Partnership: The Fall & Rise of Dana & Stella - Chapter 35 - ee_ombra_ombra (2024)

Chapter Text

Bath was the beautiful haven that it had promised to be. Their time in the first three full days and nights were punctuated by love making, walking, and the delicious general tourism a UNESCO World Heritage site offered during the high holidays.

And Dana’s ever increasing nightmares.

After the first night, the two following were sharply accented by haunting visions of a nearly identical nature. She would shut her eyes, and find herself tussling with Abel Nelson in the dark corners of her mind. Morning light would flood the room, and the American’s heart would hammer madly in her chest as she gathered her bearings. Sweat drenched her shirt. Her ears were ringing.

Everywhere. He is everywhere.

They were such horrible, God awful dreams. Barbaric, when she got down to it. Running down dark tunnels that reminded her of plaster walls she’d scraped against in 1995. Falling down carpeted stairs in a gloomy house, wrestling something dark and sinister for her gun. Bite of a gag in her mouth. Raw wrists. Scrapping her hands against coarse carpet fibers, tumbling further into the disgusting crypt of a martyr. Scrapping her hands against rough, sharp brick and dirty stone floors. Desperate for the gun, reaching for that weapon she’d only just had such a firm grip on.

But it never is my gun. It was always, always, always Mulder’s.

Dana couldn’t figure it out. Perhaps there was a message in it all, but perhaps not. As she made coffee and walked the nightmares back, she tried to parse apart any meaningful details. Somewhere between catacombs and a house that had haunted her for years. Overstimulated and far too excited, her brain wanted to show her all the connective tissue between her traumas while she lay unconscious. Now that they had a pause, a moment to decompress, it seemed that her mind was eager to barrage her with imagery, information, and somatic memory. She was filled with dread. It was an actual taste on her tongue.

And she wished she could talk to Mulder about it, desperately. The foreboding that startled her in the morning was making her nauseous. He would have some wild theory that would feel utterly off-base, and then prove to be correct. Something about being so in-tune with the elements of her history and this man that her unconscious was giving her precious information. Something specific, helpful, and comforting. God, she missed him and his beautiful brain.

The horror of the dreams oppressed Dana; the warm, bright sun rays confused her. Flying awake with a scream choking her, she was relieved to see Stella’s side of the bed empty. The absence offered her some privacy to calm down. A notepad with the hotel’s logo and address on it invariably sat next to the lamp; Stella’s difficult-to-read script ran across it with that day’s date.

Went for a swim - s

Their routine was easy. Stella would awake at an ungodly hour to swim in the early morning at the luxuriant pool the hotel sported, regardless of how late they went to sleep. Her Brit would return to kiss and f*ck the American silly during their shared shower, then in the bed; skin still humid from the hot water. And, two days running, Stella would take her once more after a quick breakfast; room service, of course. The woman was insatiable, desiring to absolutely devour Dana with a grin and a yelp. On their second evening, Stella called Luke, the nice, submissive man, and encouraged him to f*ck her American until Dana cried out for mercy. And Dana had wanted to sit on the man’s face while she watched Stella expertly ride him until her blonde beauty fell apart. Feeling a tongue buried deep inside her, the connecting mouth moaning desperately, as her Brit came undone around the man’s co*ck was so unbearably erotic that she org*smed twice. She’d been so lovingly sore and exhausted and desperate after he left that only her Brit’s tongue could soothe her aching flesh. They agreed it would be the last time he’d be invited back. It was fun, and novel, but ultimately he was only a delectable treat. The thrill was in the rarity of another’s inclusion. There was still a prickly part of her chest that was just selfish enough that she didn’t want to share Stella. Not when the rambunctious quantity of sex they were having felt like that of newlyweds, of honeymooners.

Because of that bliss, she suffered through her night terrors by herself. It didn’t feel right to withhold the experience and pain from Stella, but her Brit was so happy that telling her would have been cruel. To share her suffering felt like a blemish on their beautiful getaway. The bloom that had taken up residence in her lover’s cheeks and the joy in her general demeanor helped to bury the horror that plagued Dana. If keeping the nightmares to herself maintained Stella’s state of euphoria, then she would do it without reserve. It didn’t seem particularly helpful to share that her brain was torturing her with the case in London; not when it was just pointless, stupid suffering. Especially since London felt far away; another world. The other world, of course, did come knocking, despite their attempts to leave it for a moment. Simply put: it was unavoidable. They were still heading an investigation.

High holidays be damned.

On the twenty ninth, their third full day in Bath, Harrison had phoned early in the morning. Mary Nelson’s apartment was searched high and low. The flat was in a surprisingly nice neighborhood- she’d been well kept as Xavier Morrison’s mistress, that was evident. It was his name on the lease, after all. When Stella pulled the street up on GoogleMaps, she laughed. There was no possible way that Mary Nelson’s under-the-table bartending money could have possibly paid that rent. She guessed that it was somewhere in the range of three thousand pounds a month, leaving Dana balking. Photographs were still being processed, but Harrison had been adamant about one thing: the apartment had been recently used and lived in.

“What do you mean?” Stella had asked, holding the phone aloft in a delicate hand, the other poised over her notebook. Dana’s stomach clenched.

“I mean that Mary Nelson has been dead for weeks, a few months at this point, and that flat has had recent activity.”

“In what way, Harrison?”

“Fresh food in the fridge, for starters. Looks like the kitchen was used. Someone very recently took a shower, there was packaging for new body wash in the bin.” Harrison sighed. “Ma’am, it wasn’t disturbing in the way our suspect’s flat was. It’s clean. It looks like this was where someone actually lived. Two bedrooms, both seem to be used as genuine places to sleep. All in all, an actual apartment. Not a drug lab, like Abel Nelson’s had been. But…it didn’t feel right in there.” Harrison was quiet for a long moment. “There’s weird religious paraphernalia. Posters of a few saints. That wasn’t…especially odd, just kind of off-putting, given the context. But I’m a Quaker, so I’m easily shook up by all this Catholic crap.” Dana chuckled at that; Stella smirked. “But something we found that definitely wasn’t normal were blood-drenched sheets in the bin behind the flat. And…and it was a ton of blood. Old blood.”

“As in, someone tried to get rid of it,” Stella clarified for the record.

“Yes, Ma’am, that’s correct. There was a bunch of women’s clothes in the bin, too. Knickers, bras, trousers and such. We are going to do a DNA cross-reference on the clothes and the sheets. Compare with what we have for Mary Nelson.”

“Send photos,” Dana had immediately requested.

“I will.” He sighed again. “We peeled back the sheets on both beds. The mattress in the master bedroom was stained to hell. And not like one little blot, either. Blood speckled all over. Looked violent. I’m thinking it’s a result of assaults over time, if you understand. Ma’am, this is a crime scene. Obviously. Something happened at the flat. I’m of the opinion that Xavier Morrison disrupted a crime scene, knowingly. It had to have been him, back here. There was a stack of collapsed, new boxes in the entrance. Packing tape, too. I believe he had the intent to pack up her belongings.”

“No sign of forced entry?” Stella clarified.

“None. We’re doing a sweep of fingerprints. But I am confident that Morrison came back here. Not Nelson. I believe Morrison destroyed evidence in an attempt to start ridding himself of viable connections with his mistress.”

“Talk to Michael. We can charge him for that,” Stella tapped her pen against the notepad. “I suspect you are absolutely right on that score. Does the building have any security? Cameras? CCTV on the street?”

“There is. Already requested it.”

“Confirm his recent entry. Then charge him. Check in with the landlord as well, Harrison. See if Morrison recently contacted him about the lease.”

“To what end?”

“Terminating it, shortening it, subletting. Anything at all. Ask around and see if neighbors saw people coming and going. What they looked like, when they came, if there was ever any trouble. Ask after any complaints. Noise disturbances, fights. Anything disruptive or memorable that is akin in story to what happened at Lory McBride’s flat.” Stella had paused, staring into space for a moment. Dana observed her as the Brit’s brilliance radiated out in waves, arranging information like carefully stacked Jenga blocks.“And…and check for a phone book. Check the phone records. Voicemails. Look for cell phones. Anything at all. A diary. Any personal records or accounting.” Dana looked down at her hands, remembering Joanne Sen’s window admitting to eavesdropping on her phone calls with Mary. Perhaps there was something to go off of.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Harrison sighed again. “Also, there were drugs.”

“What kind?” Dana asked, picking at a frayed edge on her sweater.

“Not yet sure, it’s going through labs now. There were two prescriptions here for Mary Nelson, and then there were baggies and such with illegal substances.”

“What was the script?” The American demanded.

“Uh,” a paper getting flipped over was audible over the line. “Paroxetine and Clozaril?”

“Do you know what that’s used for?” Stella asked Dana.

“Clozaril is used for treatment-resistant schizophrenia,” Dana frowned, “and paroxetine is for panic disorders, OCD, and such.”

“Interesting,” Stella whispered, tapping her pen. “Do you remember if there was evidence of that in Mary Nelson’s original tox reports?” Dana’s heart thrummed.

“I don’t recall it being there.” She would check again, but she was positive. That is something she would have seen immediately.

“Perhaps they weren’t for herself,” Stella looked troubled by the idea.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it, I guess, but-.”

“Wait, Harrison,” Dana leant forward, eyes narrowing. “I want you to request a drug test for both Abel Nelson and Xavier Morrison. Run the gambit, but we are looking specifically for these drugs. If possible, also request their respective medical records.”

“You got it, Dr. Scully.”

“Harrison, I want you to take the lead on interviewing Xavier Morrison under caution,” Stella instructed, her pen tapping the paper that held her notes. Harrison made a sound in the affirmative. “As quickly as possible, get him in for questioning.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Do you feel comfortable doing that?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. AC Brown will oversee. Interview him with Alice. Have Oliver in the room, too,” Stella was quiet for a moment. “Get the information on who is paying for the apartment first. Get the blood results back for the mattress, too, you’ll want to walk in with those results. When you are interviewing, make sure you lead him into a defensive enough place that your request for medical records and a drug test seem like the only obvious and logical course for him to clear his name of any wrongdoing. Either he permits it, and we know that he isn’t using, or he doesn’t and we’ll let him put two and two together for himself.”

“Got it.”

“When Alice is in the room, defer to her. She is going to deliver the arrest warrants and relay what he is being charged with. I believe Mrs. Morrison has submitted her full testimony regarding his domestic violence and abuse towards her. I want Alice to deliver that last.”

“Uh…okay.”

“Morrison is a misogynist,” Stella proceeded. “It’ll deeply rattle him to be put in the corner by a woman, to have a woman laying down the charges. If you aren’t making headway, send her out and talk man to man…or whatever.”

“Understood,” Harrison exhaled heartily.

“Anything else?” Stella asked Dana, sighing.

“Just keep us abreast of any changes, okay?” Dana told Harrison. “Any behavioral changes, any signs of drug withdrawal or aggression. Anything at all.”

“I will.” He rang off.

“You have a theory?” Stella asked, co*cking her head to the side.

“No,” Dana whispered. “Wish I did. I’ll need to think about it.”

They had continued about their vacation after the call, trying to walk the anxiety out of their systems over Georgian streets. They enjoyed little shops, meandered down Stall Street and stared up at the towering Abbey. Gazing at the line into the museum, Dana tugged her lover towards it. Stella gamely followed, chuckling.

“Like a kid in a candy store,” she teased, watching the American’s excited aspect as she scanned the museum’s entrance, taking in all of the brochures on the history of the Roman empire available right at the mouth of the building.

“I want to see the baths.”

“Alright. Do you want to go in there also?” Stella inquired, gesturing lazily, sipping her coffee. The redhead turned, and stared at Bath Abbey. It was dusted by snow; a gray hulkish thing against the smear of steely winter sky. It lorded above all as it had for more than a millennium, austere yet flamboyant.

“Maybe,” she glanced sheepishly at Stella. “To be honest, going and visiting an establishment full of Catholic relics doesn’t appeal too much to me right now.” Her Brit scoffed, sipping more of her hot coffee. Steam rose about her beautiful, pinked cheeks. Dana fought the urge to kiss her. So soft and pretty, with those indigo blue eyes tracking her own.

“What relics are in there? Do you know?”

“Bones of Saint Peter,” Dana dug into her vague memory from reading the abbey’s website weeks prior. “The arm of Saint Simeon. Ribs of Saint Barnabas.” She shuddered after a moment. “Couple heads as well. Saints Bartholomew, Lawrence and Pancras, respectively. There are textiles, touched by Christ and such, as well.”

“Is that right?” Stella responded quietly, eyeing the abbey with an unreadable expression. They entered the museum, immediately overwhelmed by dioramas of what the city once was, punctuated by innumerable objects. Dana held her breath for a moment, reveling in it. They worked their way through the first floor quietly, enjoying every statue, coin, and preserved piece of paper. As they stood side by side, it was evident through Stella’s fixed, impenetrable countenance that she was working something over. Touching her lover’s elbow, Dana encouraged Stella to meet her gaze. Her Brit cast her a small smile, but looked back at the object before her.

“What is it?”

“Do you…have you ever believed in relics? Their stories?” She glanced at Dana, deeply curious. “Before all this, and it all became tainted by association. Did you believe that those relics in the church were real?” The American rolled the question around in her mind. Stella turned away, navigating a pedestal that stood in the round. Inquiries regarding her faith were always broached so respectfully, if not a bit nervously. Dana loved her for it. She gave it a moment to simmer as they were ushered further down into the heart of the museum. The skunk of sulfur immediately filled the American’s nose.

“I’m not sure.” She finally replied, watching her lover eat up the beautiful objects protected behind thick plexiglass. They both marveled at the severed head of a Roman goddess statue. “As a scientist, it is difficult for me to believe that a place like Bath could have the cloth that once covered Christ in death.”

“Bath is a far cry from Golgotha,” the faint grin on her beautiful lover’s face invited the softest laugh from the American. Stella truly could get away with anything with a mug like that. Incandescently beautiful. “Though, I suppose nearly two thousand years is plenty of time for objects to migrate.”

“True. But, as a feminist, I cannot divorce the political reality of what the belief in relics does for the institution in terms of not just monetary capital, by way of patrons, pilgrims, and funds from the government. But its social, spiritual, and historic capital, too. I cannot discount the power such possessions lend to religious institutions, sanctifying their eternal cultural relevance and influence as well as affirming their authority. As…as a feminist, I refuse to pretend that I do not see that.”

“I am of the same opinion,” they wandered down stone steps, gazing at a partially reconstructed wall. Silently, they watched the projected image on the Temple Pediment dance; recreating a facade long since lost to time. The women were quiet as they investigated coins, mosaics, and other objects of value left by the Romans. Their shoes swept over the smooth, ancient stone. They stood in the room devoted to objects of worship for the Romans. Dana was gazing at what were labeled ‘the curse tablets’ when Stella came back to her side. “And what about as a Christian?” Stella inquired gently, returning to the conversation as if nearly half an hour of silence hadn’t transpired. It took a moment for the American to pick up the thread.

“As a Christian?”

“Do you believe in the sanctity of the relics? Their value?” Stella’s eyes traversed the tablets, leaden sheets covered in mixed messages; the personal and private prayers of people so long dead that Dana could barely conceptualize it. She didn’t answer right away as she absorbed the didactic beside the curse tablets. The text boasted that the inscribed prayers were some of the oldest on record in England.

“I…I don’t know.” Stella hummed in response. A lull stretched between them, and then her Brit inclined her head towards Dana.

“I think you do,” Stella challenged quietly after a beat, words sitting just above a whisper. Her brazen blue eyes caressed the American’s face. “You just don’t want to say it.”

“I…” She hesitated; chest tightening with the serious, though kind, evaluation she was under. She turned her gaze upon the plexiglass, seeing their figures reflected in it. Stella stood, eyes fixed on her lover.

It wasn’t a question she had never considered. And Stella was correct, she did know what she believed. It was just…complicated. Dana stared at the prayers, surrounded by the evidence of imperial power. All around them were items devoted to gods and goddesses that had been meshed together by Romans and Celts in order to make everyone happy enough to leave each other alone. The Roman Minerva transfigured into Sulis Minerva, having absorbed the Celts’ goddess of healing water, Sul. This new goddess was born out of a need to Romanize the Britons, and help the people accept and identify with the Roman empire. What did that say about religion, deities, or anything considered sacred? What was the point of worshiping a mishmash deity created in order to maintain power over native peoples? Evidence of religions changing by necessity in order to accommodate public demand was a simple fact of history, of empire, of economics. Bath had been an outpost for an empire that thought it would reign supreme and be everlasting when its citizens bathed in its waters. The detached head of Sulis Minerva on an adjacent pedestal was more a symbol of successful colonization than anything else.

And wasn’t that also the history of Christianity, and the empires which brandished it to fuel their own economies? The American knew that; had known that since she took her first college history class. Dana had never been a Biblical literalist, and in many ways the stories therein only emphasized the reality of that economic negotiation between state sanctioned holiness and the people.

Yet, undeniable, when she looked at the preserved art, the preserved prayers, and even the preserved bodies of saints, she felt something. A deep pull, a rush, a feeling of something bigger and more. When she was a grade schooler, a relic of Saint Jude had been ‘on tour’ in California; just a little hand bone in a big, gaudy gauntlet. Her mother had taken her to go see it. Even as a grade schooler she had professed a desire to be a doctor, and Maggie saw it as a glorious opportunity to expose her youngest daughter to the miraculous. Missy had long before her cast off Christianity with an eye roll and a hex under the table. Gazing at Saint Jude’s hand bone with a child’s eyes, doubting its authenticity, she’d asked her mother what the point of ‘all this’ was. Her mother had said, ‘We honor relics to express our gratitude to those who came before us. They represent people who believe as we do, and when we have the opportunity to see the relics, we are meant to really look at them, and hope that we can live with as much goodness and grace as the saints did.’ With fresh eyes, she took in the gauntlet, the bone. Perhaps the bone didn’t give her the enthralled, startled feeling of grace it ought to, but the idea that a body part had belonged to someone holy was riveting, if a bit unbelievable.

Her mother’s answer had been one that she couldn’t truly reflect upon, or know what to do with, until she was a little older and standing in San Diego’s science and history museum. Bones, again, but these bones arrested her entirely; stole her breath. Bones on display of someone who had died over three thousand years prior, suffering from illness. A woman, estimated to be in her thirties. A story, inscribed on material from long ago, that was undeniable. Evidence, information, and proof of a life once lived. And that material, with the story, was also in Dana; the shared history of humanity. And that material had been someone. In the low-lit museum, she was staring at what had once been a person from an era that she couldn’t even begin to conceptualize. But the someone had been a mother, apparently, based on the pelvis. The plaque on the wall stated that the skeleton in the exhibit had given teams of researchers an incredible volume of information. The woman’s bones had upset the existing timeline for illness emerging in that region at the same time as determining the cause of death for a woman who had been buried in a hole by her loved ones, surrounded by ceramic bits and cloth dolls.

As a little kid, staring at the woman’s remains and the items that had accompanied her in a primitive grave, she felt what her mother had hoped she’d feel looking upon the hand of Saint Jude. There was a little rush in her stomach, an awe so all encompassing that she had fallen even more completely in love with science. And, in a way, God. The holiness she felt in the museum had been the ardent human connection, a soul shaking sense of compassion for this woman that she couldn’t even name. Dana had felt an ardent love and reverence for the little doll, the ceramic cup, and the other little materials that had been so important that they’d gone into the ground with the woman.

I suppose a history museum is Enlightenment’s reliquary. But that wasn’t it either, was it? Not entirely.

Prayers and church still meant something to her on a molecular level. Science and the museum didn’t replace that, though she found herself forever igniting with rapture under the lens of a microscope. No matter how old she grew, the need to quiet her mind and hold herself steady in God remained central to her ability to cope with how unforgiving the world was, how utterly devastating life could be. It was comforting, looking upon images that had stood the test of time. It felt like grace, sitting in a pew, and hearing the rising voices of a choir. Faith was difficult. She couldn’t find herself investing in anything without evidence, and that rigidness had been her Achilles heel many times over. Dana had seen so many unexplainable phenomena in her short lifetime that rational and incontrovertible shifted in meaning. The words had lost their preeminence in her understanding of the world. She was a skeptic of all things– not just of faith, but of what the limits of science could illuminate.

What she trusted was that swoon in her gut when she looked upon the physical evidence of people who had once felt as she did; full of hope, hopeless, seeking, and never quite finding. Someone who wanted to be a mother, and bore a child, and lived a life that was a bit complicated. A life marked by illness, loss, and an immeasurable love. Objects created a chain of connectivity; whether they be bone or manmade. The objects in the room felt sacred for the history they invited her to. Even the most vain prayer felt supernatural because it wasn’t unique. That such desires could be so old; hope, still so radical, so fresh; a conversation with whatever higher power one cleaved themself to could be the exact same over thousands of years. All of it felt sacred to her, ignited that feeling the relics of her mother’s ardent belief had been supposed to inspire.

Dana stared silently at the prayers on the wall and observed Stella’s eyes narrowing.

And perhaps that’s it, isn’t it?

It was the personal significance. The feeling that there was a connection between herself and that which was before her, generating a bridge between then and now and eventually .

Among the many saints’ body parts that the abbey possessed, Bath supposedly had cloth that touched Jesus. When the American reflected, it didn’t really matter so much that the cloth, very likely, wasn’t Christ’s. But maybe it was someone’s . That mattered. The mundanity of it mattered. It was a textile people came from all over the world to see so as to affirm a deeper part of their life; witnessing holiness in an old little bit of cloth. The bones probably didn’t belong to the corresponding saints, either. In all likelihood, they belonged to someone else. And that someone else’s life had merit, just as the people who had jotted down their prayers on the leaden sheets in the wall beside her did. Just as whoever had prayed to the statue in the adjacent room, kneeling down and begging Sulis Minerva for mercy, aid, and healing before they slipped into the sulfuric waters.

So, per the original question, what do you believe exactly, Dana? Touching the cross around her neck, she bit her lip. Am I even a Christian anymore? After all I have seen?

As a Christian, for her at least, what it came down to was not believing that the relic was real, or needing it to be real. It came down to the simple fact that needing hope, belief, and a point of reference for the recurrent tumult of a life in the form of objects and ideas was the common human thread that affirmed life. She saw all of that in the pewter prayers affixed to the wall behind dense plexiglass. Smelled it in the air, so fragrant with the sulfur of the waters of Sulis Minerva; preserved by time and then resurrected as a museum. The relics of the church didn’t cause a resonance in her, but other objects did; holy in her eyes. She had relics of her own: the bones of that woman in the museum; the jewelry her lover had given her; the journal Stella wrote in; the many art pieces and furniture that were quietly treasured by her Brit. She felt that intensity and significance of life in the cross around her neck, never having forgotten the devotion of her Mulder when he wore it during her abduction. She felt the swell of that grandiose, religious grace and reverence when she was evaluated by and looked upon by her partner. Heard that grace when Stella called her Dana , when Mulder said Scully . Saw it, when the little arch of a beatific smile spread across Stella’s face, when Mulder used to look down and stare at her as if she had been the center of the universe.

Love was the profession of Christianity, despite being deployed as pure evil in many capacities by many nations. Love remained the highest and holiest tenet in her belief system. Like the woman in the science museum decades ago, she wondered what evidence would be on her bones. In the body of a woman who had been abducted, experimented on, stolen from. Who had given birth to a child, and lost them to the greater world. She had seen the awe and curiosity she’d once felt looking upon bones in the eyes of a three year old girl with cinnamon hair. A little hand, reaching out to caress the gold cross necklace; dazzled and touched when it was laid upon her neck. Love, holy, awful love, for a little girl who was never meant to exist; who was born to suffer and signify a larger message, just like a saint.

A girl, with a cross necklace, who would have been the same age as Julia Steinfield; both, now, martyred. A girl, who had looked over her shoulder at Dana amidst a horrifying, drug-fueled nightmare; long cinnamon locks perfectly falling about a face frighteningly close to that of a dead sister appraised her.

Emily. Her only daughter.

Go back, Mom. This isn’t meant for you. Roses in one hand, Julia’s in another, allowing the American to see the word faith tattooed across the girl’s wrist.

She twisted the cross between her fingers.

It wasn’t meant for you, either, my girl.

“Dana?”

The American took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. A warm hand was placed on her shoulder.

“I…I want to believe,” she met her lover’s eye. Stella glanced down at her partner’s little cross necklace, then back to her face. “But it’s not so straight forward; how I see it, or what I believe. I…I want to believe that the things people hold onto matter, and connect us to those who came before.” She smiled, and continued walking. “Even if, in some manner, it’s not entirely the truth. Sometimes it can just be true enough.”

Stella kept her own council, but was distracted by the response. Dana periodically glanced over at her, seeing that contemplative furrow affixed just so as they walked out into the open, standing before the long stretch of the Roman bath. Pungent steam filled the air.

“Smells like eggs,” Dana remarked mildly, gazing down at the occluded, green water. It was strange to contemplate how long the baths had withstood the brutality of time; establishment, burial, then excavation. Dana glanced up over the columns and terrace to see the rising height of the abbey. Even stranger to consider their relationship in age to the abbey. Her life was so incredibly short in comparison.

“Sulfur,” Stella stated simply. The American swallowed against a flush she felt on her cheeks, in her chest. Her Brit was staring more at her than at their surroundings, and it wasn’t lost on her. Not at all. Still contemplating, still turning over her earlier statement.

“Do you know how dangerous this water is?” Dana asked, smirking a bit at her lover. A grin tugged at Stella’s pretty, perfect lips. “People far and wide made a pilgrimage to Aquae Sulis to soak in the waters to heal their numerous afflictions. Especially in the Victorian era. The NHS even recommended it as a treatment for various forms of illness, from 1948 until the seventies. It was commonly accepted as miraculous and healing. But this water is actually extremely toxic.”

“Tell me,” her husky voice ignited a warmth between the American’s legs. She cleared her throat.

“It’s not just sulfur. There is also lead, from lead pipes, and other diseases marinating in there. The NHS stopped recommending it as a treatment after a girl died in 1978. She’d been swimming in the water.” Stella’s eyebrow arched. “She died from a meningitis-related illness. All because of some amoeba.” She tilted her head slightly, enjoying the way Stella’s pupils expanded as she rattled off her morbid facts. If there was one thing that turned Stella on, it was Dana’s intellect. She’d known that from the beginning. The way it manifested routinely still caught her off-guard. Stella thought she was brilliant and was deeply attracted to her body; her inner thighs were sore and she suddenly wanted them to hurt even more. The woman licked her lips, and nodded slightly. A peachy blush was emerging across her lover’s chest, on the highest points of her cheeks. Arousal. Unabashed arousal. Jesus, Stella was beautiful.

“Why do you know that?” Her voice rattled in her throat; delicious and playful.

“I’m a pathologist, Stella. Death, especially death caused by means outside of typical life-events, fascinates me. I love the strange and obscure.” Her lover laid a hand on the small of Dana’s back, cleared her throat, and gently ushered her deeper into the museum’s winding underground.

“You never cease to surprise me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

When they returned to their hotel room, Stella very nearly ripped Dana’s clothes from her body. They had never had more sex than they had in this little pocket of time, this moment of temporary reprieve and bliss. She hadn’t had so many bone-rattling org*sms since 2000, when she first began f*cking Mulder and it was so fresh, new, and forbidden that they were high as a kite on each other. Her Brit was so determined to see Dana org*sm, that she pulled out all her tricks. Tongue; glorious. Fingers; gentle, strong, and then unforgiving. Vibrator and dild*; maddening. Utterly maddening.

And so, so tender.

Stella laid across her chest after, playing with the red locks on the American’s head. Their naked bodies were sweaty, cooling in the mild air of the room. Stella’s strong arms and legs were tangled around her own, pinning her lusciously to the white comforter.

“I love you,” Stella whispered as she twirled a strand of carnelian hair about her finger. There was such weight in the statement. Desire, of course, but a weight that said a plethora of things: there was love, trust, and profound fascination. Familiarity and protectiveness. Reverence. Relief. A flavor of sentimentality that was like a redemption of some kind. Their love felt like an endless revelation for Dana. The fact that she could love someone again, and with the intensity which she felt towards Stella, consistently left her breathless.

I’m so blessed.

What had she ever done to be so lucky? To meet the love of her life not once, but twice? To have those loves hold different, balancing weights; leveling her out in the high noon of her time spent on this side of the mortal coil? The realization hit her again and again, feeling fresh every single time. There was no such thing as wasted love. It all meant something. Life was perpetually turning seasons. With Mulder, there had been a spring, summer, autumn, and deep, dark winter. Spring again, summer, too, but mostly harsh winter. Antarctic chill, for years. A cold which she couldn’t hold him in contempt for, not now, not ever. Not after so much time. Stella was the spring after the worst winter of her life; showing that a new way was possible. Anything was possible.

You haven’t missed your ship.

“I love you more,” she breathed, tangling her own fingers into the perfect platinum strands that laid across her chest.

+++

Like a metronome, it rang in space. Drip, drip, drip. Water, tainted and awful, pushed through various cracks and further ruined the structural integrity of the catacombs. The large, dome-covered lights affixed to the walls flickered minutely; more a short-circuiting of electricals than any augmentation to the near-impossible visibility in the dank crypt. It seemed dangerous in the wet tunnel. Shouldn’t she avoid any dampness at all costs with such suspect electrical systems raw and exposed to the elements?

The floors were semi-occluded, but she could tell from the sound that her feet fell against shifty, deteriorating tile and dirt. Anything solid and complete had long ago eroded. Dirt, now. Wet, now. Nothing here was protected from the elements as the earth of the world slowly worked to eat the catacombs up. This place was supposed to be the eternal resting place for the dead, but it pulsed with life. Skittering bugs, thumping mud, silty rock and brick shifting under the relentlessness of slow-moving water. Puddles, all over the place, and raw exposed circuitry that had long ago needed to be updated- a logistical nightmare where safety was concerned.

Total unease filled her body. She wasn’t alone in this awful hole. Not by a long shot.

At a great distance, Stella was screaming for aid; terrified and shrill. Dana began running down the tunnel, flashlight bobbing and weaving as she pumped her arms. The off-shoot from the main chamber was endless. The air was so cold that her legs were going numb. Her jacket was gone. Her lover’s voice remained impossibly far off, untouchable. It was agony to hear. She was screaming, and screaming, and screaming. Stella calling her name, as she had above ground, desperate and so afraid that it sounded like she was about to lose her mind. Calling her name and crying, as she had right before Dana had been hospitalized for seizures. Begging Dana to come back, to resurface, to not be swept under the strong current of here and there.

Annoying, how loud it was: drip, drip, drip. Resounding, awful, it almost registered at the same pitch as a siren.

But that didn’t matter now. No. What mattered was getting to Stella, helping Stella, being at Stella’s side. Right where she belonged. She needed to run faster to get to her love. Her feet dragged and felt leaden. The water splashed up against her. The broken light system sparkled. Should she be worried about it? It was such a swirl of stimulation that Dana felt off-kilter. Against her will, she was being slowed. The very air itself weighed her down.

The little shrines glimmered out from the recesses in the walls. Eyes behind rusted, half-dilapidated iron gates were tracking her as she sprinted. Blue, green, brown; luminous orbs in the dark, blinking languidly. Not hurried, not alarmed; but the eyes bore worry. Ardent, devoted worry. Cool hands caressed her elbows, the small of her back. She needed to hurry, she remembered that; yes, in fact, hadn’t they told her before? Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

At the corners of her eyes, she saw the dark spiral of jetty black hair.

“This wasn’t meant for you.” Firm words from a voice she had never actually heard out of a living mouth. Older, wiser. Guilty. Turning on her heel, she shielded herself against what she had suspected would be the incarnation of Mary Nelson.

But there was no one. Just darkness. Bleak, bleak darkness and all those pairs of eyes urging her to get out of the catacombs. Stella’s voice kept calling for her, sounding pained and in danger.

Drip, drip, drip.

Time; marked by that steady pace of water. The dome lights sparked, flickered; never illuminating anything but acting to give her visions stars. What was it that Alice had said when they had resurfaced before? They’d been down here for an hour. A whole hour, but it felt like no more than fifteen minutes. Time here meant something else, it was experienced differently. The weight of the air told her that.

And Dana was running out of time. She needed to hurry, hurry, hurry. What was it that Elizabeth had said? That he was coming? She needed to run, and run fast, just like Anaïs had warned her weeks and weeks ago. But that had been when she was above ground and felt like she could actually get a whole lung-full of air. Jesus, the air down here was shallow. Each breath was a strain.

“Stella!” Her own voice had grown hoarse. It was blunt and shallow, as if the acoustics of the tunnel were designed to put a dampener on her, and her alone. Her legs were lined with the inexplicable awful weight of their circ*mstances. The water pooled around her sodden feet. “Lord in Your mercy, hear our prayer.” Jesus, she needed to get to her lover. Needed to help. Needed to hurry. Needed to get out.

Drip, drip, drip. So, so loud. Booming, like a church bell, or like an alarm, it drowned out all else.

Stella screamed for her once more, and the shout was an echo that continued into eternity. Down at the brink of the unending void, Dana knew she’d find her woman. She knew she’d find Anaïs. She knew they’d pick her up and carry the victim back through the catacombs. Up and out. Into the fresh, pure night. Far away from the poisonous air that had aimed to keep them all trapped.

“Stella!” Why did it boomerang back at her, so muted?

“Dana.”

She swirled once more on her feet, flashlight bobbing dramatically, stupidly, against the walls. A vault, directly behind her. The gate swung open on creaky hinges, scattering a thick spray of brown rust across the ground. It settled upon the cracked, filthy tile like blood. The dripping water had created a murky pool at the back corner of the vault, deep enough that the figure before her was ankle-deep in the disgusting muck.

The decapitated, naked figure stood tall, holding the big silver tray tight against her body. The blue-white illumination of the flashlight reflected in the American’s eyes from the plate, momentarily blinding her as the lights in the hall had blinded her. She choked back a scream as she stared down at the face of Mary Nelson, a bluish, bruised face that was surrounded by matted black hair; a nest that was filled with larvae and beetles.

“Dana,” the lips moved sluggishly, as if she was drunk or drugged. The huge, black eyes bore into hers, blood-shot and watery. And those eyes were desperate and guilty. Undeniably guilty. “My body hurts, Dana Scully. I waited for Christ, and He never came.”

“Oh my God,” she hissed, backing away from the figure. Shaking, the decapitated body took a step towards her. The head rattled unsteadily on the silver plate. Blood was pouring from the neck, from the head. “Jesus Christ-.”

“Christ never came, Dana. It’s just darkness. He never came, Dana,” the woman pleaded, so heartbroken. The body was moving in a jerky, unstable manner. It moved as if it was being electrocuted. “But he is everywhere.”

Drip, drip, drip.

The American slapped her hands over her ears, wincing at the volume. It was so loud, the echo of the water. It was disorienting. She continued her terrified retreat, backing into the hard, crumbling wall. She was cornered. The exit was gone. Stella was still screaming her name, but it was so far away; unreachable.

“He is everywhere, Dana,” Mary Nelson stated again; so heartbroken. “And Christ never came.”

“Get away from me!” She was ready to claw at the walls, her heart was pounding. Stupidly, in terror, she dropped the flashlight. The room grew dim and unbearably dark in the corners. It was dark like death.

Beep, beep, beep.

The woman extended her arms, offering the tray, offering the head.

“He is everywhere,” the black eyes began to rot at an accelerated rate right there on the tray. The lips drew back over the white teeth, a grimacing slip of flesh as the skin pulled against the bone. On the woman’s tongue was the cross of a rosary, the center for the Glory Be. Good God, the teeth in the woman’s mouth were threaded. The mandible became detached as the plate violently shook in the corpse’s arms.

Then, it dawned on her. It hit Dana as if she’d been shoved into the wall. The beads of the rosary were made of her teeth. That’s what had happened with all of their teeth. Beads. He’d made rosaries out of all the teeth he’d extracted, laying them beside the horrible relics.

“No,” she pressed herself against the wall, terrified beyond comprehension as the sharp edge of the silver platter was shoved into her stomach. The gaping holes of the skull stared up at her, hair still attached and arranged in an odd, clumsy array.

“My body hurts,” the dead head proclaimed with exhaustion. “And Christ never came.”

“Mary-,” the body fell backwards with the tray into the disgusting slurry on the floor of the vault.

Beep, beep, beep. She’d heard this alarm somewhere before. She couldn’t place it. It was a shriek in the dark, however, punctuating time in the most horrific capacity.

“Dana.” Her arm was grabbed, and she was gently turned around.

Where the wall had been, she saw only a tunnel with the tiniest glimmer of light at the end, slightly above her head. The exit. The door above. Where she had exited with Stella. There it was, her lover’s voice, screaming once again for her. Stella had made it to the light. She was outside. Of course she was.

At her arm was Elizabeth Morrison. Tiny, beautiful, and with facial expressions she recognized in her Brit with an immediacy that rendered her speechless. Her small, cold hands were wrapped around Dana’s upper arm, urging her forward, towards the light.

Beep, beep, beep.

At her back, she felt someone mean and unfriendly looming over her. A strong instinct inside of Dana ordered her to not turn around, to not acknowledge it, to not look back. That is what Mulder would have encouraged. To interact with evil spirits was to give them power, to give them agency and vigor. If she looked over her shoulder, she was certain that it would mean her end.

“Dana,” Elizabeth tugged on her arm, blonde curls bobbing wildly as she attempted to move the American. Dana took her time absorbing the details of the girl, however. Yes, she did need to hurry, that was true, but when else would she ever get to actually look at this girl? Elizabeth had the purest blue eyes and babyish cheeks that flushed with indignation at Dana’s lack of urgency. If Stella had a girl child, is this what she would have looked like? Freckle-faced and sweet like a peach? Determined and cross, the perfect little dimple appeared between her furrowed brows as she yanked on the American’s arm. Even in her black school uniform, Dana could see the bruises. The bruises along her arms and on her face undulated in the minimal light. They rose to the surface, disappeared, and rose again. History. A history of abuse. Those marks weren’t from Nelson, Dana knew. This girl, who had been everything to her mother, had endured hell and back, was sending her a clear message. Anaïs was not the only one struggling in that household. Not by a long shot. “Dana, he is coming.”

Beep, beep, beep.

“Dana, hurry. He is coming,” Elizabeth’s bell of a voice grew more insistent. Her sharp, blue eyes bore into her with a fervor that very nearly unglued the American; they were the eyes of a saint. Dana felt certifiably insane as she gazed into the pure fire of belief in those eyes. Stella’s scream rang out once more, calling for Dana back into the precarity of her own situation. Elizabeth’s gaze roamed over Dana’s shoulder, and she became frightened. “Dana, he is coming.”

A hiss in the dark. Slithering; water over stone, something else slinking through the dark, crumbling walls. A hum; low like an electrical system turning on. The air throbbed with him. Yes, it was him. Who else felt like death in this way?

“Saint Rita.”

She was being rushed forward by Elizabeth, terrified as to what was coming. It was nipping at her heels and making the dome lights pop, spraying sparks out at her as she fled. There were so many eyes on her, whispering her name and urging her to hurry.

“He’s coming!” Elizabeth wailed, arms still digging into the American’s arm. Her feet pounded the crumbling tile and the mucky floor, but the little light never got closer.

A gate swung open, a vault offering respite. Elizabeth shoved her inside, and they hid as an ominous cloud rushed by them. Heavy, like a poisonous gas; visible like smoke.

Beep, beep, beep.

“Dana.” She gave her full attention to Anaïs Morrison, standing there in a scarlet robe. Bruised, but alright. She cradled her stomach, and stood with Elizabeth. “He’s coming back.”

The American exited the vault on wobbling legs, but Anaïs held her steady. Elizabeth held one hand, Anaïs the other. The mother folded something into Dana’s palm, and the object bit her.

A rose; a single rose with thick thorns all down the stem. It was as bright and shiny as the blood oozing out of her palm.

Beep, beep, beep. The carbon monoxide alarm was screeching at a pitch and beat that accompanied the pace of Dana’s racing heart. She needed to get out of there before she was poisoned, and Stella was waiting for her. The dark, awful thing that was hovering in the tunnel was near again. She felt it at her back, where the hairs stood up on end.

“I’ve wanted to worship you forever.” His voice again, infiltrating her senses, brought tears to her eyes. Anaïs nodded at her, and Elizabeth shoved her down the hall. The light was closer, and she could clearly make out the stairs that led up above ground. Stella was up there, she knew it.

“Run fast, Dana!” Anaïs ordered on a shout, cradling her pregnant belly in one hand and holding Elizabeth’s hand with the other. “This isn’t meant for you!”

“Hurry!” Elizabeth demanded, terror filling her eyes. Bruises danced across her face. “Hurry, Dana!”

She took off at a wild sprint, desperate to get to the light. Joanne Sen stood on one side of the staircase, Mary Nelson on the other. They were gesturing to her to run faster, to get into the light. The fright on their faces as they looked over her shoulder encouraged her legs to move to the point of nearly giving out.

“I’ve wanted to worship you forever,” a whisper behind her ear.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

Her feet splashed water up at the exposed circuits, causing flashes and small explosions.

“Run fast, Dana!” Joanne screeched over the blaring alarm.

Figures emerged from the vaults, encouraging her to move as quickly as she physically could. The light at the end of the tunnel teased at getting closer, yet it kept moving just beyond her reach. It was six yards from her, a fixed distance she couldn’t overcome. Those eyes in the dark, the figures that they belonged to, were screaming her name, telling her to hurry. Blowing past the frantic apparitions of Anne Thomas, then Peter Collins, Mary Harris, and Julia Steinfield, she nearly stumbled when she saw Lory McBride. She, too, was shouting at her.

“Hurry!” The woman roared over the incessant alarm.

“Dana!” Stella’s voice, clear and perfect amidst the din. The American could see her vague outline ahead.

“Christ never came,” Mary Nelson stated as Dana finally crossed over the threshold of darkness, and collapsed at the foot of the stairs. Light rained down upon her. Looking up at the clear, penitent face of the woman, she was struck by how sad she was. Heartbroken. So utterly and completely heartbroken. “Christ never came, Dana.”

“Hurry, Dana,” a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at a man she only vaguely recognized. Kind elderly face, marked by a life of pleasant gentleness. There was nothing about him that struck fear in her heart. Indigo eyes. She knew those eyes. Looked into them every day, in fact. She recognized that grim, firm set of lips, too. “Hurry. He’s coming, and this isn’t meant for you.”

Stella’s father helped her up the stairs.

Dana groggily opened her eyes, disoriented and feeling ill. She sucked in air with a desperation that made her think she’d been holding her breath. She caught the scream, and swallowed it.

Lord in Your Mercy, hear our prayer.

Her whole body was shaking violently. Good God, she could still feel the cold, feel the terror of all the figures that had surrounded her. The blaring alarm of the catacombs still echoed in her ear, but key details were rapidly melting away. As she got her bearings, Dana realized something had woken her up. Stella’s work phone thumped dramatically against the bedside table, vibrating aggressively across the surface. She reached across her sleeping lover, still sleeping like a rock. Her earthy, floral scent wafted up the American’s nose as she stared at the caller ID.

Harrison.

Dana felt lost in a murky, ambiguous time frame. The nightmare had rendered a sense of deep, horrified foreboding; lostness, driftlessness. Much like how she had been when weeks ago, under Nelson’s insidious drug-spell. She glanced at the calendar on the side table as she answered the phone.

December 30, 2013. And it feels like I have lived a lifetime since August.

“Scully,” she answered, clearing her throat. Throwing back the covers, she walked over to the coffee pot, immediately filling it up with water, and getting it going. Coffee; she was going to need a lot of coffee for whatever it was that Harrison had. Only after her name left her mouth did it occur to her that she was answering Stella’s work phone, and the intimacy such a thing suggested to an outsider. There were plenty of implications someone could read into that. Well, she really couldn’t spend time worrying about that, could she?

“Dr. Scully, good morning,” he greeted, throaty and exhausted in cadence.

“Jesus, Harrison, are you alright?”

“In need of my own vacation, come the new year,” he stated, not in poor humor but clear on all fronts that he was reaching capacity. “How is Bath?”

“Utterly fascinating,” she replied dryly, glancing over at her slumberous lioness, platinum locks splayed wildly across the white silk of the pillow sham. “What’s going on?”

“Well, finally got some ground here. I sent DSI Gibson an email containing materials for her review. I’m scheduled to interview Xavier Morrison today. In a couple hours, actually.”

“Wow, so soon,” she whispered.

“AC Brown wants it done before New Year's Day.”

“Understandably.”

“We’ve got enough information here to have a really solid discussion. I think the interrogation will actually yield something, even if Morrison doesn’t talk. It’ll give us the next step for this whole damn process. We’ve confirmed his entry and exit over the last several months in the flat complex by way of the security footage. We see him entering and exiting with and without Mary Nelson. There is substantial footage of him there in recent weeks, and leaving. Arriving with boxes, and taking items out to the bin. The clothes in the bin, by way of DNA, were determined to be hers. In the flat, we have fingerprints for Mary Nelson, Abel Nelson, Xavier Morrison, and Joanne Sen. The second bedroom’s sheets contained evidence of Abel Nelson and Joanne Sen; we found some hair but we also found their fingerprints on the light switches and lamps.”

“What about the blood on the sheets? The ones in the bin?”

“The blood on the sheets and the mattress were confirmed as Mary Nelson’s. And only hers. The baggies of drugs we found were the same as what Abel Nelson had, and a little co*ke. Mary’s fingerprints are on them, but so are Morrison’s. And Morrison’s fingerprints are all over the new cardboard boxes. The landlord said that Morrison had talked to him two weeks ago about terminating the lease early, and what the cost of it would be. He was glad to hear it, because there were constant noise complaints by neighbors. A woman crying all the time, a man shouting at her. Sometimes screaming, like someone was terrified. There had been talk about calling the police multiple times, but that never happened.”

She heard a sharp metallic sound, which she couldn’t place right away. Then, she realized it was a lighter. She didn’t think Harrison smoked, but now she knew she could bum a cigarette off of him, too, should she need one. Thank God. She wanted one right then, frankly. The sharp bitter tang of the coffee was not enough. She poured herself a cup anyway, and blew across the surface of the mug.

“What about Abel Nelson’s little drug lab?” She inquired, watching the dark brew gurgle and pop in the decanter. “Are the results in for the bio evidence in his bathtub?”

“Yeah, and all of the bio evidence at his apartment was confirmed as Mary Nelson. As far as we can tell, there were no other persons at the unit. Fingerprints at that flat are all Nelson. We also have him on charges now, officially, for illegally surveilling citizens, and the theft and mishandling of security documents. The charges for what he did to West Norwood’s catacombs are a laundry list of their own. AC Brown and Denver have mostly been navigating that, and the scope. It’s been a bit difficult to determine.”

“Jesus, what an update, Harrison.”

“It’s been a frantic few days, but we’re getting it done, Ma’am.”

“I’m proud of you and your hard work,” she said kindly, knowing some of the extra labor he had been putting in was entirely on account of the guilt he felt regarding her near-abduction. “Has anyone been able to really go down into the catacombs yet? Do a full evaluation of the scene?”

“Yes, Ma’am, but there seems to be some sort of continuous carbon monoxide leak. It’s getting looked into. That’s why it has been such a f*cking logistical headache for Brown and Denver. Access has been limited by necessity, which has made going down there strategically difficult, especially being short handed during the holidays.”

“Interesting. Have there been photos? Anything at all?”

“Some, Ma’am, but not enough to really give you a better picture. It’s been bad down there.”

“Any idea why?”

“Uh, you’ll need to talk to Denver about that. I’ve been more focused on Abel and Mary Nelson’s respective flats.”

“Okay. We’ll want to see things more concretely before we interview Nelson.”

“Understood.”

“With how cold it's been, that crime scene isn’t really going anywhere,” she muttered. Harrison made a humming sound of agreement.

“Anyway, Dr. Scully, I have all sorts of data in that email for your eyes and DSI Gibson’s. It’s the odd contents of Mary Nelson’s flat. A few images. I’m going to be interviewing Nelson tomorrow, if all goes to plan. That one is going to be a bit trickier.”

“What makes you think so?” The coffee pot bubbled and huffed as dark, rich coffee began to pour down into the glass and plastic decanter; fogging the glass.

“He’s been released from the hospital, as you know. Taken to the detention facility.”

“Right.”

“But he’s been absolutely silent. Won’t talk to anyone. Then, he got violent. Refused to cooperate as he was moved into his new holdings. Tried to bite one of the guards. As you can imagine, that went over real great. He got moved again to higher security.”

“sh*t. Can’t say I’m surprised though.”

“Neither can I. We’re dealing with a murderer who sexually abused his victims, including his sister, and we have the pleasure of dealing with a wife beater. I’ve got a great day ahead of me.” His irritated sarcasm weighed on her heart. “He’s in severe pre-trial detention. On account of all the things Xavier Morrison is being charged with, and that we’re going to lay on him today, he is actually in the same facility.” That gave Dana a pause. The same location? That didn’t quite make sense to her, but she wasn’t an English police officer, and their forms of detention were more foreign to her than she cared to admit. Who was she to challenge that arrangement?

“You have my strongest sympathies.” She glanced at Stella, not willing to wake her until she had coffee ready. Her lover was twisting and wriggling under the sheets, signaling she was going to wake of her own accord soon. “Listen, Harrison. Call back before you go to the interview with Morrison, okay? That way you can talk to DSI Gibson.”

“Alright, sounds good.”

“Talk soon,” she ended the call.

She drank down half the coffee in her mug before she moved to wake Stella by way of gentle caresses. Waking Stella up with sex never failed to unstitch her. So often, so many times, Dana had roused her lover with a climax. The fact Stella enjoyed it, encouraged it, and damn near expected it was erotic in and out of itself. It endlessly surprised Dana how much Stella liked to be taken by the American. Perhaps because it was such surrender and trust. Or, perhaps it was because she enjoyed the submissive openness. Since Stella had begun submitting entirely whilst bottoming, her lust in the mornings had become so pronounced it was near maddening. The idea that Dana would do anything to her, and for her, upon first waking was too raunchy a treat to ever pass up.

And since her Brit had first whispered three highly charged words on a cold London street, desperate to be understood and known, the trust with her body had somehow become even more implicit.

Her lover began to respond, taking a slightly sharp inhalation as Dana’s cool fingers traced the curves of her hot breast under the cotton shirt. Indigo blue eyes fluttered half-open, trying to focus as the American gave her nipples a gentle tug, an amorous pinch.

What was Dana going to do in just a few short months, when this was over? Late July. That’s when it all was supposed to end. It was a sharp plunging sensation in her ribs, contemplating it.

July.

So much life in such a short amount of time. I never could have predicted becoming this attached to you. Not like this.

July. And then this would be over. July, and there would no longer be any heated, furtive f*cks in the morning. No more gentle, arousing suckling between her lover’s legs. No more kisses as the sun peaked above the horizon, making the room gold; her platinum locks a halo. No more Stella. No more. She had entered into this knowing that there was a set expiration date, and yet its reality felt insurmountable. Unbearable.

July. It felt like a death sentence.

God, I’m so screwed.

“Oh,” Stella murmured, almost awake, hips shifting restlessly. Only lacy panties down there, nothing else. Easy access. Teasing, adoring the way Stella’s chest arched, chasing Dana’s retreating hand as it slid down over a strong core, sliding down into the lace and caramel hair. The gasp it evoked earned a small chuckle from the redhead. Wet, and wanting, and legs already eagerly spreading. “Please,” was the accompanying moan as Dana played in the arousal she found there. Jesus, she’d never get over this. Never be able to get past how badly she wanted Stella, how beautiful the woman was, so deliciously erotic and receptive to Dana’s advances. “Oh, sh*t,” she husked, her hot hand stretching out to palm the back of her lover’s neck. “Kiss me,” Stella begged. Who was she to deny her woman anything? It only took a few minutes. The org*sm was lush, her quiet lover moaning low in her throat as she shuddered against Dana’s finger tips.

But I was this attached to Mulder in an equally short time. So maybe I shouldn’t be so shocked. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised at all by how deep I’m in.

Her fingers slid past the silky, wet hood of Stella’s cl*t, traversed her folds, and dipped inside of her. Immediate clenching, hips rolling in a concentric jerk. Dana’s left hand roughly grabbed the breast that arched before her. Her right hand was merciless as it stroked Stella, curling ever so slightly as she coaxed another org*sm to come forth.

“Give it to me,” Dana demanded breathily, watching the most beautiful pinch of pleasure in Stella’s face.

“Keep f*cking me,” Stella whispered, her voice deep and ragged. Fisting the collar of Dana’s sleep shirt, she yanked the American closer, thrusting her tongue into a waiting mouth. “Harder, please, harder, Dana.” Slipping a third finger in made kissing nearly impossible for the woman as she began to shake. “Yes,” she huffed lusciously. She held Dana’s cheek against hers as her soft gasps and whimpers grew minutely higher, more soprano than alto. “God, yes, yes, yes,” her soft voice made Dana’s chest ache.

“My pretty girl, you’re so tight,” the American moaned, the heat between her own legs nearly unbearable. She licked the shell of Stella’s ear, and growled, “I love your c*nt so much.” Stella began to go rigid. “And it’s all mine.”

“Oh my God,” was the strained moan. “Yes,” she hummed.

“You’re so good, spreading your legs for me, being open for me,” Dana ranted, feeling herself become agonizingly wet as she felt the gentle spurt of lush heat against her hand. “Squirting for me, already?” Dana chuckled breathily, knowing that squirting was something Stella was shy about doing herself, but ardently loved from Dana. The high pitch of delicious embarrassment flamed in her lover’s face. “My needy, honey. You needed this. You always need this from me,” she bit Stella’s ear lobe as her lover urgently nodded. “Watching you is going to make me come.”

A hot little hand darted out, slipping into the American’s panties with a feral desperation. Doe-eyed, desperate, she looked up at Dana. Stella, freshly-woken and oh so gentle. Stella, freshly-woken, gentle, and so open; her veneer of toughness and strength not yet donned. All her life, Dana would never forget such a beautiful face.

You are such a wonderful person.

“Please,” she palmed Dana, no coordination in her state. The redhead retrieved the woman’s hand, yanked it out of her underwear, and held it above Stella’s head against the silken pillows. Her eyes widened, rolling in ecstasy. Cheeks, beet red, chest heaving, Dana had never seen someone as beautiful.

“Come first,” she ordered. The American doubled down on how hard her hand thrust into her lover’s sex.

“Please, please, ” her Brit clawed at Dana’s back with her loose hand, whispers of desire barely discernible. Her wetness was audible, a delicious, obscene slurp as Dana roughly handled her. “Please,” she managed one more time.

“Come for me, little one. I want to use your mouth,” Dana kissed the pulse point under Stella’s chin, and enjoyed watching her lover shatter; a sharp gasp and barely contained cry ripping from her perfect lips. “You smell so sweet,” her hand trailed up Stella’s abdomen, walking across her breasts over the cotton shirt and slipping into Dana’s mouth. “Taste sweet, too.” As Stella’s breathing regulated, the American stood up, pulling the delicate lacy underwear down the strong swimmer’s legs. They ripped off their own shirts, but Dana let her lover return the favor, standing before her Brit as hot hands hooked the soaked purple underwear she’d slept in.

“You’re soaking,” Stella commented, some of the submissive desire having left her system. It was a brazen statement, really, chest still heaving.

“You did that,” Dana replied.

“I did,” she acknowledged, sliding gracefully to the floor and kissing the apex of the American’s thighs. “Allow me to reciprocate.”

Reclining on the edge of the bed, she spread her legs for Stella, watching her get her visual fill. There were very few things that her Brit didn’t throw her whole heart into when she committed to them, and pleasuring Dana into a puddle was that which she unfailingly gave her all. She was above and beyond, knowing exactly how to drive Dana crazy. The redhead’s pleasure fed into hers; the more aroused Dana became, the higher Stella got off of their entanglement. Stella’s use of her mouth was masterful. Her agile tongue could lance someone one minute with her words, and make them come so hard they couldn’t hear moments later. Phenomenal, really.

“You’re so pretty for me when you’re on your knees, honey,” when she leant into praise for Stella, she aimed to make sure it didn’t sound staged or premeditated. No, never any acting in their romps. She said only what she genuinely thought and felt, or what her muddled brain could master amidst the pleasure. Watching closely how Stella slipped underneath the veil of arousal between gentle degradation and overt praise was so endearing, the language flowed naturally. “f*ck,” the American growled as a sure, steady tip of a tongue traced every sensitive fold of skin; ignoring her cl*t entirely. She let Stella set the pace, allowing her to explore and get settled into her actions. Smooth, warm fingers traced patterns into Dana’s thighs, indigo blue eyes opening to lock onto the redhead’s. A salacious, mean little flick was given to the woman’s cl*t. “Hey,” Dana chided, grinning despite herself.

“I thought you were going to use my mouth?” She smirked, licking lazy circles around Dana’s cl*t. “This seems pretty-.”

“I am ,” Dana laced her fingers through platinum curls, watching a barely concealed surprise pass over Stella’s features. Her pupils couldn’t have been bigger. “I was allowing you to settle in.” Her lover didn’t reply, but instead gripped the woman’s thighs. Pure, unadulterated lust and hunger in that perfect face. Jesus, she would never recover from Stella. There was no recovery from someone so intense, so good, so incredible. “Now, I want you to be good for me.”

“Yes,” Stella agreed.

“I want you to take it,” she arched an eyebrow at the woman becoming steadily submissive once more, her breath rapid as her eyes darted around Dana’s face.

“f*ck my face,” Stella’s voice was so low, it was more of a breath than a statement. Dana gripped the blonde curls and tenderly, but firmly, held her lover against her dripping opening, moaning loudly at the feel of Stella giving it her all. She rode Stella’s face, almost unforgiving in her lust, letting her up to breathe after each gentle tap at her hip; the signal they’d long ago established for such activities. Beautiful, scarlet cheeks. Beautiful, rich eyes. Beautiful, deep intensity as Stella slipped her fingers into the mix. She made her tongue a point and stuffed it inside of Dana, rubbing the redhead’s cl*t with her one thumb and her desperate little ass with the other.

“I’m going to come,” she said for Stella’s benefit, feeling as one hand disappeared. She looked down, and moaned greedily as Stella frantically fingered herself; so wet Dana could see a little pool on the carpet. “God, you’re perfect,” she groaned, and refused to let her eyes close. “Come on your fingers while I come in your mouth,” she ordered. Stella’s accompanying whimper and the raw heat in her face was so dazzling that Dana lost the fight, eyes slipping shut as she came, and came, and came. The body lodged between her legs was squeezed as her legs snapped shut. A low, ravenous growl emitted from Stella, and a distinct moan that was louder than her norm as she came. Whenever the blonde got even a little loud, it thrilled Dana. Stella relinquishing control in that manner filled the American with pride, without fail. “Good job, honey,” she flopped back onto the bed. Stella climbed across her, laying down. Exact same position as the day prior, her lush head on the American’s chest.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, drowsy in her ecstasy.

A long silence transfigured into sweet kisses, which became robes and cups of coffee, and Dana catching Stella up on Harrison’s phone call. The hard veneer of work enveloped her lover’s features, and she was glad that they’d gotten a moment of supreme intimacy, of unabridged desirous play. The fact they couldn’t have a true vacation, or genuine time off, was something she hoped could be possible perhaps after Nelson’s case went through the courts.

“No one has been down there?” The DSI asked, clutching the coffee to her chest, referring to the catacombs. She was pacing.

“Harrison said we’d need to talk to Denver and Michael to get a better idea as to what’s up with that.”

“Well, I’m eager to hear how his interview goes with Morrison.”

“He’s going to call before he goes in.”

“Good.”

“There was an email with content.” Dana refilled their cups with the strong coffee, already feeling the stress of the day. At least there was a beautiful bathtub they could decompress in later.

“Sit beside me,” Stella encouraged, sliding onto the damask fabric elegantly; legs co*cked open so the pink slit of her sex was on display. She flipped open her computer, tapping through various platforms to pull up her work email. Unconscious, or uncaring, of how the robe slid a bit on her shoulder, revealing the lush swell of her breast. Beautiful, strawberry nipples peaked around the cloth. Love bites were smattered across the alabaster expanse of her chest. Brazen; absolutely, beautifully brazen, her Stella. Dana set her coffee down on the table. Instead of sitting beside Stella, the American gently shut the laptop, holding her Brit’s gaze. She took her turn on her knees, making Stella come twice more before they agreed to dress and focus on getting some work accomplished.

Her Brit had only just finished buttoning her pants, Dana’s hand slipping out after much playful teasing, when her work phone began its violent vibration on the table.

“Gibson,” her stormy voice swooped low; masterful command. “Harrison, I’m putting you on speaker phone.”

“Hello,” he stated into the room from the tinny speakers. The women settled on the couch, flipping open the laptop and readying their notebooks.

“When do you go in for the interview?” The pathologist asked.

“In ten minutes, I’m waiting on something to print here before I walk in.”

“Are Alice and Oliver there?” The DSI asked.

“Yes, and we have a plan for interrogation. I’m going in first, to see what I can get. As we go on, if things are stagnant, Alice is going to come in and deliver the charges issued on behalf of Anaïs Morrison. Claims of domestic violence, the whole deal. She’s alleging him, additionally, of child abuse. Also fraud. We’ll go from there, and see what he wants to share.”

“Fraud?”

“Morrison used his wife’s inheritance money for that flat in Barnet. She never knew about it, because he didn’t allow her to have access to the full scope of their finances. It was money that was not in his name, but he had access to it. Also, he stole money out of the accounts set up for their daughter, Elizabeth, so that he could pay off the bills for his mistress. He liquidated almost the entirety of Elizabeth’s savings for college. Additionally, she claims he used said funds to buy illegal substances.”

“Well, well, well,” Stella muttered.

“Also, Ma’am, regarding Anaïs Morrison,” Harrison stated, his words measured. “She’s been released from the hospital. The house was released several days ago, and a cleaning crew went through it. No traces of violence there. She’s at home.”

“I see,” Stella replied, fingers tapping at her lips. “How is she?”

“I’m not sure. Alice knows more than I do, since she spoke with her yesterday and had a final review of her statement and the charges she’s bringing against her husband.”

“Alright,” Stella nodded, seeming satisfied by the information.

“Also, she has an attorney.”

“Good.”

“A divorce attorney.”

“Very good,” Stella’s face was grim, but Dana could tell that there was relief in there.

“I do know this much. She told Alice that she’s going to take Morrison to court for every pound he has. She’s also petitioning the court for custody of Peter Collins’ orphan son.”

“What?!” Dana demanded, blind sided by the information. The news had her standing with surprise, hands popping onto her hips. Stella glanced up at her sheepishly, an unusual expression for her lover.

“I’ll fill you in on that later,” she mumbled. Dana gave her an accusatory look.

“You knew about this? That she intended to do this?”

“Yeah, I wish I could say I didn’t see that one coming, but…”

“What? Does everyone know about this but me?”

“Nah, Dr. Scully, I talked with Denver. The kid knows Anaïs Morrison, and keeps asking for her. Apparently, Mrs. Morrison used to babysit the kid for Collins on occasion, especially when his wife was feeling especially unstable. Denver said it's been sort of unbearable. And, regrettably, the kid’s grandparents don’t want to take him in. And Denver loves the child, feels for him, but the family isn’t in a place to take on a toddler right now. If she doesn’t get him, the kid goes into the system. The only one fighting for the kid is Anaïs Morrison.”

Dana was shocked into silence and continued to gaze at Stella. An unreadable mask of serious contemplation.

“You knew about this,” she repeated robotically. That day after talking with Anaïs at the hospital, the mental and emotional exhaustion. The somewhat defeated, but resigned aspect; hope, too, but utter reserve. The flame went out of her, replaced by tenderness. They had debriefed in the tub, but Stella had missed this detail. She’d been too absorbed with something deeply personal and tragic. She wants to name her daughter Stella , her lover had wept, utterly heartsick.

As she stared at Stella now, she saw that aspect in her face again, just beneath the mask: a crushing, incredible sadness that was well beyond the American’s personal understanding of isolation. It was a loneliness, and a wanting, that was rooted in childhood. The feeling of being unloved by a parent, unloved and disliked, and struggling with the presence of someone who not only desperately wanted their baby but wanted to honor Stella in their baby being alive.

That was a feeling Dana didn’t know, couldn’t pretend to know. In innumerable capacities, Stella was one of the most lonely people she had ever met. And no matter how much love she rained down on her Brit, it wouldn’t fill the crater left behind by the absence of a loving home growing up.

I love you so much. I’m so sorry for what I don’t understand.

Flash of Stella, with Michael’s girls. The love; maternal. Deeply, deeply caring. A natural with them. That worried, unsure gaze that followed his eldest as she went back up the stairs to bed, having rushed down to the landing in desperation to tell Stella goodbye before they left. And yet, a reserve and discomfort in Michael’s kitchen when discussing it as a possibility for herself.

There is so much about you I don’t understand.

“We’ll talk more about it later,” Stella promised, her voice even. The pathologist forced herself to return to the matter at hand.

Jesus Christ, Dana. Get a grip.

“Harrison, give me the summary of what you want me to see here before we speak next.”

“Did you look at the folder?”

“Looking now,” Stella patted the seat on the couch, encouraging the pathologist to sit back down. “Wow,” the folder had nearly a hundred files. Some were recordings, others were reports and documents, some were images that had been taken of Mary Nelson and Abel Nelson’s respective dwellings. DNA and various bio matter results, for the pathologist’s eyes. Anaïs Morrison’s statement, from Alice, for the DSI’s. All the charges were separated into various documents. “You’ve been busy.”

“Thanks.”

“What shall I focus on? What’s the best use of your time?”

“The voicemails. You’ll understand my interview report better if you focus on those. She had so many voicemails on her cell phone.”

“Alright,” Stella massaged her temples. “These mp3 files are those voicemails?”

“Yes, Ma’am. They’re…well, they’re something. Paints a sad picture.”

“In what way?” Dana asked, her pen poised above the paper.

“From the messages alone, you get a feeling that Mary Nelson didn’t really have a whole lot of options. It sounds like she was trapped. There should be an email with them itemized, as opposed to just free floating in the folder there.”

“We’ll listen and call back.” Stella already had the email pulled up. “How are these organized?”

“Oldest to newest. There should be a word document in there with more information. We’re almost finished with a transcription so that I have it before I interview Nelson. I’m talking to him in about twenty minutes. I can call after to debrief.”

“Ah, I see the corresponding document now. Talk soon,” Stella ended the call, looking at the folder of recordings. They were labeled by phone number. The document relayed time, date, and who the caller was. “Ready?” Stella glanced at her American.

Ready? She was still reeling from it all. The pathologist compartmentalized and took a long draft of coffee.

“As I’ll ever be,” Dana affirmed. Stella had the document side-by-side on the screen with the recordings. She pressed play.

Joanne Sen - May 4, 2013

“Hi ducky, it’s Jo. Please call me back. Please. I’m so worried about you, especially after last week. You need to get out of this, Mary. Please call me back.”

It was jarring hearing the woman’s voice, having done her autopsy. Dana swallowed against the churn in her belly. The distress in Joanne’s voice was sharp, acute. Tender, too, but there was desperation that indicated that this wasn’t a new situation. The tone was also strikingly maternal; loving. Joanne Sen had been a good person. A good friend. From her one message, that was clear.

Abel Nelson - May 12, 2013

“Tuesday. Four o’clock.”

Abel Nelson - May 15, 2013

“Friday, at ten.”

Abel Nelson - May 19, 2013

“Wednesday. Noon.”

His voice was a slithering snake that emerged after a breath of silence. Muted; unassuming yet commanding. A strong tenor, almost adolescent in its lack of depth. Stella scrunched her nose at it. Just the day and the time. Then the recording disconnected. Dana made a note of that. It struck her as exceptionally odd.

“They must have met at a specific place regularly if he didn’t need to tell her where,” Stella remarked.

“Do you think it was the catacombs?” Dana asked, digging out the photocopy of Anne Thomas’ work diary. She skimmed through, hunting for the corresponding dates. In curly script, there it was. FOWNC tour, in the boxes for May 12, 15, and 19. “Anne Thomas gave tours of West Norwood on these dates. Same times.”

“Jesus,” Stella whispered. She pressed play on the next voicemail.

Xavier Morrison - May 19, 2013

“Mary, it’s me. Listen, pet, I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you this weekend. Losing my f*ckin’ mind. And Annie is making it all so complicated. I’ll be coming in on Wednesday, though. I need you to grab a few things. It’s okay to just put it on the card. Let me get the list…uh,” there was a loud tearing of paper, and a plastic scrunching sound against his shirt. “Alright, I want you to get a few grams of the regular. I’d like more molly if you can find it. I don’t know what you got last time, but that left me too pissed to go to work the next day. Might’ve been the other stuff, actually, but whatever. Get some drinks, the usual is fine. Oh! And, pet,” he lowered his voice, evidently putting the phone closer to his mouth as he demanded in a breathy whisper, “I think I’m overdue for a treat. Go buy some new knickers?”

Dana restrained a small hiss of hatred. Stella’s expression suggested similar disgust as he began to detail exactly what he wanted. He was very clear on what he desired, down to the color, shade, and style. Stella made a note to check the bin for the lingerie assemblage he was describing. The pathologist ran her hands against the rough damask fabric of the couch, attempting to self soothe. No good. She felt like throwing a punch.

“Off the record, I hate Xavier Morrison,” Dana cracked her knuckles restlessly.

“As do I,” Stella murmured.

“They both said Wednesday,” Dana whispered, pointing at her own notes with the tip of her pen. Stella’s perfect mouth puckered into a grim line.

“That they did.” She selected the next voicemail.

Xavier Morrison - May 22, 2013

“IF I SO MUCH AS SEE-!”

Stella stopped the recording, both women gasping at the screech of the speakers. Xavier Morrison’s roar had startled the DSI and the pathologist.

“Holy f*ck,” Stella cursed, tapping the sound bar aggressively.

“Clearly that didn’t go well,” she worried for Mary Nelson.

Stella hit the play button again.

“IF I SO MUCH AS SEE THAT MOTHERf*ckER AT MY FLAT AGAIN, I’M GOING TO KILL YOU. DO YOU HEAR ME? I’M GOING TO f*ckIN’ WRECK YOU. DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW LUCKY YOU ARE? DO YOU? I PUT A ROOF OVER YOUR HEAD AND HE’S THERE. I’M GONNA f*ckING KILL YOU. AND HIM.”

The phone was slammed, ending the call. Stella rubbed her hand against her brow.

“Wow,” she whispered.

Joanne Sen - May 22, 2013

“Mary, are you okay? Please call me back. Please.”

Acutely worried.

Joanne Sen - May 22, 2013

“Mary, it’s me again. I’m coming over. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Rushed, a car door shutting towards the tail end of the call.

Arthur Davies - May 23, 2013

“Mary, it’s Art. Uuh, you’re supposed to be at work right now. Call me back and let me know when you’re headed in.”

A male voice, older. Stella frowned and looked at the notes on the document Harrison had provided.

“Arthur Davies is the manager at the bar she worked at,” the DSI informed the pathologist. “Apparently her work apron was on the counter. Had the bar’s name on it.”

Arthur Davies - May 23, 2013

“Hey Mary, it’s Art again. You didn’t show up to your shift tonight, and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Call me when you can.”

Joanne Sen - May 23, 2013

“Mary, it’s me. Just checking in, wanted to make sure you’re okay. If you need help with your stitches, let me know. I love you, and I’m worried. Please, ducky, call me back.”

Stella and Dana exchanged a look.

Xavier Morrison - May 24, 2013

“Pet, it’s me. I’m…I’m so sorry.” A long, sticky pause. It sounded like he had a lozenge in his mouth. “Damn it, Mary. I hate how we left things. I never should’ve gotten so rough. You aren’t Annie, I know better than to raise hell like that with you.” Stella scoffed quietly. A full thirty seconds of silence punctuated the recording. “You just make me so mad sometimes. You know that? I know he’s important. Don’t get me wrong, I get it. But you gotta stop seeing him, pet. You can’t see him anymore.” Another weighty pause. “I’ll be with you this weekend, pet. Let’s just get high and relax, okay? I love you.”

“‘I know he’s important,’” Stella looked ready to spit. “Can’t even begin to guess who ‘he’ is.” Her deadpanned remark was punctuated by the sharp click of the play button.

Joanne Sen - May 24, 2013

“Hi, just checking on you. I know the meds make you sleepy, ducky, but make sure you eat, okay? I love you, call me back.”

Lora Walker - May 27, 2013

“Hello Mary, it’s Lora from church. Joanne told me you’d gotten hurt in a fall! Thought I’d give you a ring and see if you needed anything. Is it the same staircase as the last time? You really gotta take that up with your landlord. God bless, take care, dear.”

Joanne Sen - May 27, 2013

“Ducky, it’s me. I…I don’t want to alarm you, but A showed up at church looking for you. I told him I hadn’t seen you. Love you, call me back.”

Dana nervously played with the cross around her neck. She knew the tragic conclusion of it all, and yet found herself growing more and more anxious for this poor woman. Cornered , Harrison had said. It was an appropriate description. Hearing Joanne Sen’s growing worry took facts off the page and made them real; no longer an idea of a woman, a story. No longer a person she’d merely autopsied. A whole person was there in the recording— someone loyal, caring, and so protective. And she’d been murdered for it. Tears stung the pathologist’s eyes.

Abel Nelson - May 27, 2013

“Call me right now.”

Abel Nelson - May 27, 2013

“Mary. Call me right now.”

Abel Nelson - May 27, 2013

“Call me back right now or I’m coming up there.”

The threat was perhaps so eerie because Nelson was so calm in the recording. A calm before the storm. Stella’s hands trembled ever so slightly as she pressed play on the next recording.

Arthur Davies - May 27, 2013

“Mary, it’s Art.” There was a deep, sad sigh. “Babe, where are you? We’re all getting worried. This is the second time you’ve not been to work this week. Not been in at all. Don’t disappear again. I can’t promise you shifts if you disappear again.”

“‘Don’t disappear again,’” Dana echoed.

“A recurrent issue?” Stella’s brow was fixed in her characteristic, contemplative furrow.

“From this alone, it sounds like she was getting regularly beaten so badly she couldn’t go to work,” Dana swallowed against the bubble of hatred that wanted to tear out her throat. “Joanne mentioned stitches. And a friend from church called. Seems like Mary Nelson had a story for when she was battered. A lame one, but a story nonetheless.”

“Hm,” Stella’s hands were blanched fists, resting in her lap. Her Brit leant forward, bracing her elbows on her thighs as she took a deep, slow inhale, letting it out so very steadily. It was clear Stella was actively trying to keep herself from losing her temper. “Do you suppose that’s why Anaïs Morrison wasn’t allowed to go back to work?”

“Because Morrison beat her so badly, so regularly, he was afraid of getting arrested?” Dana asked flatly, less of a question and more of a confirming line of thought. “Christ,” she murmured. Lord, in Your mercy, hear our prayer.

“Yeah,” Stella bit the inside of her cheek, her brow arching as she stared at the screen. “I…if I think about that too deeply right now, I am not going to make it through these recordings.”

“Let’s keep going, then.”

Stella pressed play.

Arthur Davies - May 27, 2013

“Mary, it’s Art, can you-.”

The recording stopped abruptly. She had either answered the phone in the middle of the voice mail, or he’d accidentally hung up. Or, Dana worried, Abel had been at the flat, just as he had threatened. A quick look between the two women affirmed they held the same suspicion.

Joanne Sen - June 3, 2013

“Hey Mary, it’s me. I…I just don’t know what to say, ducky.” There was a distinct hiccup; a repressed, watery sound. Joanne Sen was crying. “God, Mary. You…why won’t you let me help you?” Marked frustration.

Xavier Morrison - June 6, 2013

“Pet, it’s me. I’ll be up this weekend. I’m…God, I’m just so sorry. I…I have been so…” there was a long pause. “Anyway, I’ll be up this weekend. I’m gonna make this right, Mary. I am.”

Markus Statford - June 13, 2013

“Hi Mary! Haven’t seen you a couple Sundays in a row. Heard you got real sick again. Thought I’d call and check up on you. Let me know if you need anything.”

Abel Nelson - June 15, 2013

“Sunday. After church.”

Xavier Morrison - June 16, 2013

“Mary, I thought I told you not to f*cking let him ‘round any more. I told you. Bill called and said that when he came by, that f*cker’s car was in the drive.” There was an angry huff. “Listen. Do you know how lucky you are? Do you know how generous I am? To put up with this? To take care of you?” The frustration could be heard in every consonant in the man’s mouth. “I could report you to the Home Office. D’you know that? I could f*ckin’ report you and that’d be that. No more London. Back to the bleak hell hole you escaped. Don’t f*ckin’ mess with me, Mary.”

Abel Nelson - June 18, 2013

“Thursday. Two o’clock.”

Abel Nelson - June 22, 2013

“Tomorrow, four o’clock.”

Abel Nelson - June 25, 2013

“Tomorrow, noon.”

Abel Nelson - June 26, 2013

“Call me right now.”

Abel Nelson - June 26, 2013

“Call me.”

Abel Nelson - June 26, 2013

“Call me.”

Abel Nelson - June 26, 2013

“Call me.”

Abel Nelson - June 26, 2013

“Call me.”

The last one was distinctly aggressive.

“Jesus Christ,” Dana breathed. He had called her every five minutes.

“She must have not shown up to their meeting,” Stella rubbed the back of her neck, clearly anxious.

Abel Nelson - June 26, 2013

“I’m coming up there.”

Xavier Morrison - June 28, 2013

“Pet, I’m on my way up. See you soon. Make sure you have the regular. Just a couple grams.”

Joanne Sen - June 30, 2013

“Ducky, you haven’t been to church in a few weeks, so I’m just checking in. No pressure, of course, but you know. Anyway…uh…A showed up at the church again, looking for you after the service. I told him I haven’t seen you. Please, please, please call me back. I love you.”

Xavier Morrison - July 2, 2013

“D’you know how fuggin’ lucky you are, you crazy bitch?” The slur was so overt that it took a second to catch what he had said. “D’you know what I could do to you? You belong to me, Mary. Don’t you get it? Not him. Always him, always A, always A this, A that. Fuggin’ ridiculous whor*. You are a whor*.” There was glass breaking in the background. “When I see you next, I’m going to put my f*ckin’ fist through your face. You hear me? f*ck you. f*ck you. f*ck you, f*ck A. I know yer f*ckin’ him. You are such a whor*. But that’s what gets you off, isn’t it? Legs, open for anyone who gives you even the littlest affection. You’ll f*ck anyone. You’ll f*ck anybody and everyone. Because that’s what, that’s wha- huh? No, no! NO! Next street, next street.” He gave rambling directions to someone else before redirecting his focus again. “D’you know how lucky you are? I put a roof over your ungrateful stupid head, and all I ask for in return is some good f*cks. That’s all. That’s all! f*ck! No one ever thinks about what I want, what I need. You’re just like Annie.” A car door slammed. “Yeah, f*ck YOU TOO!” He yelled at someone else. Maybe a cab driver, Dana guessed. “I’m on my way. I’m gonna be there in,” a pause, “five minutes. Yew got five minutes to make sure your f*ckin’ alone. f*cking alooone, Mary. I’m going to show you how lucky you are.”

“If anything,” Stella exhaled slowly, her voice disastrously even as she flexed the pen in her hand, “we have Xavier Morrison on multiple domestic violence charges.” She took another measured breath. “Including drugs, apparently.”

There was a tense beat of silence.

“I hope Anaïs Morrison takes him for everything he has,” Dana uttered.

“As do I.”

Xavier Morrison - July 3, 2013

“YOU MOTHERFUGGIN’-!”

Stella slammed the sound bar again, the screech of the speakers making both women jump. The DSI let out a growl of unreserved hatred.

“f*ck this man. f*ck him,” she seethed.

“I know,” Dana whispered, running a hand down her lover’s arm. Stella stared at the computer, helplessly enraged. There were tears in her eyes. Venomously, she gently pressed the play button.

“YOU MOTHERFUGGIN’, DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE IS? D’YOU?” Again, the slurring. Again, the anger. “HE’S A f*ckING MONSTER. DON’T YOU GET THAT? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? f*ckING HIM? YOU’RE LETTING HIM IN? f*ck!” The snarl made Dana wince. “All I ask, all I ever ask, is that you just keep your legs shut. You f*ckin’ whor*, you are only supposed to open your legs to me. Don’t you get it, Mary? Don’t you understand? If he doesn’t eventually kill you, know I will. f*ck you. f*ck you, you dumb whor*.” There was a long beat of silence. “But…you know what I think?” He sounded almost sober for a moment. “I think that you know that. That eventually A is going to get you killed. I think you know that.” There was silence again, and then an angry huff. “I’ll be up there in a few days. Your legs better stay shut until then, you bitch.”

Abel Nelson - July 4, 2013

“Call me immediately.”

Arthur Davies - July 5, 2013

“Mary, it’s Art. You…you’ve missed work again. Look…” there was a pause. “Look, I…I can’t keep doing this, babe. You know how much I care about you. But you gotta show up to work, Mary. You just gotta. Or you gotta call me, and tell me it’s too bad right now. I want to help you. You…” there was a pause, as if the man was gathering his own calm. “Look, I am worried. I…I know a couple shelters. I have a few friends you can stay with. I know that you aren’t coming in because…well, I saw the bruises, babe. It’s not good. He’s not good. Your friend Jo came by, asking if you’d been to work. Told her I hadn’t seen you. That nice American man came by looking for you, too. I can never remember his name. A, right? Anyway, I know you know people are worried, and you’re hiding. But you gotta get out of this. Call me when it’s safe, okay? Love yah, Mary.”

Joanne Sen - July 6, 2013

“Mary, please call me back. Please. I’m so worried. Please. Please. Please, Mary.”

Abel Nelson - July 7, 2013

“It’s all ready. Come at four. Today.”

Xavier Morrison - July 10, 2013

“Pet, it’s just me. Please take my call. I didn’t mean to get that bad. I’m sorry.”

Joanne Sen - July 14, 2013

“Ducky, it’s me. I still think we should try the hospital…Mary, can’t Xavier find you someone?Anyone? Surely, this lawyer knows somebody who can help you that won’t turn you over to the Home Office. I don’t know much about it all, but surely you have some rights? Even undocumented people have rights in the law, don’t they? Ducky, please call me back. Please let me take you to the hospital.”

Joanne Sen - July 19, 2013

“Mary, I’m coming to get you. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Joanne Sen - July 20, 2013

“Mary, where are you? Where did you go?”

Joanne Sen - July 21, 2013

“Mary, it’s me. I’m…I feel like I should talk to someone. The police. Anybody. Someone has to intervene for you. You’re in too deep. I love you, please let me help.”

Xavier Morrison - July 29, 2013

“So that’s it. We’re done? Is that what’s happening? I haven’t heard from you. Call me back, or I’m gonna kick you out of the flat. Don’t forget whose name is on the lease, Mary. Call me back. Today.”

Arthur Davies - August 1, 2013

“Mary, where are you, babe? Call me back. I’m…I’m so worried about you. If you need help, we’ll find you someone. I-I-I’ll even give you your job back. Please, babe, we are all so worried about you. Call me back.”

Xavier Morrison - August 3, 2013

“Where are you? All the food was spoiled at the flat. Clearly you aren’t hanging out there. We gotta talk.”

Xavier Morrison - August 5, 2013

“It’s me. Where the f*ck did you go? Did A take you somewhere? Mary, we gotta talk. I…I can’t bear thinking it’s over. I love you, pet. We can’t-we can’t end it like this. Where are you?” There was a long pause. Dana couldn’t tell for sure if he was intoxicated, but he didn’t exactly sound sober, either. “Pet, we got to work this out. We gotta. You can’t leave me alone in that marriage. I’m two shakes away from killin’ my wife. f*ckin’ drowning in my marriage. Liz is at the end of her rope, too. I know how fond you were of her. We are all just…pet, I need you. I need you to take the edge off for me. I need your love. I need your c*nt. I need everything about you. I love you so much, I’m beggin’ you. Please, don’t leave me. Look, I’m going to AA meetings again. I am. I really am. I want you back, pet. I will become better. For you, I will become better. I promise.”

Joanne Sen - August 7, 2013

“Ducky, it’s me. I…I’m so worried, please call me. Please. A said you were okay, but…I don’t believe him. It was so weird, I came down to pray with Mum today, like I usually do on Wednesdays. I don’t know why he was at Our Lady of Dolours . I thought he lived in Barnet? Well, I don’t trust anything that comes out of A’s mouth. I need to see that you’re okay. I…not after last time, I don’t trust him. Not at all. Please, Mary, please call me. I’m so worried. We all are.” There was a shaky breath. “You know I’d do anything for you, right? Surely risking deportation is better than this? It has to be? I don’t know anything about the laws, I really don’t. But, ducky, this is so far beyond you now. I have been praying on this. I want to talk to my husband about it. Mary, I’m so worried that you aren’t gonna be able to get out of this.” There was a long pause. “I’m so worried that A is going to hurt you. Worse than Xavier ever has.”

Xavier Morrison - August 11, 2013

“Would you care to tell me why A has been coming to my church? What the f*ck is going on? Mary, where the f*ck are you?”

Xavier Morrison - August 25, 2013

“Mary, I…I am starting to really get worried. Where…where are you?” There was a slight hitch in his voice. “I…I’m starting to think something bad has happened so…so, please, Mary, please call me back.”

Xavier Morrison - August 30, 2013

“Why is A hanging out in our neighborhood, Mary. Are you keeping tabs on me or something? What the f*ck is goin’ on?”

Xavier Morrison - September 4, 2013

“YOU FUGGIN’, FREE-LOADING BITCH! WHEN I SEE YOU NEXT, YOUR ASS IS GOIN’ OUT ON THE CURB, DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

Xavier Morrison - September 5, 2013

“Mary, where the f*ck did you disappear to? Did you go back to America? Did you hitchhike to Scotland? Your sh*t is still at the flat, but it’s like you dropped off the face of the planet. Where are you? I…I’m sorry I keep calling you when I’m so bashed at night. I…I can barely make it to the toilet, I shouldn’t be calling you when I’m too drunk to even make it down my own hallway. I’ve got a real problem, Mary. I see that. I want to get better for you. Please call me.”

Arthur Davies - September 6, 2013

“Hey babe, it’s Art. I…I feel like I oughta report you as a missin’ person. I know that’d be bad for you. I…I know that wouldn’t be good at all. But we haven’t heard from you at all. Considering last time I saw you and your eyes were swollen shut, I just…I just gotta know you’re okay. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t try to help you. Call me back, babe. Love yah.”

Xavier Morrison - September 8, 2013

“I’ve come to the conclusion that…that, uh, we are done. And…I have come to the conclusion that if you are still getting my calls, you just aren’t taking them. I really hope you’re okay. Please just call me to let me know so I can get the flat figured out. You…you can’t stay in the flat, Mary. If we’re through, you got to move out.”

Xavier Morrison - September 25, 2013

“I…I don’t know where to begin. But I have a feeling that I’m addressing you, A.” There was a leaden, awful pause. Dana’s hands were shaking. “I would like to know why I keep seeing you at my church and in my neighborhood. This is your only warning. Back off. Stop coming to St. Anne’s, it’s infuriating. Tell me where Mary is. I…I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Xavier Morrison - October 3, 2013

“This is Xavier Morrison,” the voice faltered slightly. “I’m…” there was a long pause. Long enough, it was almost like he had chosen to hang up, but neglected to actually end the call. Dana and Stella waited, and the American jumped slightly when he began again. “This is Xavier Morrison. I don’t actually know who I’m addressing anymore. I don’t know if Mary is there, or if it’s A. I don’t know what the f*ck is going on. I’m in Barnet, but I’m staying at Bill’s. You better be gone when I come over.” There was a long pause. “My…my daughter is missing.” He sounded like he was trying to muffle emotional gasps. “Liz is…she’s gone. She’s gone, Mary.” He hiccuped. “My little girl. Annie called me a few hours ago. She never came home last night. That’s not her. She’s never like that…Mary, I need you, I need your support right now. I’m so worried this is my fault somehow, and-.” He broke off into the horrible, repressed sobs of a terrible man whose life was falling apart. Dana grimaced. “I’m…she had yelled at me out on the sidewalk, you know? Just last week, saying that if I hurt Annie again that she’d turn me in. What if she ran away because of me? Because I f*cked up? Mary? Mary, please? Mary, please call me. I need you, Mary.” Another long silence. “And…and Jo is missing. Did you know about that? Joanne Sen. I…I know how close you were. She’s…she’s been missing f-for weeks. Mary…Mary…” The whimpering was worse than the sobbing. There was a long, agonized silence. “A…A…if this…if you know something about this, I want to know. I…I…” There was another lull, and then the call ended.

It was the last voicemail. Dana looked at the calendar. October third was a Thursday. From her autopsy, and the length she presumed Nelson had held Mary in confinement, she probably went missing around the time of Abel’s voicemail on July seventh. Likely, dead by mid July. Xavier Morrison had been begging for attention and aid from someone who had been dead for weeks. It was a profoundly sad thing. It was a pitiful chronicle of pain. Harrison had been right. Mary Nelson was completely cornered at the end.

“We showed Xavier Morrison pictures of the victims that day we met him and Anaïs Morrison, didn’t we?” Stella observed neutrally, running both hands down her face. Dana closed her eyes, trying to recall the horrifying meeting. Anaïs’ panic attack had shrouded everything, her clear fear and desperation to remain neutral and unsuspected of adultery by her sh*tty, abusive, adulterous husband.

“Yes…yes, we did. He said he was in north London when Anaïs called, telling him that Elizabeth was missing. That he was wrapping up some project to hand over to his colleague,” Dana clawed at the back of her neck, stiff and frustrated. “Then he promptly asked us how long it was going to take. He was rushed. Eager to kick us out soon after. Never been the most cooperative, actually. Do you think in that first meeting, he was trying to cover his private reaction to seeing Joanne Sen’s image?”

“Undoubtedly,” Stella stood up and began pacing, her hands braced on her hips. “He immediately told Anaïs to go to the kitchen to make something for us. Maybe it was to distract us, get the focus off of him. Remember how Morrison said he didn’t know Nelson’s name? He knew that he helped with communion sometimes, but he claimed to not know his name. But in these messages, he keeps referring to him as ‘A.’”

“Just like Lory McBride, her neighbor, and Elena Rice,” Dana replied. “A, or his alias ‘Abby.’ Perhaps no one knew his real name.”

“Apparently so,” Stella pinched the bridge of her nose. Anger radiated off of the DSI in great waves; literal heat. Her cheeks were pink with rage. “May I say something out of character?”

“Be my guest.”

“I want to shoot Xavier Morrison.”

“Again, be my guest.”

There was a long silence. Dana scanned through her notes, feeling numbed and overwhelmed by the information.

“Is Bill, this man he stayed with and said checked up on Mary…is that the colleague Morrison assaulted?” Stella asked, pacing some more.

“I think so,” Dana checked her notes, but couldn’t locate that detail. Amidst Harrison’s notes in the email, she found it. “Yes. It is. Bill R.” She looked into the middle distance. “I…I think it is interesting that there was a discrepancy between Arthur Davies and Joanne Sen as to who was actually assaulting Mary.”

“Hm?”

“It sounded like Arthur Davies was convinced Xavier was the cause. Joanne knew it was certainly Xavier, but it sounded like she also knew that something horrible was happening with Abel Nelson. To Davies, Nelson was a nice American who was friends with Mary. That wasn’t the first time he’d met him. He said ‘I can’t ever remember his name.’” Dana cracked her fingers again, anxiously. “From all of this, a few things are more clear.” Stella nodded. “First, Mary Nelson had some sort of collusion with her brother. It is not certain what she did, or how, but it is abundantly evident that she paid dearly for it. From how it sounds, it wasn’t completely voluntary. Coercion, at minimum.” Stella nodded once more, continuing to pace. “Second, Joanne Sen knew that Mary was involved in something that she couldn’t escape. Joanne knew Abel Nelson. She could recognize him, and understood that something was wrong with his behavior.” Stella ran a hand through her hair as she took another lap. “Third, Mary had a history of being abused, and disappearing for weeks. She wasn’t able to regularly come to work because of how bad her assaults were, at the hands of Xavier Morrison and her brother.” Dana stared at her notes. “Fourth, Mary Nelson also knew, in some way, Anne Thomas and Elizabeth Morrison. She regularly joined Abel Nelson at times which corresponded with the dates and times that Thomas was giving tours of the cemetery and the catacombs, and Morrison stated that Mary was fond of Elizabeth. At some point, they came into contact with one another. That connects Mary Nelson with three of Abel Nelson’s other victims.”

“And Mary Nelson is connected to Mary Harris by proxy, because she was the leader of the AA meetings that Xavier Morrison claimed to attend.”

“Right.”

“And Peter Collins and Anaïs Morrison, by proxy. Anaïs, being Xavier’s wife, and then Collins, being Anaïs’ lover.” She thought back to the wall in Abel Nelson’s apartment, and how the largest section of the wall was devoted to the Morrison family drama. She suddenly recalled the image of Elizabeth Morrison shouting at Xavier on the sidewalk. She wondered if that was the moment he had referred to in his heartbroken voicemail.

“And Julia Steinfield and Lory McBride are…outliers,” Stella stated hesitantly, the statement almost sounded like a question. “Julia went to the same church as Joanne on Wednesdays, but their connection is tentative at best.”

“I hate putting it this way, but Lory McBride doesn’t really count,” Dana replied. “She’s ‘the harlot.’ Not a saint.”

“And what about you, Dana?” Stella stopped pacing, standing before her lover with arms crossed. “What about you? How are you connected to Mary Nelson?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I don’t seem any more connected to Mary Nelson than I am to anyone else.”

“Except for Lory McBride.”

“Huh?”

“I think he was interested in Lory McBride because she lived in proximity to you and the Morrisons,” Stella shrugged. “I don’t know if that has any meaning. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it was, truly, a matter of having a bed in relative proximity to you and the Morrison home.”

“Well,” Dana licked her lips, “either way. Mary Nelson is tangled up with five of the other victims. That’s fairly significant.”

“Messy as hell,” Stella muttered, returning to her pacing.

“What are we on, point five? Six? We’ll say six. We know that Mary was supplying Xavier Morrison with drugs. He referred to ‘molly’ in the voicemail, and more of ‘the usual.’ ‘A couple of grams’ could be a few things. She was getting drugs from Abel Nelson, we confirmed that. I also suspect that Xavier Morrison wasn’t aware that Mary was procuring the drugs he imbibed from Abel Nelson.”

“If Xavier Morrison was getting drugs from Mary Nelson, then he is going to have a ton of problems on his hands regarding allegations leveled against him by his wife,” Stella whispered.

“What else?” Dana skimmed her notes. “Am I missing anything?” She’d need to process it all again, slowly and with less heightened emotion. She looked up at her lover, and was caught off guard by how hurt she appeared; staring out the window.

“We also learned that Mary Nelson was loved. By a few people.” It was said softly, deeply heartfelt. Stella looked like she was about to cry. “We learned that people cared deeply about Mary Nelson. That she wasn’t just some anonymous person. That she was missed. That her friends were deeply worried about her. That she wasn’t just some lost cause.” Stella’s jaw worked to the side as she reigned in her emotions.

“Stel,” the American whispered.

“This whole time, I haven’t been sure what to expect from Mary Nelson’s situation,” her Brit admitted. “I…I thought it was more a tragic twist of fate that he had also murdered his sister. But…her story is woven into all of theirs. I suspect we may never know how, but maybe even into the lives of Julia and Lory. I don’t know. We can’t know, probably. The only people who would be able to tell us for certain are dead.” Stella continued to stare out the window, tears pooling in her eyes. “But…but I feel some relief knowing that Mary Nelson knew love and affection. That Joanne Sen loved her. That her manager loved her. That people from her church called to check in on her. I feel relieved knowing that even though her life ended in horrific circ*mstances,” Stella turned her eyes on Dana, “Mary Nelson was loved by good people.”

Stella Gibson was many things. A good person was one of them. And she knew the value of coming from a place where she was hurt by family, and honoring the value of the love given to her by chosen family. Dana stood, and pulled her lover into her arms.

There was silence for an hour as they settled and ruminated, when Stella suddenly turned to her notes, ripping through them for something. She flipped open a folder, and began digging.

“Whoa, what are you looking for?”

“I just realized we never confirmed what church Julia Steinfield and Elena Rice normally attended,” Stella said, quickly shifting through her notes. “They occasionally went to Our Lady of Dolours, but that wasn’t their home church. Remember? They went because Julia met Abel Nelson there, and it was convenient to their school. But that wasn’t their regular church.” Dana’s heart began to pound. Stella paused in her haphazard rifling of notes. A daze passed over her face as her brain started heating up, churning through the larger framework of the investigation. “You know what else I realized?”

“What?”

“We never asked what Julia’s parents do. What their jobs are,” Stella whispered, staring into the middle distance. Her brow furrowed. “And…and, Dana, most of these murders were so premeditated. So planned. We’ve known that from the beginning. Some were panicked in action, but the sequence and timing suggested that he had plotted much of it out.” Dana nodded, gnawing on her bottom lip. “There is no way…there is no way that six victims are that entangled and there just so happen to be outliers. With Lory McBride, I could believe that was not planned. I can almost buy that it was a response of desperation, killing her. But I don’t believe for a moment that she doesn’t have a significance in this. With how laid out it was for Julia Steinfield must be connected somehow. He groomed her. He spent weeks seducing her, making her pliant to him. That can’t be random.”

“Logically, I would have to agree.” She opened up her own notebooks, beginning with her earliest scribbles regarding the first three bodies. The pathologist was shuffling through the numerous screenshots of the CCTV footage displaying Julia with Abel Nelson in the Boots when she found herself pausing. “Stel.”

“Yes?”

“Can you look something up for me?”

“What is it?” Stella opened her laptop, poised and ready.

“Search ‘John Steinfield’ and see what comes up. That’s Julia’s father. Just Google him.” Stella did so, and her face blanched. “What does he do?”

“He’s…he’s a lawyer.”

How convenient. Just like Elizabeth’s good-for-nothing father.

“What’s the firm?”

“R&M Attorneys at Law.” Stella clicked on the website’s landing page, and her eyes grew wide, then fell shut. “For f*ck’s sake.” She turned the laptop towards Dana so she could see the screen. There was a group photo of all the attorneys and lawyers. At the front of the image, two men were shaking hands. One was exceptionally old, while the other looked like a man in his mid to late forties. The pathologist immediately spotted John Steinfield in the front standing close to the ancient looking man, and towards the back on the far left stood none other than Xavier Morrison.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“And look,” Stella pointed at the caption, listing every individual.

“Oh my good God,” Dana felt her mouth fill with water. She felt like she was going to be sick.

As of April, 2013, we are proud to bring together the firms of Rice and McBride to form R&M Attorneys at Law.

“Bill Rice,” Stella stated, pointing at the one younger man shaking hands at the front.

“The colleague that Morrison beat the sh*t out of was Elena Rice’s father,” Dana moaned quietly. “Okay, so the Steinfields and Rices were not just family friends. Julia and Elena’s fathers are colleagues. And colleagues with Xavier Morrison.”

“That’s Henry McBride,” Stella gestured to the old man. “What do you want to bet that he’s related to Lory?”

“Look it up.”

Stella searched Lory McBride’s name, hunting for the public social media accounts the woman had. She began scrolling steadily through Lory’s Facebook page, which was plastered with affection and posts regarding her death and the loss of her sunshine. Minutes elapsed as Stella wound her way back in time, trekking through several months until she got to April.

“Here,” she stopped abruptly.

There was a picture of Lory McBride with the ancient man, holding him gently and smiling brightly. Dana read the caption. Her insides were gnarled and awful. The things that Milagro missed were sometimes exceptional.

So proud of Daddy! R&M Attorneys at Law!! Excited for you to retire next year– love yah!

The American ran her hands down her face. She wanted to scream. She wanted to scream and scream and scream.

“While you’re on Facebook,” she said through her hands, “look up John Steinfield. See if his account is public. What church does the Steinfield and Rice family go to?” She had a sinking feeling she already knew. Stella began looking, and within the amount of time it took for Dana to heat up a new pot of water for tea, they had their answer.

“St. Anne’s. Vauxhall.”

“The same church as the Morrisons and Collins.” She wrung her hands. Of course. Of f*cking course.

“The very same.”

“Stella, I’m going to jump out the window.”

“I’ll jump with you,” her Brit angrily snapped the laptop shut. “Can you send this information to Michael? I’m going to go swim.” Her lover grabbed her bathing suit from the bathroom, her swim bag and towel, and practically stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The American couldn’t blame her. She, too, felt like she needed to blow off major steam. So. They were all connected. Inexplicably, woefully entangled. She needed to track it on paper. She thought for a second, glaring down at the blank white page, and then decided to put an x next to each murdered individual, and a little cross next to every person who’d been labeled a saint.

She began with Mary Nelson, and worked her way out. Jesus, it was dizzying.

At the top she put Abel Nelson, and underneath Mary Nelson’s name she labeled it with Xavier’s. She drew a line between Abel and Mary, writing siblings? lovers? along the mark. Next came the line between Mary and Xavier, which she wrote affair next to. In Mary’s bubble, she put the little x and the cross. To the upper right of Mary’s name, she placed Joanne Sen, writing Barnet / lady of Dolours , adorning her with an x and cross. The line stretching between Mary and Joanne read friends . Along the ridge of Xavier’s circle, she wrote St. Anne’s. To the right of Xavier, she put Elizabeth and Anaïs Morrison, connecting them with lines that read married and father. Elizabeth’s corresponding lines to her parents said mother and father . Anaïs and Elizabeth each got a little cross, but only Elizabeth was marked with the x . Along the side of the paper, Dana drew a long line up to the right hand corner, where she wrote Peter Collins , and gave him the x and the cross. She wrote St. Anne’s above his bubble, Elizabeth’s, and Anaïs’. The line that connected Anaïs and Peter read affair. To the right of Xavier’s bubble, she wrote Mary Harris , added the x and the cross, and labeled the connecting line between Xavier and her with AA . Above her, Dana wrote Lory McBride , and then above that Anne Thomas , adding Westminster to the latter’s. Both circles were given the x and the cross. Diagonally to the left beneath Xavier’s name, she put down Julia, giving her the same treatment as the other victims. A line between Julia and Xavier; worked with her father. She wrote St. Anne’s / Lady of Dolours next to Julia. A line between Xavier and Lory; worked with her father. A line between Lory and Abel; affair. Lines reaching out from Anne to Abel and Mary Nelson; FOWNC.

Jesus, Dana scratched her hairline. There were more lines coming off of Xavier Morrison than anyone else. It was a turn of events she hadn’t really anticipated. It was almost as shocking realizing that through Xavier Morrison, and possibly because of him, Mary Nelson could have potentially known every victim that Abel Nelson had planned to capture and brutalize. The haunted, guilty expression on the woman’s face resurfaced in her mind. In the catacombs, there had been agony etched into her dark features; agony and something like a calculated understanding of her complicity. What did you know? She bit the tip of her thumb. Mary Nelson, what all did you actually know? The woman had lost her head. Maybe he had taken that part of her body because her true value had been in how much she knew. The fact that she knew far too much.

She didn’t bother connecting Abel Nelson to all of his victims with a line reading murdered . Those lines muddied the already confusing drawing, and it was a given. After a moment, with everyone’s names sketched out, she hesitantly added her own name, and then Stella’s, at the bottom right. Whether they liked it or not, they were tangled up in the mess, too. She drew a line between herself and Stella; partners. A line between Lory and herself; same landlord? Lambeth?? Lines from herself to both Xavier and Anaïs Morrison. Lambeth? She drew a curving line between herself and Mary Harris; look alike . Line between Elizabeth and Stella; look alike. She didn’t bother to put a line between Stella, herself, and Collins. Like the line indicating murder , colleague was presumed.

Where do I make sense in the grand scheme of things?

It didn’t actually make sense. Not really. She wasn’t a British citizen, but technically neither was Mary and Abel Nelson. She wasn’t a member of those churches, or involved in an affair amongst any of the people. At best, her connections were tenuous. It didn’t seem to be substantial enough connective tissue to actually make her a part of Nelson’s grand scheme of pain and horror. Dana ran a hand through her long hair, staring at the window she threatened to leap through. The striking resemblance to Pfaster. The song. The lustful gaze Nelson had leveled at her in Westminster occupied her memory, and the way his cold hand slipped over her shoulder. The awful hiss of his mouth ghosted through her, making her chest ache as she recounted his words.

I remembered how you had such pretty hair, but it is still surprising, seeing it in person…But you have always been pretty. Like an angel…I knew it when I first saw you, I knew who you were…Even without the thorn in your forehead, I knew…I’ve wanted to worship you forever. And soon, I will.

A shudder passed through Dana’s body; the ever present feeling that Nelson didn’t simply know of her. But knew her. Knew everything one could possibly find, save for the window of time where she’d been someone else; hiding, dark haired, devastated, on the run. He knew all about her according to the public record, and what could be traced back to her. And he knew the most intimate aspects of her; photos of Stella, tangled in her arms. Kisses exchanged. Private moments in her own apartment, freshly showered, freshly awoken, freshly aroused. Stella, once again, in her arms. The hatred bubbled up her throat. An invading organism, tainting everything. Just like a meningitis-inducing amoeba in Roman baths.

He’s everywhere, had been whispered in her ear by a spectral, carbon-monoxide induced hallucination of Mary Nelson. Her chest ached; definitely not a ghost, it wasn’t possible. It absolutely had to be a hallucination. Mulder chided her in the back of her mind. Regardless, Mary Nelson had spoken the truth. It was undeniable. Dread pumped through her veins like blood.

He was everywhere. There was no escape.