AUGUST 18TH 11 PM

Marcella opens her eyes gradually, her head is pounding, her throat is dry, and her neck throbbing. She brings her hands up to her neck, weakly messaging it, trying to put two and two together.

Someone had just tried to kill her, and they'd come very close- if they'd applied more pressure to her throat, she'd be dead. Like her brother. "Wes," she whimpers-sobbing into her palm. She plops herself up, careful not to be seen. She notes she's in the back of a pick-up, and her attacker is nowhere to be seen. For all she knows, he might be right in the driver's seat.

She squints-looking around wearily. He's somewhere. But not here. She lets out a sigh of relief. However, she's not out of the woods yet. Acknowledging her need to get away- she examines her options. Taking her car is out of the question. He'll notice- he might be in there. She can't take this one. What if the key isn't even in the ignition?
She'll have to make a run for it. Just up to the intersection, then she can hitchhike or find a phone booth and call the police.

She hops out of the truck, careful not to make any noise and runs- runs as fast as her legs can carry her, not looking back. She'll run until she passes out if she has to. All that's on her mind right now is surviving the night.

PAST 12 PM

The streets are empty, and there's hardly anyone driving around, much less walking. Marcella places her hands on her knees- heaving and wheezing from exhaustion. She does not know how long she's been running, and her body is too weak to keep going. It's the middle of the night, and she doesn't know where she is. "This was a bad idea," she says between short breaths. She is just outside of Flint- on a sidewalk twenty minutes away from the town square. But Marcella does not know that. The streetlights are dim and flicker every so often. She looks ahead and sees nothing but more road- more concrete, more distance. She sighs a heavy sigh.

Marcella had been just about ready to give up when she noticed a bright light behind her. As the light nears and intensifies, she hears the hum of an engine. Relieved, her heart leaps. I'm saved! She thinks- running onto the road, waving her hands around in an attempt to get the drivers' attention. The vehicle slows down as it approaches. Unable to control it, she begins to sob. It'll all be over soon, this nightmare- She'll ask to use their phone, and everything will be alright.

He drives away from the scene, his heart is racing. "She won't be happy about this," he says out loud. "Fuck" he slams his palms onto the steering wheel. He told her it was done and now this. . .he has screwed up royally.

How could she still be alive? He'd been so sure she was dead. Did she pretend? He grinds his teeth in frustration- nodding his head and deciding silently not to tell her she got away. Even though he couldn't have foreseen the girl arriving at the house, much less running away. Yeah, none of this is his fault. Daisy will have to understand that.

But what if the girl goes to the police? Damn it, you're the police, he reminds himself, speeding up unconsciously. Being on the inside could be his advantage. He can fix this if he finds her- make her go away like he is doing with Wes. He grimaces at his thoughts. Twenty-four hours ago, he would've never even dreamt of being dirty. Of covering up a murder and killing someone. It's unbelievable how things change so quickly- is that what it's like for actual criminals? He thinks- does everything flip on its head without warning for them too? And is that what he is now, a criminal? He shakes his head in denial. No- he mentally affirms. His actions, however, premeditated aren't who he really is. This is just. . . It's just what you do for your family. He wonders if Wes shared the same sentiments- if he'd done all this for family. He unwillingly feels a strange sense of understanding and pity for the man lying at the back of his truck.

His mind was clouded when he noticed a figure standing in the middle of the road. It's a woman, raising her arms and waving them around weakly. Hitchhiker, he thinks. He unconsciously slows down. Even though hitchhiking is fairly uncommon around here (Caper is a small town) he has never not helped someone out who needed a ride. Slowing down is almost second nature to him.

As he slows almost to a stop- he recognises the woman. "It's her," he says to himself. Under the light of the moon and the glow of his headlights, he can tell for certain it's the same woman he tossed in the back of his truck not too long ago. He never forgets a face, and he cannot believe his luck. This is his second chance, he can't afford to mess this up too. He wipes his palm on his pants. His sweaty palms make him realise just how nervous he is. Sure, he has a second chance, but a second chance at what, murder? At the house, he'd acted on impulse. However, now he has a choice. . . And whatever he chooses will haunt him for life.

He draws closer and stops the truck. She frantically races to the passenger side window and bangs her palms on it in a frenzy. He slowly lowers the glass and asks in the calmest voice he can muster, "Are you alright, Ms?" She begins to cry and choke over her own words, "H-help. . . I need help" she manages to say. Still very calm, he replies, "what do you need help with? Are you lost?" She shakes her head and tries to open his passenger side door- he unlocks it, letting her in. Once inside- she insists on him driving. "Where?" "Anywhere, just away from here"

They'd been driving in silence for a while before he spoke. "You okay?" He asked, obvious concern painted on his face. Marcella had simply nodded. She has no idea where they are nor where they are going. After her ordeal she ought to be worried- cautious even, but his calm demeanor has her put her at ease. When he'd pulled up next to her- she couldn't even get her words out, she'd been too afraid and flustered. The way he'd spoken softly to her made her feel a little silly about her hysteria- however valid it may have been. She creases her forehead, internally cursing at how badly she'd handled the interaction.

Would asking him for help now be ill-timed? Unsure of what else to do- she scans the vehicle. The lights are low, so her eyes strain. She looks at everything; the dashboard, the ignition, the smooth carpet below her feet, the steering wheel where his hands are- she frowns at how hard he is gripping it. She takes in her environment and can't help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu.
Marcella has always trusted her gut, and right now, it's telling her something is not right. The hair at the back of her sore neck rises when she feels his eyes on her- studying her silently. He must think she's a crazy drunk. Or maybe he's the crazy one. Surely, no one who'd just given a ride to a distressed woman would be this calm, right? She shudders lightly and a bitter taste forms in her mouth. Ignoring his occasional glances- she looks up at the rearview mirror; not sure exactly what she is looking for- willing herself to look harder; she squints and sees a tarp covering the back of his trunk dancing in the wind

Before she can ask- his hands fly over to the mirror with astonishing speed. He twists it upwards so roughly it almost snaps- making her flinch. They make eye contact for a second and Marcella sees the panic in his eyes. The look had only last a moment, but she could not mistake it for anything other than utter panic. She had that very expression not too long ago.

"Sorry, I thought I saw something," he clears his throat. Her hands unconsciously go to her neck- softly messaging the area, the contact stings and sends a shiver down her spine, making her wince. "Are you alright?" He asks, "I'm fine, I just had a long night," she isn't, and she should've told him that, she needs help after all. But there's something about him that makes her uneasy, something that makes her want to lie.

Maybe it's the way he keeps tapping his finger on the steering wheel, or the fact that he hasn't asked her why she was distressed and what she was doing all alone late at night. Perhaps it's the way he almost tore the rearview mirror right off when she'd stared at it. Whatever it is, being in his car makes her stomach churn- something is not right. "Where are you from?"

"Here," he replies with a smile, she blinks- pressing her lips into a straight line "That's not what I meant, where are you coming from?" She emphasises the word. Well, she is either really stupid or simply cannot recognise him. In her defence; he'd been wearing a hazmat suit when he tried to choke her to death. However, she was at the back to this very truck. How can she not recognise it? She had gotten in it so willingly.

"Flint," he watches her chest rise and fall quickly. She balls her palms into fists on her lap. She is the embodiment of unease. Did she figure it out? He wonders with frowned eyebrows. Not being able to tell frustrates him. He decides to play God and makes a game out of it. Out of ten, he'll take away one point for every gesture or answer she gives that he determines alludes to her knowledge of him. If it gets to zero, she dies. This game gives her a chance he thinks smugly. After all; Killing her would be pointless if she doesn't even know who he is.

"Where are you from?" He returns the question. "Flint" she admits in a deadpan tone. "What a coincidence," he smiles one of his charming smiles. Her palms are still fisted but her breathing eases. While in the academy he'd studied how to keep criminals calms while they were being interrogated (not that she's a criminal) being calm and kind is a focal point and the fact that he is good-looking and naturally charming is just natures added bonus. As far as he knows his smile could put anyone at ease.

"You live in Flint? I don't think I've seen you around," he smiles wider, "I don't. Not really. I was visiting someone," her eyes focus on the road. He internally deducts a point despite her honesty, who the hell just doesn't mention the fact that they'd almost died less than two hours ago? Did she not want help?
"Who? I might know who they are" She continues to stare at the road. "Did something happen to them?" Her head snaps his direction and their eyes meet- she opens her mouth to speak. Say it. He internally wills as his heart races in anticipation. But she does not speak. He watches as she blinks away tears and stares out the window. Minus one.

She's clamming up and her efforts at trying to seem ok don't convince him in the slightest. She might not realise it was him who'd tried to kill her, but her demeanour shows she does not trust him with the truth.

"What's your name?" He says through gritted teeth- and internally curses at how irritated he sounds. He turns the corner. They're almost there, he doesn't have much time to play this game. He needs to decide what to do right now.

"Where are we going?" She asks, with growing panic- looking around the dark empty street engorged with tall thick trees.
"You answer my questions, I'll answer yours," he says, flatly. She regards him momentarily as if trying to decide whether to answer honestly or to answer at all. "Stella." he has been in the force long enough to tell when someone is lying. Minus three.

He passes an annoyed glance her direction. If only she knew that lying puts her in more danger. "I'm Cole," he confesses. There's no reason for him to lie. He pulls into an abandoned parking lot, slowing and shutting down the car. "Cole," she repeats- arching an eyebrow. He doesn't like the thoughtful look on her face. Minus one.

Does she know him? "Cole," she echoes, in a discovering tone. This time, his chest is the one rising and falling erratically. "Forbes?" She adds, looking straight at him. His face twists- he quickly changes his expression, but her eyes sparkle like a toddler who'd just solved their first jigsaw, and he can tell she noticed his anxiety. "Cole Forbes. You don't live in Flint," she says matter-of-factly. Fuck this game. She's dead.

"Why would you lie about that?" She asks with her back pressed against the door. He doesn't respond. "Where in Flint were you coming from?!" She snaps at him. Instantly- he reaches for her, but she's quicker. She rapidly stretches a right hand towards him, and it connects with shocking force. The punch - which was all knuckles, hits him square in the face. He pauses in disbelief and lifts a hand to his jaw. That'll leave a mark. She takes advantage of his momentary distraction and reaches for the door and opens it. Before she can get out he pulls her backwards by the hair with so much force some strands come right off. With his free hand, he closes the door. She twists out of his grip and claws him in the face over his eye. He groans in pain- knowing she definitely has some of his skin beneath her nails now, and he can feel exactly where he'll form scars.

She hadn't put up this much of a fightback at the house. With one of his eyes now closed and bleeding, he grabs both her hands in his, pulling her closer to him and headbutting her. It doesn't matter how much of a fight she puts up, he still has the upper hand. Her head weakly hangs backwards and some of her fight dies down, but not all. With what strength she has left- she brings her knees to her chest and forcefully kicks him in the gut and groin simultaneously. Knocking herself backwards and straight out the door.

**

Ignoring the pain in his groin and gut and the blood trickling down his face- with a feral growl, he staggers out of the car and stalks towards her.

Marcella lands hard on her back, so hard the fall knocks the wind out of her. She involuntarily let out a pained cry when her body made contact with the cold concrete of the lot. She wills herself onto her stomach, using what strength she has left to try to get up on all fours she was almost up when she felt a blow to her side. . . Before she could register what happened it came again this time with so much strength it lifted her off the ground. He kicked her in the ribs. That motherfucker.

Marcella tries to call for help, but only heaves and huffs come out. Not that anyone would be able to hear her here. It doesn't look like anyone has been here in years. Was that why he'd brought her here? To kill her slowly like the psycho he is, somewhere no one would hear her screams? "You piece of shit," she coughs out, "you won't get away with this," she says, caressing her side. Is this place filled with murderers? No, it's too much of a coincidence. He killed her brother, he tried to kill her earlier, but she got away. So he brought her here to finish the job. It all makes sense, Wes had threatened his father's lover after all.

What shitty luck she has. That the first car that pulled next to her was his "You talk too much," he says, standing over her, his frame blocking the moon and casting a shadow. "Why are you doing this?" She asks although she knows he won't answer. Psychopaths don't need excuses, they just do what they like. "Why are the rich-pretty ones always psychos" her voice trembles. He turns his head away and frowns deeply- stopping his violent pursuit.

Did she strike a nerve? If she can keep his attention divided long enough to regain her strength she might be able to run away. Again. She internally rolls her eyes.

"You did this to yourself," he says, his voice no more than a whisper. "Really? I don't remember kicking myself in the ribs, Asshole. I don't remember driving myself here and I certainly don't rem-" "Stop talking," he snaps, running a hand through his hair and pulling at the ends. "I didn't want to do this. You didn't give me a choice. Neither of you did. I'm just cleaning up a mess. I'm always cleaning up someone's fucking mess and that's enough to drive me mad, so please don't make this harder than it should be," a mess. Is that what she is? Is that what she'll amount to in the end? A mess?

"What would you have me do, huh? Lay down and willingly let you kill me?!" she yells, "stay down," he says stoically. She ignores him and sits up. "Some cop you are. Is this part of the job description for you pigs? Assault and murder innocent people. Protect and serve my ass." Her words, like a dagger, visibly cut through him and he takes a step back.

"No," he whispers, looking pained. I'm the one in pain, she thinks bitterly.

"You're so fucking sick. How do you sleep at night? Do you go back home proud of yourself? Do you touch Lena with the same hands you use t-"
"What the fuck did you just say?" Marcella had thought making him feel guilt would work in her favour, she'd thought he'd go on a boring monologue about how bad he feels about doing this. But clearly she's watched too many films because all that was radiating out of Cole Forbes was unbridled fury.

In mere moments, he covered the distance between them- lunging towards her. Marcella's adrenaline pumped as she attempted to get up onto her feet. But just like before, he was faster. He tackled her to the ground roughly. Marcella felt a surge of pain on her face and at the back of her head, it had only registered to her when her mind drifted to unconsciousness and her eyes fluttered shut that he'd been punching her so hard her head banded against the concrete. Then everything went dark- just like before.