back at Andrew with a steadiness that came from somewhere practiced.
Andrew stood to shake Mrs. Hale's hand.
"Hello. I'm glad you could all make it." He gave the children a brief, genuine smile, which was as much as he was capable of in a professional context. "I'd like to speak to you individually. I'd suggest starting with the youngest, and then we'll rotate from there."
The two older children glanced at each other and then went back into the hallway. The door closed.
Andrew gestured to the chairs across from his desk where Mrs. Hale and her son sat down.
"Hello. My name is Andrew. What should I call you?"
"Liam," the boy said quietly, eyes not quite meeting his.
Andrew pushed a glass of water across the desk toward him. He kept his voice even and unhurried, his questions simple. What was Marcus Hale like at home? Had Liam noticed anything different about him lately- his behaviour, the people he spent time with, anything that had seemed off? Had he ever overheard anything that didn't quite make sense?
Liam denied everything. His answers were short and careful, the kind given by a child who had been taught- directly or not- to say as little as possible.
The middle child Irene was the same. Both of them described their father as absent, distant, someone who moved through the house without leaving much behind. Both confirmed next to nothing.
Then James Hale sat down alone across from Andrew. Eighteen. Mrs. Hale waited outside with the others.
"How do you feel about your father?" Andrew asked.
James didn't think about it long. "He's an asshole. He's always saying he has to work but then his boss calls mum and asks where he is. I'm surprised he still has a job, honestly." He shrugged, leaning back slightly in the chair.
Andrew kept his expression neutral and wrote it down. "Your mother didn't mention any of this."
"Of course she didn't. He threatens her when he's been drinking- tells her his business is none of her concern, and that if she ever sticks her nose in it she'll regret it." James's voice stayed even. The evenness of someone who had made peace with something being wrong for a long time. "They fight a lot. Pretty much every time he's home, which isn't often."
"Do you think your siblings are aware?"
"Yeah. They just won't say it when mum's in the room. I wouldn't have either, usually."
Andrew nodded. "Do you have any idea what he does when he's not at work?"
"Not really. He says he's with friends."
"Any names?" Andrew dug deepler.
James hesitated. "He doesn't give names. He doesn't talk much in general." he paused. "Actually- there was one time. I saw a name on his phone when he got a call. He went into the other room fast, but I caught it before he turned the screen."
Andrew looked up. "Do you remember it?"
"Lola something... something starting with M- I only saw it for a second."
"Can you try to remember the last name? Even a partial would help."
"I think Malcom," James said. "I'm pretty sure."
Lola Malcom.
Something about that name snagged faintly on something in the back of his mind. A thread of recognition he couldn't quite follow.
Andrew wrote it down. "Anything else? Anything that's seemed strange or that you've been wondering about?"
James considered it. "He makes a lot of money for someone who's supposedly always at work but never actually there. Mum stays home with us. He pays the rent and everything- the bills, food, all of it. I've been thinking about that for a while. Doesn't add up."
"That's very helpful," Andrew said, and meant it. "Thank you, James."
After they left, Andrew wrote up his notes, sent a brief report to his boss, shut down his computer, turned off the lights and walked out. His head hurt, his eyes burned from how tired he was and his stomach grumbled violently.
He ordered vietnamese food to his apartment, ate in his living room whilst watching a boring tv show and then went to bed.
The next day was no better. He struggled to get out of bed, spent the entire day at work only half awake and barely survived off coffee. At some point the reception worker even dropped by to bring him some food and to open his windows for him.
Andrew did a lot of research about this Lola Malcom. It was hard to find any information, though he found out her phone number and a few family connections. Around 4 pm he tried giving her a call but nobody answered. At 4:30 he tried again with the same outcome.
He noted down everything he found out about her, about her background, her family- especially her brother Romero Malcom who she seemed to be close with and every other snippet of information he could somehow get.
The next time he looked up from his pc, it was dark outside.
The little clock on his pc told him it was past 11 pm. Fuck.
Andrew got up, collected his stuff, did his usual check of the door- locked it, tugged it, moved on.
Outside, the rain that had been pouring down all day had finally stopped. The air was warm and heavy, full of the particular smell of wet pavement drying slowly. Andrew stood outside his building for a moment, looking up at nothing in particular.
He drove home. Stopped at a McDonald's and ate in the car, because sitting down to eat was a step he simply wasn't willing to add. He finished on the way and parked outside his building when the last of it was gone. The moon was out tonight, bright enough to wash the pavement in something almost gentle.
Andrew locked the car and stood there for a moment, looking up at it.
Then he went inside and took the elevator because his body had had enough.
The second he stepped into his apartment, something felt wrong.
He didn't even have to switch the light on. It was something older than thought- something learned over years of having to know, in the dark, whether a room was safe to be in. The air felt different. Slightly warmer. Less still. Occupied.
Andrew's hands began trembling before he'd consciously processed what his instincts had already concluded.
He kept them as steady as he could.
Slowly, he raised his hand and switched on the hall light.
Everything looked exactly as he'd left it. His shoes in their usual heap by the door. The corner of the wallpaper peeling away from the wall the way it had been doing for months. The kitchen door, closed. Nothing out of place.
He set his keys down carefully without looking away from the hallway.
He told himself to breathe.
His door had been locked when he arrived. He had checked every window before leaving that morning. It was just a long day. A tired mind. He was imagining it.
Andrew waited another moment, then stepped out of his shoes and took off his blazer, draping it over a dresser. He undid the first three buttons of his shirt and loosened his tie. He picked up his cigarettes, deciding to step out onto the balcony before bed.
He walked into the living room.
And stopped.
There was a silhouette sitting on the windowsill beside the balcony door. Still. At ease- the particular ease of someone who had spent a great deal of time in spaces that didn't belong to them.
The adrenaline hit Andrew like cold water, so fast it made him briefly dizzy. He felt his pulse spike. He felt something small and locked-away tear open somewhere deep inside him- his inner child, screaming to run, to hide, to get out right now-
His face did nothing.
Don't show weakness. Be the intimidating one instead of getting intimidated.
That was the only useful thing years of foster care had given him.
"I think you've got the wrong apartment," Andrew said. His voice came out completely steady. He was briefly, quietly grateful for that.
The figure lifted one hand. Something turned over slowly between their fingers. A knife, catching what little light came in from the window, handled with a familiarity that was almost casual.
"Oh, I'm sure I've got the right one," the figure said.
"What's your name?" they asked then.
Andrew frowned. "You don't even know my name and you're sure you've got the right apartment?"
"My boss gave me the address. The floor. Exactly which balcony to come through." A brief pause. "No name though. He does that sometimes. Likes to keep me sharp."
"Why are you here?" Andrew asked slowly. His hand was already moving toward the light switch. Betraying him. He could feel just how badly his fingers were shaking.
The figure stood up from the windowsill.
"To kill you." Said with the calm of someone who had said it before. "You're too smart. You've been pulling threads you should have left alone and now that's become a problem. My partner had missed to take you out a few days ago, got your twin, right? Idiot. So here I am." A slight tilt of the head. "Why else would I be here?"
Andrew switched on the light.
The man across from him stopped.
Andrew stopped.
Time seemed to stop.
The man standing in his living room- frozen mid-step, knife in hand, the light catching every line of his face- went completely still.
Andrew's cigarettes hit the floor.