Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
"If eyes are the window to the soul, I would put yours in a jar on my desk, so your soul could stare at me forever." Laughter rose to the height of the loft, ringing like a bell off exposed metal ducts. The second annual Ford/Callaghan dinner party shot off like a rocket, and fizzled through the night, until only a few stragglers remained. Sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, a letter grasped in her hands, and one too many glasses of champagne in her stomach, Clara Ford read The Best Of Creepers fanmail, all to the ongoing amusement of her guests.
"Time would stand still for us… as we explored the history of our lives together. Forever." With another peal of laughter, and an air of dramatic pause, Clara lowered the letter to the island.
"Ladies and gentlemen! I think we have a winner!" The raspy voiced Trinity Winch called out, grabbing the letter to wave it over her head. Trinny had been Clara's other half for nearly a decade, her best friend, the yang to her yin. She was a blonde beanpole, five-foot-ten, with a strapping, masculine jaw and contrasting, ethereal features… A pixie nose and blue eyes like gas flames. It was Trinny who introduced Clara to her agent, Trinny who propelled Clara through her first few months as a model… and Trinny who watched as Clara sailed past her in success. Five-six, small-town Clara Ford.
Flashing Trinny a winning smile, Clara shook her head, "No way. Mark's busboy was much creepier."
"Mark having fanmail is creepy enough." Trinny remarked with a grin, and pouting around his champagne flute, Mark Chapman shot her a look, his middle finger supporting the brunt of the argument.
Clara's resonant laughter turned into a squeal as a pair of arms wrapped around her middle and yanked her from the island. Spinning around, she came face to face with a pair of magnificent moss-greens and an award winning set of veneers. Leo Callaghan bent to steal a kiss, ignoring Trinny's jeers, and pulling back, tapped Clara on the tip of her nose, "I'm gonna drive the rest of these idiots home, baby. You got a phone call in the bedroom."
He released her and Clara gave a flourishing wave to the other, before she crossed the room, pulling the barn door shut behind her. The phone, a vintage rotor in glossy black, sat on the nightstand. Sinking to the bed, she cupped the receiver to her ear, "Clara Ford, how can I help you?"
"Clara? It's Cait."
There were many people named Cait in the world, but she didn't need to ask who was on the other end of the line. Never in life had three simple words turned Clara so cold. Her grip tensed on the phone body and swallowing, she took a steadying breath, "Hello Cait. Everything okay?"
"I'm sorry, Clara. It's your dad…" Not since nineteen years of age had Clara set foot in Willows Fair, Alabama. The night she fled her life, leaving everything behind, the worst night of her life. Nothing had changed. The cab rolled beneath the banner sign bearing the town name and motto, 'where branches meet the ground, there our hearts forever lie', and Clara's eyes remained fixed on the back of her driver's head. The gazebo in town square bore a fresh shade of white paint, covering over Mick Steinland's graffiti, and the Ohana Market's awning was a brighter shade of pineapple-yellow… but even without looking, even with the torrent of rain, beating across the windshield, she knew everything remained exactly as she left it. Nothing ever changed.
The road to the Weeping Branches hotel wound behind Meuller's Grocery, lined by the trees for which the town was named. Sprawling branches sunk low to the ground, lower in the downpour, beads of wetness clinging to the slender oval leaves. The Mourning Drive. That's what it was called, and the name felt all too appropriate that day. As the cab crawled to a stop outside the hotel portico and the driver stepped out to unload her bags, Clara's eyes traveled the length of the drive, just beyond the hotel. In her mind, she could see the path that wound through the woods, to the edge of the river Covenant. The wooden dock, buoyed across the water. And hanging down, her leaves caressing the surface of the Covenant, the oldest Willow in town.
At the knock on the cab window, she jumped and blinking, wiping her cheeks, she pushed the door open, taking her suitcase from the hands of the waiting driver. Paying the man, she turned to the doors of the Branches and with a soft sigh, she stepped through.
Passing through the lobby, she approached the old wooden desk, behind which an even older looking man sat, crouched over a newspaper. As Clara reached the desk, he looked up, pushing his glasses the length of his nose. Slowly, a smile split his mouth, warm, even in its nearly toothless state. Buckley Potter was nearly as old as the Willow by Covenant - and as much a staple in their town.
"By my right knee. Little Clara. You come back to us, after all this time, Pretty Bird?"
Fighting a grimace, her mouth twitching up, faltering, Clara nodded, "For…"
"The funeral, of course… Damn sorry about your dad. Damn sorry it happened Get to be my age, you start thinkin' too damn much. Outlivin' people like Oaky? Ain't right."
"No, Mr. Potter. It's not right." Passing her card to the man, she tapped her fingers against the surface of the desk, "I booked ahead." Willows Fair had one cemetery. It was as old as the town itself, and housed generation after generation of families. The Oakley family had two plots. Thomas and Irene Oakley, her grandparents, and Elizabeth Oakley… her mother. Elizabeth's headstone had been removed for the funeral to add one more name, and staring at the gaping hole beside where her mother lay, Clara struggled to hold back tears. The sound of Elmyra Jenkins playing the pipe organ carried through the open doors of the big white church behind the cemetery, the sound more distant than it should have been, through the pounding pulse in her ears.
Along the drive, studded by cherry willows, she could make out the shape of Thomas Hammond's mud-brown Hearse through the curtain of rain, slowly leading the procession in their direction. Breathing in, holding it, she clenched tightly to the metal folding chair beneath her, her other hand latched, white-knuckled, around the neck of the complementary umbrella, heavy droplets ticking off the black silk.
Sheriff Thomas Oakley Jr. was only fifty-years old when he died. Until the moment his heart had failed him, he lived life with a sense of joy and purpose. In her thoughts, she could drum up his smile. Before it ever appeared on his face, it began in his eyes, sparkling blue and clear, like the Grecian sea, folding into the dimples at the corner of his mouth. As far back as her memories went, she recalled hearing how much she resembled her mother in everything, except for that smile.
Reaching up to brush a tear from her cheek, she dropped her eyes from the Hearse and stared at the cavernous hole in the ground again. He was too good for the ground. Too good for a cold, muddy tomb.
"I'm sorry, Daddy…" She whispered, as the Hearse came to a halt at the end of the drive.
Ever since the sheriff was gracious enough to show him a better way, Brady Samsworth Ford only ever touched the drink on occasion. He'd allow himself such a pleasure during times like holidays, family gatherings, and the super bowl. He never drank too much, of course... living in a small town that once knew you as the resident alcoholic kinda has that effect on you.
It didn't matter to them how much self control he had now, or how much good he had done during his time in the sheriff's office, every single look had a trace of distrust that reminded him that he was the man who nearly beat young James Stevens to death. In reality it was just one of the many curses he had grown accustomed to bearing.
Regardless, on this dreary grey morning, and from the privacy of his cabin overlooking Willows Fair, Brady poured one out for a fallen friend. The tap of his boots against hardwood were followed by the clicking of paws while the renaissance man made his way from the small little kitchen to the the rustic living room. The flames from the fireplace filled the room with warmth and color and off to the side was the closed off door leading to an expansion he would probably never get around to finishing.
Brady let out a long sigh as he settled into his arm chair.
There was a time in his life when this room was just a camping chair and a lantern, a time in his life where he didn't have enough money to afford proper furniture because he was throwing all of his cash away at dive bars. That was before Thomas Oakley dragged him out kicking and screaming, before the Sheriff had saved his life. Now that hell of a man was gone and Brady couldn't help but feel that God had a morbid sense of humor when it came to him and members of the Oakley family.
Brady closed his eyes and he sunk deeper into the umber cushions for a time, content to just drown himself in the white noise that was the crackling of the flames. It was only when his number one girl, a sandy colored Border Collie named Lucy, began to lick at his fingers affectionately, did he finally open them and even then it was just one. Still, the Ford man couldn't help but smile at her dopey but endearing expression and he took a second to give his faithful dog a scratch behind the ear.
"Thanks for the comfort, sweetheart." Brady mumbled, still smiling warmly as he turned over to his side table. Half a bottle of booze and one single shot glass greeted him and for a moment, he reflected. Today was the day where Thomas Oakley would be laid to rest. It was the last time he promised that the leaving of an Oakley would hurt him profoundly. Brady Samsworth Ford took a shot. He took a second one. The warmth hit him in waves and he sighed again.
For the rest of morning he remained on that arm chair, eyes closed, drink in hand and his dog at his feet.
When he woke it was due to a knock on his door. Brady stirred almost immediately, he got up quickly but was careful to not step on the lazy but lovable mass of fur at his feet. The door flew open and he was greeted by a series of familiar faces--all from the department. All of them dressed up for the funeral. The officer closest to him, a pretty blonde who moved into town shortly before Brady himself joined the force, Samantha Reiner, took note of the smell of booze with a small frown and Brady was quick to apologize.
"I'm late aren't I? Shit, yeah. Give me a second to get dressed." He explained, embarrassment warming his face to a healthy color of red. Samantha nodded, she looked stunning in the all black ensemble she wore, and motioned towards the rest of the department.
"Do you mind if we take some shelter from the rain while we wait?" Samantha asked calmly, she was always better at hiding their relationship than he was. Brady straightened up, and cleared his throat.
"Sure, sure. Sorry everyone! Come on inside and help yourself. I won't take long." He announce politely, if not somewhat sheepishly. The Ford man turned immediately and made a beeline for the side table. He was quick to hide the booze and glass in his jacket before making his way up the stairs and into his bedroom. There he placed both items on top of his dresser, he'd regret drinking a little later but right now his priority was making it to the funeral on time.
Brady came back down a few minutes later with his face washed, teeth brushed, and dressed sharply in a suit that Samantha had advised him to buy a few months back. He gave a warm smile to the rest of the department before apologizing again and the lot of them were off. The Hearse made its way back down the hill where his cabin was nestled and through the town.
It came to the graveyard and with a heaviness in his heart, Brady stepped out and took his place at the front of the other pallbearers. Samantha shot him a somber look from the other side and they began the ascent towards the gravesite. Brady's eyes remained pointedly on the ground, they tended to whenever he was around so much town folk, but the moment they rose he suddenly couldn't believe what he was seeing.
She had changed over the years, but to be fair he had done a bit of changing himself. At first he was convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him, cruel, cruel tricks but from the look of everybody's face the moment they saw him approaching with the casket, Brady was sure that this was happening. It was Clara. For the first time in so many years... it was Clara.
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
Despite the warmth in the air, the tears streaming down her cheeks felt cold. The weight on her chest grew heavier and heavier as time passed, and without looking, she listened as the doors to the Hearse opened. The footsteps trudged closer to the platform, pallbearers. These were the people closest to him. Her father's friends... coworkers... confidants. On the phone with him over the years, she had listened as he told her about life back in Willows Fair, and he had sounded happy. Loved. But she could not bring herself to turn her head, to look at the casket. She knew exactly who she would find at the front, and seeing him, meeting his eye... it was too much. The cemetery fell hushed, as the casket was brought onto the stand and lowered. Slowly, Clara looked up.
He looked the same... Older, perhaps, and the beard was new. But even the aspects of his face that had changed over time still carried a sense of familiarity to them. Everything about him, just the way she'd left it. The breath left her lungs in a gasp, as panic roared to life within her. She wasn't ready. For her father... for him. For any of it. Her chest tightened, and the umbrella began to shake in her grasp, tipping, falling to the side.
She had never been strong. Not the way people assumed she was. She hadn't left, the last time... she had run. Fled. And she could feel it again, roiling inside her. That urge... the need to escape. Pastor Simeon Clemmons approached the podium beneath the canopy, looking very much the way he had the day she and Brady said their vows. A stippling of silver lined his brow, his crown now, but the pleasant, cherub face was all the same, the twinkle of mischief behind bright blue eyes. He wasn't smiling... No one was smiling. But she could still bring to mind the way his face transformed when he did.
"My friends..." He began, solemnly, and every ounce of strength within Clara, everything holding her together came to a startling, shrieking halt. She rose. She rose swiftly, knocking over her chair and as Paster Clemmons stuttered to a stop, the eyes around the cemetery fell on her. She could hear the whispers, the muttering... Margie Brown, known by all for her incredible peanut butter cup pie, and her utter lack of social propriety clucked her tongue in disapproval. Disapproval... that was the cross she bore. That was all they would ever see when they looked at her. The girl who had broken the rules, who had gotten knocked up, who had tried to make good on it, but couldn't even do that the proper way. Their precious project, who had disappointed them, so badly.
"I'm sorry..." Clara whispered, to no one in particular, to everyone in particular. Words that should have been so simple, yet carried with them the entire mass of the world. Words she knew meant absolutely nothing to the people who needed to hear them the most. Without another sounds, she turned away and not daring to look at anyone, not daring to take in their faces, to take in the utter dejection, she ran.
She couldn't even look at him as he approached, she couldn't even give him the satisfaction of some kind of acknowledgement for what she did. Brady wondered for a moment how he had ever managed to be so in love with the woman before him because in that moment all he felt was anger. Bitter, bitter, anger. A fire in him that he had thought was long put out reignited and if today hadn't been for her father he might as well have walked away.
Clara Ford. Brady knew she kept his name but could never understand why, if you were going to up and leave a man the way she had you might as well leave everything behind. His heart beat in chest, aggravated, and the thump rose up until Brady could hear it in his ears. The eyes, the very eyes that looked at him with distrust, now looked at him with curiosity. What would the drunkard sheriff's boy do? What would he say?
Biting back his feelings, Brady refused to give them the satisfaction. He simply rubbed his jaw where Clara had once broken it out of habit and took his seat alongside the rest of the department towards the front. His eyes focused on the wet grass below them and beside him Brady could see the look of concern run across Samantha's face. She had heard of course, of the tragic, tragic story of Brady and Clara Ford but never from him. He could never bring himself to recount the tale.
Brady clasped his hands together, the brunt of his thumbs pushing against each other as Old Pastor Clemmons took his place at the podium. He was one of the first people to turn and see the commotion that arose from the other side of the crowd. It was the first time he had heard her voice in years and it threw something off within him, trigger something that had been buried for a long time. He swallowed and swallowed hard, his brown eyes growing wide as Clara ran off for the second time.
Suddenly Brady cleared his throat and looked back forward. At first nobody stood up to go after her so they turned their eyes to him. He could feel the weight of their stares on his shoulders. It was cruel but the exact kind of narrative a small town like Willows Fair would love to entertain. A part of him wanted to... to chase her and finally get some answers but Brady refused. He would not give them the satisfaction, he couldn't.
So with struggle in his eyes he kept looking forward, trying his damnedest to calm the storm of emotion brewing beneath the surface. A few from the crowd eventually stood up and followed after Clara but he couldn't even bear to see who. The actual proceedings turned to foggy haze from that point on. Words were said, Brady hardly listened, and then he watched as it all came to an end. The sheriff was laid to rest.
The department was among the last to leave for the reception. Brady was among the last to finally stand up. Samantha looked to him while the other's didn't and placed a hand on his chest.
"Are you alright?" She asked him quietly. Meanwhile the other officers began their descent back down to the Hearse. Brady sighed, rubbing his forehead warily. He still couldn't look at his lover in the eye, not while everything was still so raw, so instead Brady wrapped his arm around her shoulder without a word and followed after the rest of the department.
Brady would cry later, for more reasons than one, but in the privacy of his home. The only thing he ought to worry about now was surviving the reception.
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
Brady needn't have worried, however. Clara Ford didn't make an appearance at the reception, or at any other point that day. Eventually, the tempestuous heavens relented their downpour, and the skies crisped to blue, scattered with melancholic grey wisps, and emerging from the isolation of her hotel room at the Branches, Clara returned to the cemetery. The headstone had been replaced between the funeral and wake, bearing two names now, and trailing her fingers across the fresh carving, tears marked a path along her cheeks. He was young and healthy... And yet his heart had given in. A heart broken ten years back by a failure of a daughter, who had first lost his trust, then lost everything else.
Stifling a sob on the thoughts raging through her mind, she dropped to her knees, ignoring the mud that soaked into the fabric of her black dress pants. Seeing Brady, seeing everyone else, it had been too much to bear, it still was, and she had never wanted to run away again, so desperately. But she needed to stay. To stay and say goodbye this time. Her father deserved as much, and perhaps in a way, so did the rest of Willows.
She sat there, in the mud, for a good long while. It was only when the first of the noisy crickets had begun their chirping that she noticed evening had fallen. And she was not alone. Turning, she caught sight of the familiar waifish blonde, her hair pulled back taut, leaving her looking more weary and narrow than she actually was. She was pale, and her watery blue eyes were rimmed in red, and time had wreaked lines at the corners of her eyes and across her hands that she rung anxiously, but there was no denying it was her.
Her father never remarried after Clara's mother died, but if he was ever going to, everyone knew it would be Cait. She had stood by his side through so much. And now, again, she was alone. Twice-Widowed Cait…
"Cait." Clara murmured, pushing herself upright, "Cait, I'm so sorry."
"Sorry? Oh, sweetie..." Stepping closer, she reached out and dusting mud from her palm, Clara took the outstretched hand, "He was your dad. No one expected you to take this is stride."
Giving her hand a squeeze, Cait released her, breathing a sigh, "It's mind numbing, isn't it. He was so young. So healthy. Just came from a check up and Doctor Clark said he was as fit as ever." A sigh escaped the woman, and she looked from the tombstone, up to Clara, studying her with that muted blue gaze, "You look beautiful, Clara. He… he'd have told you." Her hand slipped up to cup Clara's cheek, and she stifled another sob, her eyes falling, unable to meet the woman's before her.
"I should have come sooner. He… he asked, back around Christmas. He asked if I would. If I had just…"
"Now you stop that, My Belle. Your father wouldn't have you beatin' yourself up over this. No one knows more than me what drove you off, and your father? He knew too. He understood. Even if he didn't say it. I think he was proud of you for it… truth be told."
Sniffing, Clara shook her head, "Proud of me?" With a huff of breath, she stepped back, "I should go."
"You should see him, Clara." Cait said, matter of factly.
"I can't." As she turned away, Clara reached up to wipe her cheeks dry, "You know I can't." The following day Clara woke to an off-white world, and three messages on her cell phone. Sitting up, rubbing her forehead, she looked out of her window at the Weeping Branches to the trail of Willows, their long arms sweeping back and forth across the ground like a lazy hand, stroking a cat. Three bottles of 50ml Jack Daniels lay at the foot of the bed, and a headache named Regret spiked red behind her eyes, the only color on that drab, grey morning.
With a groan, she grabbed her phone from the nightstand and pressed the voicemail button. The first message was from Paster Clemmons, a gentle encouragement that his office was open to her, should she need to talk. Deleting it, she moved on the next, and Leo's exuberant voice burst her aching skull in two. He rattled on about a delayed flight and an irritating stewardess, who insisted on having him catwalk the length of the plane aisle. She half-listened, until she was sure her head might actually explode, then she pressed the button to shift to the next message, flopping back against the pillow.
"Clara? It's Tim Patrick, your dad's lawyer. Listen, I know you're going through it right now, but I really need to meet with you, as soon as possible. I've got to head to LA for a little while, not sure how long I'll be… I'd wait, but I know you're in Willows right now, and this would be easier to do there. Anyway. I'll be at the Bridge Club this afternoon, around two PM. If you can, please meet me there. Thanks… and Clara? I'm so sorry…"
Frowning, looking to the phone, she raked her hands across her face and with a sigh, pushed herself upright. A quick glance at the bedside clock showed half past noon. One more day… One more day in Willows Fair, and then she'd be free.
The reception went exactly how he had expected. There was food, drinks, and people lightly dabbing the corner of their eyes with tissues. Plenty of them had genuine reason to shed a tear over the untimely passing of the Thomas Oakley but the bitter angry being inside of Brady couldn't help but point out in his head which of the townsfolk were just there to be seen while they hurt.
There was good in this town, the Sheriff was testament to that, and it was why he found his work at the department so fulfilling. The problem with it though came in the form of his last name. Generations and generations of Fords have built up Willows Fair and along the way it was only natural they've made good friends and terrible enemies. The Fords were historic and that only made them so much easier to target.
Brady stuck to the dark corners of the reception, a glass of water in his hands even though the only thing he really needed that moment was whiskey. Samantha never drifted too far from him as she was worried but the officer could never convince him to become more involved in the event than just a silent observer. He was overwhelmed by his emotions, tired out as result and suddenly couldn't help but hate everyone in the room. He was scheduled to talk about the sheriff but as the program called for his name Brady had disappeared without a word.
While they searched for him he walked home in the rain because he failed to bring an umbrella. By the time he had made the commute up the hill just on the outskirts of Willows Fair his suit was soaked and unforgiving as it stuck to his skin with great fervor. Lucy greeted him lazily from where she laid dry on the porch. She barked and wagged her tail slightly but was intelligent enough to know he was in no mood to be licked.
Brady sulked into his home and stripped naked right on the spot. He didn't care to throw his clothes in the hamper, instead he went over to the kitchen and grabbed a glass fit for water. The renaissance man went up stairs afterwards, placing the glass in his hand next to his bottle of booze. He took a shower and then spent the rest of the evening indulging in old demons without relent. Thoughts of Clara fueled him but memories of her drove him the fastest towards the end of the bottle.
She broke his heart, she broke him. Her father helped him pick up the pieces and just one look at her and it felt like he was right where he was all those years ago, drinking himself to sleep, except this time there would be no goodhearted Sheriff slamming on his door the next morning. No goodhearted Sheriff to force him to face the music and move on. Damn her. Damn Clara.
When he woke up the feeling was still there... indeed it almost felt like the past few years of sobering up and working the department was just a dream and now he was back to the reality of being the town's punching bag, the town's good boy turned alcoholic. He groaned, the throb behind his eyes as intense as it was in the back of his head. Still naked, he stumbled lazily downstairs, nearly falling twice before finally reaching the landing.
Lucy was asleep on the couch and he stooped down to give her a kiss on the head before moving through the kitchen and casually towards the bathroom so he could puke. He sat on the floor for awhile, his head laid up groggily against the rim of the toilet. At some point he was certain somebody knocked on the door but Brady was in zero condition to speak with anyone. Eventually he managed to muster enough strength to brush his teeth.
Nursing his head and going to town on mouth in order to eliminate all traces of alcohol from his breath, Brady then moved back into the living room where his home phone constantly updated him of a new message. He fumbled around for a moment before finally pressing the right button and proceeded to rinse in his kitchen sink.
He was a mess but there was nothing more sober than the sound of Tim Patrick's voice ringing throughout his home. Brady shot right back up and cursed loudly once the pain of such an action caught up to him.
Only after two painkillers and another shower was Brady in a well enough condition to drive on over to the Bridge Club. He used eye drops to reduce the irritation and thus redness of his eyes, an old technique of his back when his problem was still just a problem and not full out dependency, and then he and his rusty blue truck was off.
Brady seemed the first to arrive at the club as he stepped into the old familiar dining hall. He sat down at a seat for two and pinched his nose as the throbs came back with intensity. Tim needed to say what he needed to be said and fast. Any longer out in the open and he jokingly thought to himself he'd need another bottle to numb the pain.
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
There was not enough hot water in the world to wash away the feeling Clara had, when she finally managed to drag herself out of bed. When she had first left Willows, she had been inundated with a depression so deep, it felt nearly fathomless, so powerful, she was sure it would crush her before she ever recovered. It was a familiar feeling, now, and as the water in the shower sluiced away the soap she scrubbed herself with, she could feel her resolve circling the drain as well.
Throwing on a powder blue sundress and a pair of white sandals, she ran her fingers through damp blonde curls, spritzed herself with the warming scent of citrus and cinnamon and grabbing her purse, made her way down to the hotel lobby. By the front desk was a complementary coffee maker, and pouring herself a Styrofoam cup of black liquid courage, she bobbed her head in greeting to Mr. Potter, "Is there a car service?"
"'Fraid not, Little Bird." Mr. Potter chimed, without looking up from the small brass button he was vigorously polishing in his lap. He was a collector - and it was one of the many things he'd had in common with her father.
"What's that one?" She asked, taking a sip of the bitter coffee and biting back a shudder. Bending to add sugar, she looked up at Mr. Potter as he slid it across the counter.
"World War One... A button. Russian, from the looks of it." He smiled, as he returned to polishing it.
"It's beautiful, Mr. Potter. Anyway... I should probably head out. It's a hike down to the Bridge Club."
Glancing up again, Mr. Potter chuckled, "You can take Bess. She's been sittin' too long, anyhow. Hard for me, gettin' around with the leg, now." He tapped his knee, and frowned, before reaching under the counter for a small ring of keys, tossing them to Clara, "Just put her back into the shed when you're done with her."
Smiling, Clara nodded, "Thanks so much, Mr. Potter. See ya."
"Oh, Clara!" As she started for the door, the older man stood, calling out, and Clara glanced back, brow raised, "You care too much, Darlin'... What the rest of them think. I can see it in your eyes, you got that weight again. Don't give 'em a damned second of your hurt. Your daddy wouldn't want it, and anyone who cares one wick about you would say the same."
Blinking, staring down at he cup in her hand, she mumbled her thanks and turned away again, moved swiftly for the doors, biting hard on her cheek to keep the tears from falling.
Bess was in the garage, as expected, and as she pulled the tarp from off of the forest green 1957 Ford Fairlane 500, a smile spread to her lips again. It was kept in pristine condition - had been, since the day Buck Potter had bought her. The car had been the talk of the town, then, and Mr. Potter claimed to this day it was the very thing that had won over his late wife. Whether or not it was true, it was a beautiful vehicle, and as she slid behind the wheel and turned over the engine, her heart gave a throb of excitement that, even if it was just for a moment, chased away the ghost of grief.
The drive into town was short, and as she pulled up alongside the curb to the Bridge Club and rolled up the windows, she felt significantly less miserable, sliding out. Tossing her cup in a trashbin, she made her way towards the door, pausing when she heard her name being called. Turning back, she smiled faintly at the sight of Tim Patrick, climbing out of his luxury Jaguar. He was a man in his late forties, who lived, at times, like he was eighty-six. He wore a charcoal grey suit with a pinstriped tie, and his dark salt and pepper streaked hair was combed away from his somber fast, grey-blue eyes meeting her own with a nod of his head.
"Thanks so much for agreeing to meet with me. I realize this isn't the best timing, but I wanted to catch you before my trip." Gesturing to the door, he followed her inside, "Ah... good. He's here. This shouldn't take long, at all."
"...He?" Clara followed the man's gaze, and her steps froze as the color drained from her cheeks, "...Oh, Tim."
Blinking, Tim glanced back at her, a brow raised into his hairline, "Oh! OH, shoot. Clara, I'm sorry. I thought... did I not mention it in my message? I'm sorry, kiddo. Geez. Been a hell of a morning. Listen... you... you gonna be alright? We could always split--"
"No." Frowning, Clara shook her head, "No, it's fine." Swallowing, every stretch of courage she had shriveling up and rolling away out the door behind her, she followed Tim to the table and without looking at him, she sank into the booth opposite the one person she was hoping more than anything, to desperately avoid.
"Brady, my boy... Thanks for joining us. This won't take long..."
Brady Ford, during his time as a cop, had spent his fair share of time with the lawyer type. Crisp suits, tight ties, neat hair. Most couldn't help but give the vibe that they felt themselves important, and to an extent that was true, but the Fords believed it was values that made a man... not the degree he had pinned up on the wall.
That was why Tim Patrick was the exception and not the rule. He was a good man, at least from what Brady had seen from his shared interactions with the lawyer and the Sheriff. Tim had spoken to him more recently following the latter's passing, and even then he extended a kindness to Brady the cop hadn't expected. It made sense though... Thomas Oakley would never let some law snake manage his affairs after all.
That mutual respect was why Brady didn't immediately stand to leave the moment Tim appeared with Clara right behind him. Whether this was some sick kind of set up or not, to throw him from the frying pan and into the fire with such little warning... he felt the familiar heat of anger flare up within him.
"It damn well better not." Brady replied, crossing his arms. His swearing had always been a topic of debate between them. Clara would always tell him to stop and he would promise he eventually would. Naturally, its only grown worse over the past few years. "What the hell is this Tim?"
Clara flinched at the words, but if Tim noticed at all, he didn't show it. Resembling a blood hound in appearance, the man possessed a naturally melancholic appearance... One which showed little expression, at Brady's question.
"The Will..." Patting his briefcase, he gestured to the booth opposite Brady, and with a breath, a reluctant pause, Clara slid in.
"Tom's Will." Sliding in after her, Tim set the briefcase on the table and pulled out a file, leafing through it for a moment, "Sorry. I'm generally much more prepared for these things. Damned Hollywood clowns have me tied up in knots. Want me to come sort out their dramatics. Never had the taste for it, but the pay... Well. Hm. Ah, here we are..."
Laying the pages on the table, he flipped to one of the tabbed sections, "Yes. Alright. To my children... My Clara, and Brady. I cannot leave you much, but I give what I have... Including the sum of my insurance policy, as well as the Summer Street house. Care for it as you know I would, and may the memories you build there sustain you all the days of your lives."
As he trailed off, running a finger along the page, Clara sat up, and for the first time, her gaze shifted, warily, to Brady, before moving to the lawyer, "I don't... I'm not sure I understand. He's... He left it to..."
"The both of you. Yes. Legally, you are now the co-owners of the policy and home."
Brady shifted uncomfortable from his side of the booth. This was... this wasn't how he ever imagined them meeting again. Indeed his fantasies included a lot more dramatic reveals, impassioned embraces. Instead, they were sitting in the old Bridge Club barely able to look at the other... nearly strangers but not completely.
His anger simmered down to uncomfortable silence but everyone at the table could see his expression shift at the beginning of the reading.
To be completely honest he did come to see the Sheriff as a father while the man helped him through rehab... and maybe the section of the will had been written when he and Clara were still... but to hear it now, to hear himself be considered as a son, it hit him with a pang of sadness. Brady Ford's brown eyes drifted up to meet Clara's and mirrored the confusion, the wary.
"That's a bit cruel don't ya think?" He responded, turning back to the lawyer with furrowed brows. Brady rubbed the back of his head. He really wanted that drink now. Regardless, he continued as direct as ever but notably cold. "What are our options?"
"Options?" The older man's brow arched up his forehead in curiosity, and as he looked between the pair there seemed to be a sense of confusion that lingered into an uncomfortable silence, before he shook his head.
"Right... Well. The insurance money is easy enough. An even split down the middle. But the house might prove a bit trickier. Both of your names would be on the deed. Your best bet, from a legal standpoint would be to... Ah. Well, to sell it, divvy up the sale earnings."
"Sell it..." Clara echoed, her voice soft, with a faint quiver. She had grown up in that home. Her father had, as well. Every memory. Every dream... Encased in those walls...
"I'm afraid there aren't many other options..." Eyes shifting to Brady, he shrugged, before glancing down to his watch, "Oh! I'd better be off. Going to miss my flight if I stay too late." Leaning over, her pressed a stiff, slightly awkward kiss to Clara's crown, before extending a hand to Brady, "Best of luck, you two... If you have questions, you can call my cell! Number is on page six!"
As the man shot off towards the door, appearing all too grateful to slip through it, to his freedom, Clara sat, staring at the papers left behind, "Wh...why would be do this..?"
For awhile Brady simply couldn't bring himself to answer her, to say anything to her really. His foot tapped the floor of the dining hall erratically, his hand knocked against the table softly. His mind racked for a possible reason, anything that would make sense but nothing came to mind. Looking out the window as the Tim Patrick rode off in his fancy car he couldn't help the scowl that came to his face. Brady sighed, rubbing the undercut of his jaw wearily, as he finally turned to speak.
"Maybe he forgot to have it changed." Brady offered, though a part of him knew that a man who was as on top of things as the Sheriff wouldn't have missed such an important detail. He pinched his nose between the eyes and shrugged.
"What do you want to do, Clara?' He asked.
It hurt. To hear him say her name. The way he said it had always felt so different than everyone else. Like it was the most important word in the world. It didn't feel that way anymore, and Clara couldn't blame him. Really, the fact he talked to her at all seemed like a small miracle.
"I... I don't know. It's so much to process." Rubbing her hands over her face, she grimaced at the jolt of pain from behind her temples, where the morning hangover hung on with a vengeance, "I guess it's like he said. Selling it might be easiest."
Her home.
"Do... do you know an agent?"
I don't. Never really needed one with the family's land and all." Brady responded, all too aware that he now had to explain things as commonly known as that to a woman who he had been prepared to spend his life with. Strangers but not completely. The thought rung and repeated through his head.
Brady's eyes moved back out the window and they remained there as he spoke. "I don't know what you've come to value since you left but the thought of selling that house feels wrong, Clara. It doesn't feel right."
It didn't feel wrong. It felt somehow worse than wrong. It felt like a betrayal. She needed time to think, but dragging things out felt like a mistake...
"I... I don't know, Brady. I can't... It's just too soon to decide."
Brady shook his head, his expression and tone growing rather heated.
"Well we're going to have to come to an answer soon because we're sure as hell not--" He stopped himself, biting down on his lip to be sure he wouldn't say something he wouldn't be able to take back. He reminded himself that they were both grieving.
Brady let out a long sigh and leaned back into the booth. His rough hands came up and rubbed tiredly at the ache just resting behind his eyes. His next words were softer, but there was still distance there of course, and he leaned back in to look at her. "We don't have to come to a decision today."
"It's been awhile since you stepped foot in that house, just take some time and check it out before you go off... running again." He hadn't meant it that way, his choice of wording was just poor, but the moment it left Brady he knew he wouldn't be able to take it back. His eyes widened and he cleared his throat, a curse escaping him under his breath. "Maybe a visit'll change your mind, I mean."
Her cheeks blanched, before color bloomed in them, as she stared at him, both what was said and unsaid rocking her, down to her core. This was what she had expected, but somehow... hearing it was different.
Eyes burning, she blinked, "I can't... It's not like I can live there. Do you want it?" It occurred to her then that she had no real idea where Brady was living... Or anything about his life. She had avoided asking, after a while. It was just too hard to hear.
"...Do I want it?" Brady repeated as if he wasn't sure if he had heard it right the first time. A pause told him she was serious and he exhaled sharply. Brady leaned back, his arms coming to a cross.
"After everything that happened in that house I don't think I could stand it, frankly." He admitted, a lightness in his voice showing he had come to see the humor in how ironically things ended up. "Besides the old cabin is probably the best bet for Lucy and me."
Staring, a brow lifted at his words, "L...lucy? Oh. Oh, good. I'm glad you..." It hurt. Even thinking the words. It hurt, but she knew she had no right to feel that way, to hold them in, "I'm glad you've got someone."
Swallowing, she shifted, "Look, Brady... It's just a house. The memories? They're in the things... The stuff daddy kept. It doesn't make sense to keep it if there's no one living there... And I'm sure someone would buy it in a heart beat. Daddy would've ..." Pausing again, she lowered her eyes, picking at the edge of her nail, "He would've wanted someone to have it.."
"Not someone, Clara. The will says who he wanted to have it." Brady corrected, his stance remaining guarded despite the smile that threatened to come once he realized what she thought about Lucy. Perhaps he was being cruel but a little in the moment misguidance was hardly anything compared to what happened to them in his mind.
At that thought though his mind drifted back to the memories the house held, all those nights where he'd have to climb up the side of the porch and knock on her window, and he wondered if she thought back to those moments as much as he did. He sighed again, he had a feeling there would still be plenty more sighs to come.
"Look... either way both of us are going have to come by and check everything out. Figure what goes to who." Brady explained calmly, his gaze and thoughts returning to the moment at hand. "Just hold off on the decision until then. Enjoy your hometown, see some old friends. We might not be as exciting as the big city but there are still some good here if you look hard enough."
There was a hollowness to his words as he reached for his red ball cap. Brady slapped it on and gave her a little nod before sliding out of the booth. "I'll see you around, maybe at the county fair or something." He told her, stopping and turning back around after he had already walked a fair bit away from where she sat.
"Lucy is a border collie, by the way." He noted out loud, amusement in his tone before the ring of a bell signaled Brady Samsworth Ford had finally left the building.
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
As Brady left the dining hall, Clara hated herself for watching him walk away, the tears sparking behind her eyes again. It wasn't his fault he didn't understand... he couldn't see that she could never enjoy Willows Fair again. Even if she were able to reconnect with her old friends, even if they wanted anything to do with her, there were too many painful memories, too much that she had left unresolved. That she would never be able to resolve. Leaving him behind had been the hardest decision that she had ever made, and she could see how it hurt him, how it changed him. Maybe someday he would be able to look her in the eye, but she could never return the favor - not really. Not when everything about him, the way his voice sounded, the smell of him, every quirk, every second in his presence was utter agony. He had been her life, her heartbeat, her oxygen... and walking away had ruined her.
Eventually, she pulled herself up from the table, dried her cheeks and left the Bridge Club, heading back out to Bess. Climbing behind the wheel, she gripped the white leather tightly between her palms. The thrill was gone, the pure joy of being in the beautiful old vehicle sullied by the meeting. By the loss... She hadn't fully come to grips with her father's death, but she had never come to grips with losing Brady. She wasn't sure, really, she ever would
Arriving back at the Branches, she pulled Bess back into the shed, and locking the door behind her, made her way back to the hotel entrance. Inside, she found Mr. Potter in his usual spot, but gone was the pristine scene from that morning, of the man polishing his buttons with a happy, dopey grin on his wizened face. His cheeks patched red, he was glaring at a man on the other side of the counter, shaking his head fervently, "I'm tellin' you, son! I can't just give out information like that..."
"Leo...?" Stepping inside, the door swinging shut behind her, Clara stared in shock at the familiar face, as he turned towards her, flashing a bright white smile as if the fuming old man were merely a distraction, "Oh my God. What... what are you..."
"Oh, come on babe. I thought you got my message?" The smile faded a little, and he stepped away from the counter, "I called about the flight being delayed?"
"That... You were... You were coming here??" She balked, and her cheeks flushed with color as she stepped back.
"You know him, then?" Mr. Potter asked, but she hardly heard the man.
"Yeah. I figured... I mean. When you told me you were going home for a while, I just thought, you know... you'd wanna be together. I tried to get here earlier, but you know how it is with Marco..." His agent was notorious for keeping to a schedule, and while Leo could hardly be faulted for that, there had definitely been no indication when she'd spoken to him that she wanted the company. In truth, there could be nothing she wanted less. Her lives, merging together in the worse possible ways...
"Leo... I..." Pinching the bridge of her nose, she sighed, "I appreciate you coming. But you really should have asked."
"No, babe. It's cool. I had the time off, you know? And I didn't want you going through this alone." Stepping forward, he reached out and cupped her arms, and closing her eyes, Clara shook her head.
"I wanted to be alone, Leo. To process."
"Process? Aw, Clar... You know you're no good at that stuff. Alone, especially. Look. It's not big, okay? I'm here, we'll get the rest sorted later. Come on..." Reaching for her hand, he grinned, "Come upstairs and I'll help you process something worth--"
Tugging her hand away, Clara frowned, "...Not a good time, Leo. Mr. Potter... could you please set him up with another room? For the night." Her eyes moved pointedly to Leo, the frown deepening, "I need to do this alone, Leo. Okay? Just... please." And brushing past him, leaving him staring in her wake, Clara headed for the staircase faster than was necessary.
Things did not improve upon reaching her room, however. Stepping inside, she nearly kicked the manila folder across the floor, the contents scattering, and on top of the pile, she could see it... the photograph. Her father lay on a metal slab table, a grisly scar running the length of his chest. His skin held a deeply pale hue, nearly blue, his eyes closed, a piece of thick surgical tape across each lid. And across the picture, in bright red ink read the words 'ALL LIES. READ THE REPORT'.
Her legs nearly caved at the sight, and with her heart pounding, she twisted and raced for the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before the vomit rose in her throat. Several minutes and an entire hotel bottle of mouthwash later, she sat on the edge of the bed, and nursing another 50ml of Jack, she dialed the familiar number to the Willows Fair police department.
The levity he felt, the petty joy he got from teasing the woman who had deserted him, it faded into something worse than nothingness the moment the bell rung, the moment his boots stepped out onto the faded welcome mat waiting right outside. The effect came in waves and only seemed to worsen as he made his way back towards his old rusted truck.
Brady found himself with a heaviness in chest, guilt on his conscience and affected completely and entirely by a profound sadness.
If he said the thought of turning back and apologizing didn't occur to him right then he would be lying. But Brady didn't turn around. Brady didn't run back inside to tell Clara that despite everything that had went down between them he had been happy to hear her voice again, and that there was a time in his life where he never thought he would... and it nearly killed him. Indeed, all Brady did was slide behind the driver's seat, sigh and get immediately spooked by the ring of his cell.
Samantha Reiner appeared on the caller ID and Brady couldn't help but have a bittersweet laugh at the timing. The Ford man took a moment to steady himself, taking a series of deep breaths and staring back at himself in the rear view mirror for a second before answering. He cleared his throat. "Hey, what's up Sam?"
"Morning. How'd the meeting with the lawyer go?" She replied, a familiar sort of drudgery to her tone that indicated she had yet to get her morning fix of caffeine.
"Oh, well you know... as good as you'd expect when Clara came in walking right behind him." He replied nonchalantly. For a moment she seemed content to answer him with silence. Brady had thought she gone and hung up when her voice came through the static once again.
"I'm really sorry to hear that, Brady." Samantha told him. There was another pause as it seemed like she had more to say.
"Alright Sam, what's wrong really?" Brady insisted when it became apparent she couldn't bring herself to tell him. He heard the woman mutter a curse and a faint smile found him. Samantha sighed and Brady ignited the engine of his truck. Wherever she was he was ready to go meet her... lord knew he could use the distraction.
"There's nothing wrong, exactly. Just something... big. Something you need to come in to the station for." Sam finally admitted and though Brady was about to protest her shortly, he pulled out of the driveway and started heading downtown to the department.
"I'm off duty Reiner. Grieving." Brady quipped, Samantha laughing wearily over the phone in response.
"One thing is way more related to the other than you might think." She warned him before the sound of the phone dial told him she was serious about coming in to figure out what was going on. Brady shook his head and pressed the inside of his cheek with his tongue, the old blue truck revving into life as he picked up speed.
Ten minutes later Brady Ford arrived at the Willows Fair Police Department. He was a little more than just skeptical as he saw Samantha waiting there alone for him at the top of the steps. Her pretty blonde hair was tied into a messy up do and the bags underneath her green eyes swelled ever so slightly now that the sheriff was gone. There was no one around so Brady didn't hesitate to steal a kiss from her the moment they met.
She was the one to pull away and with the wag of her finger she led him inside the station. Passing through a lobby and a hallway both police officers came to a commonplace for their coworkers, the Pit, they called it because of the way the room sunk into the ground where all the desks were lined up. Samantha pointed at Brady's desk at the far end--just off to the right of the late Sheriff's which sat neatly in the center. "I was waiting for you to tell me the lawyer broke the news to you back on the phone there."
"Oh? The news that Clara and I are both the owners of Thomas' home?" Brady asked with wide eyes. Samantha looked at him with an even more confused expression. Brady quickly realize he had slipped up.
"No that's not uh... what I was talking about." Samantha was quick to rectify and Brady was grateful that she didn't pry any further into his troubled business. The both of them came to his desk where a fancy envelope had been laid to rest. Brady looked at her expectantly as she continued. "He came by here earlier, the lawyer. Nearly scared Lorenzo to death when he walked in and woke him up at the desk in fact."
"Read the letter. Looks like you'll be very, very busy from now on." Samantha suggested with a smile. Brady was still confused as to where this was going but he did as instructed--walking around over to his chair and tearing the fancy paper open. He was greeted by fine print and as he slowly made his way down the page the more shocked he became.
"There's no way... even if it was Thomas. You can't just do that, right?" Brady asked, dumbfounded as his closed fist hit the desk along with the paper. Samantha's smile only widened before she filled the room with her warm laughter. Brady stood up and rounded back to her, smiling himself. "I'm being serious Sam, damn it!"
"Yes. He had everything set up in his will as a just in case." Samantha revealed. "You read everything right. I am now officially sleeping with my boss."
Brady's laughter rivaled hers and he took the woman in his arms and swung her around. For a moment the happiness of such a promotion let him forget everything that had went wrong but a phone call across the room cut the moment short. Still laughing, he set Reiner down and moved over to answer it.
Brady looked over at Sam with pride in his eyes and cleared his throat before bringing the receiver to his ears. He spoke up happily and enthusiastically.
"Good morning! This is newly appointed Willows Fair Sheriff... whaddya need?"
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
The phone clicked and the voice came over the receiver, but through the pounding in her ears, she almost didn't hear him, recognize him. Almost. She wanted to hung up... The warm, almost chipper sound to his voice, the memories that flooded in over every nervous phonecall when they were dating. The last phonecall they had, when she called to tell him she was heading home, before the storm got worse. It got worse, alright.
She almost hung up, but a glance to the papers scattered acrose the hotel room floor was a reminder even she could not ignore.
"Brady?" Taking a breath, she gripped the phone tighter, "It... It's Clara. Could someone come to the Branches? Room two-oh-eight. I think... That is... Someone just sent me my dad's autopsy file..."
The wide smile that had taken Brady's face first transitioned into confusion and then finally, concern. He cleared his throat again, shifting weight onto on leg as his mind took in what she was telling him. Without hesitation he snapped a finger Sam's way.
"Reiner get a head start to the Branches, I'll be right behind you." He told her, the blonde nodding in response and hurrying off. With that settled he turned his attention back to Clara and did his best to soothe her. He had no idea what was going on, but he planned on figuring it out.
"I got my partner riding out there alright, Clara? She's on the way. I'll follow in a sec I just... just give me your number so I can keep you on the line and make sure you stay okay while I drive over."
He scrambled across the closet desk, looking for a pen and a stickypad as he held the receiver between his ear and shoulder. "You said they sent Thomas' autopsy file? Am I hearing that right?"
Sucking in a breath, Clara stared at the folder, the scattered contents like a broken jigsaw puzzle, glaring up at her, "Yeah. It... it was slipped under the door. The..." Her eyes shifted to the photograph, to the red ink splashed across the surface, "The pictures... They wrote on them."
After reciting her cell number, tears blurring her vision, she hung up and rose from the bed. Eventually, after wearing a groove in the floor pacing back and forth, she moved, crouching by the folder, tentatively reaching out a hand, which she snapped back a moment later, folding in her lap.
"Shit... Clara, I'm sorry. I'll get over there as fast as I can. We'll figure this out, we'll figure this out." Brady reassured her, apologizing for the curse subconsciously as he wrote down both the woman's number and what details he could on the pad before him.
Whatever was happening it was wrong and sick, he knew that much. He didn't have to be there and see the pictures to feel that in his gut. Still, as promised Brady ran back out of the station himself and jumped into his old truck. He rung her as soon as he could and tilted his head once again so he could keep both hands on the wheel.
"Hey, hey!" He began when she picked up, a little more frantic than he would have liked, but Brady continued on anyways. "Is Officer Reiner there yet? I'm just about ten-ish minutes out. I'm real close."
Answering the second time had been nearly impossible, but as Brady's voice filled the speaker, his concern felt, even through the phone, she relaxed back against the mattress behind her, letting her eyes fall closed.
"Mr. Potter probably has her trapped down in the lobby..." She said, quietly, "Could... could you just stay on the phone till someone gets here? They knew, Brady... which room was mine. Whoever did this. They knew."
Buck Potter wouldn't even give her room number to a man claiming to be her boyfriend, so there weren't many ways a person could have figured out which room was hers, unless they had been watching. But why...? What was their reason?
"Mr. Potter has always been a stubborn son of a... ahem. Good man though, good man." Brady began, a lightness in his voice though he was quick to catch himself before another curse. Old habits died hard, it seemed. "I'll stay one the line until you can hear me from the other side of the door."
He was always a bit of a bumbler in the face of uncomfortable situations, just another aspect of him that had made him more rough-around-the-edges than the full out Willows Fair golden boy they'd prefer him to be. He didn't acknowledge her theory with his words but the thought left a worry in him even as the truck pulled into the driveway of the old hotel.
Stepping out of his truck and running inside, he wasn't surprised to see Samantha indeed held up by the old man behind the desk. Brady flashed a smile but considering his reputation and the woman at hand... well he had a better idea than taking the time try and explain things fully.
"I'm here, Clara. Mind telling Buck Potter that you called for me? You know he gets with privacy of his guests..." Brady explained quietly into his phone, just a hint of impatience in his tone before he spoke up to greet the man.
She didn't deserve it. His good-natured kindness. She didn't deserve one second of it. Officer or not, Brady had been hurt by her in a way that, had their roles been reversed, she never would have, or even could have forgiven. For him to stay on the line with her, to hold her attention... without a note of irony or irritation, it was awe inspiring, and made the feeling in her gut worse than ever before.
She wanted to tell him. Desperately, she wanted to tell him. But she couldn't. Not now, not ever. He had to believe what he thought was the truth - he had to trust it. Otherwise, she'd ruin him all over again.
Turning her full attention back to the phone, Clara rose from the floor at the mention of Buck, and nodded, "It's okay, Mr. Potter. You can let them up."
Brady did something akin to a 'I told you so' face as he pulled his phone away from Buck's ear. Perhaps not the most the professional thing to do as the new sheriff of Willows Fair but these people knew him, indeed they knew him all too well. He had no doubt that the coming days many people were going to come to question Thomas' decision. Hell, maybe even Brady himself.
The old man, gruff and protective as always, gave him a nod and with Clara's permission, finally, a number. Thanking him as he turned away Brady made a quick line for the stairs. Samantha followed after him.
"I'm coming up, Clara. I'll be there in a hot minute." He told her, staying true to his word right as he entered the hallway of the second floor and right as he approached her door. Brady's knock was soft but his expression was urgent. Samantha stood beside him, a similar sort of uneasiness in her eyes.
Clara wrenched open the door almost before Brady's hand connected. For a second, a split second there was an urge... Almost instinctive, to throw herself into the man's arms, but reality crashed in with blessed swiftness and instead, she stepped back, gesturing to the pages on the floor, before moving away, resuming her pacing.
"Thanks for coming. I... I didn't touch anything. Not after I kicked it. In case there are any prints."
"Hey... good. I came as fast as I could just uh... Reiner here and I will try and see if we can get this sorted. I'm real sorry, Clara." Brady said after a moment of pause. The newly appointed sheriff let out a breath as he moved past his ex-wife and into her hotel room. The folder was there almost immediately and he could make out the pictures from where he stood at the doorway but his focus couldn't help but remain on the woman behind him.
He turned around, motioning Samantha over to check out the stolen autopsy report before speaking up to ask Clara a question. "Whatever we figure out, you probably shouldn't stay here at the hotel... you got somewhere else you could sleep tonight?"
He meant to mention the house the both of them had ironically just acquired but thought it was to soon, and considering what she just went through walking in on something like that well... Brady was treading carefully even if delicacy was never his his strong suit.
She'd been afraid of the question, frankly... one she had asked herself a thousand time before they had arrived. The hotel was a beloved staple to Willows, and she adored Mr. Potter, but if someone had found her and slipped something beneath the door...
The question was, why? What was the purpose? To be cruel? To make her question her presence there? Was it even a crime, really? To deliver a folder to an unwitting person...?
Shaking her head, she looked to Brady again, "...Tim left this afternoon. And Cait... she..." Frowning, she lowered her gaze, "She's at the hospital in Birmingham all week."
In a different time, in a different world Brady would not have hesitated a second to offer his cabin as refuge, but he knew that was a little more than a pipe dream. He found that reality was harsher than that, more uncomfortable and never what you imagine during those nights where you can't sleep.
Those nights Brady imagined having built up a home for himself, having his Clara and their children filling the halls with liveliness.
Now all he had was a fear of looking her in those damn eyes, a dog, and some freak who managed to get his hands on autospy reports. Brady pinched the space between his eyes and shook his head.
"We'll figure something out." He told her, just like before on the phone. It was becoming repetitive and a part of him doubted his words, but he certainly had to try. For Thomas' sake if not hers. Brady motioned towards Sam.
"Reiner here is the greatest thing to happen to the department since your dad. Its probably you best stay clear for now." Brady advised after the clear of his throat. He looked back at Clara and noded towards the door. "You want me to walk you down to the lobby? I'm sure Buck Potter won't let anybody in if we ask nice enough."
Swallowing, uncertainty crept in at his offer. Being alone with him was a wildcard, and her emotions were already bubbling over. If she wasn't careful...
"Mr. Potter won't let anyone in without us ask-" Pausing, she looked to Brady, eyes widening, "Brady... Whoever did this had to get past Mr. Potter..."
Brady tilted his head to consider the thought. It was a possibility, true but there were still too many things to take into account before either of them started throwing theories around. So that's what he told her.
"As much as he likes to act like it, Mr. Potter isn't an all seeing desk man. Whoever did this could've slipped in when he was taking a break, or maybe he dozed off." Brady suggested, before shaking his head and waving her concern off with his hand. "We'll get all the questions going, all the paperwork written just like your father would have done."
He swallowed nearly reaching out to place his calloused hand on her shoulder out of habit. "You just gotta take a step back and get some air." His eyes drifted over his shoulder to look at the folder of autopsy pictures once more.
"This... this is a shock to everyone."
Breathing in sharply, fighting the urge to argue, Clara nodded. He was right. It wasn't her place. They were the police and better equipped to handle the questions. Reaching up to dry her eyes, she nodded, "Yeah... I could use some air..."
But as she turned to leave the room, she narrowly avoided barreling into the chest of a familiar face, "Ah! There you are baby. I've been looking everywhere for you room. That creepy geezer downstairs still wouldn't gimme the number. Can we talk? You seem-" Lookong past her, he frowned, "Having a party?"
Grimacing, Clara stepped back, "It's not a good time, Leo."
Willows Fair was a small town. Everyone knew everyone, everyone looked like... well, everyone. So when a stranger showed up it was usually quite the sight as they tended to look out of place and sure as hell the man that appeared before them was not from the parts. Baby. Leo. Brady had long lost claim to Clara, she made sure of that, but that didn't change the way his chest tightened or how his hands curled to a fist.
"Police investigation actually, pretty boy." Brady said from over Clara's head. The renaissance man leaned over and extended a hand out of courtesy. He put on a polite smile. "I'm the sheriff. Pleasure to meet you."
Rules and regulation would have told Brady to send him a way immediately and Clara with him. The way Samantha paused to look back at them reminded him of that, but Brady Ford allowed himself a moment of weakness.
"Heck... Police?" Reaching out, Leo grasped the hand and shook it, hos eyes shifting to Clara with a small frown, "You okay? Clar?"
"I'm alright, Leo..." She offered, picking at the edge of her fingernail, "But you really should go back to your room, okay? I'll... I'll stop by later."
Nodding, he leaned in and Clara turned her cheek to meet his lips, lowering her gaze as her skin flushed. She didn't owe anyone an explanation, but the heat of the eyes on her in that moment seared her soul. She felt dizzy... Weighed down by the torment of her dad, lifeless on the floor, by thd emptiness of her stomach, the Jack, churning up again... Leo wandered off, oblivious, but Clara gripped the doorframe with a shaky hand, steadying herself.
Brady's brow might've twitched slightly at the sight of the kiss. Nobody saw it though so as far as he was concerned it never happened. The newly appointed sheriff cleared his throat as this Leo walked off and was quick to react the moment Clara stumbled.
He didn't touch her however, just moved in case he would have to. Brady's hand wavered just inches from her and he found himself in a rather uncomfortable situation. Samantha was still watching but he could hear her as she stood up to search the rest of of the room.
Were they in any other situation really, Brady would have made a side comment about Leo and his rather sharp mind but instead he spoke a little softer as he hesitated to move closer. "C'mon Clara let's get you downstairs and onto a seat. Have you eaten?"
Slowly, Clara shook her head as she glanced back at him, frowning softly, "Haven't had much of an appetite."
Clara loved food. Even as a model, it had been the one thing she had never been willing to give up, entirely. Good, hearty comfort food. But it had been a long time since she'd had anything quite like home... Yet with her father, and then meeting Brady again, all thoughts of digging in to biscuits and gravy had fled, indefinitely.
Digging her claws out of the doorframe, she stepped forward, woozy, but determined.
At least the big city hadn't been a damper on that stubborn head of hers, Brady thought with a bit of a bittersweet feeling. The sheriff trailed her out into the hallway, making their way slowly down the staircase afterwards. Buck Potter stirred in his seat the sight of them but from behind Clara, Brady rose a hand to tell the desk man that he had it handled.
Brady directed his old love to the cough and suddenly found himself without words. It was not a comfortable silence that settled in between them, not like those nights where they'd go stargazing and halfway through just stop talking, indeed it was an unesasy silence that took over.
He knew he ought to return upstairs and help Samantha but for reasons both obvious and unobvious to him, Brady couldn't bring himself to stand. Finally, he spoke up and even then it was with caution... he said earlier it was too early but the silence was almost too much to bear.
"Maybe you could stay at your father's house?" He suggested, though technically according to Tim Patrick it was their house now. Brady shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat beside her. "I know it'd be a little weird but..."
As she sank onto the couch, Clara looked up at him with a soft frown. Her instinct was to say no. To tell him there was no way she was going to stay there - least of all alone. The memories in that house were enough to haunt her on their own, but knowing it was the last place her father had been, before...
Biting on the inside of her cheek, she looked down at her hands, "Maybe. I dunno..." Glancing up again, she shrugged, "I wasn't planning on being here that long, but... but if something shady's going on with my dad's... with all this." Picking a stray fuzz from the skirt of her sundress, she sighed, "It's a big house to be alone in..." She continued, smiling faintly, even when her eyes misted over, "Don't happen to have a border collie with a suspiciously feminine name you wanna loan out, do you?"
"Suspiciously feminine? She's a girl, Clara. Girl dogs have girl names." Brady laughed warmly, more relieved than he would ever openly admit to see the making of a smile on her lips. The thought made him laugh again and he turned away in thought, his hand coming to rub the undercut of his jaw.
"Lucy loves about everyone." Maybe you should come by and see her sometime. Brady caught himself and with a sigh, sat a little straighter in his seat. The smile that found him wavered, but didn't fade completely. "I mean it wouldn't be the first time she spent a few nights in that house."
Indeed both Lucy and Brady had spent a few evenings there after Clara had left him. Mostly nights where he got incredibly drunk and was out there causing ruckus. The late sheriff would wrangle him and his best girl up and set them somewhere he could keep an eye on him.
"It... it's up to you." She continued, chewing nervously on her lip. She had expected it to be different... the way Brady handled her. She'd expected just a little more animosity. The bitterness had been there, in the diner, but here, it felt different... It felt almost like old times.
"But it would be nice not to be there on my own. And I could start working on... on packing things up." Breathing out, she turned her eyes away, "Oh, heck. I... I didn't expect any of this." Rubbing her forehead, she sank into the couch, swallowing hard against the knot forming in her throat, "I don't... I can't... This is insane."
Packing things up. Brady acknowledged those three words with the passing of his smile and a nod. His arms crossed together over his chest and a long sigh escaped him. He thought back to the folder just upstairs, the pictures, the red letters. Willows Fair was a lot of things but never quite insane. This was something they hadn't dealt with before.
His attention drifting back to Clara as she seemed to shrink into her side of the couch, a frown found him. Brady stood up, motioning her to follow in suit. "C'mon Clara. We'll go pick up Lucy and get the both of you settled. Just try and let Sam and I handle all the bull...crap."
Looking up at him, she blinked, before nodding slowly, pulling herself to her feet. It was almost too much... the little nuances. Those things that he did, that were so pointedly for her. She nearly wanted to tell him to stop. To remind him that it wasn't right for him to care that way, anymore... that it wasn't fair to himself.
"Listen, Brady..." Picking at her nail, she took a breath, weighing her words with caution, "Thank you. For doing this. I... I know that I'm probably the last person in the world you wanna be dealing with right now, and I just... I appreciate it." Breathing out, her eyes rolling to the ceiling to fight the stinging behind them, she shook her head, "Anyway... Let's go."
"Yeah, well what can you do." Brady muttered, smiling at the sentiment but ultimately offering little more than that. He said his farewells to Potter and trusting Reiner to do her job, lead Clara back outside and to the old truck. They had a lot of old memories in that beat up rust bucket and suddenly Brady didn't feel like talking much at all.
So that's what he did. He slipped inside and was quick to turn on the radio to some soft rock station. Once Clara was in he wasted no time, driving through main street, downtown and eventually out of town. They went uphill, his old cabin a project he had started to keep his mind off of the very woman beside him.
Soon enough the dirt road evened out and they were both treated to the sight of his small cottage. He built it up by hand alongside his brothers, until a drunken outrage left him in awkward spot with family of course. It was wo stories but hardly imposing, indeed it seemed nestled naturally between all the trees rather than forcefully taking up the space. Three windows at the front, a small balcony at the top and right as he expected his best girl waiting for him on the deck.
"There she is. The girl of the hour." Brady joked lightly, considering for a moment inviting Clara inside before realizing just how bad of an idea that was. "Feel free to step out and get acquainted... I just need to go in and grab my badge. Wasn't planning on reporting in for work today."
Being the truck had been hard enough... the memories that flooded in. Every time she was with Brady, her mind was filled to the bring with them, but in that truck, it was like taking a time machine back to the past.
But as they pulled up outside of the cabin... his cabin, she felt her stomach twist into knots at the sight of it. He had talked as long as she'd known him, about owning one. Building it from the ground up, and after they'd gotten married, it was meant to be their dream together. Their cabin in the woods, the kids racing around in the woods behind... A life full of laughter and warmth and beauty.
Her breath escaped, as she stared at the unfinished addition... and she wondered in her mind who it was meant for, tears burning behind her eyes, threatening to spill over.
Graciously, he slipped out quickly enough that she could brush them away, and as she followed him, she looked up at the border collie with a bright smile, "She is stunning, Brady... Absolutely stunning." Moving to the porch, Clara sank onto one of the steps, patting the space beside her to welcome the door, "C'mere, girl..."
"She's a charmer. Lazy charmer at that." Brady mused lightly, stepping past the two of them and into his home shortly. He kept his badge and gun on his night stand and the man quickly jogged up to grab them. He paused once he saw the empty bottle of booze next to them, frowning, before grabbing what he needed and coming back outside.
His eyes drifted to Lucy who had, naturally, taken a quick liking to Clara. The sight was enough to hit him with a pang of sadness. In another world, he thought... in another time. Brady cleared his throat to bring the attention back to him and with a small smile he nodded towards the car.
"Let's get going, yeah?'
"Charming doesn't half cover it..." Clara added, when Brady had returned. Her fingers nearly vanished in the thick collie ruff. She gave Lucy one last scratch, before rising to her feet.
In another life... This would be home.
"Ready." She nodded, and made her way back to the truck, eager to get away from the memories... From the thoughts of what could have been.
Brady went around to the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate. For a few minutes he did his best to try and coerce the lovable but lazy collie into the back but later resorted to just heaving her up and over. After making sure everything was secure he slipped right back into the driver seat and said very little, offering her the smallest of smiles before pulling out and away from his home.
The drive back down the hill was quiet, even with the radio playing in the background and soon enough it reached a point where Brady simply had to find something to talk about. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek in thought, before a clear of throat began his question.
"So... how's everything uh...hm." Suddenly he regretted he ever opened his big mouth. His eyes widened and he made a face not unlike his dopey baby girl waiting patiently in the back. "...How's the big city, I mean? That guy back at the Branches he's your...?"
It was brutal, the small talk... and not just because the subject he chose was the absolute last thing she wanted to discuss. Not just because her annoyance with Leo hadn't quite faded to a point where she could discuss him amiably.
Frowning softly, she picked at the edge of her nail, "It's been good. A little slow, since I retired." Glancing over at him, she bit the edge of her lip, trying to gauge something in his face, anything that indicated he was happy... satisfied with his life. That he had moved on and left her in the past.
"Leo? Yeah. We... we've been together a few months. I don't think it's serious, though. He's a nice guy, but..." But he wasn't Brady, "But he's busy. Shelf life for a male model is a lot longer than us girls. What... what about you? How've things been?"
"That's... that's good." Was it good? Was it really? Or was Brady just trying to keep the flow of conversation going in hopes of avoiding a pause that was only more revealing than awkward. Brady cleared his throat, he was beginning to realize he always did when he was nervous, and shifted uncomfortably as the questions turned to him.
"Me? Well..." Brady drifted off longer than he would like. It wasn't because he found conversation with Clara hard however, indeed it was actually the opposite. He had to pause to stop himself from sharing what he was probably better of not sharing. His drunkard days for example or even Samantha.
"I got a home and I got my best girl Lucy so I can't complain." He answered, a cop out, but an answer all the same. The truck pulled into town and it wasn't long before they found the neighborhood where Clara had grown up and where they had spent a great deal of time falling in love. He frowned.
"My partner is a good cop and a good woman." Brady admitted, maybe as retribution for Leo or maybe because he was an idiot. The man entertained both ideas fully. "I was going to try and make things official with her by going out for the country fair together. Maybe... Leo would like something like that too, er--while he's here I mean."
The news hit her harder than she expected, though Clara showed no indication of it, but a slight widening of her eyes. His partner... She had seen the woman briefly, before leaving. She was pretty, and seemed focused... diligent.
It wasn't fair to hate her, but a small part of Clara couldn't help it. She had no ties to Brady anymore, no claim on him, except for a piece of paper that neither of them had bothered to have altered... and a ring she kept on a chain around her neck, that she would wear until the day she left the earth. And the painful knot in her heart that formed every time she looked at him...
But beyond that, he was free to date whomever he wanted, and she couldn't exactly claim innocence in that matter, either. Leo wasn't the love of her life. He had been a fun distraction from years of heartache, but that was all... and while she cared for him, she could never love him the way she did Brady.
"...That's..." Awful. Terrible. Heartbreaking? "That's nice, Brady. I'm glad... She seems..." Boring. Repressed. Unattentive? "Nice. I'm happy for you."
Biting her lip, she looked out the window, "I'm not sure Leo's staying. I wasn't actually aware he was coming, but I guess he wanted to show support. I dunno how long I'm even staying... but I guess with what's going on with Dad..."
"Thanks Clara." Brady responded calmly, though he was honestly anything but. The storm of emotions within him only grew in her presence and he found himself feeling increasingly... angry? No it was close but not quite it. He could see her turn away from his peripherals but Brady's eyes remained trained on the road. It was easier to control himself that way.
"You shouldn't be so quick to leave. Now that your father..." Brady drifted off again, his mind racking to find the right words. "Now that he's gone, well there's not exactly a lot to bring you back." The beat up truck pulled into her old neighborhood, they were nearly done with this damned interaction.
"All I'm saying is just make sure that when you leave," Again, he considered adding but for now it only remained in his mind. "Make sure that you are leaving, having buried everything that needs to be buried." The truck lulled to a stop, Brady couldn't bring himself to glance at the house or the girl. He cleared his throat, perhaps the last time that day, and stared at the curve of the wheel.
Brady sighed. "I'll be seeing you."
She deserved it... those words. But that didn't make them hurt any less. Her eyes stung as the truck idled by the curb and putting her hand on the door, she breathed in, not daring to look at him for fear of a complete break down.
Reaching up, she brushed the ring beneath the collar of her sundress, and a frown touched her lips, "Thanks, Brady... For the ride." Pushing the door open, she slid out, but paused before her feet touched the pavement outside of the familiar sight of her family home. Everything remained the same, from the white pillars, with chipped paint that lined the corners of the wrap around porch, to the black shutters, to the bright green willows that flanked her walkway, the branches drooped, dragging the ground. The wrought iron fence waited, swinging in the light breeze, and Clara could feel her chest tightened as she stared at it. Eerie... it was decidedly eerie, how empty it all looked.
She didn't want to go inside, but she didn't dare as Brady for help. Not after his parting words. Looking to the truck bed, she patted her hip for Lucy, "C'mon, girl... help me out, huh?"
Brady felt the weight against his truck lift twice in the following moments. The first was Clara and with it came a heavinesss on him, the man pushed himself deeper into the seat of his truck only exhaling when the door closed shut. The second time was Lucy and with a bittersweet tug at his chest he watched as the collie hopped out and walked Clara inside rather than him.
Brady's head came back down to rest against the wheel with another labored breath. He couldn't help but think about all the fantasies he had of them reuniting. He was an idiot, an idiot who hoped for things that were simply not meant to be. The man pushed himself up and brought the engine of the truck back to life.
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
She did not believe in ghosts. Clara Ford did not believe in spectral beings from the afterlife, left in torment after an unfulfilled destiny. She did not believe in haunted houses that creaked and moaned with the spirits of the doomed. But the walls of her family's home held phantoms, all the same. Clara turned to watch as Brady drove away, not at all inclined to rush inside. She stood on the front porch afterwards for twenty solid minutes, until Lucy gave up her curious sniffing and found herself a spot to curl up on the porch swing that overlooked Summer Street. With a great yawn, the border collie stretched wide across the cushion, deep brown eyes falling closed in canine indifference. And still, Clara could not bring herself to enter.
In a planter by the door, a fake stone held a spare key. Fishing it out, Clara held the piece of metal in her palm, the coolness of it like a memory against her skin. So many nights, sneaking out, running off with Brady to their Willow behind the Branches. They would throw pillows in the bed of his truck and lay out under the stars until the sky turned pale and racing home, she would dig the key out, tiptoe her way back to her bedroom. It occurred to her in later years that her father had put the key there on purpose. He always had a way of knowing that he couldn't rein her in with rules and regulations. It was his trust in her that kept her on the level. Maybe it was that trust, that trust that had been broken, that haunted her so much.
Fingers trembling, she turned to the door and inserted the key in the lock, giving a twist. The lock clicked and the door swung open with a creak, and Lucy's eyes cracked lazily. Disinterested in anything but the warm sun and fresh breeze, the collie yawned again, and turned away.
"Traitor…" Clara mumbled, before stepping inside. Habitually, her hand found the by switch the door and flicked on the foyer lights, bathing the all too familiar room in a pale yellow glow. Nothing had changed. Not one piece of furniture, not one picture on the wall, even the rug, with its frayed edges and the small burn mark, where a candle had fallen from the entryway table was exactly the way she had left it. Tears burned behind her eyelids, and Clara leaned against the door frame, a weight on her chest as her lungs tightened. Even the smell, of wood and dust, was home to her after all this time. Patting her legs, she called for Lucy, and with a groan, the collie leapt down from the swing and came to her side.
She heard the term time warp, used to describe moments… never before had it seemed such an accurate description. But then, Thomas Oakley was a magnificently sentimental man, and change never came easy to him. Frozen in place, Clara gaped around her, memories swirling to life like falling into a pensieve, until Lucy's cool, wet nose brushed her palm and looking down at the dog, she nodded, closing the door behind her.
With effort, she made it as far as the kitchen, and after some investigation, found a fully stocked pantry and fridge, as well as a package of dog food cans in the corner cabinet. Filling a silver bowl with water, she managed to set it out and get a can opened and dished into a second bowl, before the flood dams broke. Dropping to the kitchen table, she watched through a torrent of silent tears as Lucy devoured her meal in three quick bites, licking her chops with a greedy whine. The collie sidled closer, nudged her head beneath the table to rest her muzzle on Clara's lap and with a wry laugh, Clara gave her a pat.
"Pull it together. I know…" But she couldn't, and she didn't. Not through the remainder of the day or even into the night. After a freezer meal of lasagna, she lay down on the couch, not daring to go upstairs and with a great deal of tossing and turning, she eventually drifted off. Morning came soon thereafter, dawning hot and bright. Sweat clung to the back of Clara's neck, and sitting up, she pinched the bridge of her nose, not at all surprised to find a headache blooming behind her eyes.
Reluctantly, she rolled off the couch and fighting the urge to burst into tears again, she rose to stand. Lucy's head popped up from the chair she occupied, but with a deep yawn, her eyes sank closed again. On her own, Clara picked her way back to the foyer, and with her breath held, she climbed the stairs to the second floor. The house was built in the early nineteen hundreds, but was maintained with such loving care that even settling had been minor. No creaks followed her upwards, and at the landing, she eyed the three doors along the short, narrow hallway. A bathroom and two bedrooms… the left her own, the right her father's Cait was the one who found him, unconscious and unresponsive on the bedroom floor. By the time the medical response team arrived, he was gone. The bedroom door remained closed, and moving swiftly, Clara passed it, slipping into the bathroom.
After a quick shower, she wrapped a towel around herself and crossed the hallway to her old room. Stepping inside, she blinked, stared… As with the rest of the home, time had not touched the space. A canopy bed sat up against one wall, hung in soft white lace, with a purple duvet and far too many pillows. A white dresser sat opposite this, a mirror above it and beside the mirror, several antique frames, surrounding pressed, preserved flowers. Dust clung to the dried petals, and reaching out, Clara gingerly brushed a cobweb from the lavender, shaking her head.
In the drawers, she found clothes still neatly folded and rifling through, she pulled out a pair of jeans and a tank top, as well as undergarments, grateful for the first time in a long time that her size had not changed since high school. Dressed, hair tugged back into a ponytail, she grabbed her phone and returned to the stairs to find Lucy waiting by the front door and letting the collie out, she followed her into the warm sunshine.
She sank onto the porch swing, watching Lucy bound across the front lawn after a pair of mourning doves, until a few minutes later, her phone buzzed with a new message. An unfamiliar voice, drawling and dull, informed her that she was needed as soon as possible at the station. With a sigh, Clara rose and returned to the house for her purse and Lucy's leash.
It was a six block walked from Summer Street to the precinct, but pleasant, with a gentle breeze. No doubt later in the afternoon, the sun would reach the boiling point, the sort of weather that was no good for anything but hiding in the shade of the wrap-around with a jar of sweet tea and a newspaper fan. The idea sounded oddly appealing to Clara, but then, anything would have been more appealing than the current course of action. Outside of the precinct, she tied Lucy securely to the base of a dogwood tree, and giving her a scratch on the head, went inside.
At the desk, a short, white-haired woman sat, leafing through a magazine. She glanced up and beamed brightly, flashing a red-lipstick-stained smile, "As I live and breath. Clara Oakley…"
Chuckling dryly, Clara shook her head, "Hello, Mrs. Meadows. I got a call saying they had some--"
"Questions. Yes, yes. Oh, sweetheart. I am so sorry about all this. Whatever sick son of a you-know-what left that folder in your room? OH… bless their heart. Anyway. Sheriff Ford said to send you right back when you got here. Ooh… Sheriff Ford, but my doesn't that sound just so peachy." Rising, slower than a snail in molasses, the woman made for the dutch door beside her desk, gesturing Clara down the hallway she knew all too well. Memories struck like a hammer to an anvil and swallowing, Clara nodded.
"Thank you, Mrs. Meadows. I can find it from here." Giving the old woman a smile, she turned, but as her feet shuffled down the recognized path, her heart gave a painful throb in her chest, and breathing in sharply, she paused. Gently, a hand wrapped around her elbow and Clara turned to see another startlingly familiar face looking down at her.
"...I gotcha…" Nicodemus Welsh looked utterly the same as the day she last saw him, and it took every ounce of energy in her not to slap his hand away as she narrowed her eyes up at him, "Easy, Killer. I know. I know…" Chuckling, he guided her forward anyway, and reluctantly, Clara continued.
"...Don't tell me you work here, too?" Clara muttered, with a small scowl.
"Past eight years. Your dad got me the job, after things didn't pan out so well at Dad's shop. Apparently, I'm not so mechanically inclined as everyone expected me to be." He smiled, and Clara's eye narrowed, the expression fading at her glower, "Look, Clara… I know you're still pissed, but…"
"You have no idea what I am, Nick. But now isn't a good time."
"So when is…?"
"When is what?"
"A good time?"
With a sigh, Clara shook her head, but her disposition collapsed, as anxiety won out over anger, "I don't know. Just… let me get through this right now, okay?"
"Sure thing…" Pausing, he gestured to a door, smiling reassuringly, "Right through here. They're already inside, waiting. Good luck, Clara."
Releasing her arm, he turned away and Clara grimaced as she watched him retreat. It wasn't just the Summer Street house… the whole damn town was haunted. Breathing in, she twisted back to the door and with a knock, stepped inside.
Now Brady Samsworth Ford completely intended to report into work that day, after all he had even taken the time to swipe up his badge and gun from the cabin before driving Clara back to her old family home, but as his truck lulled to a stop at the end of Summer Street he found himself faced with a decision. His truck glaringly empty now that he had dropped off both his ex-wife and his best girl, Brady's fingers tapped erratically on the surface of his wheel as he fought with himself in his mind.
Brady cursed loudly a moment later, pushing against the wheel and rattling this truck before he turned opposite to the precinct, finding himself driving south to an old favorite of his. It was a solid ten minutes before the old corner drugstore came into view, the red bricks just as faded as the last time he had made the trip to this part of town. Willows Fair was a beautiful and the people seemed sweet, but everyone knew the further south you drove the worse people got at keeping up the facade.
The south side was the exact definition of seedy and Brady spent a good few years prowling these streets--both as a drunkard and a cop on patrol. The blue rust bucket came to a harsh stop and Brady stepped out a moment later, slamming the door shut behind him. He came to the metal gate that encased the door, and upon finding it locked down, wandered off to the side and began knocking on windows.
It was a good ten minutes when an awfully skinny red-head appeared to greet him from the other side. Her hair was wiry and her face dotted with freckles, Lora Richards. Another high school mutual between Brady and Clara, except instead of tight tank tops she wore long baggy sweaters in order to hide all the track marks on her arms. Richard's, the only drugstore where he could reliably get alcohol without too much judgment, belonged to their family.
"Let me in, Lora." Brady shouted but only so his voice could carry through the glass. Lora looked confused for a moment but quickly caught on. She rushed out of view and Brady wandered back around to the front. He arrived just in time, the metal screeching as she opened up once more, frighteningly pale when she was out in the sunlight.
"We're closed Brady what the hell are you doing here?" Lora asked. From what he could tell she was not wearing anything besides the heavy sweater. "The sheriff's been in the grave for what? A day? And you are already out here trying to get your hand on some drink?" Brady's eyebrow twitched at the comment but he kept his cool.
"I'm the sheriff now, Lora." Brady noted with a hint of annoyance.
"No shit." The redhead replied.
"Look--I literally just came from dropping Clara off at her house. I need something to take off the edge." Brady shot right back, an intensity in his voice that clearly took Lora back. The drugstore owner seemed to shrink for a moment underneath the newly appointed sheriff's demanding tone. Noticing her reaction, Brady sighed and softened up before continuing. "Come on Lora. Just do me a solid. You know I'm good for it." Lora bit down on the bottom of her lips as her arms came to a cross before, without a word, she turned and stepped back inside--holding the door open and closing it behind him once he entered.
The next morning, Brady woke up to the sound of his heart throbbing in his head. He was sprawled out on his bed back in the cabin, naked, but not surprised by the outcome. An empty of bottle of whiskey sat next to the one from the funeral on his nightstand. His badge and gun rested there again as well. At least he was coherent enough to do that, he supposed. Either way, Brady was quick to get up but even faster to regret that decision.
Brady found his phone and was greeted by a list of missed calls and a string of texts from Sam. She was not happy. Squinting to read the tiny little words, Brady came to learn that Sam had to cover for him never coming on back to the precinct and that she had a feeling she knew exactly where he had been instead. It was enough to bring Brady to sigh again, everything was incredibly messy, but the last text was enough to cut right through the hangover and send him straight into concern.
She was going to interview Clara.
Meanwhile at the precinct, Lieutenant Samantha Reiner sat in a small little office dressed in her typical uniform of slacks a button up and suspenders. Her badge hung from her belt as well as her gun. In one hand was a mug of hot coffee and the other a report her green eyes scanned with jarring efficiency. Back when Thomas was around he'd always joke that she was smarter and faster than the rest of the squad combined.
Underneath her stern facade was worry though. Worry for the case involving the sheriff and the hotel room, worried about the coming interview with her lover's ex-wife, worried about Brady disappearing yesterday to go drink his sorrows away. Perhaps it wasn't her place to meddle, they weren't committed to each other or anything, but that didn't settle her feelings.
A knock on the door signaled Clara's arrival and while it was enough to make Samantha pause, the blonde was quick to recover, taking a sip of the sobering bitterness before watching the door swing open coolly. Her eyes landed on the woman that had broken Brady's heart and Samantha forced a professional smile. She cast away the report and motioned towards the table.
"Good morning, Mrs. Ford." Samantha said. "Please, take a seat."
Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
As she opened the door, Clara's heart sank to her knees at the sight of the woman on the other side. She recognized her immediately, and Brady's words returned, blossoming in her mind like a Venus fly trap, ready to spring. His partner in more ways than one. The other woman.
It wasn't fair, Clara knew, to judge the woman… Or Brady for that matter. She had left, run away for nearly a decade and if Brady had found someone new, it was only fair. Clara had Leo, and the string of meaningless faces before his. Nevermind they weren't properly divorced… they had both moved forward. Moved on. At least in appearances, anyway.
But that didn't stop the ugly jealousy that swelled at the sight of the blonde, sitting rigid and professional in her slacks and blouse, looking like something off the set of Law and Order. That didn't stop Clara from wanting to turn and storm out. The only thing that rooted her in place was the notion that this was about her father… that there was someone playing games around a tragedy, and they needed to get to the bottom of it, fast.
"Good morning…" Clara repeated to the woman, nodding as she approached the chair on the opposite side of the table. As a girl she had always been fascinated by the interview rooms, like something off a movie set. Good cop and bad cop, shrieking at their suspect. Emotions high and stakes higher. Now it just felt cold and empty and sad.
"Please. Call me Clara. You had some questions for me?"
"Good morning, Clara and I'm glad to finally meet you under… better circumstances." Samantha began, pausing only to stop herself from using the word proper. After all, a funeral and later on a hotel room following nothing short of an emotional attack were hardly anything that could be considered proper. Sam cleared her throat and extended her hand out as she continued the introductions.
"I am Lieutenant Samantha Reiner. I'm a good friend of Brady and I like to think that your father thought just as highly of me as I did him when he was still with us." Sam began politely. "I do have some questions and I know that this can't be an easy time for you so let's begin with something super simple."
Her green eyes drifted to the mug to the right of them, The World's Best Cop bluntly written across its surface. It was funnier back when Brady had gifted it to her but now she knew it must seem a little superfluous now. Samantha's gaze came back to meet Clara's and she smiled once more. "How do you take your coffee?"
The question threw her, and blinking, Clara looked to the woman with a curious eye, before a soft, nervous laugh escaped, "I just spent way too much time trying to figure out how that was relevant to my dad… Sorry. I haven't been sleeping well. Two sugars and just a splash of cream." Her dad, she knew, took it black and the face he would've made at her order was ingrained in Clara's memory like a photograph.
"Brady mentioned you…" She continued, warily treading the subject, "When he dropped me off yesterday. Said you two had been partners for a while, now. Can… can I ask… How is he? I know you're probably thinking I have no right to know. I just… he didn't seem…" Frowning, she shifted, "Ah. Nevermind. It's probably better we just stick to what happened at the hotel."
Samantha's smile grew faintly as Clara finally responded, turning and throwing a look towards the one way mirror a moment after. It was a tactic, a gentle reminder that as nice as the lieutenant was being, this was a real interrogation room. Everything they were saying was being documented. She turned back and her calm demeanor faltered slightly as soon as Brady Ford's name came up in the conversation.
"He's good but considering the both of you are from here and I moved here from Florida roughly six years ago I'm sure that the Bradys we know are quite different." Samantha replied, ignoring Clara's dismissal until those words had finally parted from her. The lieutenant cleared her throat and sat a little straighter as she reorganized the contents of the manila folder between them.
"Alright Clara. Let's start with the very basics. We both know what was in the folder but you were the very first one to be shown it. What exactly happened when you entered the room?
Clara's eyes fell to the folder and her jaw tensed as she bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn't see them now, through the manilla cover, but in her mind the image would not fade, her father on the cold metal table, an empty vessel of the man she desperately loved and missed… splayed cruelly on her floor, a victim of a cruel prank. Drumming it to memory… and with the news that Brady wasn't the man she'd left behind either. It was nearly impossible to contain the emotions boiling to the surface inside her.
"I came back to the hotel. My… my boyfriend surprised me at the desk. I wasn't in much of a mood to talk, so I went upstairs and when I opened the door, it was there, slid underneath, I guess. I kicked it open and the photographs slid out and after I read what was written, I called the station."
Samantha resisted the urge to quirk a brow at the mentioning of a boyfriend. The lieutenant recalled seeing a man approach the scene and found sense in the way that Brady's body language shifted at the sight of him. Interesting. Beyond that though Sam took in the rest of the information with an attentive ear and wasted no time as she continued as steady as ever.
"How often did you and your father communicate before he passed?" She asked.
"Once a week…" Clara noted, "Usually over the phone. Sometimes Skype. I emailed him a lot, too. Mostly we talked about how things were going back here… He'd ask about my work. The last time we talked was a few days before…" Swallowing, she lowered her gaze, "I had just retired, and we talked about him coming to the city for Christmas."
"Ah. I could tell from the way that he talked about you that you two remained close even after… it all." Samantha nodded, catching her words before they treaded anywhere beyond her boundaries as always. The lieutenant was quick to move on. "In any of those weekly chats did he ever disclose anything about feeling uncomfortable or unsafe? Did your father have any enemies that you know of?"
Blinking, she straightened, her lips turning down in a frown, "No. I mean… there's always tension. It's a small town, and his daughter's sort of the big screw up. So there's been some rough patches. And being sheriff, I'm sure he's got a few people who aren't his biggest fan. But I wouldn't say he had enemies."
Samantha nodded once more and looked to continuing her line of questioning when the door opened. A meek young man appeared on the other side, the way his uniform wore him rather than the other way around indicative of the amount of time he spent in it. The lieutenant shot him a strong look but he wordlessly defended himself by showing the cup of coffee he had for Clara. Her face softened and she nodded him, waiting for him to then leave before picking up right where they started.
"Do you have any enemies? Both new and old?"
Thanking the young man and taking the coffee, Clara turned back to Samantha, smiling a little dryly, "You mean aside from Brady?" It was a joke, however, and shaking her head, she shrugged, "I wouldn't call myself famous in my industry, but I guess I've made an impact for some people. There have been one or two crazy fans… I don't think any of them could have done this. I never talked about Willows… The only people who know I'm from here are the people who live here."
Samantha only offered a quick, nearly feelingless smile. "Are you sure nobody from here would let it slip that you came from such a small town before making it big in the city?" The lieutenant shifted before repeating the other woman's words with her smile growing more coy than anything. "I mean, aside from Brady of course."
"It's possible…" Frowning, Clara took a sip from the mug, curling her fingers around the porcelain, her nails tapping against it, "But what would be the point? Just to upset me? I'm pretty wrecked as it is… I don't really understand the motive of making me see something like that. And why the note? What does it even mean?"
Taking another sip, her eyes trailed to the folder, and anxiously, she gestured to it, "...Could I…?"
Only then did Samantha's eyebrow finally quirk. She normally thought of the expression she was making and of the expression she was going to make when it came to interviews and interrogations, but the request caught her off guard. The lieutenant took a sip from her own mug.
"Could you what? Look at the pictures again?" Samantha replied, the surprising nature taking precedence over everything else that the other woman had said for the moment.
Shaking her head, Clara sat back a little, "I just… I feel like I'm missing something. I think whoever did this, they did it because they wanted me to see something. Something obvious. I think they expected me to look, and maybe I should have."
The lieutenant mirrored the movement with her head. "Forgive me, Clara but I truly don't think that is the best idea--" Samantha was interrupted again, however, as the door swung open. She wasn't sure what she was expecting but it certainly wasn't Brady up early in his own office uniform. The surprise she felt faded quickly as her mind connected all the dots. Suddenly, it made all the sense why he'd bite through what she could only guess was an intense hangover in order to join their meeting.
"Good morning, Sheriff Ford." Samantha grinned before anyone else could say anything. Her green eyes drifted to his midsection which was dressed in a slightly wrinkled white button up before her attentioned seemed to return to the situation at hand. "Glad you could join us. Make sure to button the one you missed before you sit down." The lieutenant cracked a grin and Brady cursed quietly under his breath as he did as instructed.
He fell into his seat, grimacing at the movement but recovering all the same. Brady shot a look around the room and couldn't bring himself to smile genuinely. Instead he opted for a polite and very, very slow tilt of his head. "Good morning, Reiner."
"Good morning, Clara."
Clara studied him, perhaps more intently than she meant to, and a small frown creased her brow, before she nodded, "Brady…"
He had never been fully put together. Even after they were married, there was a haphazard nature to Brady that had been slightly endearing, but ultimately undeniable. She joked many times with her father over the phone that he would have hated life in the city, with all the polished, pristine people, glittering in their expensive suits and even more expensive smiles. But this disheveled man before her wasn't her Brady… there was something in the way Samantha looked at him, something in the uncomfortable nature of his expression…
Her gaze returning to the folder, she bit the edge of her lip, "Look, Lieutenant… I know you probably think you're protecting me from something. And I get that. I know what's in the folder. And I don't want to see it… but if someone is trying to hurt me, through my dad… I need to understand why." Meeting the woman's eyes, she shrugged, "If it's a legal issue, I get it and I won't push. But if you're just trying to spare my feelings? It's okay. I… I can handle it."
"Huh. I realize that I came in at a very awkward time." Brady murmured, readjusting himself so he might look a little more fitting of his title as newly appointed sheriff. He took a moment to rub his eyes, which no doubt still ached through the painkillers, and Samantha took that time to answer Clara.
"It's both." The lieutenant admitted. "Regardless, this isn't a full on interrogation, just a round of questions and even if you are his daughter I'm afraid neither me or Brady can let you get anymore involved in the investigation than you already are." The sole man in the interview room shifted, his glance always seeming to jump between both women but this time it landed pointedly on Clara with a sigh.
"She's telling the truth, Clar." He told her, shaking his head softly. Even if he was hungover at the very least he was quick to acclimate himself to the situation. "Whatever is happening, it's bad and while it is in our best interests to catch whoever did this, we have to prioritize the safety of those that we still can."
Samantha glanced in his direction momentarily, assessing if he was in a suitable state for work and deciding rather quickly that he was not. From this close she could see the red in the corner of his eyes. She turned to Clara. "Would you like to take a break?"
"Hang on…" Her eyes danced between the two, before falling back to the folder on the table, and frowning, Clara shifted, straightening in her chair, "Do… do you think there's something more to this than just a bad joke?" Turning to Brady, she frowned, "...Why are you worried about my safety? What's going on…?"
Samantha let Brady take the reigns with an aptly timed look. The sheriff paused and seemed to mull over what was the correct amount to say. Brady sighed, running his hand through a headful of brown hair that had yet to fully dry. The sheriff began his answer with a small nod.
"Reiner here believes that there may have been foul play involved, with Thomas' passing. Now I'll be the first to admit that I've yet to fully review all of her findings, I was a little… preoccupied after I dropped you off yesterday… but I know that Samantha wouldn't have told me if there was any chance otherwise."
With a heaviness in his chest and both in and behind his eyes, Brady finally concluded.
Clara's breath caught on those words, and for a moment she sat in silence as the weight of them piled down on her. Beyond the strangeness of the folder being placed in her room, she had never imagined it went deeper than a poorly timed, cruel prank. But she should have seen it in the questions she was being asked, should have seen it in the way Samantha had guarded the folder so intently.
"Oh my God…" She whispered, finally, and setting down her mug, which rattled against the metal table, she slid her chair back, rising to her feet, "Wh… why? What… what are you…" Looking to Brady, fighting back a scourge of tears, she shook her head, "I don't understand…"
Both the lieutenant and the sheriff stood up as Clara did. Samantha kept a calm, collected expression but Brady couldn't help but glow of his concern. It was the truth, yeah… but that didn't make it all the more terrible to say out loud. The sheriff's fists balled against the surface of the table between them and he resisted the urge to go to her side.
"It's… a lot,, I know and you don't have to understand, at least not right now. All you need to know is that we will try our damndest to get to the bottom of this." Brady began his voice low and nearly cautious. The last thing he wanted was to upset her anymore.
"We'll be letting you go now." He said.
"There are still some more questions, Brady--" Samantha was quick to interject.
"No. We're done for today. Sheriff's orders." Brady countered, both police officers taking another moment to stare each other down. Samantha remained adamant as ever but Brady, even with the dulled throb in the back of his head, matched her. The lieutenant opened her mouth to argue but closed it shortly afterwards, letting out a breath as she turned back and nodded towards the door.
"Thank you for your time, Clara. The sheriff speaks for the whole office when he says how determined we are to get everything sorted." She noted politely. "You may go."
Looking between the two, reaching up to cup the small metal band beneath her shirt like a grounding rod, she shook her head, "N..no. I'm… I want to help. What questions? Brady… please. I need to…" Her eyes flickered to Sam and she moved, sinking back into her seat, "What questions?"
Brady knew full and well that he was putting Samantha into an uncomfortable situation with the look that he shot her in that moment. It was a decision, a decision between two people who knew how to be stubborn. The lieutenant shifted and a moment later, her mind was made. Sam chose Clara. She sat back down and Brady chose to do the same, albeit angrily.
"There's really just one that I need to ask before you should go." Samantha began, clearing her throat as her eyes moved from the woman, to the sheriff, and then back. "Do you think there is anyway that your father was targeted as a way to bring you back to town? After all… there must be a reason why they chose to slip the folder into your exact room."
It was bad enough, hearing the woman suggest that her father had been murdered in the first place. But hearing her ask if there was a chance that the motive for it had been to bring Clara home? Her breath came in a shudder as she looked down, focused on the folder, and swallowing hard, she shook her head.
"I… I don't know. I don't understand why anyone would…" The coffee in her stomach rolled, churned and rising again, she turned, distracted, towards the door, "I'm sorry. I just… I need some air…"
Moving swiftly, her fingers clamped around the handle and she tugged, but the door remained fixed and she jiggled it, growing more and more frantic as panic rose along her throat, burning and acidic.
Samantha remained sitting while Brady quickly stood up. Instinct took over and the sheriff went to the one way mirror, knocking on it strongly before nodding towards the door. "Clara? Clara, just calm down." The sheriff began, moving over to her and placing a firm hand on her shoulder. It was the first time they had touched since, and he paused at the thought before giving her a small little squeeze. "It's alright, Clar. It's alright… just stop and breathe for a second okay?"
Breathing sharply, Clara spun and without a word, threw herself at Brady, her arms winding around his waist as her face burrowed into his wrinkled button down. And for a moment, she clung, not caring how inappropriate it might have been, not caring that Brady's girlfriend… or.. whatever Samantha was was standing only a few feet away… not caring about anything but the undeniable truth that there was no one… absolutely no one who could comfort her more than the man before her.
Brady's entire form was flooded with warmth at her touch and like a second before, he could not help but pause at the interaction. It only took him a second or so to adjust, to figure out how he wanted to go about the situation, and he decided that he no longer cared as well. His hand left her shoulder and moved to wrap his arm around the width of her body securely, bringing her closer to his chest as he buried his head into her hair. The sheriff closed his eyes and suddenly the rest of the world no longer mattered. Samantha, the betrayal, none of it. Not a single damn thing.
All that mattered was the touch he had been denied for so long and that sweet, sweet smell of apple.
But Brady knew, with a rapidly growing sadness in his heart, that this embrace could not last.
And Clara knew it, too. Even if she couldn't possibly know what Brady was thinking, in her mind, she understood that it wasn't right, holding on to him when she had walked away. She had left. And he had moved on, and she had to respect that.
Her arms unwound from his waist, as she took in a deep breath, and reaching up to brush the edge of her eyes dry, shook her head, taking a small step back, "I don't… I don't know how to process this, Brady. I just… got used to the idea that he's gone. But this? No... No, I can't… Why would someone…?"
The door opened, finally, as the disheveled little man from earlier arrived again, and she turned towards it, "...I just need some air." She repeated and turning, she moved through it, heading swiftly down the hallway, back in the direction she had come from. Ignoring Mrs. Meadow's soft and oblivious farewell, she poured out of the precinct and made it down the steps before she lost it completely, collapsing in the grass with a sob, only a little ways from where Lucy had been tied to the dogwoods.
The warmth of her body faded rapidly and Brady's frown grew heavier as a result. He had reached for Clara as she stormed out but stopped himself, growing increasingly frustrated at how conflicted he felt. Samantha cleared her throat and he turned back to her, unsure what to say. The frown on the lieutenant's lips was faint but telling as she nodded towards the hallway.
"Make sure she's okay, sheriff." Samantha sighed and Brady knew without a doubt that he did not deserve her. He nodded and still lost for words he chased after Clara. He ran down the hall, through the lobby, and found her outside the precinct in the grass. He nearly tripped on the way down the steps but came to her side all the same.
People were beginning to look and in the back of his mind Brady knew that this would be the talk of the town for the next few days to come. Him and Clara. "Clar? Clar… come on. We should get you home where you can grieve properly." He explained, his voice low and quieted as his hand found the plane of her shoulder once more.
She couldn't look up. She knew it was Brady, even before he'd spoken, but she couldn't look at him. The tears wouldn't stop, despite her every effort, and her chest, agonizingly tight filtered every breath too quickly, too painfully. Shuddering, she tipped her chin down, shaking her head, "He didn't deserve this, Brady… He didn't…"
"Yeah, Clara… I know. I know." Brady breathed, his grip on her fading but only so he could wrap her up in his arms one more time. He shook his head, he learned the news over the phone during the drive over when he called Samantha. He hadn't had the time to react properly.
Seeing Clara the way she was did not help him keep up a strong front. His frown heavier than before, he cradled the woman, rocking her lightly right outside of the police precinct. Onlookers gathered but none tried to approach the both of them fully. They would whisper, Brady was certain but the only thing he was concerned for at that moment was Clara. The gossip mill would simply have to wait.
She could see them… over Brady's shoulder, she could see the gawking, staring, whispering. Her entire life she had been the subject of gossiping hens, and she was over it. They never grieved, she and Brady. They never got the chance, because so much was expected of them. And she was tired of it.
Looking at him finally, she sniffed, shook her head, "Take me home, B… I don't wanna be here, anymore."
Brady said very little at her response. She may have left but he still knew her well enough to know exactly what she was feeling in that moment. With a nod and a small huff, he lifted her with one arm wrapped under her back and the other supporting the back of her knees. It was a way of holding her he was all too familiar with. Brady brought her to the truck and settled her in quietly before returning for Lucy. The old border collie seemed all to aware of the tragedy of the situation. He got his best girl in the back and for the second time that week he joined Clara at the front of his old truck.
Hearing her call him B again hit him with a pang of hurt and the sheriff slowly pulled out and away from the precinct. His hands gripped the wheel, perhaps a little too tightly, and he sighed.
