Early the following morning, Boo and Harry had driven to Harrisford to try and convince Ashton that now was the time to move on Nathaniel; that they were certain his guilt could be proven. It had been an exhausting conversation, lasting hours down at the Harrisford station, but Ashton wasn't having any of it, citing lack of evidence as his excuse. Again. It had been three days since her and Harry's encounter with Warren at the graveyard, and they were still spinning their wheels in the mud.

« • »

"What more could you possibly need?" Boo cries into the phone. She'd given Ashton another phone call, trying once more—unsuccessfully—to convince him to do something; anything.

"We've been over this, Miss Taylor," Ashton counters, attempting to use his business voice to get through to her. Boo isn't having any of it.

"Ashton, I'm certain this man killed my grandmother and Damien Burkwell, and likely had a hand in Hazel Commons' death too, and you wanna sit here with your thumb up your ass?"

He sighs heavily into the phone. Harry sinks further into his spot on Boo's couch, listening with a heavy heart as he hides his face in his hands.

"I wish I could give you more, I really do," Ashton begins, "but if you knew what was happening right now—"

"Ashton, please," Boo begs, cutting him off. "You're putting me in a hard spot."

"I'm sorry, Boo, you'll just have to wait a little longer," Ashton replies, sounding truly remorseful. "We're so close to having the DNA results back for the hammer. I'm talking days, Boo, maybe even twenty-four hours. I've got eyes on Nathaniel so you don't have to worry about him either. Please, please, just hang in there for me."

Boo clenches her jaw. "I'm tired of waiting," she says, her voice hard. Then she hangs up before Ashton can say anything else.

Frustration rattles her bones as she slumps into the couch cushions, wrestling with the choice of what to do next.

"What now?" she gripes.

Harry sighs in defeat. "I . . . I really don't know."

Boo looks down at her hands, rolling her lips together in thought. Anger courses hot and heavy through her veins, and if she isn't careful then Harry may become an unsuspecting victim to it. "I think I need some alone time, if you don't mind."

She sees him look over at her from her peripherals, but she can't bring herself to face him. He concedes after a moment, stooping to kiss her gently on the forehead before he makes his exit. In his absence, Boo resorts to finish reading Martha's diary, hoping to find some comfort in the words her grandmother wrote.

The 1969 journal is almost complete. Boo tucks herself into bed with the book and flips open the weathered pages, turning to the second-to-last entry. To her surprise, the page is dated a mere two days before Damien's death.

flashback - may 20, 1969

The May air is hot and sweet with the scent of English lavender crowding the front porch in small pots. Martha is in her kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water from the sink. Her long, flaxen waves are pulled back in a loose ponytail and her thin frame is draped in a worn white dress patterned with blue flowers. In her eyes is the promise of young love on the verge of blooming.

A knock on the door. She turns to see a tall shadow pacing in front of the mottled glass window cut into the front door; a bright smile appears on her face and in a split second, she's crossing the house to greet him. Her smile is echoed on his face as she pushes open the screen door and their eyes meet.

"Hey, Atta," he says cheerily.

"Sunflower," she breathes in relief. She rushes to hug him, slinging her arms tight around his neck while his broad arms encircle her waist. "I thought you were leaving today. God, I've been going crazy thinking about you."

"I couldn't leave without seeing you one last time," he says in her ear.

Martha pulls back to take a closer look at his face in the sunlight—smooth ebony skin, tight curls forming the slightest halo around his head, and deep brown eyes that turned gold in the light. And his lips. Undoubtedly they were her favorite part about him. With the touch of a feather, Martha caresses his full cheeks before pulling him closer.

He kisses her hard and sweet and deep. Every time feels as good as the first.

"Are you sure I can't go with you?" she asks in a small voice when he breaks away. "There's nothing left for me here anyways."

"If you leave too, he'll know," Damien says quietly. "I won't put you at risk."

"If I stay here, I won't be safe," Martha counters urgently. "You know what he's like; what he can do. I want to go with you. I love you. Please don't leave me here."

"I don't want to, Atta," he says mournfully. "But I'll write you everyday. It'll be like I'm still right here."

"You know it won't," Martha pleads, her voice breaking.

Damien looks conflicted. His eyes drop to the worn wooden porch beneath his scuffed shoes. Martha grips his hands tightly, wishing her words would have some sort of impact on his resolve.

"He'd come after you," he finally says. "We both know that. He'd rather kill us than have me anywhere near you."

Tears line her eyes. "You promised there'd be no more goodbyes. I'm tired of hiding. I made my peace when I thought you'd be gone yesterday, but seeing you now, I can't let you leave again."

"It isn't goodbye," Damien says earnestly. "The timing just isn't right yet. I'm going to work and save up enough money to take care of you, and then I'll be back before you can even miss me. He won't know a thing and by the time anyone realizes, we'll be long gone. We can be together, Atta, but we gotta do it right. There's too much . . . tension right now."

Martha pauses and her pulse quickens in her ears. "I'm pregnant, Damien," she says in a small voice. "And I know he's yours."

Damien looks as though he's seen a ghost. His hands fall from hers in shock. "Tell me you're lying," he chokes out.

In earnest, she takes his hand and places it on her belly. His large hand nearly encompasses the entirety of her small figure. "Can't you feel him?" she asks softly. "I know he's gonna look just like you."

"Baby," Damien whispers quietly, nervously. He takes a step forward, gently backing Martha closer towards the doorway, as if to shield her from view of the street. "Does anyone know?"

Martha shakes her head after a moment. "I wanted you to be the first." She waits, squinting up at him through the sunshine. Damien's features are still shrouded in deep indecision. "Doesn't that change anything for you?"

He sputters for words. "O-Of course, I just . . . it's not . . . it just complicates things, Atta, that's all."

"Complicates?" she cries. "Shouldn't it simplify?"

Damien glances around unsurely before gently ushering Martha back inside her house. "Honey, baby, please—try to understand what I'm saying. Think of what will happen if people find out. Think of what they'll say to you, to me, about us. About the child."

"Our son," Martha corrects him, her voice breaking. "We shouldn't have to be afraid, Sunflower, we deserve this as much as anyone else. We'll find somewhere else to go where things will be better. He can have a good life and you and I can finally be free, together." Her eyes desperately search his as he absorbs her words. "Don't you want that?"

"More than anything, Atta," he breathes out. "I just . . . I worry about your safety. You know Randall won't let you go without a fight."

Shadows cross her face at the mention of his name. The light behind her eyes dims in fear. "He'll have to kill me to keep me from you," she replies softly. "It's torturous enough trying not to look at you, talk to you, knowing I can't touch you or hold you how I want, when I want . . ."

Her voice fades, leaving the true depth of her sadness written clearly on her face. Knowing his words aren't enough, Damien takes her in his arms and holds her close, nuzzling his cheek to the top of her head and inhaling her familiar perfume—rosemary and lemon. The smell alone grounds him to the earth, even when the winds of fear are strong enough to blow him away. Martha's heart pounds with fervor against her ribcage, beating in elation that he is so close to her.

"Come lay down with me," he rasps, keeping their hands clasped as they trail into her bedroom. He tucks her into bed, gently draping the thin comforter over her with the care that only a lover can provide. The mattress creaks with his weight as he reclines beside her, their bodies fitting together in the most poetic of ways.

Martha is quiet for a few minutes, spending that time drinking in his image as she's done countless times before. No matter how much she sees him, her hands forget the feel of his skin against hers and she must remind them; her palms move against his broad shoulders, his hard biceps, his chest, the strong muscles of his stomach palpable even beneath his worn shirt. She can feel his gaze heavy on her face, memorizing the shape of her features like a climber learns the mountain he summits.

"Sunflower, please," she finally whispers, gently taking his hands in hers. His dark eyes watch intently as she presses her palm to his, carefully aligning their fingers. His gaze moves to her face, watching her through their entangled hands as her pulse thunders stronger. "Think about that first night. Think about every night since."

Her words invoke the past. The moon-drenched spring night; the cool air flooding through his open window into his room; hushed giggles and clumsy hands pulling off the clothing keeping them from one another. When she reclined on his bed, lustful eyes watching him in all his naked glory, he could've sworn she was a visiting angel and he was the lucky shepherd to find her.

"Think of our babe," she continues, her voice a tender feather dragging along his skin. Her fingers move from his hand to trace patterns on the smooth skin of his arm, inciting goosebumps in their wake. "He'll have your eyes, your hair, your smile. He'll be tall and strong, and kind and smart, and so so beautiful."

Damien can't deny the swell of excitement that surges within, momentarily blanketing the fear coating his veins. His eyes dart to her stomach, though he knows she won't be showing for a while. A jolt of lightning shoots through him as he envisions the swell of her belly, heavy with his child; suddenly he can't wait to see her growing, to be able to touch her stomach and feel tiny feet kicking back in greeting.

He sighs through his nose and tenderly brings her forehead to his lips. "We have to leave in secret. Nobody can know, not your family, not your friends. Nobody."

She squeals and rolls into his arms, wrapping herself around his built frame. "Oh, honey, you won't regret this."

Damien tenderly pulls her back until he can see her face; he holds her gaze, his expression somber. "Meet me tomorrow night, down by the river. Bring only what you can't live without. We'll escape this town, find our forever home somewhere better."

Martha bites back a smile. "Wherever you go is home."

end 

Boo's heart is thundering nervously, and it feels as though she can't get a deep enough breath.

Martha was pregnant with Damien's baby. What happened to the child? Could there be a piece of Damien and Martha out there, wandering the world without a clue of their past?

Boo flips anxiously to the next entry, the last one in the journal. This one is a few days after Damien's death. 

Boo can't help the sob that escapes her.

"Oh, Nana," she murmurs sorrowfully, tracing her fingers over the shaky writing. Boo can only imagine the weight of Martha's sadness as she wrote the meager entry. The stress of Damien dying, knowing she'd never escape Randall, must have led to Martha having a miscarriage. She would have gotten pregnant with Lori not long after this, judging from her birth mother's birthday.

If there were any reason to finally confront the truth, it is this knowledge. She can sense the end deep within her bones; can feel the inevitable violent close brushing on her skin like the warm winds of a distant thunderstorm signaling its approach.

Days pass after Boo finds out about the baby, but she keeps this knowledge to herself. She knows Harry can sense her restlessness, but he says little about it, instead opting to keep her mind occupied as much as he keeps her body. But his presence can only provide a distraction for so many hours of the day. In the fractions of time she has to herself, her mind stays snagged on Nathaniel Waters; on finally proving what happened to Damien. Soon she is unable to keep her body from following her idling mind, and she finds herself circling Nathaniel's neighborhood in the hours that straddle twilight, watching his house like a lioness stalking her kill. Prey is finally ready to become the predator.

There, in the worn confines of her front seat, while her eyes drank in the danger of Nathaniel's home and her mind memorized his daily routines, Boo's penultimate plan comes to fruition. If Ashton wants to bide his time; if Jack Creek desires to turn their back on the past; if Lori and Calum choose to continue poisoning her days, then Boo will let them. She is tired of waiting for someone else to do something she knows she's capable of.

She doesn't tell Harry about her plan, knowing he'd never let her out of his sight again if he knew what she was plotting.

But if Ashton wants evidence, then evidence he'll get.

Boo waits until nightfall to strike. Harry passes out shortly after ten, snoring lightly in Boo's ear while she gives her plan a final mental run-through. The pounding in her chest only reassures the knowledge that what she's doing is just about the most dangerous thing she could've thought of.

Still, it must be done.

With a ghost of a sound, she's out of bed and quickly dressing—black leggings, a black turtleneck, and a black beanie. Her hair is tightly plaited into two braids to minimize any chance of leaving her own trace behind. Thin black gloves are stuffed into the pocket of her leggings, waiting for their moment to be used. Her final accessory is a small dark bag containing her lockpicking kit and a pocket knife. She knows it won't do much to defend her, but the last thing she's counting on is having company.

She pauses in the doorway, momentarily doubting herself. Harry's sleeping form stays motionless in her bed, hopelessly tangled in the sheets and curled around the spot where Boo should be. Holding her breath, she darts forward and plants a gentle kiss on his forehead. Harry sleeps more soundly than a corpse; she knows there's no chance of waking him. A few more moments pass and she's out the front door into the warm summer night.

The air is still as she approaches Tabitha, as if the night itself knows what she's about to do.

She catches a glimpse of her reflection in the driver's side window as she enters the car:  an unfamiliar woman gazes back, her features wrought with fierceness and fire. Boo likes this look. She should've followed the fire months ago.

Nathaniel's house is quiet as she draws nearer; every light is off and every curtain drawn. However, the garage door is still open to let in the cool summer night air, just as she knew it would be. Only a foot or so lingers between the concrete driveway and the bottom of the garage door, but it's enough for Boo to slip inside the garage without issue.

She straightens up and immediately her heart sinks at the scene she's confronted with.

The garage is, simply put, a mess. More accurately, a hoarder's dream come true. Dozens of dusty boxes and plastic tubs line the walls of the room, leaving little walking space in the rest of the garage. The only signs of life are a wooden card table and a single chair in the middle of the space, where Boo can see several water stains on the wood that seem fairly recent. Truth be told, she is slightly overwhelmed and not entirely sure where to start, but then she sees a dirty white tool cabinet in the furthest corner of the garage, bolted shut with a thick chain and a padlock.

"Come on, Nathaniel, that's too easy," she murmurs, tiptoeing her way through the boxes and over to the cabinet. Using her trusty lockpick kick, it only takes a handful of moments for the lock to give a satisfying click and pop open with ease. Gingerly, she removes the lock and slides out the chain before placing it on a box beside her. Her heart pounding with anticipation, she slowly opens the cabinet doors.

Inside the cabinet is just as disorganized as the rest of the garage, and most of the items are completely covered in a film of thick dust. She shines her phone's flashlight through the contents of the cabinet, squinting into the dark for anything that could tie Nathaniel to Damien's death.

And then, she pauses, her light resting on the ultimate piece of evidence.

There, in the shadowed corners of the tool cabinet, is a beat-up red tackle box, with a giant dent in one corner and coated in what is clearly dried bloodstains. A dusty fishing pole, snapped into pieces to fit in the cabinet, is nestled in the corner behind the tackle box. Boo knows as surely as she's ever known anything that these are Damien's belongings. She unlocks her phone and opens the camera app, aiming to take a photo before she disturbs anything further.

But before she can do so, a soft click sounds from behind her. Boo freezes, her ears pricked to the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.

"Well, well," a cold voice sneers. Boo closes her eyes, afraid to even breathe. "I wondered when you'd show. How could you keep me waiting?"

HIIII im not dead. there's a lot that's gone on in the time since i last updated, but i hope this begins to make up for my absence. i apologize if there are any spelling mistakes, ive been editing and re-editing for a couple hours now so my brain is mush. thank you for your patience and ill see you soon with another update. x