***Warning: this chapter contains mentions of racism.***

Between the day Shannon Malone, Caleb Vance, Dexter Bradbury, Ginger Beaumont, Jared Wilkins, and Ollie O'Brien spent in the cemetery and the final three deaths of the school year, there was a short reprieve. May was well on its way now, and it seemed that everything was working towards a peak. Clifford Dent was revisiting every single lead pertaining to Sarah Benadine's case. Horace Strickland and the rest of the police department were attempting to find the answers to the other cases of the year. Jackie Gordon was on the verge of disappearing. Norberta Benadine had not told anyone about the note she'd found, too nervous to say anything until she knew for sure the note was from Jackie. Briargate was bustling with the people Howard Nesbitt had promised, investigators in their own right, hunting whatever was causing all the panic in town. Patience Lea was trying to keep a hold on her school as well as the nervous parents, many of whom were in contact with her with increasing frequency as the days went by. Tuly Lewis was in the infirmary far more than usual, reporting light-headedness and nausea. But for a short while, there was a stagnant undercurrent in Clearwater, as if nothing was happening at all.

That made Dexter Bradbury nervous. He knew better than anyone that appearances can be deceiving. There is always a calm before the storm.

Caleb told them about his encounter with Dean Procter and Vince Masterson in the library. Out of all of them, Ginger was the least surprised. "If anything, I'm surprised this didn't come sooner," she said, all of them gathered at one of the tables in the dining room, actually present for the lunch meal for once. "My brother's been hassled by Dean's older brother for years. He's kinda...you know." She shrugged and made a vague gesture with her hands that Dexter didn't quite understand. "He goes after Stacie Rothschild too 'cause she's Jewish."

"He's pretty bad, isn't he?" Caleb asked. They had all heard whispers about the things Darryl Procter had done, but none but Ginger had seen his handiwork firsthand.

Ginger grimaced. "He gave my brother a black eye, bloody nose, and fat lip one time. For no reason other than...well..."

Caleb nodded solemnly. He dragged one hand restlessly across the table.

"Most people just...stay out of his way," Ginger continued. "From what I've heard, he doesn't always have a reason for what he does. Just gets angry. But he's...pretty violent most of the time."

"Dean never used to be," Caleb said quietly.

"But he is now," Jared said. He nodded at Caleb. "It was the same when he gave me that bloody nose. He just seemed...different. I don't know. Worse."

"Yeah," Caleb agreed.

"At least Stephanie just sticks to insults," Ginger said under her breath, sounding rather nonplussed. Dexter shot her a half-hearted smile, and the ghost of a reflection appeared on her lips.

"Did you guys hear?" Jared asked quietly as conversation lulled. "When...when we had Diefenbaker's class outside the other day...people are saying they found Lester Ames. Or...parts of him."

"Ugh." Ginger winced.

"Where did you hear that?" Ollie asked.

"Jimmy," Jared said with a shrug.

"That'd explain why Howard Nesbitt was here that day," Caleb said. "Him and some other people from the Administration have been at the school a lot lately. Lots of students have seen them. I saw them myself the other day."

"Do you really think they found him?" Shannon asked in awe.

"I suppose it could be," Caleb said.

Dexter realized with a bit of a shock that he wouldn't be surprised at all.

After school, Dexter went to the Wilkinses' house. He'd been spending an increasing amount of time there, but if anyone in the Wilkins family noticed, they didn't let on. Even Florence Wilkins, normally so strict, seemed willing to turn a blind eye. The reason for his increased visits was not that his parents were fighting more. In fact, it was quite the opposite; Dexter's parents had been quiet for three days. In Dexter's experience, that was usually worse. When they weren't screaming at each other, it was only a matter of time before they began again. There was always something brewing under the surface, and usually when they recommenced it was more volatile than when they had taken pause. Their halts in fighting had only lasted this long once or twice that Dexter could remember, and the longer they were quiet, the worse it was when they got back to what they did best.

Jared didn't say anything, but Dexter was fairly certain that he appreciated the company. Jared had been edgy lately, and understandably so. The empty spot in the corner of the living room that used to house Pipe's birdcage was testament to Jared's unease. Someone or something had been in Jared's house, in Jared's room. Dexter knew Judy had refused to set foot in Jared's room ever since Pip had been found. And Dexter saw the way Jared sometimes flinched when he looked at his bed, like maybe Pip had been dug out and freed from the ground and brought to a new resting place. Or returned to the old one, really. Dexter thought he liked having someone else around, someone different. He liked having someone around who wasn't his brother or his father, who seemed to not want to do anything, or his mother, who seemed to think that if she ignored it, nothing had happened. Someone who wasn't his sister, who sometimes looked at him with a dark, troubled expression, like what happened to Pip was his fault. The bird had been in his room, after all. Dexter was not fooled by the endless supply of excuses Jared had for the both of them ending up at Ollie's house on the weekends. He didn't say a word; he understood very well wanting to be out of the good old family home.

Jared at least had told him that his father had gone to talk to Headmistress Lea about the dead canary. As the leading authority on just about anything related to the gifted community, she seemed the best bet. Jared did not know what had come of the conversation—his father had never said. He only knew it had happened.

Jared pulled his math homework out as soon as they got up to his room, taking a second to look at it warily before groaning loudly and dramatically. Dexter snickered and rolled his eyes.

"Hate math, hate math," Jared said over and over again, oddly rhythmically. It sounded like some sort of chant.

"Be quiet," Dexter chided. "You're good at math."

Jared's only response was to groan again even louder. Dexter shook his head and chuckled lightly. He took a seat on the floor as Jared rifled around in the drawer of his bedside table, cawing an exultant 'aha!' when he came up with two pencils.

"Here," he said, tossing one to Dexter. His aim was poor—or perhaps perfect—and Dexter had to slap it away before it hit him in the face.

Downstairs, a knock came on the front door.

Dexter and Jared dove into their homework. Jared really was good at math, even though with every equation he seemed one second away from jamming his pencil into his eye. As Dexter worked, Florence Wilkins's voice floated up to him; he could not distinguish any specific words, but it seemed she was talking to whoever was at the door. A dim light went on in the back of Dexter's head, but it didn't quite amount to anything. He was too focused on the division he was doing. After a few moments, he heard the door shut.

Florence appeared in the doorway to Jared's room not long after. She knocked lightly on the doorframe even though the door was open. Jared held up one finger, writing furiously on his homework.

"Okay, good," he said after a moment, looking up.

Florence gave him a look that might have been fond or might have been suppressed disgust. It was hard to tell with her.

"I'm going to the store," she said. "I shouldn't be gone very long. I just have to pick up some cans of soup. These food drives are taking all I have."

"Food drives?" Jared asked, tilting his head to one side.

"People have been at the house twice in the past few weeks asking for canned goods," Florence said with a little sigh. "I'm not even sure what it's all going towards. Lord knows anymore."

Jared tensed. The light in the back of Dexter's mind got the tiniest brighter.

"Someone was here before today?" Jared asked. "When was that?"

"Oh, I'm not sure exactly," Florence said dismissively. "A few weeks ago. Sometime in April."

"Who was it? Did you know them?" Jared watched his mother intently.

"No, I didn't." Florence looked thoughtful. "It was a woman. I'd never seen her before. Young thing. Blonde hair. I remember she was wearing a black dress—it made her look like she should've been attending a funeral."

"Did you invite her in?" Jared asked urgently.

Florence frowned. "I may have. I think it was raining. I didn't want her standing out getting wet while I got what she needed." She peered at Jared curiously, frowning deeper. "What's this about?"

"Oh, nothing, I just thought maybe I—uh—knew who it was." Jared was flustered; his words came out sounding uncertain. "But, uh—never mind. It's not important."

Florence gazed at him a while longer, and Dexter was rather certain she didn't believe him. Finally, she seemed to decide that it didn't matter; she shook her head and turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, "I'll be back later."

"You are so bad at lying," Dexter said, quietly to be sure Jared's mother wouldn't hear.

"Oh, lay off me," Jared said. He swatted a hand in Dexter's direction before sobering, looking at him seriously. "She invited her in."

"Yeah," Dexter said. "It was raining. No sun."

Jared nodded. "Yeah." His eyes slid to his bed, to where his pillows were. Where Pip had been. He frowned. "Maybe."

Dexter suddenly found it much harder to focus on his homework.

***

Dexter left after dinner. Timothy Wilkins insisted on him staying to at least be fed. Dexter supposed his mother wouldn't be happy about it, but she would know where he was. He was sure his father would barely notice.

Dexter's mother descended on him the minute he got through the front door, just as he'd figured she would. She wasn't mad, exactly, but definitely perturbed. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak first.

"I was at Jared's," he said, and she sighed.

"I know that," she said. "You missed dinner."

"Um, yeah, sorry," Dexter said, wincing slightly. "Mr. Wilkins wanted me to stay to eat with them."

Helen Bradbury rubbed the bridge of her nose, and Dexter knew he'd gotten out of jail. Helen had grown up with Timothy Wilkins; she knew all about his inability to accept 'no' for an answer once he got his mind set on something. She nodded shortly.

"Next time, at least call home to tell me," she said. "I don't mind really, I'd just like to know."

"Right. Sorry, Mom."

She smiled slightly at him, but the look in her eyes was almost sad. She put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him past her. He headed towards the stairs while she made her way to the living room. Dexter did not miss the acrid look she shot into the room and he knew immediately his father must be there. As he climbed the steps, the door at the end of the upstairs hallway creaked open and his grandmother hobbled out.

"Thought I heard you," she said in her deep, somewhat raspy and commanding voice. She leaned heavily on her cane. She smiled in a way that was slightly cold. "She give you the business?"

Dexter laughed sheepishly. "Uh, yeah, I guess so. It wasn't so bad though."

His grandmother appraised him with her dark, beady eyes, one eyebrow crooked. She laughed, a harsh, sharp bark. "Not so bad, eh? She's getting soft."

"Yeah, I guess," Dexter said, simultaneously amused and unnerved by the almost gleeful grin now on his grandmother's face. Strange things often gave her amusement.

"Don't let it bother you," she said, waving her hand, and Dexter wasn't sure if she meant his mother scolding him or not scolding him enough. He wouldn't have been surprised either way. He nodded and turned into his room as she laboriously made her way to the stairs.

He did not resurface until long after he was supposed to be asleep. That was when his parents broke their stalemate.

He was halfway between wakefulness and sleep when his mother's voice, high and infuriated, pierced his skull like an ice pick. He sat straight up in bed, heart pounding in his surprise. He could hear his father now, just as angry, screaming back a retort that was mostly expletives. Dexter had known this was coming. That didn't make it any easier.

Gingerly, he lay back down, pressing his pillow over his head in hopes of drowning out the noise. He knew full well that it would not work; he'd tried it hundreds of times over the years and had never been successful. It muffled the noise though, dulled the effect. Made it easier to bear, he supposed. In some way. Sometimes he even managed to lull into some state of half-sleep without having to resort to sneaking in the Wilkinses' back door at midnight. Something told him he wasn't going to be so lucky tonight.

He was right.

After some amount of time—perhaps twenty minutes, perhaps longer—his parents' voices got even louder. Dexter was relatively certain they'd awoken the entire street. His mother was so shrill Dexter could not make out any words, and he wasn't sure his father was even saying any words; it sounded more like incoherent sounds of anger and frustration. Dexter felt himself tensing up. The fighting felt different tonight. More charged. He'd never heard his parents sound quite this livid, and he'd gone through a few doozies of disputes. He started to peak his head out from underneath his pillow when a resounding crash shattered through the night.

"You bitch," his father said. And then all was quiet.

Dexter risked sitting up. He strained his ears trying to hear something, anything. There was no sound. Silence surrounded him. It was like his parents had been swallowed whole by the earth.

Or worse.

Nervously, Dexter planted his feet on the floor. This is a bad idea, a terrible idea, the worst idea of your miserable life, his mind was telling him, but he wasn't listening. He was still trying to pick up on any sort of sound from downstairs. The silence was suffocating; he almost wanted the shouting back. At least then he could tell what was going on.

Quiet as a mouse, hardly daring to breathe, Dexter crept over to the door and pulled it open. For perhaps the only time in his life, his door opened soundlessly, as if it was mocking him and his discomfort. He sidled over to the steps and took them slowly, all the while waiting for something. The fighting to recommence, maybe. Maybe something else entirely. He wasn't sure. He just knew the other shoe had to drop sooner or later.

It dropped when he got to the bottom of the steps. The staircase was in the front hall, separate from any of the rooms, but he could see into the kitchen when he got to the bottom. His mother sat at the kitchen table, looking stricken. She held her head in one hand. Across the room, lying on the ground, was a metal pan. That must have been the crash. One of them had thrown it. Dexter was pretty certain he knew what they'd been aiming for.

He felt oddly detached looking at it. All he could think was that that was new. Never before had his parents resorted to physical violence. Their verbal blows were always strong and cut right down to the bone; they had no need for anything else.

Of course, that no longer seemed true.

It was a straight shot to the back door from where he stood. He knew neither of his parents would see him; he'd done it a million times. Without another thought, he flew out of the house.

The grass was wet against his feet. He almost laughed when he realized that he was in his bare feet and pajamas. He looked over at the Wilkinses' house. He was certain that they had to have heard everything. Jared was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean he hadn't been there; in fact, more than once Dexter had found him sitting just inside the back door, waiting to see if Dexter would show up.

For a reason Dexter would not be able to admit to himself, even later in life, he did not go over to see if Jared was there to open up and let him in. Instead, he sat down on the grass right where he had been standing, uncaring that his pajama bottoms were getting wet and there were small bits of grass stuck to his feet. He sat and waited.

It's entirely possible Dexter would have spent the entire night out there. It's also entirely possible (perhaps even certain) that something would have happened to him to prevent that possibility. It does not matter. For, only shortly after Dexter had gone outside, the back door opened with a mighty squeak and his grandmother appeared in the threshold.

"What you sitting in the dew for, boy?" she asked, her voice low but still powerful. She casually made her way towards him. "Who raised you?"

Dexter couldn't help but smile. His grandmother came up next to him and looked down at him with a sharp, keen eye, looking unimpressed but not particularly surprised.

"Isn't your mother goin' to be in for a surprise when she finds grass stains all over the back of your pants." She shook her head. "Now I'd like to see you explain that one. Oh yes I would."

"How did you know I was out here?" Dexter asked.

"Now don't be stupid, son," his grandmother said, shaking a finger at him. "I know you've been leaving the house lots of nights. Might be better off, anyway. If my hearing wasn't so sorry I'd never be able to sleep. But not to worry about that."

Incredibly, and without any warning, she plopped right down on the ground next to him, her knees creaking like the back door had. She held her cane in one hand and placed it across her knees.

"Oh, Lord-have-mercy, boy, you're goin' to have to help me back up," she said. "Otherwise I might just stay here all night. And I bet you'd like to see me explain that one, wouldn't you, son?"

"Don't know if you could," Dexter said teasingly.

"Oh, just my own grandson left me lying on the ground because he hasn't got a care for an old lady like me," she said, laughing that harsh bark of a laugh that she always let loose when laughing at her own jokes. "But we won't have to worry about that, will we, sonny? Because we look out for each other, don't we?"

Her beady little eyes were curious, honestly interested in what he would say.

"Of course, Grandma," Dexter said easily.
"Of course, of course," she said, nodding in satisfaction. "Otherwise I wouldn't be out here sitting on the grass with you. My bones aren't what they used to be. Most of me isn't what it used to be. But I've still got my mind, eh. My mind's still sharp. It's how I knew you'd be out here tonight, what with that mighty musical composition your folks were playing. And I had a feeling you might just stay out here. Now that's a silly thing to do, boy, and you know it."

"I just...needed to think," Dexter said quietly.

"Well, sure you did," his grandmother said. "No one would begrudge you that, I suppose. It's hard to think in there, eh?"

She jerked a gnarled thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the house. Dexter nodded, looking at the ground.

"They made quite an almighty sound, didn't they?" His grandmother laughed, bitter and unfeeling. "Oh yes. Let me give you a little piece of advice, boy: don't ever let anyone tell you what marriage is like. We've been on this Earth for thousands of years, and no one's figured it out yet. It keeps changing on us. Even for the most in love."

She looked back at the house again, a wistful expression clouding her face. Her eyes didn't see anything at all. Dexter peered at her curiously.

"Now, as someone who knows her daughter perhaps better than she knows herself, I'd like to say your mother didn't mean for things to get so out of hand tonight." His grandmother was looking at him again, with a hard eye that made him uncomfortable. "But I don't know if that's right. It's hard to say anymore. Now, me? I'm old. A little fighting isn't goin' to hurt me none. But you?" She paused, sighing heavily. "I don't want to see this ruin you, boy. This house can be ugly sometimes. You know that better than anyone. So I think that any time it gets to bothering you, it's okay for you to get out. You just go on and git. You got lots of friends round here, you know that. Take a breather someplace else, eh? Lord, you go over to the O'Briens' and they never have any parents around to worry about fighting."

Dexter chuckled slightly, but it was humorless. His grandmother smiled crookedly.

"But don't do anything silly, boy," she said. "Don't let it get to you that much. You hear me? You find a way so it won't get to you that much. I wish you didn't have to, but it's the way things are. All right?"

Dexter thought a moment before answering. "All right."

"Good, good," his grandmother said. "Now, are you coming back in or are you goin' to sneak in the Wilkinses' back door?"

Dexter looked back at the house dubiously. "Are they done?"

"For tonight, I think so," his grandmother said sagely. "For tonight."

Dexter considered. "I'll come back in."

"All right, that's fine." She held out a hand to him. "Now how about you help an old woman off the ground."

Dexter climbed to his feet and took his grandmother's hand, holding onto her upper arm to give more support. She got up surprisingly easily, keeping a grasp on her cane with her free hand.

"Oh, Lord," she said, "I'm too old for this. And look at you! You don't even have any shoes on. Lord almighty, boy."

She hobbled towards the back door, Dexter close behind her. As he went, he thought about what his grandmother had said, something that had stuck in his mind. She'd said she didn't know if his mother had meant to let things get so out of hand. Dexter had a feeling his mother had been the one to throw the pan.

As his grandmother opened the door, Dexter thought he heard her mumble, "This is no place for you."

The house was dark when he and his grandmother went back inside. The light in the kitchen was off. Dexter thought that perhaps his parents had, in fact, decided to call it a night. Relief surrounded him like a cloud. His grandmother turned around to look at him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Off to bed with you now," she said. "You've got school tomorrow, you know. Can't be falling asleep in your classes."

"Yeah," Dexter agreed. He headed towards the stairs, stopping with one hand on the railing. "Oh, uh, thanks, by the way."

"Well, my, my, my," his grandmother said, fake shock dripping off every word. "I hope that wasn't too painful for you."

She laughed again, that sharp cackle, and shooed him off up the stairs. She followed him slowly, humming something softly.

It took a long time for Dexter to get to sleep that night. He replayed the sounds of his parents fighting over and over, trying to disconnect all feeling from the memory. He'd known all along that the fighting would begin again, and that it would be worse than it had been before. He hadn't expected this, though.

There is always a calm before the storm.

***Well, Lloyd, I've been away, but now I'm back. Okay, seriously, please forgive me for dying for a month. I don't even have that much of a valid excuse besides work. Anyway, here's a new chapter, finally. And I'd just like to say that I love Dexter's grandma. I think she's one of the easiest characters to write for, though I don't really know why.

Thanks to everyone who voted and commented in my absence, I really appreciate it :)***