Our Private Traps

by aprivatetrap

Chapter One: The Golden Summer

"I think that we're all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out. We scratch and we claw, but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch."

- Norman Bates, Psycho

The streets were thick with ash and dust. Reminded me of those precarious few days after St. Helens blew, the Pacific Northwest swallowed whole in a thick gray pall. But White Pine Bay suffered through the acts of man, not God, as each day brought a new field to burn, distributors to arrest, dealers to bring down.

Some things never changed. The DEA's arrival thee months earlier had done little to dissuade the small-time farmers from setting up shop, and my deputies pursued them with a ferocity bordering on unhinged glee. They frequently tripled their monthly arrest quotas, and my office was littered with bottles of expensive whiskey courtesy the local officials.

Sleep was precious and seldom to be found, but the days passed quickly, busy enough to keep my attention on the job. Dangerous to let it wander; activity was my friend, something I discovered early on in life, when the blistering fights shook the walls of my home and I fled to the nearest park for a pickup game. So long as you kept moving, never allowed yourself to grow stagnant, you could stay ahead of whatever black hole pursued you.

And coffee. Coffee helped, too.

Blue Moon Diner, the town's hub of morning activity, remained open and brightly lit as ever, despite the external gloom. Too early for much of a crowd, only a handful of diners sat in the red leather booths, silent but for the occasional rustle of a newspaper or stray wisp of conversation.

"Howdy, honey," Marge, the sixty-something bespectacled waitress chirped. "Your usual today?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "But let's double down on that coffee."

"Sure thing, baby. You sit yourself down and I'll be right out." Marge bustled her way back into the kitchen. I found the nearest booth and slid into it.

Seven-thirty in the morning and already exhausted. Not unpleasant, exactly, but I'd begun to notice the shadows underlining my eyes as of late. I ran a hand over my face, hit more stubble than I preferred—I'd forgotten to shave last night—and sighed. Special Agent Babbitt was in my office daily, volleying questions about my father or the old town families or Bob Paris; questions I did my best to answer but frequently couldn't. That was how you played the game in this town: you tried your damnedest to set things on the straight and narrow, and wedged in whatever lies would encourage safe passage.

It'd grown harder as the years passed. Too many people with their hands in too many pots. Too many faces to keep track of, names to remember, fields to burn, bodies to toss in the water. I'd sworn to myself I'd never be like him, the man that raised me. But here I was, forty-seven, resembling him more and more each passing day. Each new line carved into my face a mocking reminder of all that I never wanted to be, and my latest sin hanging over my head, a ghost come to rattle chains.

"Here you go, honey," Marge said, placing a large platter of eggs, bacon and sausage in front of me. "Fried eggs, extra crispy on the edges. Just how you like it, yeah? She flashed a toothy gin, patting my shoulder with an obnoxiously-manicured hand, the nails impossibly long and done up in some sort of neon pink cheetah print. "Same order every day for thirty-five years."

"Old habits die hard, Marge," I said. I smiled, happy enough to indulge her, despite my mood. She'd been a beautiful twenty-something when I'd first stumbled into the diner as a kid, covered in scrapes and dirt and just looking for a place to sit in silence for a while. Didn't let my empty pockets deter her, just sat me down in a booth, asked me if I was alright, and brought me a stack of pancakes. "On the house," she'd said. "Just because you got a nice smile, honey." Never mind that I hadn't smiled at all, hadn't so much as made eye contact.

"Always been such a stubborn boy. Even when you were just a tiny little thing."

"I was never that tiny."

"All arms and legs and bones. And—" she trailed off, unblinking, the shadow of a memory sliding across her face.

Bruises. That was the word she was looking for. Obviously thought better of it. But it was there, nonetheless, I could see it plainly on her face. Close enough to pity that it made me want to shift under her gaze, loosen my collar.

Instead I nodded, a silent acknowledgment of share memories, and the unpleasant gifts of a father loaded down with too much power. And too much goddamn bourbon.

"This'll do just fine, Marge. Thanks." I picked up my fork, stabbed a soft mound of eggs. Let it hover close to my mouth in what I hoped was the universal sign for 'conversation over.'

"Sure, honey." She patted my shoulder again, her lined face a mixture of sympathy, affection, distraction. The door chimed as a couple walked in, and she glanced up. "Be right with you folks." She turned back to me and smiled. "You finish your plate, you hear? Always were such a skinny little thing," she said, more to herself than me. Then she was off, bustling away with a flourish only the obliviously young or the glamorously aged could muster.

Fond of her as I was, I was relieved to have silence. Had only wanted to eat in peace, and now I finally had the chance. Another hour before work, and no obligations to speak of. I tucked into my food quickly, neither savoring nor rushing, and washed it down with three cups of coffee. Marge, bless her, managed to refill my mug twice without giving into the temptation of rambling conversation, for which I was grateful.

I gave the meal a few minutes to settle, then got up to pay my bill.

"You sure you don't want a piece of pie, sweetheart?" Marge asked. She worked the register carefully, obviously not wanting to damage a nail.

"It's not even eight in the morning."

"Never stopped me." She patted a fleshy hip. "Why else would my husband stay after all these years? Girls these days," she said, and she fluttered her fingers in the air dramatically, "…always trying to be skinny, you know, never eating, only ask me for a glass of water with lemon and an egg white omelet. Who the Hell eats egg white omelets?"

"Couldn't say," I said. Gentle annoyance began to creep in, and I did my best to resist a sigh.

"Tastes like plastic with a side of cardboard. I mean, what's the point of eating eggs without the yolks? And water with lemon? Good God, at least have a cup of coffee. That caffeine gets the brain going, you know."

"I've heard."

"Maybe that's the problem! Poor things need brain-juice, you know, gotta rev up those neurons. Poor darlings are just too stupid to eat."

"That's probably it, Marge," I said, my tone more abrupt than I'd intended.

"Tiny little things, bracelets practically fall off their wrists. Never gonna keep a husband that way," she said.

Standing at the register for nearly five minutes, and keenly aware of the two people behind me softly chuckling, I'd officially reached the end of my patience.

"Marge, I've got work in a matter of minutes." A lie, though she'd have no way of knowing. "Think we could speed this up a bit?"

"Hm?" Marge glanced up at me, eyes wide. "Oh, sure. Sure, baby," she said. Big smile, lashes heavy with mascara batting at me. Her most charming expression, and one I knew she reserved for the moments she was silently calling you an asshole. After what seemed like an eternity she slid my credit card over the counter towards me. "There you go, honey. Have a good one, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure," I said. I slid my card back into my wallet and turned to go. "You take care, Marge."

"Oh! I forgot to tell you," she said. My hand was already on the doorknob, so close to the freedom and blissful quiet of my SUV. Still, I turned just enough to throw a glance her way. "You'll never guess who's back in town."

"Who?"

"Amelia Paris. You remember her?"

I felt the air go out of my lungs immediately. Fought to keep my face still.

"Bob's little sister?" My voice had an evenness that surprised me.

"That's the one! I thought you'd remember her. She was always following you two around like a little puppy. Such a sweet little thing. Hear she's staying at that motel over on Redcrest Avenue."

"I suppose she was," I said. I turned to go once more. "Thanks for telling me, Marge."

"No problem, honey."

A flash of long, golden brown hair. Skinny legs racing to catch up. The high, tinkling voice of a little girl eager to play, and large green eyes watering when rebuffed.

Amelia Paris. The unexpected gift of her parents' later years, she'd barely hit ten when Bob and I were running around chasing girls, playing ball, trying to score a bottle of beer or a joint from the faceless college kids sprawled in the park on weekends. Enough of an age gap that we'd found her cute, even amusing, as opposed to irritating.

Forever running after us, asking to play or tag along on what she decided was grand adventure and we had labeled the agony of post-high school boredom. We tolerated her, entertained her for a moment, and then sent her on her way, pretending to ignore the slump of disappointed shoulders and the muffled tears. No doubt we'd been preoccupied with other pursuits at the time.

And then later, when those once skinny legs were long, fleshed out, and I'd done my best to avoid looking at her. Failed. Not that we'd ever been social. But far too many run-ins at the diner or grocery store had left me with a painful awareness of just how unbearably full her breasts were. How her hair smelled like flowers I couldn't identify. And how sweetly she said my name, even though I'd constantly asked her to refer to me as Deputy Romero.

But that was years ago.

Before I had time to sink into that rabbit hole, my phone rang, startling me out of my reverie. I'd been idling in the diner parking lot for what must've been ten minutes, trying to sort my shit out.

"Romero."

"Alex? Yeah, it's Dylan. You close by?"

"I can be. Problem?"

"It's Norma. She's…" a long pause as he muffled the receiver with this hand, yelled something to someone in the background, though I couldn't make out what. "…she's sort of freaking out, and I don't know what to do."

I scuffed a hand over my jaw, squeezed my eyes shut. A dull ache started in my temples, moved down towards the back of my skull.

"It's probably best if you call someone else," I said. "I don't think Norma would appreciate me—"

"I don't know who else to call, and she's really upset," he said. Panic hitched his voice up an octave, though he was whispering. "I don't know what to do here, man. Can you please just come and talk to her?"

I leaned my head back against the seat, willing the pain in my skull to calm itself. She wouldn't listen to me, that's what he didn't understand. Not anymore.

Maybe she never did.

"Yeah, I'll be there in ten."

I hadn't seen the Bates Motel, or its proprietress, in nearly three months. It surprised me to see nothing much had changed, including the corded-off pit next to the parking lot. Although said parking lot was alarmingly empty, a mere three cars sitting in the gravel, one being Norma's Mercedes.

Dylan was already walking out to greet me when I put the SUV into park and climbed out. Some sort of commotion coming from the office. I crooked a brow at Dylan, who just looked pained.

"I don't know what's wrong with her. Something to do with one of the guests, she's freaking out."

"Yeah," I said. I already had a fair idea what the problem was. "I know."

"You know?" Dylan asked, incredulous. "How do you know?"

"Just let me talk to Norma." A loud crash from the office, followed by a panicked-looking Norman rushing out and up the stairs towards the house. "I take it she's in there?"

Dylan rolled his eyes, seemingly more exhausted then annoyed. "Where else would she be?"

"I'll deal with it," I said. Dylan nodded, turning to follow Norman into the house. I made my way into the office, pausing just long enough to check out the two unknown vehicles in the driveway. One a red minivan; most likely not the offender. The other, an ocean blue BMW convertible with the top still down, despite the rain, and a fresh coat of paint; very definitely the offender.

"Why are you here?" Norma asked. Barely had a chance to open the office door before she was glaring at me, ensconced behind the desk but quickly rising to her feet.

Short blond curls plastered to the side of her face—sweat or rain, I couldn't tell which—baby pink mouth curving down into a fierce scowl. For one single, stupid moment I'd hoped she'd see me and smile, offer me just the tiniest bit of her previous warmth and affection, but that had fled the night Bob Paris disappeared.

"Dylan called," I began. She snorted, put her hands on her hips. "Said you were upset about something, thought I'd come by and make sure everything was alright."

She glared at me for a long moment. Either uncomprehending or uncaring, mouth set hard. It hurt to look at her; a reminder of the walls we'd built, or maybe just failed to tear down.

"Well that's very kind of you, Sheriff." Words meant to hurt; they did. I felt a sharp pain in my ribs; refused to wince. Refused to show her a goddamned thing. When I didn't immediately respond, she rolled her eyes. "There's a girl here."

"That's good. Business has been slow lately, I've heard." Intentionally obtuse. Wanted to get a rise out of her, no matter how much I loathed it. I hated craving her attention, hated that even her anger thrilled me.

She narrowed her eyes at me, unblinking. But then something broke, the panic swept in. "Alex, her last name is Paris," she said, eyes wide. "Paris!"

"It's a common name," I said. Norma was right to be concerned, of that I had no doubt. But her bravado had faded so quickly, replaced by a fear I'd give anything to soothe. Even if I had to lie to do it.

"Not that common. Not in this town, there's no way. Do you know if he had a sister?" Norma, softened, glanced down, biting her bottom lip. "She has to be family, I know she's family. What if he told her everything about me and Norman?"

I'd never told her about that night. Not the about the gun, or the boat, or Paris rotting somewhere in the Bay. Like everyone in town, she believed he'd fled to avoid arrest, still equipped with the knowledge to bring her down down.

And she hated me for it.

"Let's not assume things, Norma."

"He's been gone three months. Probably on a beach in Thailand, tormenting hookers, drinking snake blood cocktails and yammering about me to anyone who will listen."

"Snake blood cocktails?" I asked.

Norma sighed, impatient. "I don't know, it was on the Discovery Channel. Something Norman was watching. I wasn't really paying attention. My point is—"

"I understand what your point is." The throbbing in the back of my skull had never fully eased, and this certainly wasn't helping. "I'll speak to her. Check her out, see what she's doing in town."

"You will?" Norma, ever hopeful, ever cautious, lighting up just the tiniest bit. A hint of a smile. "You promise?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. But she's a guest, Norma, not a suspect. Not a criminal," I said. I glanced back towards the blue BMW, felt my heart rate pick up a notch. "Let's not jump to conclusions."

"But I just—"

"Or overreact."

She glared at me, whatever affection or need had been brewing set aside in favor of annoyance. I turned my back, could feel her watching me as I walked down the porch. Could feel the silence of all the things we weren't saying filling up the ever-growing space between us.

Another wall we couldn't yet bring tumbling down.

"Alex Romero."

She reminded me of Autumn. The way the browning leaves still smelled like sunlight but the early sunset heralded the end of summer. The way each season put to bed the memories of the previous, and soothed whatever scars had accumulated.

Yet here she was. The scar, the memory, the goddamn Summer in all its golden, fragrant glory. The long-limbed fawn of a girl I remembered in youth made manifest in what appeared to be a chain-smoking (ashtray on the dresser, half-empty pack of Newports on the bedspread, what I assumed was the No Smoking sign turned face down on the bedside table) woman with a penchant for absurdest fiction (open suitcase on the floor; several books, the spines facing me: Heller, Camus, Kafka) and an unwavering gaze that, in the initial shock of nostalgia, made me vaguely uncomfortable.

"It's been a long time, Amelia."

"Years and years," she said, long fingers waving idly in the air. Her voice was still high, sweet, a girl's voice coming out of a very adult mouth. She'd thrown open the door when I'd knocked, ushered me inside without hesitation, as if we'd seen one another just yesterday. "This a social call?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Word spreads fast, huh?" An unlit cigarette dangled from her lip. She fumbled in her pocket for a lighter; didn't find one; frowned. "Surprised you found out so fast, though. How'd that happen, anyway?"

"You remember Marge?"

Amelia snorted, more amused than malicious. "Of course. Marge, God bless her. Nothing this town loves more than gossiping about old blood or old money."

"And you've got both," I said. I slid off my jacket and sat down in the chair next to the dresser. The old familiarity was there, a certain camaraderie that came too easily, even after so many years. Made me uneasy on some deep, unspoken level; I didn't like letting my guard down. "So, why the Hell are you staying here?"

"Come again?" Norma had poured her soul into renovating the motel, instilling it with an obvious warmth. But for all the fresh coffee and inviting quilts, it was still the last place I expected to find a Paris.

"Why aren't you staying in your family's house?"

"Bobby's house, you mean." Tone just slightly sour. She frowned, two delicate creases forming between her brows. Too late I recognized it as grief. "Bobby's empty house." Amelia Paris was, no doubt, the only person who would ever truly mourn him.

"Of course," I said, as gently as I could. "But it's your house too. If not there, why not one of the hotels in town?"

She shook her head slowly, avoided my eyes. Coming from the expansive wealth she was accustomed to, it was difficult to see her here, surrounded by the quaint. Hers was a bloodline built on grandeur, and though there was something about her that made her inherently other from the Paris clan, she nevertheless had the sort of casual high gloss that only the elite possessed.

"Does it matter?" She sat on the bed across from me, her weight making the mattress sag. "A room's a room, Alex. Not like I'm planning on moving back here, for God's sake"

"But why the Hell—"

"Old ghosts." She shrugged. Delicate sadness about her, something that only revealed itself in a certain slant of light. "It's an old, empty house, Alex. For all the renovations Bobby made after Mom and Daddy died, it's still the same old place, full of the same old shit I never much cared for and a whole Hell of a lot of memories I'd rather not stir up." She sighed, let herself fall back onto the bed, and I tried not to notice the curve of her waist. Tried to remain oblivious to the red polish on her toes, the length of her thighs. She had the unselfconscious ease of a child, though I couldn't tell if it was a product of our former acquaintance or merely a quirk of her nature. "If this isn't a social visit," she said, startling me out of my thoughts, "why're you here?" She propped herself up on her elbows to look at me.

"Jut checking up on you," I said. Her eyes narrowed, much the way Norma's had done earlier. But as she lacked Norma's transparency, I was unsure of the offense I'd just committed.

"Bobby's missing." The first flush of guilt hit me as she said it. Pulling the trigger hadn't been easy, but it felt right. This—lying to a woman who had so implicitly trusted me in her youth—felt like high treason.

"I know."

"Three months now."

"I was part of the search party." That was true. Once the town had realized Bob was missing, I'd been forced to file a missing person's report, pull together an investigation, drag the water, search the woods. For three days I'd roamed around with forty volunteers, braving the wind and rain with nothing but flashlights and plastic ponchos, calling for a man I knew was rapidly decomposing far off shore; thank the tides and the currents for that small miracle.

"You think he's dead?" Her voice was even. I remembered that from her youth; she had an unnerving calmness to her, something I could never quite pin down. She lacked the underhanded charm of her brother, had instead inherited a preternatural stillness that could make one extremely uncomfortable.

"It's possible," I said. "But knowing Bob the way I do, I'd wager he's on a beach somewhere." That pain again. Heat rising to my neck, a tightness in the throat. Lying had always been a requirement in this life, but it physically hurt to deceive her.

"Mm, probably drinking. Or whoring." She sat up quickly, an indulgent smile spreading across her face. "Or both. Bobby always had extravagant tastes."

"But you came here to look for him anyway?"

"Of course." She frowned again, mouth forming into a pout. Only she could be kind enough to to miss Bob. "He's a shit person, Alex, but he's still my brother." And when she smiled again, one shoulder rising in a lazy, sad shrug, the sort of resignation I'd seen all too frequently in my office, I wondered how much she really knew about her brother. Her family, for that matter. She had always been the Innocent, removed from their crimes; I wondered if the truth would set her free or set her on a path towards self-destruction. "And despite everything, he's a good brother."

"If I find anything, you'll be the first to know."

Amelia nodded, her expression a perfect blend of amused and bemused, just like it had been as a child. Like she knew whenever anyone lied to her, but chose not to say. Like she'd been wise to every demon creeping through the night since she'd left the cradle and, above it all, had let the mortals and the Gods continue playing their dangerous games.

"I'm sure I will be, Sheriff." She rose from the bed and moved towards the door. I was clearly being dismissed. "I'll be here for a few weeks. Don't hesitate to stop by."

I stood and stepped past her out onto the porch. "You take care, Miss Paris."

"Always do." And with that she shut the door, summer replaced by rain and the gray cloud-cover of smoke, nostalgia giving way to guilt, and that fucking headache still burrowing its way into the back of my skull.

Norma stood by my SUV, arms crossed, managing to look both annoyed and concerned. "Well?" she asked, as I approached,

"It's Bob's sister," I said. She hissed in a breath, and I rushed to continue. I was in no mood for one of her tirades. "But it's not a concern."

"How is it not a concern?" Norma asked, eyes wide, unbelieving. "The sister of a man who murdered two women, dug a giant pit in my driveway and has all the evidence to expose my son has just shown up in town and is now staying in my motel. That's, like, the very definition of 'a concern.'"

"She's just looking for her brother, Norma. Didn't so much as mention you when we spoke."

"I can't just have her staying here, Alex. For God's sake, it's not like she's a tourist looking for a cheap bed. She's probably as dangerous as her brother."

"Norma," I began. A warning. I rubbed my temple, squeezed my eyes shut for a brief moment. "You don't even know her."

"And you do?"

"Better than you. Look," I said, trying my damnedest to avoid raising my voice. Barely nine in the morning and already it'd been a long fucking day. "She's not like Bob. Never was apart of the family business. She's just a woman looking for her missing brother, like any of us would."

"That's not the point, Alex."

I sighed. Turned my back on her. Exhausted. Done. "Just take her money and leave her be. She won't bother you."

"But I don't get it," she said, her voice rising. "Why is she staying here, of all places? My motel? Why can't she stay in her brother's house?"

"Old ghosts, Norma."

And then she was quiet. I turned to look at her, my hand hovering on the door handle. She was beautifully, perfectly, tragically silent.

Norma, who had her own fair share of ghosts to contend with, could always be counted upon to honor someone's pain. An unspoken understanding that threaded through the veins of the wounded.

She nodded. I opened the door and hoisted myself into the cab. Ignored the driving urge to dash out, cup her face, kiss her tender wrists and collarbone and soft, trembling mouth.

Another brick secured in another goddamned wall.

Chapter Two: Heirs to the Kingdom

Seven days came and went at breakneck speed, a distraction for which I was grateful.

The DEA had uncovered yet another small-scale pot farm run by a group of college kids who trucked down from Portland. This was, in and of itself, no great surprise. But a bit of digging led to the discovery of a meth lab located directly beneath the shack they'd operated from, and the ensuing week had been buried in investigations, arrests, and paperwork.

The eighteen-hour days proved exhausting, but ultimately rewarding, and were made all the more bearable by the freshly stocked whiskey in my desk drawer.

I poured myself the first glass of the evening, though a glance at my watch confirmed that the night had long fled. 2:17 in the morning, and a hefty stack of reports to finish. But run by a skeleton crew, the station was quiet, a luxury only the earliest morning hours could provide. Even the domestic disputes and the publicly intoxicated slept thoroughly in holding, as opposed to bellowing at my deputies or demanding more comfortable lodging.

I took a long swallow of whiskey, the first taste of alcohol burning the back of my throat before settling into a pleasant warmth in my chest, and leaned my head back against my chair, eyes closed. Another sip would flood my veins with the sort of deep relaxation that only bio-chemical reactions could achieve. A third would make oxygen feel like extravagance instead of necessity. Once I reached that point, I could almost forget that I'd managed a mere twenty-six hours of sleep over the past one-hundred-sixty-eight, and return to work with something resembling a flicker of energy.

My cell rang just as I raised my glass for another sip. I let it hover an inch away from my mouth, a protest of annoyance, and flipped open my phone.

"Hello?"

"Have you heard from her?"

"Norma?"

"Of course it's Norma," she said, impatience threaded through every word. "Who else calls you this late at night?" Plenty of people, in point of fact, called me at all hours of the day and night. Part and parcel of being the Sheriff; your time never truly belonged to you. More relevant, she hadn't bothered to call me in over three months. But she charged ahead without giving me a chance to respond. "So, have you heard from her?"

"Norma," I said, and I could hear the sigh in my voice, the alcohol and the lack of sleep dulling my self-control. "It's late, and I'm tired." I set my glass down with enough force that, briefly, I worried about cracking the crystal.

"She was wandering around the parking lot all day, smoking and talking on her phone, and then she just left, and I haven't seen her for hours."

"Who?"

"That girl! Amelia Paris." Her voice was high, thrumming with nervousness. Reminded me of the tightly-wound catgut strings on my mother's old violin. I'd loved plucking at them as a child, listening to the distorted and vaguely alien sounds reverberate off her bedroom walls.

"So," I began, and bent to rest my forehead on my palm, "you called to inform me that one of your guests was smoking in your parking lot?"

"God, Alex, aren't you listening?" she asked. Annoyed with what she perceived as my obliviousness. "She was talking to someone on the phone, and then she got in her car and left."

"So?"

"So that was hours ago, and she hasn't been back since. I just thought—"

"You thought what, exactly?" I was not unaware of my tone, a clipped hardness I didn't care to shelter her from.

She sucked in a breath, a nigh imperceptible sound, as if struggling to ignore an insult. I felt a tiny stab of regret, though made no move to soften my approach.

"I just thought," she said, after a long moment of silence, "I thought maybe she came to see you. You know, to ask about me." When I didn't respond, she added, "because of, you know, Bob."

I raised my eyes to the ceiling, shook my head for the benefit of none but myself. "Norma, Amelia Paris is not in town because of you."

"But I—"

"She's here because her brother is missing," I continued, "because he's her only remaining family, and she's concerned for him."

"But she—"

"She hasn't come to see me. Not about you, or Norman. Or anything else, for that matter."

Silence, save for Norma's breath, a cadence growing more rapid by the second. Either frustration or anxiety, I couldn't tell which.

"I know you don't want to believe me," she said, finally. Definitely anger that fueled her breathing; she practically hyperventilated into the phone as she spoke. "But there is something weird about this girl."

"Norma—"

"And maybe you're right, maybe Bob didn't tell her anything, and this is about something else. But it is something, and I thought that after all we'd been through you might listen when I tell you something's wrong."

"Now hold on for just a damn minute—" I said, but she was already gone, the unmistakable mechanical click followed by the hollow static of an abandoned line.

I snapped my phone shut, let it drop to the desk. Ran a hand through my hair, half-heartedly massaged my temple.

Like so much in Norma's life, her anger was nurtured almost exclusively by fear. Though the world saw a mercurial, impetuous, frequently odd woman, I saw a frightened individual doing their damnedest to stay afloat, to protect themselves and the ones they loved.

She drove me mad. She shut me out. She exhausted me more often than not. But I knew, even before I reached for my car keys, that I couldn't leave her like that. I was certain her fear was baseless, nothing more than imagined monsters, but to abandon her to them struck me as cruelty.

I stood and shrugged into my coat, shoved my keys in my pocket. Knocked down the last dregs of whiskey in my glass, returned it to the drawer. Paperwork be damned.

"Christ," I said softly, and only to myself. "She'll be the death of me."

We'd found ourselves defined by our battles. There was something almost magical about it, the way we provoked, bickered, vexed. It was our private language, much in the way the truest love letters were decipherable only to the one receiving them. I'd clung to that for months, certain it would give way into something freer: banter would lead to communication, communication would lead to trust. It was an urge I was unfamiliar with, one only she aroused.

I'd spent forty-seven years shutting the world out, and though there were women I enjoyed it was almost always a series of one-night stands, brief encounters that led to nothing and meant even less. And then Norma Louise Bates. The single greatest source of my frustration, and the most likely cause of my impending stroke.

I'd wanted to go to her that night, after I'd disposed of Bob Paris. Wanted her to hear the news from me first. But, waylaid by the practicalities of dumping a body, and then distracted by the fury and confusion of the DEA, most notably Special Agent Babbit, the headlines broke first.

"How can he be missing?" she asked me. She'd stood on her front porch, trying—and failing—to keep her voice down so as not to wake or alarm Norman.

"His house was empty when we got there. He had the resources to flee. Money, friends, God knows what else."

The morning air was cold, and she clung to herself in it, wrapped tightly in a heather gray sweater. I'd reached for her on instinct, wanting to shield her from the chill and the wind, but she'd flinched away like I'd struck her.

"I don't understand how you could let this happen." Her eyes were wide, rimmed with red and full of tears ready to spill at the drop of the hat. But this wasn't grief; it was malice. It was blame. And, unexpected, it threw me, wounded me, left me blank and struggling for words.

"Norma, I—"

"We just talked about this last night," she said. I'd come to her house that evening not to apologize but to justify myself. Or perhaps to ease my own guilt, convince myself that turning the flash drive over the DEA had been the right move. I'd said it was, but underneath I wavered. "We talked about this, Alex. And it's terrifying, and horrible, and I hate it, but I was prepared for it. You were going to arrest him, and he'd turn on me and Norman, and—" she broke off, choked, her face wet. She looked away from me, out into the distance. Shook her head. "And it would kill me, but at least I'd see it coming."

"Norma," I began, and I tried to reach for her again, to gather her up in my arms and let her know that everything would be alright, but she backed away. Her face settled into a mask I'd never seen before, and up to that point I'd thought I'd experienced them all. But this … this was cold. This was distance.

I stood in front of her, helpless, and watched her build the wall that would divide us, brick by fucking brick.

"Norma, you don't understand," I said. "You don't have to worry about Bob. He's not coming back."

"He will, though." She watched me, detached, the tears almost stationary, as if frozen in place. "Maybe not for a while, but he will. I know he will."

Four bullets had ended Bob Paris. "You've never been more like your Dad than you are right now," he'd said, seconds before I pulled the trigger. And he was right. I hadn't wanted to tell her that I'd killed him; deep down, I was afraid of how she'd look at me. That she'd spot some lingering connection between my father and I, I'd forever be tainted in her eyes.

Foolishly, I thought she'd take my reassurance at face value. That, somehow, my word would be enough.

"Just listen to me, Norma."

"You've doomed me to wait," she said. "I have to go about my life, and take care of my son, and pretend everything is fine, all the while waiting for the axe to drop. For everything to be blown apart when I least expect it."

"Please—"

"I can't ever forgive you for that."

And then silence. Three soul-destroying months of silence, until Amelia Paris rented a room and Norma couldn't face her monsters alone.

The clock on my dash read 2:57 when I pulled into the Bates Motel driveway. Amelia's car gone, only Norma's Mercedes and a black sedan remained.

She was still awake when I knocked on the door, evidenced by her quick arrival. She pulled back the curtain and peered out, recognition warring with distaste when she saw me. For a moment I thought she might not open the door, but then I heard the deadbolt turn.

"Why're you here?" It was the second time in recent memory that she'd asked me that, and it stung no less this time.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," I said. Exhaustion had gotten the best of me, and I didn't want to waste time hedging around the truth of the matter.

Face set in disapproval—or perhaps disbelief—she regarded me in stern silence, until finally I saw something crack underneath, just enough, and she relaxed.

"Does that mean you believe there's something up with that girl?"

"It means I believe you believe it," I said.

She scoffed, a harsh sound in the night, but wasn't entirely displeased. "Better than nothing." Craning her neck, she looked past me and down the steps leading out to the driveway. "Her car still gone?"

"Yeah. You hear anything she said on the phone?" She shook her head. "Nothing?"

"No. She was too far away, and I didn't want to be obvious, so I didn't try to get closer."

I nodded, held in a sigh. It would've been so much easier to simply tell her Bob was dead. Or it would've been three months ago, anyway. At the present moment I doubted she'd believe me, and even if she did, there was no guarantee it would matter.

Instead, I was stuck standing on her porch at three in the morning, asking questions about a dead man's sister that I was positive wouldn't lead anywhere.

"Alright, look," I said, "call me when she gets back, okay? Don't try to spy on her, or talk to her. Just call me, and we'll go from there."

"What're you going to do?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there." She nodded, and we stared at one another for a moment, the distance and the pretense set aside for a precious few seconds, a jolt of connection hitting me like electricity. I wanted to touch her, to see her smile at me again, like she used to. But instead I just asked, "You going to be okay?"

"I think so. She just … she makes me nervous, Alex." She looked down, fiddled with a button on her blouse. "She might be a perfectly nice girl, but I hate that she's here."

"You could ask her to leave."

"I don't want to be rude," she said softly, and the thought nearly made me chuckle. "And anyway, if she does have some kind of ulterior motive, I don't want to provoke her."

"No, I suppose not." I knit my brows together, rubbed my forehead with my thumb and index finger, suddenly aware of how badly I needed aspirin, a glass of water, and sleep. "I'm sorry for dropping by so late. I just wanted to check on you." I took a few steps backwards. "Get some sleep, Norma."

"Alex?"

"Yeah?" I turned back, paused on the first stair.

"What if … and I know you don't believe it, but what if this really is about Bob?" I watched her face begin to crumple inward, as all the fight and the anger evaporated, and she looked at me with childlike desperation. "What if this is when it happens, everything comes crashing down, and they come and take Norman from me—" her voice trailed off, an unintelligible squeak as she folded in on herself.

I closed the distance between us instantly, my arms around her waist and her shoulders. "Norma, that's not going to happen." She sagged against me, letting me hold her weight, her sobs like choking coughs gusting out against my neck. "Listen to me," I said, as gently as I could. "Everything's going to fine. I promise you."

I felt her fingers dig into my wrist and my chest as she clawed at me, searching for stability, for something to hold onto.

"Norma," I whispered into her hair. She wouldn't stop crying, just shuddered against me, heartbreaking and fragile and the only goddamn thing that had ever truly mattered to me. "I'd never let anyone hurt you. I promise." I brought my hands up to cradle her face, kissed her temples and her forehead, her trembling wet cheeks.

She began to calm slightly as I stroked her hair, brought her wrist to my mouth, kissed the veins on the delicate underside.

"Alex."

"I promise," I whispered again. I ran my thumb over the blade of her cheekbone, wiped away the tears. My other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her tight to me. "No one will ever hurt you."

"Alex, I need you to go," she said.

I froze. I didn't release her, but didn't pursue, either. My chest ached, lungs stinging like I couldn't get a deep breath.

"Norma," I whispered. My throat was tight, my heart damn near pounding out of my chest.

"I want you to leave."

It hit me like incense the moment I climbed out of my SUV: menthol cigarettes and expensive perfume. I didn't need to see a face to know who was waiting by my front door.

"Amelia, it's late."

She sat on my porch steps, long legs bared by an unseasonably short skirt. "I know. Been waiting here for hours." Cigarette between her index and middle finger, she gestured to the book laying open beside her. "Nice house, by the way."

"Thanks." My tone was gruff. I shoved my keys into my jacket pocket and stepped towards her, though she didn't move to allow me easier access to my door. "How the Hell'd you figure out where I live?"

"Old blood, remember?" Tilted her chin upwards, her smile resembling more of a squint than anything else. "People like to talk." There was no doubt about that. White Pine Bay loved its gossip, and the surname Paris had a way of opening doors and prying loose information.

"It's late," I said again, "and I've had a long day, so whatever this is, it'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"Mm." She broke eye contact, glanced down and into the street for a moment. Flicked the ash off her cigarette before taking a long, slow drag. When she finally spoke, it was through a stream of smoke. "I met with my brother's estate attorney today. Been putting it off for months."

"Oh?" I shifted my weight, tried to remain patient. We had enough history that I wasn't overly interested in being rude, but after the night I'd had, I wasn't particularly feeling indulgent.

"He left me all of it. The house, the money." Paused, took another drag, exhaled fully before speaking. "And something called The Arcanum Club." A corner of her mouth lifted, the briefest flicker of an expression, and I wondered if she knew what sort of goings on that building housed. Perhaps she simply found the name amusing. "I get all that in the event of his incapacitation, disappearance, or death."

"That's great, Amelia. I'm happy for you. But how the Hell does that warrant waiting by my front door at this hour?"

"I remember your Dad."

"What?" She'd taken me by surprise; a rare feat.

"Yeah, your Dad. I remember him at our house. He used to come by and talk to Daddy." She met my eyes again. Not challenging, exactly, but observing. Waiting for a reaction. "I don't think they were friends, really. Daddy didn't have a lot of friends."

"Amelia," I began slowly, "I'm not sure what you want, but it's late, and I need—"

"It's nothing," she said. She waved me off, suddenly casual, unconcerned. Crushed out the cigarette under her shoe, and stood. "It's just odd, isn't it? Now you're the sheriff and I'm an heiress." A quick smile; self-deprecating, almost, like she refused to take herself seriously.

"How's that odd?"

"We're the sole heirs to the kingdom." Her hair, swept back into a high ponytail, bobbed when she shook her head. "Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something, but you're right, it's late. How about I come by the station tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I said, "that'd be fine." It occurred to me then that Norma was right. Something was off, though I couldn't put my finger on what. It wasn't just Amelia's sudden appearance, or even that she'd been waiting for me. It was something in how she carried herself, the way she led the conversation, carefully watched my face.

"Alex?" She was already halfway down my driveway.

"Yeah?"

"You really think Bobby's okay?"

My heart rate kicked up a notch, and I felt my face fall into the practiced neutrality I'd perfected over twenty-odd years interrogating the lowest dregs of society.

"I do."

"Hm." Her eyes flicked away from me, raised towards the morning sky. "Yeah, you're probably right. Anyway, I should get home."

"Night, Amelia." I headed towards my front door, relieved to finally see the day come to an end.

"Thing is," she said, startling me, and I turned my head just enough to look at her. "Even with the DEA on his ass, Bobby would've found a way to get a hold of me." I didn't react, didn't so much as breathe. Judging from the look on her face, she hadn't been expecting me to. "He always has before, no matter what was happening."

We stared at one another for a long moment, silent, neither of us attempting to provoke or react. Stalemate.

"Well," she said, at long last, "goodnight, Alex."

Chapter Three: Who We Want to Be

More than sunlight, I was woken rather abruptly by the empty bottle of Jack Daniels shattering into dust on my floor.

Still in yesterday's clothes, I'd fallen asleep atop the blankets, bottle in hand. Nearly four am when I'd finally gotten to bed, depleted of any and all emotional or physical energy. Work was an ever-present stress, that I'd long grown accustomed to. But Norma—and to a lesser extent, Amelia—created something of an abyss that I was both drawn into and yet needed to escape.

I rolled onto my side with a groan; ran a hand over my face; frowned. My throat felt like the Sahara, I badly needed a shave, and I could still smell the alcohol on me. Hardly befitting the Sheriff of White Pine Bay.

7:49 am, according to the clock on my bedside table. I'd slept nearly two hours past my alarm, but that was hardly surprising. I pulled myself up reluctantly, and sat on the edge of the bed. Feet on the floor was a good start. I'd never managed to bring myself to ignore my responsibilities, but the throbbing in my temples and the bones in the back of my skull made it significantly more tempting than usual.

My phone chimed softly from my back pocket, somehow still intact despite being crushed by my weight all night. I flipped it open and squinted at the screen, trying to make out a series of text messages through my gritty vision.

One from Amelia, confirming our appointment at the station at 10:00. Another from Marge, chiding me for not visiting the diner in nearly a week.

Confusion set in for one long, hazy moment; Marge didn't have my number. At least not that I was aware of. Much like Amelia had no cause to know my address, yet had somehow turned up uninvited last night. "Old blood," Amelia said, when I asked how she'd found my house. "People like to talk." No doubt she'd managed to convince Marge to fork over the information in exchange for my phone number.

Never trust the town gossip. Isn't that what my mother had said when I was a child?

I checked my phone again, trying to stamp down any residual hope that might thread its way through me. Sure enough, not a single word from Norma. Not that'd I'd expected it; I hadn't. But optimism, a foreign and increasingly unwelcome feeling, had dug its claws into me the day I realized I was in love with her.

And that's the goddamned problem, I thought. Wasn't it? Ridiculous that I still found my way to her, jumped up at her every beck and call. She'd made her intentions clear three months ago when she slammed her door, shut me out, and I'd stood on her porch, blank and helpless and wanting nothing more than to kick that damned door down and make her look at me, talk to me, move past her fears and her hesitations.

But I hadn't. I'd respected her wishes, I'd let her hate me, and three months later I was at her side when she finally, in a moment of desperation, called.

Perhaps, foolishly, I'd assumed that would be enough. That time and the evidence of my devotion would crack through her barriers and begin dismantling the wall she'd erected between us. Perhaps that was why her continued rejection cut through me, a fresh knife wound in barely healed flesh.

Optimism was a cruel mistress, and one I didn't know if I could tolerate.

I closed my phone and set it on the side table. Needed to get up, take a shower, wash off the stench of whiskey and stale sweat and despair. There was nothing I could do about Norma, at least not in the present moment. I had greater concerns, besides. Amelia Paris being the most prominent.

She'd been testing me last night, of that I was certain. Must've gone out of her way to pry my address from Marge. And whatever she'd wanted was crucial enough that she'd waited for me long past a decent visitor's hour. Benign as her conversation may have seemed on the surface, she'd watched my face intently, the same careful observation I'd used in countless interrogation rooms. Coaxing, leading, maneuvering; she'd known exactly what she was doing, and she'd done it well.

I stood up and made my way to the bathroom. Locked the door behind me; procedure, a cop's routine. I took a hot shower, shaved, and dressed in a fresh uniform. And by the time I slid behind my SUV's steering wheel I was absolutely and unavoidably convinced of one thing:

Amelia Paris could prove to be a much greater threat than I'd ever conceived possible.

Special Agent Babbitt sat perched on the edge of my desk. Legs crossed, hair swept up, and a deep brown tailored suit jacket snug against the curve of her shoulders and waist, I couldn't help but think that, in another life, I would've found her attractive. Perhaps even beautiful. But given her irksome habit of waltzing into my office without invitation, and her eagerness to lobby questions loaded with insinuation in my direction, I was none too pleased to see her.

"Special Agent Babbitt," I said, and I made no effort to veil my annoyance. "Something I can help you with today?"

"Morning, Sheriff." She didn't move from my desk. "Just stopped by as a professional courtesy."

"Professional courtesy?" I shrugged off my jacket, hung it up behind the door. As she refused to get off my desk, I didn't bother to shake her hand. Merely relaxed back into my chair; if she wanted to make eye contact she'd have to turn and look at me. A power play, yes, and one I intended to win.

"The DEA's had our hands full lately," she began. Paused. Her rigid posture suggested a growing sense of irritation; after a long moment, she slid off my desk and into the chair across from me. My faced remained neutral, but I was pleased. "Given this town's history and the … shall we say, booming drug trade, we haven't had much down time."

I nodded, steepled my fingers in front of me. "Your agents have been working hard, I know." And that was true. On a certain level, I'd appreciated the DEA's presence these past few months, the endless smoke clouding the city a testament to their efficacy. More and more fields turned up, and just as quickly were burnt to the ground. It was a time of economic limbo for the town, I knew, but one I hoped would eventually pay off.

"Yes, well, that's not why I'm here." I didn't say anything. Waited, calmly, until she spoke again. "We're investigating Bob Paris' disappearance."

This was not, to be fair, unexpected. I'd seen this coming from the moment I picked up my phone that lethal and treacherous night, known full well that there was nothing I could do to stop it. I could only wait, and lead it as best I could to a series of dead ends.

Still, I felt something needle up my spine that, had I been a different sort of man, I would've called fear.

"We've already opened an investigation on Paris," I said, though it was nothing she didn't already know, and would have no effect on the DEA's proceedings. "Nothing turned up."

"Yes, I'm aware. But we have resources your office may not."

"Mm." I leaned back in my chair, the picture of ambivalence. "Well, if there's anything I can assist you with, let me know."

"We pulled Paris' phone records from that night."

I felt my pulse speed up, a minor ripple in otherwise still waters, but didn't react.

"Oh?"

Special Agent Babbitt studied me carefully; I could feel her eyes on my face, watching for any tremor or twitch that might signal guilt, fear, or anger. "It seems you called him that night. Minutes before we arrived at his house. To find it empty, I might add."

"Yes," I said, without hesitation. Surprised, she fought to keep her face still, maintain composure. Expecting denial, perhaps, or at least a flicker of guilt. "Loyalty in this town runs deep, Special Agent. Family ties go back well over a century. Bob Paris and I grew up together."

She opened her mouth to say something, paused, closed it. I'd thrown her, though I didn't expect it to last long. Eventually, she said, "And you thought this irrelevant to your investigation?"

"I extended Bob a line of courtesy due to our shared history." I shrugged, feigning something close to remorse. "I thought he deserved to be prepared for it. I never imagined he'd run."

"You never thought a man with the wealth and resources to live abroad indefinitely would attempt to escape arrest?"

"Like I said, loyalty runs deep." I stood, eager to bring the conversation to a close. "I made a judgment call; it was the wrong one." I walked to the door, opened it, gestured for her to leave. "Now if you don't mind, I'm afraid I have an appointment."

She stood, almost sullen, but didn't take her eyes off me. "You know I'll have to write this 'error of judgment' into my report." Her tone was clipped, forceful.

"I understand that, yes."

We stared at one another for a long moment, neither giving ground. But eventually she broke eye contact, shook her head, moved towards the door.

She was out in the hallway before she turned to look at me again. "We'll need to discuss this further, Sheriff."

"Of course."

"I'll be back in a few days."

"Yes," I said. I blocked the doorway. Wanted to make it clear that our meeting had decidedly come to an end. "That's fine."

"Problem is, Sheriff," she said, and though she turned to go her last line was meant to strike a very specific chord, "I don't believe you're that incompetent."

It succeeded.

Amelia was nearly twenty minutes late. I checked my watch for a third time, and sighed. My encounter with Special Agent Babbitt left me in something of a foul mood. And as I was not inclined to indulge a woman who seemed determined to both invade my privacy and waste my time, I flipped open my phone to send a terse text, when a soft peal of laughter caught my ear through my office door.

I found her in the hallway, surrounded by a gaggle of my deputies, the besotted fools falling all over themselves to capture her attention, make her laugh. I only caught snippets of conversation, most of which seemed to be embellished tales of danger, bravery, heroism. Now and again she laughed, throwing her head back with the unselfconscious, delightful manner she'd possessed since childhood.

"Am I interrupting?" I asked as I approached. My deputies straightened almost immediately, glanced nervously from me to Amelia. The eternal struggle of whom to please: the boss or the girl?

But Amelia, so accustomed to male attention that she barely registered it, didn't notice the tension. "Interrupting?" she asked. She frowned at me slightly, a playful purse of her mouth. "I've been waiting for you for ages," she said.

"I was in my office. Waiting for you."

"I couldn't just barge into the sheriff's office, now could I?" She laughed, and the deputies crowded around laughed with her. Clearly they'd chosen the girl. "But it's been lovely." She gestured to the diet Coke in her hand, frost still crackling on the plastic. "Deputy Walker was kind enough to bring me a drink."

I glanced at Walker, who avoided my eyes but smiled at her. "We don't have a Coke machine," I said.

Amelia's eyebrows hitched up a notch, a single moment of confusion before realization set in and she rolled her eyes at Deputy Walker; a sweet gesture, one free of malice or condescension. Walker caught her glance, a faint pink in his cheeks, and said to me, sheepish, "Ah, no, sir. I went across the street." He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "To the gas station. I just thought Miss Paris might want something other than coffee or tea."

"And he was right," Amelia chirped. I got the distinct impression she was shielding Walker from my disapproval. Irritated, I opened my mouth to say something, but she cut me off: "Alex, don't be an ass."

The stunned silence that descended upon the immediate area was almost worth the awkwardness: my deputies, frozen in a combination of horror and awe, swiveled their heads between Amelia and I, as if watching a tennis match. Heretofore, I'd been their hard-ass boss, the sheriff no one in the station dared disappoint or mouth off to. And yet, here was a beautiful, small-boned, golden-blond creature dismissing me as casually as she would a housemaid.

"Amelia, let's go to my office." My self-control surprised me; I didn't like her challenging me, especially in front of my men.

"He was just being nice, Alex. Christ."

"Amelia."

"What?" It was the first time she'd reminded me of her brother; bewildered that I had the audacity to issue something resembling an order, torn between rolling her eyes and obeying—more likely out of curiosity than respect for my authority. Not that she shared her brother's arrogance; she didn't. But she was, nevertheless, a Paris: wealthy, privileged, and accustomed to getting her own way.

"My office," I said, and my tone left little room for dissension. "Now." She narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Brushed past me with a tiny huff, the scent of her perfume lingering. I caught myself watching the sway of her hips as she walked; caught my deputies doing the same, and put an end to both. "Get back to work."

By the time I'd reached my office and shut the door behind me, she'd ensconced herself behind my desk, swiveling back and forth in my chair. A little girl in an adult body; easily amused, delighted by the insignificant.

"Move," I said. I jerked a thumb towards the two chairs reserved for guests.

"God, Alex." She stood, but didn't sit in another chair. "You're always so fucking serious."

I closed my eyes, ran a hand over my forehead, squeezed; the women in my life these days were prone to instigating migraines. "Amelia," I began slowly, "you don't know me."

An indignant snort. "Don't I?"

"No."

"Alex—"

"I was friends with your brother, Amelia. A long time ago. And you were just a kid; we were never really social."

"That's not entirely true." My eyes still closed, I felt rather than saw her step up to me. Could feel the slight heat radiating off of her, could smell her shampoo. "You were always very kind to me, Alex." Fingertips on my wrist; her touch snaked up and under the sleeve of my shirt. Skin to skin, she didn't push the contact, merely offered it as an extension of a shared memory.

I'd known her as a child. Enjoyed her, even, when she was young enough to run around giggling and blowing bubbles, and I was old enough to feel nigh paternal; protective as I watched her roam around town and play.

But then there'd been that one night. Eighteen, nineteen at most. I'd come home to find her in my apartment. Drunk, upset about something to do with her family—though I couldn't say what, exactly—she was warm and sweet and all too aware that adulthood had fleshed her out beautifully, made her difficult to resist.

She'd come to me for comfort; an old family friend. And when I felt her lips on my neck and jaw, when she'd pressed her eager mouth to mine, I very nearly caved in. She smelled like summer, like vanilla and green leaves and fruit I couldn't name.

I'd kissed her back, there was no denying that. Wound her hair around my fingers, touched her face, the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. But then I'd broken away as gently as I could, though I was already hard, and I ached with the effort of it all.

And now she was standing in front of me, years later, a grown woman with secrets I couldn't fathom and motives I couldn't discern, and yet she touched my wrist—and touched something in my heart, no matter how small—as if we'd seen one another every day of our lives.

Finally, softly, I said, "You were too young, Amelia."

"I've never been young a day in my life." The absolute absurdity of this statement made me laugh; how blind she could be to herself, to what was perhaps her great, defining quality: the one thing that set her apart from her brother, and her family.

"You're still too young," I said. Meant with absolute warmth; her childlike nature had saved her from the fate of her bloodline; had saved me from giving into her beauty all those years ago; saved me now from relaxing into her touch.

As if on cue, she let her hand fall, dropped her gaze, and moved to a chair on the other side of my desk.

"My brother's dead." She said it simply, directly, without pretense.

I settled back into my chair, nodded, silently urging her to continue. This was the first time she'd addressed it openly, and I didn't want to risk shutting her down. More than anything, I needed to know where this was leading.

"I know everyone says he's missing, but it's bullshit. Bobby always—and I mean always—let me know when he was in trouble." She puffed out her cheeks, rolled her eyes. "Maybe not why he was in trouble, exactly, but still."

"The DEA had enough evidence to put your brother away for a very long time, Amelia," I said. I wasn't sure how much she knew about her brother, or what she may have been implying, and that was too dangerous a gap in knowledge to tolerate for long. "Did you know that?"

She shook her head, lowered her eyes to the floor. "Bobby never really talked about his … business."

"Then how do you know he simply didn't skip town? Head off to Mexico? Fiji?"

"Because he wouldn't do that to me," she said. Her eyes began to water, and she rubbed at them. Not comfortable exposing her vulnerability. "He just wouldn't. Not to me, not like that." A soft, heartbreaking sniffle. "When he thought he knocked up a hooker in high school, he told me. When he dropped out of college for a year to go tour with some band—"

"U2," I said. I remembered that year. My father had spent several nights fielding calls from their concerned parents.

"—right, well, he didn't tell Mom or Daddy, but he told me. He told me when he was going fishing, or hunting, or camping. He told me when he was going overseas or off the grid or just shacking up with some girl somewhere without his phone." Cleared her throat, smeared away the few tears that had eluded her self-control. "I know jack-shit about the sort of business my bother was involved in, Alex, but he never would've let me worry about him. Not ever."

"And you think this means what, exactly?"

"I think someone killed him," she said, "and I think someone's covering it up."

"Any idea who?" She shook her head. "None?"

"No. But that's why I came back to this shithole of a town. You think I want to be here?" She coughed out a laugh, wiped away the last of her tears, and began to regain her composure. "I hate this place. I just want to know what happened to Bobby, and then I want to go home."

"Home being…?"

"Not here, Alex. Any-fucking-where but here."

I nodded, the tension that had been building over the past week slowly easing. Perhaps she had been testing me last night, but there was no suspicion in her voice. Whatever she thought happened to her brother, she hadn't connected it to me.

"We opened an investigation months ago, Amelia," I said, gently. "At this point there's very little I can do."

"I get that. I'm not here to talk to you as a cop."

"Then what?"

She shrugged. Casual. She was calmer now, the tears dried, and she fell back into her customary ease. "I just wanted to talk to you. Alex. My old friend. I know you and Bobby weren't really close, but you must know some of his friends, right?"

"A few."

"So I thought maybe you could give me a few names and I could go talk to some people."

There was an opportunity here, one that both repelled and enticed me. I realized, with something close to a twinge of guilt, that she trusted me completely. Whatever idealized vision of me she carried from her childhood, it was still firmly in place now. The idea that I could be the murderer simply never crossed her mind. And while she was one of the few people who could pose a threat to my secret, she was also the easiest to mislead.

"Give me a few days," I said. To think it over. TO decide who I was, how far I was willing to go, and how readily I could deceive this woman. "And I'll see what I can do."

Silence. She stared at me, that unnerving stillness she could occasionally possess falling over her. Some tiny, paranoid piece of my brain read it as suspicion, but that faded quickly when she broke into a smile. Small at first, and then growing wider, she beamed at me like I was her personal savior or her favorite lover or both.

"Okay," she said, and I did my best to shove down the stabbing pain my ribs; her trust broke my heart. "That'd be great. Wonderfully, really." She stood up from her chair, excited, and walked around the desk to envelope me in a hug. She didn't wait for permission or even acceptance—the old Paris blood no doubt driving her to assume it would be welcomed—and when she leaned back to look at me it was with the same child-love she'd had for me in her youth. "I knew you could help me, Alex. I just knew it."

My mouth went dry; my head hurt. Mine was a life of necessary evils, but it struck me that the more I tried to embody the man I'd always wanted to become, the further away I got.

"Do you mind giving me a ride back to the motel?" she asked. She rummaged through her purse, chattering happily, unaware of the position she'd put me in. "I actually walked into town this morning, you know, thought it'd be good for me, but I swear to God, if I have to take another step in these heels I'm going to—"

My phone chimed, letting me know I'd received a text, and I reached for it. Flipped it open, only half-listening to Amelia's pleasant rambling.

I need you. As soon as possible. Meet at the motel?

Norma. No explanation. No details. Not even a please or thank you. Just the assumption that I would be there, at her side, no questions asked. That I would fix whatever problem drove her desperation, and that I would do so without asking anything in return.

She assumed correctly.

I'll be there shortly.

"Yeah," I said abruptly, interrupting Amelia. "I'll give you a ride back to the motel."

Chapter Four: Washed Ashore

The SUV had barely rolled to a stop before Amelia leapt out, heels crunching in the gravel, and muddled around in her purse for a cigarette. Appalled that I'd refused to allow her to smoke in the car, she'd spent over half the ride simultaneously rolling her eyes and calling me a prig.

"You made it," I said as I climbed out. Hunched protectively over her flickering lighter, she arched a brow at me, annoyed. But I saw the corners of her mouth turn upwards just slightly. "An entire twenty-minute drive without one."

"Are you kidding?" She took a long, hard drag; held it; exhaled. "I was five seconds away from the DTs. Look at this," she said, and gestured down to her free hand. It looked fine to me. "Shaking like a leaf."

"I think you'll be alright."

"Withdrawal can be fatal, you know."

The rain had just begun to fall when I pulled into the Bates Motel parking lot, and Amelia stationed herself—most likely for the benefit of her cigarette—on the relative safety of the porch.

"You're such an asshole," she said. A certain warmth to it, as if addressing her oldest friend. And perhaps I was just that.

"I've heard." I joined her under the awning, and when a particularly harsh gust of wind blew past us, she moved in closer to me, my body shielding her from the cold.

"So, listen," she said. Half her cigarette already burned down to ash, a by-product of too-eager lungs. "About my brother."

"Go on."

"I've been gone a long time, but I still remember how things work around here, you know?" She shifted, uncomfortable. Didn't immediately meet my gaze. "I mean, I'm sure some of it's changed; you're the sheriff now. But still."

"Amelia," I said, my voice gentle. "If you have a question, ask it."

Her eyes met mine. Held my gaze a beat too long. That odd stillness creeping back across her face, the one I couldn't read or crack through. I found it disquieting, despite our earlier conversation putting the majority of my concerns to rest.

It was easy to view her as something of a child, I realized. Her joyful ease and her casualness belied an observant mind; one which was, I'd wager, frequently underestimated. Impossible to discern if intentional or accidental: a perfect storm of traits and quirks forming a useful mask.

"Your dad used to come to our house all the time," she began, still holding eye contact. "I don't know exactly why, but I do remember he and Daddy having long talks in the study. They used to smoke cigars." The first break in her demeanor; she softened at the memory, but wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Mom hated it, the smell clung to everything." She took a last drag off her cigarette, and immediately pulled a fresh one from her pack. Lit it with the remaining bit of ember, and then crushed the butt under her boot. "Anyway, like I said, I don't know what they talked about, exactly, but it certainly wasn't football."

"So?" I shoved my hands in my pockets, shifted slightly. Unsure of where this was heading, I didn't like having to pry it out of her. "What's your point?"

"My point," she said, a tinge of irritation laced through each word, "is that Daddy pulled a lot of shit in this town, and your dad helped him cover it up."

My skin grew tight, pulled across the back of my neck; the prickle of sweat just beginning to form on the surface. "Amelia, if you're implying—"

"I'm not implying anything," she snapped. But then she relaxed. Shrugged. She gestured out to the street, and there was something almost helpless about it. "What I'm saying is, I get how things work around here. Old families, old money, old crime. It's all fucked." She brought up the hand holding her cigarette, waved me off before I could speak. "And it's not your fault, you know? I'm not saying it is. We're the heirs to the fucking kingdom, right? This shit was put into place long before either of us arrived on the planet."

My face settled into firm neutrality, bordering on a frown, and I nodded but said nothing.

"So," she began again, "if something happened—you know, because Bobby made a lot of enemies, he wasn't the nicest guy in the world, and I get that—if something happened and you had to, like, hide it or whatever, you could tell me." She stared at me, unflinching, unblinking. Not a hard expression, not even a challenge, but a calm sincerity that very nearly made me wish I could reveal the truth.

"No," I said. "There's nothing to tell you, Amelia. I don't know what happened to Bob."

I watched her eyes travel along my face, narrowing slightly, inspecting me for any tremor of emotion or betrayal, and, finding none, slip almost immediately into a smile. "Okay. Okay." She took another drag, spoke quickly through a stream of smoke. "I mean, I know you wouldn't hurt him, you know?" And I felt a brief stab in my ribcage when she said it, fought to keep my face still, though she rambled on, content and unaware, all suspicion banished from her countenance. "It's just, like, this town is crazy, and I totally understand that you have to keep the peace. So if there was ever something like that, you could tell me. I wouldn't hate you for it."

"Morning, Sheriff." Norman's voice broke through from behind, startling us both, and we turned in his direction. "Good morning, ma'am," he said, nodding to Amelia.

"Hey, kid," she said. She smiled, and reached out to tug playfully on the sleeve of his sweater. "Looking good today, huh?" Norman laughed, a nervous, fluttering sound, like the the flap of a bird's wings, and shied away from her touch. "I like a man who can pull off argyle."

I shot her a stern glance, making no effort to hide my disapproval, but she just flicked her eyebrows upwards at me. Smiled with a corner of her mouth.

"Are you enjoying your stay, ma'am?" Norman asked, apparently oblivious to our exchange. "May I get you anything?"

"I'm just fine, thank you. But you're sweet to ask." She winked at him, eliciting a faint blush.

"Ah, well, that's good. If you'll excuse me," he said, nodding again to both of us, "I need to get back to work."

I watched him hurry down the porch, eventually disappearing into the office. Once out of earshot, I said, "He's just a kid."

"I know." She crushed out her cigarette; didn't light a knew one. "So?"

"You don't think that's inappropriate?"

"Inappropriate? So, what, you're saying I shouldn't invite him back to my room for an evening of hookers and blow?"

"Amelia—"

She rolled her eyes, cut me off. "I'm just fucking around, Alex. And I was just having a bit of fun with the kid. Seems nice." A pause, her eyes wandering towards the office door, a shadow of something falling across her face. "Bit odd, if I'm honest. But sweet."

"Go easy on him. He's a sensitive kid."

"Mm, I'll do my best to resist throwing myself at a teenage boy." She smacked me in the shoulder, playful, her smile widening to reveal white, even teeth. "Asshole."

"Excuse me, could you not smoke so close to the building?" I heard Norma long before I saw her, and felt Amelia jump with surprise at the sound of her voice.

"I'm sorry?" Amelia asked

Norma rounded the corner by the office, having wandered down from the house. "I said, could you not smoke so close to the building?" She gestured to the two cigarette butts at Amelia's feet.

"Oh! I'm sorry. Yeah," Amelia said, bending down to scoop up the butts, "I'll smoke out in the parking lot. Sorry about that."

"Pretty sure there's laws about that now," Norma said, eying me intently. "Aren't there, Sheriff?"

"Technically," I said. I nodded to Amelia. "You're not supposed to smoke within 30 feet of any public entrance."

"Pretty sure my office counts as a public entrance," Norma said. She smiled, but it was tight, stretched across her face in a way that made her look like a doll. An unfriendly doll.

Amelia, undaunted, grinned. A wide, genuine grin that seemed to annoy Norma further. "Well, I need to get some stuff done, anyway," she said. "Thanks for the ride, Alex."

"No problem," I said. "I'll see you later."

"Yeah, absolutely. Text me while I'm still in town and we'll head out for drinks or something, yeah?" And then, to Norma, "sorry again about the smoking, Mrs. Bates. Have a good day." Amelia turned and walked down the porch towards her room, the ghost of her scent lingering in the air.

"I like her perfume," Norma said, quietly, more to herself than anyone else.

"Thank you!" Amelia shouted from the end of the porch. Key in the door, she'd paused in front of it and waved "I've got really good hearing," she yelled, and giggled, a brief, climbing trill that made me smile in spite of myself. She grinned again, much to Norma's dismay, and then vanished into her room.

Norma glared after her, mouth set into a hard scowl. After a long stretch of silence, she said, "she's pretty." It sounded like an insult.

"She is."

Not overly fond of my response, Norma huffed, hands on her hips. "Is that what took you so long? I texted you nearly an hour ago, and you're down here flirting with that girl?"

"Amelia," I corrected, a touch of protective anger flaring up. "And I wasn't flirting, Norma. We had an appointment at the station earlier, and I gave her a ride back. That's all."

Anger replaced by wariness, she shrank back from me, her scowl evolving into a nervous, trembling smile. "Appointment about what?"

"None of your business, Norma, and not my place to say." She flinched at my tone, and I spoke again, trying to soften the blow. "But it's nothing for you to be concerned about." She bit her lip, watched me, hesitancy warring with hope. Eventually, however, she offered a small nod. "Now," I said, "what's going on?"

"Let's go up to the house," she said, glancing over her shoulder towards the office door. "So we can talk privately."

"I need $30,000."

Back against the refrigerator, arms crossed over my chest, I watched her nervously fumble with dishes left over from breakfast.

"I mean, I'll probably need more, but I think $30,000 would cover at least a few months."

"What about your insurance provider?" I asked. "Won't they cover most of that?"

"Some of it." She set the dishes in the sink, turned to me, rolled her eyes. "I already spoke to them. Several times. They'll cover a fraction of the total cost, for all the good that'll do me."

"I'm sure there are less expensive options—"

"No." She cut me off before I could finish, stalking around the kitchen table until she was mere inches from my face. "God, Alex, what're you saying? I've seen those sorts of places, you know, I've been around." Eyes wide with anger, she was gestured wildly, arms out at her sides. "I'm not putting him in one of those, I'd never do that to him."

"But he needs help, Norma." I said it softly, repeating what she herself told me only moments ago. "And if you can't afford Pineview, I'm sure there's another hospital that's just as nice and not so—"

"There's not." When I didn't say anything, she scoffed, shook her head. "You think I didn't look? Of course I looked. I looked everywhere." Voice rising in frustration. "I looked everywhere, Alex, and there's nothing. They're terrible, they're all terrible. Cold and sterile, and God only knows what sort of care he'd get there."

"What about one of the state hospitals?" I asked. But I already knew the answer.

"They're even worse."

I nodded. She was right, of course. I'd seen my share of them, either picking up or dropping off a potential inmate. I'd long worried about Norman Bates; his stability, his behavior, what he was capable of, and what the world was capable of doing to him. Norma was absolutely correct: he needed help. But even I wouldn't have asked her to place him in a state hospital.

I ran a hand over my jaw, closed my eyes. The past week had been rife with exhaustion, either at the hands of the DEA or Norma. And, occasionally, Amelia.

"What about out of state?" I asked. I figured it was a long shot; I couldn't picture her allowing Norman so far out of her grasp, and as she couldn't afford to pick up and move, it seemed a pointless suggestion. Still, I continued, "I've got a couple of friends up in Seattle, former lab techs, both work at Harborview." Harborview Hospital was the elite trauma center in the Pacific Northwest, one that boasted an impressive psychiatric facility. "I could talk to them, see if they could pull a few strings."

"No way."

"Norma, it's a good hospital. The best in the area, in fact, and they bill on a sliding scale, so you could easily—"

"I'm not sending him out of state. Absolutely not."

"Norma," I said. A warning. Irritation brewing in the pit of my stomach, warm and expanding. "You may not have another option."

"I am not sending my son to Seattle," she snapped. "And, anyway, that's not why I asked you to meet me."

"Then why?"

"I thought…" She trailed off, broke away from my gaze. Looked down at her fingers, fumbled with a button her cardigan. When she finally glanced back up at me, there were tears in her eyes. "I thought you could lend me the money." Noting what I assumed was the blatant shock on my face, she rushed to continue. "I'd pay you back, Alex. I mean, it'd take me a while, you know, but I would. I wouldn't let something like that go, I just need the money so I can—"

"I can't," I said.

Blank. Uncomprehending. And then a slow, dawning anger, her face flushing red, the sort of immediate fury only a perceived threat to her son could instill in her.

"To Hell with you, then! Get out of my house, if that's how you feel—"

"Norma," I said.

"Jesus, Alex, I can't believe I could be so stupid—"

"Norma," I said again.

"—Thinking, after all this time, that maybe, just maybe, we were friends. But silly me, right? How could I possibly—"

"Friends?" I asked. My voice was louder than I intended, but I didn't care. I shoved off the refrigerator, took her shoulders roughly in my hands. "Three months, Norma. Three months without a fucking word. Three months of you shutting me out at every goddamned turn, only asking to meet when you need a favor, and you think we're friends?"

She said nothing. Just stared into my face, refusing to shrink away, breathing as hard and as quickly as I was, mutual anger locking us into our private battle.

"We're not friends, Norma, we haven't been friends in a very long time," I said. I wanted to yell; wanted to shake her; wanted to do something to break her out of her goddamned trance, her absolute stubbornness. Instead, I settled for the truth. "And I can't give you the money because I don't have it. If I did I'd give it to you, wouldn't even have to think about it, I'd—"

Her mouth met mine, rough and insistent, swallowed up the remainder of my sentence. I felt her hands lock around the back of my head, palms pressing against against my skull, fingers sliding up through my hair.

Shock collided with desire, and it took a moment before I could think clearly, process the situation.

My arms instinctively went around her waist, pulled her tight against my body, and her lips were still on mine, greedy, urging me to respond to her. Soft, soliciting little mewls emanating from the back of her throat, trying to capture my attention.

I broke away long enough to kiss her neck, the curve of her jaw, trying to inhale the scent of her, memorize the feel of her against me. Two years of slow, torturous buildup; three months of painful silence; and now this. Now she pressed her skin to mine with urgency, whimpered something resembling my name, clawed at me with the same raw, aching desperation I'd long felt.

"Christ, Norma." She grabbed my shirt, tugging at my uniform, kissing my earlobe and the pulse in my neck. My fingers tangled in her hair. "You're beautiful, you're absolutely—"

She shut me up with another kiss, her teeth on my bottom lip, just to the point of pain. I tasted blood; didn't care.

When her hands went to my belt I leaned down and hoisted her up; her legs wrapped around my waist on instinct, and I walked us to the wall, pressed her against it. Briefly, I worried that I was too rough, that my hands and the force of my weight against her would hurt her, but she moaned against my mouth, soft and encouraging.

Arms traveling up to secure themselves around my shoulders, she clung to me, and I took the opportunity to run my fingers over her hips, the swell of her breasts, up to her neck. I kissed my way across the blades of her cheekbones, her temples, her closed eyelids, whispering to her through shuddering breaths when my mouth wasn't worshiping flesh.

"Norma," I whispered, and when her head tilted back, rested against the wall, I bent down to run my tongue over the hollow of her throat. "I've wanted this for so long." I could feel the pulse in her neck, as rapid and erratic as mine. "—wanted you for so long."

It was the soft hitch of breath that first caught my attention, made me pause and look up at her. Thoughts clouded in the heavy haze of lust, I nevertheless realized there were tears on her cheeks, her face crumpling like a child about to bawl.

"Norma?" She unwrapped her legs from my waist, and I set her down gently. "Norma, what's wrong?" I cradled her face in my hands, pressed my lips to her forehead. "Tell me," I whispered. "Please."

She turned away from me, hands suddenly on my chest, pushing me back. "We can't do this," she said. A tremor in her voice, the struggle to hold back her sobs an all-consuming battle.

Dread in my gut, hard and twisting, burning its way up my veins. Like dry ice on skin, I thought, the more I touched her the more she burned me, scarred me.

"Norma," I said quietly. "I don't understand." My voice was thick, my chest still raising and falling too quickly, body torn between throwing her down on the kitchen table and taking her roughly, frantically, or gathering her up to me in an effort to soothe whatever doubt or fear had crept in.

"This was a mistake, that's all," she said. She pushed past me, taking several rapid steps away from me; putting distance between us, I realized, the physical manifestation of the wall she'd erected to keep me out.

"A mistake?" I couldn't get enough air. Sweat on my forehead, the back of my neck. I felt lightheaded, confused. And, at the edges, when I opened myself to it, angry. "I don't understand," I said again.

"It's so hard with you," she said, finally. "You're just so … difficult."

I didn't say anything. Couldn't think of what to say, quite honestly. Mind trying to fit all the pieces of her singular puzzle together, but I was at a loss.

"You let him get away," she said. Her voice was soft, full of something that, had I been feeling more charitable, I might've called regret. "Bob Paris, I mean. Now that girl is here, which is bad enough, and you can't lend me the money I need to help Norman." She shook her head; moisture on her cheeks glistened under the harsh lights of her kitchen. "You can't help me. Not at all. And we can't do this."

My mouth was dry; my head ached. I just stared at her. Took a while for her words to fully unravel their meaning in my head; everything, at least initially, confused, jumbled. She had a way of spinning me about, like a new toy to play with until, no longer a novelty, she discarded me once again.

And then it broke, whatever wave of pain or anger I'd held at bay for three months cascading in, unrestrained and, stupidly, almost unexpected. I was so used to control, to mastering myself and my surroundings; I loathed feeling unhinged.

"You do this," I said, the words slow, anger simmering beneath each one, "and I'm done."

"You should go, Alex." She wasn't crying, not anymore. Straight-backed and bold, she just watched me, gaze unwavering, face utterly expressionless.

"I'm done with this shit, you hear me?"

"I want you to leave."

"I walk out that door, Norma, and I'm never coming back."

"Goodbye, Alex."

"Holy shit, dude."

Seven shots of vodka, a bartender that didn't ask questions, and now Amelia fucking Paris hovering over my shoulder like a concerned nanny, clucking at the empty shot glasses.

"You look like shit," she said.

"Thanks." The room around me buzzed, thrummed with noise, but I couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or the atmosphere. "Why're you here?"

"You called me."

"Didn't."

"You abso-fucking-lutely did," she said. An unlit cigarette dangling from her scarlet-painted mouth, the bartender informed her she couldn't smoke in the bar. "Wasn't going to," she snapped, "so chill the fuck out, dude." Her hands on my shoulders; she was irritable, edgy, though I couldn't immediately figure out why. "C'mon, get up. I'm taking you home."

"I didn't call you," I said. I was comfortable where I was, head resting on my folded arms, arms on the bar top. Bad music and cheap booze was a welcome distraction, a pleasant humming in the background that kept any and all thoughts of Norma Bates at bay.

"You did call me, you asshole," she said, and I felt her lean over me, tug harder on my shoulders. "And you're drunk, and I'm taking you home. Right now."

"No."

"For Christ's sake." She grabbed my collar roughly, yanked hard enough that it threw me off balance, forced me to look at her. "Listen to me, Romero." She leaned down into my face, green eyes level with mine. "You're drunk. You left me three rambling, nonsensical voicemails. And it is one o'clock in the fucking morning. Either get up and come with me, or I will drag you out of this bar in front of the town drunk, the bartender, and God."

"Alex, stop."

I didn't know how long it took to get back to my house. The drive had been a blur; she'd buckled my seatbelt, repeatedly told me to shut up, laughed occasionally when I'd said something amusing enough to break through her annoyance. And now there was just my bed, huge and swallowing and empty, and she'd removed my shoes, turned me this way and that to slide my jacket off.

She froze, wide-eyed and startled, when I'd touched her face, traced my thumb over her chin and her soft, plump bottom lip.

"Alex," she said. Her fingertips on my wrist. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching my face carefully.

"You're beautiful," I said.

"And you're drunk. And," she said, "upset, I think."

I nodded. The room was already starting to spin; too much vodka on an empty stomach. But I didn't care. Not now, anyway. Best to save regret for the morning.

"She hates me," I said. "She hates me, and you're beautiful."

"Alex—"

"I don't want to be alone." My words were slurred; I couldn't make out the details of her face. But I felt her relax against me, soften, and then her hair brushed my face and I could breathe in the scent of her.

"You don't have to be alone," she said. And then it was nothing but her lips on mine, my fingers in her hair, and the slow, spreading warmth of something that felt like lust but was an altogether different animal:

Comfort.

I woke up when her phone rang, the musical chime startling me out a heavy, drunken sleep. Heard her rustling in the sheets beside me, swearing under her breath.

"Hello? Yes, this is she."

The sun still wasn't up, and though I squinted at the clock on my bedside table, I couldn't make out the time.

"Wait, what?" Her voice rose an octave, either surprise or panic, and though my vision swam and my skull felt like it would crack open at any second, I rolled onto my side to look at her.

Her back to me, she stood, shifting back and forth on her feet. Visibly agitated.

"What do you mean, 'he's been found?'"

Chapter Five: Intermezzo I: Amelia

in·ter·mez·zo

/ˌin(t)ərˈmetsō/

noun

a short connecting instrumental movement in an opera or other musical work.

Rainer Maria Rilke said that everything terrible was something that needed our love.

My love for Bobby—impossible to quantify or explain, even by way of blood or family—had been the defining element of my life since childhood. I would've died for that man, if only he'd asked. But he never did; he'd only ever asked me to live, freely and far from the underbelly of White Pine Bay.

Sometimes I wondered if that would prove to be his solitary act of kindness; perhaps I was the only person he was capable of loving. The only thing he kept himself from destroying.

The passing years had brought stories, of course. Tales and gossip and calls from reporters and lawyers and angry ex-girlfriends. Old money had a way of riling up the moralistic and the greedy and, worst of all, the moralistically opportunistic. I'd never paid much attention; Bobby's business was entirely his own, something he'd never shared and frequently tried to shield me from, and I'd assumed his reasons were valid.

A certain naivete in that, I supposed. The televangelists and the pop psychologists screamed about transparency and honesty: how better to love someone than root out their secrets and their demons? Love, the world told us, was the destruction of iron traps and brick walls. It was possession; it was ownership.

But I preferred autonomy.

"Please understand, Miss Paris, very little of your brother's remains are intact," the medical examiner said. Dr. Coehlo (according to the plastic name tag on his lab coat; I hadn't really been listening when he introduced himself and shook my hand) had spent nearly twenty minutes attempting to prepare me for what lay in the room next door.

"It's fine," I said, for what felt like the twentieth time. Appreciated his kindness but I'd known what to expect the moment a voice on the phone told me they believed my brother washed up out of the bay.

"I admire your bravery, but—"

"It's not bravery, for God's sake," I snapped, and Dr. Coehlo instantly stilled. A nice man, one who didn't deserve my ire; I'd have to remember to apologize, maybe send flowers. But later. "I just want to see my brother."

He reached for a jar of what looked like petroleum jelly, but smelled like camphor and menthol. "You'll want something for the smell," he said gently, and held the jar out to me.

I shook my head. "No, thank you."

"Miss, please…" he trailed off, hesitancy warring with concern. Didn't want to upset me, but neither did he want to throw me to the proverbial wolves. Bedside manner at its finest.

"No," I said again. "It's fine." I'd been repeating myself for what felt like hours.

"Miss Paris—"

"I've been around a few corpses in my day, Doc."

Small towns—even White Pine Bay, one so accustomed to wealth—were easily impressed by luxury.

I was surprised to find a department store in the middle of the town square; I was less surprised to watch the girl at the perfume counter slowly take me in, inch by inch, discerning my worth as a customer by the price of my jeans.

"Are those real?" she asked. Pointed a well-manicured finger to the diamond studs in my ear. I nodded. "Is that a Prada bag?"

"Indeed it is."

A pause. She stared at my shoes.

"Christian Louboutin," I said, before she had time to ask. "Do you carry Jo Malone's Grapefruit?"

"What?" The girl blinked, slowly, finally meeting my eyes.

"Jo Malone. Grapefruit," I said again. "It's a perfume. Do you carry it?"

"Oh," she said, softly. "Oh!" Finally, something resembling excitement—or at least an awareness of her job's responsibilities—flickering across her face. "Oh, yes, ma'am, we do. Just the eau de parfum, or…?"

"The entire set, please." The girl nodded, busied herself behind the counter, assembling a pile of soap, body lotion, perfume and room spray. "And could you wrap that, darling? It's a gift."

I left the box, wrapped in blue—a color one Mrs. Norma Bates wore nearly every day that I'd seen her, and one I thought she'd enjoy—with a big silver bow, on the porch in front of the motel office.

Love, Amelia Paris scribbled on the little gift tag attached to the ribbon.

She'd said she liked my perfume, after all.

Eggs, bacon, steaks, collard greens, onions and garlic, butter and brie. Baguettes and rye bagels. Red wine, vodka, Diet Pepsi, a tin the strongest coffee I could find. And, for good measure, dark chocolate, mango sorbet and almond gelato. Alex Romero's kitchen, perhaps the most barren desert I'd ever encountered, now flush with nourishment.

Flush with life, or at least something resembling it. An essential element utterly absent from his home, it occurred to me; bare walls, empty rooms, and such a pervasive stillness it seemed less like a house and more like a formality.

I was sitting on the kitchen counter smoking when he finally wandered downstairs from his bedroom, disheveled and still reeking of booze, the circles under his eyes complimenting his 5 o'clock shadow.

He glanced out the window, the world outside dark, but quickly turned to me, eyes narrowing at the cigarette in my hand.

"I didn't want you smoking in my car," he said, voice gravelly, either from sleep or the hangover. "What makes you think I want you smoking in my house?"

"Not a damn thing," I said, as brightly as I could muster, and I took another long drag, pretended to ignore his disapproving scowl. "You look like shit, dude."

"Uhn." Alex wiped a hand across his face, rubbed his neck while he squinted at the window again. "What time is it?"

"Eight."

"In the morning?" he asked, voice rising in annoyance. "Why the Hell didn't you wake me?" I smiled, despite my best efforts to conceal it, and he frowned, puzzled. "What?"

"It's not eight in the morning, babe."

"What?" I'd never known Alex Romero to show alarm, at least not in the conventional sense. But it was difficult to ignore the widening of his eyes, or the way his jaw relaxed, lips parting just a bit; something that, had he been another sort of man, might've resembled shock.

"Yeah, no," I said, trying not to giggle, "it's eight in the evening." He stared at me, silent, but his eyes wandered over my face, not entirely convinced. "You've been out for hours."

"Christ," he said, finally. Apparently I'd appeased his bullshit detector. "Last thing I remember was your phone ringing. Something about—"

"Bobby. Yeah, I know. You offered to drive me to the morgue. It was very sweet."

"Why didn't you get me up? I would've gone with you."

"You were drunk," I said. Shrugged. "Exhausted. Figured it was best for you to sleep it off."

"You should've woken me up, Amelia. You didn't have to go through that alone."

My cigarette was burning down towards the filter, and I fumbled around in my pocket for a second one, lit it off the ember. Alex, though undoubtedly annoyed, chose to remain silent. Perhaps more concerned about what he assumed was the trauma of my brother's death.

"The M.E. said the same thing," I said, blowing out a long stream of smoke. "He was sweet. Very concerned. I was kind of an asshole." Alex smiled, a corner of his mouth flicking up just enough to denote his amusement. "Not surprising, I know."

He said nothing, an act of restraint, maybe even kindness. But his eyes were dull, gaze unfocused, like he had a headache. I slipped off the counter and gestured for him to sit on one of the barstools under the pass-through.

"You hungry? I could make something." I threw open the refrigerator door, pointed at the newly-stocked shelves.

"You went shopping?" Displeasure, I'd recently discovered, was one of the few facial expressions he was capable of forming.

"I was hungry this morning. You didn't even have Lucky Charms."

"I'm forty-seven," he said, as if this explained his appalling lack of sugar-and-marshmallow cereal.

"Forty-seven and you can't even buy proper food?"

"What I eat is my goddamn busin—"

I opened his freezer, pointed at the incriminating stacks of frozen dinners. "I am not having this discussion with a man who eats frozen macaroni and cheese," I said. "I didn't even know frozen macaroni and cheese was a thing until this morning."

"But you—"

"And now you have a fridge full of decent food."

"Amelia, I don't want you—"

"So shut the fuck up."

We stared at one another a long moment; he was annoyed, bordering on angry, and the fact that I was both amused and still smoking only aggravated him further. I could see it in the line of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched and he refused to break eye contact.

But then I cracked open a bottle of Diet Pepsi, threw in a slug of vodka—some hair of the dog for the hangover—and slid it across the counter towards him. I turned my back before he could respond, busied myself with pulling out steaks, fresh greens, onion, butter and a baguette.

Glowering silence for the thirty minutes the meal required. But he gulped down his drink like he was dying of thirst, and finished the bottle of water I placed in front of him when he was done. And by the time we were three bites into dinner, both of us crowded around his island counter, nothing but the smell of salt and red meat and onion and my ever-present menthol smoke in the air, he'd relaxed enough to grunt his approval of the dish.

"It's good," he said as he forked another bite of tender greens.

"I know," I said. He rolled his eyes, but smiled. I tore another chunk off the baguette, placed it on his plate for him. If my mothering bothered him at this point, he made no mention of it.

"How was it?" he asked. "Seeing your brother, I mean."

"What was left of him?" He nodded, but didn't meet my eyes, kept his gaze on his plate. "I don't know. Odd, I guess." I set my fork down, favorite my cigarette over the meal. "The smell always gets me. It's the same no matter who it is."

Alex stopped eating instantly, fork hovering mid-air, and stared at me. That even look; that cop look. I'd surprised him. "No matter who it is?"

"How much do you remember my dad, Alex?"

"Not much. He was nice enough to me. I don't recall us having many reasons to socialize." He put his fork down, watched me intently. Reminded me of an owl; curious, wary, knowing. "Why, Amelia?"

I'd already burned through six cigarettes since he'd wandered downstairs, and my throat ached with it, tongue tasted like ash. But it calmed me. The nicotine, the smoke, having something to do with my hands, my mouth. I reached for another one, and as Alex had long given up on convincing me to go outside, he said nothing.

"When I was little," I began, crushing out the old butt and drawing on the new one. "Mom was always depressed. Like, for two months I couldn't get her to come out of her room. Think I was eight or nine. Daddy was always working, you know? So Bobby took care of me." Sweet, loving Bobby. The big brother who'd thrown me on his back and taken me for long hikes through the park when he should've been off chasing girls or learning to drive. The brother who made me scrambled eggs and toast and hot chocolate every morning, and gave me money to buy lunch at school. Who parented me when our parents were too lost in their business or their pain to do it themselves.

"Go on," Alex encouraged.

"So one day I was sitting in the kitchen and I noticed this smell coming from the cellar door. A bad smell. Fucking horrible, I'd never come across anything like it in my life. I went upstairs to ask Mom about it, but when I did she just cried harder and locked me out of her bedroom." I reached for the bottle of wine we'd shared through dinner, poured myself a glass, knocked back half of it in a single swallow. "Tried to call Daddy at his office, couldn't reach him. And I wasn't supposed to go in the cellar, you know? It was always off limits. Daddy said he used it for business." I laughed at the memory, shook my head at the absurdity of it; adult understanding coupled with youth's memory: a bitch of a combination.

"Anyway," I continued, "I went down to the cellar, because why the fuck not, right? And the smell just gets worse and I keep going down the stairs, and then I see it. I fucking see it."

"See what?"

"I think it was a woman," I said. "I mean, I was never entirely clear on that. Not much left." I took another gulp of wine, smeared the taste of it from my lips with the back of my hand. "But the fucking smell. Even as a kid, you recognize it before you see it. I mean, you don't realize it at the time, but there's some animal part of your brain that just knows. Like, how you know you're hungry, or thirsty, or even that you want to fuck. It's just part of you, some ancient fucking memory your lizard brain stored up thousands of years before we were born."

"Christ," Alex said. A harsh sound, starling because I wasn't expecting it.

"Bobby found me. I guess I freaked out, was screaming. You know, kids overreact."

"I wouldn't call that overreacting."

"Yeah, well, Bobby wasn't freaked out. He just picked me up and carried me upstairs, set me down at the kitchen table and made me a sandwich. Peanut butter and guava jelly," I said. I could hear my voice wavering, feel the tears begin to burn at the back of my eyes. "Fucking guava. You know how hard guava jelly is to get in this town? But he always kept some on hand for me because it was my favorite. So he made me this goddamn sandwich and he—"

"Amelia," Alex said, softly. Carefully, he placed his hand over mine. "You're shaking. Take a deep breath."

But I jerked my hand away from his, stood up from the stool, took a shaky drag off my cigarette. I was crying, could feel the tears on my cheeks, though tears were a rarity in my life, something I always fought as hard as I could: I wasn't fond of weakness.

"Bobby made me a sandwich, Alex, and you know what he said? He just said 'Don't go in Dad's office anymore, okay?'" I shook my head, trying to make sense of the memory in the most physical way possible. "That was it. Like it was normal. Like every family had a corpse rotting in the basement."

"Amelia," Alex said again. He stood and moved towards me, his face set in his cop-mask, the perfect stillness that gave nothing away, neither warmth nor suspicion. He reached to take hold of my arms, but hesitated, like he was dealing with a skittish animal.

"What?" I asked. I leaned away from him slightly. "You never heard this story? You think I'm crazy?"

"I don't think you're crazy—"

"She wasn't the only one, you know. There were others over the years. And always that smell. But I don't know why. No one ever told me why—"

"Amelia, stop." Alex took the cigarette from my hand, tossed it into the sink. And then his arms were around me and it was just the smell of him, his solidity and his goodness and the ease with which I leaned against him and buried my face in the crook of his neck until the world was still and I could breathe again.

"That's what this town is, Alex," I said, and my voice was still thick even though the tears has dried. I felt him brush his lips against the top of my head, his hands idly stroking my back. "And my family's apart of it."

"But you're not," he whispered. "You're nothing like them."

"But Bobby was, wasn't he?" I felt him still, a sudden tension I couldn't quite understand infiltrating the room. "Daddy was terrible, and so was Bobby, I know he was. But I loved him so goddamn much, Alex, he was the only one who ever took care of me—"

"I know."

"There was barely any of him left."

"I wish you would've woken me up. I should've gone with you."

"He was shot."

Alex withdrew from me, hands sliding up to secure my shoulders while he leaned away enough to peer into my face. "What?"

"There was a bullet lodged in his ribcage." I watched his face fall into something resembling stone, but it didn't matter. I didn't feel like dealing with the Sheriff of White Pine Bay; I only cared about Alex, my friend, and my dead goddamned brother. "I talked to some people in town last week. He had a lot of enemies."

"Christ, Amelia, you don't need to investigate this. You need to grieve. Let the police do their job."

"But I think I know who killed him." Silence. Alex stared at me, utterly still save for the slight narrowing of his eyes. "I talked to a friend of … well, not a friend, really, I guess more of an ex-girlfriend," I continued, "but anyway, I talked to her, and she filled me in on a lot of things going on around here."

"Amelia, you need to drop this.

"Things I don't think anyone really knows about, you know?"

"Amelia," he said again. His voice was stern, commanding. But I didn't care. I needed him to understand, to hear the truth that I'd only just begun to understand myself.

"I think Norma Bates killed my brother."

Chapter Six: Intermezzo II: Norma

in·ter·mez·zo

/ˌin(t)ərˈmetsō/

noun

a short connecting instrumental movement in an opera or other musical work.

Sometimes, when it was late and there were no more meals to cook or things to iron, I thought about the old house on the flatlands. Blackberries grew in the foundation, curled up and through the lattice beneath the front porch. The crawl space made for good hiding and good meals when there was nothing on the table and the screaming wouldn't stop.

I remembered his arms draped over mine as we huddled on the ground. Unseasonably cold for late April. He scuffed his palms over my shoulders, trying to warm the skin through my flimsy coat.

"You should eat something," he said. "It might warm you up."

"It's too cold to eat, Caleb." Plates shattering somewhere above us; the kitchen a battlefield.

"Look," he said. He leaned past me and plucked a few berries off the vine. "They're already ripe." He popped one in his mouth, grinned, teeth smeared purple with the juice. "That's why they call it a Blackberry Winter. They taste even better than normal."

I hadn't said anything. Fingertips numb, nose red, hair mussed and dirty, all I'd wanted was a hot bath and a soft bed.

"C'mon, Norma, they're good." He thrust the handful of berries under my nose. "It'll warm you up."

"No, it won't."

"It will. Just try one. You'll feel better."

"Can't you just leave me alone?"

He grew quiet when I snapped at him, always so afraid of displeasing me. Wouldn't meet my eyes, all the life and humor drained out of him. Just looking at him, all sullen and withdrawn, broke my heart. I couldn't stand it for long.

"Fine," I said, and he perked up as I reached for a berry and placed it on my tongue. It burst the second I bit into it, just as a window broke and our father let loose with a new string of profanities, and we both flinched and huddled in our coats and stayed silent. "It's really good," I whispered once the commotion drifted to another part of the house.

"I told you."

"Shut up."

"I did! You never listen."

"I ate the stupid berry, didn't I?"

He frowned at the word stupid, and instantly I felt awful. It was Daddy's favorite insult, the one he hurled at Caleb whenever opportunity knocked. Didn't take much. A cracked plate or a torn garbage bag or simply an expression the old man didn't like.

"Don't pout," I said. I sat up and threw my arms around my brother, buried the tip of my nose beneath the collar of his jacket, eager to warm it up. "I was just teasing."

"You don't think I'm stupid, do you?"

"Of course not. I love you more than anything in the whole world." I squeezed him tighter and, eventually, felt him relax against me.

"You're the smart one, Norma Louise."

"But you always take care of me."

"We'll always take care of each other, right?"

"Right."

My mother kept an old Home & Gardens magazine on her nightstand. I was never sure why, considering she didn't seem to care all that much about our home: wallpaper peeling down the walls, unidentifiable stains littering the carpets and upholstery, the garden an overgrown nightmare. But I'd loved looking at it, and sometimes she'd invite me to sit on the bed with her while I flipped through it.

"Isn't it nice, baby?" She pointed at a picture of a cabin backed by the Hawaiian sunset, and I nodded, tracing the details with the tip of my finger.

She combed my hair idly, humming now and again to herself. The gust of breath that brushed my cheek smelled like mint and alcohol, and I was happy enough for it. Her evening nightcap (half a bottle of creme de menthe, a pack of cigarettes and a small handful of sedatives) made her significantly more pleasant than usual. Affectionate, even.

"Your Daddy took me to Hawaii once, did I ever tell you that?"

"Yes, Momma."

"Before you kids were born, you know, when I had more time." She laughed, the air whistling in her lungs. Thirty-some years of cigarettes had stolen four teeth and gifted her a death-rattle wheeze. "You'll find out soon enough, baby. Trust me on that. Some boy'll knock you up and then you can say goodbye to your life and those pretty little thighs of yours, just like the rest of us."

"Yes, Momma," I said again. I'd heard this story, and it's prelude, multiple times. I'd always hated it, but it was best to stay quiet, and agreeable, and focus on the magazine in front of me.

"Anyway, we stayed for a couple of weeks. It was fun at first, but you know how your father is. Towards the end I couldn't wait to get away from him." She tied my hair up in a blue ribbon, tugging at the ends of my hair to neaten it, and then leaned over to grab the pack of cigarettes off the table. "Then I started going out at night while he was asleep. Was so dark out, nobody was ever around. Peaceful, really." I heard the click-and-snap of her lighter; smelled the smoke; turned a page and stared at the smiling faces. "I liked to lay on the sand by the water and listen to the waves. Just me and the dark and the water."

Though I never let it show, listening to her story terrified me. It all sounded so desperately lonely, so isolated, so fatal. It came to me in flashes when I was in bed, chased away any hope of sleep.

"When the tide came in the water washed up over my legs," she continued, "and I liked to think about how easy it'd wash me away if I let it. Just me and the water. Not a bad way to go."

I'd come to my favorite picture in the entire magazine: a beautiful woman smiling contentedly in her kitchen while three children played in the living room behind her. Shoulder-length bob beautifully curled, lips painted baby pink, she wore a lovely blue checkered dress. Her curtains were perfectly creased—the product of attentive ironing, I was certain—and the floors were immaculate.

"Maybe I'll take you to Hawaii someday, baby. Would you like that?"

"Momma," I said, hoping to distract her. I pointed at the picture. "Isn't this pretty?"

"We could go out together. Just us in the water."

"Momma," I said again, "Momma, look. The lady looks so happy."

She did look, finally. I turned enough to see her face, take in the red waterline of her eyes, the creases between the brows, the increasingly gray skin.

"Doesn't she look happy, Momma?"

"No man in that picture, huh?"

"I'm going to be her someday," I said.

"You know why she's happy, Norma Louise?" Her tone changed abruptly, something I couldn't quite identify creeping into each slow, careful word. It startled me enough that I lost interest in the magazine and turned to her.

"Why?"

"No man in that picture," she said again. She crushed out her cigarette on the mattress, burned a hole in the comforter. Didn't seem concerned. "Men will always disappoint you, baby. But it's not their fault." She reached out to stroke my hair, the side of my face, and when her eyes finally locked onto mine they held an equal measure of malice and concern. "It's our fault. We're poison."

"That's not true—"

"It is," she snapped. But then she softened, twisting a lock of my hair around her finger. "It is, baby, trust me. The women in this family poison everything. It's just in the blood. Can't be helped. Your father used to be different, you know? And then I came along."

I stared at her face: her down-turned mouth, the jowls beginning to form, the purple-blue bruises blossoming around her eye and her cheekbone. I wondered how she imagined any of it was hurt fault; I wondered if she convinced herself that Daddy's rage was her burden; I wondered if I should say something; I didn't say a word.

"You're poison, baby girl." She nodded slowly, more to herself than to me, and a smile of what I could only call resignation lifted a corner of her lips. "You'll ruin everything you love. Just like the rest of us."

"He's getting worse."

"You think I don't know that?"

"How should I know?" Dylan asked. Arms folded across his chest, he leaned against the refrigerator. Just like Alex had a mere two days ago. Before I'd thrown him out, anyway. "He's spending more and more time in the basement. We hardly see him, for God's sake, and you're not doing anything—"

"There's nothing I can do!" I strode across the kitchen and thrust my face within inches of my son's. "It's better this way," I said, and my voice was a whisper but the tone was harsh. I needed him to understand. And to keep his voice down.

"C'mon, Norma, he—"

"I'm looking into all our options, okay? I know he needs help, Dylan, but this all takes time."

"Norman doesn't have anymore time."

"Yeah, well, we don't have money, either," I said. Dylan's face sobered, and though he took a breath like he wanted to say something, eventually he closed his mouth and nodded slowly. "I'm looking into it, okay? It's not like I'm just going to forget about Norman."

"So we're just going to let him stay in the basement?"

"At least he can't get into too much trouble down there."

"Norma," Dylan said, his voice slow and deliberate, "you said he's getting restless, right? You said he's been asking about Emma, getting angry when he wants to go out and you tell him not to—"

"I don't tell him not to. He's not a prisoner, Dylan. I ask him if he'd—"

"How long until he says no?"

"He won't say no," I said. Norman needed help, yes. Admittedly, it took a while before I could really face that fact. But I had, I was sure of it, and my sweet, lovely boy would return to us the moment we had enough money and the right doctor. I just needed to find the cash.

"You sure about that?"

"Pfft, of course I'm sure." I waved off his concerns, shook my head at the absurdity of it. "Norman may not like it, but he's been wonderful about all of this."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," I said, and I could hear the wariness in my voice. I was started to get annoyed, though I tried to fight it back. Dylan had done nothing but be supportive and helpful these past three months, and I didn't want to upset him. Especially when, more and more, he'd been calling me Mom. Though it came as a surprise every time, I couldn't ignore the warmth of it, the way it lit up my day with each utterance.

"Okay," he said. But then he stepped closer to me, his eyes—my eyes, big and blue and the perfect reminder that, despite everything, he was still my boy—soft, or maybe just sad, and reached out to tenderly take hold of my upper arm. "So, what about this?" Carefully, he squeezed my bicep, just enough that I tensed, and he didn't need to say anything else: we both understood the point.

"That's nothing," I whispered. He hissed out a breath, and I rushed to continue. "It was an accident."

"Bullshit, Mom."

"He didn't mean to hurt me—"

"Maybe he didn't—"

"—he was just confused—"

"—but he still did."

A loud crash came from the direction of the basement, startling us both. I held my breath, straining to hear any movement or shouted reassurances of my youngest son's safety, but none came.

"I should go check on him," I said. I moved towards the basement stairs, but Dylan tightened his hand on my arm, turned me towards him.

"Be careful with him."

"God," I snapped. I pulled my arm away from him, rolled my eyes. "What sort of mother do you think I am? I'm just going to make sure he's alright."

"No," Dylan said, shaking his head. "Be careful around him."

"Yes, Mother, of course. Whatever you'd like."

"Norman?"

Back to me, oblivious to my presence, Norman fussed with what looked like a recently deceased crow.

"No, I won't, Mother. I promise."

"Norman!" I raised my voice to ensure he heard me, though it sounded high-pitched and frantic to my ears. But it worked. Setting down the crow, he turned to face me on the stairs, brows knitting together in confusion.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Who are you talking to?" I asked. I walked towards him slowly. Pulled my cardigan around me. The basement was always cold, and lately I'd become less and less comfortable spending time down here. Especially with Norman, though I refused to acknowledge it aloud; too stupid a feeling to entertain.

"You didn't hear me?" His smile held back a laugh, as if he didn't want to offend me. "I just said I wouldn't go out at night without you anymore."

Chill air; still air. My skin prickled as the words hit me, and I blinked several times, trying to parse the meaning. "Go out at night?"

"Yes, Mother. But I won't try to go without you anymore, I promise."

"Norman," I said slowly, "you're in your room at night." He smiled. Giggled. Reached out; ignored my subtle flinch; rubbed the soft fabric of my sweater. "You don't actually go out, do you?"

"What happened to your dress?"

"What?"

"The dress you were wearing. The blue one. I like it very much," he said, still smiling, though something darker had begun to take root in the expression. "When did you change?"

"Honey, I didn't change." My eyes stung, the threat of tears building. But he didn't need my tears, not now, not anymore. He just needed time, and rest, and calm. "I haven't worn a dress in a few days."

"No, you were just here and you had—"

"No, honey, I wasn't." There had to be a way to get the money. Pineview had wonderful doctors; it was too damned expensive not to. I'd find the money and soon this would all be over and done with. "Please, honey, I promise you, I wasn't wearing a dress." Soon everything would be fine. "Tell me you understand, Norman."

"Norma?" Dylan's stood on the stairs behind me, a small box in his hands. Norman, seemingly unaware, just kept smiling and stroking my sweater. "Norma, you, uh," Dylan glanced at Norman, lost a beat, frowned, then slowly turned his gaze back to me. "You, uh, got a package, I guess."

Wrapped in periwinkle blue, my favorite color, with an elaborate silver boy; I couldn't help but smile. "Oh, how lovely."

"Yeah, it was in front of the office door." Dylan shrugged and handed it to me, glancing over my shoulder towards Norman, who'd finally turned back to his crow, having apparently lost interest in continuing our conversation.

"How sweet," I said. A little gift card dangled from the bow, and I flipped it open. "I wonder who—"

Love, Amelia Paris.

"Oh, my God."

"What?" Dylan asked.

"Oh, my God!" I practically screamed it.

"Mother?" Norman turned from his crow, eyes suddenly wide, clearer than I'd seen them in a days. "What's wrong?"

I dropped the box and vaulted myself up the stairs, taking two at a time. Ignored the alarming shouting coming from the basement. My heart pounding, the blood rushing through my veins, thoughts spinning and dizzy; I needed to find my keys, get in the car. I didn't care what was in the stupid box. It didn't matter.

The message was clear.

"Norma?"

Alex stood in the doorway, squinting at the morning sun. Disheveled, wary; I'd probably woken him, even though it was nearly ten in the morning.

"She left me a present," I said.

"What?" Dark circles under his eyes. His normally olive skin ashen, tinged gray. And beneath that, I caught the barest whiff of alcohol. He looked like Hell, and I felt a momentary stab of guilt for bothering him, but some things warranted intrusion. "Norma, what are you doing here?"

"Amelia Paris, she—"

"What about her?" He cut me off, and his tone was hard. Clipped enough that I lost a beat, mouth hanging open, startled by the way he narrowed his eyes. But I recovered quick enough.

"I told you," I said. Took a step towards him; if he wanted to act like a surly child, fine. "You should listen, Alex." Two could play that game, after all. "She left me a gift at the motel."

"And?"

"And it was a threat. Obviously."

I watched him soften the tiniest bit, either thrown or convinced, I wasn't sure which.

"What was in the box?"

"I don't know, I didn't open it."

"You didn't open it?" Visibly annoyed, he shifted his weight from foot to foot, kept a tight grip on the door frame.

"Of course I didn't open it. Who knows what sort of thing she'd put in there. And anyway, that's not the point—"

"Norma," he said quietly, "if you didn't open it, how the Hell do you know it's a threat?"

"What else would it be?"

"She's a generous person," he said. He didn't sound entirely convinced. And, I suddenly realized, he'd made an effort to keep his voice down.

"Why are you whispering?" I asked.

"It's nothing," he said, a bit too quickly. But then he seemed to relax; sighed, leaned in towards him. Tired, or maybe just worn down, he shook his head. It made me want to take him back to the motel, or even back to my house, and tuck him into bed.

"Well?" I asked. He hadn't said anything for a long moment, and I was getting impatient, even if I did feel sorry for his obvious lack of decent sleep.

He stared at me, unblinking. Not a hard stare, though I couldn't figure out exactly what was behind it. Finally, he said, "I told you I was done with this."

It hit me like a slap, with more force than I thought he was capable of exerting in my life at this point. And I tried not to let it show: I bit into my bottom lip, silent, until I tasted blood. And he kept staring at me, and I felt my eyes begin to water, and I tried not to think about the scope of it all, what had led us to this.

I tried not to notice the pain in his eyes, or the tiny glimmer of hope. And I tried to ignore how much I wanted his arms around me, solid and sure and comforting, because it couldn't happen. Not for us, not now. Not with everything—

"You're the sheriff," I said, and I was impressed by my steady, albeit small, voice. "Where else was I supposed to go?"

"Not here."

Hurt turned to sadness turned to anger. A flash, a myriad of emotions I couldn't name or control or just didn't want to think about, until I felt heat in my cheeks, the skin no doubt flushing red.

"It's that easy for you?" I asked. My hands were shaking, and I felt tears on my face but it didn't matter. "You can shut me out just like that, huh?"

"No," he said. A low voice, a harsh voice, something almost sinister in it. "No, Norma, you shut me out." This wasn't his cop stoicism, or the gentle affection he had so often offered in the past. This was something I'd never heard from him before, something dangerous, and it frightened me. "This is just me accepting it."

"Yeah, of course." My throat ached, my voice tight, high-pitched. "So it is that easy for you. That's what you're saying. You don't care, and you're not going to help me."

"What do you want from me?"

"The Hell with you, then. Who cares, right? This woman is threatening my family, and you can't even be bothered to help—"

"Norma," he said.

"—it'll probably be in the paper, you know, when they find my body somewhere. Because that's what this is, Alex, that girl is going to hurt us—"

"Norma," he said again.

"You probably don't even believe me."

"I believe you."

I stilled the moment he said, my anger dulling around the edges. "You do?"

"Yes," he said softly, though still unmoved. "And since that's the only reason you're here," hurt in his voice suddenly, though I didn't think he realized it, and I pretended not to notice, "you can stop worrying. I'll handle it."

"You'll handle it," I repeated, flatly.

"Yes, Norma. I believe you, and I'll handle it." He took notice of my quirked brow and pursed lips, and sighed. "Now if that's all, I have some things I need to do."

He looked so tired. Maybe as tired as I felt. The nights with Norman were getting increasingly difficult, he was getting harder to manage, and with no clue as to where I'd find the money for Pineview, I'd been carrying a stone in my stomach for over a month. And now this; this girl, and her damned, rotten brother.

"It wasn't easy for me," I said, surprising myself.

"What?" Alex blinked, visibly thrown.

"Shutting you out." He stared at me, wary, but already I could see him soften. Something in the way he exhaled, how his shoulders dropped an inch, tangible tension draining from him. "It wasn't easy. It was just…"

"Just what?" he asked, voice gentle. Tender, almost.

"Necessary."

"How was any of this necessary?" he asked. He took a step towards me, and then another, until finally his hand was on my shoulder, tentative but noticeably eager.

"I was angry at first. After Bob, I mean. He's out there somewhere—"

"You haven't heard?"

"What?" I blinked up at him, confused. "Heard what?"

"Norma," Alex said, and then both his hands were on my shoulders and he was pulling me into him, bending his head down to meet my eyes, "I need to tell you—"

"They found his body yesterday," said a female voice that, while familiar, I didn't immediately recognize. Alex tensed, his normally controlled features twisting into something that almost resembled alarm.

Amelia Paris stood a few feet behind Alex, watching us calmly, a bemused smile lifting one corner of her mouth.

"Oh, my God," I whispered.

"Norma," Alex said. His tone almost pleading; he tightened his grip on my shoulders.

"No shit," Amelia said. She wore jeans and a plaid shirt. His plaid shirt, half-undone, and no hint of a bra to be seen.

"Oh, my God," I said again. Louder this time. I wrenched my body away from Alex, backed away quickly. "Oh, God."

"Norma," he said again, "just wait a minute—"

But I was already running towards my car, head spinning, heart pounding, the world an endless jumble of bullshit and broken promises and poison.

"Norma!"

He called my name, again and again, and I kept driving until I couldn't hear him any longer.

Chapter Seven: Playing Human

Seven days.

Norma hadn't responded to a single call or text for an entire week. She'd answered her phone once four days earlier—too preoccupied to check the name on the screen, I'd assumed—and promptly hung up the moment she'd heard my voice. I'd held the receiver to my ear, every thought swallowed up by the silence, until pain or regret or the desperate need to pretend I felt neither drove me to hang up.

For the first time in my life work offered no relief, and I'd taken a week off. Figured I might as well take advantage of the sick leave I'd never bothered to make use of previously. I seldom came down with anything, and on the rare occasion I did, I found long stretches at my desk, lost in the pleasant repetitive nothingness of paperwork, to be an excellent distraction.

But not this time. Not now. Not after Norma, and the absolute ruin we'd inflicted upon one another.

The days passed slowly, sunlight bleeding into night without much notice; I'd worked my way through the entirety of my liquor cabinet, chasing a constant state of inebriation, until finally I'd been forced to send Amelia out to the store for more.

Amelia. We'd agreed it was probably best for her to avoid the Bates Motel from here on out—she'd driven over to collect her things from her room one appallingly-early morning, and slid a check for services rendered under the office door—and was now bunking in my unused guest room. That was the idea, anyway. Five nights out of seven, when the alcohol in my blood simultaneously lowered my inhibitions and yet made me keenly aware of my own damnable loneliness, I'd lured her into my bed.

A willing participant, certainly, and her warmth and her touch were a welcome, albeit fleeting, distraction from my misery. But no matter how sweetly she moaned my name when her thighs wrapped around my hips, or how much I enjoyed kissing her, tasting the soft skin of her neck, I was plagued by the emptiness of it all.

I'd gathered her to me one night; room spinning once I'd finished inside her, my sweat tinged with the smell of alcohol, and a sharp stab of guilt as she sighed contentedly, nestled herself into my arms. You stupid shit, Romero, I'd thought. What if she thinks this means something? What if she falls for you?

"Amelia," I'd said, tone gentle but words slurred, "you're beautiful, and I care about you, but I hope you understand this isn't … I mean, I can't—"

But she'd rolled over, adjusting herself under the weight of my arm so that she could face me properly, an amused smile lifting one corner of her mouth; her face made of knowing, and keen perception, a trait so easily overlooked in her unless one paid careful attention. She'd leaned in to kiss me, a quick press of her hot little mouth on mine, and when she pulled back she rolled her eyes, though it was an affectionate gesture, and slapped me playfully on the cheek.

"Don't be an idiot, Alex."

And that, I'd realized, was her kindness. No more in love with me than I was with her, she was nevertheless the accepting and unquestioning comfort in my bed, a joyful presence that made my unhappiness nearly bearable.

Nearly. But not quite.

She hadn't mentioned Norma the entire time, no doubt picking up on some sense of my unspoken need. At least until the seventh day, when she found me slumped on the front porch, bottle in hand, back against the wall next to the front door.

Eyes closed so that I could properly enjoy the early morning mist, the scent of rain pressing in against me, a cool and welcome relief against the edge of my impending hangover. I heard the door creak open, though made no move to greet her until I felt her sit down next to me.

"Want some?" I cracked an eye open just enough to glance down at the chocolate bar she shoved under my nose, and shook my head. "It's got sea salt in it. Dark chocolate, though," she said, and snapped off a piece, popped it in her mouth. "I like milk chocolate better."

"That's your breakfast?" I asked. I heard the hiss of a soda can as she bent the tab to open it.

"Have I not supplied you with three hot, healthy meals a day for the entire fucking week?"

Eggs scrambled in butter, crispy bacon and fresh berries every morning; salads and platters of cheese and deli meat every noon; roasted chicken or grilled steaks and mountains of tender, salty root vegetables every evening; to her credit, she'd done her damnedest to make sure I was, at the very least, eating well.

"As opposed to the abominations in your freezer," she continued.

"Point taken."

"You look like shit." The back of her hand on my forehead, pressing against my cheek, checking for any sign of a fever. "Eaten anything since last night?" I felt her tug on the bottle in my hand, and though half of me wanted to protest, I let her take it from me. "Have you had anything besides whiskey, for God's sake? Water, for instance?" She sighed when I shook my head again. "How about I make you some coffee? Maybe fry up a couple of sausages, yeah? Get something in you before you're more booze than man."

"Later."

"Alex—"

"I'm not hungry."

"Alright, fine. If you want to do this on an empty stomach, that's your prerogative."

"Do what?" Finally, I opened my eyes and turned to look at her.

"Look, you wanted to spend a week like an alcoholic hermit, and I was happy enough to let you. Everybody's got needs," she said. "And it's been fun. It has. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather play house with." She leaned over to kiss my forehead, her thumb ghosting over my jaw, like a mother comforting a small child. But then it was straight back to business, her face solemn. "But we need to talk about Norma."

"Christ," I groaned. The back of my head hit the wall, and I cupped my hand over my eyes. Wasn't prepared to deal with this bullshit. Not now. Maybe not ever. "I thought we already covered this."

"We did not."

"Last week I said—"

"Last week," she said, cutting me off abruptly, "you said 'we'll talk about it soon,' and then you out-drank every frat house in the country. And I gave you that, Alex, I didn't say a goddamned word, but now we need to deal with this."

"She didn't kill your brother, Amelia. I told you that."

"But how do you know?"

I didn't say: because I'm the one who killed Bob.

I didn't say: she's more surprised by his death than even you are.

I didn't say: you'll bring us all down if you don't stop looking into this.

Instead, I said, "Because I know her."

"Alex—"

"And I need you to trust me."

She didn't say anything for a long time. I kept my eyes closed, my head tilted back; I didn't want to look at her. Hurt to look at her, if I was totally honest. Hurt to lie to her, though I had lied to more people over the years than I cared to count. She trusted me so completely: it never once occurred to her that I might be covering for someone, or worse, that I'd been the one to kill her brother. Her faith was so sure, so sound—perhaps even more sound than anything Norma had ever offered me—that, briefly, I wished I could undo it all.

I wish there'd been a way to protect Norma, I thought, without hurting you.

And even though I'd asked her to, needed her to, I wished she didn't trust me so much. Would've felt like less of a betrayal whenever I deceived her.

"He's my brother," she said, finally. I felt her fingers, cold to the touch, on my chin; I turned to look at her. "I can't just let this go." Her lips pursed, trembled. Eyes welling with tears. I watched her face contort in an effort to keep them at bay.

"Amelia—"

"Could you?"

It took three cups of coffee, a bottle of ice-cold water, and a large meal to get me anywhere close to resembling sober. I wasn't sober, of course, could feel the dizziness creeping in around the edges whenever I moved too quickly or stared too intently at something. But after a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes, I could no longer smell the alcohol on my skin, and so long as I didn't have to drive (Amelia stationed herself behind the wheel of my SUV), I functioned reasonably well.

Amelia wouldn't let this go, I knew. And she couldn't be blamed for that, really. Whatever sort of man Bob was, he was still her brother. Anyone would've done the same in her place. But I needed to nip this in the bud. I couldn't have her dragging Norma into this anymore than I could allow her to discover the truth.

Briefly, it occurred to me that, had she been anyone else, there would've been a simple solution to the problem she represented. Made me think of Bob's parting gift: You're more like your dad than you ever have been. Maybe he'd been correct. Because had Amelia Paris not been someone I considered a friend, and an innocent, I would've ended her a week ago.

The easiest way to deal with this, I'd decided, was to give her just enough information about her brother that she'd realize just how many enemies he'd acquired over the years, and that Norma Bates was relatively low on that list.

"Let's go the station," I'd said, though my head swam and all I'd wanted to do was sleep it off. Hell, sleep for the next five days. "There's some things you need to see."

She drove slowly, most likely for my sake, and though neither of us spoke I stared at her, squinting against the morning sun, my eyes wandering over every detail of her profile.

Beautiful. Trusting. Heartbreakingly gentle when she curled into my arms at night. Loyal to her family, no matter how little of her love they deserved.

And, I realized with a mixture of shame and heat in my face and some sort of tight thrill that gripped my heart with more force than I'd been prepared to expect, I could kill her.

If push came to shove.

If she didn't stop.

If she posed a true threat to Norma.

It wouldn't be easy; I'd never forgive myself; Hell, I'd hate myself.

But I could.

Special Agent Babbitt had a way of showing up only at the most inopportune times, and today proved no exception.

We'd managed to make it to my office in relative peace; Amelia attracted her fair share of glances from my deputies, and the fact that she held my arm as we walked no doubt raised a few questions, but aside from a smattering of respectful nods, we were more or less left to ourselves. At least until I slipped out of my jacket—feeling hot and cramped and hungover, aching to stretch out my shoulders—and there came a knock on my door.

"Sheriff Romero," Babbitt said with a terse nod. Neither of us bothered to initiate a handshake. Amelia had settled herself into my chair, ensconced happily behind my desk, twirling back and forth as she'd done mere days ago. I'd been about to say something, vaguely annoyed, until the Agent Babbitt arrived.

Babbitt caught sight of Amelia; lost a beat; frowned. I was pleased for the buffer, as I hadn't much felt like dealing with the DEA today. Especially with my encroaching hangover. And with a civilian present, I highly doubted the conversation would verge into anything too serious.

"This a bad time, Sheriff?"

"As a matter of fact," I said, gesturing to Amelia, though it was hardly necessary. "I'm afraid I have a rather serious matter to attend to."

"Will it take long?" Babbitt tapped a finger against the file in her hand. A subtle gesture, one meant for me alone. "There are some rather serious matters I need to discuss with you."

"I'm afraid it'll take all day," Amelia chirped from behind me. Coming to my rescue. If only she knew what I'd been thinking in the car. Or who left her brother to rot.

"And you are?" Babbitt asked. Visibly annoyed. Didn't offer to shake Amelia's hand either, a fact I found more amusing than I should've.

"Special Agent Liz Babbitt," I said, gesturing between the two women, "this is Amelia Paris."

"Paris?" Babbitt's gaze flicked from Amelia to me and then back again. "Any relation to Bob Paris?"

"My late brother."

Recognition dawned across Babbitt's face, and she brushed past me, suddenly warm. Reached an eager hand out. Amelia took it after only a slight hesitation, glancing from her face to mine, before offering a reserved smile.

"Miss Paris," Babbitt said, "I've actually been hoping to talk to you."

"Oh?"

"I have some information on your brother I'd like to share with you."

"Oh?" I asked. Amelia caught my eye, frowned slightly as she took in my face. Perhaps my surprise—or, more accurately, my concern—was too visible. I fought to keep my expression neutral, and tried to avoid her eyes. Failed.

Maybe it was the alcohol, the hangover, or the week she'd spent in my house with me, in my bed and privy to pieces of my nature she shouldn't have been. Whatever it was, I felt exposed, and alarmed, and caught utterly off-guard. That Babbitt should have any cause to speak to Amelia was news to me, and highly unwelcome news, at that.

No longer interested in me, Babbitt pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to Amelia. Amelia, gaze focused almost exclusively on me, nodded and slipped it in her pocket.

"That number goes directly to my cell. If you'd be so kind as to call me when you're finished with Sheriff Romero, I'd very much like to make an appointment to speak with you."

"Yes, of course," Amelia said. I watched her eyes narrow, move slowly over my face, my shoulders, down to my hands, and then back up, before finally—thank God—she turned to Agent Babbitt. "I'll call you this evening, if that's not too late?"

"That will be just fine."

"Wonderful. We'll schedule something as soon as I'm finished here."

"Sounds good. Been a pleasure meeting you," Babbitt said. She shook Amelia's hand again before turning to me. "Since you're already occupied, Sheriff, I'll come back later. There are a few things you and I should discuss."

I nodded. Though I was relieved to see her out of my office, I was undeniably concerned by the turn this had taken.

"I'll be in all next week," I said. "Stop be any time."

"I'll be sure to do that." Babbitt nodded to Amelia before heading for the door. "You two have a pleasant day."

Neither Amelia or I said anything until the door clicked shut, and we heard Babbitt's footsteps trail off down the hall.

"Well," Amelia said, at long last, turning Babbitt's business card over and over in her fingers, "that was suitably odd."

"Just read the file."

"And what, exactly, do you think that's going to do?"

"For one thing, it'll help you understand the scope of what we're dealing with."

"And for another?" Amelia asked. I did my best to ignore the sarcasm, if not the borderline disdain, dripping from her every word.

"Bob made a lot of enemies in this town—"

"—And you want to convince me Norma Bates had nothing to do with my brother's death."

"Amelia," I said, "just read the file. Everything you could possibly want to know is in there." A half-truth, of course. Back in my office, I'd given her the file I'd had on her brother: The Arcanum Club, Lindsay Davis and Annika Johnson, the drug ring, a string of formal complaints and a long paper trail linking him to multiple deaths. No mention of Norma, of course, or the various conversations Bob and I'd had over the weeks leading up to his death. But I hoped it was enough to get to calm down, or at the very least set her sights on someone besides Norma.

We idled in my SUV in front of my house; despite the hangover and slightly blurred vision, I'd agreed to drop her off before running a few essential errands.

She didn't say anything for several minutes, just stared out the window, jaw set firm, tapping the file against her leg. But, finally, she turned to me and nodded. "I'll read it," she said. "But I want you to promise me—really promise me—that if, afterward, I'm still concerned about this Bates broad, you'll look into it further."

"I can do that."

"Promise."

"I promise, Amelia."

"By the way," she said, throwing open the passenger side door and sliding out, "it's painfully obvious you're in love with this chick."

"I—"

"So if you're going to spend all this time trying to convince me she's innocent, at least go fucking talk to her, instead of sitting around the house like a sour-faced alcoholic." She slammed the door before I had a chance to respond, practically sprinting up the porch steps, and just before closing the front door behind her, she turned around and grinned at me, and cheerfully flipped me the bird.

Worse than screaming at, insulting, or slapping me, she remained utterly silent. Stood unmoving in the doorway, a somber presence made of malice, hurt, condemnation.

"Norma, please," I said. "You won't answer any of my calls. I've been trying to get a hold of you for a week. I just want to talk to you."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to talk to you." It was the first thing she'd said since I'd shown up on her doorstep five minutes earlier, and though her tone was laced with displeasure, and she scowled without reprieve, the sound of her voice sent a shock of relief through me.

She hadn't slammed the door in my face, after all. Certainly that meant something.

"Look, if you'll just give me a minute—"

"What, that girl's not waiting in the car for you?"

"You mean Amelia?"

Norma rolled her eyes. "Who else? Unless you're shacking up with several other women who've arrived in town for the sole purpose of destroying my life."

"Christ, Norma." I sighed, exhaustion and the first tendrils of rising annoyance getting the best of me. "It's not like that. She's not like that."

"You're the one sleeping with her, right? So I guess you'd know."

"Norma," I said.

"You give me Hell for pushing you away, and all this time you're off with that girl, Bob's sister, for God's sake, and I'm supposed to … what, exactly? Pretend everything is perfectly fine?"

"Invite me in."

"Excuse me?"

"Invite me in, Norma. Unless you really want to have this conversation in earshot on your guests."

She leaned around me, peering down into the parking lot below. Just enough people milling around that she clearly thought better of her original plan to bar me from entering her house.

"Fine," she said, moving back to allow me enough room, "but this better be quick."

I stepped past her into the hallway, didn't wait for her to lead the way. Instead, I walked to her kitchen, taking my usual place leaning against the refrigerator. If it bothered her she didn't let it show, merely went about setting two cups on the table, filling the coffee pot with water, switching it on.

Playing house, I thought, reflecting back on something Amelia had said earlier in the day. For the second time, or so it seemed to me, I was playing house with another woman. Or, perhaps more accurately, playing at something resembling normal human interaction.

Eventually I grew tired of her stony silence, tried to gently start a line of communication. "Dylan out?" Small, yes, but better than nothing.

"With Emma, I think."

I nodded. "And Norman?"

"He's around."

"That's good," I said. Even small talk about to be better than silence. "And you're doing well?"

"I don't understand how you could do this to me," she said. She slammed down the coffee pot so hard I heard it crack, but it was the anguish in her voice that caught my attention. Tears already—they were always so quick to the surface with her—and her beautiful face, the face that so easily destroyed whatever semblance of common sense I possessed, crumpled into a ball of unadulterated hurt.

"I never meant to hurt you," I said. It came out like a whisper, my throat constricted, every work thick with the effort of it. I didn't try to reach for her.

"No one ever means to hurt anyone, except for when they do."

"Three months!" The anger rushed in, unexpected and unwelcome and utterly unplanned, and I pushed myself off the refrigerator, thrust myself into her space, though she made no effort to shrink away from me. "Three months you pushed me away, and I've bent over backwards for you, Norma. Do you have any idea what I've done for you? Can you stop pouting long enough to—"

"This is not pouting," she said, the tears flowing freely but no trace of them in her rapidly rising voice. "Yes, I pushed you away, and yes, it was a shitty thing to do. I get that, I do. But then that girl shows up—"

"Amelia, Norma. Her name is Amelia."

"—I don't care what her name is—"

"You don't care about anything."

"God, you are such a sanctimonious bastard, you know that? You were supposed to protect us—"

"You have no idea how much I protected you, Norma, you can't even begin to—"

"You let Bob waltz off into the sunset without a single thought about what would happen to Norman and I—"

"Christ, Norma, this isn't about Bob, it's—"

"And now you're sleeping with his sister, and I trusted you, and you—"

"Because God knows you haven't slept with anyone in the three years I've been running myself ragged trying to clean up after your endless fucking messes, or protect you, or—"

She slapped me hard across the face before I could finish. Hard enough that my ears rang, and I took a fumbling step backwards, stunned.

"Norma, stop—" She slapped me again. And then again. Shoved me, hard, until my back hit the wall and I held my hands up instinctively, fending off a series of blows, my wrists aching with the force of it. "Norma."

"You … you stupid, insipid, ridiculous man, how could you do that to me?" Another slap, this one connecting with a loud crack against my cheek. "How could you dare to do that to me!" Another. "You were supposed to protect us!"

Somehow I managed to grab her wrists in the fray, and pulled her into me, ignoring the ringing in my ears, the way my skin stung, buzzed with heat and impact. She struggled, twisted in my grasp, but didn't try to pull away: fighting me for the sake of it.

"You were supposed to protect us," she said again, her head coming to rest just under my chin. "—to protect me," she sobbed. And she let me hold her, even just for that one precious moment, and this, I thought, this was our battle and our private language, and all of our damned, petty issues rolled into one succinct moment in time: every second between us was laced with a thousand different conversations, hurt that had built over the years, some of which he'd inflicted upon one another and many that had etched in their scars long before we ever entered the other's world.

"I know." I wrapped my arms so tightly around her I thought I might hurt her, but she never flinched or gave any sign of discomfort. Just nuzzled up against my face slightly. "And I'm sorry," I whispered. My lips brushed her hair, and I pressed down just enough to place a kiss on the top of her head. "Please, Norma, just listen to me—" I froze the second she hissed in a breath; I'd run my hand down her arm, coming to rest gently on her bicep, and suddenly she was still and stiff against me, holding her breath as if she were in pain. "…Norma?"

"It's nothing" she whispered quickly. A bit too quickly.

"Norma, tell me." I pushed her away from me just enough that I could look at her, though she refused to make eye contact.

"It was just an accident."

"What was just an accident?"

"You have to understand, Alex," she said quietly. "It's just that—" Her sentence trailed off when she looked at me, her eyes flicking just to the side of my head. I watched her brows knit together, her mouth purse into a pinched frown. "Norman? What are you—"

I couldn't breathe.

I kept trying. Willed my lungs to work. Felt my rib cage expand with the effort. But no air would come. Just a choking, oppressive wheeze.

I was vaguely aware of a wetness spreading across my back, staining the tile in Norma's kitchen.

Because, yes, I was on the floor, I realized. Wasn't sure how I'd gotten there.

Norma leaned over me, blue eyes wide, mouth twisted in fear. Phone cradled between her shoulder and her ear. I felt her hands press against me—could've been my stomach or my side, I couldn't tell which—and the pain of it made me cough.

"It'll be okay," she said. "Just breathe, Alex. Okay? Just breathe."

I tried to say her name. Tried to ask what was happening. But all that came was another cough, this one carrying with it the distinctive, metallic tang of blood.

"Alex," I heard her say again. "Alex?"

Blackness on the outskirts of my vision, closing in fast.

"Alex, please, just breathe. They'll be here soon."

And then soft, silent nothingness.

Chapter Eight: What We Do For Love

A sharp pinch roused me from something that felt like sleep, but heavier, pulling me back under, like quicksand. Difficult to drag myself free of it.

The room was too bright when I tried to open my eyes, and I groaned. Felt the warmth of skin on my wrist as I did so, the pads of someone's fingertips tracing over my pulse and up my forearm. But it took a moment to make out the voices that followed: too many sounds rushing in all at once, human and mechanical and the empty hum of static converging into one head-splitting cacophony before I could sort out just what, exactly, was happening.

"Sir, can you hear me?"

Each word both too loud and too quiet at the same time; it made my skull ache, and yet I had to strain to understand each syllable.

"Sir?" A voice a didn't know.

"His name is Alex." And, thankfully, a voice I did: Norma.

"I have his chart right here, ma'am. I know his name."

"Sheriff Romero?" And that, I was fairly certain, was Deputy Walker.

"The Hell is going on?" I asked. My throat was painfully dry, and I could barely manage a whisper.

"You've been stabbed," the unfamiliar voice answered. "But you'll be alright. You're at St. Agnes' Hospital. My name's Rosa, and I'm your nurse. The doctor will be in to see you shortly now that you're awake."

I tried to nod, but couldn't. Too dizzy.

"I can't see," I said. That wasn't entirely true, however. I could see, I just couldn't figure out what, precisely, I was seeing. My eyes were open, yes, but the world around me was a swirling mess of white and gray, shapes slowly taking form but still blurred around the edges.

"It's the medication," Rosa said. "Tends to cause double vision. And you have a mild concussion."

"You cracked your head pretty hard on my floor."

"Norma?"

"I'm here," she said. I felt a cool hand—not the same warmth from moments ago, which I wagered had been Rosa checking my IV and blood pressure—ghost carefully over my cheek.

I tried to nod again, and this time I could, the spinning slowing down to something I could bear, especially if I focused on a single target. Details were still fuzzy, but I was able to make out the finer points of Norma's face.

"You look like shit, sir." I could always count on Deputy Walker to pipe up with something ostensibly accurate, and suitably annoying.

"Feel like shit," I huffed out with as much a laugh as I could muster.

"No doubt," Rosa said. "You're lucky the knife missed your vital organs."

"Knife?" It hit me then, a flash of memory, bits and pieces of what had led up to this point rapidly filling in, connecting, and I caught Norma's gaze, the first thing I'd seen clearly since I'd woken up, and watched her eyes widen in both recognition and—I was sure of it—fear.

"Do you remember?" Rosa appeared in front of me, gently ushering Norma out of the way. Leaned over me in a gust of powdery perfume, pressed her hand to a particularly sore spot on the back of my scalp, winced a silent apology when she saw me grimace. "You were stabbed and passed out. Blood loss," she added quickly, and I got the distinct impression she was rushing for the sake of sparing my ego. "And shock. It's very common."

I didn't say anything, just offered a slight nod. I didn't remember, exactly. At least nothing that yielded any firm grasp on the situation. I recalled Norma, and her kitchen, and our argument. I recalled how much she frustrated me, how much I wanted to kiss her despite it all, and her adorable, puzzled frown as she she glanced over my shoulder and asked Norman what he was—

"Sir, did you happen to see the intruder?" Deputy Walker asked.

"Intruder?" I glanced from Rosa to Walker to Norma in rapid succession. The latter looked pale. And alarmed.

"Yes, sir," Walker said. "I'm sorry to do this now, but it's procedure. You understand."

"I told you he didn't see anything," Norma said. Her voice was tight, nervous, high-strung. I was still staring at her, but she kept avoiding my eyes; was looking to Walker, trying to stay calm. He probably didn't even notice. But I could tell: the fluttering hands, the way she shifted back and forth on her feet, the smile stretched too tightly across her teeth.

Terror. That's what this was. She was so goddamned terrified her entire body practically vibrated.

"Alex," she said, briefly daring to make eye contact with me, "I already told Deputy Walker that you didn't see who broke in."

I didn't say anything.

"Is that correct, sir?" Deputy Walker gently prodded.

"I already told you!" Norma said again. To her credit, she sounded more annoyed than frightened. Really convincing. I almost believed her. "The man had a mask over his face. I didn't see who it was, and Alex had his back to—"

"Ma'am, I took your statement. I need to discuss this with Sheriff Romero now. If you'd be kind enough to step out into the waiting room—"

"She can stay, Walker."

"But sir—"

"She can stay," I repeated, perhaps a bit too firmly. "And anyway, she's correct. I didn't see anything."

"Nothing?"

"I wasn't even aware anyone had broken in until I was on the ground," I lied. I broke eye contact with Norma, focused on Walker. "Mrs. Bates and I were just discussing—"

"I asked him to help me with some minor renovations in the house," Norma interrupted. Trying to assist me, no doubt, clue me in to whatever story she'd fed Walker. But if she continued it would give her away, and I couldn't afford to have Walker looking too closely into this. At least not until I was clear on the precise details myself.

"Yes," I said, not unaware of my harsh tone—harsh enough that Norma flinched and fell silent immediately, exactly the reaction I was aiming for. "I was assisting Mrs. Bates with some minor repairs. I didn't hear or see anything out of the ordinary."

"And then you were stabbed."

"And then I was stabbed, yes."

"Any reason why the intruder might've stabbed you?"

"Probably startled to find two people in what he assumed was an empty house."

"He, sir?"

"Walker," I said, rolling my eyes for effect. Didn't take much at this point to feign exhaustion. Or annoyance. "Don't be an ass. You know exactly what I mean."

"Sir…"

"Sheriff," I corrected.

"Yes," Walker said, quietly. He lowered his eyes, nodded. Respectful. "Yes, Sheriff, I do know what you mean."

"This shit happens all the time, Walker." I pushed myself up with a groan, Rosa rushing to assist me. "You know that." She adjusted the pillow so I could sit back comfortably, and I nodded a silent thank you before turning my attention back to my deputy. "If I recall anything else, you'll be the first to know. In the meantime, Mrs. Bates is correct; I didn't see the intruder. Afraid I can't be much assistance with this one."

Walker stared at me, silent and still. There was a hint of a challenge there, and I didn't like it one damn bit. I met his gaze, unflinching, until sense or concern for his job security got the best of him, and he broke away, lowered his eyes, nodded. Fumbled with the notepad in his hand.

"Well, sir, thank you for answering my questions. Sorry to bother you like this."

"It's fine. It's your job, deputy."

"Yes, sir. Ma'am," he said, offering Norma a slight nod. "I'll see you back at the station when you recover, sheriff."

I watched him walk out, and Rosa soon followed after; rounds to make, other patients to check up on, and a promise to return with my doctor shortly. The doctor who'd be kind enough to release me as soon as possible, I hoped.

But once the door clicked shut Norma was at my side, hands held stationary above me, like she wanted to touch me or hug me but was afraid to get too close.

"Alex, I—"

"There'd better be a good goddamn reason I just lied to my deputy."

"You know why," she said. Quietly. Regretfully, even. The resignation in her voice made me want to get out of bed and gather her up to me, tell her everything would be alright. But I was angry. Angrier than I'd ever recalled being with her, even that night on the porch when she'd lied to my face again and again, no matter how many chances I'd given her to come clean.

"Tell me anyway."

"Alex, please."

"Say it."

Her mouth pursed into a quivering frown; tears already visible on her lower lash line. But she stayed silent.

"Norma," I said.

She just shook her head.

"Christ!" Said with enough force that I startled her, made her jump. I could feel a sharp pain in my side and my back every time I moved, but it didn't matter. I climbed out of bed, started to pull the IV out of my hand.

"What're you doing?"

"It's always going to be like this with you, isn't it?"

"The Hell are you talking about?"

"No matter what I do," I said, and my tone was hard, my voice louder than it probably should've been, considering our surroundings, "it's always the same fucking thing. Over and over again. It drives me crazy. You make me crazy."

"I'm not doing anything except trying to—"

"—protect your son. Yeah, Norma, I get it." I managed to get the IV out with only a small amount of blood; fingers less than nimble, basic tasks were difficult, and tedious. "The son who stabbed me. The son who killed his father."

"Alex!"

"And the son who did this—" I reached out, grabbed her upper arm, the same one that had caused her to flinch when I'd barely touched her in the kitchen, though I was careful not to hurt her. "Am I right?"

"Alex, stop."

I ignored her, pushed the sleeve of her sweater up towards her shoulder. And, sure enough, a flawless-but-fading purple-and-blue hand print wrapped around her bicep.

"Norman did this, didn't he?" When she didn't answer I grabbed her other arm, shook her gently. "Christ, Norma, just tell me." But she didn't say a goddamned thing. She stared into my face, sullen and silent, tears on her cheeks, features pinched into an angry frown, and it was too much.

There was nothing left, it occurred to me. I couldn't keep repeating the same pattern with her; in and out, the give and take, the never-ending games and the fucking agony of it all. It was just too goddamned much.

"I'm done," I whispered.

"What?"

I let her go the second she spoke. Pushed her away from me. Not forcefully, but insistently.

"I said, I'm done." I turned my back to her, found my clothes in a drawer next to the bed, pulled my on my jeans. "I lied for you. Norman's safe. I'm fine. He'll be fine." I stripped off the grown, tugged my sweater down over my head.

"What're you doing?" she asked. A soft voice; a small voice. Delicate. Sweet, even. And for once, I didn't care a single bit.

"Leaving."

"You haven't been discharged."

"I'm discharging myself."

She watched me gather my things without a word, and I didn't bother to fill or even attempt to repair the distance growing between us. Each second felt like a mile, and, caught in the siren song of my own anger, it felt good.

She knew how angry I was; I knew she knew it, and I knew she loathed it; and I was glad.

I didn't bother saying goodbye when I reached for the door. It occurred to me, seconds before my palm hit the handle, that this was truly the end. Once and for all. We'd been circling it for too long, pushing one another away only to find ourselves lured back in, and all that followed was distrust and lies and evasion and hurt.

This was it. We were done.

And I was angry, and relieved, and much to my surprise, okay.

Perfectly, blissfully okay.

At least until I heard a sound like the strangled cry of a dying bird; made me hesitate. And, despite my better judgment, turn around to look at her.

Like a fist in the gut when she burst into tears, face contorted in distress. And when she threw herself at me, her weight forcing my back against the door with a sharp jolt of pain, I had to ball my hands into fists to keep from wrapping my arms around her.

"I can't find Norman," she said, though the words were so strangled between choking sobs and gasps for air that I had to ask her several times to repeat herself. "He's just gone. He ran out after he—after you got hurt. And now I can't find him."

Her hands where on my chest, my neck, the nails digging into my sweater and my skin. Raw, and desperate. My head fell back against the door and I tried not to breathe in; didn't want the scent of her or the feel of her to break me down. But I was all too aware of my heart pounding against my rib cage, the way I could barely keep my hands still. The way my arms shook.

"Norma," I whispered. "Stop."

"Alex, please." Her tears wet on my collarbone; the thrilling shock of her breath gusting against my neck, and the brush of her lips against the pulse just beneath my jaw.

"Norma," I whispered again, "stop. Please." I was afraid of what would happen if she didn't. What I'd say. What I'd do. Already I felt my resolve weaken, buckle: I wanted to hate her, or at least not care. Hell, I would've settled for pretending not to care.

Only minutes ago anger had been my shield and my savior. But then her tears. The goddamned tears that ripped through me every time, no matter how much I tried to steel myself against them. And her fear and her intoxicating need and my pathetic, driving need to be needed, the very thing I despised most in myself, had tried so hard and so long to hide from the world. From her.

I was lost. Beaten. She'd won long before the battle began, and I was too stupid or too stubborn to acknowledge it. But there had to be a limit. Some kind of boundary I could cling to, tie my sense of equilibrium to, purely for the sake of my own sanity.

"I'll find him," I said, but I put my hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away from me. Didn't reach to embrace her or soothe her or invite further contact. "Do you know where he might've gone?"

She stared at me, hurt colliding with need and fear, but ultimately she nodded, wiping idly at her nose with a delicate little sniffle.

"I have a couple of ideas."

"Tell me, and I'll go find him."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"But you haven't been discharged," she said again.

"I'm the goddamned sheriff."

I took the stairs and slipped out a side door to avoid notice. Didn't feel like dealing with questions, or doctors, or paperwork. Or anything, really. Norma had such a way of exhausting me that even mortal wounds couldn't compare.

Needed to grab a cab and get to my SUV, start looking for Norman, but I wasn't sure how long I'd been out. Flipped open my phone only to find a series of alarmed texts from Amelia:

Where the Hell are you? Are you okay?

Text me back sometime this century, yeah?

Dude, you're freaking me out.

Alex?

Goddamnit, answer me.

I swear to God, you'd better be dead.

You're such an asshole.

Seriously, I'm worried about you.

I sent her a quick reply:

Got stabbed. Just released from hospital. Feel like shit, have something to do, be home when I'm home.

Her reply came seconds later:

Did I ask for your life story? My brother got shot and you don't hear him complaining.

Gallows humor; I smiled, in spite of my mood. Before I could snap my phone shut, however, another chime alerted me to her next message:

p.s. bring dinner.

And another:

p.p.s. glad you're not dead. Asshole.

It took less than two hours to find Norman. Whether I was lucky or he was a creature of habit, I couldn't have said. But I'd found him wandering along a dirt road by an old barn Norma said he'd used to collect recently deceased wild fowl and rodents.

I pulled my SUV over a few yards behind him, climbed out, and called his name. He didn't respond, and I wasn't sure if he could hear me. For a brief moment I wished I had my gun. Not that I had any intention of shooting him—Norma would never have forgiven me, and I sure as Hell wasn't about to kill a mentally ill teenager. But there was something to the weight of it I found comforting.

Norman wouldn't have been able to take me in a fight, of that I was certain, at least not in normal circumstances. But I was injured, and sedated, and exhausted.

And I hadn't seen him coming the last time. Which meant this warranted a certain level of caution I wouldn't normally expend.

"Norman?" He didn't respond no matter how close I got, or how loudly I raised my voice. Finally, I gave up all pretense and caution, reached out and grabbed his arm, turned him towards me. "Norman, do you—"

Blood. He was absolutely and thoroughly covered in blood. Not his own, I was certain: I could spot a few cuts and scrapes on his face and knuckles, but no holes in his shirt or jeans that would signify an injury. And it was far too much to be mine.

"Norman," I said, slowly, "whose blood is this?"

"Sheriff," he said, finally, his mouth slow, lingering carefully on the word. He blinked at me; once, twice, three times, as if just seeing me for the first time in ages; and he smiled. "Hello, sheriff."

"Norman, I need you to tell me why you're covered in blood."

"Blood?" A quizzical brow quirked up. Speech drifting off, much like his attention.

"Alright." I sighed, let go of his arm, ran a hand over my face. "Christ."

I should've called Walker. Had him taken in for questioning, examination, probably booking.

I should've told Walker the goddamned truth.

I should've forced Norma to tell me the goddamned truth.

Instead, I gave up all hope of pretending I was, at any point in the near future, about to do anything even remotely sane or logical or legal while trapped in the maelstrom of Norma Bates, and loaded her blood-covered son—the very same son who'd stabbed me without warning or regret a mere twelve hours previous—into my SUV and drove back to the safety of my house.

"It's about damn time—" Amelia, catching sight of Norman as I dragged him through the front door, lost a beat in what I assumed would prove to be an eager barrage of questions and complaints, and frowned. "I told you to bring dinner. He does not look like dinner." Pause. Then, as an afterthought, "Unless you're into long-pig. Which I am not, for the record."

"I have a problem," I said.

"You don't say?" I kicked the door shut, gestured her over to help steady Norman. "Anybody want to tell me why this kid's covered in blood?" she asked.

"She killed him," Norman said. The same dreamy, dreary tone he'd had when I'd found him.

"She what?" Ameia asked, startled. "Who's she? Who'd she kill?"

"Caleb," Norman answered, though he seemed barely aware of either of us.

"Take him," I said. "Get him to sit down." I needed to get out of my jacket; too tight, too constricting, I could full the stitches pulling in my back, and a wetness on my skin that I assumed was lymph of blood or both.

"Right, great, fine," Amelia snapped, angling Norman's rather limp body into the nearest chair, "but a few questions: 1) are you okay? 2) are you sure we should be harboring a kid who's been cavorting with a murderer? And 3) who the Hell is Caleb?"

"Fine, yes, and Norma's brother." Gently, I tugged off my jacket, took a deep breath, the pain in my back and shoulder slowly easing.

"So, wait, his uncle?" She didn't bother asking Norman directly; he smiled and chattered happily at us, and yet was blatantly far from either of us. He'd started rambling in the car halfway to my house, fumbling stories about his mother and his uncle, details I didn't immediately understand but had been growing increasingly clear as he continued on, despite his incoherence.

"His uncle, yes."

"Okay, fine, but that doesn't explain-"

"He raped her," Norman said. "I had to fix it."

"Oh," Amelia said.

"And he," I said, nodding to Norman, "is the one who stabbed me."

"Oh," she repeated.

"So, like I said, I have a problem."

"You don't say," she said again.

A/N: Hello, all! Just a few things to throw out there:

First, a HUGE thank you to all the readers who have stuck with me over the past three months, took the time to read, to comment, and to put up with long stretches sans updates while I dealt with some things in my personal life. It means more to me than I can say.

Second, as of next week I'll be updating Traps every Monday. I'm hoping this is a schedule that will work for everyone.

Third, I also have a new project! A collaboration with my wonderfully talented friend Batesfan-Normero. She began a beautiful story called Reasons, and crafted a beautiful story arch, and now I'll be taking over writing the chapters. I'm so excited to help her bring her wonderful story to all the lovely readers out there, and I hope you'll check it out: s/11277326/1/Reasons

Reasons will be updated every Friday.

Cheers, my loves, and thank you all again for taking the time to stick with this story!

Chapter Nine: A Death in the Family

Norma answered on the third ring. Out of breath, like she'd rushed to find her phone.

"It's Alex," I said, not bothering with typical pleasantries. "I found Norman."

"Oh, my God."

"We're at my place. He's safe. You can come and get him whenever you're ready."

"Oh, my God!" she said again. "Alex, I can't—" her voice wavered, throat thick with tears I could clearly imagine building, "I just … thank you. Thank you so much. I'll be right over."

She hung up before I could respond. No doubt dashing to her car before it occurred to her to say goodbye.

I snapped my phone shut and tossed it on the bed. I'd come up to my bedroom to change my shirt, inspect the wound on my back: the stitches had held, but the skin was red, irritated, wept clear fluid. I taped a new, makeshift bandage-antibiotic cream and cotton pads, the best my bathroom had to offer—into place, and changed into a clean black t-shirt.

By the time I reached the living room Amelia had Norman clean, calm, and sipping a cup of hot green tea. I stood in the entryway while she hovered over him, wiping at any lingering traces of blood or dirt on his cheeks and knuckles.

"There's some blood on his clothes," she said when she saw me. "I got most of it off, but some of it's going to stain. Think Norma will freak?"

"No, she'll just be happy to have him back."

"Right. So she's coming to get him?"

"On the way as we speak," I said. "So you should probably head upstairs, make yourself scarce for a bit."

"She'll be here that soon?"

"Twenty minutes or so. But I need to ask Norman some questions." Amelia opened her mouth in protest, but I waved her off before she began. "Alone."

She stood and stared at me, eyes narrowed, and carefully folded the bloody washcloth over and over in her hands. She didn't like being left out of things, I knew, especially when they involved Norma. I hadn't yet asked her if she'd had a chance to read her brother's file, and I was unsure of where we stood on that particular matter. But that would have to wait until I dealt with the problems closest at hand.

"Amelia, please," I said. "I need to deal with this. It'll only make things worse if Norma sees you here."

"Worse than what?" She stepped in close to me, lowered her voice so as to ensure Norman didn't hear. "Worse than dealing with a blood-drenched teenager who claimed to watch some unidentified woman murder his uncle? Or delivering said teenager to the woman who might've killed my brother?"

I sighed, patience rapidly diminishing, and pinched the bridge of my nose. "She'll be here soon, and I need to talk to Norman. So get upstairs."

"What if he's talking about Norma? What if she not only killed Bob, but this Connor or Carter or Caleb or whatever the Hell his name was—"

"Now," I snapped.

"Fine." She let out a loud, annoyed huff, and pointed towards another steaming cup of tea. "Made one for you."

"I hate green tea."

"Jesus, Alex." She rolled her eyes. "If you're going to be an asshole at least drink the tea I went out of my way to make you. You know, while I was cleaning up the spawn of the murderess you're in love with."

"Amelia—"

"Don't worry, sheriff, I'm going."

I watched her disappear up the stairs, the click of her heels allowing me to follow her path. Only when I heard the guest bedroom door slam shut did I venture further into the living room.

"Norman? We need to talk, son."

"It's not her fault, sheriff. You have to believe me."

"I do, Norman."

"He was a bad man, my uncle. He did bad things."

Norman took another sip of tea. Or at least he went through the motions; I was fairly certain his mug was now empty. He was clearer now, more a reflection of the boy I'd long been familiar with than the relative stranger I'd picked up on the side of the road not an hour earlier, but there was still something off about him. Unfocused gaze, a small, placid smile permanently etched into his face, and a story that made no sense yet filled in pieces of the puzzle that was Norma Bates.

"You're not going to arrest Mother, are you?"

"Why would I arrest her?"

"For killing Caleb," he said. A nigh imperceptible shake of his head. Such visible, aching resignation it hurt to witness it. "She'd be so angry if she knew I was telling you this. Mother likes her secrets."

"Norman," I said slowly, careful to articulate each word so that he'd better understand my sincerity, "there's no way your mother could've killed anyone. She was at the hospital with me most of the morning."

"She probably left."

"Yes, she did. She went home. After asking me to find you."

He shook his head again, a faint glimmer of tears shimmering in his eyes. "It's not her fault," he said again. "Caleb got what he deserved."

I stared at him for a long moment. Didn't say anything. Norma would be here in a matter of minutes, and that presented a unique problem: once she had him, I'd never get answers out of either of them. Not about a goddamned thing; why he stabbed me, whose blood he was covered in (Caleb, he'd said, yes, but how much could I believe that? And, if accurate, where was the body?), or why he believed his mother—whom I knew, for all her maddening antics, didn't murder anyone today—had killed his uncle.

I certainly couldn't arrest him.

Or, more accurately, I refused to arrest him. And that was a constant, nagging pain in the back of my mind: here I was, yet again, waist-deep in the insanity of the Bates family, breaking more laws than I cared to count, all for the sake of protecting Norma.

And to protect myself from all the things I'd done for her. All the things I would continue to do.

"Okay," I said, and I managed to hold back the frustrated sigh that'd been building for ten minutes. "You said she killed him because he raped her?" A quick stab of guilt as I said it; Norman had repeated this fact over and over in the car on the drive to my place: Caleb raped her. He raped Mother. He deserved it. And I believed him. At least about that. The more he talked the clearer it became, pieces of Norma I'd only glimpsed, a confusing puzzle slowly coming together.

I was a cop. It was my job to listen to this sort of thing day in and day out; tales of abuse, assault, rape, torture, death. I dealt in human agony.

Still, I couldn't help but wish Norma were the one revealing this to me. To hear it from Norman felt like a betrayal, somehow. Like peering into a diary I was never supposed to read.

"Yes," Norman said. "I hope Dylan won't be too upset."

"They were close?"

"I guess so. It's just hard, you know, to lose your father."

"Father?" Surprise hit me like a slap. A rare feat; not many things caught me off-guard. "You mean uncle?"

"No. No," he said. Shook his head, took another sip of non-existent tea. "Caleb was Dylan's father. That's why she had to do it. It would've eaten her up otherwise. You can't run from that sort of thing forever."

I pulled my chair in closer. Faced him directly. I wanted to work this out, wanted details and answers, or at least enough to complete the picture growing in my mind. But I didn't want to think. Not about what he saying, what it all meant. Opening that door would unleash too much, parts of myself I needed to keep in check until I had cause or reason or a moment alone. Just not now.

"You're sure about this," I said. "Absolutely sure?"

"Yes, sheriff."

"You're telling me your mother killed her brother because he raped her."

"Yes."

"And he was Dylan's father?"

Norman nodded.

"Okay. Okay, son, I believe you." Believed most of the story, anyway. "But where's the body?"

"Oh, she left him by the barn."

"The barn?" I asked, startled. "Where I found you?"

"Uh huh. I was going to help Mother clean up, but then you picked me up and I didn't have time. I hope Mother won't be angry."

The barn. The goddamned barn. I'd found a kid, covered in blood, wandering the streets. And I didn't even take a look around before packing him into my car and driving off. That's what Norma Bates did to me; made me forget my place, my responsibilities, my sense. All because she asked me to do something, and no matter how hurt or angry or exhausted, I could never bring myself to leave her helpless.

"Christ," I whispered. Rested my forehead on my palm.

"Mother will be so angry," Norman said, and when I glanced up he was crying, the tears dripping down his cheeks and onto his shirt. "I shouldn't have told you. She'll never forgive me. It's just so hard sometimes."

"Norman, it's okay. Calm down."

"No, she'll hate me. She'll hate me forever. You won't arrest her, will you?"

"I'm not going to arrest her."

"You promise?"

I nodded. "I promise, Norman. Your mother's safe."

He smiled. A broad, true smile, not the zombie-like tranquility he'd maintained the entire time he'd been here. "You're a good man, sheriff."

"Thank you." I steepled my hands in front of me, let my eyes drift shut. Time ticking down; Norma would be here any second. As soon as she left I'd head out to the barn, take a look around. But there was still one thing we needed to cover: "Norman, can you tell me why you attacked me?"

"Oh," he whispered, eyes cast down, "that was Mother. She gets angry sometimes."

"You think Norma stabbed me?"

"Yes, she was upset. She doesn't like people touching her."

"But what does that have to do with—"

"You touch her too much." When I didn't immediately respond, he sighed, and continued. "I shouldn't have told you. It's just so hard to keep all her secrets."

"Oh, my God! Norman! Honey, are you okay?" Norma threw her arms around her son, a mess of tears and wild blond hair and frantic motion. Hugged him to her long enough that I was growing uncomfortable watching it. But then she released him and turned to me, wrapped her hands around the sides of my neck and kissed my cheek without a glimmer of hesitation. "Alex," she chirped, happy despite the stress in her voice, "I can't thank you enough."

"It wasn't a problem, Norma." I put an uneasy arm around her shoulders, offered the most reassuring pat I could muster given the circumstance. But I was keenly aware of Norman staring at us; his haze and his softness replaced by something hawk-eyed. Something sharp.

"Let's talk on the porch," I said. She frowned at me and flicked a glance back to Norman, but then nodded. "Norman, why don't you stay here and finish the tea." I pointed to the cup Amelia made for me; something to keep him busy. And a convenient excuse to avoid drinking it myself. "We'll be right back."

Once on the porch, the door shut firmly behind me, she leaned against the railing and crossed her arms over her chest. Guarded, I realized. Wary. Afraid of what I was about to say.

"What's the problem?"

"Norma, I need to ask you a question, and I need you to tell me the truth."

"God, Alex, are we really doing this again?" She rolled her eyes, visibly annoyed, and for a moment I forgot about everything that had led up to this point: the lies and Bob Paris and the blood and anger and the walls we'd begun to knock down only to rebuild over and over again. She was simply beautiful; the sort of tangible, heart-wrenching beautiful that wormed its way inside of me long before I ever suspected it, creeping up out of nowhere. And I wanted to be able to forget all of this, to let it all go. Would've given anything to simply send her home with Norman, let it all rest as best I could, and show up on her doorstep tomorrow for a fresh start and some sense of hope for the future.

But I couldn't.

"Norma, did Caleb come back to town?"

She blanched instantly, the shock open and visible and telling me everything I needed to know: she had no idea what the Hell I was talking about.

"I … why would you ask me that?"

"It's nothing," I said. "Don't worry about it. Just something Norman said."

"What did he say?"

"Norma, it's fine." I hated how worried—frightened, rather—she looked. No good would come of dragging her into this before I had a body and a solid understand of what, exactly, had happened in the twelve hours since I'd been stabbed. "He just needs some rest, I think. Take him home, get him in bed."

She didn't argue, but I could tell she wanted to. Her desperate need to control every element involving her son warring with the maternal urge to simply get him home safe and sound, shut the doors to the chaos of the outside world.

"Okay," she said, finally. "I need to make some dinner, anyway. Dylan's probably starving." She moved past me and to the front door, but stopped, lingered on the porch, and for a moment I thought she might hug me again, or even kiss me, but instead she just nodded. "Thank you. For finding him, I mean."

I didn't say anything; nothing needed to be said.

Amelia came down a few minutes after Norma packed up Norman and drove up, just as I was pulling on my jacket.

"You're leaving? Again? Why don't you jus—" she drifted off mid-sentence, stared hard at the untouched cup on the coffee table, and then scowled at me. "You didn't drink your tea." She looked so plainly aggravated I had to bite back a chuckle.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I tried to get Norman to drink it, for what it's worth. Guess he wasn't interested, either."

"Ugh. Men. I swear you're all just set on this planet to drive the rest of us insane." She went about picking up the living room—a recent habit since she'd begun staying with me, having accurately deduced I was a horrid housekeeper—and glaring at me, though there was more than a trace of amusement in it, whenever she got the chance. "So, you gonna fill me in?"

"No."

"Not even a little bit?"

"Did you read the file I gave you?"

"Not yet."

"Read the file. Then I'll fill you in."

She groaned, but bustled the dishes out to the kitchen.

"By the way," I said, raising my voice to make sure she could hear me, "I want you to stay out of sight for a while."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means stay the Hell away from Norma Bates." I'd decided to carry my sidearm with me under my jacket, and I was grateful Amelia was in the other room. Didn't much feel like fielding her incessant barrage of questions. "There's too much going on right now, so just give them some space. Lay low, hang out here. Let me know if you need something, and I'll get it for you."

"So basically you want me to avoid poking the hornets' nest?"

"Yeah, basically." But that wasn't entirely true. Amelia, truth be told, was the hornet. And I wanted to keep her far, far away from Norma until I could be sure she'd stopped suspecting her of any involvement with Bob.

I never saw much of Bob in Amelia. At least until she'd felt her family had been wronged. And driven by love, and the urge to avenge a man she believed met with an unjust end, I knew she was capable of more than I'd initially imagined. I just wasn't sure what.

"I'm heading out for a while," I shouted towards the kitchen. "Not sure when I'll be back, so don't wait up."

"Never do."

"And read the damn file."

"Fuck off, Romero!" She laughed when she said it, and the obvious affection in her voice made me smile. But then she leaned out of the kitchen doorway, eager to catch me before I left. "Oh, hey! I'm meeting with that DEA chick tomorrow. Forgot to tell you."

I froze, hand on the doorknob, dread twisting in my gut. "Agent Babbitt?"

"Yeah, her," she said. She sounded distracted. Or maybe just unconcerned, unaware of the impact this could potentially have. "Gotta leave early in the morning to meet her, so don't freak if I'm not here when you wake up."

"Yeah, got it."

Worry about this shit later, Romero, I thought. Not now. Not right-fucking-now.

Blood. Blood absolutely everywhere. On the ground, the side of the barn, splattered over grass and small wild flowers. But no body.

I'd searched the barn inside and out, the area surrounding it, the trees off to the right. Nothing. The roads were clear, the barn was empty, and aside from the blood, the grass was untouched.

No goddamned body.

So, what did any of it mean?

The blood came from someone—or something—that much was obvious. And Norman had seemed so absolutely, unflinchingly certain it had been Caleb. It was the one thing he'd said that remained free of doubt; he may have been off, his story may have had holes and errors and a lack of sense, but there had been no doubt he believed Caleb had been killed.

I'd only met the man twice. A brief acknowledgment during our first encounter; he'd been on a roof, introduced as Norma's brother when I went to fetch the flash drive. And then later that evening over dinner, Norma the glowing hostess, all of us crowded around the beautiful food she'd offered; a makeshift family, drifting in and out of the world but finding a place at her table.

But nothing about him particularly struck me. Nothing outstanding, or interesting, or even out of the ordinary, except a brief sense of tension between him and Norman. At the time, I'd chalked it up to a typical family squabble, thought nothing more of it beyond that.

Somewhere along the line, however, I caught the barest hint of a trail: blood here and there, leading off into the woods. Walked about a mile before I heard it. Soft, at first, like a child's sleeping cough. Had to focus on the quiet, shut out all distractions, stain to hear it. But there it was, finally, a more recognizable sound. A low, pained groan.

The sun, no longer on my side, had begun to set. Not yet dark enough to reach for my flashlight, I was nevertheless pleased to locate the origin of the sound before I'd needed it. The back of a blond head tucked down by some bushes beneath a tree, the outline of a leather-clad shoulder. And, as confirmation, another groan.

"Caleb Calhoun?"

The man startled, and groaned again—no doubt found the sharp jolt painful.

"Jesus, man," he groaned. I walked around the tree to see him better, and his eyes widened the moment he saw my face. "Holy shit. Sheriff Romero, right? Man, you gotta … you gotta help me…" A cough, thick and wet with blood.

"Norman did this to you?" I asked. I knelt down to get a better look: blood on his face and arms and chest, slashes across his shirt. Still bleeding in many places; hard to gauge the blood loss, but would probably prove fatal without getting to a hospital reasonably soon.

"How'd you know?"

"I picked him up on the road a while ago. He was covered in blood. Mentioned you."

"That kid's crazy." He coughed again, and doubled over in pain. I placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

I was a cop. A good cop, I liked to think. Yes, I had my own sense of justice. I didn't always hold to the letter of the law. Perhaps the only useful lesson my father ever taught me had been that, sometimes, the justice system failed. Sometimes you had to take matters in your own hands to protect your town and its citizens. Hell, sometimes you had to facilitate shit you never dreamed you'd have to just to maintain some semblance of peace.

The devil you know, and all that. I did the best with what I had; better than my father, surely.

Now was no different. A man was injured. He needed help. And I, as the sheriff, was sworn to aid him.

"Are you Dylan Massett's father?"

"What?" He grew still under my hand, face falling into slack neutrality. Too stunned to react.

"Did you rape your sister, Caleb?"

"Hey, man," he said, pulling his shoulder away from my hand until his back was against the tree trunk, eyes wide. "What is this? C'mon, man, I need help, I'm bleeding, it's really bad—"

"Tell me," I said, voice low, tone gentle, "that you raped Norma Bates. And then I'll help you."

"This is bullshit!" Blood on his mouth, dripping down his chin. I wondered, briefly, if he was bleeding out as we spoke. Time against him, against both of us. "I need to get to a hospital."

"Not until you tell me the truth."

"I didn't do anything, okay?" He had Norma's eyes. Blue, easily frightened, and absolutely dishonest. "I mean it, man, I didn't do anything. I don't know what Norman told you but—"

He rambled on, and on. Afraid, and desperate. The same sort of terrified guilt I'd seen in countless men just like him. Men who got the needle or life in prison, and deserved every second of whatever agony was inflicted upon them.

He stopped talk when I stood, drew my sidearm, and pointed it at his head.

"Hey, man, wait. Wait a second! You don't need to do this, I mean, I not gonna— I mean, c'mon, man, you're a cop, right?" The words came tumbling out one after another, a rapid-fire machine gun of panicked speech. Trying to talk himself out of it. Trying—and failing—to talk me out of it. "You're a cop," he said again. "You're supposed to help me!"

I was bound by law to protect all within the borders of my county. Even the shitheels and the scumbags and the soul-stealing insects.

But it was the divine, animal right to defend those I loved that drove me now. The natural law; the universal law; the law of wolves and mountain lions and ancestral hominids; and if there was a God in this grand, sprawling universe of bullshit and chaos and pain, I didn't fear his judgment. You took the love you found, that precious glimmer of something that was, for many of us, the closest thing to peace or even Heaven that we'd ever find, and you ended anything that threatened it.

I should've known it was coming. There were no other options. I must've known it deep down, from the very moment Norman sat in my car and turned to me and said, "He raped her."

Had I truly come out here to look for a body? And, if so, why did I bring my gun?

I'd told myself I just wanted to investigate a possible murder. But, no. I'd wanted him to be alive. I was glad to find him awake and breathing. Not because I wanted to save him. Not because I wanted to spare Norma the pain of knowing her son murdered her brother.

No. It was because I knew, deep down, that there was no path for Caleb Calhoun and I that didn't end in blood.

"I am helping you," I said.

I pulled the trigger.

I didn't want to go home. Didn't want to face Amelia, to listen to her chatter or her questions. Wanted to drink it all away, drown myself in enough bourbon and enough solitude that, tomorrow, things would look different. But I couldn't deal with the crowds and the bar scene, not today. And I sure as Hell didn't feel like finding a liquor store and then tucking myself in my car or relaxing on some park bench to get drunk.

And so I found myself on her doorstep, knocking before I fully realized what I was doing. Slumped against the door frame while I waited.

"Alex?" She looked alarmed, eyes scanning me head to toe. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

I shook my head.

"Jesus, is that blood?" she asked. She stepped out onto the porch, reached for my hands; blood on the skin, on my jacket. I hadn't noticed. "Alex, what's happening?" And she sounded so sweet, so concerned when she said it that I laughed, a harsh unpleasant sound to my own ears. I kept shaking my head, and the more I did the more frightened she looked. "What is it?"

Here we are again, I thought. The second time I've killed a man for you, Norma Bates, and I can't even tell you. I shouldn't even be here.

"Alex," she said again. Eager to get my attention. Or get an answer. I felt her fingers on my chin, and she turned me to face her, peering up into my eyes, pupils flitting back and forth across my face. Trying so valiantly to understand what in the Hell was going on. Another night I would've found it comical. But tonight, somehow, it felt like an injury. Like everything was broken, and I didn't know how to fix it.

"Why won't you trust me?" I asked. And I could hear the crack in my voice, thick with tears I hated and fought back because I never fucked cried, it wasn't my way, and my throat constricted, burned with the effort of it all. "Do you have any idea what I've done for you?"

I stumbled a bit, equilibrium off, and she caught me, her hands on my chest, eyes blown wide.

"Are you drunk?"

"Not drunk at all, that's the goddamn problem." But it didn't matter. I found her nearness comforting and shattering at the same time, the weight of her hands on my shirt almost too much; I wanted to hold her, to gather her up to me and tell her everything: Bob was dead because I killed him, and I did it so she'd never have to worry again. And now Caleb, too, because that was the natural order, a law only the primal world could understand. He hurt her, and I loved her, and now he was dead, because he deserved to be dead, and it was all for her.

And instead all I could do was repeat myself:

"Why can't you trust me?"

"Calm down, okay? It's alright. Why don't you come inside—"

"No. No, I don't want to come inside." I did, actually, but it didn't matter. "You won't trust me, but I'd do anything for you. I've done everything for you. Don't you see that?"

"Alex—"

My chest ached. My eyes burned, and watered, and for once I didn't give a shit.

"It's always been you, for Christ's sake, and you don't even see it—"

And then her hands were on my neck and the side of my face, and she pressed her mouth to the blade of my cheekbone and the corner of my mouth and the expanse of my forehead, and she whispered something that sounded like "I know," but I couldn't quite make it out.

"You've fucking ruined me. You own me. Why can't you just see that," I said, and I hated the way I sounded, like a desperate man, like a drowning man. And I hated that she smelled like apricot and sunshine and all the joyful summers of youth I'd once dreamed of but never had, and I slid my arms around her waist and pulled her to me so tightly it must've hurt and buried my face in the crook of her neck and whispered the only thing that made any goddamned sense:

"There's not a moment of my life you can't call your own."

Chapter Ten: Eye of the Storm

Sleep, for perhaps the first time since childhood, crashed in like a wave, sucked me down into the dark of it, and released me only when the sun broke through the curtains and the universal, human sound of morning—metallic clang of a pan on the stove, floorboards creaking under unhurried feet, hiss of a kettle—prodded me into wakefulness.

Years of fitful dreams, long stretches of insomnia and a growing sense of anxiety in the pit of my gut whenever I tried to relax without a glass of whiskey in my hand had etched nigh permanent shadows under my eyes. Nothing much seemed restful, my days always tinged with the trace of exhaustion, chased away only by cup after cup of the station's camel-piss coffee.

But not last night.

And not today, for that matter. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt … good. Solid, warm, comfortable, well-rested. No nightmares at three am, no creeping sense of dread or alarm, no alcohol-fueled haze as I fumbled for my alarm. A very real, albeit alien, sense of peace.

I had Norma to thank for that, I was certain. She'd been in my arms until I'd fallen asleep; I'd refused to let her go. She'd managed to get me upstairs to her bed, and though she tried her damnedest to convince me that I just needed to rest and she'd be downstairs if I needed anything, I'd clamped my hand on her wrist. Came the closest to begging I'd ever allow myself: "No, no. Not tonight. Please. Not tonight. I need you here. I need to know you're safe, that's all. Just stay for a while."

Beautiful face twisted in a mixture of concern and amusement ("Look at you," she'd said, "if only they could see the Big Daddy of White Pine Bay now, huh?") she'd climbed onto the bed with me. Hesitant at first, and then suddenly soft, and relaxed. An exhale or a sigh and soon after her fingers curled against the collar of my shirt and she nestled into my arms, let me hold her a bit too tightly against me, tucked her head under my chin and hummed a song I knew I'd heard but couldn't place.

We didn't speak. Didn't move. If she thought I was a fool for my display on her porch, she made no mention of it. She politely ignored my rapid breathing; still upset, still worked up, it took an hour before I calmed enough to let the exhaustion take over. And she'd let me run my hands up and down over her arms and her back, stroking her hair and leaning down occasionally to kiss her forehead, because the smell of her hair and the feel of her skin against my mouth was my lodestar, my personal Polaris, and so long as she was here, with me, she was safe and everything was still.

Perfectly, blissfully, ephemerally still.

Not with me when I woke, and for a brief moment I mourned it. Would've liked to have her here, endearing in her drowsiness, essential in her nearness. But it was no matter; already I could hear her on the stairs, the clack-and-clatter of china, and seconds later the door swung open and she saw me, only slightly startled to catch me awake, and her smile was immediate, and genuine.

"Morning, sheriff."

"Alex."

"What?"

"Just call me Alex," I said. I pushed myself up on my elbows, dimly aware that I'd slept fully clothed and now my jeans were a tangled mess around my thighs. "I hate it when you call me Sheriff."

"Oh, I see. Not a morning person, hm?" Her mouth, free of lipstick (which seemed utterly delightful to me though I couldn't articulate why), quirked into a wry smile. But I shook my head.

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

"I don't know exactly," I said. But I was lying. My name sounded real and right on her tongue. Like, in the absence of cliche pet names, we'd christened our own endearments. A private language heard by the world but not properly understood; something that existed entirely between us. "I just prefer Alex."

"Fine, fine." She waved me off with a flick of her hand and a roll of her eyes. But not a dismissive gesture, no, this was full of humor, and a gentleness I found surprising. "I made you tea. I know you prefer coffee, but the coffee maker's broken and I haven't had a chance to get a new one yet."

"Tea's fine." I threw the covers off and sat up properly, folding my legs under me so she could sit on the bed next to me.

"How do you take it?" She'd brought it up on a little silver tray, the steaming cup accompanied by lemon, sugar, milk.

"Plain."

"Of course. Should've known." She set the tray on the bedside table, the tea too hot to drink. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah. Great, actually. Better than I have in years."

"I'm glad. You looked like you needed a good night's rest."

"You sleep well?" I asked. The unspoken question being: did you stay the night with me?

"Yeah, you know, reasonably well. Considering."

"Considering?"

"All of this. You know, with Norman. All that."

"Ahh." The tea was still too hot, but I took a sip anyway, ignored the sear on my bottom lip and tongue. Needed distraction, something to do with my hands and mouth. Or maybe I just needed a reason to avert my eyes: I knew I'd been staring too directly, too intensely. "You sleep on the couch last night?"

Norma looked startled, a faint blush in her cheeks. But then she shrugged. Casual, calm, unconcerned.

"Slept up here for a few hours, then woke up and moved to the couch. Thought you might be more comfortable when you woke up."

"You've could've stayed."

"No, no, it's fine! Don't worry about it, Alex. You didn't put me out, if that's what you're worried about."

"No," I said, shaking my head. I set my cup down, reached out to put my hand on hers. The first time I'd touched her since last night, and when she met my eyes again there was a flicker of something in her expression; confusion or fear or hope, I couldn't tell exactly what. "No, I mean, I…" I trailed off, losing a beat to the flush of hesitation, of nervousness.

"…Alex?"

"I mean," I said, finally, "…I mean, I wish you would've stayed."

Silence. She didn't move, or speak. Didn't breathe, as far as I could tell. Just stared at me, evenly, neither moving her hand away from mine nor courting my touch.

"Here," I clarified after a long moment, her unresponsiveness making me increasingly anxious, "I wish you would've stayed here. With me."

"Look, Alex, if this is about last night, you don't need to—"

"It's not just last night, Norma, it's more than—"

"You were drunk."

"What?" I blinked several times, confused by both the statement and her tone: sad, slightly sour, dripping with discomfort.

"Last night. You were drunk. And it's fine. God knows," she said, rolling her eyes with a dramatic flourish, "I've certainly had nights like that."

"I wasn't drunk."

"Honestly, Alex, it's okay."

"I was stone-cold sober, Norma."

"I get that you're embarrassed. But it happens to all of us. We all have our messy upsets, you know? You really don't need to worry about it."

"I'm not embarrassed. Or worried." Well, I was worried, what with the conversation taking a turn I hadn't planned for, but she didn't need to know that. Not right now. "And I wasn't drunk. Not at all. I told you that last night."

"You said a lot of things last night." Softly. Gently. She broke eye contact when she said it, gaze fluttering down to land on my knee. She pulled her hand away from mine, but it wasn't a harsh movement. More timid, self-protective. Tucked her arms against her chest, hands folded. Like a small child daunted by the formality of a Cathedral.

"Like what?" I asked. I had a crystal clear memory of last night, didn't need her to remind me. Had every word burned into my brain, playing over and over. But I wanted to know what she was avoiding. What, exactly, I'd said that so upset her.

Or, Hell, if she even was upset: I couldn't place her mood, and I hated it. Normally I found her so easy to read. Not the truth of her, or the details of her life, but her whims and her emotions. But now she was closed off, or at least hidden behind a wall of self-possession.

"You know what."

"No, I don't. Tell me." I didn't try to touch her this time, though I wanted to. Desperately. Had to force myself to stay calm, collected. To not rush anything; to just let us feel this out. Whatever this happened to be.

"Last night. I was trying to get you into bed. And you said…" She trailed off, glancing up at me, towards the window, and then back down at her knees.

"Yes?"

"It doesn't matter. I know you didn't mean it. Even if you weren't drunk, you were at least exhausted. People say things like that all the time."

"What if I did mean it?" She wouldn't meet my eyes, not again, but I needed her to. Finally, after a long moment of waiting for her to answer, and her studiously avoiding both looking at me and responding to my question, I brushed my thumb over her jaw, gently urging her to turn towards me. "Norma, look at me. Please."

She didn't look at me; resisted the pressure of my hand on her chin. But I watched her eyes begin to water, heard the waver in her voice.

"I don't know what this is."

"This?"

"You. Me. Us, this. What we're doing," she said. A delicate, heartrending sniffle. She wiped away a tear before I even saw it roll down her cheek. "What you said last night."

"You mean when I said that I—"

"—loved me."

She'd put her arms around me on the porch last night, kissed the blade of my cheekbone and my temple and whispered to me, soothed me until I was calm, or at least quiet. Threw my arm around her shoulder, helped me the up the stairs to her bedroom. Not drunk, no, just exhausted. Weighed down by everything we'd done and said and hadn't said and all the things I wanted her to know but couldn't seem to find the words for.

And then she'd pushed me down on my back on her bed, and she'd reached for my boots, undoing the laces and telling me I just needed to sleep, that everything would be better in the morning, and I'd just watched her, letting her fuss over me, and when she set my boots under the bed and pulled the covers up over my body I'd touched her face and said "I love you."

"Alex," she'd whispered, "you're just tired."

"No. No," I'd said, "I love you, Norma."

And she hadn't said anything. Just met my eyes and then smiled, a nigh maternal smile, and let me pull her into bed with me. She'd nestled into my arms and let me hold her, and she never said a word.

But, I realized, that had been when she'd thought I was drunk. And now she was beginning to understand that I was absolutely, utterly sober. And the implications of that were, perhaps, too heavy. Too frightening.

"Alex, it's okay," she whispered again, though I could hear the hesitancy in it. "I know you didn't mean it."

"And if I said I did?"

"Stop." Whispered so quietly I had to bend forward to hear her properly.

"Norma, please. Just answer the question. What if I meant it? What if I told you—" I broke off, leaned forward and took her face in her hands, though didn't try to turn her to look at me, just slid my palms against the skin of her cheeks, thumbs ghosting over the line of her jaw. "—What if I'm telling you, right now, that I'm in love with you."

"Alex, stop." But she didn't pull away from me, didn't tell me to stop touching her. Not this time. Instead I felt the wetness of tears on my hands, watched her face scrunch up, heard her breath hitch. Trying to keep a solid grip on it all.

My hands were shaking. Just slightly. I doubt she even noticed. But I noticed. Just like I could feel my heart pounding against my rib cage, the sweat on my forehead, the way I couldn't get a deep breath, like there wasn't enough oxygen in the world.

"Norma, if you really want to me to, I will. I promise." And it hurt to say it, just like it hurt to hear her whispered pleas, but I forced myself to ignore it, to press on a little bit longer. "But you need to know this. You need to believe me. I need you to believe me." I had to stop, swallow hard before I finished my sentence. "It's okay if you don't feel the same way."

"Alex—"

"I need you to trust me."

The moment I said it she burst into tears, her angelic little face crumpling in the most unbearable, heartbreaking way, and she threw herself against me, made no protest when I pulled her into my lap, wrapped my arms around her and whispered against her hair, nonsensical things, pointless things, anything that came to mind that would soothe her. I rocked her gently and felt her nails digging into my shoulders and my neck, held her tighter when her body rattled us both with the force of her sobs.

And when the crying settled into a series of hitching whimpers against the crook of my neck I pressed my mouth against her ear and whispered my love over and over until she was still and raw and sure of my sincerity.

And she never said a word.

And she didn't need to.

Now and again I thought of the family I never had. Over the years I'd known regret. Just a moment here or there, usually when I least expected it. One minute I was buried in a stack of paperwork and the next it hit me, a brief but sharp stab between the ribs, and I wondered what it would be like to go home to a wife and two kids and a dog.

I wondered if I would've made a good father, if I'd ever truly be able to escape the shadow mine had cast over me. If my son would grow up to hate me, or want to be just like me. If I'd make a good husband. Hell, if I'd be able to walk my dog adequately.

Playing at being human, I'd always called it. I'd locked myself away from all of that—even the hope of it—for so long that I found my occasional yearning for a life I'd never have bordering on nostalgia. And it was that unspoken desire, and that constant awareness of my isolation (like a curse, like damnation; I'd spent my entire life convinced I was simply meant to be alone) that disrupted my sleep, kept me awake all hours or plagued what little rest I did get with nightmares.

And now, suddenly, it didn't seem to have such a hold over me. I'd slept last night. Really slept, without dread or interruption.

And Norma, once she'd stopped crying and calmed down and accepted that, yes, I meant every word—that I was here, with her, and I loved her, and I wasn't going anywhere—fell back onto the bed with me and cuddled against me and whispered my name against my collarbone while I stroked her hair and her jaw and the delicate length of her fingers.

We fell back asleep, being that it was still early. She was the first to go, her breathing suddenly soft as her head rested against my chest.

My arm, wrapped around her, beneath her, had begun to go numb. Didn't matter. Didn't care a damn bit. I felt drunk even though I wasn't; hadn't touched a drop of the stuff in two days. Shit, maybe I didn't need to anymore. Her simple, silent presence was a better companion and comfort than anything that came from a bottle.

I tangled my fingers in her hair, gently combing out individual curls, winding them around my fingers. Traced her downy blond eyebrows with my thumb.

I'd have to tell her soon. I knew that much. About Bob. And Caleb. I wasn't worried about her reaction to my involvement in Bob's death, but her brother would come as a shock. But once I sat her down, explained it, made her understand why it had to happen that way, she'd accept it. I was sure of it.

We'd broken down the walls. Finally. Perfectly. Unexpectedly.

I took care of the men that threatened her. I'd take care of her sons: just needed to source the cash, find a way to get Norman settled in Pineview, safe from prying eyes, getting the help he so desperately needed. Dylan was easy enough to keep safe. Smart kid, growing more and more into a young man I respected with each passing day.

I'd take care of her, too. Just like I had every day since she'd opened up to me that night in her living room, spilling out everything about Keith Summers and Zach Shelby. Only I was here now, with her, and the walls were down and she trusted me, believed me when I told her I loved her, and even if she hadn't said anything in return it didn't matter: all I needed was her faith, and her safety, and the chance to make her happy.

And, just as I began to feel myself drift back off, I thought about how funny it all was, how utterly unexpected.

I'd found love where it wasn't supposed to be.

Right in front of me.

Chapter Eleven: The Hurricane Descends

"A man of many talents."

"It's just a coffee maker. Not like I'm scaling Everest."

"That thing's been broken for nearly a month. Even Dylan couldn't fix it, and he fixes everything."

"Why didn't you just buy a new one?"

"Oh, I don't know," Norma said, and I felt her press up against me, her chest to my back, arms sliding around my waist. "I was a tad preoccupied."

Coffee maker officially repaired, I pushed it back on the counter, set the screwdriver down. I didn't turn around. Merely let my hands rest on the edge of the counter, enjoying her nearness.

"You've had a lot to deal with."

"Mm." I heard her sigh long before I felt her breath on my neck. But then the warmth of it hit, a gust against the skin just below my ear, and when her lips brushed my jaw my eyes drifted shut, and I let myself lean into her.

Once we'd untangled from our morning nap—she'd spent two hours curled into my side, unmoving, lost to exhaustion and what seemed the first decent sleep she'd had in years—we'd puttered around the kitchen, orbiting one another, feeling out our boundaries and our connection. Piecing together the puzzle we'd finally unboxed.

It came slowly, timidly. A brush of a hand here, a sudden nearness there. A hip bump when one of us needed access to a drawer, her hand flat on my spine when she moved past me.

"But today's a good day," I said. "Isn't it?"

"Best I've had in ages," she whispered. She kissed my cheek, a barely-there gesture that, finally, got me to turn around and sling my arms around her hips, pull her into me. And then it was just her face nuzzled into the crook of my neck and her hands on my chest, and she let me hold her, without worry or protest or resistance. With nothing between us but the mutual desire to be there.

That, I thought, was a goddamned first.

"Norman's still asleep?"

"Yeah, I don't like to wake him."

"Kid seems like he needs the rest."

"He does. Well," she added, an afterthought, "and it keeps him out of trouble."

"If only I could keep you out of trouble that easily," I said.

"Oh, please. I'm not that much trouble." She pulled back, wide-eyed and visibly annoyed, when I laughed a bit too readily. "I am not that much trouble."

"I'll be dead by fifty with you around. And anyway—" I hissed in a sharp breath when she leaned in, too quickly to stop, and bit my collarbone. Hard. "…The Hell?"

Nothing. Just her mouth an inch from what would soon be a bruise, and her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"Norma," I said.

A giggle.

"Did you just bite me?"

"Well, yes. But you should know better."

"What, exactly, should I know?"

"Stick your hand in a tiger cage, Sheriff, and you're going to get bit."

I ran a hand over my face, shook my head with both a laugh and impending resignation.

"Christ," I said, "make that dead by forty-nine."

"There are worse ways to die." Her slender fingers hooked under my belt buckle, and she tugged gently until I pushed away from the counter and moved closer to her. Close enough that I could smell her shampoo or her perfume, something floral and impossible to name, and when she looked up at me her eyes were painfully blue behind the curtain of mascara-heavy lashes.

"You're beautiful," I said as I ran my thumb over the delicate point of her chin, up and over the blade of her cheekbone. It wasn't lost on me that we had been here, in nigh this precise situation, just a couple of weeks ago. But I had pushed too hard, and she had pushed me away, and that had ended in tears and too many shots of vodka and Amelia dragging me home at three in the morning.

Now it was simple. Or it seemed simple, for perhaps the first time since I'd known her.

Norma Louise Bates was many things. Uncomplicated was not one of them.

When she nuzzled into my palm I leaned down to kiss her forehead, winding a blond curl around my index finger. I harbored no illusions about the future: this silence, this peace and stillness and grand ease would not last. We'd broken down the walls, yes, and she knew that I loved her, of that I was certain. She understood, finally, that I would step in and protect her, protect her children.

Still, so many things were left unspoken.

She never said: I love you.

I never said: I killed Caleb.

She still couldn't admit: Norman killed my husband.

I was too afraid to admit: Amelia Paris is sleeping in my spare bedroom.

But that could wait. Or so I told myself. This was too sweet, too right, to push aside in favor of the unpleasant truth. There would be another day, something gray and unpleasant, and we would unravel our private storm then. For now I just needed her here, held tight against me, willing and unafraid when I brushed my lips against her temple and whispered, "I love you."

"I know."

"I think you may need reminding."

"Is that righ—"

Her sentence swallowed whole; my mouth on hers, insistent and eager, before she could respond. But then the surprise dimmed, and I felt her smile, felt the vibration of a pleased chuckle, and when she slid her hands around my neck I leaned down to scoop her up. Easy enough to lift, and she was trusting, and gentle, let me hold her weight without complaint. Merely wrapped her legs around my hips—yet another echo of that earlier day in her kitchen—and nipped my bottom lip in playful protest when I kissed her a bit too hard.

I walked us to the kitchen table, set her down carefully on it, and she pulled away with a huffed little laugh.

"You need to shave."

"Mhm," I said, though it wasn't so much a word as it was a vague noise in the back of my throat, as I was entirely too busy kissing the side of her neck.

"I mean it!" But she gasped softly, an encouraging hand snaking up through my hair to hold the back of my head, and she craned her neck to allow me better access. "Your face is all rough."

She let me lay her back on the table, my palm cradling her skull until she was safely in a comfortable position. And then it was just a matter of slowly pulling her sweater up over her rib cage, each exposed inch of skin greeted with an affectionate nip, until I reached the swell of her breasts and went about removing her bra.

"And is that a problem?" I asked. I rubbed my cheek against the soft flesh of her chest, scuffed my jaw over her delicate skin until she arched her back under me, and when she spoke it was barely above a whisper:

"God, no. Not a problem."

I kissed my way down her body like it was a prayer. Pale and shivering under me when I splayed my hand across her rib cage, she responded to the press of my mouth with a series of barely audible sighs. And when my hands reached her thighs, sliding her skirt up with my thumbs and snaking my index fingers beneath the band of her panties, inching them down until her legs were free and the cloth fell to the floor, she managed a hushed "What are you doing?" the words too quiet and strangled in her throat, like she couldn't get a deep breath.

But I didn't respond. Just lowered myself to kneel on the floor, and threw one of her legs over my shoulder. Kissed my way from knee to crux of pelvis to the soft mound of her lower abdomen, and only when I heard her whisper my name, and I looked up to see her face flushed, eyes closed and body trembling, did I gently press my mouth to the heat of her, the center of her, and smile when her legs clamped tightly against the sides of my head.

"Do you always wear this? I don't think I've ever seen it before."

Somewhere in the fray we'd landed on the floor. My clothing bunched up into a makeshift pillow beneath me, and her head resting on my chest, wild blond hair constantly fluttering against my chin. She'd been playing with an old catholic medallion my mother had given me as a child, turning it around in her fingers and gently toying with the chain.

"Haven't worn it in years. Just decided to recently."

"What's it mean?"

"Mm?" I tucked my chin down to look at her as best I could, then shrugged. Idly stroked her back. "St. Christopher. Patron saint of bachelors, travelers, storms and gardeners."

"Gardeners?"

"Catholics like to cover everything, as a general rule."

"Well, it's lovely."

"Mm. Commonly given to children. But he's not an official saint these days. Ousted from the canon."

"Why?"

"Catholics are fickle, too," I said. I felt her giggle against my chest, an easy sort of amusement, most likely for my benefit, and I buried my nose in her hair and kissed the top of her head. "My mother was very devout."

"And you?"

My smile was instant, and broad, and genuine: what we'd just done, and what we'd hopefully do for countless nights in the future, and Norma Bates wanted to know if I was a pious, rosary-clutching Catholic?

"Think it's safe to say I'm significantly less so."

"So why wear it?" I fought back a shiver as she traced the tips of her nails over my chest and down my side, her touch flitting in and along the curves of my ribs and down to my hip bone. Playfully tracing patterns on the top of my thigh, and peeking up at me through a messy chunk of her hair.

"Just seemed fitting, I guess." But I was lying. Didn't want her to know that she was the only reason. That she'd been the reason for just about every goddamned thing I'd done in the past two years, and somewhere along the line I'd grown accustomed to feeling lost in her tides.

And, anyway, it seemed impossible to explain. The day my mother decided to shuffle off this mortal coil, and I found her cold and tinged blue on the couch with an empty bottle of Vicodin in hand, my faith died so swiftly it felt as if I'd never believed at all. That woman had loved her church and her priest more than all wordly joy, yet I could never bring myself to enter another after that.

Hell, I'd barely made it to her funeral.

But Norma had crept in, under my skin and in through the veins, stirred up old ideas and whims and desires I'd long thought I'd lost to bourbon and long nights on the job and an empty house. Though it was almost painful at times, her face reminded me of God. And when her mouth was on mine and her legs wrapped around me and she mewled my name over and over in her sweet, soprano staccato rhythm, it felt like God existed and took up residency in the pit of my gut.

Like all the oxygen in the world couldn't supply my lungs, but it didn't matter. Something holy and intangible and sacred kept me alive and breathing.

"I wish I could've met your mother," she said, softly, after a long stretch of companionable silence.

It hurt to hear it, truth be told. Every mention of my mother still a knife in the ribs, though two decades had softened the blow enough that I didn't immediately reach for the bottle. I wanted to change the subject, distract her, get far away from this talk of my mother and saints, but instead I just said, "She would've liked you."

"You think so?"

"Mm. She always thoughts blonds were lovely. And she had a fondness for outspoken women."

"Outspoken, huh? Is that what I am?"

I muffled a laugh against my arm, feigned a yawn so she couldn't see my smile.

"That's certainly one way of putting it, yes."

"God," she said, slapping me on the chest, which only made me laugh harder and thus annoy her further, "you're such an obnoxious—" The low groan of a floorboard above us made us still, the room silent as we both stared at the ceiling, straining to listen. "Shit," she whispered when another creaked a few seconds later, "Norman's awake. Probably best if he doesn't find us naked on the kitchen floor."

We managed to get dressed in under a minute, though haphazardly; my shirt left untucked (though it irritated me immensely), her skirt askew and hair mussed. But she was tinkering reaching into the refrigerator for something to cook when Norman finally made his entrance, and I tinkered with the coffee maker.

Nothing to see. Just a family friend fixing an appliance.

"Mother?"

"Hi, honey. I was just making some lunch. Grilled cheese sound good?"

"Yes, fine. Thank you." A long pause. I could feel Norman staring at me (or rather, my back), but I didn't turn around until he said, "Sheriff?"

"Afternoon, Norman." I wiped my hands on the dish towel—they weren't dirty, but this was the closest to a nervous gesture as I got. And why nervous? Because I'd just slept with the kid's mother? Told her I loved her in the privacy of her bedroom? Or something about the evenness with which he addressed me?—and nodded. "How're you feeling, son?"

Norman didn't immediately respond. He merely watched me, face mostly blank yet vaguely curious, as if he didn't understand why I'd be standing in the kitchen.

"Much better, thank you," he said, finally.

"I'm sure Sheriff Romero is very glad to hear that, honey," Norma chirped, eying me intently. A non-verbal nudge, I thought, her way of telling me to relax and lighten the Hell up. She moved past me to the cupboard, fetching a loaf of bread, brushing against me as she went. Her smile was subtle, secretive, even, but there nonetheless, and I felt the corner of my mouth flicker upwards in response.

"I'm sure he is," Norman said, quickly. Too quickly. The second I met his gaze I saw it, though what, precisely, it was, I couldn't necessarily identify. I watched his eyes narrow, flit back and forth between his mother and I, and the way he clenched his jaw—nigh imperceptible unless one was trained to notice tells—when Norma walked past me again and let her fingers brush the back of my hand.

"Everything alright, Norman?" I asked. "You look a bit—" Sharp. Enraged. A quiet, simmering sort of rage that one's own mother, blinded by devotion and optimism, was liable to miss. Less so a cop. "—pale."

The smile that spread across his face was tight, and controlled, and malicious. For a brief moment I thought back to another day in Norma's kitchen; our argument, the knife in my back, and then afterward, finding her blood-drenched son on the side of the road. Made me yearn for my gun. Just the weight of it, really, a familiar companion. But mostly I just yearned to figure out where the Hell I'd get thirty grand.

A single moment of eye contact with Norman Bates impressed me with how absolutely essential White Pine Bay was to him. And, most importantly, at least to me, Norma's safety.

"Everything's fine, Sheriff, thank you," he said, the smile still stretched across his face. Unnerving, really. But years of training and what Norma would surely call my own goddamned stubbornness refused to let me break gaze.

"Glad to hear it, Norman," I said. I leaned back against the counter, hands in my pocket, and returned his smile. Albeit a saner, calmer smile.

"Oh," he said, "but that reminds me. Will you thank your friend for me? She was very nice."

I blinked rapidly, surprised in spite of myself, and my gut went ice cold the second Norma chimed in:

"Friend? What friend?" Her eyes flicked from Norman to me, and her smile was warm, and sweet, and curious. And I wanted to open my mouth to say something, to head this off—because I could already see where it was going, could see the absolute train wreck this would be, and what an impressive corner Norman had blindly backed me into—but was powerless to stop it.

Like so many things in my dealings with the Bates family, it had long ago been set in motion.

"The woman staying with Sheriff Romero," Norman said. "I'm afraid I can't remember her name. Was it Amber?"

"…The woman staying with—"

"Norma," I said, softly.

"Andrea?" Norman asked.

"Amelia," Norma whispered. And though she said it to Norman, her eyes, already wide and watering and stunned and full of betrayal, stayed transfixed on mine.

"Yes, I think that was it. She was very nice to me. Will you tell her I said thank you, Sheriff?"

"Oh, my God," Norma whispered.

"Norma," I said, as gently as I could, "don't do this. It's nothing, I promise you. Just let me—"

"Oh, my God!"

"Mother?" Norman asked. Feigned concern; I could hear the pleasure in his voice, catch the unwavering smile out of the corner of my eye. But there wasn't time for that, not now. "Is something wrong?"

"Get out," she said, and for one brief, stupid moment I thought she meant Norman. Sending him up to his room so she and I could hash this out in private. But the frown etching its way into her lovely face, and the tears streaking her makeup down her cheeks told a much different story. "Just get out!" And this time she screamed it at me, and reached past me to the coffee maker, hurling it at me with a force and speed I found surprising.

By the time I'd ducked out of the way and regained my balance, she was sprinting out of the kitchen and up the stairs, screaming at me all the while. Unintelligible things, nonsensical things, just a steady stream of high-pitched threats and curses.

I bolted after her, taking the stairs two at a time, but she ignored my pleas for her to stop, or slow down, and as she'd had a decent advantage, by the time I reached the landing she'd ensconced herself in the master bathroom, the heavy oak door locked and immune to any attempt I might make to break it down or kick it in.

"Norma, please, open the door. Let me explain this."

"I told you to get out!" The words were strained, her voice thick with tears, and when I leaned in close to the door I could hear the distinct hiccup-beat of sobbing.

"Please, just listen to me. Let me in so I can talk to you, alright?"

"I can't believe you hid this from me. I can't believe I trusted you."

"It's not what you think. I didn't tell you because I knew it would upset you, and you and Amelia aren't on the best of terms, but that's only because you don't know one another."

"That's such a crock of shit. You're just like every other—"

"Norma, this is just a misunderstanding. I promise you. If you'd just listen to me—"

"—How can you harbor that woman in your house? She's here to ruin my life, don't you get that? Just like her brother."

"No, she's not. She just doesn't know you, and she's upset about Bob. But I can make her understand that you didn't have anything to do with—"

"You always defend her! Always! She shows up at my motel, looking for her horrid brother, and then she threatens me and now she's taking care of my son when I don't even know she's there?"

"It's not like—"

"And you show up at my door last night, a complete mess, and you tell me you love me and then in the kitchen you … you—" she broke off, her breath hitching in the most heartbreaking way, and as I listened to her dissolve into tears I pressed myself against the door as tightly as possible, wanting her to hear me, wanting even more to break the fucking thing down.

"Norma, please. I meant everything I said. And you can trust me. You can. I didn't tell you about Amelia because I knew it would upset you, and I wanted to wait until I was sure you'd be able to handle it."

"Handle it? Oh, thank you, Sheriff—"

"Don't call me that," I said. "Please. I hate it when you call me that." More and more it felt like a slap, the title twisted and wrong on her tongue.

"I knew there was something wrong. With you, with that girl. I knew it. She's been with you this whole time, hasn't she? That's why you defend her so much!"

"No, Norma. No. That's not it at all, it's just—"

"How dare you badger me for the truth, make me feel like I'm awful and keeping too many secrets and hurting you, when you're the one who's running around with some terrible girl and pretending to care about me just so you can … I don't know, Sheriff—"

"Stop calling me that," I snapped, my tone harsher than I meant it to. But her anger and my inability to open the fucking door and explain this to her were tearing at me, and each time she called me Sheriff instead of Alex it felt like a knife between the ribs.

"—What was your goal, exactly?"

"Christ," I whispered. The whole goddamned thing was out of control. I was out of control, and I hated it. Utterly loathed it. "There's no goal. There's no trick, Norma. Maybe I should've told you "sooner—"

"Maybe?"

"—But I did what I thought was best for you."

Silence.

"Norma?"

Nothing.

"Christ, Norma," I said. I let my forehead fall against the door. "Please open the door. Talk to me."

"Just get out. Leave!"

"I'd never do anything to hurt you."

"You already have."

"Norma."

"I hate you, Alex Romero," she said, only this time I could barely make out the words through her sudden and rapid-fire sobs. "I hate you. I hope to God I never see you again."

I stood on the porch for what must've been ten minutes. Stared at her front door, as if it would somehow help me figure out the next move. What I could say, or do, to make her trust me, believe me, or just come out of the goddamned bathroom.

But there was nothing, and she wouldn't, and I stayed rooted in place because dread was forming a knot in my stomach. Dread or maybe just the awareness that I'd fucked this up. I'd fucked everything up. And the venom in her voice when she whispered "I hate you" was palpable and genuine and more lethal than a bullet or arsenic or a high-speed chase.

I kept going over and over it in my head, trying to piece it together, but everything was muddled, hazy, the pain too fresh and still bordering on shock.

How the Hell had I gone from making her whimper my name to refusing to so much as look at me? To hating me?

And how the Hell do you climb out of a pit like that?

Like the fucking pit in her driveway.

I caught a flash of movement in the second-story window, and glanced up reflexively. Hoping it was Norma come to check on me, or invite me back inside, or maybe even smile at me. A sad, apologetic smile. Or an angry smile. But something that would let me know—

But, no. Norman stood in front of the window, watching me calmly. And as a slow, placid smile began to creep across his face, I thought of something he'd said back at my house, after Amelia had cleaned him up and I'd sat him down for a few questions:

"You touch her too much."

I'd lost count of both the shots and the hour. The world beyond the bar's windows were dark, but I couldn't remember when I'd stumbled in here and my vision was too blurred to make out the numbers on the clock.

Every so often my phone chimed, and I did my best to ignore it. Just a string of worried texts from Amelia, that much I'd figured out. But only after I'd checked my phone twelve times in the vain hope it was Norma, asking me to come back, to talk to her, to tell me that she forgave me and understood.

But it was never her, and as the night wore on and the vodka began tasting better and better, I soon had my phone out, dialing and redialing her number. Listening to it ring for ages, and then her voice mail barging in, and though it was sweet to hear her voice she never answered. Either because she was sleeping or because she hated me. Maybe both.

Tomorrow she'd wake up to a series of slurred, pathetic messages, and I'd wake up hungover and made of regret and something bordering on humiliation:

"Please talk to me. Just pick up and talk to me, Norma."

"I hate it when you call me Sheriff."

"I couldn't bear it if you hated me. Please call me back."

"I love you. I love you so goddamned much. Please don't hate me. Please don't—"

Somewhere along the line I managed to snap my phone shut and return it to my pocket. Ignored the frantic and constant texts from Amelia. Drowned each urge to call Norma again in another drink.

"Alex?" A warm, feminine voice broke through the alcohol haze, and I felt a hand grasp my shoulder.

I'd fallen asleep at the bar, arms folded in front of me and forehead resting on my wrists, and the unexpected touch startled me awake more forcefully than I would've liked; my stomach churned, sour and displeased, and I swallowed down the bile rising in the back of my throat.

"Marge?"

"Hi, baby," Marge cooed. From beneath a heavy rim of artificial lashes she peered at me, her face a mixture of knowing and sympathy and something I couldn't name; something that belonged entirely to her. A wariness, maybe, or, underneath her glamor and her bright, wide grin, a sense of exhaustion. "You having a bad night, sweetheart?"

"Ah, you know. Fine. I'm fine," I said. I tried my damnedest to make each work clean, and clear, but I could hear the consonants blending into one another. Painfully aware that I was, officially, a slurring drunk, I shook my head and sat up straight. Trying to will it away. Couldn't have the Sheriff acting like a goddamned alcoholic fool.

"Of course you are, baby. Of course." Her hand on my forehead was cool, and maternal, and surprisingly welcome. My eyes drifted shut for a brief moment, thinking of that day I'd first met her, all those years ago in the Blue Moon Diner, and how she'd been something of a surrogate mother to me all these years, though I never would've dreamed of voicing such a thing.

But then a loud noise startled me again, and my eyes snapped open—some patron behind me dropping a beer bottle, the sound of glass shattering ricocheting off the walls—and I leaned away from her touch, trying to regain some semblance of authority.

"Must be late," I said.

"Oh, just after eleven."

"What're you doing out at this hour?" Marge had always worked the morning shift at the diner, and considering she rolled in around five a.m. I had difficulty imagining her staying up so late.

She gestured to a much younger man standing a few feet behind her with a roll of her shoulder.

"Out with the old ball and chain, darling."

"Don't think I've ever met your husband."

"Well, you met number four. This is number six," she said. A fluttery, flirtatious wink, fuchsia-painted lips spreading into the widest, shit-eating grin I'd seen in weeks. Made me smile despite my mood and the way the room had recently begun spinning. "You look like shit, baby." Must've been obvious; couldn't remember how much I'd had to drink, but I hadn't been this intoxicated in a long time. "You want me to call a cab?"

"No. But thanks, Marge."

"You sure, sweetheart? You don't look good, honey, you need to head on home."

"I'll call a friend." Amelia would be pleased to hear from me. And then probably spend the entire drive home calling me every name in the book for ignoring her texts and making her worry.

"Alright, sweetheart. You call your friend soon, you hear? I need to get Mr. Marge a drink, lest that dour little face of his freeze that way." She leaned in, a gust of powdery, cheap perfume momentarily overwhelming, but I didn't mind the kiss she planted on my temple ("Alcohol turns you into a lamb," Amelia once said. "You barely let me touch you when you're sober."), or her affectionate chuckle as she smeared the hot-pink lipstick off my skin.

"I'll see you later, Marge."

"You'd better," she said as she turned to go. "Oh, but before I forget, I'm so sorry you lost your friend, sweetheart."

"Lost my what?" I blinked several times in rapid succession, and frowned. For a moment I thought she meant Norma. But no, of course not, there was no way she could possibly have any idea. "My friend?"

"Yeah, you know, that pretty lady cop. FBI or DEA or some such thing. She used to come into the diner for lunch. Was always real sweet, you know, always asked after my family. Tipped well, too."

"Babbitt?" I asked, alarm rising. I felt it mix with bile and alcohol and rapidly skyrocketing blood pressure, my brain trying to piece together all the information suddenly flooding in, though it was a struggle. Like trying to think my way through a swamp. "Special Agent Babbitt?"

"That's her! Yeah, that's a damn shame. Such a lovely thing." When I didn't immediately respond, she frowned, and ventured on. "You hadn't heard?"

"Heard what?" I asked, trying to keep my tone pleasant. I felt like something important was scratching at the outskirts of my mind, but I couldn't pin it down. Couldn't think clearly enough to figure out just what, exactly, my own instincts and my memories and my intuition were trying to tell me.

"It's all over town, honey. They found her body a few hours ago."

"Her body?"

"Mhm. Shot in the chest, apparently."

"Jesus Christ."

"Such a shame. She was a real sweetheart."

Chapter Twelve: Players on the Field

She drove too fast. Were I not reclined in the passenger's seat, one arm slung over my eyes, attempting, as best I could, to fight back the bile rising in my throat, I would've pulled her over and given her a ticket.

I wanted to explain this to her. Wanted her to understand that, friend or no, sober or not, I was still a cop. She needed to understand the rules, abide by the law, respect my authority. She wasn't Norma, for Christ's sake, she couldn't just expect me to look past breaking ninety miles per hour on a country road and nearly side-swiping the occasional car when she passed on the right like a goddamned lunatic.

"Slow down," I managed, eventually, a throat-tearing croak that made me wince the second it escaped me. Every sound, every word a stab to the temple.

"Are you going to puke in my car?"

"Uhn."

"You better not puke in my car, Romero. I mean it," she added when I didn't respond. "You feel that shit coming up you'd better warn me."

"Or what?"

"Or nothing. I'll just roll down your window and shove your ass halfway out. Don't mind if you puke on the door, but not in here, for God's sake. You know how difficult leather is to clean?"

"Uhn," I groaned again; she'd shifted and the car lurched forward a bit too violently for my stomach's taste. "Take it easy."

"Yeah, yeah."

Silence was something of a blessing in the twenty minutes it took to reach my house. Whether it was mercy or annoyance, I couldn't say, but Amelia managed to keep her mouth shut until the BMW was in park and she stalked around the front of the car to open my door and pull me out.

"Thanks," I said.

"You smell like booze."

"Probably a good reason for that." She rolled her eyes but wrapped a secure arm around my waist when I finally managed to hoist myself up into (something semi-resembling) a stand.

"You kosher?" I nodded. "Good." I felt her fingers hook under my belt, a useful bit of leverage to keep me upright. "Look, I have a pretty decent idea of where you were last night." We managed the porch stairs with little incident, and she pushed me gently, encouraging me to lean against the wall while she unlocked the door. "But I was worried, you know?"

"I know." And I did, truth be told. Amelia could be irritating, demanding, and, in general, something of a serious pain in my ass. But I wasn't unaware of her fondness for me, or the fact that in the few weeks she'd been in town she'd proved a useful and supportive friend.

Hell, this made the second time she'd dragged me out of a bar at an all too late (or early, depending upon how you looked at it) hour, and I was grateful.

Grateful, but concerned.

"Yeah, well, I realize you're fucking my mortal enemy and all, but next time text my ass, alright? So I don't spend half a day wondering if you're dead in a gutter somewhere."

"She's not your mortal enemy," I said. "Christ, Amelia. Not all roads lead to Norma Bates."

"Seems like they do in this town." Then, as she pulled me inside the house, bumped the door closed with her hip, and gestured for me to shrug off my jacket, she added, "They do for you, at least."

The sun was nearly up by time I'd showered, swallowed a few bites of the scrambled eggs Amelia shoved at me, despite my many protests, and landed in bed on my back with a groan and simultaneous sigh of relief.

"Like wrangling toddlers with chainsaws," she'd quipped, both amused and annoyed when I'd initially refused her food. My reluctance to shower was met with a stern, "It's not an option, Alex. You smell like a seedy bar in a shitty town with an unhygienic populace."

But once my head hit the pillow everything was still, and quiet. The eggs, though they'd nauseated me at first, had finally managed to settle my stomach. Four glasses of water and twenty minutes in a hot, steamy bathroom cleared my previously swimming vision.

"She threw me out again," I whispered. Amelia sat on the bed next to me, the mattress sagging slightly beneath her weight. "Think she hates me."

"Same shit you said last time, as I recall."

"Well, it's true."

"She didn't hate you then. Probably doesn't hate you now. What happened?"

"You."

"Ah." A low, soft noise, like a chuckle in the back of her throat. And then the grazing warmth of her fingers ghosting across my forehead, brushing my hair back off my skin. I didn't bother opening my eyes. Didn't need to. "I can see how that'd be a problem, considering everything that's happened. But I still doubt she hates you. You're suitably hard to hate."

"I'm a prick."

"You're a lamb." Pause. She leaned down to kiss my temple; light, affectionate, nigh familial. "Under all that prickishness, anyway."

"Ha."

"Get some sleep, okay? I'll wake you around noon, fix you some lunch."

"Wait, wait." I reached for her wrist, squinting in the half-light of my bedroom, trying to make her out. Missed. But then her fingers slid over my palm and she held my hand, waiting. Curious. "Did you read the file I gave you? About Bob?"

"A little."

"Jesus, Amelia," I groaned. "Would you please—"

"Calm down," she said, just a hint of annoyance threading through. "I didn't have a lot of time before I met Babbitt yesterday, only got a few pages into the file. Promise I'll read more of it today."

"Babbitt?"

"Pretty-but-irritating DEA chick? Looking into my brother's death? Doesn't seem to like you very much?"

"I forgot you two had a meeting yesterday."

"That's because you're two shots shy of downing two bottles of Fireball."

"Wasn't Fireball."

"Not my point. My point was—"

"I know what your point was," I said. I frowned. Tightened my grip on her wrist, pulled her towards me a bit. Though the haze was slowly lifting it was still difficult to think clearly, form proper sentences. "Did you see anyone yesterday?"

"See anyone?" She sat on the bed again, shook her wrist free of my hand, placed a reassuring palm on my chest. "What do you mean?"

"Following you two? Or just anyone who looked suspicious?"

"Suspicious," she repeated, flatly. "This isn't a Hitchcock film, Alex, I wasn't keeping an eye out for sketchy characters lurking on the train platform."

"You met at the train station?"

"No." A laugh. "God, you're still drunk. It was a joke."

"Right, fine, but did you see—"

"The Hell is this about, Alex? The meeting was fine, nothing all that interesting. What's the problem?"

"Babbitt's dead," I said. With the cresting sun filling the bedroom with more light, I could finally make out the details of her face. I'd expected surprise or shock or some twist of a frown, the universal half-assed expression of sorrow we feigned for the deceased we'd barely known or barely liked.

Nothing. Just a calm stillness, like she was waiting for a punchline that would never come.

"Amelia, did you hear me? I said Special Agent Babbitt's dead. Murdered, in fact. At least from what I was told."

"Yeah, I heard you. So?"

"So?"

"Jesus, Alex, we weren't friends. What do you want me to say?" Her brows drew together in a severe frown, the first expression she'd made since I'd pulled her to the bed. "I heard about it before I came to pick you up. And, yeah, I mean, it's a shame. Always a shame when someone dies, I guess, but what were you expecting? Should I start sobbing? Buy some flowers and send condolence cards to her family? Whom I don't know, by the way."

"You don't need to be a smart ass," I said. Confused by her sudden anger, the change in tone so abrupt. "But she's dead, Amelia, I thought you'd—"

"Thought I'd what?"

What had I thought? I didn't have an answer for her question. Wasn't sure what I'd been expecting, truth be told. Merely aware of a vague sense of distaste; her lack of concern had thrown me, though I wasn't entirely sure why.

We stared at one another for a long moment. Silent, borderline glowering, until finally the reemergence of my headache and a wave of exhaustion hit me, and I watched her soften the moment she saw it, whatever tension building evaporating as quickly as it had come.

"Look, you need some sleep. We can talk about this—Babbitt, your file, Norma, all of it—after you get some rest, okay?" She leaned down to kiss my forehead again, pulled up the blankets until I was secure and warm and already drifting off. "Everything can wait until morning."

"It is morning," I said, softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Her sigh was long, and frustrated, and, somehow, thoroughly amused. "Don't be a smart ass," she mimicked.

I was out before I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

The splatter-pop of fat meeting a hot pan; the smell of lemon, salt, and something initially unidentifiable but savory.

I woke to the sound of Amelia puttering about in my kitchen, the gentle clang of pots and pans, and a half-hummed song she picked up now and again. Probably making my lunch, I realized; a glance out of the window told me it must've been near noon, the sun full in the sky and my skin too warm beneath the covers.

Head still swimming when I crawled out of bed but the pain gone, vision clear, thoughts coming in clean and rapid-fire. A brief hit of nausea when I pulled on my jeans and shirt, but it faded as quickly as it came, replaced by a sudden intense hunger.

But it was the flash of a voice that caught me on the stairs, made me pause halfway down, unmoving, silent and straining to hear each word:

"No shit, of course I'm not calling from his number."

Amelia, obviously. No one else in the house.

"You've been ignoring his calls, from what I've heard. I assumed you wouldn't answer if I used his phone."

Sour tone; dour and acid and harsh. Scathing, in point of fact, which meant that the only person she could possibly be talking to was—

"Norma, we're not friends," Amelia snapped. I heard rather than saw her slam something down on the stone. Either a pan or spatula, though I couldn't tell which. "I'm the last fucking person that's looking to be your friend, alright? But I'm not calling to give you shit, either." Pause. Silence. Then an aggravated sigh. Probably listening to one of Norma's tirades. "Yeah, well, maybe you should suck it up and call the man. I'm not the one he's drinking himself half-to-death over."

A touch of shame when I heard it. Had I been another sort of man, I would've called it embarrassment.

Didn't like the thought of Norma knowing how upset I'd been, how desperate, how hurt. (Although I vaguely recalled something about a series of voicemails, and though I couldn't place details the regret was already edging its way into the back of my mind.) And, perhaps more importantly, I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about Amelia calling her up to … what, exactly? Defend my honor?

"I'm not his girlfriend. I'm just crashing at his place. So whatever the problem is, just—are you serious? Jesus Christ, I don't care."

Stab of guilt for listening in; stab of frustration because I couldn't hear Norma's side of the conversation. I should've just turned around and gone back upstairs, waited until I knew she was off the phone, and then come down, blank-faced, and thanked her for breakfast.

But, instead, I was craning my neck, trying to get a better angle. Anything to to figure out what the Hell was going on.

"Fine. Yeah, I said that's fine. No, it's not like I'm going to call you again. But call him, for God's sake. He doesn't deserve to be—wait, what? Yeah. Uh huh. Right, yeah, that'll work. Yeah, it's fine. He'll be hungover but it shouldn't be horrible. No, I won't be here."

And then nothing. The sounds of the kitchen and the food and her humming, peaceable presence, and the smile she greeted me with when I finally made my way down was wide and genuine and followed up with a quick, maternal kiss on the cheek.

"Afternoon! I was just about to wake you. How're you feeling?"

"Fine, more or less. Hungry."

"Good." She gestured, spatula still in hand, to the pan on the stove.

"Pork chops?"

"Mhm. With kale and … Alex Romero, did you just make a face when I said 'kale'?"

"Loathe kale."

"Ugh, just sit down and eat your food like an obedient hungover toddler, would you?"

It all fairness, it was delicious.

Even the goddamned kale.

Somewhere along the line I'd fallen asleep again. Lunch, the lingering traces of my hangover and the surprising warmth of the day luring me to the couch and a peaceful nap.

Tomorrow I'd have to head into the office. Deal with the fallout; Babbitt, the remaining investigation into Bob's death, and whatever other traumas or upsets occurred while I'd been gone. But, for now, food and sleep had an undeniable draw, and I let myself fall into the luxury of both.

It was a soft, almost hesitant knock on the door that finally pulled me from my dreams, though the moment my eyes were open I'd lost all memory of what they'd involved.

"Amelia?" I'd expected to hear her rush for the door as she usually did, eager to let me sleep or keep the world at bay. ("You have enough to deal with, for God's sake. At least I can deal with solicitors," she'd once said.) But there was nothing. Just the stillness of the house invaded by another knock. Louder this time, hesitancy lost to impatience.

I caught sight of blond curls and the crown of a small, delicately-shaped head through the window, and in seconds my gut was twisted, knotting up in something that, perhaps, should've been labeled fear. But I didn't hesitate or slow on my way to the door. Merely reached for the handle and threw it open, like ripping off a band-aid.

"Norma."

She looked startled to see me. Like she'd been expecting someone else. Or, at the very least, expecting more of a delay.

I watched her eyes flicker from my face to my chest, down the rest of my body and back up again, landing somewhere on the bridge of my nose but not quite making eye contact. A frown

"You look like shit." Soft; not malicious, not at all. She sounded concerned, at least to my ears.

"Had a long night."

"Yeah, I heard," she said, and when she met my eyes again there was a flicker of warmth there, like a half-hidden smile and the unspoken acknowledgment that it was Amelia who'd drawn her here, an irony that was not lost on either of us.

Without a word I held the door open further, gestured for her to come inside, and when her movement sent a whiff of perfume gusting past my nose I had to fight back the urge to smile or sigh or reach for her or all the goddamned above. She was here, and less than twelve hours ago I'd been convinced I'd never see her again.

Had I been a religious man I would've thanked God. But I wasn't, and so I couldn't, and I settled for locking the door securely behind us and ushering her into the living room, mumbling offers of coffee or pastries (shit I typically never had on hand but now practically owned stock in, courtesy Amelia) or anything else she might like—

"No, nothing," she said. "I'm fine, Alex, I don't want anything. I just came by to…" She trailed off, teeth biting into her bottom lip, eyes wandering off towards the kitchen and the hallway. Anywhere but my face, I realized. And though I didn't want to push her—not now, maybe not ever again, not if it meant I ran the risk of losing this, whatever this was—I urged her to continue:

"Came by to what?"

"To apologize."

We couldn't fight the awkward silence, no matter how much we tried, and so after approximately ten minutes of standing in my living room staring at one another, faces an ever-changing show of unspoken emotion, I gave up and wandered into the kitchen to make coffee while she sat on the couch and flipped through a copy of Vogue Amelia had left on the side table.

I'd lost track of time over the past two weeks. The months following Bob's death had been painful, what with Norma's absence and blame, but there'd been a simplicity to them, a regiment and a sturdy shape. Going through the motions is, in its way, therapeutic, or at the very least numbing. But this? Amelia's re-entrance into my life and all the complications it brought; Norma's relentless push and pull; Norman's visibly declining mental health; the body I buried in the woods … it was too much. A confusing, jumbled mass of lost days and drunken nights.

"Do you have sugar?"

Lost in thought and thus startled, I turned around to find Norma standing in the doorway, semi-sheepish, offering a not-quite-apologetic smile. "Sugar?"

"For the coffee."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, maybe." I rifled through the cabinet to my left, frowned when I couldn't immediately find anything. "Amelia's on a tear about my diet, think she might've thrown out the sugar."

"She seems … nice."

"No, she doesn't."

She laughed, quietly, and I didn't need to turn around to detect her hesitant smile. "No, not really."

"She's a Paris," I said facing her, hands held wide, empty. "Sorry, no sugar."

"It's fine. Cream?"

"That we have."

"So," she said, once I'd poured the coffee, topped hers off with cream, and leaned back against the counter, "Amelia."

I fought to keep my face neutral, but barely managed to hide a wince. "What about her?"

"She's not nice." The corner of her mouth turned down, a contemplative half-frown, though it wasn't as dour as I'd expected. "But she's nice to you, right?"

"She's known me a long time."

"That's a non-answer."

"She likes me. She's known me since she was a kid. We're friends, Norma. She strikes me as someone who really only knows how to be kind to the people she cares for."

"Sounds familiar."

"Ha. Very funny."

"Okay. So she's nice to you, then," she said, borderline belligerent, though the corners of her eyes crinkled above her mug when she took a sip of coffee. "Which was all I was asking."

"Fine, yeah. She's nice to me. But she does have a certain level of—"

"Maliciousness?"

"Ruthlessness. When she feels backed into a corner. Or when she feels she needs to defend her family."

"It's nice you're defending her." The first hint of anger since she'd arrived on my doorstep, and I felt myself tense in anticipatory dread. I'd been hoping this conversation would, somehow, go smoothly. And Amelia was a topic that required careful wording; a certain flair in the tending, like an orchid. "I can understand that, I guess. There's nothing I wouldn't do for my son. So, okay. She has some family values, even if her brother was some rich, murdering piece of shit. But what the Hell does that have to do with me? She has no reason to come after me—which she has, I'll remind you—unless Bob sent her to mess with us. Warn us off, let us know he's angry."

"Bob didn't send her. She's not like that. Not exactly."

"Not exactly? What does that even mean? She sent me that perfume, remember? That was a threat, Alex, not a 'sweet gesture,' or whatever the Hell you'd like to call it."

"You're right, it was. But it won't happen again."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'll handle it."

"Like you've handled everything else?"

"For Chrissakes, yes!" I slammed my mug down on the counter, voice louder than I'd intended it. Harsher. Forced myself to take a deep breath, gentle my approach. "Yes, Norma. I will handle it. I'm sorry Amelia threatened you, but I can promise you Bob didn't send her. She thinks she's defending him."

"From what?"

"She thinks you had something to do with his …" Murder. "Disappearance."

Her face blanched with confusion, an utterly blank slate so free of understanding or malice that it nearly made me laugh. Had to swallow the urge to avoid upsetting her.

"She what?"

"She doesn't believe Bob would've just run off without telling her. Thinks something happened to him."

"Did it?"

"Why do you ask?" The words rushed out, harsher than I'd intended, almost accusing. I could feel my face set into a hard mask. My jaw ached with the force of it.

"Do you think she's onto something? I mean, you're good at that stuff. 'I'm a cop. I'm observant.' Remember?"

My chest tightened at the memory. The good days. The brief flicker of happiness before everything went to shit. Before that night on her porch, when, consumed by jealousy and haunted by Bob's words—"she's using you, Alex. You think you know her, but you don't."—I asked her questions I knew she'd never answer and turned my back on her, wounded and angry and determined to forget her. As if that were even a possibility.

But I still remembered her face from that morning. The open, easy joy. The way she said my name, the word made new and better on her tongue. How she moved in towards me, close enough that the scent of her hair hit me like the most welcome slap in the face I'd ever received, and leaned in. I'd thought she might kiss me, had to restrain myself from closing the space between us, cupping her chin in my palm, meeting her lips. But then she shied away, playful, teasing, her mouth pressing into my cheek. And when she'd pulled away and smiled, clapped, running up the stairs to her house, her giggle the only thing that remained, I knew it was too late for me.

That it'd been too goddamned late from the very beginning, no matter how much I'd tried to deny it.

Maybe that was why I'd been so angry that night. So easily hurt. Why I clung so readily to the idea that I could forget her if I just turned my back and didn't respond to her calling after me.

So I said, "I remember," and tried to keep my voice even. Cleared my throat, turned to pour myself another cup of coffee. "She might be right, I don't know." And I did know, of course, but Norma certainly didn't need to know that. Not right now, anyway. "Bob had a lot of enemies."

"Mm." I gestured towards her mug, but she waved me off, declining a refill. "Well, I wish you'd explain that to Amelia."

"She knows. She just … she's stubborn."

"That also sounds familiar."

"Look who's talking."

"At least I'm not the one harboring someone's who's threatening my—" She trailed off, eyes initially wide but quickly narrowing.

It hung between us, all that she had not said, heavy and tender.

Briefly, I thought of asking: "My what?" But she wouldn't answer, I knew that already, and so didn't bother. It was a sentence that would never be finished, the various titles that could complete it flashing across both our faces, unknown to the world save our common awareness.

"You're harboring a criminal," she finished, finally, after we'd stared at one another a touch too long, the air around us thick with discomfort.

"Who the Hell isn't in this town." I shook my head, pinched the bridge of my nose. "I'm sorry for what she's put you through. I am. But try to imagine being in her shoes for a minute, would you? What if it were you and Norman? You two aren't that different."

"Pfft."

"You're not. You're both stubborn as Hell and protective of your family and a royal pain in my ass."

"She threatened me, Alex. Threatening people is illegal."

"Do you have any idea how much I could arrest you for? Right here, right now?"

She set her mug down on the counter, harder than required, and crossed her arms across her chest. Not angry, exactly, but annoyed. Defiant.

"Go ahead! Who cares? It'll make for an interesting read in tomorrow's paper: 'Big Bad Sheriff arrests local unarmed woman standing in his kitchen. Meanwhile, there's a dangerous criminal living in his attic.'"

"I don't have an attic."

"Oh, my God. That's not the point."

"And she's not dangerous." But she could be. If she wanted to be, anyway. Which meant I needed to sit her down and make sure she read that damned file. "Like I said, I'll handle her."

"You'd better."

We fell into silence again. For the second time. Or the third or fourth or twenty-seventh because this was not new, this push-and-pull dynamic. Every time we were in the room together whatever affection or ease we were slowly building between us eventually crumbled into bickering and rising anger, until we either said too much or nothing at all.

"I thought you came here to apologize," I said. Quietly. Carefully. Tension threaded through each word, yes, but really I just wanted to change the subject, claw our way to safer emotional ground.

Or, if not safer, at least calmer.

Norma didn't say anything for a long time. Simply stared at me, arms still crossed, face set into a nose-wrinkling little frown. I found it adorable.

"She said you were upset."

"Amelia?"

"Mhm. When she called. She said you'd done nothing but drink and mope, and that she was worried about you."

My face grew hot. Slowly at first, but building with each second. It was difficult, having hurt exposed. I was accustomed to shielding the vulnerable, comforting the wounded. Having my own pain on display was a much different animal. One I didn't much careful.

But I cleared my throat, fighting back the discomfort. Shook my head.

"She's overprotective," I said.

"So you weren't drinking and moping?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does to me."

Silence had proved a useful weapon over the years. What you didn't say in the interrogation room was usually what led a suspect to crack. Not giving into Norma's various rants and tirades over the years generally got her to calm down.

But it was different now, somehow. Couldn't put my finger on it. A shift in the air ever since Bob. Hell, even three months ago, when she'd told me off, demanded I never return, disavowed any fondness for me, there was the current of it: that I couldn't hide from her, not anymore. That she'd wormed her way in, no matter how I tried to hold her back, and now there was no hope of ever hiding anything from her again.

Well, no, that wasn't true. I hid plenty from her.

Bob Paris.

Amelia.

Caleb.

The dark corners of this town, connections I had, secrets I knew.

I could easily hide anything I felt threatened her safety. But I couldn't look her in the eye and tell her I didn't give a damn, that nothing hurt, nothing mattered. She'd already carved open a vein in my wrist; I'd already spilled too much proverbial blood to cling to shyness now.

"You threw me out, Norma. What were you expecting?"

"You didn't tell me about Amelia."

"I was going to."

"But you didn't."

"I wanted time. A day, maybe two. We were happy, weren't we?" I took a step forward, and she flinched initially, as if she hadn't expected it. As if I were some long-lost lover she hadn't seen in over a decade, unsure of his movements or intentions, never mind that she'd been in my arms and I in her bed less than 48 hours ago.

"For a few hours, sure."

"No." I wrapped my hands around her biceps, gently, moving in close enough that I could feel her breath wisp past my collar. "We were happy." It wasn't a question. "And I didn't tell you right away because I wanted to enjoy that. After everything you—after everything we've been through, I wanted a day or two to just be with you. Without the complications or the bullshit or every miserable fuck up this town has to offer."

She wouldn't meet my eyes; stared at my chest as if she could read something crucial to this moment in my skin. "You smell like booze," she whispered. Not unkind, merely an observation.

"You threw me out. Alcohol seemed as good a remedy as any."

"Did it help?"

"No."

"You went to a bar?" I nodded, and when she finally looked up at me her eyes were big, devastatingly blue and on the verge of tears, the waterline red with irritation. "And then you called her to come pick you up."

"I wanted to call you. Didn't think it was an option."

"I just—" she trailed off, glancing in any direction that wasn't my face. Tugged against my grip as if she wanted to be let go, but half-heartedly, and when I did let her go she moved in closer to me, almost as if a reflex. "I just don't know how to deal with all of this. With her. With Norman. With you. And maybe I shouldn't have you thrown you out, but you should've told me. You had plenty of time."

"I thought it would ruin it."

"Maybe it would." She shrugged, sniffled, smeared at the wetness on her cheeks with the back of her hand. "But you can't keep something like that from me. Not now, not after everything."

Unsure of what to say, I leaned down to snake an arm around her back and shoulders, draw her into me once again. And this time she let me, nestling up against my chest, arms curled beneath us. She let me hold her, and stroke her hair, and kiss the top of her head, and despite the tears and the chaos of the world around us—our world, the one we still needed to tend to, and all that would come after this moment—everything felt still, and peaceful, and right.

Good, even. Dangerously good.

"I'm sorry," I whispered as I kissed the crown of her head a second time, carefully ghosting my lips to her forehead, her temple. "I should've told you sooner."

"Did you mean everything you said? The other night, I mean. When you were drunk."

"I wasn't drunk, Norma. I kept telling you that. And yes, I meant it. Christ, of course I did." I tightened my arms around her, felt her sigh into me, the tension in her shoulders finally starting to ease. She nuzzled her face into the crook of my neck, wriggled one of her hands free to clasp my forearm. "Do you honestly not know that?"

I felt rather than saw her shake her head. "I don't know what I know. Except that this feels good. At least right now. And I don't want it to go away. But you keep hiding things from me, and you can't—"

"People are disappointing," I said, softly. And I wanted to say: you've hidden everything from me from day one. Lied. Cheated. Stole. Deflected. Wounded. But I didn't because none of it fucking mattered, not really.

All I'd ever wanted was for her to truth me. That was the crux of it, deep down, the pin our mutual globe revolved around. I craved her trust and her need and her openness, wanted to be the man she gave her secrets to, the one she knew would protect her.

It'd been foolish to expect it to come so easily. "Easily" being something of the operative word; nothing with Norma Bates was easy. But while three years and endless gestures may have been plenty of me, for her they were a flash in the pain, a series of interesting events settled into four decades of disappointment and hurt and fear.

"I'm disappointing," I whispered, pressing my mouth against her forehead and closing my eyes, breathing her in, desperate for this moment to continue as long as possible. "But that doesn't mean I don't…."

Silence. The old wary silence, the exhausted silence, broken only by her occasional hitching breath, the dampness on my shirt from her tears, and, finally, the way she tilted her chin up towards me, fearful and vulnerable and hopeful all at once, and whispered, "Don't what?"

"It doesn't mean I don't love you."

Four cups of coffee and two aspirin did little to dull the post-alcohol headache that insisted upon buzzing through my temples and the base of my skull. Left me rather useless in the finer motor skills department, and so it was Norma who drove us to Cafe Outro, some overly hip coffee joint I never would've set foot in were I not aware of their excellent lunch menu.

"I've never driven a Sheriff's vehicle before," she said once the waitress had come and gone, bustling into the back room with our respective orders.

"How many sheriffs do you know?"

"Well, none."

"None?"

"Besides you. You don't count."

"I never do with you."

She kicked me under the table, hard, her heel jamming into my shin, and I would've complained, would've rolled my eyes or snapped some half-ass, hungover quip about not being in the mood for her bullshit, but she smiled so widely, and so genuinely, that I lost the urge as quickly as it had come.

"I want to play with the lights on the way home, though."

"No."

"Ooh, or the sirens!"

"Jesus Christ, no."

"You're such a hard ass. You never let me have any fun."

"That's because your idea of fun is going to put me in an early grave."

She rolled it eyes, perfectly sculpted little nose crinkling up as she waved me off. "Pfft, planning on sticking around that long, are you?"

"As a matter of fact."

Truth ushered in silence, it seemed to me. Between Norma and myself, yes, absolutely, and now was no different—the moment I said it she fell into a hush, watching me with her customary blend of tender hopefulness and long-earned wariness—but it had also proved itself a recurring theme throughout my life.

All the conversations we don't have with our parents. The tough reveals and the nervous confessions.

Every honest break up or disavowal of desire.

Every heartbroken relative or lover I'd ever sat across from in the station, lost in their private world of pain while I tried to lock away my own internal landscape lest the harsh fact of my daily life seep into it, poison it all.

Hell, maybe it had bled in decades ago. Seemed probable.

Either way, silence was something I'd long been accustomed to. Welcomed, even, as the harbinger of an impending confession or pivotal reveal or, at the very least, the close of an exhausting day.

"You," she said, finally, though her tone was hesitant and I noticed she fingered the napkin in her lap delicately, as if afraid to really say what she meant, "are full of shit."

Not unkind, not really. More a deflection than anything else, I thought, and I hovered on the balance of wanting to correct her—"You're wrong, you're so wrong. Don't you remember? You own me."—or simply letting it slide.

I chose the middle route.

"No, not full of shit," I said. I shook my head, looked her in the eye but tried to keep my voice gentle, quiet. Didn't want to spook her. "I'm not going anywhere."

"But why?" She broke away from my gaze, glanced around the room at anything and everything that wasn't me. "I don't get it. Alex, I really don't, I just—"

"You know why. I told you before." Three times, in point of fact.

"No, you didn't, you just said that you—"

"Loved you," I finished for her.

She whispered something so quietly I couldn't make it out, had to lean forward and ask her to repeat herself. "I said, stop. Please." Her lower lip trembled when she spoke, the first hint of tears gathering behind her lashes. "I can't do this right now. Not right here, not today."

"Okay. Okay, it's alright. We'll drop it." For now, I wanted to add, because this wasn't something one could just walk away from. She had to know that, had to have realized it at some point.

We kept circling one another, like vultures or lovers, never sure if we were seeking death or a dance. Yet whatever came between us—Amelia, Norman, our own goddamned stubbornness—we always ventured back to one another.

Rare, that. Rare and strange and perhaps ineffable, but I'd known for months that I was far too gone to ever question it again.

Four bullets and Bob Paris has seen to that. You murdered a man, especially for a woman, and you learned a whole Hell of a lot about yourself; where your priorities lied; what, and whom, you were willing to kill for.

I watched her sniffle, smear away the first and only tear with the back of her hand. Resisted the urge to reach across the table and thread my fingers through hers.

"I did want to talk to you about something, though," she said.

"Oh?"

"Lately I … I don't know if I …." She trailed off, looking even more uncomfortable than she did five minutes previous.

"You what? If something's going on, Norma, you've gotta tell me. I can't help if you don't."

"I'm worried about Norman."

"I know."

"No, I mean, I'm really worried about him."

"Of course you are, Norma, you're his mother and he needs help. It's natural that you—"

"No, Alex. God. I mean, I don't like being alone with him." And here the tears started afresh, not one but several, though she did the best to hide them from the other diners and I did my best to avoid gathering her up in my arms and carrying her out to the SUV, gawking onlookers be damned. "God, it's so horrible. I'm his mother. The very fact that I could even think of that, I just … he'll hate me. I hate me."

"No," I said, shaking my hand. I gave into the urge, reached across the table to take her hand, squeezed gently. "Not horrible, not at all. Has something happened?"

"Like what?" She laughed, a harsh sound in her otherwise quiet, high-pitched whimpering. "Besides all the dead animals and running off and stabbing you and—"

And Sam Bates. And Blair Watson. And, though I'd never been able to prove it, very likely Bradley Martin.

"Has he threatened you?"

Silence.

"Norma," I said, my voice louder than I'd intended, "you need to tell me. Has he threatened you?"

"Not exactly."

"That's it, I'm moving in."

"You're what?" The tears stopped so suddenly, so completely, that I had to bite back a smile. She was so utterly stunned she looked as if I'd slapped her. "Moving in?"

"Just for a while."

"Oh, God. Oh, my God, no. No, no, no. Honestly, Alex, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but Hell no."

"I wasn't asking, Norma."

"What are—are you serious? It's my house, Sheriff, you can't just waltz in any time you feel like it, and you sure as Hell can't just say, 'Oh, by the way, I'm moving in, have dinner ready at seven.' I'm not your wife, and even if I was I'd never put up with you pulling that shit."

"This isn't a game, Norma. I'm not moving in because I want to, or because I want to annoy you, or make your life difficult. You don't feel safe being alone with him."

"That's not true. I was just … I was exaggerating. God, it's completely ridiculous, of course I feel safe with him. Forget I said anything."

"Fine," I snapped. "Fine. Then let's go with the fact that I don't feel safe leaving you there alone with him."

"That's a shame, but that doesn't mean you can just—"

"Either I stay in a spare room or you deal with me sleeping on your porch every night."

"You're bluffing."

"Try me."

There were times she reminded me of a child; the petulant way she crossed her arms, glared at me, as if the force of her current displeasure would change my mind. And while she held a great deal of sway in my world—more than I preferred, most days—he safety was not a factor I was willing to bargain on.

"God, Alex, fine. Fiiiiine. You're so stubborn."

"And you're not?"

"Nobody's as bad as you. It is physiologically impossible. You will outlive the universe itself trying to get your own damn way."

"Very funny."

"And all this over me? It's so stupid, Alex, you really don't need to do it. I wish you'd just listen to me, I promise you it's all fine. It'll all be fine. I don't get why you have to … to just—"

"Because I love you," I said, for what felt like the millionth time but was, in fact merely the fifth.

She fell silent again. The old, nigh comfortable silence, the predictable silence, the silence made sense when all else devolved into chaos.

"Alex," she said, softly, "I …." Paused. Took a deep breath while I held mine, the room suddenly too close, too hot, too loud. "…I think that maybe I …."

I urged her to continue. "You what," I asked gently.

"I think … I think you may be the only man I've ever really trusted."

A decent meal, half a gallon of water and two more cups of coffee finally managed to chase away my headache. We finished lunch, and I drove Norma back to the house and dropped her off, leaving her staring after my SUV with an expression resembling pure dread.

As much as I wanted to believe she was sad to see me go, I'd little doubt that it was more my promising to return shortly that had her tied up in knots.

My place was dark when I pulled up, despite the glaring mid-day sun. Shades drawn, no lights on that I could see.

I jogged up the drive, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

"Amelia?" Nothing. Just a calm, nigh dusty stillness, as if she she hadn't been in since the day before.

No matter. This was just a quick pit stop anyway, needed to get my shit and get out. Didn't like leaving Norma alone, wanted to make sure I was a very common presence in her household.

I flipped open my phone, sent a text to Amelia:

Need to talk. Text or call when you can.

I pocketed my phone and went about packing. The usual, tedious items I assumed I'd need; clothing, books, a watch, a couple of bottles of good bourbon. Three spare side-arms, too. With no idea how long I'd be staying with Norma, I over-packed. Just in case.

The last item on the list was the black duffel bag I'd had stashed in my bedroom closet for three months. Not exactly the most inconspicuous hiding spot, I knew, but I hadn't been overly concerned about prowlers or curious eyes at the time. Now, what with my impending relocation, it proved something more of an issue.

There were decent spots all over the house; the cellar, holes in the wall concealed by bricks, loose floorboards that led to the crawlspace beneath the house. But, for now anyway, the chimney seemed a reasonable spot.

I slid under the fireplace mantle on my back, pleased for the lack of ash and soot—I hadn't lit a fire since I moved in, didn't even keep firewood in the house—and shoved the bag up into place and out of sight.

It'd do for now.

Double-checked the windows and doors on the way out, made sure the blinds were drawn. Only when I'd stepped onto the front porch, the door clicking into place behind me, did my phone buzz with a response from Amelia:

Want to meet somewhere?

I sent back:

How about Blackfish Park? In about thirty minutes?

I locked the door, climbed into my SUV, checked my phone again at the next chime:

See you there.

Even if the park hadn't been empty, Amelia Paris was a difficult woman to miss.

I caught a flash of golden brown hair reflecting the sunlight, and even from the distance of the parking lot I'd known who it was. Add to that the almost too-leggy gait (she had a tendency to walk a bit like Bambi, I thought, although whenever I'd mentioned this she punched me in the arm and called me an asshole, as was her customary style), the beige leather moto jacket she almost always wore, and her visibly annoyed hand gestures as she swore at whomever was on the other end of the mobile phone pressed to her ear, and she was utterly unmistakable.

"Fucking twat," she mumbled, pocketing her phone as I approached. "So, I just hired a contractor to tear down the house."

"Bob's house?"

"Bob's house, my house, The Paris Family's Ancestral Homestead, whatever the fuck you want to call it. So, yes, the house. Anyway, apparently this contractor used to work for Bob, and he's like, 'well, I don't think that's a great idea,' and I'm like 'well, it's my house, so I don't really care if you think it's a good idea,' and then he mumbled some shit about it being a historical landmark. Can you believe this shit?"

"It's an old house," I said, and shrugged, though it seemed to annoy her further. "You know how this town is. Anything over a hundred years old is either precious or 'historical.' Small towns are like that."

"Psh, 'historical.' Please. What, they'll start holding annual block parties there? 'And this is the room where Gerald Paris, father and Robert and Amelia Paris, murdered his corrupt government official companions because they brought him the wrong hooker.' How very enriching. The little ones will love it, no doubt."

I stared at her, unable to tell if she were serious. Given the various activities her family engaged in, and how well they generally covered it up, it was almost impossible to tell.

"Historical monument!" she continued, getting more animated the more agitated she got. "God, I can't wait to leave this town." Finally, having caught sight of me, or maybe just my expression, she laughed, letting off a bit of steam, and rolled her eyes. "No, Alex, I wasn't serious about my father murdering government officials in our den."

"Ah." I nodded. "Well, I was just curious, what with—"

"I mean he very probably did," she said, cutting me off and offering the sort of helpless shrug that was born of humor in an otherwise tragic situation. "But I don't have any proof."

"Amelia …." I drifted off into a laugh, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to contain the shaking of my shoulders as she burst into a trill of giggles.

"This fucking town, you know? God, this town."

"Nobody gets makes it out alive."

"That's for damn sure."

Amelia was easy to talk to. A rarity in my world; not something I did often, not something I strove to do often. And Norma, the very center of my narrow world, was a figure to whom I wanted to give everything, but we'd yet to reach the point where it was easy.

This was easy, here, with Amelia, precisely because there was no expectation. There came a certain fluency between us, having grown up in the same town, circling around the same people, both of us bearing witness to the bullshit that went on behind closed doors, and frequently within our own families.

There were no pleasantries to be made here, because we required none to bridge into a conversation.

"Listen," I said, finally, once the laughter had died down, "I won't be at the house for a while."

"Ooh, moving in with your murderess?"

"Amelia."

"Right, sorry. You know me, I'm an ass. Can't help myself."

I nodded. Rolled my eyes, continued. "I'm moving in with her for a while, yeah. But you can stay in the house as long as you need, alright? No rush. So long as you—"

"Read the file," she finished for me. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I haven't gotten around to it—" I groaned, and she held up a hand, waving me off, "—but I will. Okay? I will. I've got some shit I need to do today, but I will sit down tomorrow morning over breakfast and read it."

"Maybe eat first, then read it."

"Why? Is it going to ruin my breakfast?" Her eyes widened when I didn't respond. "Well, shit. Alright, fine. After breakfast it is."

The park was quiet around us, oddly empty given the time of day and the weather. Normally full of young mothers and grandparents pushing small children in strollers, people walking their dogs on their lunch break. The usual easy, happy sort of crowd I liked to blend into, watch from the sidelines, never apart of the throbbing mass but never resenting its presence, either.

"So," she began, almost hesitant. "I guess I won't be seeing much of you after this, huh?"

"I'll still be around. It's not like I'm moving to a different city."

"No, I guess not." She paused, chewed on her bottom lip, letting her eyes wander out towards the street before flickering back to me. "Is it weird that I'll miss you?"

"No. I'll miss you too."

She folded herself against me when I gestured for a hug, and we stayed that way for a long moment, some remnant of the old protective connection we'd once had sparking back to life. The old days, the early days, when she was Bob's bratty younger sister and I may as well have been her older brother.

"Text me tomorrow, okay?" I whispered into her hair. She nodded, and I kissed her forehead. A paternal gesture, though one tinged with a trace of sadness.

"Will do."

"And read that goddamned—"

"File. I will. Fucker." And with that she leaned up to kiss my cheek and dashed off towards the hiking trails in the park, tending to whatever errands she'd felt important but hadn't bothered to tell me about.

Norma smiled when she saw me, and for a precious few seconds the world stopped on its axis until there was nothing but the two of us and, most importantly, her joy.

"You took forever," she said, and though she was teasing there was an undercurrent of all that she hadn't said: I missed you and It's about time and I was worried and maybe even I'm happy to see you.

"Sorry, had to take care of some things."

"Things? Like, say, a certain Paris?"

"Yes, Norma, I did speak to Amelia."

"And?"

"And it's fine. She'll settle down, and this whole thing will blow over."

"You're sure?"

I nodded. "Give her a little time. She's about to learn some things about her brother she won't want to face. Denial's a hard thing to shake when it's your family's crimes you have to face," I said. I almost regretted it; it seemed too pointed, to keenly aimed at her situation with Norman, though I hadn't meant it that way.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice. Denial truly did run strong.

"Okay. So, where's she staying now? I mean, she can't stay in the motel. I know she's your friend, Alex, and don't want to be rude, but it's impossible. Wouldn't feel right."

"I doubt she'd want to stay here anyway, so I wouldn't worry about it. But she's still at my house. Will be until she decides to leave."

"What?" Norma's eyes blew wide, and I couldn't tell if it was alarm or rapidly cresting anger. "She's still at your house?"

"I'm not going to kick her out just because I'm moving in here for a while."

"Moving in?" Norman's voice startled us both, so that we turned on heel and faced the door. Guilt-stricken deer in the headlights.

We'd been standing on her porch since I'd arrived, and neither of us seemed to hear Norman approach the doorway.

"Just for a little while, sweetheart." Norma rushed in, eying me with a look I could only assume meant please shut the Hell up. "He's having some renovations done on his house and needs a place to stay."

"Renovations?" Norman looked at me, his face open, curious. An utterly benign expression.

I nodded, slowly, not yet sure what to make of him. "That's right. Doing some remodeling."

"Why aren't you staying in the motel then?" he asked me.

"Oh, honey, Sheriff Romero's a family friend," Norma said. Her voice was high-pitched, her body thrumming with tension, but she smiled, ever the reassuring mother. "It'd be rude to ask him to stay down there, don't you think?"

Norman seemed to consider this, nodding a bit. "I suppose it would be rude, yes. Well, welcome to our home, Sheriff," he said. "Mother, I'm feeling a bit tired. I think I'd like to go to sleep early tonight."

"You don't want dinner?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure, honey?"

"Yes, Mother, I'm sure. I'll eat a big breakfast tomorrow, I promise."

"Well, okay. Sleep well, honey."

Norman smiled at her, nodded at me, still the picture of calm hospitality, and disappeared upstairs.

"That's went well!" Norma chirped. She turned me, nestled herself against my side in a half-hug, before catching herself and pulling away, sobering up a bit. But she couldn't hide her pleased smile. "I mean, today's been a good day anyway, and I know he has bad days sometimes, but that was really nice, don't you think?"

"Very nice," I said. My skin still hummed with hear nearness, her quick embrace over too soon. Had to fight the urge to reach for her, draw her into me. Didn't want to move too quickly and spook her.

"Okay," she said, still bubbling with a renewed energy, "I'm going to start dinner. Why don't you get settled in upstairs? You can have Dylan's old room."

I watched her all but dance through the hallway into the kitchen. Heard her humming happily, the sound of drawers opening and closing, utensils scraping a cutting board. Busy at work already, convinced all was well in her world.

I glanced up the stairs, the hallway branching off into three rooms. Hers, mine, Norman's.

Tomorrow, I decided, I'd stop at the hardware store.

We needed deadbolts on every bedroom door.

Hey, guys! Long time no chat; I don't usually leave author's notes on fics, but I had a quick question for y'all ...

Does anybody actually read this thing? It was left to collect dust for so long, I'm wondering if it's worth resurrecting at all. There's not much response to it, which is fine, though it dims my energy a bit, and I'd much rather direct my time and attention towards other stories and one-shots if that's what y'all would prefer to read.

Comments, opinions and suggestions very welcome.

All my love,

APT.