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Chapter Text

“Deuteronomy 22:22 reads ‘if a man is found sleeping with another man’s wife, both the man who slept with her and the woman must die. You must purge the evil from Israel.’” Dana shared in a monotone voice, staring bitterly at the verse on her phone screen. Stella ran a hand through her hair, cracked her neck, and took a steadying breath. She knew she needed to maintain some level of calm, of neutrality, but looking at her redhead’s forced composure made the DSI ready to burst. 

“Dana, what’s the main theme of Deuteronomy?”

“Obedience and punishment.”

“Brilliant,” Stella scoffed sardonically, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

In the rental car, Dana had mentioned a sticky-note affixed to the portion of wall containing documentation of the Morrisons. On the stretch between Bath and London, she hadn’t had any cell service to pull up the verse. Her American suspected it may have related to future plans for the remaining members of the Morrison family. The women arrived at the crime scene near noon by taxi after haphazardly dropping everything at home. They were waiting on Michael before taking a look at the scene itself. Xavier Morrison’s corpse was set to be relocated to forensics after the pathologist and DSI evaluated the scene, along with their overtaxed AC. They had been standing just inside of the center for all of ten minutes when he arrived, kissing them both on the cheek and muttering a sheepish apology. 

“Some birthday gift,” he’d greeted her grimly.

“I should never have gone away,” Stella retorted, shaking her head guiltily. “I should’ve-.” 

“Stop it, Stel. You needed the time off more urgently than anyone else on this,” Michael stated firmly. “You look better, by the by. Much better. Got color in your face.” He clapped her shoulder tenderly and gave her an approving look. “You look good, Stel.” Dana remained quiet, watching them closely. Stella gave him a thin smile.

  Michael told me that he loves you was an unspoken thorn in her side, reminding the Brit that there was a marked insecurity in Dana. An insecurity Stella had somehow not seen coming, nor anticipated, and she didn’t know how to remedy it. In response to the truthful assertion, she had wanted to scream so what if he does? He always has, and it changes nothing between you and I! Their rushed, tense exodus from Bath had not given them a moment to further unpack their discussion, to explain ever more concretely that Michael and Stella’s love for one another was not trapped in the framework of romance; of requited or unrequited. The platonic, loyal aspect of it was that of people who didn’t require a label. It was love; simple and true and devoted. It was protective and possessive and deeply private, but it was not ever going to become what her Dana suspected. She’d wished she could have made it somehow even more frank and clear as to all that Michael’s and her relationship was not, but there had never been a need to. No one’s opinion on that score had mattered; Michael and Stella had understood. That was all that had ever been necessary. It simply was who they were together. 

In the car, Stella had spun over their charged exchange. The core of the discord was that Dana was hyper aware of their limited time together, and she was afraid that once July came she’d be dropped off at the airport and forgotten about. And, in turn, the nebulous love that had long brewed between Michael and Stella would somehow unseat Dana as the Brit’s primary focus. That was the heart of it. An anathema that Stella hadn’t been able to walk out of her system as she covered Bath almost entirely on foot the day prior. As if she hadn’t told the woman that she was hopelessly in love with her, as if there had only ever been all of a handful of people that she’d ever really loved, even fewer whom she’d loved romantically. Stella had never been in a position such as the one she found herself in, where her lover was the only person that she desired to be with. The fact Dana didn’t wholly believe her frightened the hell out of them both. 

The uneasiness in her American’s expression was undeniable as Michael filled them in, and the disquiet only deepened and expanded into new terrain as the AC explained the state of things. 

“How was Nelson found?” Dana asked as the trio entered the detention center, by-passing reams of yellow tape. Press had yet to gather, thankfully. 

“Some time in the night, Nelson managed to break into Morrison’s cell. It is unclear how he got in there. We think during dinner, he slipped in and hid. There was some sort of fight that occurred last night between Morrison and another inmate. It’s unclear at this time exactly what went down. We’re reviewing the security footage now.” Michael held the door for them as they crossed into a narrower corridor. “When rounds were being done in the early hours, they found Nelson’s cell empty. He was sitting on Morrison’s bed, as if he was in a trance, eyes wide open. He was waiting to be found. We estimate that Xavier Morrison had been dead for at least a few hours. Most of the blood on Nelson was completely dry.”

“What did Nelson do when he was apprehended?” Dana demanded, confusion puckering her beautiful face. Stella had to look away from her. The agony in her features was almost too terrible to behold. 

“He was asked, of course, what had happened. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, in his trance. When he was forced to get up and walk away, he seemed to come out of it. He said he would only talk to you, Dr. Scully.” The hall they entered was marginally wider, and flooded by forensic specialists tromping in and out of a room decorated by yellow tape. A photographer emerged from the room, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. Down the hall, a younger officer was leaning over a trash can, apparently having wretched from what he’d seen. 

Oh great. The DSI was suddenly relieved to have only a cup of coffee in her stomach.  

“What time was this?” The American’s voice grew thin as she was handed latex gloves by someone. Stella watched the mild panic infiltrating her lover’s affect.

“A bit after six this morning,” Michael informed the pathologist. “Initial inspection of it all makes us think Nelson killed him around midnight. Maybe. We’ll leave it to you to confirm.”

“Six?” Dana repeated, all color leaving her face. Her eyes connected with the DSI for a moment, and then she looked away entirely as she tied her hair back. The Brit didn’t know what to make of her lover’s reception of the information. 

“Yeah,” Michael confirmed. Stella was given a pair of latex gloves by a tech. Room was made by the specialists as they approached the cell. Dana looked into the room first, and her jaw fell slightly slack. Whatever color had remained in her features drained away. 

“Holy shit,” she muttered. 

“I know,” Michael sighed, turning ever so slightly green. Stella craned her neck around her lover, who stepped fully aside and demanded a whole forensics suit. It was as if they were back in Lambeth, encountering a level of carnage that ought not have been possible. The site before them made Lory McBride’s murder scene somehow elementary. With an outstretched hand, she accepted a medical face mask and blindly put it on. 

In a mangled, ugly, upright heap against the bloody wall, Xavier Morrison’s body was nearly unrecognizable. The corpse was nude, and the vision it offered was nightmarish. Immediate cause of death was unclear, based on the volume of visual violence. Slipping shoe coverings on, the DSI entered the space with her notebook drawn. 

“Alright then,” she breathed. Faintly, she heard Dana muttering what sounded like a prayer. She dutifully pretended not to hear. As she often did, the DSI actively disassociated from the reality of just how awful the scene was. In doing so, she saw it more clearly and precisely. The smell was horrific in such close quarters, and like all things the only way to come to bear it was to take it in. She took a slow breath through her mouth, swallowing the awful, metallic scent of blood and gore. 

DSI Gibson’s eyes roved over the scene. The space was narrow; longer than wide with a thin single bed on a metal frame and a little cupboard for clothes and items. Bloody shoe prints led from the corpse to the bed, and then splotched the sheets. The DSI presumed it was from where Nelson had sat for hours, viscera from his victim drying on his shoes and body. Any brawl would have been tight, and frustrated by the confines of the cell. The victim’s clothes were in a haphazard, scarlet, soaking heap by the bed. His shoes were tucked neatly underneath the bed frame, suggesting he’d put them there before anything violent occurred. It looked as if many hands had scratched at the walls; bloody tracks framed Morrison as a corona. The longer she stared at it, taking in the red handprints completed the surrounding vision on the white plaster, it was clear that this was something Nelson had done purposefully. It resembled some sort of painting. HARLOT was painted in blood above Morrison’s body. When she stepped closer, there were bloody letters underneath the proclamation of ‘harlot,’ but they were difficult to make out. The DSI stepped closer, squinting as she tried to distinguish the text that had been scrawled in blood by a murderous finger on the wall. It slanted, and disappeared behind Morrison’s corpse. She thought back through all the paintings she could think of in art history that it may have been alluding to; images of martyrs, images of blood and gore. 

Morrison was scraped to hell, as if an animal had butchered him. When she’d been in school, the DSI had examined graphic images of a European victim that’d been assaulted by a bear; something that she had never seen in person, being a London officer. Morrison appeared just as brutalized. Claws; that’s what had bloodied him. The perforations in his dermis all resembled torn fabric, frayed and awful. Some of the damage was only surface level, while other perforations in his skin appeared to have been the result of protracted clawing, tugging, and tearing. Maybe even biting. A murderous inmate without a shank, Nelson had resorted to his own fingernails and teeth. Not a single inch of Morrison’s body was left unmarred. The man had been left in a sitting position, arms spread in such a way as to suggest they’d been broken; unnatural in their configuration. The fingers and palms were contorted crudely in sharp, jutting angles. His legs were in a near-split, revealing the bloodied, garish mess between them. The legs, too, did not appear in-tact. The brutality, and the sheer force of the assault, could not have gone without notice. She made a note of it in the surroundings. He must have been vocally disabled before the major violence began. The walls were thin, and there were perforations in the door for airflow and meals. Such an assault couldn’t have been silent. It just wasn’t possible.

As the DSI stepped closer to the nude form, she fought the urge to shrink back in disgust. Tied around the base of where a cock once dwelled was a knotted, angry loop of metal. She found the make-shift garrote disgusting. The skin surrounding the knot was horrifically marred, purple, and bloody. Were those bite marks? She closed her eyes to the image that played out in her mind. A small crucifix, torn from the necklace that had castrated the penis, sat squarely on the victim’s chest under the crudely executed carving: Harlot. So poor were the carvings that they didn’t register initially as letters. Nelson had wanted the world to know what he thought of Morrison, that was certain. The AC had mentioned Nelson’s request for a rosary. She wondered if this had been the murder’s make-shift religious artifact, having been denied what he needed. Then again, she reconsidered, Lory McBride had been branded a harlot and left without a rosary. Perhaps the necklace had simply been convenient. It was impossible to say.

Xavier Morrison’s head was cocked to the side with horrifyingly wide eyes forever fixed on the void. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and the surrounding orbital skin was mildly bruised. What Stella guessed to be a pillow cover bulged from Morrison’s mouth and throat. The distension in his throat was massive. The American pathologist knelt down beside the body, assessing the figure without touching. Dana had slipped on a full plastic suit, protecting herself from the crime scene. She was fearless in her desire to get near and uncover the intricacies of Morrison’s state. As ever, the Brit loved her for the boldness, for the strong pull towards uncovering, understanding, and unlocking mystery. She watched Dana clock the mess of language on the wall behind Morrison’s corpse. The pathologist gently followed what she could of the text with her finger.   

“Did they locate Morrison’s member?” The DSI asked, turning to Michael. He shook his head, remaining in the hall. She looked back at the victim, and considered it all. “I suspect it’s in his throat.”

“His throat?” Michael replied coolly, not even attempting to veil his outright disgust. She shrugged.

“This supports that theory,” Dana mildly agreed, gently touching the victim’s throat. The plastic of her hazmat suit crinkled loudly. All noise was amplified in the small room. How could Nelson manage such violence in such a space, unnoticed? “There is something much denser lodged in here.” The American turned his head slightly, assessing him. There was little mobility to his neck. She lifted Morrison’s hand and flexed the wrist. “I’m going to place death near midnight, maybe as recently as two. Hard to say for sure. The eyes suggest suffocation as COD, but lab results and an autopsy will tell me more.” The American prodded the orbital bones. “These are more bruised. Maybe his eyes were forced to remain open.” Dana tilted the head, analyzing the face. “His jaw is broken.” The pathologist sighed, and looked to Michael. “Are all photos done?”

“Yes,” he replied, cringing. “More or less. We need to get photos of whatever is on the wall behind him.”

“I am going to remove this fabric from the victim’s throat to ascertain if his penis is behind it,” she replied evenly. 

“Dear God,” Michael muttered, hands on his hips. He gestured to forensic specialists to go back into the room, and he remained at the threshold. Stella gave him a nod, affirming he didn’t need to come closer. He’d gone from green to deathly white. “This is fucked,” she heard him huff. Per usual, Michael was entirely correct in his evaluation.

With no hesitation, the American pathologist gripped Morrison’s neck and pulled on the fabric that had been shoved into his mouth. Stella frowned against the wave of nausea generated by the sound of slimy, plump fabric dragging up and out from Morrison’s throat. Perhaps it was that there was great resistance that made the noise worse. Large blood clots fell against the man’s shredded chest. A tech stood beside the American with evidence baggies, ready to collect the material. The saturated fabric was knotted at the end, and it made an awful popping sound when Dana tugged hard against the suction the lump had caused in the victim’s esophagus. Blood flecked the white plastic suit that covered her head to toe. Morrison’s jaw hung limp against his throat, broken in multiple places. A dark, purplish, bloody mass could be seen at the very back of his mouth. Fearlessly, Dana tilted the head back with her bloody, latex-covered hands and looked into the dead maw. Her eyes narrowed.

“It’s in there,” she confirmed after a long moment. The cold wonderment in her voice told the DSI just how disturbed Dana actually was. 

“I’m going to hurl,” Michael dully growled from the hall, voice thick with contempt and nausea. Distantly, the DSI heard someone vomit. Maybe it had been the same green officer. Maybe it was the detention staff. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the sight before her would remain with Stella until the day she died. It took great work to quell her stomach. If she lingered for much longer, the smell and the visuals would overcome even her masterful stoicism. 

Stella stared down at what remained of Xavier Morrison, and wondered what special hell he had existed in while receiving Abel Nelson’s full attention. The dumb glaze of death was upon his features, sure, but there was a haunting, frozen terror evident in his face. Xavier Morrison had been a terrible human, a terrible father, and a terrible hindrance to the investigation, but she couldn’t justify or dignify such a gruesome death. She turned on her heel, and sought out Michael in the hall.

“Has Anaïs been informed?” She ripped the gloves from her hands. It dawned on the DSI that with Anaïs’ husband being murdered, she wouldn’t have to take him to court for everything he was worth. It was likely, simply, hers. Additionally, gaining custody of Peter Collins’ child may turn into an easier endeavor, if she desired to do so. She hoped the woman took comfort in that, if there was any comfort to be had. 

“Not yet, no,” Michael sighed heavily. “Not sure how she’ll take this one.”

“I’ll inform her,” Stella stated, “along with all other news. It’s best if it’s at once, and all from one person. I think she trusts me the most, so I will be the one.”

“I agree,” Michael nodded. “She’s attached to you. Best if it is all from you.”

“Yeah,” Stella muttered. 

Dana walked out of the room, eyes darting nervously between the two of them. Since the morning began with a horrible phone call, her American had been stilted; uneasy. Nervous, flitting glances had been cast Stella’s way throughout the drive home. Between Bath and London, Dana’s anxiety had been made manifest by way of slowly, purposefully wringing her hands in her lap. They’d been unable to resolve all the tension from the day prior. The disquiet polluted the air between them, both in the car and at the crime scene. 

It left Stella breathless, just looking at her sweet American. There was a pain in her lover that, at first glance, had seemed deep, indeed. It was only in the disruption, in the fraught turbulence in moments such as their argument over the viability of their long-term attachment, that Stella saw how the pain in Dana’s heart was bottomless. It had no mappability. No rhyme, no reason. It was a crater that surpassed Stella’s comprehension. It was not something understandable. Her love had been injured in a tectonic way by what had happened before she appeared in Stella’s life. It was undeniable, when those fleeting, sad side-eyes skittered across the Brit’s features. Despite understanding this, there was a less tolerant part of Stella’s heart that stood up and wanted to shout in indignation do not make me pay for the crimes of the one who came before! I will not abandon you! When I said ‘never shall I leave you, never shall I forsake you,’ I meant it. Till death, damn it. Do not believe me so fickle! She wanted to tell her lover to knock it off, to put her anxiety and insecurity away, but it wasn’t the time or place. To be so direct, perhaps, would never have a time or place. Hurting Dana further wasn’t the answer, and such a brash comment would only injure the woman. 

“I need to get this autopsy under way,” the pathologist announced. “I can head in right now.”

“I’ll deal with the press,” the AC stated, then turned to the DSI. “The CDs with Nelson’s illegal surveillance of his victims’ phone calls have been couriered to your office. I figured you’d perhaps want to start there. I’ve arranged for Nelson to be interviewed in a few days. By then we’ll have all the information more or less straight. But, that being said, if he continues to refuse food, we will need to make some decisions.”

“What is he holding out for? Did he say it explicitly?” Stella asked.

“All he has said is that he will only talk to one person. ‘Saint Rita,’” Michael put scare-quotes around the title. “He has simply refused all food and water. Silently.”

“How long has he refused?” Dana ripped her gloves and medical mask off.

“I’m not sure at this juncture. But we’ll need a court order for an IV of liquid nutrients soon,” Michael sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Let’s see if we can avoid that,” Stella muttered. “Has someone informed him that if he continues to refuse food and water, he will be forced to have intake intravenously?”

“He has been.”

“Tell him,” Dana interjected, “that he must drink water and eat something.” She took a deep breath. “That I will speak with him. That I…” she hesitated, and then closed her aquamarine eyes in consternation. “That ‘Saint Rita’ will be infuriated if she can’t speak with him due to the fact he’s been hospitalized for malnutrition and dehydration.” The anger leaked out of her words as she unzipped the forensics suit. Her cheeks pinked with emotion; a wave of various sources of fury were apparent on her face. “See if that trips his trigger. Meanwhile, I’m going to autopsy Xavier Morrison.” Dana paused for a moment, and then gazed up at Michael. “The text on the wall is the Nicene Creed. I think Morrison wrote it, or was forced to write it by Nelson. The index finger on his right hand is split open to act as a writing apparatus.” She looked at Stella, the heat in her attitude not waning in the slightest. “I’ll meet up with you when I’m done.” With no other parting words, the pathologist stormed off towards the other forensic specialists who had gathered to determine best transfer methods for the remains. 

Stella and Michael were left standing in silence, watching her retreat. 

“Are you two alright?” He finally asked, voice low. Stella glanced his way, and momentarily hated how well he knew her. Her chest felt tight.

“We had an argument. I’ll tell you outside.”

“Oh,” his mouth became a thin line under his salt and pepper mustache. 

“Involves you, actually,” she told him, throwing Michael the eyebrow. They turned on their heels, leaving behind the forensics unit and the hideous bloody affair in the cell. After signing out of the scene, they breezed by officers and specialists, pushing through the doors into the frigid January air. 

The first day of 2014, and it had been botched beyond repair. Some birthday.

“Involves me?” He sounded worried. The AC pointed to his car. “I’m just there, let me take you back to the Met.”

“Thanks,” she followed him swiftly. He slid into the driver’s seat, and she entered the passenger side. 

“How does it involve me?” Michael asked, deeply confused. The black police sedan pulled out of the spot and slowly left the parking lot.

“Dana is under a false assumption that when she leaves in July, you’ll be waiting in the wings, ready to soothe my broken heart,” Stella delivered flatly. Michael cast her an incredulous look. “And slip into my bed.”

“Excuse me?” Michael looked ready to choke. 

“I know.”      

“Jesus,” Michael sighed. “Is this because of something I said?” He glanced over at Stella as he turned into traffic. “Because of what she asked at Christmas?” 

“I think so,” the blonde replied. Michael rolled his eyes. “I think it is many things.”

“She asked why we never got together,” his voice took on a defensive lilt, climbing higher in pitch.

“I know, I know,” Stella soothed him, putting a hand on his forearm. “I tried to set her as straight as I could on that score.”

“It’s not like that,” he insisted, concern peaking in his face by way of a blush. “Stel, y-you know, I mean,” he glanced at her anxiously, half starting a thought, and then abandoning it mid sentence, “you do know what I mean. It’s not like that. I tease you, we flirt, but it isn’t like that. I-.”

“I know that, and you know that. I don’t think she has a sense of what that means, or a relative perspective. Not really,” she sighed, putting her face in her hands. 

“I told her that my feelings for you were not like that,” Michael doubled down. “That our relationship isn’t like that.” Stella rubbed her forehead and remained silent. She knew her friend better than anyone. He was panicking about potentially ruining the partnership that she had developed with Dana by having spoken too freely. No one understood the way Michael loved her. No one needed to understand. All anyone else needed to know was that he was her champion, always. That he loved her unconditionally. That he was anyone she wanted him to be. That, for whatever reason, it worked between them that way. And, ultimately, it was between Michael and herself. It was no one else’s concern. Marginally, it was Dana’s, true, but at the end of the day it wasn’t up to her American to censure the way their two decades long friendship operated. Especially when Stella knew it shouldn’t give her partner anything to worry about.  

“Michael, relax,” she insisted. “Truthfully, I don’t think anything you could have said would have sat right with her. Dana is processing something that goes beyond you or I. This whole …thing… is something she’s fixating on because she’s concerned about being abandoned come July. That’s my guess.”

“July?”

“When her Fulbright is officially over. Unless you’ve heard word otherwise on forensics trying to retain her, I am pretty sure she hasn’t had the bandwidth to hunt down a visa-sponsored job.”

“I haven’t heard much. But it is the high holidays, Stel.”

“Well,” the DSI shrugged. “Hopefully some kind of an offer comes through and she doesn’t even have to worry about this arbitrary cut-off date.” The car slowed to a standstill, the road congestion hideously bad for New Year’s Day. “There is no reason they wouldn’t want to retain her,” she said more for herself than for him.

“You have told her that you love her, right?” Michael asked, nerves a plenty in his voice. “She knows how you feel?”

“Yes,” Stella managed a smile. She glanced up at Michael, who’s relief was palpable. “Again, I don’t think it is really a matter of how explicitly I feel. I think she’s…projecting, perhaps.”

“Projecting, huh,” Michael contemplated that as they sat, unmoving, in traffic.

“My impression is that she is feeling very…insecure. I wish I had a better word for it. But I think she is feeling insecure about the time we have together, and worried that once she leaves England, what she is returning to in the US is a life she doesn’t want anymore. I think it may be a projection.”

“Are you sure you aren’t projecting?” He asked with a small smile. His cheekiness gave her the first genuine smile she’d cracked all day.

“Oh, how you injure,” she jested lightly. “I don’t need to project to know that’s how I feel.” The admission surprised her, but she meant it. Entirely. She didn’t want to return to her life prior to the American living with her, waking with her, going to bed at night, or working together. No, she didn’t want her life without that partnership in it.    

Perhaps that was what had caused her to react so powerfully to Dana’s assertion. It had injured Stella so deeply that there would be a suggestion that Stella would be wanting anything else, or anyone else. 

When she had left their Bath hotel on foot, needing the walk, needing the air, needing the distance, her heart had been in her stomach. Their hotel faced Walcot Street, and she made the explicit decision to make no attempt at a true destination. She had needed to walk until she no longer felt as if she would cry upon any attempt at unpacking the argument. The Brit went all the way up Walcot, turning where it converged onto the Paragon, then London Road. London Road took her into Lambridge, and then Lower Swainswick. Stella had circled the blocks, and then turned around, making her way back along the sleepy River Avon. She took any side street that caught her fancy, then diverged again deeper into more quiet, well-to-do neighborhoods. The Holburne Museum very nearly lured her in, but the high holidays had it closing early. Stella had continued aimlessly. Morosely, she stared at the absurdity that was Sham Castle; a gorgeous wall of stone erected in the mid 1700s as some rich bloke’s Medieval pet-project. Cobblestone, muddy grass, pavement, and snow, and all other surfaces passed blindly underfoot as she walked all around Bath’s eastern side. She ended up in Bathwicke, and was startled by the setting sun while standing at the very southern edge of Smallcombe Vale Cemetery. She’d grown hungry, light-headed, and the day had nearly ended; all without her awareness. She hadn’t even thought to check the time, check her phone.

Fumbling in her pockets, she’d shocked herself. Her cell had been left at the hotel by accident. Her purse was there, too. No cash, no cards, no phone. No way to get a taxi, or catch public transport. She had no clue what time it was. All she knew was that it was dark out and had been for quite some time, and Dana was likely worried to death over her radio-silence, her long day of wandering. She had to walk all the way back to the hotel in the ever-growing dark, and despite hustling, she figured it took her nearly an hour to make the return.  

Long before midday on her walk, she’d decided to try and set the score straight on her dynamic with Michael. It wasn’t that of lovers, never had been. There had been times where that had been a possibility. The fact that it had never become romantic should’ve made it clear that if they hadn’t figured it out after twenty years, they probably wouldn’t. They were them, and his friendship was the most important of her life. The rest of her day had been lost to stewing over the reality that Dana would leave her; leave her high and dry whether the tender hearted American genuinely meant to or not. The day would come, hot and humid in July, where this woman that she loved beyond reason would pack her things back up, walk out of the Westminster home, and return to the life she had led. 

And Stella would be alone. And what then?

If the forensics offer came through, what then?

If she cast all caution to the wind and begged Dana to stay, offered to marry her, and got down on her knees, what then?

In the grand scheme of things, would her lover want to stay? What exactly did Stella have to offer her American? When she agonized over it, crossing walkways and clobbering up steep neighborhood streets, what was it that Dana even saw in her? What was their relationship based in, if not the drama of their investigation and the tempest of sexual tension?

The Brit had arrived at the hotel before she’d figured out how to ask- but if I wanted you to, and we found a way, would you stay? And why, after all of this, do you love me? Are you truly in love with me, or are you in love with what we have managed to accomplish together? Am I really what you want? That, perhaps, had been the question that had her hesitating to come home; an answer that had made her feel young and afraid and easily injured.

Am I really what you want?

“Stel? Stella.” Michael tapped her forearm. 

“Oh, sorry,” she’d gone completely silent on him. 

“What is it?”

“I…I’m not sure.”

“Bull.”

“I’m worrying,” she confessed quietly. The traffic was moving again.

“Bad habit, that.” Michael stated lightly. 

“I know,” she huffed. 

“What is it?” He didn’t move his hand from her arm.

“Why…do you think she loves me?” The question surprised her as it popped out of her mouth. It was a surprisingly young tone that escaped her, that asked the question. Michael’s eyes darted from the road to her, confused. “Why…why would she stay, if I asked? What exactly do I offer her long term?” 

“You offer many things, Stel.” His lowered voice drew her gaze, the severity of his expression startling her. “Why would you even worry about that?”

“Because I am struggling to find an answer to that query, Michael. What do I offer her? I cannot give her the family she craves. Her family is in the US. I cannot give her children, which she has more than clearly stated to be something she wants. I cannot guarantee her a job, or any-.”

“Stop for a moment,” Michael said, gesturing for her to pause. “You aren’t giving yourself enough credit.”

“Am I not?” She muttered bitterly.

“First of all, international travel is a very real possibility, and she is fully capable of purchasing a plane ticket to see her family. Second, what chance does she have of those things you mention if she returns home? Of a partner? Of a child? Of a new chapter in her career?” Michael looked sideways at her. Stella shrugged mildly.

“Her ex is there. They remain very friendly.”

“Friendly enough to have some kids? To start fresh? To try again?” Michael stated doubtfully. The Brit shrugged again, unsure. Her inability to be absolutely sure about how ‘finished’ Dana and her ex actually were bothered her acutely. She tried to be graceful about it, but it was objectively hard to tell when she heard their interactions, when it was obvious how possessive he remained about her. “Stel. What is the purpose of her research? To understand how partnerships operate, and can be improved, and developed more organically.” He looked at her quickly. “Stella, whatever she left behind is behind her.” She cast him a doubtful look. “Dana came here to find something out about herself. And she did. She found that she could start over, and begin again. You offer a second chance. Don’t underestimate the gravity of that, Stel.” The blonde swallowed against the lump in her throat. “She loves you for all the same reasons that I love you. Your goodness, brilliance, devotion…and your naughtiness,” he smiled impishly at her. Stella gave him the smallest smirk. He squeezed her hand as he pulled into the Met parking garage. “Don’t stop fighting for her.” 

“I won’t,” she whispered. 

“Don’t stop fighting for your heart, Stella.” Michael’s voice was serious and devoted, and she was thankful for his strength. She hummed in response. 

They parked amongst many identical police vehicles, and exited slowly. The conversation was left behind in the car’s cab as they entered the Met and were immediately set upon by multiple Operation Milagro officers. Stella noted Alice and Harrison were arguing further down the hall; heated and gesticulating with sharp little head shakes and pointing.

“Ma’am, I’ve moved the illegal recordings from Nelson’s flat into your office, and-.”

“There are members of the press waiting for a statement, Sir. We’ve tried to keep it contained, but-.”

“We’ve been going through evidence, and there is considerable material that-.”

They were bombarded with statements that bled into one another. Michael, with irritation, demanded everyone shut up and slow down. Half listening, the DSI kept walking towards Alice and Harrison. Their faces had grown red, their irritation with one another evident and restrained. 

“Andrew, let me tell her,” Alice was growling. “It shouldn’t have even gotten into your hands. You should just pretend you didn’t see it! Gibson made it very clear that Dr. Scully was-”

“It was an accident. How the fuck was I supposed to know what would be there?!”  Harrison hissed. They were both startled by the DSI’s fast approach.

“What’s happened?” She asked in a soft, level voice. Alice’s eyes flicked to Harrison, who took on the appearance of someone who’d swallowed a handful of medical cotton balls. “What is it?”

“Sensitive evidence was found on Nelson’s computer,” his voice was harsh. 

“Let’s perhaps move this conversation to my office,” the DSI suggested as the hall became noisier with Michael’s approach, framed as he was by officers. Alice and Harrison hastily agreed. “Michael, I will meet up with you later.”

“I’ll call you,” he affirmed. She hadn’t seen him look that exhausted since he’d been freshly widowed and juggling a toddler and a newborn. 

Stella, Alice, and Harrison settled into her office after a tense ride in the lift, and the awkward silence of moving chairs around on the other side of her desk. They glanced at one another nervously. 

“Let’s start with why you’re so distressed,” Stella supplied, trying to coax Harrison out of his fear. Ever since Dana had been poisoned on his watch, his terror of fucking up had exponentially grown. The man scratched his head and let out a slow breath. Harrison had taken on a pale aspect with splotchy color. Alice stared at him with unreserved anxiety that the DSI couldn’t make sense of.

“We’ve been digging through Abel Nelson’s possessions. Cataloging it all,” Harrison began. The DSI nodded, waiting. He didn’t continue. 

“And you found more content related to Dr. Scully that is perhaps extremely sensitive?” Stella suggested. Harrison nodded grimly. “Is it of a private nature that would embarrass her?” He nodded again. “What is it and where was it located?” She yanked open her work tote and grabbed her notes. He waited while she pawed around for a pen in the black hole that was her bag.

“Nelson was not just running around taking photographs and video on a singular camera,” Alice began. “He had smaller video cameras that allowed for long time lapses. He had a box of GoPros that were clearly weather-beaten. We found it with his computer, which we’ve easily managed to gain full access to.”

“Which contained massive amounts of video, I presume,” Stella clarified.

“Yes, for each person he had targeted. It’s clear where some of the stills on his wall come from. The videos weren’t coherently sorted on his computer. Some were in folders with dates on them, but some were simply labeled to indicate which GoPro he’d used. Each camera has a number written on the top with a Sharpie or something.” Stella nodded, understanding. “Well, in folder GP6 we found…all videos of Dr. Scully.” Harrison shifted as he tried to clear his throat. Alice nodded at him to continue. “We also found DVDs that he had exported the videos onto. Those were unlabeled, so the content was a surprise to us. The DVDs contained…edited…video.” Harrison took a deep breath, but looked to Alice for aid. 

“There is a disproportionately larger volume of video on Dr. Scully,” Alice stated calmly, staring back at Harrison, then turned to Stella. “In terms of volume, content focused on her versus another victim is about three to one.” The DSI’s eyebrow arched at that. “He…has edited more videos of her, and taken more videos of her, than any other victim. It is not clear why. And as a result, there is…very intimate material. Both Harrison and I accidentally observed it as we helped to process all of that data. We understand that we were directed to be as discreet as possible when it came to Dr. Scully, and make sure those materials didn’t get circulated by the lab-.” Stella held up her hands. 

“No one here is at fault,” the DSI affirmed, looking between the two as she understood the source of their great anxiety. “Who else has seen the evidence?”

“We have, and a lab tech who is helping catalog this portion of evidence,” Alice replied. “Once we realized who was on the video, we immediately stopped viewing it to ask for clarification as to how you want us to handle it.”

“You said a three to one ratio?” Stella felt disgust ripple through her whole body.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harrison whispered. She nodded. 

“Does the tech know Dr. Scully very well?”

“No, I don’t believe so. But it’s hard to say. She’s volunteered so much of her time at forensics during this investigation.” Harrison rubbed a hand down his face.

“Make sure that lab tech is the only one to review these. Technically, I think we are required to have an external reviewer to avoid conflict of interest. Make them aware that they are to be absolutely mum about this, or they'll have me to answer to.” She glanced up at Harrison, who became as pale as death. “Harrison, do not feel guilty for doing your job. I believe Dr. Scully would not be upset with you in the slightest. The fact of its existence is another matter. For her privacy, however, as a man who works closely with her, I am going to ask you to no longer work on cataloging that portion of evidence.” Harrison nodded firmly. “You may go. Alice, stay for a moment.” 

The man leapt from his chair as if it was on fire, and left the room. Alice uncomfortably picked her skirt, and looked everywhere but at Stella. The silence was brutal for a long moment before the woman finally spoke to her superior.

“Yes, Ma’am?” Her voice was thin.

“What content is upsetting him so deeply?” Stella’s voice was low. Alice sighed, her cheeks coloring.

“The DVDs are cut videos of Dr. Scully having private moments,” Alice folded her arms, staring at the desk. “They are extremely violating.”

“Private moments? Such as what?” Her voice was low and infuriated.

“Well…for much of it, she’s in bed at her flat,” Alice muttered, finally catching Stella’s eye. The DSI nodded, anger forcing her jaw to set askance. 

“Is there audio?” She managed bitterly. There was a long silence. 

“Yes. On some.” Alice swallowed thickly. The long silence was tense, and Stella arched an eyebrow at the PC. Finally, Alice relented. “She calls your name in some of them. We…we all heard it.” Stella gave a short nod, eyes cast downwards. “Ma’am, I am willing to remove that evidence, if you want.” It was a tense whisper, but the DSI heard the PC loud and clear. The blonde looked up and saw someone so devoted, so generous, and so good it made Stella’s heart ache. Alice’s cheeks were flushed a deep crimson; her nerves were palpable. “That…there is more than enough evidence to charge Nelson without that remaining in the catalog.” A year ago, Stella had fucked the woman sitting across from her. Just once. Just a one night stand; one of many for Stella that were just fine and rather meaningless. It had not been lost on her how much it may have meant to Alice. Their night being the first bisexual, erotic encounter of the woman’s life was not unknown to Stella, either. It wasn’t something she could dwell on, however. Stella couldn’t take responsibility for every sexual awakening she ignited in her one-time bed partners. 

Yet looking at her, it was clear how devoted Alice was. How right Dana had been. She had a potent effect on people who she let even marginally near, and she could not deny the responsibility that accompanied that. She had brought Alice onto Milagro for how steady and neutral she tended to be. This was out of character. With one glance between them, Stella knew that Alice would do something utterly professionally irreproachable in order to protect a woman that Stella loved. 

Stella licked her upper lip, and held Alice’s gaze with immense gravity.

“You are suggesting a crime,” Stella stated in an extremely low voice.

“One particular video amongst hundreds,” Alice replied softly. “This one was on his computer. The wear suggests he played it often. Semen was found on his computer and the chair. We don’t need to embarrass Dr. Scully further. I…I hate seeing how this has been done to her. To you, too. Ma’am, we don’t need this video to exist or be seen or be used in any evidence-.”

“Alice,” Stella cut her off gently, touched by the offer, yet holding firm. “It is spoliation of evidence.”

“Be that as it may,” Alice’s voice dropped as she leant closer across the desk. Her eyes were wide and sincere. “For you, I would do this.” Stella couldn’t look away from the fiery hazelnut gaze that tracked her own. Guilt burned in her gut. If she was a less scrupulous officer, she would have taken Alice’s offering. 

But Stella Gibson was not a less scrupulous officer. She was someone obsessed with the whole picture, seeing the entire image. She couldn’t take such an offer. Not now. Not ever. 

“No,” the DSI shook her head, grimacing. She offered a strained smile to Alice. “Thank you, but no. We cannot pretend it does not exist. We cannot do that. We will do this the right way.” Alice nodded reluctantly. “Dr. Scully has a right to know what has been done with her image. She may not want to see it, but she has a right to know should she wish it. If she decides that she doesn’t want to be aware, we will have this cataloged and sealed as soon as it is possible. I doubt we will need it for legal processes, but the hyperfixation he has on Dr. Scully may be a key part of our case against him.” There was a stony silence between them. “Make sure that the video is seen by no other person. I am entrusting you with the guarantee of Dr. Scully’s privacy.” Stella was met with a fervid nod. Alice placed a hand over her own heart and nodded.

“Yes, Ma’am. You have my word.” Alice stood. “One more question for you, Ma’am.”

“Mm?”

“Are you in love with her?” Genuine, unguarded curiosity decorated Alice’s features. Stella looked down at her desk blotter, and exhaled slowly. She remained silent. Bitterly, Stella thought that she may as well have had a sign above her head that announced how in love she was with Dana Katherine Scully. This was bordering on the ridiculous. Despite that, she simply pressed her lips into a hard line and grimaced at Alice. “Forgive me, that was too far.” All scarlet cheeks again, the PC went to leave. 

“Alice?” The younger woman glanced back from the door, handle half turned. Stella stared, and then gave a short nod. “Thank you.” Alice bobbed her head in response. 

“Ma’am, allow me the opportunity to say that…when it comes to you,” Alice hesitated, then blushed the deep scarlet that went down her neck. Stella raised a hand.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to say it.”

“Many of us would,” Alice replied. “The women who’ve…well. I can’t speak for everyone. I-I-I mean…” She took a steadying breath, and in a rush said, “we would do anything for you.” It didn’t take a genius to understand that she was most certainly speaking almost entirely for herself, but Stella understood nonetheless.

“Get some rest, Alice,” the DSI dismissed her after a weighty moment. Stella knew that, for herself, there would be little rest for quite some time.

She gazed upon the stacks and stacks of folders that littered her desk, dropped off by some courier. A USB drive had been left on top, containing the digitized phone recordings from Nelson’s illegal surveillance. Stella made a phone call down to the Milagro office, asking after the videos and DVDs that Nelson had burned. 

“Who has these exactly?” 

“Well, we have one person working on them, Ma’am, over at forensics.” It was Oliver who had answered, her Scottish accent always difficult to make out clearly over the line. Oliver was still so young, that Stella often thought she sounded like a teenager when on the phone.

“Who, exactly?”

“A man named Mark. Mark Klein, Ma’am.”  

“Make sure that Mark Klein is the only person who continues to have this access besides myself, Dr. Scully, and the AC. This investigation has already invaded my privacy and Dr. Scully’s privacy by a degree which-.”

“Don’t worry, Ma’am. We’ve already been told to make sure it stays that way.”

“Is that right?” She thought of Alice, and grimaced. 

“Of course.” There was an awkward beat, before Oliver cleared her throat. “Anything else, Ma’am?”

“Just have them sent up to my office as soon as they are cataloged,” the DSI sighed impatiently. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

Stella huffed angrily as she pulled her laptop closer, shoving the USB stick into the side of her computer. Each recording was labeled as the CD case had been. He had dated everything, but provided no other clear context for what he’d gathered in his disturbed bower’s nest of data. In the folders that had been deposited on her desk were extensive images of Nelson’s apartment. The CDs had been stacked haphazardly near the different sections of wall devoted to varying saints. A photograph of his desk, with the computer and his box of camera equipment, was well documented. It was frighteningly close to where Dana’s section of wall had been. 

Three to one. That’s what Alice had said. Three to one in content volume. 

Why? Why Dana?

Before she got settled into Nelson’s neurotic collection from stalking, she recalled Dana sourly reporting that the script behind Morrison’s body had been the Nicene Creed. The DSI pulled up Google, and searched for the text. It brought her to one of many random websites for a Catholic program. She read through the Creed.

I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible.  

I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God, born of the Father before all ages. 

God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made.

For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven, and by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, he suffered death and was buried, and rose again on the third day in accordance with the Scriptures.

He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father.

He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead and his kingdom will have no end.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life, who proceeds from the Father and the Son, who with the Father and the Son is adored and glorified, who has spoken through the prophets.

I believe in one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church.

I confess one Baptism for the forgiveness of sins and I look forward to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. 

Amen.

With a profound bitterness, she couldn’t help but wonder how anyone in the twenty first century believed in such nonsense. Clearly, it was just fodder for misbehavior; a scapegoat for performative ignorance and a refusal to accommodate other modalities of life. Was this not simply another schema for empire and conquest?

She thought of her American in Bath, looking at the recovered Roman objects in the museum, and the way her eyes penetrated the objects as she explained her faith. Her answer, as to whether or not she actually believed in anything such as relics, still hung over Stella. I…I want to believe, 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. Even if, in some manner, it’s not entirely the truth. Sometimes it can just be true enough.

‘True enough.’ A romantic concept; one she had been able to accept looking at her lover, looking at the beauty of what Bath’s museum had done. While looking at the horrific contents of Nelson’s collection, she couldn’t square it away. It couldn’t be made acceptable. 

Stella put her headphones in and turned to a clean sheet in her notebook. As she settled, she pulled up the entirely digitized copy of Mary Nelson’s diary. Many of the entries were dated, though the entries themselves were short. She hoped that there would be a cross-over with the phone calls. 

Scanning the photographs of Nelson’s collection, the DSI began with the haphazard pile of CDs that had been left on her desk. The USB had them in a folder labeled “desk.” March 22, 2013 was the first file’s name. 

Stella’s throat began to close as a voice that sounded painfully familiar filled her ears. 

“Is this Mary?” Childlike, youthful; a little bell of a voice. The exact voice she had most definitely hallucinated in the catacombs. Breath was stolen from the DSI’s chest. Jesus. Despite knowing that what had happened in the catacombs could not have been anything but a hallucination, the recurrent visitations from the dead in the form of recordings startled her each time.

“It is,” the other voice replied. 

Stella ripped the headphones from her ears, her intake of breath bordering on hyperventilation. Her hands were sweaty and shaking.

“Not real,” she reaffirmed, shaking her head furtively. “Not possible.” Get a grip, Old Girl.  But she had heard those voices before. She’d seen those lips move, heard those voices in the dank darkness of West Norwood’s crumbling catacombs. Her hands began to shake violently. Swallowing against the flood of nausea that brought a wash of saliva to her mouth, the DSI took soothing breaths. No, it couldn’t have been possible that these voices were so fucking familiar. You were losing it, you were overreacting and you had been overworked long before that. It is not within the realm of possibility that these women sound familiar. Stella didn’t so much as collect herself as she forced herself to ignore any traces of familiarity. Scrubbing back in the recording, she put the headphones back in and listened once more.

“Is this Mary?”

“It is,” there was a sigh, then the sound of a door shutting. “Who is this?”

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Morrison.”

“I…I see.” The note of disbelief was evident in the American woman’s voice as it dropped to a whisper. The DSI made a note of it. Easily cowering, easily frightful. Signs of abuse, the DSI jotted down on the sheet. Afraid of repercussions?

“Friends call me Liz.”

“A-Are we friends?” There was a distinct nervousness in the woman’s voice, as if she wasn’t sure whether there was a looming trap.

“If you want to be,” Elizabeth hazarded, slow and deliberate. Despite the difference in maturity apparent in their voices, the confidence and assurance in Elizabeth’s voice made her seem like the older of the two. There was a rush of traffic behind her that sounded like the overground to the DSI. “I want to know who you are. I’d like to make sure you are okay.”

“Is that right?” Mary chuckled softly.

“I don’t need to know exactly what your relationship with my father is,” Elizabeth explained, her breathy voice sounded as if she was walking. Walking quickly, at that. “But I…I do know my father. And I worry about any woman in his company.”

“You sound so sure that something bad must be happening,” Mary stated after a swell of silence. Stella noted that Mary Nelson didn’t make an attempt to outright deny any allegations of abuse, nor did she try to make Xavier Morrison seem like a good person. The neutrality struck her as odd.

“I know my father,” was the child’s even response. The frankness of her tone reminded Stella of her own self at Elizabeth’s age: self-sufficient and hardened by virtue of having an alcoholic parent. Elizabeth had an additional layer of sharpness to her cadence that Stella didn’t possess at that age, however. The inflection of someone who intimately knew physical abuse, who bore witness to it against those she loved and was by nature protective and distrustful as a result. Stella’s heart broke afresh for Elizabeth Morrison. Dear God. Such a short, fierce little life; snubbed out for what? One man’s monstrous pleasure. 

“I suppose I don’t know what to say to you about that,” Mary hedged after another long, uncomfortable silence.

“Nothing you feel uncomfortable sharing,” Elizabeth soothed her, like Mary was the child and she was the adult. “I’m not calling you to guilt you or make you suffer.”

“Why did you, then?”

“Because…” Elizabeth paused, evidently thinking. “Because I want you to know that you have an ally. That I’m not issuing some judgment about you. If you need help, I’m here. I’m your friend.”

“That’s…very sweet of you.”

“I think maybe it is more accurate to see it as responsibility rather than sweetness,” Elizabeth responded, her voice growing tight. “I ought to have turned my father in for his…behavior…a very long time ago. If you need anything at all, you now have my number. I want us to be friends.”

“Elizabeth, I-.”

“Liz,” the girl corrected gently.

“Liz, I don’t want you to worry about me. What your father and I have is complicated, but the intricacies of it don’t concern you, okay? Don’t worry about it.” 

“Hm,” Elizabeth didn’t sound convinced. “Well, be that as it may. I want us to stay in touch.”

“I don’t think your father would like that.”

“Tough,” Elizabeth huffed. “I’ll talk to you soon, Mary.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” the American woman stated urgently. “Liz, how did you get this number?”

“Oh please,” Elizabeth laughed mirthlessly, “it wasn’t that hard. My father passed out in the living room last night, and his phone was right there, along with your messages pulled up.” The woman made an uncomfortable noise. “Yeah. I…I don’t really need to make much of a guess as to the nature of your relationship. But, again, I must emphasize that you and I are friends in this. Okay? Goodbye, Mary.” The young woman hung up. 

The DSI rolled back through the pdf of Mary Nelson’s diary to March. She read an entry from the twentieth. 

Blonde teenager in my dreams. Red dress. She’s watching from a distance. The sun is behind her: I think she knows who I am? There is a large plate in her hands. 

In the document, she highlighted the passage and date. Two days before any contact, she’d dreamt of Elizabeth? It seemed unlikely. Surely, they’d crossed paths before, become aware of one another in some other way. The DSI tapped her pen against the desk, and clicked on the next recording. It was labeled for the second of April.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Elizabeth was speaking low into the phone, as if afraid of being caught.

“Oh,” Mary sounded startled by the teen’s voice. “Uh…this…this isn’t a good time.” Mary spoke over her shoulder to someone else. A male voice spoke back; rough, besotted, and indistinct. “Yeah, I’ll be right back. It’s a friend from work!” There was a jostling of the phone, and then a door shutting behind her. “Liz, it really, really isn’t a good moment.”   

“Is my father there?” Elizabeth asked curtly.

“He…he is,” Mary responded, a mumble. “He’s a bit…uh-.”

“Fucked up?” Elizabeth supplied. 

“You…could say that, yes,” Mary muttered, sounding a little irritated. “Listen, I don’t want to be rude with you, but did you need something? I’m currently on babysitting duty, and I don’t necessarily want to leave your father alone out there. I just got that rug.” Elizabeth laughed softly at that. 

“I’m sorry to hear it,” she responded. “I do need something. From you.”

“Everyone does,” Mary said bitterly. Stella jotted that down, noting the dissatisfaction. “What do you want, Liz?” 

“I want you to keep him there for a few more days. Can you do that?”

“Come again?”

“Can you make sure my father stays in Barnet? For a few extra days?” Stella felt as stunned by the request as Mary must have. 

“Why…why are you asking? I can’t guarantee anything like that,” Mary started slowly, measuring her response. “That’s not something I really have control over. Whether I like it or not, he comes only whenever he feels inspired to visit me. Also, how the hell did you know I’m in Barnet?”

“A bill showed up with your address,” Elizabeth replied evenly. 

“Why do you want him out of your house?” There was a long silence. “Liz…did something happen?”

“He hurt my mother pretty badly.” The response came after another agonizingly long silence. “He…he hurts my Mum so much, Mary. I…I need you to keep him away. I’m begging you. I tried to stop him, and I think he sprained my wrist.” The slightly tearful quality to her voice had Stella brushing tears from her face. Anaïs’ bitter, brokenhearted face was central to her mind. Elizabeth’s pale face in the catacombs, staring at her knowingly, infiltrated her thoughts. Jesus, what these men put them all through was enough to make any sensible person sick. “Please keep him there. Keep him away”        

“Liz, do you need a doctor?” Mary’s voice dropped low, full of anxiety. 

“No. No doctors. Mum doesn’t like doctors. Her doctor tells my father everything,” Elizabeth’s voice was a shaky mess; tears were obviously being swallowed. 

“I think that’s illegal, Liz,” Mary supplied after a moment. Stella could practically hear Mary Nelson thinking. 

“Doesn’t change the behavior,” Elizabeth replied. Another long silence elapsed, with the teen clearing her throat and softly crying. “I know we don’t know each other, but-.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Mary cut across the girl. “I can’t promise anything. I’ll ask him to stay with me for a longer time. I’m…I’ll do what I can, okay?” 

“Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered. 

“That’s what friends are for,” Mary gently placated. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” One of them ended the call.

The diary had an entry from the same window of time. 

She called requesting aid; in my dreams she does the same. The mix for X is making him see, but he remains volatile when he is coming down. L is begging me to keep him longer. I can’t deny her. 

The DSI highlighted the document, linking it to the recording. The whole correlation seemed odd. ‘Making him see,’ was such an odd way to describe doing drugs. See what?

Stella scrubbed her face and hit play on the next recording. It was gross, having such a high level of access to them, knowing that these two women were being monitored by the man who eventually killed them. It was wrong. Yet, there was also something like relief about the insight, about knowing that they had found comfort in one another. The next recording was mid-April. 

“Hello?” It was Mary answering once more.

“It’s me,” Elizabeth stated breathlessly. It sounded like she was outside, traffic blustered in the background. 

“Liz, are you okay?” Mary’s concern was marked. “How’s the wrist?”

“Healed, I think.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I wanted to thank you for keeping him for so long in Barnet. I don’t want to know how you managed, but I really, really appreciate you doing it.” 

“Well,” Mary cleared her throat. “I don’t think I need to be the one to hint at the fact he has a problem. I don’t think he was sober a single day he was with me.”

“Do you drink, Mary?” Elizabeth asked curiously. A bus horn bellowed behind the teen, startling Stella minutely. 

“No, I’m sober. I don’t take drugs, either. I’m absolutely, completely stone-cold sober.” Stella immediately wrote the assertion down. It struck her as completely honest; the pride in her voice suggested it was something that she centered her identity around. Perhaps she'd recently recovered or had become sober? It struck the DSI as even more odd, since the voicemails that Xavier Morrison had left suggested he believed that Mary Nelson was getting high with him. Had she not been? Had she not been his supplier? But then hadn’t she referred to their time together as ‘babysitting’ in the previous call with Elizabeth? Stella tapped the table as she listened to the teen’s annoyed scoff. 

“What do you and my father have in common then?” Elizabeth’s sarcasm was marked. “On second thought, please don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know.”

“What do you want, Liz?” Mary sighed good-naturedly. 

“I…I was wondering two things.”

“Shoot,” Mary responded. 

“That’s such an American thing to say. ‘Shoot.’” Elizabeth chuckled off-handedly. “First, I was wondering if you could do it again. Keep him…keep him away.” 

“I…don’t think I can reasonably promise you anything like that, Liz.” 

“Can you do what you did last time?”

“I mean, I could, but why should I?” Mary’s tone was flatter, a bit harsher. “Has he done something to hurt you or your mother again?”

“Not…not necessarily,” Elizabeth faltered a bit, unsure what to say. Traffic almost drowned her voice out. “I…I just think we do better when he is away.”

“I can understand that,” Mary allowed, “but I can’t keep him here for long periods of time. He does have a job.”

“Well, he is somehow functional enough to work that job despite being high everyday, by your own account,” Elizabeth insisted; the slight shrillness of her voice revealing her youth.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Mary soothed her. “Did something happen?”

“I…Mary, I feel like I can trust you. But I don’t know you.”

“I’m as silent as the grave,” Mary told her seriously. Stella wrote that down, brow furrowing. Perhaps Mary was completely and utterly ignorant to her monitored phone calls. She sounded earnest. 

“I think…I think my father is bad for my mother,” Elizabeth cautiously reported. “I…I think that if she felt like she could leave him, she would have.”

“Probably,” Mary agreed. The woman was heartbroken on Anaïs’ behalf; a fact that surprised the DSI. Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a shock, but it did. In one word, Stella heard Mary’s complete and total sympathy for Anaïs’ situation. 

“My mother has a friend who comes over sometimes, and they get along really well. I’ve never seen her so happy with another adult.” Stella’s heart hammered and sank at the same time.

“Oh no,” the DSI closed her eyes, grimacing. 

“And you think this friend is good for her?” Mary encouraged. “What’s their name?”

“His name is Peter,” Elizabeth whispered. 

“Fucking hell,” Stella cradled her face. 

“I think that he visits more when my father is gone,” Elizabeth explained seriously, “and seeing Mum so happy…it is so special. I feel like I could cry, just talking about it.”

“I see,” Mary responded slowly. From her intonation alone, Stella knew that Mary Nelson did see, just as plainly as any adult person might. She saw it clearly, and had a profound sympathy for it. “This is a special friend.”

“I think so.”

“Special, like how I am a special friend for your father.” 

“I…I believe so.”

“And you want me to keep your father here, with me, so that Peter stays at your house? So that your mom can enjoy his company?” Mary sounded a little sarcastic, but good-natured. 

“Is…is that bad?”

“Liz, you are a good daughter.” There was humor in her voice.

“T-Thank you.” A touch of confusion in Elizabeth’s. She was too young to see the full scope of what the humor implied.

“You realize what you’re asking me to do?” Mary’s seriousness made Stella’s stomach clench. 

“I’m…I’m asking you to do whatever it is that you two do, and do it so well that he stays away. So that my mother can be happy.” There was a long silence. 

“Alright. I’ll do my best,” Mary finally relented. 

“Thank you.”

“What was the other thing you wanted?”

“I want to come see you. Meet you.”

“That’s not a good idea,” the immediate shift in tone and sharpness startled the DSI. “Liz, it is not safe to visit me.”

“Why?” Elizabeth’s crestfallen voice would have made Stella relent immediately. 

“I need you to trust me.”

“Please?” Elizabeth begged. “Please? I need to see you.”

“What on earth for?”

“Because you and I are tied together now, by way of a man named Xavier Morrison.” The firmness in her voice had Stella’s chest constricting. The silence dragged on again. 

“Alright. Call ahead, though. So I know it is safe.” Knowing what she knew, the DSI wondered how much Mary Nelson was aware of her constant monitoring. There wasn’t any indication that the woman was leading the teen on. Her protectiveness sounded completely genuine.    

The next CD was marked two weeks later.  

“Hello?” Exhaustion and murkiness was obvious in her tone. 

“Mary, it’s Liz,” the girl was breathless, sobbing. “Sorry, I know it’s-.”

“Three in the morning, Liz. What happened?”

Stella couldn’t quite make out the words that Elizabeth was trying to get out of her mouth. There was so much crying and gasping breaths, that she barely understood Mary’s gentle soothing words. 

“Liz, just speak calmly for me, Jesus Christ, you’re scaring the shit out of me,” Mary sounded terrified for the girl, though was obviously attempting to mask it. Stella wrote that down, and wondered if Mary Nelson had suspicions about Elizabeth’s safety. Not from Xavier Morrison, but from her brother.   

“It’s my father,” Elizabeth began hoarsely, barely keeping it together. Out of all the recordings, she sounded so young in this one that Stella would have presumed there was a small child on the line. Not a fourteen year old. “Mary, he hurt me.” Dread crept through Stella’s blood. She paused the recording, and looked back through her notes from the last interview that Xavier Morrison had given with Harrison and Alice. Skimming until she found the hefty list of things that Anaïs Morrison had accused her deceased husband of. 

Child abuse.

“Oh shit,” the DSI whispered. Dread was pounding in her chest. She felt like throwing up. 

“I don’t know what to do,” the girl sobbed. “He’s never done that before. I’ve never seen him like that before! What did you give him?!”

“I don’t let him leave here with anything, Liz, it’s not allowed!” The woman insisted, clearly distressed. Stella wrote down ‘not allowed.’ “Oh my God, Liz. Oh my God. You need to tell your mom.”

“She’ll die if I tell her,” the teen was sobbing hysterically. “He does this to her all the time, if she knows he did this to me-!” Stella made a note of that as well: ‘he does this to her all the time.’

“Take a deep breath for me, Liz, you’re scaring me,” Mary demanded. There was an awful crack in Mary’s voice. She understood what had happened just as much as Stella understood.

Xavier Morrison had hurt his daughter in what was perhaps the worst possible manner.  

They took deep breaths together on the phone, and Stella wiped tears from her eyes. 

“Where is your father now?”

“Um, he’s passed out downstairs,” Elizabeth whispered. 

“Okay. Okay, where is your mother?”

“She’s in her bedroom. I think she locked the door. I think that’s why he came to mine,” she was crying still, but her voice was intelligible and defensive of her mother’s choice. It was obvious that she supported Anaïs’ right to lock her door against the man who was terrorizing them. “I should’ve locked my door. I should’ve barricaded it.”  

“Okay.” Mary was silent for a long moment. “Are you going to report him?”

“I…I don’t know. I don’t think I can think about that right now.”

“Okay, I want you to do something for me, Liz. Listen very carefully.”

“Okay,” the girl took a shuddering breath. 

“Was he inside of you?”

“Um,” Elizabeth began crying again, and Stella couldn’t make out if the sound she made was in the affirmative or not. The child was hysterical. 

“When he finished, was it in you or on your clothes?” The directness made Elizabeth gasp. Stella swallowed against the nausea brewing in her chest. Practiced. Mary Nelson sounded practiced. This form of abuse was not new to her, not by a long shot. After a weighty pause, Mary sighed. “Do you know what I mean by ‘finished,’ honey?” So extremely gentle. Elizabeth cried harder. The DSI’s heart broke for her. In very few words, Mary Nelson described what she meant, and Elizabeth made a small noise that affirmed she now understood.   

“M-My clothes,” she whispered. 

“Did he leave marks on you?”

“Um, yeah, he did,” her halting reply made Stella’s stomach roll. Out of precaution, she grabbed the small trash can near her desk. Seldom had her iron stomach been rocked. This was different. This was completely different, and she had seen and heard absolutely heinous crimes of the exact same kind in her career. Yet the plight of Elizabeth Morrison’s brief life was ungluing Stella, melting her strength. It was too close to the chest. It was too personal. 

“Does your phone take pictures?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to take pictures of your injuries and keep the clothes. Put them in a box or a baggie. That way, if you decide to tell someone, you have evidence.” Mary waited a beat. “Give yourself time to think. Nothing has to happen right now. Next step, alright? Where is the bathroom in your house? Can you go without crossing paths with Xavier?”

“Um, I think so?” She sounded so terribly young. So young and absolutely terrified.  

“After you take photos of your injuries, go to the bathroom. Take a shower. Just try to relax. Then, I want you to lock your door and go to sleep.” Her voice was soothing and kind. “There isn’t much else for it, I’m afraid.”

“Mary, I’ve never been sore like this,” the teen whimpered. 

“Liz, it’s going to be okay. Let’s get coffee tomorrow, okay? You don’t have swim practice on Tuesdays, right?” 

“No, I don’t.” There was a long pause. “I won’t be able to go to swim practice for a while, I think. Not…not like this.” Mary made a noise of confirmation.

“Regular place, regular time, then. Okay? It’s going to be alright, Liz.”

“Okay, that sounds good,” her voice was so, so small. The hysterical note had left. “Mary, one more thing?”  

“Yeah?”

“Can you check me out, tomorrow? Just…like make sure he didn’t do permanent damage?” Elizabeth huffed and took a deep breath. “I-I-I-I-I’m, I’m bleeding and-.”

“Yeah, I can take a look. No problem.”

“Thank you,” the tiny voice replied.

Stella listened to them say good night. She took the headphones from her ears, and wept. She couldn’t help herself. She’d fallen completely in love with the fourteen year old. Elizabeth was fiery, good, and so determined to make her mother happy. She had been so full of life and love, and she had survived her father for what? As philosophically objectionable the feeling was, the violent death Abel Nelson had inflicted on Xavier Morrison somehow didn’t seem violent enough by Stella’s measure. Anything that ever happened to Abel Nelson would never be enough to rectify the wrong that was the complete destruction of such a good human. There were so few people in this world that were strong like Elizabeth, proud like Elizabeth, and determined to take care of those they loved like Elizabeth. There were so few girls who survived such awful things. Elizabeth should have been able to grow up and use that power to protect more people, to protect herself. To advocate and to fight and to rally. 

And she had been removed from the world for the passion of one man. 

How many brilliant, powerful women had been removed from the world because of the acts of one awful man?

Billions.  

The DSI forced herself back together, taking her own deep breaths. Regular place, regular time. How much had gone on between Mary Nelson and Elizabeth Morrison? Undeniably, they’d been more than simply aware of one another. They’d been each other’s confidants. Jesus, Mary Nelson knew well enough to ask if Elizabeth had swim practice or not.  

Stella clicked on another recording, and listened to the two of them exchange information about an upcoming coffee date they had planned. 

“Is he with you?” Elizabeth asked casually.

“Xavier? Um, he’s in Barnet but I’m not sure what he is up to. Probably getting shit faced,” Mary sighed. In every single one of their conversations, it was hard to tell if Mary Nelson even liked Xavier. 

“Mary, I know I have asked this before, and then said I didn’t want to know,” Elizabeth laughed softly, “but I wonder about it all the time. What do you and my father even have in common?” Mary gave a short bark of a laugh. “I mean it! You are wonderful. He is an alcoholic and a monster, and-.”

“Liz,” Mary halted the girl, a smile in her voice. “He is more than that.” There was a long silence. “I had a dream of your father, before I met him.” 

“A dream?” Elizabeth responded, sounding genuinely surprised. 

Stella’s eyes narrowed. Absorbed by the recordings, she hadn’t looked back at the woman’s diary. She scrolled backwards in time, all the way back before December.  

“I had a dream…where Xavier was looking at this big painting of Saul,” Mary stated, her voice taking on a slightly dazed quality. “Saul, under his horse.”

Stella stared at the text on the page and paused the recording. The entry was dated for November, one month prior to her meeting Xavier Morrison in a bar. Her heartbeat was in her cheeks.

There is a tall blonde man gazing at a painting of Saul, about to be crushed by his horse. He is in all red. He is pointing at Saul. ‘I know him, I know that man.’ When he turns to look at me, his eyes are too wide. He saw something. I think he is the one. He is the intersection of all who this is meant for. At a great distance, I see a blonde woman and a blonde teenager. They are holding hands. I’m not sure who they are. They are in red.

There was an X that was followed by an arrow, turning into a cross. Then a question mark. Stella scrolled through the PDF of scanned pages, noting the dates. Months of dreams and interactions regarding Xavier. Under one from March, Mary had underlined the vision and written next to it, Acts 9: 1-9 . In a later dream, where Xavier was trying to lift the painting off the wall, he was screaming: I know this man! Beside the description, Stella saw Mary’s neurotic circling of another section from the Bible. Acts 26: 9-11. In yet another dream, Xavier was on his knees underneath the sculpture of a horse. I know this man! He was shouting. Acts 8: 1-3. She hastily looked up the versus. Stories of Saul, persecuting followers of Jesus, looking after the coats of men who stoned people to death, and being made blind by God for refusing to believe in Jesus Christ. Archetypal Biblical carnage and mayhem; bullshit, as ever, in Stella’s opinion. 

“And what the fuck does that have to do with Xavier Morrison?” Stella said aloud, infuriated. Hadn’t Abel Nelson marked Xavier as a ‘harlot’? Perhaps Mary believed him to be some incarnation of Saul? She pressed play on the recording. 

“I’m not sure I know who Saul is,” Elizabeth confessed. 

“Of course you do, Liz,” Mary laughed. “Saul converts, and becomes Saint Paul.” 

“Oh, Saul the Persecutor?” Elizabeth cackled. “And, what, that made you fall in love?”

“No, not in love,” Mary responded. There was a distance in her voice. Something secretive. Stella held her breath. “But I knew him. I knew him before I met him. He doesn’t understand except when he is with me, when he is taking what I give him. We understand. This was made for him.” 

Stella’s eyes widened. Her mouth went dry.

Mary, at the foot of the stairs in a hellish, dark catacomb. Staring at Dana. This is not meant for you. A horrifying hallucination. A hallucination that had been haunting her since they rescued Anaïs from the darkness of Nelson’s catacombs.    

“Made for what? What was made for him?” Elizabeth asked, clearly confused. There was a note of concern in her voice.  

“Don’t worry about it, Liz,” Mary replied evenly. The call abruptly ended.

Stella gazed at the diary entries of Mary Nelson, swallowing as she paused her purview of the recordings and began to read the diary in sequence.

Different mix than normal. He is seeing the visions. He knows more than before. It disappears when he sobers up. A thinks it is almost the perfect mix.

A different entry was smeared, as if tears had blotted the paper.

This mix is too violent. He lashed out. He saw too clearly. I’m going to be feeling this one for days.

Another entry, noted after the call where Elizabeth begged Mary to keep Xavier there longer. 

Liz burns like a saint for her mother. She is fire. I keep dreaming of Liz. I dreamt of her before her call tonight. She was holding a plate in her hands. She tells me she is worried that Christ is not coming for her, or for any of us. New mix for X tomorrow. A says this is closer to perfect. This mix kept X suspended in God’s hands for a long time. He spoke clearly. He knew who the saints were. 

Stella noted how each entry regarding her meetings with Elizabeth were marked with less dreamy language, but still scattered. The woman wrote such brief entries, it appeared that she was making notes while on the fly, or freshly awoken.   

Distraught. This girl is suffering. I want to free her. The mother needs to be stronger. I cannot be her mother, but she needs a mother.  

The next one hurt Stella to the core.

What X did to Liz makes me want to give all of this up. A would never allow it. He says she was ‘made for this,’ but how can any girl be ‘made for this.’ I checked her injuries in a coffee shop’s restroom, for fuck’s sake. She’s just a little girl. She should not be forced to endure this. She’s just a girl. X may be the crux, he may be seeing what I need, but I cannot do this much longer to a person as good as Liz. 

Stella took a deep breath as she looked at the next one. She stared at the screen, and bit her lip. 

I asked A if I could take Liz’s place. He said that ‘we all have our place.’ He is determined. I told him Liz should be spared. He said ‘she burns brightest of all of them. She’s the star.’ I have not wept so hard in all my life. I know, in my heart and in my dreams, this is not meant for her.  

She’s ‘the star.’ It was dated for the middle of May. It was the first note that Mary Nelson had made that suggested she knew with absolute certainty that Elizabeth was being targeted by her brother. 

Stella skimmed the contents of the following entries quickly.

Just saw Liz- X beat the fuck out of her. Next mix for X needs to be more sedate. He’s cracking. He should get sober. Perhaps the mix is too much. Perhaps it’s ruining his sight.

She reviewed the one that followed.

I dreamt of Liz in the dark place. Long, endless chamber of brick and dripping water. She is in a red dress. She is holding my head on a platter. She tells me that Christ is not coming. When I woke up, I sobbed. What if Christ never returns for us?

Stella wrote down the symbolism of the red dress, the head on a platter. It was unclear if they had found the catacombs yet, so the existence of this dark place in Mary’s dreams confused the DSI greatly. 

X saw A leave. Didn’t enjoy that at all. Fucked me then stormed off to the bar. Will need to make a sedative for him. A says to stop worrying so much. But the mix is making him short and prickly afterwards.

Stella ran a hand through her hair. 

“What the fuck is going on,” she growled. 

Spoke to Anne T. She is kind. A thinks she sees far. She sees the past. She has all our answers. I dreamt of her. She was standing at the top of the stairway, and looking over her shoulder into the light. I was in a dark, low place. It felt like death. A says this is the dream. 

Mildly, Stella wondered if Abel Nelson had taken inspiration from Mary Nelson’s dreams for his work. Yet, when she looked at the notes left by forensics, only Mary Nelson’s fingerprints appeared across the pages. Things were not becoming more clear. The influx of Mary Nelson’s information was only making it all more knotty and confusing. Stella pulled up the CDs under Anne Thomas’ wall. There were only two recordings. One was from April, the other was from May. She clicked on the first one.

“Hello, this is Anne Thomas,” a clear, pleasant voice crossed the line. 

“Hello, Ms. Thomas, how are you?” Mary’s voice was pure customer service, all American-Midwest nice. It startled Stella. There was great contrivance in Mary’s tone that she had never heard before. Mary didn’t seem even remotely like the warm human she has presented to others; this was an act. 

“Fine, thanks. How may I help you?” 

“This is Mary Addie,” Mary Nelson stated clearly. Stella wrote down the alias. “I had emailed you about a week ago regarding the FOWNC’s private catacomb tours.” 

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Addie! Thank you so much for calling me back, I’m sorry I missed you,” Anne Thomas cheerfully replied. “We are happy to make sure you get in on the next tour. Let me get my diary out for you to give you some dates.” Stella listened to them rattle off information to one another. 

“I really appreciate your assistance,” Mary stated after they sorted the dates that she’d be touring the catacombs. “My husband is such a nerd about British historical sites. Abel is always asking me about whether you and I got caught up.” Stella immediately noted the title. Not brother. Husband. 

“Oh, is he interested in the Magnificent Seven?” Anne Thomas asked enthusiastically. “While I do know more about West Norwood, I am happy to get him connected with some specialists who know Kensal Green or Highgate.” 

“Let’s start with West Norwood,” Mary chuckled. 

Stella clicked through to the next recording under Anne Thomas’ section of wall. 

“Hello, this is Anne Thomas,” the woman greeted. 

“Hi, my name is Julia Steinfield,” the childish voice greeted Anne. Stella’s eyes widened. 

“So glad we were able to make this call happen, Ms. Steinfield,” Anne stated clearly and pleasantly. “Tell me more about your school project! West Norwood is an incredible cemetery with equally vivid history.” 

“I was wondering if you could tell me more about the catacombs,” Julia replied, completely relaxed. “My boyfriend told me that their history and construction is really unique, and so for my project I wanted to write more about how they used to work.” 

“I am happy to share!” Anne Thomas replied enthusiastically. In great detail, Julia Steinfield asked question after question as to how the catacombs used to operate, when they became damaged, and the failed rose garden above them. Stella ran hands down her face. Anne Thomas detailed how parts of the catacombs were particularly fragile, and how very few people were allowed to go through them anymore due to health concerns. At length, she explained their structure, and volunteered to email a pdf of the catacombs to Julia for her project. The teen readily accepted. 

Unbeknownst to Julia, she was gathering fundamental information on behalf of Abel Nelson. 

Stella listened to them end their conversation, and then she scanned through more of Mary Nelson’s diary. An entry dated shortly after Julia spoke with Anne revealed an incident with Abel. 

A brought me many jet rosaries. They are old, and very beautiful. He says they are from the place we want, they are from the place I dream of.

Stella glanced at the photographs of Julia’s section of wall. There was a short stack of CDs. The DSI selected the files, and hit play. She let them run as she went through the visual evidence of Nelson’s apartment, looking at each detailed photo on the wall. Elena Rice was Julia’s confidant, that was plain enough. Almost all the phone calls were between the two teens. In multiple conversations, Julia described what she and ‘A’ had gotten up to. Elena made mild commentary, sounding unsure and worried. 

“You don’t get it, Elena,” Julia insisted after she described an especially vivid sexual encounter with Abel Nelson. “I’m going to marry him. He’s going to run away with me.”

“Jules, you barely know him,” Elena had hedged. “And he’s…like…old.”

“Experienced!” Julia had replied in a huff. 

“What about university?”

“What about it?” Julia had sounded on the brink of tears. Most of their conversations carried on in a similar fashion. 

In one recording, Abel Nelson was on the line, speaking low and furtively to the teen. It was supposed to be romantic, but Stella’s blood curdled at the sound of the man’s voice. 

“I have special instructions for you, Jules,” perhaps Julia had found his husky voice enticing. It made Stella want to claw something. 

“Yes, Sir,” Julia had breathlessly replied. Stella withheld the urge to spit, but didn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. 

“Take your panties off,” and the man began to instruct Julia how to touch herself. Stella hated him with such a passion that it made her wonder at her fitness for the rest of the evidence evaluation. Her hatred for him was a fire of equal wrath to the sun. As she listened, Stella continued to scan Mary Nelson’s diary.

Fired. Again. I’m wrecked. Lory says that there was money missing from the drawer. That money is always missing from the drawer after I work. A’s greed. A’s fucking greed. Making me dependent on him. Again. I think he wants Lory. But she isn’t meant for this. I’m not sure what that relationship is. He says she lives at a crux of some kind. 

Stella scrolled further, and turned off the recording of Julia breathing hard and begging for Abel Nelson to marry her already. Her head was pounding. 

X needs to stop taking the mix. He needs to dry out. It’s too much for him. My dreams of him are too loud. 

Underneath Mary Harris’ section of wall was only one CD. The recording was less than five minutes. 

“Hello?”

“Is this Mary Harris?” 

“Yes, who is calling?”

“Sorry, this is Mary Addie, I talked to you the other day outside the meeting.”

“Oh! Yes, dear, I remember you now. It’s so good to hear from you, I was worried after I saw you last. Are you alright?” Mary Harris’ warm voice was maternal and incredibly kind. A true social worker. 

“I’m alright,” Mary Nelson insisted. “I’m calling because I am not sure if my boyfriend, Xavier, has been attending meetings. He said he went to a few, but-.”

“Mary, you know I can’t exactly release that sort of information. But…if it means anything…I don’t explicitly recall seeing Xavier outside of the two times I saw him there with you. Now, I may be wrong…but…” The woman trailed off.  

“Well, shit,” Mary Nelson whispered. Stella was baffled by the entire exchange. Mary Nelson had been drugging him. She was pissed off that he was refusing to dry out. It didn’t add up. “Mary, my brother has been interested in meetings as well. Can I possibly give him your contact information?” 

“Absolutely, my number- oh, wait, do you have a pen? Great, so my number is-,” Mary Harris rattled off her details. Stella stared at the computer screen where Mary Nelson’s crooked cursive revealed her inner world.

I dreamt of Mary Harris. Her hands were reaching for me. God is in her hands.

Stella made a steeple of her fingers. 

In her diary, the woman seemed to believe that she was some sort of prophet. Mary Nelson believed in her dreams. She apparently believed that whatever mixture of drugs and alcohol she was giving to Xavier Morrison impacted her, impacted the dreams she was having, as if the man was some kind of conduit. 

It made no sense whatsoever. Was she a victim, or had she been coerced?  

Or, in a horrible way, had Xavier Morrison been correct in his assessment? Perhaps Mary Nelson had simply been crazy. She remembered the prescription that had been found at Mary Nelson’s flat: paroxetine and clozaril. Dana had said that the drugs had not shown up in any of the tests she’d run on Mary Nelson’s corpse. Would they show up in Xavier Morrison’s tests? In Abel Nelson’s? 

The DSI held her head in her hands, and let forth a soft groan. How could this investigation have this much content? This much material? They were positively drowning in evidence; drowning in materials yet to be worked through. She needed to call Denver and inquire about the state of the catacombs- yet more materials to be photographed, cataloged, processed. Jesus, Abel Nelson had been working on his project for the better part of a year. The extent of what he had done was hard to fathom.

She flipped open the folders before her to different photographs of Nelson’s flat. She gazed upon the image sporting the massive collection of CDs stacked beneath Anaïs and Elizabeth’s imagery on Nelson’s wall. Dread left a coppery taste at the back of her throat. Would these be more of Elizabeth speaking with Mary? Or primarily Anaïs?

She played the first file on the USB that corresponded to the stack and turned to a new page in her notebook.

“Collins,” came the rough male voice. Stella closed her eyes. 

“Fuck,” she whispered. It was odd, hearing his voice. Odd, hearing him so neutral, so well. The last thing she had said to Collins was a reprimand at his improper handling of Lory McBride. She would never get a chance to tell him anything else. The sadness of that struck her square in the chest.

“It’s me,” Anaïs’ sweet voice caressed the DSI’s ears. Honeyed and sweet, the woman sounded so much lighter, so much younger. 

“Annie,” Collins’ smile could be heard in his voice. Immediately, the feeling that she ought not listen filled Stella. It was so different when she didn’t know the victims, and didn't feel tied up in them. It was so different when she didn’t have to plan on turning around and speaking to Anaïs Morrison. 

“Xavier isn’t home tonight or this weekend. Liz has swim practice, and a sleep over with a friend. I was hoping you might come over.” There was a lyrical quality to Anaïs’ voice, a breathlessness that conveyed just a little something more. 

“Is that right,” Collins mused in response. 

“Yes,” Anaïs gamely replied, “which means you can come over and we can have plenty of time to ourselves.”

“Ugh, Annie,” Collins moaned, “I would if I could. I’m working late tonight. I won’t be off till well past midnight.”

“I don’t care,” Anaïs insisted, “please come to me.” Desire dripped into her voice, and Stella braced her fingers against her lips in moderate mortification. This was so private. She needed to listen to this evidence, and review it, for additional information. Yet, the very existence of the recordings filled her with a white-hot rage on their behalf. What had Abel Nelson done with this information? “Peter, please come to me. Come be with me. Tonight.” 

“Annie,” Collins hesitated. There was a shuffling on his side of the phone. “Shit,” he muttered. There was more background noise, and for a second Stella half wondered if what she was hearing was the din of the Met. A door shut behind Collins, and he spoke low into the phone. “Annie, you know I’d come over tonight. But I need to go home sometimes, too.” There was a strong sigh from both parties. “I’ve been dying to see you all week,” he confessed in a whisper.

“Then come see me. Come see me first, and then go home,” Anaïs begged. 

“Yeah, and that worked out so well last time,” Collins muttered contritely. Anaïs exhaled a soft laugh. 

“Well,” she responded softly, flirtatious and delighted. There was a pause that was saturated by sexual tension. Stella pinched the bridge of her nose.

“What would we do if I came over, Annie?” He asked, his voice swooping low and scraping against the barrel. All rough and sensuous. Anaïs hummed.   

“Let me see,” she gently began, voice silky and sweet. With great care and purpose, Stella listened to the woman outline a generous fantasy for herself and her lover. The DSI listened less attentively to the exchange between the two, as it became abundantly clear that this was something they often did. She made note of the erotic nature of their exchange, and how, for the first time, Stella was hearing the fierce conviction in Anaïs that had been present in her only daughter. In the phone call, Anaïs made no attempt to hide what she was doing with her free hand, and Peter Collins begged her in short sentences to tell him more information. It also became obvious to Stella that he was at work, she heard a recognizable intercom in the background. She suspected he was in the loo, or perhaps an empty room. “I’m going to come,” Anaïs whispered into the phone, and Collins begged to hear her in a low growl. Her whimpering transfigured into her calling his name, and Stella’s stomach transfigured into a rock. To know something so precious had been in Abel Nelson’s possession was converting every cell in her body into a small field of rage on the behalf of all his victims. How dare he. How dare he possess something so gentle, so private, so loving. 

How dare he. 

“I’ll try to come by,” he finally said after they’d both calmed. Collins sounded strangled by his desire. “I can’t promise anything, Annie, but I’ll come by.” 

“That’s all I want,” Anaïs confirmed gently. 

“Oh, I am so sorry to ask again,” Collins stated, stepping into a louder space than he was previously; Stella guessed it was a crowded hallway. “Can you possibly look after my boy on Tuesday? I hate asking, but-.”

“Of course I can,” Anaïs stopped him. “Taking care of him is never anything other than a complete joy for me. I love spending time with him.” She paused for a moment. “Sorry, Peter, my phone is about to die. I have to go. I’ll see you later?”

“Yes,” Collins stated firmly, sighing. “Oh, you’ll see me later, Miss.” Anaïs laughed, and hung up.    

Stella noted the suggestion of recurrent babysitting, and how her phone was dying. Perhaps it meant something, but very possibly didn’t. Phones that were being monitored by other technologies died more quickly. The DSI pressed play on the following recording. 

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Collins sighed. 

“Hi, love,” Anaïs responded, sounding low. There was a tense silence between them. “Peter…how is she?”

“She’s still in hospital. She’s refusing the meds,” Collins replied, sounding infuriated. Stella paused the recording, and had to recollect for a moment. Who was in the hospital? “She clearly can’t fucking function without the meds, but she won’t take them. This is her fourth nervous breakdown in the last six months, Annie. I can’t take it. I want this to be over.” Stella blinked in confusion. 

“I’ll pray for her, Peter. I’m so sorry.” Profound, deep pain came from Anaïs. “What you are both going through with this is unfair.” 

“I want a divorce from her, Annie, but I’m bloomin’ terrified that she’ll hurt herself when I leave. I’m afraid that she’ll do something, and I-.” He broke off with a choked noise. Stella sighed. She’d forgotten that Peter Collins’ wife had been unstable long before his murder. Hadn’t Denver said that Collins’ wife had been unstable since she’d given birth? “I hate asking you to take care of the baby. It’s not fair. But, Jesus, I’m afraid to leave him alone with her. I’m so afraid she’ll hurt herself or hurt him.” He huffed. “And I know that sounds dramatic, but when you are admitting your wife to hospital because she’s slashing her wrists it's just-.”

“I know, I know,” Anaïs assured him, soothing him gently. Collins was crying over the phone. 

“We had the baby to try and save this marriage, and I don’t regret the baby. Not for a moment. I love being a dad. But her constant state of being on the edge-!” He cut himself off. She hadn’t known his home life was so bad. Collins had always been polished, pretty, and put together. He was an incredible investigator, who kept things straight. Up until Elizabeth Morrison and Lory McBride’s murder, he’d never made an error. She had never known he was shouldering so much. Guilt constricted her chest. “Annie, I don’t know what to do.” 

“Come to me tonight, Peter. Come stay.”

“I can’t, she’s in hospital. The baby-.”

“Bring him, too, Peter.” Anaïs insisted; maternal, yet with the delicacy of a co-conspirator. “Bring both of you. You know that both of you are always welcome in my home.”

“And where is your husband, exactly?” Collins sighed heavily, sounding exhausted. 

“Lord knows,” Anaïs’ bitter response showed not only her indifference to Xavier’s whereabouts, but highlighted a lack of his general presence. Stella jotted that down. “He’s up north. But what I want is you. I want you and your little boy to come and be here. Liz will-.”

“Jesus, this is complicated,” he whispered. 

“Peter, Liz understands.” Anaïs took a deep breath. “She…I told her. She understands. She is only fourteen, but she understands things. She’s…she is so protective. Of me. Of…of this. She understands.” The sadness in Anaïs’ voice was heartrending.  

“She knows we are having an affair?” Collins responded in a low, weary voice. 

“She knows that you make me happy.” Firm. Firm and strong and assured. All afresh, Stella was heartbroken for the woman in the recording, for the woman who had lost every person who had her back. 

“Well.”

“You know Liz.”

“I do. I do.” There was a long silence. “Alright. We’ll be over around 7 o’clock.”

“Good. I’ll make dinner. We’ll see you then.” The call ended.

Stella pressed play on another recording. It was another exchange between Collins and Anaïs, making arrangements. Anaïs had Collins’ kid with her, and let the baby babble on the phone. He sounded like a good father, and was actively thrilled to come pick him up. They made a sweet image, even if just from a dialogue over the phone. It was unclear to Stella as to when the affair had started, but Nelson had begun recording when it was still somewhat early. She guessed that perhaps it had been going on for a few months. The earliest recording was from February, but they had lost the awkwardness of talking on the phone or having phone sex. It wasn’t brand new in February. As Stella worked through the first recordings, it was evident that Anaïs was and continued to be the instigator. She was the passionate one. The woman had an immense love in her that she was eager to give over to Collins. It made the conclusion of their love affair even sadder, as each recording of child care and sexual desire and arrangements to come over built up. It was absolutely heartbreaking. 

Stella arrived at a phone call that was already highlighted on the USB. Someone in forensics had caught its overlap with the first time Elizabeth contacted Mary Nelson, begging her to keep Xavier occupied in Barnet.

“Peter, it’s me,” Anaïs whispered into the phone. She was outside, as wind whipped around her voice over the call. 

“Annie, I’m so glad to hear from you,” there was a marked relief in Collins’ voice. “Jesus, it’s like you disappeared off the face of the earth, girl.” 

“I’m sorry,” Anaïs responded, breathlessly. She sounded exhausted. Stella hadn’t heard such a dip in her energy across any of the phone calls prior. “It’s been…a busy time.”

“He’s been home a lot?”

“You guessed it.” Anaïs sighed. “But, uhm, he’s headed up north again. Said he’d be gone for several days. Elizabeth said he told her he’d be gone most of the week. She’s just as excited about it as I am.” Stella rubbed her forehead as she listened. The image of Elizabeth’s starry gaze, excited about securing happiness for her mother, assaulted her mind. “I was wondering…do you want to come stay?”

“I do,” Collins immediately affirmed. 

“I…I have a stipulation.” 

“What’s that?” Collins’ voice was laced with dread. 

“I know…as a cop you have to report certain things and…”

“Annie, we’ve talked about this. We’ve gone over this again and again. If he’s beating you like before, I can’t just stand by and do nothing. I can’t. I won’t.”

“You will, and you will say nothing.” The sharpness in Anaïs’ voice startled Stella. “I can’t do anything, not a damn thing, until I find a solicitor. Xavier has total control of my funds, Peter. You know that. I have no money but what he brings in, what he allows me to use. I…” the helplessness in her voice was alarming. “What happens to Liz if I try to leave, Peter? I’m not letting my daughter get taken away from me.” The horror of how violently Elizabeth was later taken from Anaïs made Stella’s stomach roll again. The knowledge that the person who committed the atrocity listened to Anaïs proclaim such a desperate need made it difficult for Stella to catch her breath.   

“Love, there are many people I work with who can help you both get out,” Collins insisted. “One of my bosses used to specialize in this sort of thing. She’s brilliant. She’s bloody brilliant. She can help. If I talked to her about it, I know that we could get you free and figure this out in such a way that you and Liz are alright.” 

Stella stared up at the ceiling. Had he meant Stella? If he had brought the situation to Stella, would Elizabeth Morrison still be alive? Would they have been spared from the abuse of Xavier Morrison and the violent murder committed by Abel Nelson? She couldn’t let herself think about it for too long. If she did, it would be a dark, guilt-laden hole that she’d never be able to extract herself from. 

“Please just come over. I’m too tired to talk about this right now.” They agreed on a time. He’d bring the baby. His wife was back in the hospital, apparently. She had tried to kill herself ‘like Sylvia Plath.’

Stella listened to another phone call where they were arranging childcare. Then, there were no calls. Pulling up the pdf on her computer, Stella looked at the phone records that Milagro had subpoenaed. Between that conversation and the next recording, Collins had called Anaïs nearly every day for a week and a half, but she never took the call. He apparently never left her a voicemail. Perhaps that was a rule of theirs. Collins had called Elizabeth, although there was no recording. Apparently Nelson had missed that one. It was brief, lasting no more than ten minutes. He then called Anaïs, who answered. The timeline was in accord with when Elizabeth called Mary Nelson, begging her to keep Xavier away for as long as possible due to the pain he had inflicted. 

She hit play.

“Peter,” Anaïs greeted. 

“Anaïs.” He was a bit short, curt. “Look, I’m not okay. I’m not okay with you not answering the bloomin’ phone after us getting cut off last week. I’m not okay, and I’m scared. I’m coming over. I gotta see you in one piece.”

“Peter, don’t. You’re just going to have nightmares over it,” Anaïs begged.

“I’m having nightmares now! Not knowing!” He practically roared into the phone, startling Stella. “I don’t like that I need to call Liz in order to get ahold of you, to make sure that you’re in one piece! What the fuck is going on, Annie?”  

“Please, Peter, don’t yell at me,” Anaïs begged in a watery voice, “I can’t-.”

“I know, I know,” he was immediately contrite, so perfectly restrained in tone, that Stella wiped a tear from her eye. “Jesus, Annie, I am so worried about you.” Anaïs was sobbing on the phone. “Do you need to go to hospital?”

“No, I think I’m okay now.”

“Now?” He pushed.

“I thought he had broken my ribs, but they’re just badly bruised.” It was flatly delivered, almost uninterested. It was akin to how she’d described her injuries to Stella in hospital; mildly disassociating from the intensity of how bad it was. Peters scoffed in indignation. “What do you want me to say, exactly? Do you want me to lie?”

“I want you to say I can turn him in. I want you to let me help you, Annie. I want you to let me-.”

“Stop,” she whispered. 

“Look,” Collins stated into the phone. Stella heard a ding behind him. Probably the lift. “I’m on my way over, okay? I want to talk about our options for getting you out of your situation.”

“And where would I go exactly, Peter? Where would Liz go?” Anaïs bitterly asked. “Live at yours? Your wife may be losing her mind, but she isn’t stupid, Peter.”

“Annie,” Peter warned.

“Am I wrong?” She demanded. 

“Annie, you listen to me,” Collins demanded, not unkindly. “I love you.” There was a long silence. “I love you, and I love Liz. And I want to make sure that you are both able to live freely. I love you so much, I want to help you do that. Whatever way that looks. So if it means living with me, then that’s what it means. If it means finding you a flat, that’s what it means. I know a lot of people who could help you that work at the Met, Annie. Please.” The silence dragged on. 

“We’ll talk about it.” Anaïs finally relented. “Just…I’ve changed my mind. Get over here as quickly as you can. I need you.” The loneliness crept across the woman’s voice in such an agonizingly, palpable way, Stella felt Collins’ overwhelming concern for Anaïs flood her, as well. “I need you,” she added in a huskier tone; the sultry affect somewhat ruined by the teary aspect that clung to her voice. 

“Annie, I’m going to be there in-.”

“Please?” The despair in her voice was ardent. 

“I’m on my way there now, love.”

“Yes but…when you see me…I don’t think you’ll want me anymore,” her tender voice gave Stella considerable pause. She glanced at the phone records. Numbers the DSI vaguely recognized had called Anaïs multiple times in the days following. The computer system had flagged them as centers for helping women suffering from domestic violence. Anaïs hadn’t answered or returned the calls. 

“I always want you,” Collins affirmed softly. There was a worry in his tone. The loud, awkward thud of a car door filled the line. 

“Are you in your car?”     

“Yeah.”

“Good. I want you to talk to me.” 

“Annie-.”

“Peter, I’m begging you,” she whispered. “Please. Anything. Anything other than this. I want to feel something other than how I have felt this whole week.” Her voice was full of tears. With reticence, Collins began to speak. He wove together a simple fantasy not unlike ones they’d shared before. It was a domestic scene; they were at home. He had her over a counter top, and then carried her to their bedroom. Stella tried not to listen too closely, but it was obvious to anyone with half an investigative bone in their body that the core of their fantasies was always that they had a home . That they got to exist in space, freely, together; that he wanted her, and she him, and neither one was afraid. It was so horrifically violating to take in their exchange, especially since both people sounded so heartbroken and one of them was dead. The exchange was desperate. It was desperate, depressing, and deeply loving. As she had in other recordings, Anaïs announced her crest, but unlike other phone calls she began bawling hysterically after. Collins tried to calm her, but she didn’t seem open to the gesture. “Peter, I’ve never felt more trapped in this marriage, or more afraid.” She was sobbing so hard, Stella worried Anaïs would vomit from the intensity. “I don’t know how to get out, how to make it work. I have no control of our money, of my inheritance. Nothing. I don’t have anything in my name,” she was hysterical. “And Liz has been acting so weird. Something is going on, and I don’t know what. She won’t talk to me. I thought it was just teenage rebellion or something, but it’s not that! I know my daughter! She’s acting strange and secretive. She says she has a friend she needs to go visit in Barnet. Who the fuck does she know in Barnet?” Stella was riveted to her chair. The couple agreed they would see each other in just a few short minutes. Stella scribbled down thoughts as the recording ended. 

She hit play on another recording. The wind was knocked out of her.

“Is this Anaïs Morrison?” Came the voice of Mary Nelson. Stella looked at the date on the file. It was late June.

“It is. May I ask who is calling?” There was clear confusion in Anaïs’ voice. There was a long pause. 

“I’m a friend of Liz.” There was a pause. There was ample traffic surrounding Mary Nelson’s voice. Stella held her breath. “I’m calling because I’m really worried about her.”

“I’m sorry, but how do you know Liz?” Anaïs asked, sounding moderately suspicious, yet still open. 

“Does that matter?” Mary Nelson replied flatly.

“Yes, actually,” the mother had taken on a defensive stance at Mary Nelson’s less than friendly response. “Call me crazy, but I’m not sure why a grown woman would be friends with my fourteen year old. Tell me what your name is.”

“We met at one of the parties hosted by her father’s job,” Mary said after a moment, avoiding giving Anaïs her name. Stella could practically hear the wheels turning in Anaïs’ head. “She seemed troubled. We got to talking. I’m calling you because I’m worried.”

“How did you get this number?” Anaïs demanded after a long pause. Stella looked at the phone record. It was the number that she had used to call Stella, the one that she insisted Xavier did not know about.

“Does it matter?” Mary asked again.

“It really does,” Anaïs’ voice had become cutting. 

“Maybe your daughter gave it to me,” Mary hedged. The space in-between their responses had enough weight to crush a room. For almost an entire minute, there was silence; save for the traffic that polluted the line from wherever Mary Nelson was.

“Do you happen to live in Barnet?” There wasn’t a direct accusation in her question, but after listening to Anaïs for hours, it wasn’t hard for Stella to hear all the subtleties in Anaïs’ voice. Distrust, deep concern, and a concerted effort to remain neutral so as to not get yelled at or accused of anything.  

“Do you want to know why I’m calling or not?” Unadulterated impatience. 

“I don’t know who you are, so I don’t know why I’d want to hear what you have to say,” Anaïs stated frankly, voice still icey and unwelcome.

“I’m calling because Liz seems to be going through a lot, and she has confided some very troubling things to me. I wanted to talk to you, since I know how close you two are,” it sounded like Mary Nelson was at risk of losing her temper. There was a great urgency in her voice. Stella glanced at her timeline in her notes. This would have not been so long after Elizabeth’s father had attacked her in the middle of the night. “So, please, Anaïs. Talk to me.”

There was a long silence. 

“What kind of troubling things?” Anaïs’ voice cracked. There was a modicum of terror in her voice. It was difficult to know, after listening to all the recordings, if the fear was based around her affair being uncovered, in the abuse they were suffering through being brought to light, or something else. Perhaps it was all of it. The trapped, constricted quality of Anaïs’ question was not lost on the DSI. This was a woman who had so few options, and didn’t know what to do with the tangle she was in. Having anything brought to light meant dealing with the whole of it- something, it was abundantly clear, she didn’t have the resources for. 

“Look, can I be real with you?” Mary groused.

“I wish you would,” Anaïs sighed with exhaustion and apprehension.

“Liz called me in the middle of the night a couple weeks ago, crying her eyes out. She said her father hurt her. Hurt her badly.” Anaïs remained silent. “In Liz’s bedroom, there is a shoe box under the bed. In it is a pair of her underwear and some of her clothes. I told her to keep the clothes as evidence of what he did to her.” Anaïs was still silent. “She called me sobbing in the middle of the night because he ra-.”

“No,” Anaïs whispered. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He…he couldn’t do that,” the misery and horror in Anaïs’ voice told Stella that the woman wasn’t sure what she really believed he could or couldn’t do.

“Ask Liz about the box.” Mary’s tone was derisive, and clearly frustrated. Traffic buzzed loudly behind Mary. She was moving fast, that was evident. 

“I would not invade her privacy,” Anaïs said after a long moment. “I…she gets so little that’s only hers. I promised her once I’d never go into her room without her express permission.”

“Surely this is more important.” A terrible silence elapsed, where Anaïs breath was loud and uneven. “Anaïs, I’m begging you.” Something in her tone struck Stella, as well as the mother. It was fear.

“I’ll ask her about it,” Anaïs stated, her voice thin. “I can’t believe Xavier would do that,” but her tone suggested utter heartbreak. 

“Liz said you had locked your bedroom door, so he came to hers,” Mary delivered clinically. Anaïs began sobbing.

“No,” she whimpered. “No, he wouldn’t…no. No. No.” Her growing horror was evident on the phone. She sounded like she was going to be sick. 

“Look, I’m no mother. I’m not a wife. I’m not in your position,” Mary tried to soothe her. “But if I was you, I’d either unlock my door and meet my husbands needs so he doesn’t try to drunkenly meet them with your daughter, or I’d find the fucking gumption to remove myself and my kid entirely from that situation. File a court order of protection. Do something.” There was a desperation to Mary’s voice. Stella’s eyes narrowed. There was rustling. “My battery is going to die soon, so I’ll make this quick.” Stella noted that; abrupt and swift battery failure on cell phones was a result of Abel Nelson’s tracking and monitoring. It had to be. “I know that Liz is a strong person. Powerful. Brilliant. And she is extremely protective of you. Liz has the will of a saint. I’ve never known anyone who burns so brilliantly.” There was a beat of silence. “July is fast approaching…and…and I’m not sure if I will be around to help Liz if anything happens. You need to protect your daughter.”

“Who are you, exactly?” Alarm and fear saturated Anaïs’ voice.

“Doesn’t matter. But your husband is losing his grip on things, and if you care at all about your daughter, you’d better look hard at your situation and find a way to protect her. I’m afraid that this was meant for her. She burns so brilliantly. It was meant for Xavier, but not for her.” It sounded like Mary was headed towards the tube; the loud chug-chug-chug of the approaching train made the call difficult to make out. 

“What?” Anaïs asked, clearly confused and afraid. “Meant for what?! What are you talking about?”

“Ask your policeman what to do.” The call dropped abruptly. 

This call seemed of extreme significance. It was the only evidence that they had of Mary trying to actively contact Anaïs Morrison. They’d need to discuss it when they met up. Stella jotted down information from the call, including the date of the CD. It was from June. 

Bitterly, the DSI remembered the irritated fight with her lover. July. All the horrible things seemed to be happening at the end of July.

The DSI steadily played all the recordings, and listened to more back and forth over how Anaïs and Collins both wanted to leave their marriages. Collins' wife was in and out of a mental institution, while Anaïs’ husband was in and out of London, doing ‘God knows what.’ Anaïs frequently asked after how his wife was doing, expressing genuine concern about her well-being. She may have been ‘the other woman,’ but Anaïs did not lack empathy. Her concern for the woman was profound. It was obvious, on all accounts, that suffering was repugnant to Anaïs, despite how much she seemed to be doing herself. Collins talked about his wife with respect, and also with a fear that she would never quite be the same. Something had shifted, he kept saying, and it had started before she was well along in her pregnancy. He wasn’t sure what it was. He said she’d begun to develop psychotic behavior in her first trimester, and it had spiraled from there. They’d suspected something hormonal, perhaps her thyroid, but after the baby the psychosis didn’t seem to improve. As the weeks of phone calls progressed, the DSI began to assume that his wife had begun showing the signs of severe schizophrenia. Hours later, and several months deep into the recordings, Stella listened to Collins, in a heartbroken voice, tell Anaïs that his wife was diagnosed as bi-polar with postpartum psychosis. She wouldn’t be coming home from hospital for a long time after trying to drown herself. Collins had come home to her in the tub. It hadn’t been pretty. He said that coming home to her felt like watching someone who he used to know better than himself self-destruct in the most abhorrent, violent way. He sobbed on the phone. In so many ways, he stated, she seemed dead already. She wasn’t his wife anymore; nor his friend, nor the mother of his child, or someone he even remotely recognized. She was a stranger, trying to kill his wife. It was traumatizing him. Anaïs insisted that he come over as soon as possible.  

Several conversations were of an entirely child-care oriented mode, where Anaïs volunteered when and how she would come and pick up Collins’ baby, while others were entirely wrapped up in asking around about a good solicitor. Some of those conversations blended into one another- would she fight for full custody of Elizabeth in the divorce? Would he, for his baby? It was hard to say. Anaïs said that Xavier wouldn’t let her have full custody, and Collins insisted that if she brought to light how her husband beat the shit out of her, it wouldn’t be a problem. The woman would go quiet and ask to drop the subject. 

“Why can’t you address it?” Collins asked on more than one occasion.

“It’s not that I can’t address it, Peter. It’s that I’m afraid of what happens when I do,” she replied once, her voice aching and quiet. “I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me. To Liz.”

“Well, we’ll make sure you’re out of the house when it’s time for that. He won’t be able to lay a hand on you.” 

“It’s not just physically, Peter. I’m afraid of what he will do to us financially,” Anaïs sighed.   

The other third of the phone calls between the couple were pure sex; desperate, aching, feverish verbal sexual encounters. Anaïs steered the ship. Within their dynamic, Stella understood that this was one of the few things Anaïs may have felt she actually had control over in her life. There was an intensity and beauty to Anaïs eroticism, and Stella found herself quietly applauding it. Not unkindly, the DSI sincerely hoped that Peter Collins was worthy of it, and met her needs in all the ways that she had needed them met; emotionally, sexually, spiritually. At the conclusion of one such phone call, Anaïs, breathlessly, told Collins:

“I have something very important to tell you.” She cleared her throat. “I…I can’t do it over the phone. I need you to be here. I need to tell you in person.” 

Stella looked at the date of the call. Her guess was that Anaïs had just found out she was pregnant with Collins’ baby. She sighed. There were several more calls to go through.

A cup of coffee was in order. She went to the little kitchenette in the communal area. She rolled her neck as she waited for the coffee pot to burp and pop to life. 

So much material. Abel Nelson had collected so much material about these different people in order to create martyrs of them. Was the extent necessary for his actions? Or was he someone who just enjoyed being a voyeur and stealing their private moments? In her summation of materials, it all seemed in such excess. She’d never encountered a criminal such as this who not only wanted to have absolutely every detail about his victims, but had managed to get such extensive access.

As Stella poured the coffee, she ruminated on the CCTV footage that had originally alerted them to his odd behavior. Nelson thrived off of being seen, being observed, and being immaterial. He had an intense love of being difficult to capture, difficult to pin down, difficult to understand; yet eerily present. Was there something blatantly religious in that, blatantly referential? She’d have to go over it all with Dana. 

Carrying her coffee back to her office, she couldn’t help but think about Mary Nelson’s odd, prophetic dreams and the writing which came off as psychosis and delusion. Did Mary Nelson believe wholeheartedly in the content of her dreams?

Do I believe in the content of mine?

The overlap in imagery had to come from somewhere, the sane portion of her brain concluded. It simply had to. There was no possibility for her dreams, in their vividness, to have overlap with Mary Nelson’s for any reason other than coincidence. There was no reason that her dreams, and Dana’s, could have overlap beyond communal exposure to the same vivid crime materials. Even as she swallowed the coffee and tried to believe it, a part of her brain told her it wasn’t possible.

And what about what went down in the catacombs? Everyone was hallucinating the same thing? Is that plausible? Is that possible? 

They needed to get back down there and evaluate. They simply had to. 

She rolled her chair back up to the desk, checking her own phone messages. One voicemail message from Michael. She listened to him give a quick rundown of what the working theory was regarding how Nelson got into Xavier Morrison’s cell. As she listened, she glanced at the clock. Dana had been doing Morrison’s autopsy for perhaps five hours. She’d be done soon, surely. Stella would wait to fill her in. 

Returning to the calls Abel Nelson had collected, Stella sighed heavily, put her headphones back in, and pressed play. 

There was a call between Anaïs and Collins that was tearful, and full of hope. He told her that he was going to start the process of finding a solicitor, that he wanted to be with Anaïs. He said he wanted full custody of his son, he wanted to be there for Elizabeth, and he wanted the baby. Anaïs cried throughout the phone call, telling him that she, too, wanted it all. She told him that she’d make arrangements with the solicitor she’d found to get things drawn up for her protection. They discussed accusing Xavier of abuse. Anaïs was still hesitant, and afraid of retaliation. Collins commended her for the progress she was making.    

Several calls followed, which sounded like the couple had made significant steps forward. Stella looked at the timeline of calls, and her heart steadily began to sink. The time when Elizabeth would disappear was approaching. 

“Mama, it’s me,” Elizabeth’s slightly frantic voice filled the line.

“What is it, Liz?” Anaïs’ immediate alarm caused a tensing of muscles in Stella’s chest, in her shoulders. 

“Mama, there is a man following me,” the whimper was acute. “I’m walking home, and I’m afraid that if I walk right to our house he’ll know where I live and-.”

“Are you sure he is following you, Liz?” Anaïs was on the move, rustling. Stella heard a door open. “Where are you?”

“Mama, it’s the man from church. The one with the face I told you about,” the child’s whisper was arched, anxious. “The one who seems like he has a plastic face.” 

“Oh,” Anaïs sounded startled. There was a beat of silence, as if something clicked for the woman. “Baby, you just keep coming straight home. What street are you on? Oh, nevermind, I see you. We’ll just walk towards each other, okay?” The call ended. The urgency in the woman’s voice wasn’t lost on Stella. Something had happened. This wasn’t her first time seeing Abel Nelson outside of church.  

Stella pressed play on the next recording, and swallowed against the lump in her throat. 

“Peter, she’s gone!” Anaïs was wailing into the phone. “I can’t get a hold of her and I am freaking out-!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down, slow down!” 

“Peter, Liz hasn’t come home,” Anaïs was stricken. Completely and utterly stricken. “I can’t get a hold of her. She won’t answer her phone.”

“Are you sure she isn’t with a friend or-?”

“Peter!” Anaïs half shouted. “You know Liz! That’s not her. That’s not how she works. She comes home after Westminster.” Anaïs was in near hysterics. “I need you. Now! I can’t fucking get a hold of Xavier and I can’t get a hold of my daughter and I’m about to lose my mind.” 

“When was she supposed to be home?” Peter’s concern spiked. 

“Hours ago! I don’t know, hours ago! She’s never, ever out this late!” The woman was beside herself. Peter was running in the background; the sound of his shoes hitting the floor at a hurried rate could be heard over the line. “Jesus, Peter, what if it was that man?!”

“What? What man?” 

“It doesn’t matter, just get over here!” Anaïs wailed. The call ended.

Stella skimmed the call history between Peter and Anaïs. There was one recording left. There had been calls in between, but there wasn’t any evidence of their content. Either Abel Nelson hadn’t recorded them, or perhaps he hadn’t kept them. Perhaps, between deposing Mary Harris and Elizabeth Morrison, then Lory McBride, there just had not been time. She swallowed as she read the date of recording. October. It was the date they’d found Elizabeth’s remains. 

The DSI leant back in her chair and stared at the file. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a moment. What was it that Dana sometimes said?

“Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer,” she muttered sardonically. Stella pressed play.

“Hello?” Anaïs sounded exhausted. It had to have been very late, by the DSI’s reckoning. Collins had been on the ground when Elizabeth Morrison’s body was discovered. Her identity hadn’t been determined yet by Milagro, but Collins had known who she was upon seeing her delicate face peering up from inside the black trash bag. Stella had long wondered about Collins' negligence to openly identify Elizabeth at the scene, whether it was due to shock or due to a desire not to reveal his affair in any way. It hadn’t made sense then, and it didn’t make sense to the DSI as she listened to the recordings.    

“It’s me.” There was a thin, arched quality to Collins’ voice, as if he was barely restraining tears. There were sirens at a distance behind him.

“Peter, what is it?”

“Love, I’m headed for you. I’ve…I’ve got some bad news.” Collins was crying. “Is Xavier there?”

“No, no he isn’t,” she whispered. “Is…did you…did you find my girl?” There was an unnaturally neutral aspect to her tremulous voice. 

“Yeah. We found her, love. I’m coming to you. I’m coming to get you.” His voice cracked. Stella listened to the achingly long silence. She put a hand to her chest as the sound of a phone hitting the floor filled her ears, and a blood curdling scream of abject agony rang out. The call ended abruptly. 

Stella stared at the massive pile of information before her, stacked high on her desk. Her computer screen had multiple files open; the scanned pdfs of Mary Nelson’s diary and the extensive phone records for Mary Nelson, Anaïs Morrison, and Nelson’s other victims. They’d managed to get Abel Nelson’s phone records, and most of his calls were to Mary, Lory, or Julia. There were some random ones from when he still worked at the CCTV company, but otherwise there were few and far in-between. Hadn’t Harrison said that evidence from his phone contained even more graphic contents? Well, she’d had her fill for the moment. Someone else could review that.  

Had listening in to all those personal exchanges made the image of the past year any clearer? It was hard to say. The DSI felt heavy with information, and unsure if she had grown more confident with it. 

She startled as the door’s lock turned, making its characteristic scratching sound. When she looked up, Dana was walking through, her red hair blazing wildly around her. She’d walked from forensics; she was all windswept and deliciously pink. 

“Hi,” Dana whispered as she entered the office with two cups of steaming coffee, sensing Stella’s low energy. Her work bag was bulging with manilla envelopes. Gratefully accepting a cup, Stella eyed her American all over. She looked exhausted.

“Thanks,” Stella stated. “How’d it go?” 

“Well, Xavier Morrison’s body was a nightmare.” The American unbuttoned her coat.

“I imagine,” Stella sighed as her lover deposited the folders on her own desk, maintaining several feet of distance between them. “What’s your conclusion?”

“First, waiting on toxicology, but I’m pretty confident Morrison had to have been drugged,” the pathologist began. “There is no sign of retaliation or struggle. But every other indication present suggests he was aware of what was going on. All injuries were pre-mortem. Cortisol levels came back as extraordinarily high.”

“How could he have been drugged? Morrison and Nelson have been in custody for weeks,” Stella responded critically. Dana threw her hands in the air.

“That’s what I’m trying to understand. But no one complained about hearing anything. No one saw anything. Injuries like that should’ve had him howling in pain.”

“Perhaps he couldn’t,” Stella thought of the man’s own detached member, shoved down his throat. 

“That’s just it, though. His arms and legs were fully dislocated, not broken. He was impaired, and then his member was cut off. He suffocated to death. He was aware of everything else happening to him.” Dana drank down more of the hot coffee. “I’m guessing Morrison was gagged by the pillowcase to help prevent sounds, but the penis lodged in his throat is what killed him.”

“Good God,” Stella whispered, disgusted. 

“Do we know yet how Nelson got into Morrison’s cell?” Stella nodded, and relayed Michael’s message.

“Apparently, someone had started a fight with Morrison that got a lot of attention. Another inmate called Morrison a, quote ‘child fucker,’ unquote. That seldom goes over well, no matter the environment. The person who picked a fight was a man named Jimmy Andrews, apparently in detention and awaiting trial for killing the much older boyfriend of his teenage daughter. The fight was loud and drew the attention of a lot of people. Video cameras show Nelson slipping into Morrison’s room during that time. Clearly, this was orchestrated.” Stella cracked her knuckles. “It’s not clear at this time how close Jimmy Andrews is to Nelson. Maybe they aren’t close at all. Maybe it was merely opportune for Nelson.”

“Perhaps. Likely, it doesn’t matter,” Dana shrugged. “Nelson took advantage of a bad-tempered inmate with a history of violence. He used the diversion to meet his ends. Simple enough.” The aquamarine eyes danced all over the DSI’s features, softening. “Are you okay?” Her voice was low, even. Stella cleared her throat and nodded.

“I just spent the last,” she glanced at the clock, “six hours listening to every phone recording Nelson made of the other victims.” Dana nodded in understanding, and grimaced. “It was…awful, to say the least.”

“I imagine,” the pathologist quietly replied. The exchange from the hallway between Harrison and Alice resurfaced in Stella’s mind, and she bit her lip.

“I…I have something to tell you,” Stella began, but Dana shook her head and raised a hand.

“I ran into Alice and Harrison.” A dark, unnatural neutrality crossed her features. “I already know.”  

“Dana, I’m so sorry-.”

“It isn’t your fault.” There was an arched coldness in her lover that was difficult to compass. “I just haven’t quite processed it, myself.”

“I-.”

“Stel,” they began speaking at the same time when the phone rang. The DSI sighed and picked it up.

“Gibson.” Dana stared out into the middle distance. 

“Ma’am, this is Denver,” the PC stated. 

“Hi,” she glanced at the images of Mary Nelson’s flat.

“I’ve got some good news for you.”

“What is it?”

“The catacombs are finally safe enough for us to get a thorough examination done. I figured that you and Dr. Scully would like to come take a look now that we have the all-clear.” 

Stella stood up, staring at her lover. Dana glanced her way, and cocked her head with an arched brow. 

“When are you going in?”

“Less than an hour.”

“We’ll be there shortly.” She hung up. In the back of her mind, she heard Elizabeth Morrison’s voice from her dream, and saw the panoply of bruises that crossed her face. It’s in the ground. We’re all in the ground. 

“Where are we going?” Dana asked, only a little weary. 

“West Norwood.” Dana sighed at the answer. Stella grabbed her coat, and was in the process of buttoning it up when her lover grabbed her wrist, and pulled the woman into a fierce hug. She returned it readily, feeling the intensity of her lover’s distress rolling off of her in waves. “What’s wrong?” She nestled against her silken, red locks. 

“I’m so sorry,” her voice hitched. Stella pulled the woman closer. 

“What-.”

“All I wanted was for you to feel celebrated on your birthday. And look at this. Look at what we are doing.” Her voice warbled. Stella’s eyebrows arched in response. She’d truthfully forgotten it was her birthday. 

“My love, it’s fine-.”

“Hardly.”

“It is.” 

Dana leant back, and grasped Stella’s face between her two hands; so chilly from being outside.

“I ruined our last day in Bath,” Dana softly spoke, as if afraid she would get shot down. “I feel like we had a taste of time away from this, and then I ruined it. And now that we are back, we are just as tired and strained.” Tears glistened in her eyelashes. Her cheeks became the most lovely pink. “I had a special gift for you. For your birthday.” Stella smiled gently at her partner. There were times when her American was so soft and kind that it very nearly broke the Brit’s heart. 

“You can give it to me later,” she assured Dana. Her lover laughed under her breath. 

“I fully intend to,” she cast a wicked little grin Stella’s way. Her American gave her a brief, tender kiss. As they were collecting their items, Stella’s eyes fell back on the pdf on her computer, displaying Mary Nelson’s diary.

“Dana, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What is the main theme of the Book of Acts?” She glanced over at her lover. Dana stood tall as she shut her work bag. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and contemplated for a long moment. 

“It has many themes,” she finally replied. “One of them is that we must center the needs of those who are at the outskirts of society, and the needs of women, for the word of God is for those in most need of it.” She thought for a moment longer, and then met Stella’s eye. “And, if I remember correctly, Acts is sort of like Luke in that it really drives home that salvation is not just for some. Salvation is for everyone.” Stella stared down at the horror that lay on her desk; photographs of the most awful variety. 

“Do you believe in that?” Stella couldn’t help but ask. Dana was thoughtful for a long moment, before picking up a photograph of Mary Nelson’s bloodied sheets that had been fished out of the trash bin. A hardness was affixed to her American’s face; bitter and so profoundly sad.

“I used to.”