Con stayed on the floor and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard. Those knocks were the same ones he'd heard the morning he'd found the girl's body. No one was there. His insanity was just an asshole.

There was another set of three knocks. Con bit harder, blood seeping across his tongue. The coppery taste turned his stomach, giving his spinning mind something to focus on. If he could find a focus point, it usually knocked the edge off his madness. Con laced his fingers together, elbows propped on his knees, praying it would work regardless of the fact that his chest still felt like it would explode any second.

But the knock persisted, followed by: "Excuse me, Mister Brennan?"

He started praying for whoever it was to go away. Between the fire still raging in his chest, the confusion of thoughts whirling in his mind and the taste of Taemin still on his lips, Con had no capacity to deal with anyone else.

More knocks sounded. "I...I'm sorry, Mister Brennan. I know you're in there. May I speak with you a moment?"

Con sighed slowly through his nose, imagining he was breathing out bright red smoke. He inhaled deeply, imagining he was taking in pure white mist. It was a mental trick he remembered from a tai chi class Jenna had forced on him. His tumultuous brain obliged him with a delusion that he was actually breathing out blood-red smoke.

Still, the whirlpool of energy in his chest lessened a bit. Not by much. Just enough to allow Con the ability to breath a bit easier, for his heart to beat just a little slower. He swallowed the blood sitting on his tongue and stood. Looking down, he found his clothes wrinkled from sleeping in them. 

The first trick to making people believe you were fine was by looking it.

"Just a minute," Con said, his voice only shaking a little.

Still breathing deeply, Con walked to his suitcase, stripping out of last night's black sweater and dark-wash jeans. He kicked them behind the bed and unlatched the suitcase. A few moments of digging brought up jeans with a more relaxed fit and a black-and-grey raglan tee with the dull orange outline of a running fox on it.

He stomped into his old work-boots and went into the bathroom. Taemin had completely destroyed his hair, making Con flush with a mix of anger and desire. He ran a comb through the unruly, black curls and picked up his mouthwash. It stung like a bastard on the punctured skin of the inside of his cheek, but at least his breath wouldn't smell like blood.

Avoiding his own eyes in the mirror, he left the bathroom. He stood apprehensively in front of the room's door for a moment, sucking in a last breath. Before he could decide he didn't really give a damn what the person in the hall thought, he swung the door open.

Clara stood with hand raised, knuckles inches away from where the door had been. She blinked up at him, eyes startled behind her glasses.

"What is it?" Con asked, doing his damndest to keep his tone civil.

He wasn't sure how successful he was. Clara frowned and stepped away, arms folded behind her back.

"I...um." She bit her lip. Her hair was straight today, except for a slight curl at the ends, giving a vague impression of the 1920s. "I don't really know how to ask this."

Con rubbed at the bridge of his nose, just at the corner of his right eye. His other hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. He licked his lips, watching as Clara thought, obviously considering and discarding several approaches. 

When he got tired of waiting, Con said, "It's usually best just to ask. The worst I can do is say no."

A huff of a laugh came from her. Clara nodded, the tense set of her shoulders relaxing. "I, um, I was asked by the Marinos if I could find you." At Con's blank look, she added, "The parents of the girl found in the...the pool."

Her voice had dropped to a whisper by the end, but Con flinched anyway.

"Oh." He swallowed against a dry throat. "W-Why?"

She tucked her hair behind an ear. "They wanted to talk with you. I guess the police told them you were the one who...found her."

All Con could do was blink. After so much rushing and whirling, his mind had frozen over. He couldn't force a response to his lips.

When it became obvious that he wasn't about to offer any kind of reply, Clara frowned at him. "They wanted to ask if you'd join them for coffee in the reading room. It's a little more private. They want to talk with you about what you found."

"Who."

Now it was Clara's turn to blink in confusion.

"Who I found," he rasped, eyes tightening as he remembered the slip of her wet, cold skin under his hands. "Not what."

Clara looked down. "So will you?"

"Meet with them." It wasn't a question. Con scratched at his temple, staring at the younger woman. She shifted under his gaze, swaying backwards and Con immediately looked away. 

Something about his eyes made people uncomfortable now. He didn't know what, but he'd heard whispers among co-workers or the few friends who'd worked to keep in contact. Empty, flat, scary, like he was staring straight through you. Con had taken to looking down when he spoke to people.

He did that now, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Speaking with the parents of the girl he'd found dead was the very last thing he wanted to do. He suddenly wished he'd never left Taemin's room, which was saying a lot, considering how that had ended.

But another part of him—the part that knew a parent's love for a child, if only because of Mercy and her children—compelled him to nod and step out into the hall. Clara let out a relieved breath before she turned neatly on her heel and led him toward the stairs.

Ella was coming up just as they were going down. She shot Con a curious look. With a shake of his head, he mouthed 'later' at her, then wondered why he'd done any such thing. But before he could take it back, Ella had nodded and moved past them.

Furious with himself, he shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down as he followed Clara to the main floor. She led him past the dining room to a short hall he hadn't noticed before that branched off to three doors. Clara led him to the one at the very end. She pushed it open and waved him in front of her. 

With a final, bracing breath, Con went in. 

The room was straight out of Downton Abbey. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed with classic titles and curios. A fireplace sat to his right, adjacent to a wall mostly comprised of windows. Low couches and puffy armchairs were scattered in cozy arrangements around the large room, upholstered in dull gold and maroon. Tiffany lamps cast pools of buttery light on the parquet floor.

Along the windows, tea tables had been set. Three people sat at the farthest table.

A man with a balding head, olive skin and a slight paunch sat beside a woman with masses of dark caramel hair and perfect makeup that couldn't quite hide her red, puffy eyes. 

The third person was what made Con stop dead halfway across the room.

Her dark hair dripped water onto the floor, her blue lips twitching into a nasty smile. Black veins webbed beneath her death-pale skin. She sat back in the chair, soaking the velvet, and crossed her legs. Her bathing suit was revealing enough to make Con extremely uncomfortable. 

Mister Marino, obviously misreading Con's behavior as awkward hesitation, stood and stretched a hand out. Forcing his eyes away from those of the dead girl, Con crossed the remaining space between them and shook the man's hand.

"Please, Mister Brennan," the man said, his face fixed in an odd, stiff smile, "join us. Could we get another coffee for him?"

This was directed at Clara, who murmured assent before silently leaving the room. Con reluctantly sat in the only remaining chair, between Mrs. Marino and her dead daughter. Knowing she wasn't real didn't abate the horribleness of her appearance.

Con knotted his fingers together tightly enough to be painful. His gaze flicked between the Marinos, praying they would just say whatever it was they needed to say. Mister Marino took a sip of his coffee and cleared his throat. His wife didn't even blink, still as a statue and just as severe. The angles of her face weren't particular beautiful, sharpened as they were by her grief.

It wasn't until Clara came back with a cup of black coffee and left again that they finally spoke.

"We were told that you were the one to find Mariah," Mister Marino said, just as Con took a sip of coffee.

It scorched his throat as he hastily swallowed. Con nodded, eyes flicking back and forth between the other man and the black depths of his drink. "Th-That's right."

Mister Marino bobbed his head, muddy brown eyes darting to his wife. She was staring at Con, her expression blank. His fingers began to tap nervously on his knee, his hand shaking as he picked up his cup.

"The coroner informed us that several of her ribs had been broken." The man's voice grew strangled and he opened and closed his mouth several times before finally giving up.

"Yes," Con said, setting his cup back down. The chime of china on china echoed in his ears, making the image of the dead girl wobble in his peripheral vision. "It's...It's something that can happen during CPR." 

"You tried hard to save her." Mister Marino dipped his head in a miniature nod.

Before Con could reply, Mrs. Marino let out a quiet scoff. A gurgling, wet laugh came from the dead girl, water bubbling from her lips. Con dug his nails into the palm of his hand. Slowly, he moved his gaze to the woman.

"Nina," her husband warned softly, but Con held up a hand.

He looked directly into Mrs. Marino's hazel-green eyes. Now he could see the anger—anger he recognized. "Whatever you need to say," he began quietly, "you just go ahead and say it."

The muscles in her long neck suddenly corded, her jaw working. Her lips quivered and she dropped her hands into her lap.

"Mariah told me about you," she said, her voice gravelly with rage. "A tall man with dark hair and...creepy eyes. That's what she said. She told me how you looked at her that night."

Con grew very still in his chair.

"For Christ's sake, Nina," Mister Marino said in exasperation. "The police already spoke to him. He tried to save her. He has an alibi." He sent Con an apologetic glance, though Con could see the shadows of doubt there.

Again, the dead girl giggled, flickering into being behind her mother. She draped pale, wet arms   around Mrs. Marino's shoulders, grinning with pointed teeth at Con. He gave her a brief glance, starting when Mrs. Marino suddenly snapped her fingers at him.

Con gritted his teeth at the anger pooling inside of him. Struggling to keep his face calm and voice even, Con again met the woman's eyes. "When I found your daughter, she was already dead." He took a steadying breath. "Nothing I did could change that."

"Not killing her would have changed it."

He was so stunned by the abrupt accusation, all he could do was stare at her. Mister Marino covered his eyes with a hand, his shoulders slumping. Nina Marino leaned forward, eyes wide with rage and malice.

"You drugged her and lured her into the pool. You watched as she drowned and pretended to save her."

"D-Drugged her?" Con spluttered, his entire body shaking. "She was drugged?"

"Who knows what else you might have done if you'd had the chance!" Mrs. Marino was screaming now, tears surging down her cheeks.

Con shook his head, a bewildered smile tugging at his mouth. This had to be a joke. It absolutely had to be a joke.

The woman's hand flashed out, cracking against Con's cheek, her long nails raking down his face. Con flailed backwards in shock, nearly overturning his chair. The woman snarled and lunged again, just to be caught by her husband, who looked absolutely mortified.

"She doesn't mean that," Mister Marino yelped, trying to pin her reaching arms. "She's upset. She—"

"I don't care," Con whispered, lightly touching his face. Something in his tone made Nina go dead still. She stared at him, wide-eyed and shocked.

Con looked down at his fingers to find blood on his skin. He rubbed them together and turned his back on the Marinos. When he reached the door, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"I ran into your daughter the night before she died," he said quietly. "I told the police that. The next time I saw her, she was floating dead in that pool." He used the back of his hand to wipe more blood away. "I didn't kill your daughter. I've never killed..."

His words faded. That wasn't quite right. He was the reason Jenna was dead.

Con shook his head, something cruel grabbing hold of him. "I tried to save her. Maybe you should have been paying more attention to your kid."

A gasp of pained breath met his ears and he yanked the door open, struggling not to sprint away from the room.