Chapter 1: Chapter One
Chapter Text
Logan stepped off the elevator, the soft ding announcing his arrival at the Presidential Suite he now begrudgingly called home. The hallways of the Neptune Grand were polished to a fault, each step echoing slightly in the pristine silence. He swiped his key card and pushed open the door, greeted by the familiar sight of the opulent suite. Orange glass panels caught the low glow of the recessed lighting, casting warm hues across the spacious living room. It was luxury hotel living at its finest.
His gaze immediately landed on the couch. Duncan sat in the middle, his arm draped casually over Veronica’s shoulders. They were huddled together, watching something on the massive flat-screen TV. Veronica’s blonde hair caught the light, shimmering as she tilted her head slightly to say something to Duncan. She wore a simple black top and jeans that clung to her figure in a way that made Logan’s chest tighten.
“A picture-perfect moment,” Logan drawled, leaning against the doorframe. “Should I grab a camera or just leave you two lovebirds to it?”
Duncan looked up with an amiable smile. “Hey, man. Didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”
Veronica’s eyes flicked to Logan, her smile faltering just for a moment. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but Logan caught it and catalogued it alongside every other moment he managed to get under her skin, sometimes without even trying. “Logan,” she said, her tone polite but lacking warmth.
He smirked, stepping further into the room. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just be over here, raiding the minibar.”
Crossing to the kitchenette, Logan opened the sleek, ebony buffet and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He dropped some ice into a glass and poured himself a generous serving. From his vantage point, he could see Veronica glance his way. She shifted slightly on the couch, as though his presence made her uneasy.
Good, he thought bitterly. Let her squirm.
He leaned against the counter, sipping his drink as he watched them. Duncan laughed at something on the screen, sliding his fingers through Veronica’s hair in a gesture so natural it made Logan’s stomach churn. She leaned into Duncan’s touch, her expression soft, content.
Logan’s chest ached in a way he hated. He wished he could summon indifference, shove the feelings down and lock them away. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but notice her. The way her hair gleamed, the curve of her smile, the quiet confidence she carried despite everything she’d been through. She was beautiful - distractingly, maddeningly beautiful - and it infuriated him.
He forced his gaze back to the TV, pretending to be interested in whatever rom-com they were watching. But all he could think about was how close she was sitting to Duncan, how her laugh sounded like it used to when she was with him, and how she’d dumped him the second things got difficult.
The thought gnawed at him as he took another slow sip of his drink, the burn doing little to dull the unease. Moving into the Grand had felt like the right choice at the time - a chance to mend the fractures in his friendship with Duncan, and, if he was honest, the path of least resistance after his house went up in flames. But on nights like this, he couldn’t help but regret it.
“You’re awfully quiet over there,” Veronica said suddenly, her voice breaking into his brooding silence. She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. Her tone was light, but there was an edge to it, like she was testing the waters.
In truth, he couldn’t blame her for treading carefully. Their break-up over the summer had left him raw, his emotions flashing like sparks as they hit against the impenetrable walls she’d rebuilt the second she’d let Duncan back into her life. Logan felt like he was the only one not playing along with her quest to pretend everything was back to the way it was before - but unless he was taking jabs at her, she mostly ignored him.
Logan both dreaded seeing her and craved it in equal measures, because the only way he could get her to react was to get under her skin. He hated that their relationship had turned combative, but it seemed like the only way to break through her defences. The barbs they traded had become a familiar cycle, one he was growing weary of, yet couldn’t seem to escape. But unless she admitted her pursuit of normality was bullshit, he wasn’t going to back down anytime soon.
Logan raised an eyebrow, forcing a smirk. “Guess I’m just channelling my inner Buster Keaton - silent, but somehow tragic.”
A piercing wail suddenly cut through the room, making Veronica flinch. She glanced down at the source of the racket - a plastic baby placed on the floor. Scooping it up, she held it awkwardly for a moment. When the mechanical cries didn’t let up, she shoved it towards Duncan with a look of exasperation.
“It’s your turn,” she said, her voice clipped, as if this was a conversation they’d had before.
Duncan grimaced, but rocked the baby as the relentless shrieking continued.
“Jesus, who let you two reproduce?” Logan drawled, his expression twisted in mock disgust.
“You think we’re aiming to be the next stars of Teen Mom? We do have some self-respect,” Veronica shot back. “Mrs. Hauser’s just making Health class particularly sadistic this week.”
“Ah yes, sex education. Preparing us for the inevitable failures of adulthood, one plastic baby at a time,” Logan groused.
Duncan’s gaze flicked between them, a glimmer of unease crossing his face before he turned back to the TV, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. Logan studied him, recognising the tension but unable to decipher its exact cause. He knew Duncan better than almost anyone, yet this reaction felt just out of reach, a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together.
Cradling the baby in the crook of his arm, Duncan continued to gently rock it, his voice low and soothing as he shushed the infant until its cries finally subsided. The motion was almost mechanical, as though he were trying to calm more than just the child.
Veronica smiled, watching him. “Look at you, I think you just won ‘Best Fake Dad of the Year.’” Her voice was light, but there was a genuine sweetness in her tone.
Logan sighed. “I’m just impressed DK hasn’t tried to name the baby ‘Gollum’ or something,” He picked up his glass and drained the rest of his drink, the burn of the alcohol doing little to dull the sharp sting of jealousy twisting in his gut. He set the glass down with a little more force than necessary and settled into the armchair opposite the couch. If he couldn’t escape this, he might as well endure it.
The movie droned on, but Logan barely registered the plot. His eyes kept drifting to Veronica, to the way she tucked her legs under herself, to the way her hand brushed against Duncan’s as she reached for the popcorn.
“You’re not usually here this late,” Logan remarked. “Should we expect your dad to come bursting in with a SWAT team any second now?”
Veronica glanced at him, her expression guarded. “Not all of us need a curfew. Some of us can be trusted not to torch a car or punch someone by midnight. But if you must know, he’s out of town for a while on his second scheduled book tour.”
Logan’s smirk deepened. “Ah, so you’re unsupervised. That explains everything.”
His best friend shot him a grin. “It means she can stay the night.”
The smirk vanished from Logan’s face in an instant. Grabbing his empty glass, he stood and stalked to the kitchenette, setting it down on the counter with a sharp clink.
“Great,” he said tersely, his voice giving away none of the turmoil churning beneath the surface. “I’m going to bed.” Without another glance, he pivoted on his heel and strode toward the door.
“Surfing in the morning? You in?” Duncan called out.
Logan paused in the doorway to his room, his hand resting on the frame. Without turning around, he replied, “It’s a date.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and he leaned against it, exhaling a long, measured breath. The muffled hum of the TV and bursts of their laughter seeped through the walls, an unwelcome reminder of the disgustingly sweet scene he’d left behind. He shook his head, forcing the thoughts away - the ones whispering of what might happen out there, or what might already be happening now.
Stripping off his shirt, he sank into the bed, the mattress cradling him in its soft refinery. But comfort was a distant notion, and the storm in his mind churned on.
Eventually, exhaustion won out and Logan drifted into a restless sleep.
***
Logan jolted awake to a sharp, jarring thud, the noise slicing through the haze of his restless sleep like a blade. He shot upright, his pulse pounding in his chest as his surroundings blurred into focus. For one disoriented moment, he wondered if it was just a dream - or if Duncan had finally mastered the art of making the bedposts rattle. The dark flicker of humour that crossed his mind brought a bitter, fleeting smirk to his lips.
Then came another crash. Louder. Closer. The unmistakable sound of something shattering.
Adrenaline surged through him, hot and sharp. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed his previously discarded shirt, pulling it on hastily. The noise continued in uneven bursts, each one more urgent than the last. A break-in? Half the town wanted him dead, it wouldn’t exactly be a surprise. He reached in his drawer and grabbed the gun Dick Senior had given him before he crept out of the room. It was unloaded, but would hopefully be enough to scare someone off.
The main part of the suite was eerily still. The couch and coffee table sat undisturbed, the sleek glass panels glinting faintly. For a moment, there was an edge to the silence that unnerved him more than the noise. But then he heard it.
Her voice.
“Duncan, stop. Please stop.”
Veronica. Her voice trembled, every syllable frayed with fear, and Logan’s stomach dropped like a stone. A cold, gut-wrenching sensation spread through him, turning his blood to ice.
He moved instinctively, crossing the room in quick, determined strides. His hand shoved the gun into his back pocket as he made his way to Duncan’s door. It was locked.
Logan pounded his fist against the wood, the sharp echoes cutting through the silence.
“Duncan! What the hell is going on in there?”
Silence followed. Just a heavy, suffocating quiet - the kind that screamed something was wrong. Each second that passed felt like an eternity, tightening around him like a vice.
Then, faintly, a choked cry broke through the stillness.
Without hesitating, Logan stepped back and threw his weight against the door, his shoulder slamming into it with a resounding thud. The frame groaned but didn’t budge. Gritting his teeth, he rammed it again, harder this time. The lock gave with a sickening crack, and the door flew open, slamming into the wall.
What he saw on the other side rooted him in place, the moment stretching endlessly, his breath caught somewhere between shock and disbelief.
Duncan was on top of Veronica, pinning her to the floor, his hands locked around her throat. The bedside lamp lay shattered in jagged shards across the floor. Veronica’s hands pushed weakly at Duncan’s chest, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth, stark against her pale skin.
Logan didn’t think. He acted.
“Duncan, get the hell off her!” he roared, crossing the room in an instant. He grabbed Duncan’s shoulders and yanked him backward with all his strength. Duncan stumbled, his weight coming off Veronica, but he didn’t fight back. Instead, he sagged in Logan’s grip, his body going limp.
That was when Logan saw it - Duncan’s vacant, glassy stare, his unfocused eyes. The tremor in his limbs.
“Oh, shit,” Logan muttered, his anger draining into dread as he recognised the signs. “He’s seizing.”
Veronica scrambled back until she reached the wall. She gasped for air, her chest heaving, as if each breath were a battle. Her hands trembled, and her wide, tear-filled eyes darted between Logan and Duncan. Her fingers were touching her neck where red marks were already beginning to bloom.
“Veronica,” Logan breathed, crouching briefly by her side. “Are you—?”
"I'm fine," she rasped, though the crack in her voice and the blood staining her lip clearly indicated she wasn't. "Help him," she asked, blinking back tears.
Logan hesitated, but he turned back to Duncan, dragging him across the room to the couch in the living room. Duncan sagged onto it, his head lolling to one side, his breathing shallow and uneven. Logan’s hands shook as he reached for his phone, fumbling to find the contact he needed. His thumb hovered over the screen, and for a split second, he wondered what the hell he was going to say. Then he pressed ‘call’.
The line rang a few times before Jake’s familiar, groggy voice answered.
“Logan? It’s late. What’s going on?”
“It’s Duncan,” Logan said, his voice tight, almost breaking. “He… he had one of his episodes. He needs help.”
There was a pause, one that dragged long enough to make Logan’s frustration bubble over. “Is anyone hurt?” Jake asked finally, his tone sharper now, all business. This wasn’t Jake’s first rodeo, and it showed. Logan couldn’t help but wonder how many times Duncan’s inopportune episodes had demanded the Kane family’s signature move: sweeping it neatly under the carpet.
Jake’s question made Logan glance back at Veronica through the open door to Duncan’s room. She still sat huddled against the wall, her knees pulled to her chest, silent tears streaming down her face.
“Yeah,” Logan admitted, the word like sandpaper in his throat. “Veronica is.”
There was another pause, colder this time. “Veronica?” Jake repeated, the name carrying a note of suspicion. “What was she doing there?”
Logan’s temper flared momentarily. Of course. Duncan clearly hadn’t bothered to let his parents know he was dating Veronica again. He could be such an asshole sometimes with his avoidance strategies. “That’s not important right now,” he snapped. “She’s hurt, and I don’t know what to do with Duncan.”
“I’m still in Napa, but Celeste is in Neptune. She’ll be there soon,” he promised, and then the line went dead.
Logan’s eyes flicked back to Veronica, still huddled against the wall. That’s when he noticed it - how she cradled her arm awkwardly against her chest, her hand trembling. Blood was dripping steadily down the side of her face, running in thin rivulets from a gash hidden somewhere in her hairline. It wasn’t a trickle; it was pouring.
“Shit,” Logan breathed, his pulse quickening as panic edged closer.
He crossed the room to her, kneeling carefully at her side. “Veronica, you’re bleeding,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “Let me look.”
Her head turned slightly at this command, her gaze unfocused and glassy, as if her mind had drifted somewhere far beyond the present. She didn’t respond and the silence - an absence of her usual sharp, stubborn defiance - was almost worse than the blood. A nasty gash marred her hairline, already surrounded by a darkening bruise that painted a chilling picture.
“I’ll be right back,” he said softly, heading quickly to the bathroom. He grabbed a towel, dampened a corner of it, and hurried back. Crouching beside her, he pressed it gently against the wound. Veronica flinched, her body jerking at the touch as a pained whimper slipped from her lips. For a moment, all he could think about was a night just months ago – one of the worst nights of his life - when he’d lain in her lap, and she’d carefully cleaned his own wounds with the same tenderness he now tried to offer her.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Logan soothed, keeping his hand firm to stem the blood despite the spike of guilt twisting in his chest. “I know it hurts, but we’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t say anything. And that’s when Logan knew it was bad. Veronica Mars never let anyone tell her what to do without a fight.
“You need to go to the hospital,” he said firmly. He watched her face, expecting a protest, a quip, something - anything. But she just nodded faintly, her lips trembling.
Logan swallowed hard, his chest tightening with an ache he couldn’t shake. He glanced down at her, his gaze catching on the blood staining her pale skin, a cruel contrast to the simple grey top she’d worn to bed. She looked so fragile, so unlike the Veronica who always faced the world with sharp edges and fire.
“Can you hold this for a second?” he asked, his voice strained and she didn’t react, so gently, he lifted her uninjured hand to press the cloth into her grip.
He rushed to his room and swiftly threw the gun back into his drawer. He pulled on some clothes and grabbed one of his jackets, bringing it back to drape over Veronica’s slender frame. “Here,” he said quietly, sliding it around her shoulders like a blanket. “This’ll keep you warm.”
As Logan helped her to her feet, Veronica swayed dangerously. His arms shot out instinctively to steady her, but the movement drew a sharp, strangled cry from her lips. She clutched her arm tighter to her side, and Logan froze, a cold realisation settling over him.
"Your shoulder," he murmured, his voice heavy. "It’s dislocated, isn’t it?"
Veronica didn’t answer, but the pained expression on her face and the way she couldn’t move her arm spoke louder than words. Logan wasn’t sure whether she had a concussion or if she was dissociating. His jaw clenched, and he bit back a curse, frustration mixing with a rising panic. He carefully eased her back to sit on the edge of the bed, his mind racing as he tried to process the situation.
He crossed to Duncan, who still sat slumped on the couch, his head lolling to the side. “Your mom is coming for you,” Logan told him, his tone clipped and tense. “But I’ve got to take Veronica to the hospital.”
Duncan remained silent, his gaze fixed on nothing, a chilling emptiness in his eyes. Logan wrestled with the urge to grab him, shake him, scream – you fucking hurt her! But there was no time for that. Veronica needed help, and she needed it now.
Returning to her side, he offered his arm. “Come on, Veronica,” he said gently, trying to keep his voice calm, reassuring. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Veronica wobbled as she tried to stand again, her movements sluggish and disoriented. Her eyes darted around the room, confused. “My shoes…” she murmured faintly. “I don’t know where they are.”
Logan’s throat tightened. “Forget the shoes,” he said softly. “We’ll worry about them later.”
He bent down, sliding one arm carefully under her knees and the other around her back, mindful of her injured shoulder. Lifting her easily, he cradled her against his chest.
She didn’t resist. Instead, she leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder, her breath shallow. Her eyes fluttered closed, and Logan’s chest twisted at how fragile she seemed, how utterly wrong this was.
“It’s going to be okay,” he promised as he carried her to the elevator. His voice was soft but controlled, trying to make himself believe it too. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”
Veronica didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. The way she clung to him, her small frame pressed against his, was answer enough.
***
The waiting room was too bright and too sterile. Logan sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together, staring at the floor tiles. The muted sound of hospital machinery and distant voices only heightened his anxiety. Every second that passed felt like an hour.
Finally, a nurse approached him. She was middle-aged, with kind eyes and a clipboard in hand. “You’re with Ms. Mars?” she asked.
Logan stood so quickly his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Yeah, that’s me. How is she?”
“Her head CT came back clear,” the nurse said, offering a small smile. “But I’ll need to ask you a question. What happened tonight?”
Logan ran a trembling hand through his hair, his fingers shaking with barely contained frustration. “My friend has type four epilepsy,” he said, his voice tight, barely holding together. “It’s usually under control, but he had a seizure, and Veronica... she was there. He... he hurt her. It wasn’t him, it was his condition, but I think he knocked her over.” The words spilled out in a frantic rush, failing to truly convey the chaotic nightmare of that night.
As he spoke, Logan’s gaze shifted to the nurse, who was quietly inspecting his hands. Her lingering attention felt like a spotlight, searching for signs of guilt - defensive wounds, blood, evidence that might tell a different story. Logan’s chest tightened, his stomach churned. Perfect. Half the town already thought he was a murderer, now he could add potential abuser to his imaginary rap sheet.
The nurse nodded thoughtfully, her pen gliding across her clipboard. Her calm demeanour and the notable absence of security guards storming the room gave Logan a flicker of relief. Perhaps he’d survived her silent assessment - for now.
“Your version of events matches hers and she’s asked for us not to involve the police. As she’s eighteen that remains her decision. Your girlfriend will need your support right now,” she said softly. “She’s been through a lot tonight.”
Logan hesitated but didn’t correct her assumption. Girlfriend. It wasn’t true, but it didn’t feel worth disputing. Instead, he nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“You can go see her now,” the nurse said, her tone gentle. “The doctor will be coming in to stitch her head and reset her shoulder.”
The nurse led him down a quiet corridor and into a small room, and Logan’s stomach churned at the sight of Veronica lying on the hospital bed. Her skin looked almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the fingerprints on her neck were darker now, a grim reminder of what happened. A vivid purple mark marred her cheekbone, stark against her otherwise pale face. Her arm was still cradled protectively against her chest, her eyes half-lidded and glassy with exhaustion and pain. A temporary bandage covered her head, finally staunching the flow of blood.
“Veronica,” Logan said quietly, stepping closer. “I’m here.”
She looked up at him, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. “Hey,” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper. At least she was responding to him now – she had scared the hell out of him earlier.
Before Logan could respond, the doctor swept into the room, clipboard in hand. He was a tall man, with a hurried, almost distracted air, as if he had a dozen other places to be. “We need to reset your shoulder,” he said briskly, bypassing any pleasantries. “It’ll be quick, but it’s going to hurt. A lot.”
Veronica winced but nodded. Logan’s protective instincts flared, and his frown deepened. “Wait - don’t you have anything for the pain?”
The doctor barely spared him a glance. “She’ll be fine. It’ll only take a second.”
Logan's jaw clenched as the doctor prepared to proceed. Veronica gasped in pain when her arm was tugged, her body jolting involuntarily. Tears streamed down her face as she squeezed her eyes shut. The doctor let out an irritated sigh in frustration, stepping back. “I can't continue if she doesn't relax.”
“Then give her something to help her relax!' Logan barked, his voice laced with fury. “She's in agony, and you expect her to just endure this? Do your damn job!”
The doctor's eyes narrowed, but he gestured to the nurse who swiftly prepared a syringe. “Some morphine will help,” she said softly, administering the injection.
Logan watched as Veronica’s eyes slowly dilated, her breathing becoming more even. The tension in her body began to ease, though her grip on the bed rail remained iron-tight. The doctor attempted it again, and this time, Veronica’s gasp was more muted, yet the pain etched on her face was undeniable. He hesitated for a moment, then reached for her free hand, squeezing it firmly.
“It’s almost over,” Logan promised in a low rumble. “Just hang in there a little longer.”
With a final, forceful thrust, the joint slipped back into place. Veronica let out a final muffled cry, biting down on her lip, but her shoulders slumped with relief. Logan’s grip on her hand loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.
“There,” the doctor said curtly, straightening up. “Now, let's address that head wound.”
She nodded weakly in response, but her head lolled to one side. Logan frowned, alarmed by her pallor. "Veronica?" he asked softly, his voice laced with concern. "Are you still with me?"
“Mm-hmm,” she murmured, though her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Just… dizzy.”
The nurse returned with a suture kit, and the doctor began cleaning the gash. Logan felt her grip tighten on his hand as the needle pierced her skin. She flinched, but she didn’t pull away.
“You’re doing great,” Logan whispered, his voice soft and reassuring. “It’s almost over.”
After the stitches were in place, the doctor began a series of questions to assess for a concussion, followed by a neurological exam. Veronica's responses were slow and hesitant.
"I feel nauseous," she admitted quietly. "And my head is pounding."
"Based on your results, it’s very likely you have a concussion,” the doctor confirmed, his pen scratching across the clipboard. "I also suspect some significant ligament damage in your shoulder, which will take time to heal. Because of the concussion, you shouldn't be alone for at least the next two days."
Logan noticed the way Veronica shifted uncomfortably. “My dad’s out of town,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Just stay with me,” Logan offered, his shrug feigning nonchalance. “You don’t want to be stuck here all night.”
The words surprised him. They'd slipped out before he’d fully thought them through. Taking care of Veronica felt… complicated. He had every right to walk away, to let her find her own way, yet here he was, offering for her to stay. Her pain was evident, her vulnerability laid bare. He was still hurt from their breakup, and the sting of her reunion with Duncan lingered.
But the thought of her going home alone, concussed and with both her father and Wallace out of town, worry gnawed at him. If something happened to her, he'd never forgive himself.
When she looked up at him with those glassy eyes, her gratitude radiating from her, it stole his breath away.
"Thanks, Logan," she whispered, her voice devoid of the usual bite, the familiar defensiveness. It was soft, sweet, and it sent a jolt through him. For a fleeting moment, he hated how deeply he was still affected by her.
The doctor handed Logan a prescription for pain relief, outlining the recovery process. "Ligament injuries can be quite painful, so you’ll need to take it easy for a while," he instructed Veronica, then turned to Logan. “And about the concussion - there's a common misconception that you have to keep waking someone up. That’s a myth. Rest is the best thing for her. But if she shows signs of confusion or has persistent vomiting, bring her back immediately."
Just as the doctor moved to leave, another thought struck Logan.
"Can you write her a note for school?" Logan asked. "She's in the running for a scholarship and needs a perfect attendance record."
The doctor nodded, scribbling a note on a piece of paper before handing it to Logan. He slipped the prescription and note into his pocket, then draped his jacket over Veronica's shoulders again, helping her get up from the bed. She leaned heavily against him, her steps sluggish and unbalanced. He paused for a second to enable her to balance, then he wrapped an arm around her, supporting her as they made their way out of the ER.
The nurse from earlier approached, waving to get his attention. "Here's a sling for her arm," she said. "She should keep it on for at least a week. Ice will definitely help with the pain tomorrow when the painkillers wear off. Make sure she takes the medication as prescribed – she's going to need it." The nurse glanced down at Veronica's bare feet. "I also have some shoe covers to protect her feet," she said, retrieving them from a nearby trolley.
Logan crouched down to help her slip on the shoe covers. She wobbled slightly, and his hand instinctively steadied her. He remained close behind her as they began to walk.
"You're lucky to have such a caring boyfriend," the nurse remarked warmly.
Logan raised an eyebrow, a wry smile playing on his lips. He didn't correct her, glancing down at Veronica. She seemed oblivious to the nurse's comment, her head resting lightly against his shoulder as they walked. "Yeah," he murmured, "she’s lucky alright."
Outside, the cool night air hit them as Logan carefully helped her into the car, mindful not to jostle her injured arm. She slumped into the seat, her eyelids already drooping.
“You’re high as a kite, aren’t you?” Logan teased, buckled her seatbelt.
Veronica let out a soft, breathy laugh, her words slightly slurred. "Maybe a little. This morphine isn't so bad."
“Great, now I’ve got to keep an eye on you so you don’t start seeing pink elephants or something,” he quipped, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Mm, elephants sound nice,” she murmured, her head tilting towards the window as her eyes fluttered shut.
Logan chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Alright, Courtney Love. Let's get you home before you start demanding late-night snacks and launching into conspiracy theories."
A faint smile touched her lips as she drifted off to sleep. Logan glanced at her, his teasing expression softening. She was completely out, her head resting against the window, her face pale but finally at peace.
It didn’t take long to spot an all-night drive-through. Pulling up to the window, Logan leaned out and handed over the prescription. The pharmacist, a young man with tired eyes, glanced at the paper and then at Logan.
“It’ll be about ten minutes,” he said.
Logan drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, his gaze drawn to Veronica. She hadn't stirred, her blonde hair a messy halo around her face. The bruises on her neck seemed even more pronounced in the harsh glare of the drive-through lights, a chilling reminder of what might have happened that night if he hadn't been there.
The pharmacist returned with a small bag and a list of instructions. "She'll likely need these for a few days. If the pain worsens or she experiences difficulty breathing, go straight to the Emergency Room
Logan nodded, quickly paying and tossing the bag onto the passenger seat. "Thanks."
He drove off, the city streets eerily quiet in the pre-dawn hours. Veronica shifted slightly in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Logan glanced at her, a wry smile playing on his lips.
“Just so you know, you owe me. Big time,” he muttered under his breath, fully aware he was only talking to himself.
The rest of the drive was a hushed silence, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the engine as the city lights blurred into streaks of colour outside the windows. Logan wasn't even sure how he managed to carry her inside without waking her, the staff at the reception desk watching with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The suite was eerily quiet, an oppressive stillness hanging in the air.
Veronica stirred in his arms, murmuring incoherently as he gently lowered her onto the couch. He draped a soft blanket over her, his fingers lingering as he brushed a strand of hair back from her face. The gesture was almost involuntary, a primal instinct that tightened his chest with a fierce protectiveness.
For a long moment, Logan simply watched her. The woman who had always been a force of nature – sharp, fearless, and undeniably annoying – now looked so different in that moment. The armour she usually wore, that impenetrable shield of wit and defiance, had slipped away, revealing the girl beneath. He swallowed hard, a heavy ache settling in his chest.
"Sleep tight," he whispered, his voice barely a breath.
His gaze shifted to the coffee table where a hastily scribbled note lay abandoned.
Duncan has come home with me. Celeste
A wave of anger surged through him, so powerful he was unable to suppress it. His foot connected to the coffee table as he cursed the cold-hearted way the Kanes treated everyone. The fact neither of them had bothered to check on Veronica, knowing their son had injured her disgusted him.
Logan crumpled the note in his hand and tossed it aside. He shouldn't be surprised though, they might be indifferent to the suffering of others, at least they were consistent. Why care about anybody when their golden child was in trouble?
He retrieved the bottle of painkillers from the bag, setting it on the coffee table beside the sling, ensuring it was within easy reach when Veronica awoke. He was certain she would need them, despite her likely protests.
Suddenly, the plastic baby let out a sharp, mechanical cry, cutting through the silence. Logan snatched it up before it could wake Veronica, flipped it over, and found the off button. Without hesitation, he stomped to Duncan’s room, threw the doll in the general direction of the bed, and shut the broken door as best he could behind him.
As the first rays of dawn began to filter through the blinds, casting long, pale shadows across the room, Logan sank into a nearby chair. He was too wired to sleep, his mind racing with a tumultuous mix of emotions. Agitation simmered beneath the surface, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her alone.
He leaned back, his gaze drawn to Veronica, his heart clenching. The weight of the night – the fear, the anger, the unexpected tenderness – settled heavily upon him, an oppressive weight that refused to be lifted. Exhausted though he was, sleep remained elusive.
Chapter 2: Chapter Two
Chapter Text
The soft light of dawn filtered through the blinds, casting a warm glow across the room. Logan stirred in his chair, groggily blinking his eyes open. His neck ached from his makeshift pillow, but the discomfort barely registered as his focus shifted to how quiet it was.
His eyes landed on the couch. Veronica was gone.
His heart leaped into his throat, a jolt of worry surging through him. He pushed himself up, shaking off the remnants of sleep, only to find her standing near the frosted window, her back to him. The blankets lay discarded on the floor, and she was still in the same grey strappy top and black pants she'd worn the night before. She stood hunched, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if trying to contain both the cold and the pain. From where he sat, he could see the extent of the damage – a deep, angry bruise blooming above the edge of her top, a stark reminder of the violence she had endured. In the harsh morning light, the injuries seemed even more grotesque.
“Veronica,” Logan said, his voice hoarse from sleep. He moved towards her, concern flooding him. “Are you alright?”
She tensed at the sound of his voice, a sharp intake of breath making her wince. She didn't turn to face him, her eyes fixed on the window, her shoulders rigid. "I'm fine," she replied, though her voice was tight, edged with a defensive irritation. She clearly wasn’t fine.
Logan raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the situation. He was too tired to be frustrated, but he couldn’t help himself. “Right,” he said dryly, rubbing his eyes. “You’re lucky I played Florence Nightingale last night.”
Veronica ignored him but it seemed to soften the air between them. She didn’t say anything for a moment, but then, without turning to look at him, she murmured, “Where’s Duncan?”
Her voice was quieter now, tinged with something he couldn't quite place – worry, perhaps? Or was it the lingering effects of the medication still clouding her thoughts?
He hesitated for a beat before answering. “Celeste took him home. He… he didn’t stick around.”
She blinked, and Logan could feel her shock before she even spoke. “He just left?” Her voice was soft, disbelieving, as though she couldn’t quite process it. She turned slightly, her eyes meeting his for the first time. The look on her face wasn’t anger, but a deep, hurt surprise.
Logan's stomach clenched. He hated that look on her – hated that someone, anyone, could inflict such pain on her. "Yeah," he muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. "He was still pretty out of it when we left the hospital."
Her eyes darkened, the distress in her expression now undeniable. "But, it's lunchtime, Logan." Her voice cracked slightly, raw with a mixture of hurt and confusion. "I have no missed calls. No texts."
Logan glanced at his watch, the weight of her words settling heavily on his chest. “Maybe they’re busy,” he said, his tone softening. “Trying to screw his head back on straight or something.”
But the words felt hollow, and they both knew it.
Veronica didn't reply right away, her mind clearly racing. Her fingers twitched at her side, then she bit her lip, trying to maintain a composure that was clearly slipping. "It’s fine, Logan," she said again, her voice much quieter this time, a fragile attempt at self-assurance. But the sway of her body, the way she winced as she shifted, betrayed the truth – she was anything but fine.
“I need to go home. Backup needs food and a walk,” she said, her tone clipped.
"You're in no condition to go anywhere," Logan said, his voice firm but gentle.
“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, though her scowl wavered as she shifted, wincing in obvious pain.
Logan arched an eyebrow, his grin faint and humourless. “Right. And if I ever decide to write a self-help book about denial, I’ll put you on the cover. How exactly do you plan to navigate those stairs to your apartment, let alone walk Backup, in your current state?”
She grimaced, then jolted as she shifted, the movement clearly excruciating. Logan's smile faded completely as he watched her clutch her side, the pain etched on her face. He moved towards her, his voice soft, "Veronica..."
“I’m okay,” she insisted, but even she didn’t sound convinced anymore.
“Sure,” Logan said dryly, placing a gentle hand on her uninjured arm. “And I’m a professional ballerina. Come on, sit down before you collapse."
She hesitated, then let out a reluctant sigh and allowed him to guide her to the couch. She sank down with a quiet groan, clearly trying to mask the pain, but her hands shook visibly. Logan grabbed the bottle of painkillers from the coffee table, twisting off the cap before handing it to her.
"Take them," he said simply. "You need them. And while we're at it, put your sling on. It's not exactly a fashion accessory, but it'll help." He headed over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Once again, he released the cap and handed it to her.
Veronica eyed him warily, then took the pills and swallowed them, setting the bottle of water aside. "You're bossy," she muttered, though a faint smile played on her lips.
Logan shrugged, a genuine smile replacing his smirk. "What can I say? Someone's gotta keep the walking disaster in check."
She let out a soft chuckle, but it quickly faded. Her head rested back against the couch, her eyes fluttering closed. "Thanks," she murmured softly.
Logan sat down beside her, his gaze drifting to the bloodstains on her top. After a moment, he spoke. "Let's order lunch. I'll swing by your place afterward, grab Backup, and some clean clothes for you."
“The hotel allows dogs?” she asked, her eyes cracking open.
“Not exactly,” Logan said, leaning back. “But I’ve got charm and zero respect for rules. Worst case, I smuggle him in under my jacket.”
Veronica’s lips curved faintly. “Backup weighs more than you do. I’d pay to see that.”
“Broad shoulders, questionable life choices - trust me, I’ll make it work,” Logan quipped.
She gave him a dry look, her expression softening. “Don’t order me anything. I’m not hungry.”
“Right,” he said with mock scepticism. “Is this one of your ploys where I order food and you steal half of it?”
Veronica ignored the jab, reaching up to touch her hair, which was caked with dried blood. Her fingers paused mid-motion, and a frown crossed her face. “Ugh, I look like a walking crime scene,” she muttered, half to herself. “I need to shower.”
Logan nodded, watching as she carefully got to her feet. “Need a hand?” he asked, a crooked grin spreading across his face, his tone deliberately suggestive.
Veronica rolled her eyes, the faintest flicker of amusement breaking through her exhaustion. “No, I’m good,” she replied flatly, heading into his bedroom. Logan knew there was no way Veronica would allow him to help her in that way, no matter how difficult and exhausting washing her hair one-handed would be.
Logan’s eyebrows shot up slightly as he watched her bypass Duncan’s room without a second glance. A moment later, the sound of his shower running echoed faintly through the suite.
He shook his head and reached for the hotel phone. “Hey, Carl,” he said, leaning back into the couch. “Can I get two turkey sandwiches on rye, two cans of Skist, and a couple of ice packs? Thanks, man.”
The food arrived promptly, and Logan tipped the delivery guy before setting the sandwiches and drinks on the coffee table. He glanced at the bathroom door, a sense of unease growing within him as the silence stretched on. The shower had been off for a while now.
Something tugged at his gut. Frowning, he moved towards his bedroom, the door slightly ajar. Peeking inside, he spotted Veronica perched on the edge of his bed, dressed in a hotel robe. Her damp hair framed her face, but it was the silent tears streaming down her cheeks that stopped him in his tracks.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Logan asked, stepping inside to sit beside her.
She looked up at him, her voice trembling. “Oh god, Logan. Look at me. What am I supposed to do with this?” She gestured helplessly to herself. “My boyfriend almost killed me, and he doesn’t even realise it.”
He paused, his throat suddenly tight, unsure how to respond. He hesitated, then reached out, his hand resting gently on her back. “Did you two fight or something?”
She shook her head. “No, but he’s been weird for days. Said something about bad dreams when I asked, but…” Her breath hitched. “He’s been acting off, even about the stupid baby for that class project.” Her eyes widened suddenly, panic flashing across her face. “The baby. School. Logan, we missed school!”
“I handled it,” Logan said calmly. “Borrowed your phone last night and emailed the office a doctor’s note. You’re excused, even from the Health project.”
Veronica blinked at him, her surprise clear. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked softly, her voice trembling just enough to catch him off guard. “You don’t even like me.”
The question hung in the air, sharper than he’d expected. There was something about the completely unguarded way she said it that made him hesitate. For months, she'd built a wall around herself, deflecting his every comment with a practiced nonchalance. But now, he wondered if his jabs had cut deeper than he’d truly intended, if they’d hurt her in ways she’d never let on. And perhaps the pain medication, now taking effect, was lowering her inhibitions, allowing him to glimpse a truth she usually kept tightly concealed.
He shook off the thought with a nervous chuckle, trying to regain his footing. “Please. You know I can’t turn away a damsel in distress,” he quipped, gesturing vaguely at the stitches on her head. “And, let’s be real, you were bleeding all over the suite. Kinda ruins the ambiance if I’m a complete asshole about it.” His lips curled into a smirk, and he leaned back slightly, hoping to mask the unease that her question had stirred within him. “Besides, you’re helping me out with that pesky ‘arrested for murder’ situation. Call it even.”
“Right,” she murmured, but the fight had drained from her voice. He could see the fatigue weighing on her – the exhaustion of the shower and the painkillers hitting were finally catching up.
“Why don’t you get some more rest?” Logan suggested, his tone softening. “The doctor said you need sleep. I’ll grab your bag from Duncan’s room so you’ve got something clean to change into. There’s a sandwich and an ice pack on the table if you need them.”
Veronica offered him a small, grateful smile, and it made something in his chest ache. He watched as she lay back on his bed, her body sinking into the mattress, releasing the tension that had been coiled within her. Gently, he pulled the cover over her, tucking it around her with a tenderness that surprised him.
She was already half-asleep when he quietly left the room. Logan slipped out to fetch her bag, and before he delivered it back with her he retrieved the key to her apartment. By the time he returned, the room was silent except for the sound of her even breathing. She was fast asleep, her face finally peaceful, though the faint traces of earlier tears still clung to her cheeks.
***
Logan unlocked the door to Veronica’s apartment, Backup’s urgent barks greeting him from inside. The moment he stepped through, the large pit bull bounded towards him, his tail wagging madly as Logan crouched to rub his ears.
“All right, all right, I get it,” Logan said, scratching the dog’s neck as Backup let out an impatient whine. “Let’s get you outside before you start chewing on the furniture.”
His eyes flicked around - the apartment felt so distinctly Mars: understated, functional, but comforting in a way that sneaked up on you when you weren’t paying attention. Yet, as he stood there now, Logan couldn’t shake the sting of his last visit. Keith had thrown him out, no room for debate or even a flicker of sympathy. Logan’s heartbreak had collided with the searing anger of being discarded again, another person he cared about deciding he wasn’t worth keeping around. It still burned, that memory. But standing here now, surrounded by traces of Veronica’s life, he pushed it aside.
Logan clipped on Backup’s leash and led him outside for a walk around the block. The dog practically dragged him along, his enthusiasm unrelenting as he sniffed every lamppost and patch of grass. “You’re a handful, you know that?” Logan muttered, though a small grin tugged at his lips.
Back at the apartment, he filled Backup’s bowl with food, the dog diving in immediately, as Logan wiped his hands on his jeans.
He hesitated before stepping into Veronica’s bedroom. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air, a mix of vanilla and something floral. It hit him like a wave, and he felt a twinge of discomfort standing there without her. Memories surged forward - summer afternoons spent tangled in each other on the bed, sneaking around while her dad was out on his first book tour. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Shaking the thoughts away, Logan turned towards her desk. A file caught his eye, its label reading Lianne Susan Reynolds. His brow furrowed as he picked it up and flicked through it. It was her mother’s high school records - grades, disciplinary reports, even an old yearbook photo.
“What are you up to, Veronica?” he murmured. He hadn’t heard her mention her mom in ages, but the file spoke volumes. She must miss her, he realised, a pang of guilt hitting him as he remembered the cutting remarks he’d made about Lianne the year before.
Setting the file back down, Logan focused on gathering what she’d need: clothes, underwear, toiletries, her laptop and Backup’s food. He packed everything carefully, trying not to linger too long on the personal items that only deepened the knot in his chest.
When he returned to the hotel, he halted at the sight of Weevil leaning against the wall outside his door. The bruises on his face were unmistakable.
“What the hell are you doing here, Weevs?” Logan snapped, stepping closer, bag still slung over his shoulder, and Backup chilling at his heels. “Did the Grand finally start hiring help that can’t afford a uniform? I always knew you’d make an excellent maid.”
Weevil straightened, his expression unreadable. “I looked for you at school. You weren’t there. We need to talk.”
Logan narrowed his eyes. “Talk? How about we start with who got you down from that flagpole? I was hoping you’d hang around a little longer.”
Weevil smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Cute. You still pouting about me kidnapping your spoiled ass?”
“Pouting? No. Inspired enough to return the favour with a few extra hands? Maybe.”
The air between them crackled with tension before Weevil’s tone shifted. “I know you didn’t kill Felix.”
Logan blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“I know you didn’t do it,” Weevil repeated firmly.
Logan frowned but stepped aside, opening the door. “Fine. Come in, but keep it quick.” He had barely shut the door when Veronica emerged from his room, dressed in a fresh green top and jeans.
Weevil’s gaze immediately sharpened. She lingered in the shadows, and he tilted his head, his tone cutting. “Still ping-ponging between rich boys, huh?”
As she stepped into the light, Weevil froze, taking in the bruises on her face and her arm in a sling. His jaw tightened before he turned on Logan, slamming him against the wall.
“What the hell did you do to her?” he growled, his voice low and furious.
“Stop!” Veronica shouted, rushing forward.
Weevil ignored her, his grip on Logan unrelenting. “I always knew what kind of person you were, Echolls. After what you did to Lilly—”
Veronica’s expression twisted in confusion. “What about Lilly?”
Weevil glared at Logan, then turned to her. “He left bruises on her. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
Veronica’s eyes widened, then narrowed with determination. “That’s not true. Logan would never—”
“Really, then who bashed your face in?” Weevil demanded, cutting her off.
Logan, still pinned against the wall, spoke through gritted teeth. “The golden boy. Duncan.”
Veronica turned to him, her face a mix of shock and irritation. “Logan!” she snapped.
“What?” Logan shot back, shrugging against Weevil’s grip.
Weevil’s hands slackened as he looked back at Veronica. “You’re telling me Kane did this?”
Veronica folded her good arm beneath the sling, her annoyance barely masking the exhaustion on her face. “It’s complicated,” she muttered, her voice low but tight.
Weevil stepped back, his expression hardening as a storm brewed behind his eyes. “You need to start picking better guys, Vee.”
“Yeah, thanks for the insight,” she shot back sharply, pressed her fingers against her temples, as though trying to ease an invisible ache. “Duncan has a rare form of epilepsy. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Riiight,” Weevil drawled, his tone heavy with disbelief. “Is that how white boys get away with smacking their girls around?”
The words hung in the air like a blow. Veronica sat down heavily on the couch, wincing at the motion. Backup immediately padded over, his big head nudging her lap as he let out a soft, concerned whine. She reached down, her fingers curling into his fur like she needed to comfort herself. “I missed you, boy,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost breaking.
Weevil’s gaze lingered on her, his anger flickering into something harder to read. “You staying here or something? Where is Duncan?”
Veronica hesitated, her hand pausing mid-stroke on Backup’s fur. “He’s… with Celeste Kane. My dad’s on his book tour, and I wasn’t allowed to be on my own.” She said it matter-of-factly, but Logan, watching her closely, caught the faint tremor in her voice.
“So Echolls is playing nursemaid?” Weevil asked, his lip curling with a mix of derision and something darker. “Didn’t realise you were so big on taking care of people, especially her.”
“I didn’t think Keith would be thrilled if I let her pass out in the lobby. You know how it is - fathers and their weird ‘responsibility’ thing,” Logan said dryly, dropping onto the other end of the sofa.
“Yeah, that’s why you are doing this,” Weevil replied sarcastically.
“Anyway, now we’re all caught up, can we get back to the point?” Logan huffed.
Weevil crossed his arms, leaning against the armchair like he was settling in for a long haul. “Look, I know you didn’t kill Felix. But I need to know who did. And I figure, so do you.”
Logan tilted his head, a sardonic smirk tugging at his lips. “So what’s the plan, Weevil? We team up? Become a crime-fighting-duo? Oh, the books they’ll write about us.”
“Yeah, sure,” Weevil deadpanned, unimpressed. “But don’t get too comfortable. When you’re back at school, I can’t just let you slide for the shit you pulled. People would start asking questions.”
Veronica glanced up with a wry smile. “Don’t forget to coordinate your costumes. I’m thinking leather jackets and matching fedoras. Very noir, very ‘angry young men.’” Veronica’s gaze darted between them, curiosity creeping into her tired expression. “So what did he do?”
Weevil’s jaw tightened as he pointed at Logan. “Tied me to a flagpole. Left me there.”
Veronica’s lips twitched. “Ah. Karma.”
Weevil frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you know,” she said breezily. “Remember Wallace? I’m holding that grudge to kingdom come.” She turned her gaze to Logan. “Seriously, though. What’s up with the flagpole?”
Logan rolled his eyes, sinking deeper into the couch. “Maybe a little payback for kidnapping me, playing Russian roulette with various parts of my body, burning down my house, and shooting at us in my car? Flagpole duty barely scratched the surface.”
Veronica’s brow furrowed, her voice dropping with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. “Jesus Christ.” She rubbed her temples again, her eyes closing briefly as if the pain was getting harder to ignore as she leaned back heavily into the cushions. “I said I’d help you figure out who killed Felix, so will you both stop trying to kill each other?”
Logan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood, moving to the kitchenette. A moment later, he returned with a glass of water and her painkillers, placing them firmly in her hand. “Take these,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes.
Weevil’s gaze drifted to the bruises around her neck, his jaw tightening again. “I still can’t believe Duncan did that,” he said, his voice quieter now.
“Yeah, well,” Logan muttered bitterly, dropping back into his seat. “Dislocated shoulder, concussion, and you should see her back.”
“Logan,” Veronica protested, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Has he called yet?” Logan asked, ignoring her. When she shook her head silently, he snorted. “Duncan takes avoidance to a whole new stratosphere. He’s got a PhD in evading awkward conversations.”
The silence that followed was heavy, stretching between them like an unwelcome guest. Finally, Veronica spoke, breaking the tension. “Let’s watch a movie.”
Logan grabbed the remote, flipping through the options until he landed on her favourite: South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut. He glanced at her for confirmation, and when she gave a faint nod, he hit play.
Weevil didn’t move. He leaned back, his arms still crossed, but something in his posture softened as the opening credits rolled. Backup curled up at Veronica’s feet, and Logan let himself relax a little too, the truce holding - for now.
“Did I say you could stay?” he half-heartedly groused to Weevil.
Weevil shrugged, unbothered. “Got nowhere else to be right now.”
As the opening credits of South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut rolled, Veronica shifted on the couch, pulling her knees up as much as her injured side allowed. Backup settled at her feet, his head resting protectively on her ankle. She glanced at Weevil, then Logan, a faint grin tugging at her lips. “Wow, this is almost heartwarming. A gang leader, a spoiled rich kid, and a battered P.I. walk into a living room. If only we had a punchline.”
Logan shook his head. “Mars, you are the punchline.” But the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement.
“Huh. That’s rich coming from you,” she shot back. “How many punches have each of you thrown this year?” She waved a hand between him and Weevil. “You two are Neptune’s answer to West Side Story.”
“I take it he’s a Jet?” Weevil retorted, deadpan.
Veronica tilted her head towards him, her grin widening in delight. “You just caught that Weevil admitted to watching a musical, right?”
Logan shot her a sidelong glance, his smirk deepening. Even bruised and battered, her wit was intact, cutting through the tension like always.
“Hey, it’s a classic,” Weevil muttered defensively.
The movie kicked off with the irreverent humour it was known for, and the trio sat in silence at first. But then, as Kyle’s mum launched into "Blame Canada," Veronica let out a low chuckle. "She reminds me of Celeste Kane," she muttered, her voice laced with a mix of amusement and loopy grogginess. “All self-righteous and terrifying. I bet she’d campaign to ban half the fun things in Neptune if she could.”
Weevil snorted, slouching deeper into the armchair. “Yeah, I could see that. ‘Save the kids from bad influences,’” he mocked in a high-pitched tone. “Meanwhile, her own kids are walking bad decisions.”
“Sorry, Lilly, but accurate,” Veronica said, nodding sagely. She winced as the movement jarred her shoulder but carried on, undeterred. “And don’t even get me started on that perfect, icy hair of hers. It’s like… it repels joy. Like some kind of ‘Anti-Fun Helmet.’”
Logan smirked, shaking his head. “And you’re definitely not high, huh?”
“Don’t interrupt,” Veronica shot back, wagging her good hand at him. “This is insightful commentary.”
The movie rolled on, and soon they hit the infamous “Uncle Fucker” number. Veronica doubled over laughing, only to groan immediately, clutching her side. “Oh god, why is this so funny? This is funnier than it has any right to be. Am I dying? Is this what dying feels like?”
“You’re fine,” Logan said dryly, though his lips twitched. “This is just what happens when you mix heavy narcotics with crude cartoon humour. Textbook case.”
Veronica shot him a mock glare. “Don’t ruin my moment, Echolls. I’m achieving enlightenment here.”
Weevil shook his head, a grudging grin breaking through his usually stoic demeanour. “Vee, you’re a mess.”
“I’m a funny mess,” she corrected. “You’re welcome, by the way. I’m carrying this whole comedy hour. I expect applause later.”
When Cartman’s V-chip malfunctioned, sending him into a profanity-laden tirade, Veronica clapped her hands together, grinning through her exhaustion. “There’s my spirit animal,” she declared. “Swearing as a superpower? Sign me up.”
“Yeah, you’d rock that,” Logan quipped, slouching into the cushions. “You’d have Neptune shut down in a week.”
Weevil rolled his eyes, but even he couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at his mouth. “She’s already got most of Neptune scared of her, man. Imagine if she could weaponise cussing.”
“Damn right,” Veronica said, leaning back and throwing her good arm over the back of the couch like a queen surveying her kingdom. “Bow to your profane overlord.”
As the movie neared its chaotic climax, her energy started to fade, the painkillers and exhaustion creeping back in. Her comments grew quieter, more sporadic. By the time Stan and the boys led the charge to rescue Terrance and Phillip, she was curled against the arm of the couch, her eyelids fluttering shut.
Logan glanced over, noting how peaceful she looked now compared to earlier. He reached for the remote, lowering the volume as Weevil leaned back in his chair, still watching the screen.
“Guess the comedy hour’s over,” Logan said quietly, gesturing to Veronica’s sleeping form.
“Yeah, but I gotta admit,” Weevil replied, his tone lighter than usual. “She’s got a hell of a delivery for someone half-dead.”
Smirking, Logan settled back in his seat. “Welcome to life with Veronica Mars.”
Chapter Text
Logan awoke with a start, his body aching from a second night spent sprawled out on the sofa. The memory of carrying Veronica to his bed the night before flickered in his mind. He hadn’t wanted her to wake up and find herself back in Duncan’s room after everything that had happened. He stretched, wincing slightly at the stiffness in his back. The faint sound of keys clicking drew his attention, and he turned his head to see Veronica at the table, her laptop open in front of her. She was dressed in fresh clothes, her hair catching the morning light. Even with the bruises on her face and neck, she looked stunning, and for a moment, it was all he could do to just sit there and take her in.
His pulse quickened, and he shifted slightly, cursing the unwelcome surge of physical reaction that betrayed him. Being around his ex-girlfriend was torturous; every shared glance felt like a raw reminder of what he’d lost, a wound that refused to heal. Desperate to rein himself in, he forced his mind to wander to the most unsexy thoughts he could muster - Dick in a Speedo, the first time he dared Duncan to do karaoke and his voice was as bad as he feared, anything to quash the heat in his veins.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked, his voice still rough with sleep.
Veronica glanced up, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Schoolwork. You know, the thrilling life of a high school senior. I don’t want to fall too far behind. Although typing one handed? Not recommended.”
Logan could think of a lot of dirty retorts to that comment, but wasn’t sure it would be appreciated. His eyes drifted to Backup, who was curled up on the floor nearby, stirred briefly before settling back down. Logan swung his legs off the sofa and stood, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks.
“I’m going to shower,” he said, ruffling Backup’s fur on his way to the bathroom. “Then I’ll take him for a walk.”
By the time he returned, freshly showered and dressed, Backup trotted happily to his side, clearly thrilled for his walk. Logan smiled faintly at the dog’s enthusiasm, but the sound of voices stopped him in his tracks as he approached his bedroom door.
His brows furrowed. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside and was stunned to see Celeste Kane, standing still in the middle of the room, her arms folded. Her sharp red bob framed a face carved from stone, her black pantsuit pristine, and her matching heels clicking softly against the floor as she shifted her weight. Her frosty expression was aimed at Veronica, who sat stiffly in her chair.
“It was a surprise to learn Duncan was dating you again,” Celeste said, her tone dripping with disdain. “I hoped he would stay with Meg. She’s a nice, sweet girl.”
Veronica’s shoulders squared, and while her voice remained calm, the fire in her eyes betrayed her. “If you recall, Meg’s in a coma,” she said evenly. “And Duncan and I have been seeing each other for a while now.”
Celeste’s lips thinned. “Ah. So that’s how you sunk your claws into my son again.”
“We were dating before the bus crash,” Veronica replied, her voice steely.
“Duncan hasn’t had an episode like that in some time,” Celeste said accusingly, her sharp gaze cutting into Veronica. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Veronica replied, shaking her head.
“Didn’t you?” Celeste arched an eyebrow. “Something set him off.”
Veronica’s fists clenched on the edge of the table, but her voice didn’t waver. “Not me.”
Logan had a brief flash in his mind of what would happen if Veronica and Celeste just had an all-out brawl. Even injured, he knew Veronica would take her down.
“Why don’t I believe you?” Celeste asked coolly.
The tension in the air was electric, and Logan’s patience snapped. “FYI, if I hadn’t stopped Duncan,” he said, his voice slicing through the room like a blade, “you really would’ve had to cover up a murder for your son. Do you even care how badly Veronica was hurt?”
Celeste’s head snapped towards him, her eyes narrowing.
“Why are you even here, Celeste?” Logan continued, his tone biting. “You’re obviously not here to apologise on behalf of your son.”
Celeste lifted her chin, her frosty composure unwavering. “I’m here to pick up Duncan’s things. Nothing more. And this is a family matter,” Celeste added, dismissively, “it’s none of your concern.”
“The hell it isn’t,” Logan shot back, stepping closer. “She deserves a hell of a lot more than your contempt right now.”
Veronica’s voice, quieter but no less determined, broke through the tension. “Is Duncan okay? When is he coming back?”
Celeste turned her icy gaze back to her. “The two of you should stay away from each other,” she said. “You bring out something in Duncan. This isn’t the first time he’s had a violent fit over you.”
Logan’s anger flared, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Right. It’s all her fault she woke up to his hands around her throat. Are you at least covering her medical bills?”
Celeste’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I should’ve known you’d defend her. She’s just like her whore of a mother, always looking for a payout.”
Now it was Logan’s fists who clenched, his knuckles white as he stepped forward. “That’s enough. You need to leave. Now.”
Celeste’s expression didn’t falter, her tone as sharp as ever as she turned back to Veronica. “We’ll cover the medical bills, but you’ll sign an NDA. And don’t think for a moment that this little incident can’t be twisted. We will make sure the narrative falls in our favour. I imagine it would be hard for you to shake the perception that you provoked Duncan into losing control. People might wonder why you stayed in the relationship if he was so dangerous.”
Veronica raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair as if Celeste’s words hadn’t landed a single blow. “Wow, Celeste, when they said ‘charm runs in the family,’ they must’ve skipped a generation. Let me make sure I’m getting this straight: you’re offering me hush money to cover up your son’s medical condition, and if I refuse, you’ll trash my name? Bold strategy for someone who’s still knee-deep in legal trouble from covering up Lilly’s murder last year.”
Celeste’s frosty composure cracked, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “Careful, Veronica,” she hissed. “You’re treading on thin ice.”
Veronica didn’t flinch. “Thin ice? You should know all about that - you’ve been skating on it for years. Since Senior Prom, even? But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I’d hate to see you perjure yourself again.”
Logan chuckled darkly from behind her, crossing his arms. He wasn’t sure what the reference to Prom was, but knowing Veronica as he did - she likely had a folder of dirt on Celeste.
“You might want to rethink the power dynamic here, Celeste. Last time I checked, Veronica’s the one holding the shovel - and your skeletons are already halfway out of the closet.”
Veronica’s eyes locked onto Celeste. “You can save the NDA. If I wanted to ‘sink my claws’ into your son’s trust fund, I’d be on the phone with a lawyer right now. But thanks for proving, once again, that being ruthless is the Kane family’s true legacy. Lilly would be so proud."
Celeste’s lips thinned, but before she could retort, Logan stepped forward, his tone leaving no room for arguments. “You heard her. Take your NDA, and Duncan’s things, and go.”
Her nostrils flared, but with a final disdainful glance at Veronica, she picked up the large bag at her side, turned and walked out. The door closed behind her with a resounding click, leaving the room steeped in silence.
Logan exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair as frustration and anger simmered beneath the surface.
“She’s a piece of work,” he muttered.
Celeste’s thinly veiled hatred for Veronica had started long before Lilly’s murder and the chaos that followed. Logan had never understood it. Veronica had been the perfect counterbalance to Lilly’s wild streak - the voice of reason and the one person who could soften her edges or talk her out of one of her more reckless ideas. But now, without Lilly to keep her mother in check, Celeste’s disdain for Veronica was on full display, sharper and more unapologetic than ever.
Veronica gave him a faint smile, though her eyes were still weary. “Thanks for standing up for me.”
Logan’s gaze softened as he looked at her. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “Celeste is a bitch.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when Veronica’s face paled. She shot up from the chair, swaying slightly, and hurried to the bathroom without a word.
“Veronica?” Logan called after her, worry sharpening his tone. He hesitated for a moment before grabbing a glass from the counter and filling it with water.
When he reached the bathroom, the door was ajar. He could hear her retching, the sound raw and miserable. He knocked gently. “Hey, are you okay in there?”
“Oh, just living the dream,” came her muffled reply, tinged with embarrassment.
Logan pushed the door open a little wider. She was crouched by the toilet, her hair falling over her face as she gripped the edge of the seat.
He set the glass of water on the counter and crouched beside her, placing a hand on her back.
“Well, at least you’re committed to keeping me on my toes,” he said softly, rubbing slow, comforting circles between her shoulder blades.
She let out a weak laugh, though it quickly turned into another dry heave. When it passed, she leaned her head against her arm, not looking at him.
“I can’t believe you, of all people, are seeing me like this.”
Logan smiled faintly, though his eyes remained serious. “Hey, don’t flatter yourself. You think Celeste Kane didn’t make me feel nauseous on a regular basis? This is practically a flashback.”
Veronica let out a choked laugh, shaking her head. “That’s… disgusting.”
“Yeah, well, you started it,” he quipped, reaching over to hand her the glass of water. “Here. Rinse your mouth.”
As Veronica shifted slightly to take the glass, her top rode up, revealing angry welts and deep purple bruises marring the pale skin of her back and ribs. Logan froze, his breath catching as the sight hit him like a punch to the gut. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing over the marks with a featherlight touch.
She shivered at the contact, her muscles tensing. “Logan,” she said quietly, her voice tight, but she didn’t pull away.
“How did that one happen?” he asked, his tone low. His hand lingered for a moment before he drew it back, unsure if his touch was welcomed.
Logan watched her bring the glass to her lips, the water a thin, shaky line threatening to spill. Her exhale was uneven, a trembling sound that did little to calm the tremor in her hands.
"It wasn't..." Her voice wavered, a fragile thread he strained to hear. She swallowed, a visible lump bobbing in her throat, her gaze locked on the floor as if the words were etched into the grout. "When he shoved me... off the bed... I hit the corner of the bedside table. I think that’s what split my head open.”
A cold fist clenched in Logan’s stomach. He could almost feel the impact, that sharp, sickening crack she hadn't even uttered.
She paused, her breath hitching, a painful gasp that made his jaw tighten.
"Then I fell... onto everything. Lamp, books, everything else. I think that fall took my shoulder out, and something broke under my back. I think it was a mug?" Each word was a fresh blow, and he felt a muscle jump in his cheek.
"Then the weight of him was on me, which didn’t help, and that’s when he started strangling me."
The air in the room seemed to grow heavy, suffocating him with the horror of her words.
Logan clenched his jaw, the muscles bunching and releasing as a flicker of anger sparked behind his eyes. He didn’t speak for a long moment, his hands knotting into fists at his sides, fighting down the urge to explode.
“I know Duncan didn’t do this on purpose, but whether he meant to or not, he’s the reason you look like this.” His voice was tight with suppressed rage, and he hated that he couldn't say more.
“I know,” she murmured quietly, her voice barely audible, and so defeated. “I just… I don’t want to talk about it anymore, okay?”
Logan stared at her for a beat, his heart aching at her vulnerability, before nodding. “Okay. For now.” Then something else hit him, a worry that eclipsed his anger. “When’s the last time you ate something? And don’t lie - because I’ll know.”
Veronica wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t remember.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “That’s what I thought. Combine that with painkillers and, yeah, no wonder you’re hugging a toilet right now. You love food. Like, weirdly love it. What’s going on?”
She shrugged. “I just haven’t felt like it.”
Logan sighed, his hand settling on her shoulder, the light touch a reassurance as much as a physical gesture. “Okay, new plan.” His voice was firm but laced with a gentle insistence. “You’re going to eat something. Today. Non-negotiable. I mean, how else are you going to beat me at video games later if you’re passing out from hunger?” He injected a playful tone, hoping to lighten the weight of the situation.
A tiny smile ghosted across her lips, the brief upward curve a fragile beacon in her pale, shaky face. “I don’t think waffles are going to cut it right now,” she conceded, her voice still weak.
“Fair,” he said, his voice softening. “I’ll get you something light - toast, maybe? Or soup?”
Veronica hesitated before nodding slightly. “Thanks, toast sounds good.”
He stood and offered her his hand, his fingers extending towards hers. She hesitated, her gaze flickering to his before finally taking his hand. He helped her to her feet, mindful of her fragility. She swayed slightly, eyes slipping shut, and he guessed she was dizzy.
As she made her way back to the main room, her movements were slow and stiff, each step revealing just how much pain she was in.
Veronica had just settled back down on the sofa with a soft sigh, her body seeming to deflate with exhaustion, when suddenly her phone began to ring. The sharp, intrusive trill cut through the quiet of the room, the sound jarring against the fragile calm they'd just created. Her shoulders stiffened immediately and she scrambled to grab the device, her expression shifting into a flicker of panic.
Logan knew immediately who she feared it might be. Veronica’s dad didn’t know where she was staying - or about the bruises marring her face and neck. Logan wondered if she’d tell him the truth, imagining how that conversation might go. Keith Mars wasn’t the kind of man to let something like that slide. The image of her dad showing up at the Grand, storming in with a righteous fury looking for Duncan, was as terrifying as it was satisfying, a conflict of emotions warring within him.
“Relax,” Logan said, his tone light but his gaze watchful. “It’s probably just a telemarketer trying to sell you a warranty for your car.” He knew it was a feeble attempt at humour, but he had to do something to lessen the panic in her eyes.
Veronica shot him a glare that lacked its usual bite, but glanced at the screen. Her body relaxed, the tension releasing in a slow exhale. Not Keith, then. She swiped to answer.
“Hey, Mac,” she said, her voice a little strained.
Logan couldn’t hear the other end of the call, but he could piece it together from Veronica’s responses. Mac, Veronica’s tech-savvy friend, was clearly confused about why Veronica wasn’t at school. Logan hated the way she was downplaying what had happened.
“I had… a little incident,” Veronica explained, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her laptop, her voice laced with casualness. "Hurt my shoulder, but I’m fine. I’ll be back soon.”
Logan huffed at her outright lie. A little incident. Right. Mac must have asked if she needed anything because Veronica added, “Could you email me any assignments? Thanks, Mac-tastic, you’re the best.”
The endearment was layered with a false lightness that didn't fool Logan. He could almost hear Mac’s groan in response to that nickname, a familiar sound that usually made Veronica grin. The conversation seemed to be under control, however fragile the calm, so Logan pushed himself off the sofa, muttering, "I’ll take Backup out."
The dog perked up immediately at the sound of his name, his tail wagging as Logan grabbed the leash. He wasn’t sure the Grand’s management would appreciate Veronica’s pit bull hanging around, but the little guy needed some fresh air.
On his way out, Logan passed one of the hotel’s security staff in the corridor. The man’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of Backup, his expression hovering between surprise and annoyance.
“Not a word,” Logan said, slipping a few folded bills into the guy’s hand. The man glanced at the money, then at Logan, and gave a slight nod.
“Have a nice walk,” the guard said, tucking the cash into his pocket.
Logan led Backup out through the back exit, carefully avoiding any further encounters with hotel staff, keen to escape the confines of the building. Once they were outside, Backup bounded happily along the pavement, his tongue lolling out.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through his notifications. One from Dick caught his eye and he rolled his eyes as he reponded.
Before he could pocket his phone, another notification popped up, this one from Jackie. Logan sighed inwardly, already bracing himself for whatever ridiculous gossip was about to come his way.
Logan groaned audibly, rubbing a hand over his face, the tension in his shoulders increasing. The ridiculousness of the gossip only intensified his frustration.
Switching back to his messages with Dick, Logan fired off another text, his thumbs practically punching the screen.
Logan shook his head, sliding the phone back into his pocket, the digital world proving to be more frustrating than he had anticipated. Backup looked up at him, his head cocked with his large, dark eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Logan muttered, ruffling the fur on top of the dog’s head. “You’d be sick of him too.”
Backup barked in agreement - or at least Logan chose to take it that way - and they continued down the path.
When Logan returned to the suite, the rich smell of coffee and something buttery and warm enveloped him before he even stepped through the door, an inviting contrast to the air outside. Backup trotted ahead of him, his claws clicking a light rhythm on the polished wooden floor as Logan shut the door behind them.
“Ah, look at you, actually listening to me for once,” Logan teased, his voice laced with mock astonishment as he unclipped Backup’s lead and hung it by the door. “It’s like magic around here, you ask and food just appears.” He felt a flicker of warmth at the sight of her, despite trying to play it off with his usual sarcastic charm.
Veronica glanced up from where she sat at the small table by the frosted window, her laptop pushed aside in favour of a steaming mug of coffee and some lightly browned toast. A plate of what looked like waffles, piled high with a colourful assortment of strawberries and a generous swirl of whipped cream sat on his side of the table. A carafe of coffee sat in the centre, along with a little dish of maple syrup, all arranged as if for a small, indulgent feast.
“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered, though her lips twitched at the corners, a tiny hint of a smile he was glad to see. Logan was relieved to see she wasn’t as deathly pale as she’d looked in the bathroom, and a healthy flush of colour had returned to her cheeks.
He chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and moving further into the room, letting his eyes settle on the sight of her. “Mmm, sure. I'll take my wins where I can get them.” He hoped it was a step in the right direction, a flicker of normalcy in the midst of everything.
“Plus, I figured you could use something that doesn’t come from a minibar,” Veronica said, a genuine smile lighting up her face. Her eyes lingered on Backup, who had flopped down in a patch of sunlight by the window, his tongue out, clearly satisfied with his morning adventure. “He looks happy. Did you bribe someone to sneak him out?”
Logan grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he made his way over to the table. “How did you know?” He played along, knowing she could always see straight through him. “Let’s just say the staff are surprisingly flexible when properly motivated.” He pulled out a chair, dropping into it with an exaggerated sigh, playing up the theatrics. “Breakfast looks great, though. Whose idea was the whipped cream? Yours or the kitchen’s?”
“Mine,” she said, smirking faintly. “Figured I’d indulge while we’re playing house at the Grand.”
He poured himself a cup of coffee, the dark liquid swirling into the mug, taking a long sip before leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on her face. “So, how’s Mac? Still the same level of concerned genius?”
“She’s fine. Confused about why I’m not at school, but I told her I just hurt my shoulder. Didn’t go into specifics.” She took a small bite of toast, her gaze still avoiding his.
Logan raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “That’s one way to put it. A little incident, huh?” The sarcasm was deliberate, intended to provoke a reaction, even a small one. “What’s your plan when word gets out? Because, trust me, it will. High school gossip’s faster than Wi-FI.”
Veronica shrugged, though her gaze dropped to her mug again, her smile faltering. “It’s not their business. Or my dad’s, for that matter.” Her voice was firm, but Logan could hear the note of worry underneath it.
Logan set his coffee down, the ceramic making a soft thud on the table, his tone softening to match the mood. “You think your dad’s not going to figure it out? I know you’ve got a few days’ grace, but he’s Keith. I’m surprised he hasn’t installed a tracking device in one of your teeth.”
Veronica shot him a mock look of alarm, her eyes widening in exaggerated shock. “Wait - you know about that?” she gasped, her hand flying to her jaw in exaggerated panic, a flicker of her old playful self returning for a moment.
Logan smirked, but she turned serious again, her gaze focused on the swirl of steam rising from her cup, as if searching for answers in its wispy tendrils.
“I’ll handle it.” Her voice was low and resolute, betraying a hidden vulnerability. “I just… I don’t want to pile more on his plate right now. He’s busy wrangling the press, and that’s not exactly his comfort zone.” She was being protective of her father and it made his chest feel tight.
Logan wanted to push further, to understand her unease and to reassure her, but he recognised the look on her face - steely, determined, and resolutely not open to debate. Instead, he reached for the waffles, piling on more maple syrup and whipped cream than he probably should, letting the sweet, sticky concoction overflow onto the plate, a childish rebellion against the seriousness of the conversation. “Fair enough,” he conceded, a hint of amusement returning to his tone, “But if he shows up here, I’m throwing Dick under the bus. That kid practically has ‘culprit’ stamped on his forehead anyway.” He delivered the line with all the seriousness of a man planning a full-scale attack, knowing it would make her smile.
That earned him a laugh, soft but genuine, a sweet melody in the quiet room. Veronica leaned back, her expression easing for the first time that morning, the tension in her body finally beginning to dissipate, a release that brought an overwhelming sense of relief.
“You’re in an oddly good mood for someone who just bribed security and probably got a text from Dick whining about how much he misses you at school,” she said, her voice laced with amusement, casually dipping her finger into a small puddle of maple syrup on his plate and bringing it to her lips, her eyes closing for a moment as if savouring the sweetness with a slow deliberation that, if it was anyone else, he would almost read as teasing, but Veronica took food more seriously than anything else; it was a ritual for her.
“Oh, it’s worse than that.” Logan’s voice was full of mock melodrama. “He’s out there spreading rumours that you, me, and Duncan are having some sort of sordid ménage à trois at the Grand.” He said the words with an exaggerated French accent, which made her eye twitch, he noticed.
Her fork paused mid-air, suspended above his plate, a silver threat poised to pilfer a piece of his waffle. She closed her eyes briefly, as if the sheer absurdity of the situation was too much to process, her expression a mask of comical exasperation. “Of course he is,” she muttered, exhaling slowly, the sound a mixture of disbelief and long-suffering resignation. Then, she pinned him with one of her classic stares - sharp, assessing, but this time, there was a definite hint of amusement beneath it, a glint of humour dancing in her eyes, betraying her underlying mirth. “And you didn’t deny it, did you?”
“Of course I denied it!” Logan shot back, his voice dripping with mock indignation and a hint of genuine defensiveness. He pointed his fork at her, a drop of syrup teetering at the edge. “But you know Dick - denial’s just fuel for his insanity.” He paused for dramatic effect, letting his words hang in the air before adding, “And for the record, you’re not my type anymore. Too much attitude.”
Veronica smirked, her lips curling upwards at the corners as she raised her mug to her lips, her gaze lingering on his face a little longer than necessary, he thought. “And you’re too much trouble. So I guess that makes us even.”
“Guess so,” Logan replied, trying to sound light and unbothered, but there was an undeniable edge to his voice, a hint of something more than just casual banter that he couldn’t quite hide. He knew it was unfair - he’d made the joke in the first place, which was why he felt the need to change his position so that he wasn’t looking at her directly, instead, shoving another bite of waffle into his mouth, chewing as he watched her out of the corner of his eye, his own internal monologue turning to thoughts that he did not want to think about.
Despite the excellent front she was putting up, he could tell there was still an edge of melancholy lingering beneath the surface, her movements slow and deliberate, like she was carefully assembling herself, piece by piece. He told himself not to push, not to ask, to give her the space she needed – but that never worked with Veronica. She always managed to get under his skin somehow.
“Logan,” she said, setting her coffee mug down carefully, the ceramic making a soft, almost hesitant thud against the table. “Can I ask you something?” The casualness in her tone was a stark contrast to the underlying tension he could sense emanating from her.
He hesitated, swallowing hard, the simple act suddenly feeling like a monumental task. “Sure.” His tone was cautious, his words clipped, and he tried to brace himself for whatever left-field question she was about to throw his way.
“What did you mean about Weevil playing Russian roulette with you?”
The words hit him like a sucker punch, the impact stealing his breath, and for a moment, all he could do was stare blankly at his plate, the syrup a dark, swirling abyss. He hadn’t thought properly about that night in weeks, deliberately burying it under layers of nonchalance and casual dismissals, other than his careless comment to Weevil. But now, the memory came rushing back, vivid and sharp.
Logan leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking softly under his weight as he dropped his fork onto the plate with a soft clatter, the sound strangely loud in the sudden silence. “He wanted to know if I really killed Felix,” he started, his voice low. He stared at the maple syrup pooling on his plate, watching the way it reflected the light, distorting the room around him - anything to avoid her gaze. “He got some of his guys to grab me. They pulled me into a van - masks, ropes, the whole deal. I didn’t even know who it was at first.”
He paused, running a hand through his hair, the gesture a nervous tic. Just saying it out loud made his chest tighten, the fear clawing its way back up his throat, making it hard to breathe. “One of them tied me up and put a gun to my hand. Spun the chamber, pulled the trigger.” His voice faltered, a tremor running through it, and he let out a humourless laugh, the sound rough. “Well, you know how the game goes.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive. He dared a glance at her and froze, her face taut with barely contained fury, her eyes blazing with an incandescent rage that made his heart skip a beat.
“It’s not a fucking game, Logan,” she snapped, her voice like a whip cracking through the silence, the intensity of her anger striking him like a physical blow.
“I’m aware,” he replied, trying to sound unaffected, his casual tone failing to disguise the vulnerability in his voice. He shrugged, forcing a casualness he didn’t feel, his body feeling tense and rigid. “I thought I was going to die. Then they moved to my knee. Did the same thing. When they finally threw me in a ditch – literally - I managed to grab one of their phones. That’s how I knew it was Weevil behind it.”
She sat back, her expression darkening as realisation dawned, her eyes narrowing with a dangerous intensity. “So then… the flagpole,” she murmured, her voice hardening, the words coming out as a low, dangerous growl. Her hand curled into a fist around the edge of her plate, her knuckles white with anger. “I am actually going to kill him. Eviscerate him.”
Logan blinked, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of her anger. He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected her to care so deeply, to react with such fierce protectiveness. Most people didn’t - not about him. The force of her reaction was a little overwhelming.
“Veronica, I dealt with it,” he said, his voice soft but firm, a subtle plea underlying the words. He didn’t need her fighting his battles, he told himself. He’d survived it, he’d returned the favour with a vicious beat-down, and a generous sprinkle of humiliation.
But the way her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek, the way her hand slammed her coffee mug down on the table with a sharp thud that echoed in the sudden silence, told him she wasn’t letting this go; it was a silent promise.
“They could have killed you, Logan,” she said, her voice shaking with restrained fury. “They hurt you.”
He met her gaze, his chest tightening with a mixture of apprehension and something else he couldn’t quite name. For once, he didn’t have a sarcastic comeback or a deflective joke to hide behind. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice stripped bare of its usual bravado, the single word carrying the weight of his acknowledgement. “But they didn’t.”
The tension hung in the air, thick and unyielding, as they finished their breakfast in a loaded silence.
Logan, ever aware of her mood, leaned back in his chair with a casual stretch, the movement a deliberate attempt to break the heavy stillness that had settled between them.
“Alright, Veronica,” he said, his tone lighter, laced with a deliberate playfulness that he hoped would cut through the tension. “Since you’re skipping school and stuck with me, what’s the plan? Crossword puzzles? Make friendship bracelets? Maybe braid each other’s hair?” His voice was full of exaggerated enthusiasm, and his eyes were fixed on her, hoping for a reaction.
Veronica let out a surprised laugh, the sound a welcome relief, her lips curving into a smirk. “Tempting, but I think I’ll pass,” she replied, her tone dry but amused. “Got any real ideas?” Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were considering his motives.
Logan grinned, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You like winning, right?”
“Obviously,” she said, the word delivered with a slight edge, her eyes fixed on his face, her curiosity piqued.
“Perfect.” He got up, disappearing into the bedroom for a moment and returning with a black PlayStation 2 tucked under his arm and a tangle of wires in his other hand.
“Seriously?” Veronica said, raising an eyebrow, her tone laced with disbelief, as he started hooking up the black PlayStation 2 to the television. “I thought you were joking earlier.”
“What? Don’t tell me your dad doesn’t let you play video games.”
“I’ve played my share of Mario Kart and Sonic, thank you very much,” she replied, the words edged with mock indignation, as if he had insulted her skills.
Logan chuckled, shaking his head, a grin spreading across his face. “This isn’t Mario Kart. This is Soulcalibur II. A fighting game. Think you can handle it?” His tone was full of challenge, knowing that she would never back down from one.
Veronica rolled her eyes, but he could see the flicker of interest, a spark of competitive fire igniting in her eyes, as she slid onto the sofa, settling into a cross-legged position, her gaze fixed on the console. “If you’re just looking for an excuse to gloat, you’ll be very disappointed,” she declared, her voice laced with a playful threat, a clear indication that she intended to win.
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Logan replied, his voice dripping with playful confidence as he tossed her a controller, the plastic clicking lightly against her hand. As he finished hooking up the console, he glanced over at Veronica, noticing her carefully slipping her injured arm out of the sling. She moved slowly, a small wince crossing her face as she adjusted herself on the sofa.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with a subtle concern that he hoped she didn't pick up on.
“I can handle it,” Veronica replied, her tone firm and resolute, the determination in her eyes unwavering. She placed the controller carefully in her good hand, propping it against her thigh so she could use her thumb to move the joystick and press the buttons on one side, her movements precise and purposeful despite her discomfort.
Logan smirked, his competitive spirit rising to meet hers, “That’s dedication.” He paused, his voice laced with playful mockery. “Though if you lose, I’m not letting you blame the arm.”
Veronica shot him a look, her lips twitching into a small smile, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “Oh, I’m definitely blaming the arm.”
The game loaded, and soon they were selecting their characters, the screen flickering to life with vibrant colours.
“I call Taki,” Veronica announced, her voice ringing as she selected the swift, agile ninja.
“Fine by me,” Logan said, a smirk playing on his lips as he chose Kilik, with his long-reaching staff. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mars. I’m kind of a big deal at this game.” He was more confident than he probably should have been, but he couldn't resist the urge to needle her.
The first round started, and Veronica attacked immediately with her character, Taki, darting across the screen with surprising speed, her movements surprisingly fluid for someone who had an arm out of action, Logan thought. She was managing well with her improvised grip, but every now and then, her character hesitated or missed a block, a flicker of frustration crossing her face each time.
When Logan landed a powerful, well-timed combo that sent Taki hurtling into the air, Veronica groaned audibly, her hand hitting the sofa cushion in mock defeat. “I couldn’t block that! It’s the arm.” Her tone was both playful and protesting.
Logan grinned, leaning back smugly in his chair, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Right. And next you’ll blame Backup for distracting you.”
“He is looking at me judgmentally,” she said, glancing down at the dog, who was snoring gently at her feet, as if taking a nap was the most important thing in the world.
“I don’t know, sounds like a lot of excuses to me,” Logan teased, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
“Excuses?” Veronica said, her competitive streak flaring, her eyes narrowing with a newfound intensity. She adjusted her grip on the controller, her jaw setting in determination, a clear sign she was taking this very seriously, despite her earlier complaints. “Fine. I’ll beat you one-handed, and then you’ll have to come up with an excuse for losing.”
Logan laughed, the sound full of amusement. “I’m quaking in my boots,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but a flicker of genuine anticipation rising within him, despite his attempts to downplay it.
The second round began, and Veronica surprised him with a sneaky, well-executed counter-attack that sent Kilik staggering, almost falling off the edge of the screen. Logan’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Nice move,” he admitted, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, a grudging admiration creeping into his tone.
She was grinning now, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips, her tongue caught between her teeth in concentration as she leaned forward, her shoulder brushing his. The simple contact sent a jolt through him, and Logan forced himself to focus on the screen, trying to ignore the pull of her proximity. Her hair smelled faintly of something citrusy and warm, a subtle scent that made him feel a little discombobulated, and her knee was nearly touching his, the sensation a powerful distraction.
“Stop staring at me and play the game, Logan,” she said, her voice sharp but with a playful undertone, her gaze still locked on the screen, as if completely focused on the game but somehow aware of his distraction.
“Who’s staring?” he shot back, his voice a little too casual, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone, as he tried to regain control of the situation and his own wayward thoughts.
When she finally landed a finishing blow, sending Logan’s character tumbling off the screen in a spectacular, pixelated defeat, she leaned back triumphantly, her grin wide and infectious, a clear victory radiating from her.
“See? One-handed,” she declared, her voice ringing with mock arrogance. “What’s your excuse, Echolls?” Her eyes twinkled with amusement, clearly enjoying his defeat a little too much.
Logan shook his head, chuckling, a genuine smile playing on his lips despite his loss. “Beginner’s luck,” he said, his tone full of playful indignation. “And I was severely distracted—your whining was throwing me off.” He knew he was exaggerating, but he couldn't resist the urge to tease her.
“Whining?” Veronica raised an eyebrow, her tone mock-offended, her hand flying dramatically to her chest, as if she had been personally wronged. “This is me playing through the pain, Logan. I’m basically a hero,” she said, her voice brimming with self-deprecating humour.
“Right. A true inspiration to gamers everywhere,” Logan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he loaded up the next round, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, thoroughly enjoying her exaggerated dramatics.
As the match started, Veronica shifted slightly on the sofa, her shoulder brushing his again, a feather-light touch that sent another surge of awareness through him. Logan clenched his jaw, his hands tightening around the controller as he tried not to react to how close she was, every nerve in his body suddenly attuned to her presence. She didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps she was simply adept at masking her reaction, too focused on the game, her lips pressed together in a determined line, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Logan shook his head, trying to refocus his attention on the screen, the vibrant colours blurring slightly at the edges. She might be injured, but she was still somehow keeping him on his toes, both in the game and out of it - and making him feel things he didn’t want to admit right now, a confusing mix of attraction and protectiveness. Every accidental brush of her hand or arm against his, however fleeting, sent little electric jolts through him, each one a subtle but powerful reminder of her presence beside him, but he kept his focus on the screen, determined not to let her see how much it affected him.
For the first time in days, the tension between them felt lighter, almost easy, the playful banter a welcome reprieve from the intensity of their earlier conversation.
But as they laughed and traded playful insults, Logan couldn’t help but feel the weight of how perilous this truce was - how every stolen moment with Veronica came with an expiration date.
He didn’t want to think about what would happen when Duncan finally returned, the thought a cold, unwelcome certainty that threatened to shatter the fragile ease he was trying to maintain.
Notes:
Who understands Dick's reference? Gold star to the first person who gets it.
Technically, the text messages wouldn't have looked that way in 2006, but please use your imagination!
I’d really love to hear your thoughts, comments, or even just a quick reaction. Knowing people are reading means the world - it honestly motivates me to keep posting, especially with a multi-chapter story like this that’s been such a long time in the making.
Feedback, discussion, or even a “still here and reading!” message makes a huge difference.
Chapter 4: Chapter Four
Chapter Text
Logan’s gaze lingered on Veronica, her head resting against the plush couch pillow, her golden hair spilling like threads of light over the dark fabric, a halo of brightness against the muted tones. She was completely out, her body relaxed in sleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady, even rhythm that betrayed none of the tension she’d carried earlier, the contrast strangely jarring. They’d spent the afternoon immersed in a marathon of video games, the competitive edge slowly fading as exhaustion took its toll on her already fragile state. Beneath the soft glow of the lamplight, the faint shadows under her eyes and the persistent tightness in her brow told a silent story of pain she had meticulously masked, a pain she had never vocalised until he finally convinced her to take her next dose of painkillers, the subtle act of caring a small victory, and helped her put her sling back on.
The room had grown quiet, save for the faint hum of the television left on standby, a low, monotonous drone that only served to emphasise the stillness. Logan shifted, moving as carefully as if he were handling delicate glass, determined not to disturb her.
His phone buzzed, the sharp vibration slicing through the stillness. Pulling it from his pocket, he glanced at the screen, his gaze drawn to the stark "Unknown Number" display. His thumb hovered over the reject button, a familiar urge to ignore the intrusion rising within him, but something made him hesitate, a subtle, uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. With one last look at Veronica, her face peaceful in sleep, Logan rose, moving towards his room with a quiet determination. He shut the door gently behind him, the click of the latch echoing the sudden shift in his mood, before finally answering.
“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice low.
There was a pause, heavy and uncomfortably long. Then came a voice he hadn’t heard in days, though it felt like much longer. “Logan. It’s me.”
Logan’s breath hitched. “Duncan?”
“Yeah.”
The word was a sigh, and for a moment, Logan didn’t know how to respond. He sank onto the edge of his bed, his grip tightening on the phone as his mind raced.
“Where are you?” he asked at last, his tone softening despite the knot of emotions in his chest. “Are you okay?”
“I’m... I’m at a clinic,” Duncan admitted, the hesitation in his voice palpable. “Mom dropped me off here after... you know.”
Logan exhaled slowly, pressing his phone tighter to his ear. His free hand raked through his hair as he paced the room. “Yeah, that tracks,” he said, his voice strained. “Do you remember any of it? What happened?”
The silence on the other end stretched too long, thick with tension. Logan could almost hear Duncan’s struggle to find the words. Finally, his voice came through, small and uncertain. “Not really. It’s all... broken. Like flashes of something I can’t put together.” A pause. “Mom said I hurt Veronica. Is she... is she okay?”
Logan’s stomach twisted sharply. His free hand curled into a fist. “It was bad, Duncan. Really bad. I just, I don’t get it. What caused the seizure?”
The line crackled faintly, or maybe that was just Logan’s imagination as he waited for Duncan to answer. When Duncan finally spoke, his voice wavered audibly even through the phone. “I found a letter. From Meg. She wrote to her aunt, telling her she’s pregnant. She asked if she could live with her when... when she had the baby.”
Logan closed his eyes, struggling to absorb the enormity of what Duncan had just said. “Shit. Does Veronica know?”
“No,” Duncan said simply. “Meg’s parents... they’re not good people. She didn’t want the baby anywhere near them.”
“And what about you? What are you going to do?” Logan asked quickly.
“I don’t know.” Duncan’s words came out in a sigh again, the kind that carried too much weight for one person. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”
Logan leaned back, the revelation unravelling something deep within him. Duncan Kane, the golden boy, the perfect son groomed for greatness - knocking someone up. The irony twisted bitterly in his mind. Lilly used to laugh about the endless safe-sex lectures her mother gave her, far too late to matter. Logan doubted Celeste had even bothered giving Duncan the same warnings, too blinded by her own vision of perfection to consider it a possibility. Perfect boys don’t make mistakes like this, right?
“You should tell Veronica,” Logan said, his words sharper than he intended, the tone laced with a visceral, almost primal urgency that surprised even himself. “She deserves to hear this from you.” And yet, beneath the words, he couldn’t ignore the flicker of something darker, something undeniably twisted, that he hated himself for feeling. Satisfaction. For once, Duncan’s shiny façade had cracks big enough to see through, the carefully constructed illusion finally shattering into pieces. Finally, something that might pull Veronica away from her desperate attempt to resurrect a past that no longer existed.
“I don’t know what to say to her,” Duncan admitted.
“Say something, Duncan,” Logan snapped, his frustration bubbling over, the carefully constructed calm finally giving way to a raw, unfiltered anger. “You owe her that much. I had to take her to the hospital, man. Do you even know how bad it was?” The image of Veronica’s battered face made his chest tighten.
Duncan’s voice was barely a whisper, the words laced with fear and guilt. “What did I do?”
Logan hesitated, the desire to protect Veronica warring with the need for Duncan to face the truth, but then pressed on, his jaw clenching as he forced the words out. He needed to know if he remembered, needed to confirm the violence he had seen. “You dislocated her shoulder. Gave her a concussion.” His voice was low, each word delivered with a controlled intensity. “And you were choking her when I pulled you off.” The accusation hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of Duncan’s actions, the truth as brutal as it was inescapable.
The gasp on the other end of the line was sharp, a ragged intake of breath that was filled with raw, unfiltered horror. “Oh my God.” Duncan’s voice was small, almost childlike in its vulnerability, "Logan, I didn’t know… I swear I didn’t know.” The denial was laced with panic. “I’ve been having these dreams, these… nightmares about Meg. She’s asking me to save her. From Veronica.” His voice trembled, the words coming out in a rush, the confession revealing a twisted and unsettling reality. “I think… I think I was in one of those dreams when it happened.”
Logan felt his pulse quicken, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, unease spreading through him like a cold tide. “Duncan, listen to yourself.” His voice was firm, laced with a barely contained urgency. “She didn’t have anything to do with the bus crash and she didn’t hurt Meg. You know that. They’re just dreams.”
“I know,” Duncan said, his voice breaking, the fragile sound a mix of desperation and anguish. “I know that, but the dreams - they feel so real, Logan, so vivid. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” His desperation was evident in his voice, and Logan felt a deep sense of unease at hearing him like this.
Logan inhaled deeply, taking a moment to centre himself. “It sounds like you’re in the right place to get some help, then,” he said, his voice laced with a forced calm that he didn't feel. “Whatever’s going on in your head - it’s dangerous, Duncan. You’ve got to deal with it.”
“The therapist here… she says I haven’t processed everything. Lilly, her murder, my parents…” Duncan’s voice wavered, the confession laying bare the deep-seated turmoil he had been concealing for so long. “They chose me, Logan. Every time. Even after she was murdered. How could they do that?”
The raw anger that laced Duncan’s voice made Logan stop short, his own emotions momentarily eclipsed by the shock. It hit him like a jolt - he couldn’t remember the last time Duncan had let that kind of emotion slip, the sheer force of it both unnerving and oddly fascinating. It was Logan who burned with fury, who used anger as armour, a constant, unwavering shield against the world. From the moment Keith Mars had dragged Jake Kane in for questioning, Logan had channelled his grief into a burning rage, a weapon to wield against the injustice that had been dealt to him. But Duncan? Duncan had simply shut down completely, retreating behind a wall of antidepressants and the numbing blur of routine, letting the world pass him by, a ghost in his own life.
“That’s a lot, man,” Logan said softly, his voice laced with a surprising tenderness that he rarely allowed to surface. “But you’ve got to face it, Duncan. All of it. Before someone else gets hurt.”
“I’m trying,” Duncan whispered, his voice laced with tears, the sound raw and broken. “I’m trying, but it’s so hard.”
Logan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his grip on the phone tightening as he fought to keep his voice controlled, a wave of conflicting emotions washing over him. “Then keep trying, Duncan. Get better. For yourself. For everyone.” His words were a plea as much as a command, a desperate wish for things to be different, for the old Duncan to somehow return.
Duncan’s quiet sobs on the other end of the line were the only response.
***
Logan emerged from his room, still gripping his phone, his thoughts a tangled mess of guilt, anger, and confusion after his unsettling call with Duncan. He barely had time to register Veronica standing silently in the doorway, her presence both unexpected and unnervingly still, before he nearly collided with her.
“Jesus!” Logan jerked back, startled. “What are you doing?”
Veronica crossed her uninjured arm tightly over her chest, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto his. There was a storm brewing in her blue eyes, a tumultuous mix of hurt and suspicion. “I could ask you the same thing,” she retorted, her voice cutting through the air. “What was that about? What don’t I know?” The questions hung in the air, an open challenge he knew he couldn't avoid.
Logan’s stomach knotted, a cold fist clenching around his insides, as her words hit him. She’d heard too much for him to talk his way out of this, yet not enough to grasp the full extent of what had occurred. He ran a hand over the back of his neck nervously while his mind scrambled for a way to defuse the situation. But was this even his mess to fix?
“You need to talk to Duncan,” he finally said flatly, his voice strained and distant.
Her eyes widened in disbelief, her body tensing as she processed his words, her gaze piercing and accusatory. “Talk to Duncan? Are you serious?” The incredulity was laced with anger. “How am I supposed to do that when I don’t even know where he is?”
Logan hesitated, the truth a heavy, bitter weight on his tongue, a confession he knew he couldn't avoid any longer. “He’s… he’s in a clinic. His mom checked him in after—” He stopped, the words dying in his throat, unable to bring himself to voice the horrific reality.
“After he tried to kill me?” Veronica finished for him, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. She stepped closer, her gaze drilling into him. “But you asked him what caused it, and now you won’t tell me.”
He looked away, the guilt etched across his face, his gaze dropping to the floor, unable to meet her furious stare. “It’s not my story to tell, Veronica.” His voice was low and hesitant. “You should hear it from him.”
Her laugh was hollow, bitter. “Oh, that’s rich.” The sarcasm dripped from her words. “You’re the gatekeeper now? Deciding what I get to know about my own life?” She was fixing him with a disappointed gaze.
Logan's frustration erupted, the taut silence between them snapping like a brittle twig. “That’s not what this is!” he snapped, his voice rising, the carefully constructed control he had been trying to maintain finally shattering into pieces. “Maybe you shouldn't have been eavesdropping!'
"I didn't mean to," she said, her voice flat and icy. "But I woke up, and I heard you asking about the cause of the seizure. Now it feels like you're shielding him."
The words hung heavy in the air. Logan was speechless. Duncan was his best friend, and he understood the torment he was going through. But beneath the sympathy, a raw, ugly anger still simmered. Veronica's bruises made his stomach churn. She deserved the truth, undoubtedly. But whoever revealed it would inflict more pain than Logan could bear to witness, and he couldn't be the one to deliver that blow.
But he could see the determination in her eyes the longer he stayed silent, the way she was already calculating her next move, her gaze fixed on some distant point that he couldn't reach. He knew that look - once Veronica decided to uncover the truth, nothing short of a category five hurricane would stop her, and he was well aware of what this meant.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “I'll find him myself.”
Logan watched in stunned silence as she snatched her keys from the counter, the jangling metal a jarring counterpoint to the tense silence. Her movements were jerky, fuelled by a raw, desperate energy. Her jaw was clenched, her expression a mask of defiance.
“Where the hell are you going?” Logan demanded, stepping forward, his voice tight with frustration.
“To find Duncan," she shot over her shoulder, her anger palpable. "Since you're playing your little game of secrets, I'll ask Mac to help me track him down."
Logan’s tone sharpened, his own anger bubbling up, a volatile mix of protectiveness and a deep-seated fear. “You don’t even know what clinic he’s in. What’s your brilliant plan, Veronica? Drive around Neptune, one-handed, hoping for a ‘Duncan is here’ sign?”
She whirled on him, her eyes blazing. “I’ll figure it out.”
"You're not in any condition to drive!" he snapped, his voice echoing through the room, startling Backup into a sharp bark. "You can barely lift your arm, you have a head injury, you're doped up on painkillers, and you think this is a good idea? Stop being so goddamn reckless!"
Her face flushed even more. “I’m not a helpless child, Logan! Stop trying to control me.”
Logan took another step towards her, his knuckles white, the urge to restrain her, to prevent her from making a catastrophic mistake, almost overwhelming. Backup, sensing the escalating tension, barked louder, his pacing frantic.
“This isn’t about control.” His voice was raw, laced with a desperate edge he couldn’t quite suppress. “This is about you making stupid decisions because you can’t ever let anything fucking go!”
Veronica’s face twisted with a visible mixture of anger and hurt. “And this is about you always needing to be the hero when no one asked you to.”
Logan laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Hero? Are you kidding me? Do you think this has been fun for me? Having you here after you dumped me?” His voice cracked, but the anger drove him forward. “And the guy you left me for - your saint Duncan? He knocked up Meg, Veronica. And now he’s having delusional dreams where you’re the villain. That’s what drove him to almost kill you - to protect his precious Meg!” The words tumbled out, venomous and raw, the truth as brutal as it was unintended.
Veronica's face went white, the colour draining from her cheeks. Her keys slipped from her numb fingers, clattering to the floor with a sharp, metallic clang that mirrored the sudden, chilling silence. The look in her eyes was raw, a mixture of hurt and disbelief that almost made him want to retract the words, to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. But then she spoke – her next words stoking the fire of his rage.
“You’re lying,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, the denial laced with a desperate hope that was both heartbreaking and infuriating.
Of course. Duncan betrays her, and she chooses to cling to his innocence, when she is always so easily accepting of Logan being the bad guy. Her words felt like the ultimate betrayal, the injustice of it making something inside him snap.
He shook his head, a mirthless, cynical laugh escaping his lips. "Ah, of course. Let's add 'liar' to the list of crimes you’ve accused me of." Logan said the words with a chilling detachment, the anger now replaced by a cold, bitter indifference. "You know what? Screw this." His voice was hard as granite. "You can leave." He turned on his heel and stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him with a force that shook the wall of the suite. He was done.
***
Logan leaned against his door, his chest heaving with the force of his anger. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles ached, the bones grinding together, but the physical pain was a distant echo compared to the chaotic maelstrom churning inside him. A swirling mess of fury, guilt, and a raw, aching longing he refused to acknowledge. He felt like a live wire, sparking uncontrollably, ready to burn anything and everything in its path, a destructive force threatening to consume him from the inside out. Veronica had a way of getting under his skin, peeling back every layer, every carefully constructed defence, until there was nothing left but raw, exposed nerves and festering wounds.
From the other side of the suite, he heard the faint sound of the main door opening and closing, the soft click barely registering through the thick haze, the sound a whisper in the midst of a hurricane. But somewhere in the back of his mind, buried beneath the tidal wave of emotions crashing over him, it sparked a twinge of unease, a subconscious alarm bell that he chose to ignore. He shook it off, his focus too consumed by the overwhelming surge of emotions.
The last few days had been hell.
Having Veronica here, in his space, was like rubbing salt into a raw, festering wound that refused to heal, a constant, painful reminder of everything he’d lost.
Over the past couple of years, his world had continued to fall apart, piece by agonising piece. His mom had jumped off a bridge, a final, devastating act that left nothing behind but an empty whiskey glass and a gaping hole in his chest. Then came the shattering truth - Lilly, vibrant, reckless Lilly, had been murdered by his own father after an affair with her, a betrayal that had shaken the foundations of his existence. As if that weren’t enough, then there was the suffocating nightmare of being accused of killing Felix with most of Neptune convinced he was guilty. The PCHers had been gunning for his blood ever since, every day a torment of suspicion and paranoia, feeling like he was constantly walking a razor’s edge, teetering on the brink of complete annihilation.
Through all of that, through the never-ending cycle of loss and betrayal, he’d clung to Veronica, her presence an anchor in a sea of uncertainty. She was his one constant. The one person who made him feel like he wasn’t completely alone in the world, her very existence a beacon of hope in his otherwise desolate landscape.
Until it got too messy for her, too dangerous, his bitterness rising to the surface with the memory. Then she’d bailed, abandoning him just like all the others, breaking his heart in the process, her actions a brutal confirmation of his greatest fears. Just like everyone else he’d ever loved, she had walked away, her departure leaving yet another gaping hole in his already shattered heart.
And then she’d gone back to Duncan, the thought igniting a fresh wave of anger and a dull, aching pain in his chest. His best friend. Watching her play happy families with Duncan, acting as if what they'd had meant nothing, as if their shared history was some inconsequential footnote in their love story, had been like a knife twisting in his chest. And yet, when she’d needed someone the most - when Duncan had failed her in the most horrific way possible - who had stepped up? Who had shoved his own heartbreak and anger aside, had buried his own pain in order to make sure she was safe, to ensure she was okay?
Logan sank onto the edge of his bed, his body slumping with the weight of his emotions as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to block out the vivid images that were assaulting him. Her face flashed in his mind, not the defiant face she had worn earlier, but the far more vulnerable one - stricken, hurt, the familiar strength of her usually controlled expression replaced with a look of raw pain. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat, as he replayed his own words, the venomous tone, the cruel way he’d told her Duncan’s news, the casual brutality of his delivery. God, I’m such an asshole.
A sudden, sickening realisation hit him like a physical blow. She had left. The echoing slam of the front door replayed in his mind, the once-mundane sound now a sinister drumbeat against his racing heart. He'd told her to leave – and she had. But how?
The only way out was by car, and she was in no condition to drive. He'd suspected her earlier threats were empty bravado, a desperate ploy to force the truth from him. But he'd pushed her too far, unleashed the unvarnished truth and then told her to leave.
She still had a concussion - he could see it in her unsteadiness, the way dizziness washed over her in waves. Her emotions were a raging storm, raw and unpredictable. The thought of her behind the wheel, vulnerable and disoriented, sent a bolt of icy dread down his spine.
Logan shot to his feet, fear cutting through the haze of his anger, a sharp, visceral terror gripping him, his earlier fury now replaced by a white-hot panic. What if she’d actually gotten into her car? What if she was trying to drive home, stubborn as ever, her recklessness overriding her good sense, and something happened to her? His heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird, his thoughts spiralling into worst-case scenarios, the image of her out there, alone, hurt - or worse - a terrifying tableau that was playing over and over in his head. All because of him.
Logan bolted upright, adrenaline surging through his veins, his movements fuelled by a desperate need to find her, his hands fumbling as he grabbed his keys and shoved his feet into his sneakers, his heart pounding in his chest, each beat echoing louder than the next, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. He flung the door open and raced out of the suite, his mind whirling with a dizzying array of worst-case scenarios, his focus solely on getting to her. Taking the stairs two at a time, his feet pounding against the concrete, he burst into the car park, his eyes scanning the dimly lit area, his gaze desperate as he searched for any sign of her.
Her car wasn’t there.
His stomach sank. He pulled out his phone, fingers fumbling as he dialled her number. Pressing the phone to his ear, he paced the lot, his breath coming in ragged bursts. The line rang once, twice, then went to voicemail.
“Dammit, Veronica,” he muttered, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He climbed into his own car, slamming the door and gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white.
His phone buzzed on the passenger seat. Snatching it up, he glanced at the screen, hope flaring - only to deflate when he saw who the text was from.
Logan threw the phone back onto the passenger seat with a growl of frustration. This wasn’t the time for Dick’s nonsense. As he reversed out of the space, his mind raced. Where would she go? Home? To Mac’s? Or was she really stubborn enough to try finding Duncan on her own?
Logan sped down the dark road, his headlights cutting through the night. His pulse roared in his ears as he scanned the streets for any sign of her. He was gripping the wheel so hard his hands ached, but the ache was nothing compared to the anxiety clawing at his chest.
And then he saw it - her LeBaron, pulled over onto the shoulder, hazards blinking like a beacon. Relief surged through him. He parked a few feet behind her, killed the engine, and climbed out. The cool night air hit him like a slap, sharp and sobering.
As he approached, he saw her through the windshield. Veronica was slumped forward, her head resting on the wheel, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The sight sent a sharp, twisting pain through Logan’s chest. Gently, he rapped his knuckles against the window.
She startled, jerking upright and hastily wiped her face with her good hand. For a moment, she just stared at him, her blue eyes rimmed red and brimming with misery. Then, slowly, she rolled down the window.
“What are you doing here?” she asked quietly.
Logan crouched beside the car, resting his forearms on the doorframe. “What am I doing here? Veronica, what the hell are you doing? You’re in no condition to drive.”
She scoffed weakly, her lips trembling. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Logan countered, his voice soft but firm. “You’re hurt. You’re crying. You could barely make it a mile down the road.”
She looked away, biting her lip as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “It hurts too much to drive,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “My arm... my head... everything hurts.”
Logan sighed, the tension in his chest easing into something gentler. “Then why are you out here?”
“Because you told me to leave!” she snapped, her voice rising with emotion. “You said to go, Logan. What was I supposed to do? Stay where I’m not wanted?”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. Without another word, he stood and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door and sliding in next to her. The car smelled faintly of her perfume, mingling with the bitterness of his own regret.
"I didn't mean it," he said quietly, his voice rough with genuine regret. "I was mad, okay? Come back to the Grand, Veronica."
She was silent for a long moment, her trembling hands gripping the steering wheel. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely audible. “Why are you doing this? Taking care of me?” She let out a sob, as tears streamed down her face. “Is it... is it because you think I won’t clear your name otherwise?”
Logan turned to her, his brows furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
Her voice cracked, the words tumbling out in a rush. "If that's why you're here – because you think I'll let you go to prison if you don't—"
“Stop.” Logan’s voice cut through her rambling. He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers. “Veronica, why would you even think that? Why would I care about any of that right now? You’re sitting here, crying in the middle of the road, hurt, and all I can think about is how much I don’t want you to be alone.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
“Veronica, you drive me insane,” he admitted. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of her cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “But I can’t just turn it off. I care about you. So stop being stubborn for once and let me help you. Please.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed, her vulnerability laid bare as her breath hitched. For a fleeting second, she leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. After a moment, she nodded, breathing out a soft, "Okay."
Logan reached over, extracting the keys from the ignition. "Come on. I'll drive you back. We'll figure the rest out tomorrow."
As she slid into the passenger seat of his car, he saw her discreetly wipe her eyes, attempting to regain her composure.
Logan pulled back onto the road, the tension in the car thick and unspoken. Veronica sat silently, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the windshield. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, the quiet between them unsettling.
After a few agonising minutes, she broke the silence, her voice tentative. "Logan... do you know what clinic Duncan’s at?"
The question hung heavy in the air, a palpable weight between them. Logan tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his jaw clenching. He'd been anticipating this question, knowing it was inevitable, but that didn't make it any easier.
He stole a glance at her, her profile etched against the darkening window. She was staring straight ahead, but her body language betrayed the turmoil within – her shoulders were tense, her fingers trembling slightly, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps. It was clear this uncertainty was eating away at her.
Logan sighed deeply and eased the car to the side of the road. As the engine idled, he turned to her, pulling his phone from his pocket. Veronica’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.
He didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the phone screen as he scrolled through his contacts. He finally found the number, his thumb hovering over the dial button. A cold feeling settled over him, but he pressed the button, bringing the phone to his ear.
“Logan—”
“Shh,” he said softly, holding up a hand. The line clicked, and a receptionist answered.
“Hi, I’m trying to reach Duncan Kane,” Logan said, his tone even. Veronica’s breath hitched beside him, and he heard her shift in her seat.
There was a pause on the other end before the receptionist responded. “One moment, please.”
The seconds dragged as Logan waited. He could feel Veronica’s eyes on him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the dashboard. Finally, a familiar voice came through the speaker.
“Hello?”
“Duncan,” Logan said, his voice not betraying the whirlwind of emotions churning beneath the surface. “I’ve got Veronica with me. She needs to see you.”
Another pause, longer this time. Then Duncan spoke, his tone calm. “Okay. I’m at Serenity Hills, just outside Neptune. I’ll text you the address.”
“Thanks,” Logan said simply, ending the call.
Veronica was staring at him, her expression a mix of gratitude and apprehension. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did,” Logan said, restarting the car. “Let’s go.”
The drive to the clinic was quiet, the atmosphere in the car heavy with anticipation. When they arrived, Logan pulled into the small parking lot, the warm glow of the clinic’s lights spilling out onto the pavement. He shifted into park but made no move to get out.
“You want me to come in with you?” he asked, his voice softer now, less guarded.
Veronica hesitated, her hand already on the door handle. “No,” she said finally. “I have to do this alone.”
Logan nodded, though the thought of sitting in the car and waiting made his chest tighten. “I’ll be here.”
She offered him a fleeting smile before stepping out and heading towards the entrance. Logan watched her go, his stomach twisting with unease. Once she disappeared inside, he slumped back in his seat and raked a hand through his hair.
He turned on the radio, flipping between stations in a futile attempt to distract himself. Music, talk shows, static - it all blurred together as he fought to keep his mind from spiralling. Every so often, he glanced at the clinic’s doors, half-expecting her to come back out.
Minutes felt like hours, and by the time Veronica finally emerged, Logan’s nerves were frayed. She walked towards the car with slow, deliberate steps, her head down. As she climbed back in, Logan’s heart sank. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy - clear signs she’d been crying again.
“Take me back to the Grand?” she asked quietly, not meeting his gaze.
Logan opened his mouth, a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue, but the look on her face stopped him. She was barely holding it together, and he wasn’t about to push her over the edge.
“Okay,” he said, his voice soft. He shifted the car into gear and pulled onto the road.
The ride back was silent, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Logan gripped the wheel, his knuckles white, and stole glances at her when he could. She was staring out the window, her expression distant.
When they finally pulled into the Grand’s parking lot, Logan parked and turned to her. “Veronica…”
She shook her head, cutting him off. “Not now, Logan. Please.”
He swallowed hard, nodding. “Alright.”
They walked back to the suite in silence, a heavy tension stretching between them. Veronica moved slowly, her exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders and the heavy drag of her steps. Logan lingered a step behind, his hands twitching with the urge to reach for her, but he held back - giving her the space she needed.
When they entered the suite, she immediately sank onto the couch, curling into the corner with her knees pulled up to her chest. Logan hesitated near the door, his hands stuffed into his pockets, unsure whether to approach her or give her more space.
“You want some water or something?” he offered, his voice tentative.
She shook her head without looking up. “No, I’m okay thanks.”
Logan sighed and dropped into the chair across from her, resting his elbows on his knees as he watched her. She was a picture of quiet devastation, her face pale, her expression guarded. He could see the struggle in her eyes - the war between wanting to say something and not knowing how to start.
“I’m here,” he said after a moment, his voice gentle. “Whenever you’re ready to talk.”
She glanced at him then, her blue eyes glassy with unshed tears. For a fleeting moment, Logan thought she might open up, but she simply nodded and looked away.
The silence stretched between them, heavy but oddly comforting. Logan leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t press her - he couldn’t. He knew better than anyone that pushing Veronica Mars was like trying to move a mountain. She’d speak when she was ready, and until then, all he could do was be there.
Eventually, Veronica let out a shaky breath and leaned her head back against the couch. “I’m going to bed,” she said softly, standing up slowly.
Logan watched her, nodding once. “Alright. Sleep well.”
She paused in the doorway to her room, her hand on the frame. For a moment, it looked like she was about to say something, but then she shook her head and disappeared inside.
Logan stayed in the living room, staring at the empty couch. He rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling deeply. His mind raced with questions, but he shoved them aside, knowing she wasn’t ready to share.
For now, he’d let her have her space.
***
Chapter Text
Logan woke abruptly, the darkness pressing in around him like a suffocating weight. For a disorienting moment, he couldn’t remember where he was. The faint scent of expensive fabric softener and the distant hum of the hotel’s air conditioning brought him back - he was at the Neptune Grand, in his suite.
The last thing he recalled was glaring at the lumpy cushions of the living room sofa, its unrelenting discomfort gnawing at his already frayed patience. He’d caved, finally slipping into Duncan’s bed, telling himself it wasn’t an admission of weakness but a necessity. He’d been so sure exhaustion would keep him out cold.
But something had woken him. A sound.
His pulse quickened as he sat up, listening intently to the quiet of the suite. Then he heard it again - a faint, desperate whimper. It sliced through the stillness, raw and haunting, clawing at his chest. He was out of the bed in an instant, his bare feet hitting the cold floor as he moved with urgency towards his own room.
The door was ajar.
“Stop. Please, stop,” came a broken plea from the other side, the words trembling and faint but unmistakably Veronica’s voice. It was almost a repeat of the night of Duncan’s fit.
Logan’s heart slammed against his ribcage as he pushed the door open, half expecting to see someone else in the room – his best friend, or a living nightmare made real. His gaze darted around the dimly lit space, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
But she was alone.
Veronica lay tangled in the sheets, her small frame restless against the plush expanse of the bed. The moonlight filtering through the curtains painted her in pale silver and deep shadow, accentuating the damp strands of hair plastered to her forehead. Her face was a portrait of torment, her features drawn tight, her lips trembling as she mumbled, “No, no... please don’t...”
Logan swallowed hard, torn between helplessness and the instinct to protect her from whatever demons plagued her dreams. He stepped closer, his breaths shallow, the wooden floor muffling his movements.
“Just stop... please,” she murmured again, her voice breaking, the anguish in it cutting through him.
He hesitated at the edge of the bed, biting the inside of his cheek as he warred with indecision. His hand hovered in the air, inches above her arm. Would waking her make it worse? Would she even want him to be there?
Her next cry shattered his hesitation.
“Veronica,” he whispered, as he knelt on the edge of the bed. He placed a tentative hand on her arm, his touch featherlight, as if the slightest pressure might hurt her. “It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just me.”
Her eyes snapped open, wild and glassy, her chest heaving as if she’d just surfaced from deep water. Fear clouded her gaze, her body stiffening under his touch.
“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softening further, his hand still resting on her arm, grounding her. “It’s me. You’re okay. I’ve got you. It was just a dream.”
Her breathing slowed, but her eyes remained wide, darting around the room as though she expected something, or someone, to leap out of the shadows. He stayed where he was, remaining still, waiting for the moment her fear might give way to recognition.
And when it did, the relief in her eyes was almost enough to bring him to his knees.
Logan held her gaze, watching as the storm in her eyes began to settle into something closer to recognition. She blinked a few times, her chest still rising and falling in uneven breaths, her fingers twitching against the crumpled sheets. He stayed where he was, his hand still lightly on her arm, anchoring her to the present.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly, careful to keep his tone gentle, almost tentative. He didn’t want to push her, but he also couldn’t bear to leave her alone with whatever was troubling her.
For a moment, Veronica didn’t answer. Her brows furrowed, and she closed her eyes as if trying to banish the remnants of the dream still clinging to her.
He expected her to brush him off, but to his surprise she spoke, her voice low and hoarse, as if the words were being dragged out against her will.
“I was dreaming about... a lot of things,” she admitted, her guard down in a way Logan rarely saw. Half-asleep, she seemed less like the razor-sharp, always-in-control Veronica he knew and more like someone stripped bare. “It kept... shifting.”
He tilted his head, listening intently, his throat tightening at her next words.
“Mostly Shelly’s party,” she murmured, her lips barely moving. “I was... back there. The pool. The lanterns. The faces. All those faces watching me, laughing, and I couldn’t move—” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head, her hands balling into fists against the sheets.
Logan swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay silent, to let her keep going.
“And then,” she whispered, her voice barely audible now, “it was Duncan. He found me in the room.” He felt the air leave his lungs as he watched her expression crumple. “He was... on top of me,” she continued, her tone hollow, and he knew exactly what she meant. “And then his hands were around my throat again, and I couldn’t breathe, and I kept trying to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t. And I thought... I thought he was going to kill me.”
Logan closed his eyes briefly, his hand tightening just slightly on her arm, not enough to startle her but enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone. When he opened them again, she was looking at him, her gaze piercing, like she was waiting for him to say something, anything, to fill the crushing silence between them.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice rough with emotion. “God, Veronica, I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” she said flatly, her tone edged with exhaustion. “It’s not your fault.”
The words hit him like a punch, not because they absolved him, but because they didn’t. They couldn’t. Logan shifted closer, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed. His hand slipped from her arm, falling away reluctantly, but he stayed close, his fingers twitching in the empty space between them.
He wanted to argue, to tell her how wrong she was, but the words jammed in his throat like shards of glass.
Shelly’s party. It always came back to Shelly’s goddamn party. The one night he’d sell his soul to erase, one of the single worst decisions of his life on a night filled with nothing but bad ones. He’d been drunk and angry, his judgment clouded by grief and the unshakable loyalty he’d always felt towards the Kane family. And instead of doing the one thing that mattered - protecting Veronica - he’d gleefully joined in on her humiliation, and fed her to the wolves.
He shouldn’t have drunk so much. He should have pushed aside the bitterness and the sickening cocktail of emotions that had festered when he saw her there - so out of place, so vulnerable, and yet so stubbornly defiant. Logan should have looked at her, really looked at her, and remembered who she was. The Veronica he knew would nurse one or two drinks all night and not lose herself in a haze of alcohol.
He should have left Duncan’s drink alone, and let him stay in that shut-down, unreachable state instead of trying to snap him out of it with party drugs. Those actions – bringing drugs to a party that could be used in a way he didn’t intend, and then handing Duncan the spiked drink felt like the match that lit the fire.
And the repercussions of that night - of Veronica waking up alone, knowing she’d been drugged and raped - would haunt him for the rest of his life. Even now knowing it had been Duncan she was with, and not some stranger, didn’t change that. Every time he thought of that damn party, he felt the weight of his failure, like a brand on his soul.
He exhaled sharply, forcing the memories back into the box they always tried to escape from. This moment wasn’t about his guilt.
“What can I do?” he asked quietly, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. “Just tell me, Veronica, and I’ll do it.”
For a long moment, she didn’t answer. She stayed curled in on herself, her face hidden against her knees, her body trembling faintly in the dim light. He thought she wasn’t going to say anything at all.
But then, in a voice so soft he almost didn’t hear it, she spoke.
“Just... stay,” she whispered. “Don’t leave. Please.”
Logan’s heart twisted painfully, the simple plea cutting deeper than anything else she could have said. He nodded instinctively, even though she couldn’t see it, “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
The storm of emotions inside him - regret, shame, anger, and something far deeper, far harder to name - threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced them all aside as he shifted on the bed, lying down beside her.
She moved towards him immediately, curling into his side like he was her lifeline, her head resting on his chest, her breath warm against his shirt. He felt the tension in her body slowly melt away, replaced by a brittle sense of calm. His arm wrapped around her instinctively, his fingers brushing against her back as though trying to hold her together.
He stared at the ceiling, his free hand lifting to stroke her hair, his fingers tangling in the silky strands. Her scent - sweet, familiar, so distinctly Veronica - wrapped around him, pulling him under like a riptide. Her thin top shifted as she nestled closer, and he could feel the warmth of her skin, the delicate curve of her shoulder brushing against him. He couldn’t ignore the way she fit perfectly against him.
He noticed everything. The way her hand rested lightly against his stomach, her fingers curling just enough to remind him she was there. The way her breathing slowed, evening out as sleep began to reclaim her. The way her hip gently curved, and her bent leg rested across his. His body ached with longing.
He knew he could have almost any woman he wanted. A single text to Kendall, and she’d be there within the hour, wearing a tight dress that left little to the imagination. Kendall was undeniably attractive, the kind of woman who turned heads wherever she went. But the thought of her - of anyone - paled in comparison to this woman.
Veronica, equally fragile and fierce, holding onto him like he was the only thing anchoring her to the world, stirred something in him far deeper than lust. The way a simple touch sparked electricity, and sent a shiver down his spine.
No fleeting encounter, no mindless distraction, could ever compare to this.
It wasn’t just her body that made his heart race. It was her. It was the desperate, overwhelming need to have her, to hold her closer, to erase every bad memory and replace it with something better. He wanted to kiss her until the world disappeared, to make her feel safe and loved in a way she’d never doubt.
But then her hand shifted in her sleep, drifting slightly lower, and he tensed.
The rush of heat was instant, sharp, and undeniable, and he nearly groaned out loud. He clenched his jaw, his breathing suddenly uneven as his body betrayed him.
His fingers stilled in her hair as shame coursed through him, hot and unrelenting. She deserved so much more - so much better than this aching, selfish need he couldn’t shake. She was here because she trusted him to keep her safe, not to be consumed by his own desires.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through it, to focus on the rhythm of her breathing and the way she felt in his arms. He wasn’t going to move. He wasn’t going to lose this moment, this chance to hold her again like this.
The ache didn’t go away, but he willed it to the back of his mind. He focused on the weight of her against him, the quiet peace she’d found in his arms, and let that be enough.
***
When Logan woke, the room was bathed in pale morning light, the muted glow filtering through the heavy curtains. Veronica was still wrapped around him, her face was tucked against his neck, her breath warm and even, and her legs were entwined with his under the covers.
Logan froze, his heart pounding in his chest as he processed the closeness, the intimacy of their position. Her hair tickled his jaw, her body soft and warm against his, and he felt something stir in his chest - not a selfish feeling, but something deeper.
Over the summer he’d dreamed of their first night together, and having a chance to wake up together.
This was everything he’d ever wanted, but not like this. Not when she was still healing, and not when she was dating his goddamn best friend.
Not when she didn’t feel the same way.
Carefully, he untangled himself from her, moving slowly to avoid waking her. Her arm slid off his chest as he eased himself out of bed, and he stood there for a moment, looking down at her. She looked so peaceful, her golden hair spilling across the pillow.
Logan swallowed hard, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her. He couldn’t stay. If she woke up like this, she’d feel awkward, and embarrassed. And an embarrassed Veronica was likely to get tetchy.
Quietly, he stepped out of the room, his bare feet silent on the carpet. He walked back to Duncan’s room, shutting the door behind him before collapsing onto the bed with a heavy sigh.
When he woke again a few hours later, his mind still foggy, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, only to feel something crunch beneath his foot.
He blinked and ran a hand over his face, over the rasp of stubble. Looking down, he saw the shattered remains of Duncan’s lamp scattered across the floor, mingled with the jagged fragments of a glass of water, an alarm clock, some books and other paraphernalia. He cursed under his breath, squatting to gather the pieces. The cool glass bit at his fingertips, but he worked methodically, his movements sharp and precise. He didn’t know when Duncan would be returning, and he didn’t want him to return to his room still in disarray.
He’d just finished clearing up when he heard the faintest sound - a soft, melodic hum. Logan paused as he emptied all the glass into the trash can, and he realised it was Veronica.
He peered through the door towards the living room and saw she was curled up on the sofa, her legs tucked underneath her, earbuds in, completely unaware of him. She was softly singing to herself, her voice floated through the air, clear and beautiful.
“And life's like an hourglass glued to the table. No one can find the rewind button, girl. So cradle your head in your hands and breathe, just breathe.”
Logan stood frozen, a strange feeling pooling in his chest. He hadn’t heard her sing in so long - hell, since the days when she and Lilly would belt out pop songs, carefree and full of life. Back when things were simpler. When Veronica was lighter. It hit him, how pretty her voice was - how effortlessly it rose and fell in the quiet of the room. Something about the sound felt intimate, as though it was a secret she hadn’t shared with anyone in years.
He felt something shift in his chest, a flutter he didn’t have the words for. It made him realise just how much he’d missed her - her whole self, the parts he never really got to see anymore.
Suddenly, Veronica’s eyes flicked up, and she froze when she spotted him standing there, watching her. She jerked in surprise, quickly pulling the earphones out of her ears. Her face flushed, and she awkwardly cleared her throat, glancing away.
Logan couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips.
“I always knew you were secretly a Disney princess,” he teased, his voice light, trying to mask the way her song had knocked the air from his lungs. He headed towards the counter, reaching for a cup of coffee.
Veronica rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. For a fleeting moment, something softened between them. Logan’s gaze flicked to her arm, currently free from the sling and noted the careful yet steady way she moved - tentative, but beginning to heal.
He smiled, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded. “Guess this means you're ready for our rematch. Ping pong, obviously. Unless you’re afraid of losing to me with both arms.”
Veronica snorted, adjusting her jacket with exaggerated care. “Please. You’re just afraid I’ll humiliate you with one good arm tied behind my back. Literally.”
“Bold talk for someone who needed me to open a water bottle yesterday,” Logan shot back.
“Hey, that was a defective cap,” she retorted, feigning indignation. Her eyes sparkled despite herself.
“Defective, huh? You sure you don’t mean user error? Because I could give you a few pointers…”
Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Pointers from you? The guy who thought a microwave was broken because it ‘didn’t start on its own’?”
“Okay, that was one time,” Logan groaned, his dramatic tone earning a genuine laugh from her.
Before he could say more, her phone buzzed on the armrest. She grabbed it, her expression tightening as she answered. “Hey, Dad,” she said softly. “How’s the tour going?”
Logan didn’t move, his curiosity pinning him in place. He watched as her expression shifted - faint guilt shadowing her features. “Yeah, school’s fine,” she said, pausing to listen. “Same old. Classes, homework… you know the drill.”
Her father must have pressed further because she sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Ah, right, so they called you? It’s nothing. I just hurt my shoulder, so I’ve been resting. I didn’t want to worry you.” Another pause. “Yes, Dad, I’ve got a sick note. It’s all sorted.”
Then, to Logan’s surprise, she glanced his way. “Actually,” she said hesitantly, “Logan’s been helping me.”
He straightened instinctively, his stomach twisting at the sound of his name. He could only imagine Keith’s reaction on the other end of the line. The man had been furious with him - had made it crystal clear that Logan was no longer welcome in his daughter’s life.
Even now, the memory of that confrontation burned. Logan’s anger had cooled, but the guilt lingered, sharp and unrelenting. He couldn’t forget the way Veronica had flinched when he’d shoved the lamp against the wall in frustration. The image haunted him, a constant reminder of how far he’d fallen in her father’s eyes and in his own.
But now, hearing her speak about him to Keith, she didn’t deflect or try to smooth things over. She didn’t backtrack to make it easier. Instead, she added softly, almost shyly, “I couldn’t have done it without him.”
The words landed heavy, almost suffocating, in the small room. Logan looked down, his throat tight. She said it so simply, but there was a weight to it that shook him.
“Okay, Dad,” Veronica said, her tone shifting again. “Yeah, we’ll talk about Duncan when you’re back.” She frowned, rubbing her forehead. “Love you. Good luck with the interviews.”
When she hung up, she let out a long breath, the tension visibly draining from her shoulders.
“School called him?” Logan asked cautiously.
“Yeah,” she muttered, tossing her phone onto the sofa. “Wanted to check in on my ‘recovery.’” Her tone was sardonic, but there was an edge beneath it.
“Shit,” Logan said, wincing. “That’s not going to go over well.”
“No kidding.” She ran a hand through her hair, her frustration clear. “He’s going to grill me about it the second he’s home.”
***
As they sat at the small table in Logan’s suite, a half-finished breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs between them, the quiet hum of music from the speakers filled the air. They were both absorbed in their schoolwork—Veronica with her laptop, Logan half-heartedly flipping through a textbook - when the familiar opening chords of Independent Women by Destiny’s Child began to play.
Veronica froze mid-typing, her head snapping up towards Logan. Across the table, his eyes met hers, widening slightly before a grin began to tug at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you remember…?” she began, her voice tentative but edged with the beginnings of a laugh.
“Lilly’s ‘independent woman’ phase,” Logan finished, leaning back in his chair as the memory hit him like a wave.
Veronica snorted, the sound both amused and disbelieving. “She played this song on repeat for weeks. She had it blasting in her room and in her car. She wore that CD out.”
“And insisted we all do her bidding while she shouted the lyrics at us like it was a battle cry,” Logan added, his grin widening.
Veronica laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I still can’t believe she convinced Duncan to carry her around the house like she was Cleopatra.”
“She only gave up on that after he almost dropped her twice,” Logan corrected, chuckling. “And remember the crown? Lilly made him craft one out of tinfoil, remember? She wore it like it was Chanel couture.”
Veronica pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling another laugh, but it spilled out anyway. “And you? You were her ‘royal servant’. She kept sending you to the kitchen to bring her snacks, because queens need waiting on.”
Logan groaned, dragging a hand down his face, though he was clearly amused. “Yeah, I think demanding three perfectly peeled grapes was a step too far, but in my defence, I was 12. I’d have done anything she told me to.”
“Oh, we all would have,” Veronica said, her smile softening. “That was the thing about Lilly. She was chaos and magic wrapped up in one. She could make you do anything, and you’d love her for it anyway.”
Logan’s gaze lingered on her, his smile fading slightly. “Yeah. She had that effect on everyone.”
The song played on, the familiar chorus filling the room and tugging at the threads of nostalgia and loss. When it ended, Veronica cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “We were such idiots back then.”
“Yeah,” Logan agreed, his voice quiet but laced with affection. “But they were good times, weren’t they?”
Veronica’s smile was small and laced with melancholy, her gaze lingering on the floor. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “They were.”
The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken thoughts, until Logan’s phone buzzed on the table, cutting through the stillness. He grabbed it and checked the screen, before he answered, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah?”
“It’s Trina,” his sister announced. “I had an accident.”
Logan straightened, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “What kind of accident?”
“I’m fine,” Trina said breezily. “Just banged my head during rehearsal. Super hard, though. Like, I saw stars.”
“Maybe it knocked some sense back into you,” Logan quipped, his worry dissolving into his usual sarcasm.
“Oh, hilarious,” Trina shot back, dripping with sarcasm. “I’m calling because I thought, you know, as my devoted brother, you might want to visit me. I’m bored out of my mind here.”
Logan sighed and glanced at Veronica, who raised an eyebrow. “That okay?” he asked, his voice a mix of exasperation and amusement. “She’s like a toddler - can’t cope without constant attention.”
Veronica’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Sure. Let’s go see her. I could use a change of scenery.”
Logan leaned back into the phone. “We’ll be there soon.”
There was a pause. Then, Trina’s voice sharpened. “We? Who’s ‘we’? You better not be dragging that old hag you’re banging along. She gives me the creeps.”
Logan didn’t miss a beat. “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ with deliberate exaggeration, and ended the call without further ceremony.
Veronica snickered, clearly enjoying herself. “I knew I liked her.”
Logan groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t encourage her. She’ll turn it into a one-woman Broadway production of ‘How to torment Logan’.”
“I’d buy tickets,” Veronica shot back, grabbing her jacket.
Logan shook his head but couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re as bad as she is.”
“Yeah, but you like me more,” she said with a smile.
“Not a high bar,” Logan muttered.
As Logan reached for his keys, Veronica added, “By the way, I saw Trina at the school a few days ago. Something about rehearsal for a school play?” He closed the suite door behind them, and walked down the corridor.
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, she mentioned that when she came over to borrow my camera. She got distracted by something shiny though, and left without it.”
Veronica tilted her head. “Do you still have that camera? Could I borrow it?”
Logan looked at her curiously. “What for?”
She shrugged, her tone deliberately casual. “Just case stuff. Anyway, she was very… Trina. Flamboyant and a little terrifying,” Veronica said, smirking. “Honestly, I thought she’d hate me.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Oh, you know,” Veronica said lightly, avoiding his gaze. “That little incident with your dad.”
Logan waved it off. “Trina’s attention span is like a goldfish. Trust me, she probably doesn’t even remember. Anyway, she’s more interested in the casting for The Aaron Echolls Story.”
Veronica tilted her head. “I should mention something before we get to the hospital…”
Logan paused, narrowing his eyes. “What now?”
“The case I’m working on, there’s a link to Trina,” Veronica admitted as they reached Logan’s car. “I might have to do something weird at the hospital. Can you just go along with it?”
Logan blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “Weird? What kind of weird?”
“Not, like, weird weird. Just... unusual. You’ll know when it happens,” Veronica said with an innocent smile that immediately put him on edge.
“Great,” Logan muttered. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?”
“Because you have excellent instincts,” Veronica shot back with a smirk, pushing open the door.
Logan shook his head, muttering as he turned the key in the engine, “And yet, here I am ignoring them.”
***
The hospital was exactly as Logan remembered a few days before - bright, sterile, and utterly soul-sucking. He hated the way the lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly glow. It brought back memories of too many childhood visits for injuries his dad couldn’t explain away, each trip leaving its mark. Trina’s room, at least, had a view of the parking lot - which is more than he expected.
When they stepped inside, Trina was perched on the hospital bed, flipping through a celebrity gossip magazine. She glanced up and froze for half a second before her face lit up with dramatic glee.
“Well, if it isn’t my baby brother visiting little ‘ole me,” she declared, tossing the magazine aside.
Logan sighed. “Nice to see you too, Trina.”
Her gaze lingered on Veronica, and Logan noticed the faint flicker of surprise in her expression. “Veronica Mars,” Trina said, drawing out the name like a character in one of her plays. “What an unexpected treat.”
Veronica smiled warmly in response. “Hi, Trina, sorry to hear about your fall.”
Logan crossed his arms. “How are you feeling?”
Trina patted her head, as if checking for imaginary injuries. “Oh, they’re just making sure all the swelling’s gone before they let me go. You know how it is - head trauma, so tedious. But enough about me.” She gestured between them. “I knew you two would get back together. So much better than that stripper you were slumming it with, Logan.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “Kendall’s not a stripper, Trina. She’s a whore. There’s a difference.”
Veronica stifled a laugh, looking away as if the ceiling was suddenly fascinating.
Trina’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t miss a beat. Instead, her gaze landed on Veronica’s neck and arms, where blue and green bruises were still visible. “Darling, those bruises. Very tragic. Have you reconsidered being in the school play? You’d have such presence. Bruises like that tell a story.”
Logan leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of his nose. Typical Trina - zero curiosity about how someone might get those bruises. If it wasn’t about her, she didn’t care.
But Veronica surprised him by nodding thoughtfully. “Actually, I have reconsidered. I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to run though some lines for me? Give me an idea of how it should be done?”
Logan raised an eyebrow. Veronica pulled her bag off her shoulder and began fiddling with it, eventually pulling out his small camera she’d borrowed.
“Lines?” Trina perked up, clearly delighted by the request. “Finally, someone who appreciates my talent. Of course, I’ll help.”
Veronica handed Trina a piece of paper and set up the camera on a tripod at the foot of the bed. Then she looked at Logan, her wide, pleading eyes locking on his. Go along with it, those eyes seemed to say.
Logan gave a tiny shrug. Whatever game she was playing, he’d find out soon enough.
Trina cleared her throat, holding the paper like it was Shakespeare. “I’m ready. Watch and learn, people.”
Veronica pressed the record button. “Okay, go.”
Trina launched into a melodramatic performance, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’m dying!” she wailed. “The doctors say I need a bone marrow transplant! But the only chance I have is if a blood relative comes forward! Please, if you’re out there, I need you!”
Logan leaned against the wall, biting back a groan. He stole a glance at Veronica, who was fiddling with the camera settings as Trina continued her lines about being adopted, her face unreadable. What the hell was she up to?
When Trina finished her soliloquy with a flourish, she lowered the paper and beamed. “That, my friends, is how you beg for bone marrow with dignity.”
“Brava,” Veronica said, clapping softly.
“You know, I really am adopted,” Trina offered, her voice dripping with self-importance.
“Really?” Veronica tilted her head, feigning surprise. “I had no idea.”
Logan bit back a laugh. Veronica had known his family since they were twelve; she’d heard all his jokes about being lucky his sister wasn’t biologically related to him. Of course she knew. So what was her angle?
Veronica hesitated, then bit her lip. Logan saw the flicker of unease cross her face before she squared her shoulders and turned back to Trina.
“Actually, I lied. I’m not auditioning for the school play,” Veronica confessed, before taking a deep breath. “Twenty-five years ago, a baby was found in the girls’ bathroom at prom. That baby… was you.”
Trina stared at her, then burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s a good one, Mars. Really. Top-notch drama.”
But Logan’s eyes flicked to Veronica’s face, and his stomach sank. She wasn’t joking.
“Twenty-five years ago,” Veronica repeated slowly, her tone deadly serious. “A baby. In the bathroom. At prom.”
Trina’s laughter faded, her face scrunching in confusion. “Wait. Are you saying my mom was some trashy slut who dumped me?”
Veronica hesitated again, her fingers tightening on the camera. “Actually,” she said carefully, “I think your biological mother might be Celeste Kane.”
Trina’s expression transformed instantly, from shock to pure glee. “The Kanes?” she gasped. “As in, the billionaires?!”
Logan sighed, shaking his head. Trust Trina to zero in on the money first.
Veronica nodded slowly. “I wanted to use the tape to get your real parents to come forward. You know, to save their dying child.”
Trina clapped her hands together. “Oh, you rascal! That’s brilliant!”
Logan studied Veronica, noticing the guilt etched into her features. She wasn’t just playing games - this was hard for her.
“Let’s not waste time,” Trina said, reaching for her phone. “If we hurry, we can make tonight’s news.”
While he spent his life avoiding the media, his sister did everything she could to court it, and thrived in the spotlight. “Are you sure about this, Trina?” he asked.
“Of course I am!” Trina said brightly, already dialing. “Big Pat owes me a favour. He’ll make sure the story gets out.”
***
The diner was alive with energy, a stark contrast to the quiet seclusion of the Neptune Grand. The sharp scent of sizzling bacon mingled with the sweetness of maple syrup, creating a heady aroma that wafted through the air. The faint tang of coffee brewing cut through it, anchoring the chaos of the bustling space. Vinyl-covered booths squeaked as customers shifted in their seats, while a waitress in a pink uniform balanced trays laden with burgers, fries, and milkshakes. Neon lights from a glowing jukebox at the corner flickered faintly, adding to the retro charm.
Logan sat across from Veronica, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of a sticky table as he regarded her with his usual mixture of curiosity and exasperation. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on with the tape, or am I supposed to guess?” he asked, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the cracked laminate.
Veronica, picking at a chipped corner of the menu, hesitated. Her gaze darted to his face, then away, as though weighing just how much to share. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. “It started when Clemmons busted me for having a copy of all the keys at school, including his office. He gave me detention and told me to clear out the permanent records room. Lucky for me, I have copies of the keys.”
Logan quirked an eyebrow. “Of course you do, you’re a criminal mastermind.” The quip came easily, but Logan felt a flicker of something else. She had all the keys to the school, including Clemmons’ office? Of course, she did. It was so her, always two steps ahead. He was impressed, sure, it also sent a jolt of heat through him. He couldn’t help it. There was something irresistible about her fearlessness, the way she bent the rules to her will like it was second nature.
“While I was in there, I found my mom’s file,” she continued. “Turns out she was suspended for three days in senior year for spreading a ‘false and malicious rumour’ about another student.”
Logan blinked, genuinely taken aback. “Seriously? Your mom?” He thought of the file he’d seen in her bedroom a few days ago. It made sense now.
Veronica’s voice softened, her gaze flickering towards the grease-stained window beside them. “Yeah. I guess I don’t know much about my mom’s past. I didn’t think she’d ever… be a mean girl. I just wanted to know more about her. Whether she was ever…” Her voice wavered, but she quickly steadied it. “A good person.”
Logan felt an ache in his chest at the vulnerability in her words. He knew how much she hated admitting any weakness.
“Anyway,” she said, her voice more controlled now, “I tracked down one of her old friends, and she told me the gossip wasn’t just some random rumour. It was about Jake Kane.”
Logan frowned, the mention of Jake Kane setting off alarm bells. “What is it with you Marses and the Kanes?”
Veronica let out a dry laugh, her fingers toying with the edge of her coffee mug. “Funny you should say that.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I don’t think I ever told you this, but my mom and Jake used to date in high school.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“They dated on and off until just before senior year, and during summer break he dated Celeste. Just as Lianne and Jake got back together again, Celeste dropped the bombshell she was pregnant. She then moved to Pan High, but came back for prom.” Veronica’s expression hardened slightly, though her voice remained even. “But the interesting thing is there’s no record of Celeste having a baby, so that leaves a few options. She lied, aborted it, had the baby adopted, or it wasn’t hers.”
Logan’s frown deepened as he tried to keep up. “Okay, but you said Trina could be the baby in question?”
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping. “It’s just the timing – Celeste returns at prom, and at that very same dance a baby was left in the bathroom. That baby was fostered and then later adopted. I spoke to the foster parent, and she confirmed it was Trina.”
He let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. “So the tape is to see if Celeste will step up if she thinks Trina is dying?”
“Well, it might have worked on anyone else,” she grinned sardonically. “But if it’s not Celeste, I still hope whoever it is might come forward. Eith way – we’ll know the truth, and whether my mom lied or not.”
Logan shook his head, still trying to process the fresh wave of Kane drama. “I can’t believe you never told me your mom and Jake dated.”
Her smile faltered, tension creeping into her shoulders. “Oh, wait. There’s more.” Her tone was light, but her hands clenched in her lap betrayed her unease. “They never really stopped. My mom and Jake carried on their affair right up until last year.”
The words hit Logan like a punch to the gut. He stared at her, stunned. “Are you serious?”
Growing up, he’d seen Jake Kane as the gold standard of fatherhood - everything Aaron wasn’t. Warm, kind, supportive. Jake was the dad who clapped the loudest at soccer games, who always seemed to have time for his kids. Logan had envied Duncan for it, even admired Jake in a way he’d never admit out loud.
But in the last year, that pedestal had crumbled. The revelation that Jake had covered up Lilly’s murder - letting the town destroy Keith Mars’ reputation in the process - had been the first blow. It was a betrayal that turned admiration into disillusionment.
And Celeste? She’d always been cold as ice, but Logan thought maybe, deep down, she and Jake had loved each other in some twisted, distant way. Apparently, he’d been wrong about that too. The perfect Kane family truly was another Neptune mirage.
Veronica nodded, her voice barely audible over the din of the diner. “I found out when I visited Abel Koontz in prison last year. He told me I was really Jake’s daughter.”
Logan’s mind spun, struggling to process her words. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it had been like for her - to think she wasn’t Keith Mars’ daughter, to have her entire world upended, questioning everything about herself. Back then, Keith had been the only constant in her life, the one person she could always count on.
“Jesus, Veronica,” he said quietly, his voice thick with disbelief. “That must have been… horrible.”
“It was,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “But thankfully, it wasn’t true.” She forced a weak smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “My dad got a paternity test. But for a while there, I really thought…” Her words faltered, trailing off into the clinking of plates and hum of conversation around them.
Logan’s thoughts raced, pieces of the past snapping into place like a puzzle he hadn’t realised he’d been trying to solve. “Does Duncan know about this?”
Veronica’s laugh was short and bitter. “Oh, he knows. Remember when he broke up with me without telling me why? Surprise!” She threw up sarcastic jazz hands. “Now you know why. Celeste told him.”
“Holy shit,” Logan muttered, horrified.
“I always wondered if Lilly knew too,” she added, her voice tinged with sadness. “When Duncan stopped talking to me, she kept saying, ‘You two are meant to be; he’ll come to his senses.’ I begged her to talk to him. The next day, she did a complete 180. Told me to move on and to trust her - it was for the best.”
Logan couldn’t picture Lilly keeping something so monumental from Veronica - not when she’d have revelled in the drama of it all. If anything, Lilly would’ve been thrilled at the idea of Veronica being her sister. It would have been the ultimate trump card over her parents. But above all, Lilly loved Veronica. If Lilly had ranked everyone she cared about, Logan was certain Veronica would’ve topped the list - above Duncan, above anyone else. Maybe, just this once, Lilly had decided the pain it would cause Veronica wasn’t worth the temporary thrill of the revelation.
His thoughts shifted to Duncan, and a wave of anger surged through him. He’d always wondered what had truly happened when Duncan suddenly acted like Veronica didn’t exist. At the time, lost in his own bitterness, Logan had convinced himself Veronica must have done something unforgivable. But now, with the full picture emerging, it cast Duncan’s behaviour in a much darker light. The way the 09ers had turned against her, the insults and cruelty, and Duncan had let it all happen without a word. The only time he’d really stepped in was during the salt lick incident.
And then another, more horrifying thought struck him like a punch to the gut. “Wait… Shelly’s party.”
He saw her stiffen, her eyes narrowing. “Logan, don’t…”
But he couldn’t stop. He leaned forward, his voice rising with fury. “Didn’t Duncan think you were his sister then?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes dropped to the table, and the silence that followed was deafening.
“Fucking hell, Veronica,” Logan said, his voice raw with anger and disbelief. “He slept with you while you were drugged and out of it, left you to wake up alone with no memory, and all the while he thought you were his sister?”
Her face was ashen, her knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the table.
Logan ran a hand through his hair, his heart pounding with a mix of rage and helplessness. “And you’re dating him now?”
“Actually, no.” Her voice was small, barely audible over the noise of the restaurant. “We broke up.”
Logan stared at her, blindsided. “What?”
“At the clinic,” she said. “We kind of… had it out, I guess. We decided things weren’t working.”
He leaned back in his seat, exhaling sharply. His mind was reeling, trying to grasp everything she’d just laid bare. “I’m not even sure what to say to that,” Logan finally admitted, his voice low.
Veronica stared at her untouched coffee, tracing the rim of the mug with her finger. “Things had been going wrong for a while,” she said softly, as if speaking the words out loud made them more real. “He was visiting Meg in the hospital.”
Logan’s eyebrows knitted together. “And you didn’t know?”
She shook her head. “When I found out and tried to talk to him about it, he just… shut me down. Like I wasn’t even allowed to ask. And I tried to let it go, to be understanding, but…” She paused, her fingers curling around the mug. “Of course it all made sense when you told me Meg was pregnant, and that Duncan knew.” Her expression shifted, her face tightening slightly. She hesitated, but then the words tumbled out, raw and jagged. “And not to mention the fact he thought he had to protect Meg from me. That I was some kind of threat to her. And if you hadn’t been there Logan, I think he really might have killed me.”
Logan felt his fists curl involuntarily, his knuckles white under the table. The memory of bursting into that room to pull Duncan off her, was still vivid in his mind. “I know,” Logan said, his voice low.
“But it wasn’t him. It was… whatever’s wrong with him.” She shook her head, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. “That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
Logan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Sounds like you’re still trying to justify it?”
“No,” Veronica said firmly, meeting his gaze. “I’m not. That’s why we broke up. Because he’s not the person I thought he was anymore. And honestly? Neither am I.”
“What do you mean?” Logan asked.
“I mean… I think Meg is who he really wants,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “Not me. Not who I am today. Being with him again… I was trying to go back to something that doesn’t exist anymore. To some version of us that we both outgrew a long time ago.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, but finally, Logan leaned forward, his voice firm. “You’re not who you were back then. But you’re still you, Veronica. And if he couldn’t see that, if he couldn’t love you as you are, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
Her lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, a flicker of gratitude breaking through the pain in her eyes. “Thanks, Logan,” she murmured, her voice soft and genuine.
Logan watched her carefully, still grappling with his own emotions - relief that she was no longer with Duncan, guilt for the harsh truths he’d forced on her, and something deeper he didn’t dare name. He was so lost in thought that he almost missed her hand hesitantly reaching across the table.
He blinked, startled, as her fingers curled around his. The gesture was so unexpected that it caught him completely off guard. He looked down at their joined hands, her smaller, fingers holding on to his.
“I mean it,” she added, her voice quiet but firm. “I couldn’t have gotten through these last few days without you.”
His heart stuttered, a warmth spreading through him that he quickly tried to tamp down. It wasn’t the right time. Not now. He squeezed her hand gently, his thumb brushing against hers without thought, hoping it conveyed what words couldn’t.
Notes:
Sneak of the next chapter - we will see Veronica's POV of some of the events of the last few days.
From there the POV will switch back and forth - sometimes covering events that have already happened from the other side. Hope this isn't confusing!
Chapter 6: Chapter Six
Chapter Text
Day Three – Veronica’s POV
Veronica stepped into the reception area of Serenity Hills, a facility that exuded understated luxury designed for the well-heeled. The polished wood floors gleamed under soft, ambient lighting, and the subtle scent of lavender wafted through the air. Everything was meticulously curated to exude comfort, a stark departure from the cold sterility one might expect from a psychiatric facility. But, as always in Neptune, the divide was unmistakable - Serenity Hills Rehabilitation Centre for the wealthy, and the overcrowded, underfunded psychiatric hospital for everyone else.
The middle-aged receptionist greeted her without hesitation, her perfectly pressed blouse and warm-but-practiced smile suggesting she had done this a thousand times before. Veronica had barely introduced herself before the woman motioned her forward, leading her past a series of frosted glass doors. No questions, no pretence, no need for elaborate lies—she’d clearly been expected.
When they reached a door labelled Visitors Room, the woman gave her a small nod, opened it, and stepped aside, leaving Veronica to enter alone. Inside, the space was just as polished and serene as the reception area. A set of plush, cream-coloured sofas were arranged around a low coffee table topped with neat stacks of magazines. The air felt hushed, heavy with the weight of unspoken conversations that had likely taken place there.
To her left, a small kitchenette offered all the hallmarks of hospitality—an expensive coffee machine, a bowl of neatly packaged snacks, and a glass dispenser filled with water chilled by floating lemon slices. But Veronica barely spared it a glance. Her stomach was too knotted to consider coffee or food. She sank into one of the sofas, its cushions so soft it felt like sinking into a cloud, but even that couldn’t settle her nerves.
Her foot bounced rhythmically against the thick, soundless carpet, the only sign of the storm churning beneath her calm exterior. Time seemed to stretch thin, each passing moment amplifying the weight of anticipation. She crossed her arms over her chest and forced herself to breathe deeply, but the stillness of the room only made her thoughts louder.
The door creaked open, and Duncan shuffled in. Veronica’s heart lurched, her pulse hammering in her ears as she sat frozen on the sofa. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—restraints, a medic trailing behind, maybe even an air of visible fragility. Instead, there he was, looking every bit as composed as he always had, his blue polo shirt neatly tucked into jeans. If anything, he seemed lighter, his expression brightening as soon as his eyes met hers.
“Hey,” Duncan said softly, stepping towards her with a tentative smile. “You came.”
“Yeah,” Veronica replied, her voice thinner than she’d intended.
Before she could brace herself, he leaned in for a hug. Instinct took over, and her body stiffened as if her muscles remembered what her mind wanted to bury. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but the moment his arms circled her, the flash of hands gripping her throat stole her breath.
Duncan pulled back immediately, his face falling into something between hurt and regret. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. “I swear, Veronica. I wasn’t—” He stopped, his voice catching. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
She forced herself to take a breath and unclench her fists. “I know you didn’t mean it,” she said evenly, though her throat felt tight. “But you did. And that’s not something I can just... shake off.”
Duncan looked down, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, he seemed younger, almost childlike. “I know. I’ve been talking to the doctors about it. About everything. They think it was some kind of dissociative episode, triggered by stress and…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking to hers before darting away. “They said it doesn’t change what happened, and the fact that I still have to live with it.”
Veronica’s stomach twisted at the raw guilt in his voice, but she held her ground. “What if Logan hadn’t been there, Duncan?” she asked quietly. “What if no one had stopped you?”
His face crumpled, and he sank into the sofa across from her. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t remember most of it. One second, I was dreaming about… Meg. She was begging me to help her. And the next, Logan was yelling, and you…” He rubbed his hands over his face. “It just doesn’t feel real. Like it was something that happened to someone else.”
She studied him, searching for any trace of insincerity, but all she saw was a man unravelling. It didn’t make her feel better. It didn’t undo the bruises on her neck or the terror of that night.
“I’m not here to make you feel better about it, Duncan,” she said finally. “I just - I needed to see you. To try and understand.”
He nodded slowly. “I get that.” He glanced at her again, hesitant. “I don’t expect you to forgive me yet. I just want to make things right. However I can.”
Her laugh came out bitter and unintentional. “Make things right? You tried to kill me, Duncan. That’s not exactly something you fix with an ‘I’m sorry’ and a Hallmark card.”
Duncan flinched, his discomfort palpable. Veronica recognised the look - Duncan had always struggled when faced with conflict, his instinct was always to sidestep it as though it might disappear if ignored long enough. He was the ultimate avoider, a master at sweeping the unpleasant under the rug and sealing it behind a polite smile. She had seen it before, and she suspected he’d prefer her to be the version of herself from two years ago: the soft-spoken peacemaker who rolled her eyes at Lilly’s antics and Logan’s dramatics, who never pressed too hard or stirred the waters.
Back then, their relationship had been simple, almost effortless. They had lived in a bubble of teenage innocence, where disagreements were trivial and quickly forgotten. But that bubble had burst, shattered by betrayal and trauma that had changed her in ways Duncan couldn’t, or wouldn’t, grasp. Veronica wasn’t the same girl who kept the peace for the sake of harmony, and she no longer had the patience to bite her tongue or let things slide. Life had forced her to fight, and she’d learned to dig in her heels instead of stepping aside.
And as she looked at Duncan now, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was capable of understanding the person she’d become - or if he even wanted to try.
Then there was Meg - sweet, kind, and loyal Meg. Veronica had always been led to believe that Duncan and Meg’s relationship had been brief, a fleeting high school romance. But the past few weeks had forced her to reconsider.
When the bus crash happened, leaving Meg in a coma, Veronica had been guilt-stricken. It was hard not to blame herself, not to feel the weight of it pressing down on her shoulders. Duncan, on the other hand, had seemed oddly detached, his grief carefully hidden—or maybe non-existent. At least, that was how it had seemed until she discovered the truth: Duncan had been visiting Meg in the hospital in secret, sneaking away while Veronica was none the wiser. And when she’d tried to talk to him about it, he’d completely shut down, deflecting her questions and walling himself off.
It wasn’t the only time she’d seen that side of him. Breaking into Meg’s house had been another eye-opener. They’d been looking for answers about the child Meg had been trying to protect, and Duncan had known far too much - where Meg hid her spare key, the secret spots in her bedroom where she kept important things. She’d watched him carefully pick up one of Meg’s old stuffed toys, holding it with a reverence that told her everything she hadn’t wanted to admit.
She couldn’t help but compare the situation to Logan. When Logan went to pick up Backup and bring her things to the Neptune Grand, she didn’t have to explain a thing. He’d packed her favourite comfortable outfits, the toiletries she used every day, and all the little things she needed to feel normal. When she’d walked into the kitchenette at the suite, it had been stocked with her favourite ice cream flavours, the drinks she preferred, and the exact brand of chocolate she always grabbed without thinking.
In just a few days, Logan had anticipated her needs with an effortless attention to detail, making her feel more at home than she’d felt in months. It wasn’t just about convenience - it was about care, about knowing her on a level that didn’t need words. It made Veronica wonder if she’d sent Duncan on the same errand – would he have known which brand of shampoo to pick, in the same way as he clearly did for Meg?
Finding out Meg had been pregnant - and that Duncan had known - was one thing. Learning that Duncan had subconsciously been trying to protect Meg from Veronica was something else entirely. The only conclusion she could draw, as her mind circled around it again and again, was that Duncan didn’t want Meg to end up like her. Like this version of her - the sharp, broken, no-nonsense girl Veronica had become.
And that wasn’t even touching the worst of it.
Duncan’s avoidance, his refusal to confront the difficult parts of his life, had led them here. She’d known about his diagnosis for over a year - type four epilepsy, or temporal lobe epilepsy. She’d researched it, read articles, and even asked a few discreet questions. She knew about his fits and had heard stories of his disorientation afterward. But never - not once - had she considered the possibility that congenial Duncan could be a threat.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d broken up with Logan over the danger he brought into her life, the violence of the gang war between the 09ers and the PCHers that had consumed him. She’d woken up more times than she could count, gasping from dreams where Logan had been stabbed, shot, thrown from the Coronado Bridge, or worse. She’d lived in constant fear, her heart in her throat every time the phone rang.
And yet, for all Logan’s anger, his fiery outbursts, and his reckless need for vengeance, she’d never been afraid of him. Not once.
But looking into Duncan’s eyes now made her feel sick.
They’d gone to bed like any other night, Duncan mumbling something about being tired as he climbed in beside her. It had been weeks since he’d touched her, but she hadn’t pushed. She figured he just needed time.
When he woke her by slamming into her, she thought at first it was a bad dream. His body hit hers with the force of a sledgehammer, sending her shoulder-first into the bedside table, her head smacking into the sharp wooden corner of the table. The impact knocked the lamp and everything else to the floor, and she followed a moment later, her head spinning from the white-hot pain.
She’d cried out, disoriented and panicked, calling his name over and over, hoping it would bring him back to her. But his eyes… his eyes were empty, hollow, dead.
And then his hands were around her throat.
She hadn’t told Logan just how close it had been. How her vision had begun to darken, her lungs burning with the desperate need for air. How the pressure had built and built until she thought she might slip into the abyss for good.
Logan had stopped him before it was too late, pulling Duncan off of her and shouting until the haze broke. She hadn’t told Logan about the moment after, either - when she’d lain on the floor, gasping and trembling, her throat raw, and Duncan had blinked down at her like he didn’t even recognise her.
Veronica shuddered at the memory, her hands tightening into fists in her lap. She’d thought she’d seen the worst life had to offer. She thought she’d been through enough to make her unbreakable. But in those few moments, staring into the empty void in Duncan’s eyes, she’d never felt so small.
Duncan sat across from her, his shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed somewhere near her feet. The silence between them stretched unbearably, filled with the weight of all the things neither of them wanted to say.
Finally, Duncan broke it. “It wasn’t me, Veronica. It was the epilepsy, and the stress, or—”
“Stop.” Her voice was sharper now, laced with steel. He was just repeating the same excuses. It suddenly occurred to her he had showed no reaction to her injuries, or the fact her arm was still in a sling. She didn’t know if Logan had warned him, or if he truly felt disconnected from the damage he had done. It made her anger spike. Had he even apologised?
“You almost killed me, Duncan,” she continued, her voice trembling with emotion. “And you didn’t even realise it. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is? To wake up and see someone you thought you could trust, trying to—” She stopped, her throat tightening at the words.
“But I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, his voice desperate. “I’d never… I’d never hurt you on purpose. You have to know that.”
“I do know that,” she said, her eyes locking onto his. “But that doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t erase what I felt when I thought I was going to die, or the fact that it could happen again.”
“It won’t,” he said quickly, leaning forward, his hands clasping together as if in prayer. “The doctors are helping me. They’ve adjusted my meds, and I’m going to therapy. I’m working on myself, Veronica. I’m going to get better.”
Veronica drew in a deep breath, bracing herself. “This isn’t just about that night, Duncan,” she said, her voice quieter now, though it still carried an edge. “It’s not just about the moment you-” She faltered, her fingers brushing her throat reflexively. “It’s about everything. It’s about all the things you’ve been hiding. About all the ways we’ve been falling apart, even before that.”
Duncan blinked, confused and defensive. “What are you talking about? I told you, I’m working on myself. I’m trying—”
“Meg.” The name landed between them like a stone dropping into a still pond.
Duncan froze, his mouth opening and closing like he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“You never told me she was pregnant,” Veronica continued, her voice sharper now. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me. Do you have any idea how that felt? To find out from someone else that your boyfriend’s ex is lying in a coma, pregnant with his baby?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Duncan admitted, his voice trembling. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Didn’t want to hurt me?” She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “So instead, you lied. You hid it. You let me sit there in the dark, wondering why you were shutting me out, why you were sneaking around. You let me think I was the crazy one for noticing how much you still care about her.”
“It’s not like that,” he said quickly. “Meg and I... it’s complicated, but it’s not—”
“Don’t.” She cut him off, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t insult me by pretending it’s not. I saw the way you looked at her things when we were at her house. The way you shut down whenever I tried to talk to you about her. You can’t even say her name without getting this look on your face, like she’s some kind of saint you need to protect from the big, bad world.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened, and he looked away.
“And maybe you’re right,” Veronica went on, her tone softer now but no less pointed. “Maybe Meg is the kind of girl who needs protecting. Maybe that’s why you love her. Because you think she’s sweet and kind and soft. Because she’s everything I’m not anymore.”
“That’s not fair,” Duncan said, his voice rising slightly.
“Isn’t it?” she shot back. “Let’s be honest, Duncan. You don’t like this version of me, do you? The version that doesn’t sit back and smile and pretend everything’s fine. The version that fights back, that digs too deep, that doesn’t just accept things at face value. You loved me when I was simple, when our lives were easy, but that’s not who I am anymore. And it hasn’t been for a long time.”
“That’s not true,” he insisted, his eyes pleading. “I love you, Veronica. I always have.”
She shook her head, her expression weary. “You love the idea of me. The girl I used to be. The one who didn’t push too hard or ask too many questions. The girl who didn’t have a million walls up because she’d already been broken into a million pieces. But you don’t love who I am now. And you know what? That’s okay. I will always care about you, Duncan, but this isn’t right anymore.”
His face crumpled at her words, and for a moment, he looked like he might cry. “You don’t understand how hard this has been for me.”
“I do,” she replied firmly. “I understand more than you think. But sometimes that isn’t enough, Duncan. Not when there’s no trust, no honesty, no... us anymore. We’re not the same people we were two years ago, and trying to force this to work is only making it worse.”
“Is this about Logan?” Duncan suddenly asked.
Veronica stared at him in confusion.
Duncan continued, “He said you’d been staying at the suite. Is something going on between the two of you?”
“Are you serious?” Veronica asked incredulously. “Logan has been picking up the pieces you left behind.”
“Taking advantage of the situation, you mean?”
The audacity of his words made her stomach churn. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Duncan snapped defensively.
Veronica’s anger simmered just below the surface, but she forced herself to stay calm. “Logan took me to the hospital when I couldn’t even walk. He made sure I got the medical attention I needed, made sure I didn’t lose my chance at a scholarship. He’s been the one making sure I eat, that I take my medication. And you - you think he would take advantage of me? That’s your best friend you’re talking about.”
Duncan shrugged like her words didn’t matter. “He wasn’t much of a best friend when he started messing around with you.”
“Messing around?” Veronica asked tightly.
“What, like you were in love or something?”
The words hit her like a slap. In a few words Duncan made her entire relationship with Logan seem small and meaningless. Did he really not understand how much Logan meant to her? She took a deep breath, willing herself not to cry. “You don’t get to rewrite history, Duncan. You don’t get to act like you’re the victim here.”
Suddenly, it was like the fight drained out of him. “You’re really saying it’s over between us?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t keep doing this - wondering where I stand, feeling like I’m competing with someone else. And I can’t pretend I’m not terrified of you after what happened. No matter how much I want to believe it wasn’t your fault, I can’t undo what happened.”
Duncan slumped forward, his head in his hands. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said softly, her eyes glistening. “And I hope you get the help you need, Duncan. I really do. But I can’t be the person waiting for you to figure it out.”
He looked up at her, his face pale and drawn. “So this is it?”
“This is it,” she said, the finality of the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
She stood, her legs feeling for a second like they might give out beneath her, and headed for the door. She hesitated for just a moment, glancing back at him one last time. “Goodbye, Duncan.”
Veronica made it to the bathroom before the tears started falling. The door clicked shut behind her, and she leaned against it, sliding down until she was sitting on the cold tile floor. Her chest heaved as the weight of everything came crashing down. She hugged her knees tightly, trying to hold herself together, but the sobs broke free, raw and uncontrollable.
She cried for the girl she used to be, the one who thought her life was going to be so much simpler, so much brighter. Back when Duncan had been her prince charming, her safe haven, the boy she thought she would marry one day. They’d shared so many moments that had once seemed perfect - sneaking kisses at the lunch table, dreaming about their future like nothing could touch them. But that was before everything shattered. Before Lilly’s death, before the lies and the pain and the darkness that had seeped into every corner of her life.
And now that boy was gone. Duncan wasn’t the same person she’d fallen in love with. And maybe she wasn’t the same girl he’d loved, either. The realisation left her aching, hollow in a way she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just about losing him - it was about losing the part of herself that had believed in fairy tales, that had believed in him.
The bathroom walls seemed to close in around her, the cold tile against her back doing little to soothe her as the tears kept falling. She’d been hiding behind their relationship for so long, using it as a shield against everything else she didn’t want to face. Duncan had been her excuse to hold onto something safe, something familiar, even as it became more and more obvious that they were falling apart. Now, without him, there was nothing left to hide behind.
Her fingers brushed the spot on her neck where his hands had been, the phantom pressure making her flinch. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the memory away, but it stayed, vivid and terrifying. That night would never leave her. Neither would the fear. The trust they’d once had was broken, scattered like glass, and no amount of apologies or promises could put it back together.
But his words about Logan – that hurt in a way she didn’t really understand. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to stem the tears, but they only came faster. Duncan had dismissed what she and Logan had as though it was nothing, as though they had only been messing around.
And it was her fault. She’d let Duncan believe Logan didn’t matter. She’d kept Logan in the shadows, afraid of what it might mean to admit he was more than just her best friend’s ex. More than just someone who happened to be there when she needed him. Duncan’s words made her realise how much she’d allowed herself to diminish Logan’s role in her life, in her heart.
But Logan wasn’t nothing. He never had been.
And over the last few days that had become crystal clear. He’d held her hand at the hospital when she needed him, had held her hair back when she was too sick to stand, and made sure she had pain relief, ice packs and the right kind of food. The way his brow furrowed with worry whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. The way he made her laugh even when she felt like she couldn’t breathe.
The thought made her stomach churn. She didn’t know what she felt for Logan - not really. Everything was still so raw, so confusing. But she knew one thing for sure: Logan wasn’t a placeholder. He wasn’t a distraction. He was Logan. And that meant something.
Veronica wiped at her eyes with trembling hands, forcing herself to take deep breaths. The sobs began to subside, though the ache in her chest remained, sharp and unrelenting. She wasn’t the same girl she’d been with Duncan and she couldn’t pretend otherwise anymore.
She stood, shaky but determined, and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed. Veronica splashed cold water on her face, letting it shock her back into the present. There was no more time to look back – Logan was waiting for her outside, right where she needed him.
***
Chapter 7: Chapter Seven
Chapter Text
Veronica followed Logan silently into the Grand, her steps dragging as if the weight of the day was physically holding her back. Logan glanced at her a few times as they walked, his mouth pressing into a line like he wanted to ask something, but the words never came. She didn’t blame him. She probably looked as fragile as she felt, teetering on the edge of some invisible precipice.
Once inside, she curled up on the couch, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. The silence between them felt louder than it should, heavy and oppressive. Logan hovered nearby, offering her a drink, his restless energy betraying his need to help, to do something. A beat later, he joined her, sinking into the couch with a tentative kind of closeness. She could feel his presence beside her - solid, grounding, warm.
She wanted to tell him everything: about Duncan, the baby, the fight, the way everything had unravelled so completely. But the words were too heavy, jagged things lodged in her throat, and she didn’t have the energy to pull them out, let alone bleed them into the open.
“I’m here. Whenever you’re ready to talk.”
His voice was soft but unwavering, and Veronica knew he meant it. He didn’t press her, didn’t push for answers, which she was deeply grateful for. He just sat with her, a quiet, unwavering presence she hadn’t realised she’d come to rely on so much.
Finally Veronica murmured something about heading to bed, though it felt like her voice belonged to someone else. She drifted to Logan’s room on autopilot, her feet carrying her there before her mind could catch up. His bed was unmade, the covers rumpled, the faint scent of him lingering in the air - warm, clean, with a hint of that cologne he always wore. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing the edge of the duvet.
It was strange, she thought, how this room had become her refuge. She hadn’t been able to step foot in Duncan’s room since his episode. The idea of it made her stomach churn. But Logan’s room was different. Logan’s room felt safe.
Sliding into the bed, she let the soft sheets envelop her, the faint trace of his scent wrapping around her like a cocoon. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing, willing herself to let go of the tension coiled in her chest. Sleep came in fits and starts, and when it finally claimed her, it wasn’t the escape she’d hoped for.
***
The dream began like a memory - sharp, vivid, and disturbingly real, blurring the delicate boundary between past and present. She was back at Shelly’s party, enveloped by a sea of glittering dresses and brittle, cutting laughter. Masks hid everyone’s faces, turning the gathering into a grotesque masquerade. But something was wrong. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating, and a cold prickle crept across her skin, an instinctive warning that she didn’t belong here.
She reached up, expecting to find her familiar curtain of long, blonde hair, but her fingers met jagged, uneven strands instead. It felt foreign, wrong.
At first, no one seemed to notice her, and then- slowly - they all turned. Their faces, obscured by their masks, twisted into grotesque blurs, their laughter growing louder, sharper, until it filled every corner of the room, echoing in her ears like a mocking symphony. She couldn’t escape the feeling that they could see straight through her, past her skin, down to the raw, hidden truths she tried so desperately to keep buried.
A sudden jolt of horror coursed through her as she realised she was naked. Her hands scrambled to cover herself, but they moved sluggishly, as though weighed down by invisible chains. The stares seared into her, hateful and unrelenting, and she knew – knew - they wanted to strip her bare in every way, to leave her as exposed inside as she was out.
Her feet carried her towards the pool. The star-shaped lanterns above cast shimmering patterns on the water, ephemeral and flickering, offering a momentary illusion of safety. For an instant, she thought she might escape, might find a sanctuary in the cool depths. But then the stars blurred, dimming to nothing, and the pool transformed, its surface dark and infinite, reflecting only emptiness.
She turned back to the house, desperate for another way out, only to see them all clustered at the windows and doors, their masked faces watching, waiting. They weren’t following her - they didn’t need to. They knew she had nowhere to go.
A white lounger caught her eye, and she stumbled towards it, thinking if she could just lie down, close her eyes, she might be safe. She reached out for the fabric, her fingers brushing it, but when her eyes opened again, she wasn’t outside anymore.
She was standing beside a bed - her bed? Duncan’s bed? The sheets were white, the soft glow of yellow light filtering in through a door. Relief flooded her when she saw Duncan there, his figure familiar, his face shadowed but unmistakable. He had come to save her, to protect her like he always had.
But then his hands reached for her, not to comfort, but to harm. His weight pinned her down, and she struggled, her voice screaming his name, pleading, but no sound came out. He hurt her in ways she couldn’t put into words, and when it was over, the pain didn’t stop. His hands circled her throat, tightening, pressing, and she knew this was the end.
She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred, the world narrowing into a tunnel of darkness. Her thoughts came in flashes, scattered and frantic. Her dad. Wallace. Logan.
The sound of her name pierced through the oppressive fog of her nightmare, cutting through the darkness.
“Veronica,” Logan said again, his voice urgent, and she clung to it, letting it pull her back into reality.
Her eyes shot open, and she was gasping for air, her lungs burning as if they’d been starved of oxygen for hours. She clutched at her throat, half-expecting Duncan’s hands to still be there, squeezing the life out of her. But there was nothing but her own trembling fingers and Logan’s hand, warm and solid on her arm, grounding her in the present.
Her body convulsed with the aftershocks of fear. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and her vision swam with flashes of the dream: Duncan’s hands, the weight of his body, the mocking laughter of faces she couldn’t escape. She couldn’t hear Logan at first; his words came through her scrambled brain like fragments of a broken radio signal.
“Okay…safe… me.”
Her wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto his face, and she struggled to separate dream from reality. She could still see Duncan above her, his shadow towering over her even as the memory dissolved.
“It’s me, Veronica,” Logan said again, his voice achingly gentle. “I’ve got you. Just a dream.”
Her gaze dropped to his hand on her arm, fingers strong yet soft, a tether pulling her out of the chaos in her head. Slowly, the haze began to clear. It was Logan. She wasn’t suffocating. She wasn’t trapped in that room. She was here, safe, and he was with her. Relief hit her hard, threading through her like a cold shock of water, sharp enough to sting.
Her breathing came in ragged bursts as she tried to compose herself, pressing her trembling hands into her lap to stop their shaking.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Logan asked.
She was so accustomed to burying her feelings, locking them away behind an unshakeable façade of composure. But his simple question splintered something deep inside her. She couldn’t quite pinpoint why - perhaps it was the way he asked, his voice laced with quiet sincerity, or the way he looked at her, as though he truly wanted to listen. Not to fix her, not to judge, but simply to understand.
“I was dreaming about a lot of things,” she began, her voice halting and uneven. “It kept shifting. Mostly Shelly’s party. I was back there. The pool. The lanterns. The faces. All those faces watching me, laughing, and I couldn’t move—"
Logan’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt. He just watched her, his expression unreadable but attentive.
“And then,” she began, her voice quivering, “it was Duncan. He found me in a room.” Her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms as the memories of the dream surged, vivid and raw. Words failed her, unable to capture the sheer terror of him raping her while she was paralysed, her pleas for him to stop met with silence.
Had it really happened that way? Was it a memory, or fragments of something her mind couldn’t untangle? Duncan had sworn she’d consented, but the bruises she’d discovered in the mirror the next morning told a different story - marks she couldn’t reconcile with his claims of tenderness and love. And yet, when he’d offered her a simple explanation to piece it all together, she’d clung to it. Forcing herself to push the spiralling thoughts aside, she pressed on shakily, “He was on top of me. His hands were around my throat again and I couldn’t breathe, and I kept trying to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t. And I thought... I thought he was going to kill me.”
Logan’s eyes closed briefly, his face contorting in pain. “I’m sorry. God, Veronica,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”
She knew exactly what he was apologising for, not the dream itself, but for the night in question.
Duncan had never apologised. Not really. When she’d confronted him, he’d been defensive, angry even. She could still hear his mocking words in her head: “Now I raped you?” The disbelief, the deflection. And when she’d told him she didn’t remember, he’d thrown it back in her face, cruel and cutting: “You don’t remember? Kind of a bad feeling, huh?” There had been no empathy or understanding.
But Logan had never been anything but sorry. She saw it in every line of his face, in every small, deliberate action. The way he’d been so achingly careful not to pressure her over the summer. The way he handed her the reins whenever things started to heat up, reading her signals as if they were written in bold across her face, never pushing her too far and always allowing her to remain in control.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” she said softly, her voice hoarse. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Logan’s eyes met hers, and she could see how much he wanted to believe her. “What can I do?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly. “Just tell me, Veronica, and I’ll do it. Whatever you need.”
Her body was still shaking, the fear from the dream lingering in her limbs. She curled into herself, trying to will the tremors away. She didn’t want him to go. The idea of being alone, of slipping back into the darkness of her mind, was unbearable.
“Just stay,” she whispered, the words barely audible but laced with desperation. “Don’t leave. Please.”
Logan didn’t hesitate. He nodded, his expression resolute. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
He climbed into bed beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. His warmth was immediate, soothing, and she felt herself exhale, the tension in her body slowly releasing. She pressed herself against him, her head resting on his chest. His heart beat steady and strong beneath her ear, a rhythmic reminder that she wasn’t alone.
Her thoughts wandered as exhaustion tugged at her again, her mind lingering on Logan - the way he held her, the way he looked at her, the way he made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
She thought about what it might be like to be with him, really with him. Duncan had been sweet but fumbling, hesitant in ways that had once been endearing but now felt distant. Logan, though - Logan was fire and chaos, passion and intensity. Their make-out session had left her breathless with need so many times.
Her fingers brushed against his shirt, feeling the firm muscles underneath. She wondered if he could sense how much she wanted him in that moment. Not just to hold her, but for something more.
For now, she let herself exist in his arms, the gentle rise and fall of his chest lulling her into a peace she hadn’t felt in a long time.
When she woke, the bed was empty. The absence of his warmth left a hollow ache, but the faint scent of him lingered on the sheets, a quiet reassurance that he hadn’t gone far.
Her body protested as she slowly eased herself upright, every movement a reminder of what had happened. Padding softly into the bathroom, she switched on the shower and let the sound of rushing water fill the silence. Her arm no longer screamed with the sharp, biting pain it had over the past few days, though it still ached - a dull throb that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
Standing in front of the mirror, she hesitated before pulling off her clothes. The bruises around her throat had started to fade, their once angry red and purple hues softening into smeared shadows of blue and yellow-green. She lightly traced them with her fingers, the faint touch sending a shiver down her spine.
Turning slightly, she winced as her eyes fell on her back. The bruising was worse there - deep, dark swathes of black and purple spread across her shoulder blades and ribs, mottled with patches of sickly yellow where the healing had begun. The swelling had gone down some, but the sight of it still made her stomach churn.
It was no wonder Logan had looked at her the way he did when he sat with her in the bathroom. She could still picture his face, the storm of emotions flickering across it - rage, guilt, and helplessness.
She stepped into the shower, letting the warm water cascade over her battered body, soothing and stinging all at once. For a moment, she closed her eyes and focused on the sensation - the steam curling around her, the droplets washing away the remnants of yesterday. She pressed her forehead against the cool tile and let the tension ease from her shoulders, wishing she could scrub away the ache beneath her skin. As she washed her hair, her fingers caught on the stitches at the edge of her scalp with a sharp tug, drawing in a hissed breath.
The mirror was fogged when she stepped out, a welcome shield from the bruises that marred her reflection. She carefully dried herself, taking extra care around the tender spots, before slipping into her clothes - a black T-shirt with a delicate leaf motif on the front and a pair of dark jeans. She ran her fingers through her damp hair, and brushed it back into a simple ponytail. Her thoughts drifted, scattered and restless.
The main room was still quiet as she walked in, the soft hush of early morning lingering in the air. There was no sign of Logan on the sofa where he’d been sleeping the last few nights, though his blanket and pillow were neatly stacked at one end. Her gaze drifted towards Duncan’s closed door, her chest tightening for reasons she couldn’t fully unpack.
The soft jingle of Backup’s collar broke the silence, and she turned to find the loyal dog padding towards her, tail wagging. He pushed his wet nose into her hand, warm and reassuring.
“Good morning, boy,” she murmured, scratching behind his ears before heading to the kitchenette. She filled his bowl with breakfast and refreshed his water, crouching beside him as he crunched happily through his meal.
Veronica stood, crossing the room to her laptop, which sat on the desk by the window. Opening it, she glanced at the unread emails cluttering her inbox, most of them from people she didn’t care to hear from. But it was Wallace’s absence that stung the most.
She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard before finally opening a blank message.
Hey Wallace
I know you're probably sick of hearing from me, but I just wanted to say I miss you.
A lot.
Things have been rough lately, and sometimes I just want to hear your voice. I hope you're okay.
V
She stared at the screen, debating whether to add anything else. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if “my boyfriend tried to kill me” would get his attention. But his last words to her played in her head like a skipping record, accusing her of always making everything about herself. With a sigh, she hit Send, knowing that if Wallace responded at all, it wouldn’t be today.
Rising from her chair, she wandered to the window, pulling back the dark blinds. Neptune stretched out below, the morning sun trying its best to burn through the haze.
Not wanting to waste the rare quiet, she grabbed her schoolbooks from her bag and settled back at the desk. She had a literature assignment to finish, though her focus flickered in and out as her mind replayed the events at the clinic. Her typing froze mid-sentence more than once, like her brain was still stuttering.
Needing a distraction, she slipped her iPod from her bag, untangling the earbuds and scrolling through her playlists. She landed on something soothing but with an edge of melancholy, pressing play and letting the music drown out the noise in her head. With the soft hum of guitar strings in her ears, she tapped her pen against the edge of her book and forced herself to focus on analysing the text.
Her phone buzzed next to her, pulling her attention from her half-finished schoolwork. She picked it up and swiped to open the message, and snorted softly. Mac had a way of cutting through the Neptune rumour mill with surgical precision. She clearly wanted to know why all three were absent at the same time.
Veronica smiled and set the phone down, the lingering warmth of Mac’s humour doing more to settle her nerves than anything else that morning.
She hummed softly as she worked, her fingers gliding over the keyboard while the low strains of her playlist filled the quiet suite. The familiar rhythm of the music helped her focus as she finished the last paragraph of her assignment. A quick glance at her watch made her realise how much time had slipped away. Setting the laptop aside, she picked up her phone and quickly typed out a message to Alice, her manager at Java the Hut, explaining that her shoulder injury would keep her from working that weekend.
"Backup," she murmured, looking over at her dog, who was sprawled out on the carpet near her feet. His ears perked up at the sound of his name, and she smiled, her tone softening. "Alright, buddy. Let’s get you some fresh air."
Sneaking him out the way Logan had shown her had become second nature by now. Still, she paused at every corner, her pulse quickening as she checked for lurking hotel staff. She wasn’t in the mood to explain why the Neptune Grand was temporarily housing a large, enthusiastic dog. Outside, the morning air was crisp, the kind that made her pull her jacket tighter around her. She let Backup stretch his legs, watching as his tail wagged enthusiastically.
"Not long, okay? I owe you a proper walk later," she said, scratching his ears before heading back inside.
The suite was silent when she returned, Logan was still sleeping. She sank back into the chair at the desk, her laptop still open. Tom Griffith. The name lingered in her thoughts like a burr she couldn’t shake off. While she’d been digging into the good doctor for awhile, she didn’t couldn’t figure out why exactly he’d decided to step into the spotlight as a witness against Logan. More importantly, how had he become entangled in the Fitzpatricks’ web in the first place?
The pieces didn’t fit - yet. Veronica hated puzzles with missing edges, the ones that felt just out of reach. Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she pulled up the private investigator search engine her dad subscribed to.
She knew Dr. Thomas Griffith had an impressive résumé. Twenty years as a plastic surgeon. Missions abroad, providing life-changing reconstructive surgeries in developing countries. He was the kind of guy who got standing ovations at charity galas, his smile plastered across glossy magazines. But beneath the polished veneer, she sensed something rotten.
The divorce caught her attention. A year ago, he and Steph Denenberg had split. They had a sixteen-year-old daughter, Hannah, who, interestingly enough, was a student at Neptune High. Veronica leaned back slightly, filing that titbit away for later.
Her instincts whispered for her to dig deeper. She ran a credit check, her heart quickening when the results came in. Bingo. For someone with such a stellar reputation, Griffith’s financial history told a very different story. Mountains of debt, multiple credit card defaults, and a brush with bankruptcy - all before the divorce. But shortly after the papers were signed? His debts had vanished as if by magic.
Veronica frowned, her brow furrowing. Had his ex-wife bailed him out? She ran a search on Steph Denenberg, but the results were uninspiring. No signs of wealth. A stay-at-home mom who had only re-entered the workforce when their daughter hit high school. So, if not Steph, then who?
Her thoughts churned as she leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders catching up with her. She stood, stretching to ease the ache in her back, then flopped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.
“Money,” she muttered, the word bitter on her tongue. Was that it? Was Griffith’s sudden testimonial against Logan tied to the Fitzpatricks’ legendary ability to make problems disappear - for a price? The timing didn’t quite align. She pressed her palms against her eyes, frustration bubbling under the surface. There was something here, just out of reach, a connection she hadn’t found yet.
The music still played softly in her earbuds, and she caught herself singing along absently. “'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable.”
She caught a flicker of movement and jumped, startled to see Logan standing in the doorway of Duncan’s room. A flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks as she realised he’d caught her singing. Hastily, she tugged out her earphones, unsure how to interpret the emotions flickering across his face. Her gaze traced over the rough stubble shadowing his jaw and the messy tumble of his sleep-ruffled hair, before drifting lower to the snug fit of his top and the boxers slung low on his hips. He looked good - better than good - and a surprising rush of warmth welled up inside her.
Veronica was relieved he didn’t seem to notice and instead teased her about being a Disney princess. The comment drew a smile from her - a rare accusation these days, and not one she entirely minded in that moment.
***
The presidential suite was tranquil in the evening light, almost cozy despite its opulence. The recessed lighting cast a golden glow across the cream-colored walls.
Veronica sat cross-legged on the couch, cradling a glass of wine in her hands. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves, and she wore one of Logan’s oversized hoodies that he’d offered her earlier when she was cold.
Across from her, Logan was sprawled out on the sectional, barefoot, a bottle of whiskey sitting on the low coffee table between them. He held his own glass loosely, swirling the amber liquid every so often, his expression somewhere between contemplative and mischievous.
“You’re going to bankrupt yourself raiding the minibar like this,” Veronica teased, taking a sip of her wine. The fruity bitterness lingered on her tongue, making her feel pleasantly warm.
Logan smirked, his free hand lazily gesturing towards the well-stocked minibar. “What’s the point of wealth if you don’t abuse it every now and then?”
Veronica tilted her head, watching him. “You mean, every day?”
He gave her a mock-offended look. “Hey, I resent that. I’m much more discerning than you give me credit for. This,” he said, raising his glass, “is for therapeutic purposes only. For both of us.”
They shared a smile, the kind that felt like a secret between them.
Veronica, already feeling the wine warm her cheeks and loosen her thoughts, leaned forward, her movements just a touch too carefree. “Tell me something,” she said suddenly, her voice soft but insistent.
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Something what?”
“Something you’ve never told anyone.”
He blinked at her, caught off guard. “Hm, you first,” he challenged, his lips quirking into a smirk, though his eyes carried a flicker of curiosity.
Veronica considered it for a moment, her gaze drifting to her wine glass. The room was silent except for the soft strains of music and the faint clink as she set the glass on the table. “Okay.” She drew a breath, her voice quieter now. “I lied to a dying man.”
Logan tilted his head, intrigued but cautious. “Interesting start. Go on.”
“You remember Abel Koontz, the guy who confessed to killing Lilly?” She glanced at him.
Logan nodded slowly. “Yeah. He was dying of cancer. That’s why he took the fall, for the money.”
Veronica’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Right. A few weeks ago, he showed up at the office. He was in rough shape - weak, smelled like a rotting brewery. He came to me because he wanted my help finding his daughter, Amelia. He knew he didn’t have much time left, and she was the only thing he cared about.”
Logan shifted, sitting up straighter. “Did you find her?”
“I did.” Veronica’s voice grew heavier. “But it wasn’t the happy reunion he’d hoped for. Amelia was dead, and her body was hidden in an ice machine. She was murdered because of the money her dad got her in the settlement - the same money that was supposed to give her a better life.”
Logan winced, his jaw tightening. “Damn. So he took the fall for nothing.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “I get to the hospital, and he’s barely holding on. I had two options: tell him the truth - that his daughter was dead, that her death was tied to his decision - or…”
Logan’s expression softened, his voice low. “Or give him peace with a lie?”
She nodded, her eyes distant. “I told him she was caught in a snowstorm trying to get to him. That she was safe and happy and still loved him.” She exhaled shakily. “He believed me. He smiled.”
Logan was quiet for a long moment, studying her face. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. “That wasn’t a lie, Veronica. That was mercy.”
Her gaze flickered to his, searching for something in his expression. “Do you think so?”
“I know so,” he said firmly. “You gave him the one thing he needed most at the end - peace.”
Her throat tightened, but she managed a small nod, grateful for his words even as the doubt lingered.
“Your turn,” she prompted, nudging his shin with her foot.
He exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch and closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were filled with something raw. “When my mom died… I used to sit on the beach at night and just… talk to her. Like she was still there.” He shrugged, trying to make it sound less vulnerable than it was. “I didn’t really believe she could hear me, but it helped.”
Veronica didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she slid over to his side of the couch and leaned her head against his shoulder, her hand resting lightly on his knee.
“Thanks for telling me,” she said quietly. There was a brief, comfortable silence before Veronica spoke again. “Logan, you said something the other day.” Her voice had softened, her usual sharp edges dulled by the wine she’d been steadily sipping. If she hadn’t been so buzzed, she would’ve guarded her feelings more carefully - but right now, the vulnerability felt less like a risk and more like a relief.
“I say a lot of things,” Logan replied, his lips curling into a smirk. “Some brilliant, some witty, and the rest, of course, profoundly insightful.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite suppress a small smile. “When we were talking about Tom Griffith and the cigar shop,” she continued, her gaze dropping to the glass in her hand. “You told me to pretend it was my dog’s life at stake. I keep thinking about that.” Logan’s smirk faded into something softer as he assessed her words. “Do you really think I don’t care that you’ve been arrested for something you didn’t do?” she asked, her words hesitant but genuine. “Because that’s not true.”
Logan shrugged, his expression retreating behind a familiar wall of indifference. “I don’t know. It felt like I had to beg for your help,” he said, his voice quieter now.
Veronica winced, the words landing harder than she expected. “Logan, things have been… complicated between us,” she admitted, her gaze fixed on the swirling remnants of wine in her glass. The words tumbled out before she could stop them, raw and unpolished. “I didn’t want to assume you’d even want my help.” Her voice softened. “But I need you to know - I’ll do whatever it takes to clear your name. I promise you.”
Logan studied her, his sharp eyes searching her face as if he was trying to decipher a puzzle only he could see. For a moment, he looked as though he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he leaned back, running a hand through his hair.
He looked down for a long moment, the silence thick. Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “Thank you. That means everything, Veronica. The other day, in the car, after the River Styx - I thought you were giving up on me.”
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed, “Of course not,” she said softly. “I was just… terrified, honestly.”
Logan’s jaw clenched as he shook his head, his regret palpable. “I’m so sorry I let you walk in there alone,” he murmured, the weight of his guilt evident in every syllable.
Veronica cut him off with a quick shake of her head. “Not of the Fitzpatricks,” she said, though her lips quirked in a wry half-smile. “Although, yeah, not exactly a highlight of my week.” She reached out, her hand settling lightly on his, her fingers brushing the ridges of his knuckles. “Logan, do you have any idea how many times I’ve dreamed that something terrible happened to you and you died?”
His eyes snapped to hers, wide with surprise.
“All summer. Every damn night.” Her voice trembled slightly, the wine loosening the tightly locked gates of her emotions. “Every time the phone rang, I thought, this is it. This is the call where someone tells me the PCHers jumped you, and it didn’t end well. And then, just seeing that gun… all that fear came flooding out.” When she finally looked up at him, she was startled to see his eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice barely audible. “I never thought about it like that. I honestly didn’t think you cared that much.”
“Are you kidding?” she said, punching his arm lightly with her free hand, her exasperation laced with affection. “If I lost you too…” She shook her head. Losing Lilly had nearly destroyed her. Losing Logan? She couldn’t even imagine.
For a moment, they sat in silence, the air between them charged but oddly comforting. Then, the sharp buzz of Logan’s phone shattered the moment. He glanced at the screen, and Veronica caught the name: Kendall.
The spell was broken.
Veronica leaned back, the hand that had been on his retreating to her lap. “Want me to clear out for your booty call?” she quipped, her tone light but edged with something sharper. The jealousy hit her out of nowhere, a quiet ache she buried beneath sarcasm.
Logan sighed, his brow furrowing. He shot back a quick text and tossed the phone onto the table, the gesture almost dismissive. “Nah, she’ll survive without me for another night.”
Veronica raised an eyebrow, the heat of anger rising in her chest. “Sorry if me being here is cramping your style.”
“I live here, Veronica. You’re not stopping me from going anywhere. If I wanted you gone, you’d know.”
Her heart skipped, but she masked it with a smirk, leaning into her usual armour of wit. “Well, aren’t I lucky.”
Logan shook his head, a small, incredulous laugh escaping him. “You have no idea.”
When she glanced up, his eyes were on her. Not the casual, teasing look she was used to, but something deeper, warmer. It wasn’t a look she could brush off with a joke.
She shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tightening around her wine glass. “Careful, Echolls,” she said lightly, though her voice was strained. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to charm me.”
“Maybe I am,” he said, his tone low, the teasing edge gone.
Her breath caught as their eyes locked. No one had ever looked at her like Logan did - with intensity, promise, and a depth that seemed to cut through all her defences.
“Logan…” she started, but the way he was watching her stole the rest of her words.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never wavering. “I know you’ve been through hell this week. But I’m not Duncan, Veronica. I wouldn’t ever hurt you like that.”
The sincerity in his voice cut through her, making her stomach ache. She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him so badly.
“Logan, you’ve been amazing,” she said softly, setting her glass down and clasping her hands tightly in her lap. “I don’t even know how to thank you for… all of this. For letting me stay, for saving me, for…” Her voice faltered, “everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, his voice rough. “I just want you to know you’re safe here. With me.”
Her stomach twisted. The words were simple, but they carried a weight she wasn’t sure she was ready for. She knew he meant more than just safe right now, and the space between them felt charged, the kind of tension that made her skin prickle and her heart race. He shifted closer, and she didn’t move away.
For a moment, she let herself sink into it - the warmth of his gaze, the steady reassurance of his presence, the way her stomach flipped in anticipation. That electric pull she always felt around Logan crackled to life, stirring something in her that she tried so hard to bury.
But as her walls began to lower, shadows crept in. Duncan’s rage. The way he’d looked at her in the clinic. Meg. Logan’s reckless behaviour over the summer. Kendall. The betrayals, the vulnerability, the endless cycle of trusting and losing.
It was too much. Too soon, and she couldn’t do it again. Not now.
“I should get some sleep,” she said abruptly, standing so quickly she nearly knocked over her wine glass.
Logan blinked, startled by the sudden shift. “Veronica—”
“Before the wine convinces me to start reciting bad poetry or something,” she interrupted with a small, self-deprecating smile, gesturing to her nearly empty glass. “And trust me, no one wants that.”
His expression softened, but there was a flicker of something else - hurt, maybe? - in his eyes. “Goodnight, Veronica.”
“Goodnight, Logan,” she echoed, disappearing into the room and closing the door behind her.
Leaning against the door, she pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to calm its frantic rhythm. She could still feel the pull, that magnetic force that always seemed to exist between them, no matter how much she tried to deny it.
But she couldn’t afford to follow it. That way lay tears, multiple broken lamps and far too much pain.
***
Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting the walls in muted gold. Veronica blinked against the brightness, disoriented for a moment. Her hand instinctively reached across the bed, searching for warmth, but all she found was the cold, rumpled sheets. Her chest tightened briefly before she pushed the thought away.
Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she grabbed her phone off the nightstand. A notification blinked on the screen - a text from her dad.
Veronica’s stomach twisted as she read the words. She had so much to tell him, and she dreaded every second of it. She’d broken his trust yet again. Every day he thought she was tucked up safely at home, she’d been breaking his rules by staying the night first with Duncan, and then by continuing to stay with Logan.
Shaking off the looming anxiety, she stood and stretched with her good arm, her other shoulder aching. “Right,” she murmured to herself. “Time to get moving.”
She padded into the kitchen, where Backup greeted her with a happy bark, his tail wagging furiously. “Hey, boy,” she said, scratching behind his ears. “You ready for breakfast?” She fed him quickly, her mind already racing.
Logan hadn’t stirred. She peeked into the living room, where he was sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over his face, the other dangling over the edge. He looked peaceful in sleep, a stark contrast to the turbulence of the night before. She wondered why he hadn’t slept in Duncan’s room again – maybe he’d hoped she’d change her mind?
Her gaze lingered for a moment longer than she intended, memories of his words - and the way he’d looked at her - flooding her mind. She’d run away from that intensity, from the part of her that wanted to lean into it. Now, she wasn’t sure if she’d made the right choice.
A glance at her watch reminded her there was no time to wait for him to wake. Still unable to drive, she pulled out her phone to call a cab, making a mental note to retrieve her car later. Spotting a notepad in the kitchenette, she quickly scribbled a note:
She left the note on the coffee table, next to his phone, and grabbed her things. Just before she left she spotted Duncan’s room entry card on the side. Impulsively she slipped it in her pocket. She put Backup’s lead on him, and he trotted obediently by her side as she headed to the car.
***
Back at home, Veronica clipped Backup’s lead to his collar and took him outside, the brisk morning air biting at her skin. She inhaled deeply, trying to quell the storm inside her, but her nerves remained frayed. The fear of the conversation she was about to have pressed heavily on her chest. Backup trotted happily beside her, oblivious to her inner turmoil, his tail wagging with every new scent he discovered.
When they returned to the apartment, Veronica unhooked his lead and sank onto the couch, her hands trembling despite her attempt to take calming breaths. The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and Backup’s nails clicking on the floor as he trotted around the room, as if he was reacquainting himself with the apartment in the few days since he’d been there. Her leg bounced restlessly on the floor, as every creak of the building seemed amplified, her thoughts filling the silence like static.
The sound of approaching footsteps made her heart jolt. She recognised the familiar cadence of her father’s stride before the key turned in the lock. The door creaked open, and Keith stepped inside, his roll-on suitcase trailing behind him.
“Hey, honey,” he greeted, his voice warm and familiar. For a moment, Veronica thought she could breathe again. Then his eyes landed on her, and the smile vanished from his face.
Veronica froze, instinctively pulling the sleeve of her hoodie further down her arm. She didn’t need a mirror to know what he saw - the faint bruises on her neck, the guarded way she held her shoulder.
“Veronica,” he said sharply, his tone laced with alarm. “What the hell happened?”
She forced a weak smile, trying to deflect. “It’s nothing, Dad. Just a little accident.”
“Don’t give me that,” Keith snapped, his concern morphing into anger. He dropped his suitcase by the door and crossed the room in three quick strides, his eyes scanning her injuries. “What happened?”
Veronica sighed, her resolve crumbling under the weight of his gaze. “Okay, fine. I was hoping to ease into this, but if you insist.” She gestured towards the sofa. “Maybe you should sit down.”
Keith didn’t move, his eyes narrowing. “Just tell me.”
“Dad…” She hesitated, her throat dry. “Please.”
He let out a heavy sigh, then sank onto the couch, resting his forearms on his knees. Veronica bit her lip as she struggled to find the right words. Backup trotted over to Keith, placing his head on his lap, but even his presence didn’t soften the tension in the room.
“Dad, please don’t freak out,” she began, her voice wavering. “I was… with Duncan.”
Keith’s brows furrowed deeply. “And?”
“I stayed the night,” she admitted, her stomach twisting. “Nothing happened - at least, not like that. Logan was there too. We were watching movies, and I was too tired to drive home.”
Keith’s jaw clenched. “We’ll circle back to the part where you broke my trust and my rules,” he said evenly, though his tone was steely. “Continue.”
Veronica’s hands twisted in her lap. “Duncan had a fit during the night. You know he has type four epilepsy?”
Keith nodded, his face hardening.
“It was… bad,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly. “He wasn’t himself. His eyes were blank, and he didn’t know what he was doing.” She swallowed hard. “I woke up to him shoving me out of bed. I fell, dislocated my shoulder, and hit my head.”
Keith’s face was a mask of barely contained rage, but his voice was eerily calm when he asked, “And the bruises on your neck?”
Veronica looked away, blinking back tears. “He tried to strangle me.”
The words hung in the air like a bomb detonating in slow motion. Keith’s face went pale, his eyes widening in horror. “What?” He rose to his feet, and began to pace the room.
“It wasn’t his fault,” she said quickly, her voice rising in defence. “He wasn’t in control, Dad. Logan heard the commotion and pulled him off me.”
Keith stopped pacing, his hands on his hips as he stared at her. “And then what? Did Logan call the police? An ambulance?”
“Logan called someone - one of the Kanes. Celeste came and took Duncan to a clinic. Logan drove me to the hospital. The doctor said I couldn’t be alone in case I had a concussion, so Logan stayed with me.”
Keith’s face darkened. “Why didn’t either of you call me? You’re my daughter, Veronica. It’s my job to protect you.”
“Because I told him not to call you,” Veronica admitted, her voice cracking. “You were so far away, and I didn’t want to stress you out. I knew how much this tour meant to you.”
Keith’s voice trembled with suppressed emotion. “Veronica, nothing is more important to me than you. I would have dropped everything.”
“I know,” she said softly, her eyes brimming with tears. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to ruin all your hard work.”
Keith shook his head, his forehead wrinkling. “You could have been killed. Do you understand that?”
“I do,” she whispered. “I just… I didn’t know how to explain it without you losing your mind and going after Duncan.”
Keith’s expression was a mix of anger, worry, and heartbreak. “You’re damn right I would have gone after him. But that doesn’t mean you keep me in the dark.”
“I’m sorry,” Veronica said, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“And you kept breaking my rules by staying with a boy who, the last time he was here, I found screaming at you and throwing lamps? Logan’s not a good influence, Veronica.”
“Dad, he didn’t throw the lamp at me,” Veronica said, her voice firm. “He was upset, yes, but he never would’ve hurt me. And honestly? The past few days have been really rough, and Logan… he’s been there for me. He helped me when I was sick from the pills. He brought me ice packs, made sure I took my painkillers, and when Celeste tried to force me to sign an NDA, he told her exactly where she could go.”
Keith straightened abruptly. “She what?”
“She offered to pay my hospital bills if I signed,” Veronica explained. “I didn’t, obviously. And Logan told her where to shove it.”
Keith let out an angry sigh. “I’ll deal with her.”
Veronica managed a faint smile, but her heart was heavy.
“Another thing - Duncan. I’m not comfortable with you seeing someone who could hurt you like this, whether he meant to or not.”
Veronica nodded solemnly. “We’re over. I told him already.”
Keith’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “I’m relieved to hear that. Promise me, Veronica: no more secrets. If something happens, you call me. No matter what.”
“Deal,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
He pulled her into a careful hug, his voice breaking as he murmured, “And another new rule - no more bruises. Ever.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered.
“And I’m ordering you a giant bubble-wrap suit.”
“Fine,” she said with a watery smile, “but you’ll regret it when I spend the night popping it nonstop.” Keith laughed despite himself. “I’m just glad you’re home,” Veronica added softly.
“Me too,” he replied.
***
Veronica woke to the smell of bacon wafting through the apartment. For a moment, she wondered if she’d overslept, but a quick glance at her phone showed it was only 9:00 a.m. She dragged herself out of bed, wincing as the remnants of her injuries protested the movement.
In the kitchen, Keith was humming an off-key tune, flipping pancakes onto a plate already piled high.
“Morning, kiddo,” he greeted without turning around. “Breakfast of champions coming right up.”
“Morning,” Veronica mumbled, sliding into a chair at the dining table. Backup padded over to nudge her leg, and she absently scratched behind his ears. “What’s all this? You’re not usually this domestic on a Saturday morning.”
Keith grinned as he set a plate in front of her. “Just wanted to spoil my kid a little. Besides, I figured you could use some TLC after the week you’ve had.”
“Thanks, Dad. It’s nice,” Veronica said with a faint smile, picking up her fork. They ate in companionable silence for a while, the clink of cutlery and Backup’s hopeful panting the only sounds. Finally, Keith broke the quiet.
“So, how’s the case going? The prom baby mystery?” he asked casually, though his eyes watched her carefully.
Veronica chewed her bite of pancake thoughtfully. “Trina was surprisingly on board. She even recorded a tape asking for her biological parents to come forward.”
Keith raised his eyebrows. “I saw that. Yet another tragedy for the Echolls. I had no idea Trina was dying.”
“It’s all I could think of to force Celeste Kane out of hiding,” Veronica admitted with a small shrug.
Keith frowned. “It may not be Celeste. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Veronica sighed. “I just… want to know the truth. No matter what it is.”
Keith nodded, his expression softening. “Fair enough. But don’t get too caught up in it, okay? Some truths aren’t worth the cost.”
After they both walked Backup, Keith declared the rest of the weekend was perfect for a movie marathon, and Veronica was more than happy to comply. She curled up on the couch with a blanket while Keith sifted through their collection of classic noir films.
“How about ‘The Maltese Falcon’?” Keith suggested, holding up the case.
Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t we watch that like two weeks ago?”
“You’re right,” Keith said, tossing it aside. “‘Double Indemnity’ it is.”
As the films played, Veronica found herself zoning in and out. Her mind wandered to the chaos she’d be walking into on Monday, the rumours, the looks, the whispers. She felt a pang of longing for Wallace, wishing she could call him and vent like she used to before their argument. But he was in Chicago, and their last conversation had been anything but friendly.
“You’re not even watching, are you?” Keith’s voice broke through her thoughts.
Veronica blinked. “Of course I am. Barbara Stanwyck just poisoned that guy. Classic femme fatale move.”
Keith chuckled. “Close enough. Want some popcorn?”
Veronica nodded, letting herself sink back into the comfort of the moment. For now, at least, she could pretend everything was normal.
***
Veronica groaned as the alarm buzzed insistently, its shrill tone cutting through the peaceful quiet of her bedroom. She fumbled with her uninjured arm, slapping the clock into silence, and blinked blearily at the sunlight streaming through her window emitting blue and green streaks. The weekend had passed in a blur, and the thought of facing Monday felt like dragging herself through quicksand.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at her sore muscles. Despite the week that had passed, her shoulder injury was still healing, and movement was still painful. Padding to the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, trying to shake off the lingering exhaustion, before making her way to the kitchen in search of caffeine.
The familiar aroma of coffee greeted her, as did her father, Keith, already seated at the breakfast bar with his newspaper spread out before him. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting its warmth over the small but cosy kitchen. Veronica’s eyes immediately landed on an envelope sitting ominously on the counter, the bold words "Jury Summons" staring back at her.
“Seriously?” she muttered, snatching it up and tearing it open. As her eyes scanned the letter, her shoulders slumped.
Keith looked up from his paper, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. “Morning, sunshine,” he greeted, his voice tinged with amusement. “You look thrilled to be awake.”
Veronica waved the summons at him. “There goes my Christmas fun,” she groused, flopping onto the stool next to him.
Keith peered at the envelope, arching a brow. “Ah, I saw that. Jury duty, huh? Well, good news - I think we can get you out of it. Concussion and painkillers should do the trick. You’re not exactly in peak juror condition.”
Her lips curved into a small smile. “Really? That’d be the perfect Christmas miracle.”
Keith chuckled, setting his coffee down. “Don’t push your luck. It’s just a temporary reprieve. You’ll owe the legal system eventually.”
Veronica grinned, feeling a flicker of relief. It was a small win, but one she’d take.
***
The fluorescent lights of Neptune High’s hallway seemed harsher than usual, or maybe it was the stares that made everything feel so exposed. Veronica walked with her head held high, but every step felt like wading through a sea of whispers and darting glances. Her sling and the faint bruising on her face were like a spotlight, drawing attention she didn’t want.
In the week since she’d last been at school, it was as though Christmas had descended on Neptune High in overdrive. Wreaths adorned the walls, their greenery a stark contrast to the institutional beige paint. Strings of tinsel sparkled under the overhead lights, draped across lockers and noticeboards, while Christmas trees stood in strategic corners, their branches heavy with colourful baubles and twinkling lights. The festive cheer felt at odds with the tension in the air around her, as if the decorations were mocking her with their forced brightness. Normally, she’d roll her eyes at the school’s over-the-top holiday spirit, but today she barely noticed it. Her focus was on making it through the day without snapping at anyone.
It was the whispers that grated the most, a constant buzz just on the edge of her hearing. She caught snippets here and there - speculation, exaggerations, outright lies.
“Did you hear?” a girl murmured to her friend, not even bothering to lower her voice as Veronica walked by. “I bet it was some kind of love triangle thing.”
Veronica’s grip tightened on her bag strap, her jaw clenching as she pressed on. Gossip was Neptune High’s lifeblood, and she was its latest headline. Rounding the corner, she nearly collided with Dick Casablancas, who was standing talking to John Enbom.
“Whoa, Mars,” Dick said, holding up his hands in mock alarm. His gaze flicked to her sling, and a lewd grin spread across his face. “Always knew you liked it rough. Logan and Duncan tag-teaming you too hard?”
Veronica’s stomach churned with a mix of disgust and anger. “Wow, Dick,” she snapped. “It’s like your parents knew how much your name would suit you.”
Dick chuckled, completely unfazed. “Relax, I’m just messing with you. No need to get all prissy.”
“Keep spreading rumours,” she said, her voice icy, “and I’ll make sure you’re the one needing a sling.” Her glare could have melted steel.
Dick held up his hands in mock surrender, still laughing as he sauntered off. Veronica exhaled sharply, willing herself to stay composed as she made her way to her teachers’ office.
Any time between classes was a blur of meetings with teachers, making sure she’d done enough to catch up, and to meet the tough requirements to stay in the run-in for the Kane Scholarship. Most were understanding, their eyes softening when they saw her sling, but the weight of catching up on missed assignments and tests loomed heavy over her. By lunchtime, she felt like she’d run a marathon.
Veronica spotted Mac at their usual table in the quad, her friend hunched over her laptop with a bag of crisps resting precariously on the edge of the table. The tips of Mac’s dark brown hair were dyed a vibrant red, giving her a festive, rebellious edge that stood out even in the December gloom.
“Hey, stranger,” Mac called out, glancing up as Veronica approached. “Good to see you’re still among the living.”
“Just barely,” Veronica muttered, dropping into the seat across from her. She let her head fall onto her folded arm, the weight of exhaustion settling over her like a heavy blanket.
Mac slid a tray across the table towards her, piled high with sandwiches, fruit, a bottle of water, and a slice of cake topped with a cheery green Christmas tree made of icing. “I brought you lunch so you wouldn’t have to do the awkward one-handed carry. I figured the cake might make life suck a little less.”
Veronica’s lips curved into a grateful smile, her eyes lighting up. “Thanks, Mac. You’re the best.”
“I know,” Mac replied breezily, leaning back in her chair. Her gaze flicked to Veronica’s sling, and her grin turned mischievous. “So, are you finally going to spill what actually happened, or should I start pitching my own wild theories? My money’s on you taking down the mafia and forgetting to invite me to the big showdown.”
Veronica snorted. “Close. If by ‘mafia’ you mean Duncan having an epileptic seizure and accidentally body-slamming me into the floor, then yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
Veronica hesitated before giving Mac a watered-down version of the events with Duncan. Even so, Mac’s eyes widened, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief.
“Epilepsy? And he… attacked you?” Mac asked, her voice low. “It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”
“He didn’t know what he was doing, he has episodes,” Veronica said quickly, before she paused, her nose wrinkling. “But… yeah. Plus, he knocked up Meg and forgot to tell me.”
“No. Freaking. Way.” Mac leaned forward, her eyes still wide. “So, I take it things are officially over between you two?”
“Very much so,” Veronica replied, ignoring the sandwich and stabbing her fork into the cake.
Mac shook her head, still processing. “That’s… intense. Are you okay?”
“I’ll survive,” Veronica said with a faint smile. “Thanks for asking.” She suddenly grinned mischievously. “Bet you wish the week-long threesome rumours were true right about now.”
Mac didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know… after a week-long sex-a-thon, would you even still be walking? Because honestly, you’re barely holding it together as is.”
Veronica laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, please. My stamina’s fine - it’s just my schedule that can’t keep up with those kinds of marathon rumours.”
The two of them shared a grin before the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch. Mac grabbed her bag and headed off to her next class, waving a quick goodbye. Veronica lingered for a moment, letting the sound of the lunch area fade into the background. She stood, picked up her tray, and walked to the trash, dumping the remains of her meal. That’s when she spotted Trina sauntering in her direction, her signature overconfidence radiating in every step.
“Veronica Mars, I’ve been looking for you,” Trina greeted, tossing her red hair over her shoulder with dramatic flair. She held a glossy stack of magazines, practically vibrating with excitement. “Have you seen these?”
She thrust them at Veronica, who flicked through them. Headlines like ‘The Echolls Family Curse’ and ‘Starlet’s Silent Struggle with Death’ jumped off the pages, each more sensational than the last. Trina looked positively gleeful.
“Have you heard from Celeste Kane?” Trina asked curiously.
Veronica shook her head. “I’m sorry, nothing.”
Before Trina could press further, Mary Mooney appeared, rushing towards them with an urgency that made Veronica confused. She hadn’t seen Mary in weeks - not since the woman had shattered her final illusions about her mother.
Mary was signing rapidly, her movements frantic and insistent. Veronica furrowed her brow, trying to keep up with the signs.
“Slow,” Veronica finger-spelled back, holding up a hand, but Mary was too caught up in her urgency. She gestured to her stomach and then pointed at Trina, her hands shaking with emotion.
“What’s lunch lady Doris saying?” Trina asked, confusion clear in her tone.
“Her name is Mary,” Veronica said absently, her focus still on the signs. “And she’s saying...” Veronica’s voice caught for a moment as she pieced it together. “She wants to give you her bone marrow, Trina.”
Trina blinked, the words not registering at first. “What?”
Mary stepped closer, her trembling hands falling uselessly to her sides as she abandoned signing words entirely. After a beat, with a sudden, desperate motion, she flung her arms around Trina, pulling her into a fierce embrace.
Trina froze, her sharp edges faltering for a moment. Slowly, hesitantly, her arms came up to return the embrace. When understanding dawned, her face softened, and for once, Trina Echolls looked genuinely vulnerable.
Not long after, Veronica found herself sitting with Mary at a quiet, empty table in the corner of the lunch area. The older woman, visibly calmer now, had taken the time to explain everything.
Trina was the prom baby - a child born of a fleeting, scandalous affair between Mary and a teacher. A teacher who, as fate would have it, was now the school principal. But as shocking as that revelation was, it wasn’t the part that lingered most in Veronica’s mind, after Mary had cleared up something that had weighed heavily on Veronica’s heart.
Mary and Lianne had been close friends. Lianne hadn’t been the villain Veronica had feared, the woman who had abandoned her family, chosen alcohol over her daughter, squandered Veronica’s college fund after leaving rehab early, and stolen the $50,000 reward that Keith and Veronica desperately needed.
Instead, back then, Lianne had been a protector, keeping Mary’s secret safe, even at great personal cost.
This truth didn’t erase the pain of her mother’s later choices or the scars left by her abandonment. But knowing that Lianne hadn’t always been the woman she became - knowing she once stood for something good - made Veronica’s heart feel just a little lighter.
***
As the final bell rang at the end of the day, Veronica spotted Logan putting some items in his locker. Her steps faltered for a moment, her stomach twisting slightly. Over the past week, they’d managed a truce, and potentially more than that. But now, back in the familiar territory of Neptune High, she worried it had all been temporary. What if his usual walls were back up? The biting sarcasm, the deflective anger - she wasn’t sure she could deal with that right now.
The thought made her chest tighten, an unexpected wave of anxiety washing over her. She hated how much it mattered, how much she didn’t want to lose the fragile connection they’d rebuilt.
As she approached, Logan looked up, his smirk softening as their eyes met.
“Veronica,” he greeted, his tone light but free of malice. “Looking less like roadkill. That’s progress.”
The tension in her chest eased immediately, relief flooding her. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. This was something she could safely work with. “Thanks,” she said dryly, her lips quirking into a faint smile. “I’ll be sure to add that to my Compliments from Logan collection.”
Logan tilted his head, intrigued. “There’s a whole collection?”
She mimed flipping through an invisible book, her brow furrowing theatrically. “Let’s see… Nope. That’s it. The one and only entry.”
“Harsh,” Logan replied, chuckling. “Alright, I’ll have to step up my game. Can’t let my legacy hinge on just one backhanded compliment.” His gaze shifted to her sling, the teasing glint in his eyes fading as his smirk gave way to a more thoughtful expression. “Seriously, though. How are you holding up?”
“I’m good,” she said, the words automatic but carrying a hint of sincerity under his scrutiny. “Some girl in the bathroom asked if I needed help finding a domestic violence shelter. So, you know, that was the high point of my day.”
“Aww, heartwarming,” Logan quipped, his grin returning.
Veronica shook her head, the ghost of a laugh escaping her. “And now I have a couple of intense days trying to catch up on everything I missed before the end of term.”
“If anyone can handle it, it’s you,” he said, his tone sincere.
She smiled faintly, feeling a flicker of warmth at his words. “Thanks. What about you? I guess you’re doing the same?”
“Yeah,” he admitted with a shrug. “Had to tell everyone I caught the flu. Unfortunately, I don’t have a cool sling to milk the sympathy vote.”
Veronica smirked. “Your loss.”
As the moment lingered, her tone softened. “Hey, I’ve got a ton of work to do tonight, but can I come over one evening? We need to plan our next steps for your case.”
Logan nodded. “Just let me know when.”
Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted them.
“Well, well, look who’s still alive,” Dick greeted Logan with a mock salute with a wide and obnoxious grin. “You two planning to hit up the party of the century? A party boat for New Year's - who can say no?”
Veronica shook her head, her lips curving into a slight frown.
“Other than you, buzzkill,” Dick added scathingly.
Logan rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Not sure yet.”
Dick, however, wasn’t one to take a hint. His gaze shifted to Veronica, studying her with the kind of scrutiny that made her feel like a specimen. “So, Ronnie... is Duncan going?”
Veronica hesitated for a beat, the question catching her off guard. Before she could formulate an answer, Logan spoke up, his voice smooth but firm.
“He’s away with his family,” Logan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “So, no, he won’t be there.”
Dick’s eyes lit up, and he leaned in closer, his voice adopting a sugary sweetness that made Veronica’s stomach turn. “Oh, interesting. So, did Duncan, like, break up with you or something? I mean, if you’re looking for someone to fill that... void, I’m sure Logan here—” He waved a hand towards Logan, a smug grin plastered across his face. “—would be happy to help you out. You love rich guy dick, right?”
Logan’s jaw clenched, his body tensing as his hand shot out, gripping Dick’s shoulder and pulling him back with significant force. Dick blinked in surprise.
“Shut the hell up, Dick,” Logan growled coldly. “Don’t speak to her like that.”
Dick raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Chill, I’m just messing around. Timing’s everything, though, right?” He shot a glance at Veronica, his grin twisting into something sharper. “Speaking of good timing... if Duncan’s on the rebound, his ex just woke up from her coma. Bet Meg’s real ready to play the supportive girlfriend again.”
Veronica froze, the shock of his words setting in. Logan’s face darkened, his gaze now locked on Dick, but before he could speak, Dick shrugged and turned away, strolling down the corridor without a care.
Veronica stood still, her mind racing. “I…I need to go see Meg,” she said quietly, her voice shaking with a mixture of disbelief and urgency.
Logan’s eyes softened, and without hesitation, he pushed off the locker. “I’ll go with you.”
Veronica shook her head, but there was a hint of gratitude in her eyes. “It’s okay. I have a visitor pass from when I picked up Abel Koontz’s belongings.” Her voice was calm, but inside, her thoughts were racing. Meg had been so angry with her at the start of the school year. Her warm, forgiving friend had clearly found her backbone. Learning about her pregnancy and the horror of her family’s treatment made everything fall into place. She bit her lip, remembering something else. Her dad had driven her to school that day.
Logan caught her reaction and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Veronica gestured toward her sling. “I can’t drive.”
He smiled, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Come on, Miss Daisy. Let’s go.”
Veronica gave him a tight, grateful smile as she followed him out the door towards the parking lot.
***
The sterile hospital room was quiet, save for the soft beep of the monitors and the quiet shuffle of Veronica’s shoes on the linoleum floor. Meg was lying in the bed, her blonde hair had the slightest wave in it. Her pregnancy was now unmistakable, the curve of her stomach jutting out beneath the blanket, but despite the months spent in a coma, she looked much better than Veronica had feared. There was some colour in her cheeks, but the usual sparkle in her eyes were dulled.
Veronica stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in her friend’s fragile state before stepping into the room. She smiled gently but couldn’t mask the worry in her eyes.
“Hey, Meg,” Veronica said, her voice soft.
“Veronica,” Meg whispered, her voice slightly hoarse. She tried to sit up, but the effort seemed too much, so she sank back into the pillows, her hands resting protectively over her stomach. To Veronica’s relief she smiled, and the cold anger that had been there previously seemed to have dulled. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Meg.”
“Where’s Duncan?” Meg asked, looking at the doorway as if she was expecting him to follow her in.
Veronica hesitated, looking at her for a long moment before responding with quiet honesty. “He’s in a clinic.”
Meg blinked, surprised, her brows furrowing. “A clinic?” she repeated, as if she hadn’t quite processed the words. “What kind of clinic?”
“A mental health clinic,” Veronica offered. “He had an episode, and he’s getting some treatment at the moment.”
Meg’s concern shifted to Veronica. She noticed the sling, the bruises that were still visible on her skin, though they were fading. “What happened to you?” she asked, her voice filled with genuine worry. “You look… hurt?”
Veronica smiled weakly. “I’m supposed to be the one checking on you, remember?” she said, trying to deflect. But Meg’s eyes narrowed, sensing the evasion.
“No,” Meg pressed, her voice kind but firm. “What happened to you?”
Veronica sighed, pulling up a chair beside the bed. She ran a hand through her hair, then met Meg’s gaze. “This was the result of Duncan’s episode,” she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “It was a really bad one. He just... lost it, Meg.”
Meg’s face fell, and she looked away for a moment, processing what she’d just heard. She swallowed hard, her eyes wide. “Oh my God... I’m not surprised, I guess. My parents have got their lawyers digging through his medical history, and said he has a pattern of blackouts and violent outbursts,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I saw him after Logan’s surprise party. You remember when we were all there, and Duncan found out about you two?” Veronica nodded. “He just... he was wrecked, Veronica. He went out to his car and just started wailing on it. I tried to talk to him, but nothing I said got through. It was like he wasn’t even there anymore.” Meg’s voice faltered, her eyes distant as she recalled the terrifying scene. “It was really scary. I didn’t know what to do.”
Veronica’s heart ached for Meg, the memory of her friend’s helplessness now echoing in her voice. “I’m sorry, Meg,” she said softly. “I know it must have been terrifying for you.”
Meg shook her head, her expression softening. “No, I was an awful friend to you. When I saw you with him again, I didn’t handle it very well. I’m sorry.”
Veronica smiled faintly, brushing it off. “It’s okay. I get it, Meg. You were going through hell yourself.” She paused, then added, “You must’ve been.”
Meg’s eyes clouded with emotion, and she nodded. “Everything seemed fine. I really thought Duncan and I were in love. After we... after we slept together, though, it was like I didn’t even exist. He just shut me out. Completely.”
Veronica’s heart twisted in sympathy. “Duncan just avoids things until they blow up,” she said softly. “It’s like he can’t face anything head-on.”
Meg’s lips trembled, her eyes filling with tears. “I thought we had something real. But now...” She looked down at her stomach, her hands folding over it as though protecting the baby inside. “Now, I don’t know what to do.”
“I assume by the fact your parents are looking at Duncan, they didn’t take the news well?” she asked, her voice gentle.
Meg let out a long, shaky sigh. “Badly sums it up,” she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. “They’re so... awful. They want me to give the baby up through the Levi Stinson Sanctuary House.”
Veronica frowned, her brow furrowing. “What’s that?”
Meg’s eyes were dark with frustration. “It’s horrible. It’s basically religious indoctrination through adoption. Their contracts are all about ‘tough love’ discipline. It’s just a fancy way of saying they can abuse you if you don’t follow their rules.”
Veronica’s stomach turned. She knew exactly what Meg meant. “Duncan found the emails you sent to CPS about an abused child,” she said, her voice low. She swallowed hard. “He gave them to me, and we found out who it was.”
Meg’s face drained of colour, her eyes widening in disbelief. “You did?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “How... how did you—?”
“We sneaked into your house, looking for more evidence,” Veronica said quietly. “We found Grace in a cupboard, along with all the books he makes her write. But your dad found us before we could do anything and he called the police.”
Her face crumpled, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh my God,” Meg whispered, her voice breaking. “What did the police do?”
“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” Veronica shrugged sadly.
Meg looked nauseous as she said, “My parents are insane. Now you understand why they can’t have my child.”
Reaching for Meg’s hand, reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “I want to help, Meg. I want to help you get your baby out of there, away from your parents, and I want to make sure Grace is safe.”
Meg’s eyes filled with gratitude and desperation. “Please, Veronica, don’t let them take my baby.”
Veronica nodded, her determination hardening. “I’ll do everything I can. I’ll speak to Duncan, see if he’s in a place where he can help, and we’ll come up with a plan.
Meg’s expression softened, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “And Grace?”
Veronica took a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can do. We’ll figure this out together.”
Meg’s lips quivered into a tearful smile, gratitude spilling from her eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” She hesitated, clearly wrestling with something, before finally meeting Veronica’s gaze again. “Are you and Duncan still…?”
Veronica shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. Reaching out, she squeezed Meg’s hand, her touch firm and reassuring. “But that doesn’t matter right now. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay? Logan’s waiting to give me a ride home.”
As Veronica turned to leave, she noticed Meg stiffen suddenly, her face paling as beads of sweat formed on her forehead. Alarm shot through her. “Meg? Are you okay?”
Meg’s brow furrowed, her hand pressing to her chest. “It… hurts,” she murmured, her breathing shallow.
Panic surged in Veronica’s veins. She lunged for the call button, slamming it with urgency. Within moments, a nurse burst into the room, her face sharp with concern.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the nurse said briskly.
“Something’s wrong,” Veronica shot back, her voice tight with fear.
The nurse turned her attention to Meg as Veronica was ushered towards the door. She stood in the hallway, frozen, watching in horror as more medical staff rushed into the room. The air felt heavy, suffocating, and the muffled sounds of urgent voices filtered through the door.
“Veronica?”
She startled at the familiar voice and turned to see Logan peering around the corner. His brow furrowed as he took in her stricken expression. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”
Veronica shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “Something’s wrong with Meg.”
Logan’s frown deepened as he stepped closer. “Let’s wait here,” he said gently, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “They’ll let us know what’s happening.”
Veronica nodded, but her gaze remained fixed on the door, dread clawing at her as she prayed for Meg to pull through.
The waiting room was eerily quiet except for the occasional murmur of voices and the distant hum of machines. It had been a couple of hours, but Veronica still sat rigidly in one of the stiff plastic chairs, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned white. Logan sat beside her, his posture relaxed but his eyes flicking towards her every few moments, a silent check-in. Not long after Veronica had left the room, they had rushed Meg off – presumably to surgery.
They both looked up as a nurse emerged from the corridor leading to the ICU. The woman’s face was calm but resolute as she approached them.
“You’re the one that was with Meg Manning?” the nurse asked softly.
Veronica stood, her heart pounding. “Yes, is she okay?”
The nurse hesitated, glancing around the room before lowering her voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you this - it’s against patient confidentiality - but I know you’re the one who called for help.”
Veronica’s breath hitched, and Logan straightened beside her, his expression sharpening.
“It was a blood clot,” the nurse continued. “It’s a risk for patients who’ve been in a coma. The clot travelled to her heart.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “We rushed her into surgery and… we were able to save her. But it was close - very close. If you’d waited even a minute longer to press that call button, we wouldn’t have been able to bring her back.”
Veronica’s knees felt weak, and she gripped the back of her chair for support. Relief and shock warred within her, leaving her momentarily speechless.
“She’s stable now,” the nurse added with a small, reassuring smile. “And it’s a blessing you acted when you did.”
Veronica nodded numbly. “Thanks for telling us. And the baby?”
“She was safely delivered by C-section and is doing well,” the nurse said, her kind expression softening further. “Both are being closely monitored, but things look good so far.” With a final reassuring glance, the nurse disappeared back down the hall.
Sinking back into her chair, Veronica’s head fell forward into her hand as the enormity of the moment washed over her.
Logan stepped closer, placing a hand gently on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Say what you want about your luck, but your timing’s pretty spot-on.”
She let out a shaky laugh, the tension in her chest easing just a little.
“Thanks for staying with me,” she said softly after a moment, her eyes flicking up to meet his.
“Always,” he replied, his tone steady and sincere.
***
Notes:
If for any reason you can't see the note Veronica left it reads:
Logan, my dad is on his way home. Thank you for putting me back together again. Veronica x
Chapter 9: Chapter Nine
Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights in the classroom buzzed faintly as Veronica slouched in her chair, eyelids heavy. It was officially the final day of school before Christmas break, and the classroom carried the usual mix of excitement and impatience. Lopsided decorations hung from the walls - crinkled paper snowflakes and limp tinsel that looked like they’d been recycled from at least a decade ago. Clearly, Mr. Pope wasn’t in the holiday spirit.
Veronica, however, was in survival mode. After a late night cramming to finish her backlog of assignments, she was running on fumes and caffeine. She stifled a yawn as Mr. Pope stood at the front of the room, gesturing to the screen displaying their virtual stock portfolios.
“Let’s go over the leaderboard,” Mr. Pope said, adjusting his glasses. “ Let’s start with the positive - Mr. Echolls, your portfolio is up 15% this week. Impressive work.”
Logan tilted back in his chair, his trademark smirk firmly in place. “What can I say? I’ve got the Midas touch.”
“Yeah, right,” Dick interjected. “What’d you do, bribe some poor stockbroker?”
The class chuckled, and Mr. Pope pressed on, unfazed. “Mr. Casablancas, the Casablancas Realty portfolio is… well, still at zero percent.”
Dick groaned, throwing up his hands. “Hey, it’s a long-term strategy. You’ll all see.”
“Someday,” Mr. Pope replied dryly, “but not today.” He moved on, his gaze settling on Veronica and Cassidy. “Miss Mars and Mr. Casablancas - Cassidy, I mean - you two are still neck and neck.” Veronica straightened in her seat, a flicker of pride warming her tired demeanour. Beside her, Cassidy glanced over with a competitive smile. “But,” Mr. Pope added with a smile, “as of this morning, Veronica has officially pulled into the lead.”
Before she could react, Dick leaned forward with a leering grin. “Oh, Mars likes being on top? Should’ve guessed.”
Veronica turned to Dick with a withering smile. “That’s right, Dick. And since you’re so used to being at the bottom, I figured I’d leave you where you’re most comfortable.”
“Miss Goodman,” Mr. Pope called, glancing at the next line on the stock lists. Gia waved her hand lazily, flashing a bright smile. “Not doing bad, your stocks are in the middle currently.”
Mr. Pope scanned the room, his eyes landing on Duncan’s empty seat. “Where is Mr. Kane? He’s absent yet again.”
Dick leaned forward, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Oh, you know, probably hiding out with his parents. Can’t blame the guy - gotta get away from his crazy ex somehow.”
Veronica rolled her eyes, shaking her head.
Mr. Pope adjusted his tie. “Well, considering his portfolio is currently the second worst-performing, perhaps it’s for the best.”
Logan leaned towards Veronica and whispered teasingly, “Guess his stocks are as stable as his love life.”
Without missing a beat, Veronica murmured back, “Well, at least they’re more stable than Duncan himself. And that’s saying something.”
Logan froze for half a second, then barked out a genuine laugh that drew the attention of half the class. He grinned at her, his eyes alight with amusement. “Savage. I think I’m in love.”
“Get in line, Echolls,” she deadpanned, flicking her pencil against the edge of her desk.
As Mr. Pope finished reviewing the last set of scores, Veronica glanced at the clock. The important part of the lesson was winding down. She caught Mr. Pope’s eye, raising her hand. “Mr. Pope, can I leave early? My shoulder’s really starting to ache.”
Mr. Pope paused, adjusting his glasses as he looked at her. “You sure? You’ll miss the rest of the presentation.”
Veronica winced dramatically, cradling her arm against her chest. “It’s been bothering me all period. I think I better check in with the nurse.”
With a sympathetic nod, Mr. Pope agreed. “Alright, take care of it, Miss Mars. Don’t want you in more pain than you need to be.”
Veronica gave him a grateful smile and started gathering her things. As she walked towards the door, she saw Logan watching her with a knowing expression. He raised an eyebrow, shaking his head slightly, knowing full well she was faking it. She paused for a moment, meeting his gaze, and then grinned, confirming his theory.
Outside the school building the crisp December air cut through her layers and the cold seeped into her bones as she hurried across the empty campus. The rest of the school was locked away in classrooms, oblivious to her little mission. She had timed it perfectly - everyone else was too busy to notice her slip away. Her breath clouded in the air, sharp against the chill, as she quickened her pace towards the parking lot.
She crouched low near the bikes, the cold biting at her fingertips as she fumbled in her bag for the trackers and recording devices she had so carefully packed. Her heart raced, the adrenaline pumping through her veins as she glanced around, ensuring no one was watching. She had spent hours researching and memorising which bikes belonged to which PCHer. Thumper’s battered Kawasaki, its paint chipped and faded; Bootsy’s Yamaha, its decals peeling like old skin; and Hector’s sleek Suzuki, polished to a shine like it was still fresh from the showroom. These were her targets.
Her fingers were steady but worked quickly and precisely as she attached the devices beneath the seats of each bike. She had to be careful. The last thing she needed was for one of those guys to notice something was off. Her pulse thundered in her ears, a combination of the thrill of the task and the gnawing fear of getting caught. Each second felt like a small eternity as she moved between the bikes, her breath coming in sharp bursts, fogging in the cold air.
One down. She stepped back from Thumper’s bike, wiping her hands on her jeans, the cold air making her skin tingle. She glanced around again, her eyes scanning the parking lot for any sign of movement. Satisfied, she moved to the next bike.
By the time she finished with Hector’s Suzuki, the cold had seeped deep into her limbs. But there was one more job to do. Scanning the lot, her gaze landed on her final target: a pale pink Mini Cooper. How cute, she thought, a smirk tugging at her lips. She pulled out her penknife, crouched beside the car, and drove the blade into the tyre with a swift, determined motion. She straightened up, dusting off her hands, and took one last look around the lot to make sure no one had seen her. The bell rang, echoing across the nearly deserted campus, signalling the end of class. Perfect timing. She made her way back to the school, her boots crunching in the gravel, her breath still visible as she re-entered the warmth of the building.
Inside, the hallways were filled with the usual noise of students shuffling between classes. Veronica spotted Mac coming out of her own class, her face unreadable, but there was a slight softness in her eyes that Veronica couldn’t help but notice. They fell into step beside each other, the noise of the school fading to a dull hum as they walked in silence for a moment.
“So,” Mac broke the quiet, her voice low but curious, “any luck with Wallace yet?”
Veronica sighed, frustration curling in her chest. “Still nothing. I’ve apologised a dozen times by email and text, but he’s not answering.”
Mac crossed her arms, her brow furrowing as she looked at Veronica with a mixture of concern and confusion. “Why’s he so mad anyway?”
Veronica hesitated, then let out a breath. “Jackie.”
Mac’s eyebrow shot up, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Did he expect you to let the crap she pulled slide?”
Veronica smiled, the edges of her lips tugging slightly upward. At least Mac got it. Jackie had crossed a line. Using an embarrassing anecdote about her? Annoying. But using her dead best friend? That was crossing into unforgivable territory. Jackie deserved to face the consequences of her actions.
“I actually tried to let it go,” Veronica said, her voice laced with a hint of bitterness. “But then she was all over Logan at the dance.”
Mac’s smirk widened. “So what was the issue? Jackie cheating on Wallace or cheating on Wallace with Logan?”
Veronica shot her a sharp look, her eyes narrowing. “Hilarious.”
Mac shrugged, unfazed by Veronica’s pointed glare, her lips curling into a sly smirk. “Just saying,” she muttered, her gaze flicking towards Dick, who was loitering by the vending machines. His posture was casual, but there was an underlying tension in the way he kept his eyes darting around, scanning the hallway. Veronica’s stare lingered on him for a second too long, and Mac clearly noticed, adding with a hint of teasing, “So, what’s the plan now? Need help taking down the Casablancas empire?”
Veronica chuckled darkly, her lips twisting into a wry smile as she shifted her attention to Dick. “Not today. But I do need to talk to him.”
Mac raised an eyebrow, her voice dripping with mock surprise. “Now I know you must have hit your head.”
Veronica rolled her eyes, the grin on her face widening as the playful challenge lingered in the air. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
With a quick glance, she turned and walked towards Dick, her footsteps echoing against the lockers. The hall was quieter than usual, the low hum of distant voices and the occasional creak of a door the only sounds filling the space. There was something about Dick that always made Veronica’s skin crawl - the way he had an almost innate ability to get under her skin, the constant need to act like the world revolved around him. But worse still was the fact that she had to lower herself to ask him for a favour.
As she approached him, Dick’s eyes flicked up, immediately narrowing with suspicion. The grin on his face faltered for a second before he recovered, giving her a look that could only be described as wary. “What’d I do now?”
“Relax,” Veronica said, her voice smooth and composed. “Is it true you’re surfing with Logan later this week?”
Dick raised an eyebrow, his expression turning even more guarded. “Yeah. Why?”
“I need you to keep him distracted,” Veronica said, her tone clipped but deliberate. “Not just for the morning, but all afternoon too. It’s for his case. Can you do that?”
Dick’s wariness deepened, his eyes narrowing even further as he scrutinised her. “What’re you up to, Mars?”
Veronica flashed him a cool, inscrutable smile. “Nothing you need to worry about. You’ll be doing him a favour, not me. Just keep Logan busy. All day. Got it?”
Dick’s expression remained unreadable for a moment before he shrugged, the casual indifference of someone who never bothered to think too deeply about anything. “Fine. But if this backfires, it’s on you.”
Veronica’s smile was all teeth, her voice dropping to a low, cold edge. “And if you tell Logan about this conversation, I’ll make your life hell.” The words hung in the air like a threat, and from the way Dick’s eyes widened slightly, Veronica could tell he wasn’t about to test her. He believed every word she said.
Turning to leave, she caught sight of Logan further down the hall. He was leaning casually against his locker, arms crossed, watching her conversation with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Her heart gave a quick, unexpected flutter, but she pushed it aside and approached him with a serious expression, her face schooled into something unreadable.
“Something you need to tell me?” Logan’s voice was laced with teasing, his eyes glinting with amusement as he tilted his head.
Veronica took Logan’s hands in hers, her fingers briefly brushing against his skin, sending a ripple of warmth through her. She let the moment hang between them, her face slipping into an exaggerated solemnity. The hallway around them seemed to quiet, the distant murmur of students’ voices fading as she lowered her voice into a mock-serious tone. “Logan,” she began, her words tinged with playful gravity, “you’re right. There’s something you need to know. Dick and I…” She paused, dragging out the silence, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she glanced up at him. “We’ve been having a secret love affair. Don’t tell anyone.”
Logan’s grin broke through almost instantly, his posture shifting as he laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Wow. I knew there was chemistry.”
Veronica’s lips twitched with amusement as she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Well, now you know.”
She winked at him, then turned on her heel, walking away with a confident stride, leaving Logan standing there, bemused and shaking his head, a smile still tugging at the corners of his lips.
At the end of the hallway, Veronica’s gaze flicked to the side, and she spotted Weevil. She glanced back at Logan, making sure his attention was elsewhere before she quickened her pace, her boots clicking sharply against the floor. She reached out and grabbed Weevil’s arm, spinning him towards her with a suddenness that caught him off guard. Before he could protest, she dragged him into the girls' bathroom, slamming the door behind them and locking it with a practiced motion, her “Out of Order” sign quickly slapped onto the door handle.
“What the hell, Vee?” Weevil protested, his voice rough with confusion, but Veronica was already stepping closer to him, her face a mask of urgency.
“We need to talk,” Veronica said, her tone sharp.
Leaning back against the sink, he crossed his arms, his usual cocky expression creeping across his face. “What’s this? You finally come to have your wicked way with me?”
Veronica shot him a glare that could freeze fire, her eyes blazing with intensity. “Not even in your dreams, Navarro,” she snapped, stepping closer, her posture rigid with barely contained frustration. “Do you have anything to tell me?”
Weevil’s brow furrowed, and he pushed off the sink, his voice laced with genuine confusion. “About what?”
Her gaze didn’t waver as she let the words fall from her mouth, each one deliberate and heavy. “I’ll start saying words. Stop me when you catch up. Logan. Kidnap. A gun. Russian roulette.”
Weevil faltered for a moment, but then his eyes narrowed, and he scoffed. “Uh, you already knew about that.”
Veronica’s eyes flashed with impatience. “Not so much on the details. I wasn’t exactly myself at the time.”
“I noticed.” Weevil’s laugh was dry, almost mocking, but Veronica wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
She reached into her bag and pulled out her taser, the metallic click of it echoing in the quiet room, emphasising the gravity of her words. Her voice dropped into something colder than the air outside, her gaze unwavering. “I am not screwing around with you, Weevil. If I ever hear about you doing anything like that again to Logan, you’ll regret it. Understand?”
His eyes flicked to the taser, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “You going to use that on me?”
“If I need to,” she replied through gritted teeth, her grip tightening on the taser, the weight of it heavy in the silence between them.
Weevil’s expression darkened, the playful attitude fading as he straightened up, his voice rising slightly. “I thought he killed Felix.”
Veronica’s grip on the taser tightened, her knuckles white. “I’ve been telling you for months he didn’t,” she snapped, her voice sharp with frustration. “Why couldn’t you listen to me? I saw Logan that night, he couldn’t even stand.”
His voice grew louder, tinged with a rawness that Veronica had rarely seen. “You of all people should understand what it’s like to lose a best friend.”
Her eyes flashed with a mix of anger and something else - something deeper. She took a step forward, her voice quieter now, but no less intense. “I do. But I don’t remember kidnapping suspects and playing Russian roulette with their body parts.”
"The gun wasn't loaded," Weevil snapped back, instantly defensive.
Veronica's voice dropped, a dangerous edge creeping in. "Oh, well, that makes it just fine then. And just a reminder - the shotgun aimed at Logan and me was definitely loaded." The words were thick with bitterness, the memory still raw. If that night hadn’t happened – Logan wouldn’t have burnt down the community pool. Those final, explosive events of that long, hot summer had irrevocably shattered something between them. And for Veronica, the trauma of Aaron locking her in a freezer and setting it ablaze was still a fresh wound. Her already frayed nerves couldn't withstand the constant fear that being with Logan had ignited within her.
A flicker of remorse crossed Weevil's face, quickly masked by a hardening glare. "Echolls isn't exactly a saint. He bought my house out from under me."
Her expression softened, but only slightly. She took a breath, her voice lowering, but still edged with steel. “That’s awful, it really is. But not to play tit-for-tat, but I seem to recall you burning down Logan’s house first.”
Weevil's lip curled in disdain. "He can afford to replace it," he spat, the words laced with resentment.
The words hit Veronica harder than she expected, a surge of anger rising in her chest. "The house? Sure. But the only things he had left from his dead mother - do you think he can replace those?" Her voice cracked, her eyes hardening.
For a moment, Weevil’s gaze faltered, and she saw the guilt clear as day before he quickly looked away. The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy.
Veronica stepped in close, her presence suddenly overwhelming in the small room. "I've let you two play out your stupid war for long enough," she said, her voice dangerous. "I know you're working together now, but the bullshit has to stop. If you pull anything like that again – anything -you will be at the receiving end of my taser. Repeatedly." Her words were a final, chilling warning, her expression fierce and unwavering.
Without waiting for a response, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her, the sound reverberating through the empty hallway like the echo of a final declaration.
***
The final bell rang, its sharp chime slicing through the noise of the classroom as Veronica pushed her way out, her thoughts already a few steps ahead. She couldn’t afford to be delayed - not today.
She moved quickly, her boots echoing off the polished tiles as she raced down the corridor, weaving through groups of students who lingered by their lockers. The air outside was cool, sharp with the bite of winter, and she wasted no time in pushing through the school doors, her breath misting in the chill. Her eyes immediately scanned the parking lot, crowded with cars and students heading home.
She spotted the pink Mini Cooper and walked far enough away that she could keep an eye on it, but not so close as to stand out.
She didn’t have to wait long. A tall, blonde girl appeared from the crowd, her hands fumbling with the strap of her bag as she made her way towards the car. She moved with the distracted haste of someone trying to get out of there quickly. When her gaze fell on the flat tyre, her face twisted with dismay, her steps faltering.
Veronica gave it a beat, watching the girl take in the situation before stepping forward, her expression softening into a sympathetic smile. “Got a flat?”
The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, then shifted to anxiety. She nodded, looking at the tyre like it might suddenly grow legs and move on its own. “I don’t know how to change a tyre,” she admitted, her voice tinged with panic.
Veronica’s smile deepened, and she crouched down beside the car with ease, her movements smooth and practiced. “No worries. I’ve changed enough tyres to know my way around one. I can help.”
The girl’s expression shifted, first from worry to surprise, then to recognition. Her eyes widened in shock. “You’re Veronica Mars?”
Veronica straightened, a self-deprecating grin tugging at her lips. “Uh-oh. Don’t tell me you’ve heard a million rumours about me.”
The girl shrugged, her cheeks flushing a little. “Some. I know you were friends with that girl who was murdered... Lilly Kane.” She froze, realising what she’d said, and her face blanched. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned that.”
Veronica’s smile didn’t waver; instead, she raised a hand in reassurance. “Don’t worry about it. I was friends with Lilly. And after she died, let’s just say I became very familiar with the art of changing tyres.”
The girl seemed to relax at Veronica’s warm tone, her anxiety slowly fading as she watched Veronica work. Together, they rummaged through the boot, pulling out the spare tyre and jack. Veronica set to work, her hands moving with efficiency due to the familiarity of the task.
“Wow,” the girl said, watching in awe as the tyre was replaced in no time. “I can’t believe you did that so fast. I thought I was going to be stuck here for hours waiting for a tow truck. I, uh, really owe you one.”
Veronica flashed a quick smile, wiping her hands on a rag before standing up. “No need. But we should hang out sometime. You know, so I can teach you how to do this yourself.”
The girl’s eyes lit up, a delighted smile spreading across her face. “Yeah, that would be cool.”
“I work at Java the Hut,” Veronica added. “Come by for a slice of cake sometime. I’ll even let you in on some of my tyre-changing secrets.”
The girl grinned, clearly thrilled by the attention of a senior. “I’ll definitely do that. I’m Hannah Griffith, by the way.”
Veronica nodded with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Hannah. Have a good Christmas.”
Hannah climbed into her pale pink car, flashing a bright smile back at Veronica. Now that she’d had met its owner, the car seemed to suit Hannah perfectly. It was relatively new, and given Tom Griffith’s financial struggles just a year ago, there was no way he could have afforded it back then. However, the car aligned with his sudden change of fortune following his divorce - a change Veronica couldn’t help but link to his later decision to lie to the police about being on the bridge with Logan.
Veronica turned away with a quiet sense of satisfaction, and headed to the front of the school where her dad was waiting to drive her home.
***
Logan had spent the day soaking up the freedom of the Christmas break. The waves had been perfect, and he and Dick had spent hours out on the water, swapping waves and trash-talking each other like the carefree kids they used to be. Afterwards, they’d headed back to Dick’s, where Cassidy had joined them for a marathon of videogames and action movies.
At one point, during a lull between rounds of Call of Duty, Dick had turned to Logan, his trademark smirk in place. “So, what’s up with you and Veronica?” he’d asked, his tone teasing but his gaze sharper than usual.
“She’s been helping me with my case,” he replied with a casual shrug. “It’s made things... easier.”
“So, you’re not hitting that?”
Logan finally looked at him, his patience wearing thin. “You have such a way with words, Dick,” he said flatly. “Hallmark should hire you.”
Dick had raised a sceptical eyebrow, but before he could press the issue, Cassidy had muttered something about Logan’s terrible aim, and Dick’s attention had shifted instantly, as it always did. Logan was grateful for his friend’s short attention span.
As the sky darkened, Logan began to feel the pull of returning to his suite. A couple of times, he’d suggested heading back, but Dick always had a reason to stall - a new movie to watch, another round of Street Fighter to play. Finally, Logan had made his excuses, slipping out into the cool evening air.
The drive back was quiet, the faint hum of the car stereo his only companion. As the hotel came into view, the familiar ache crept back in. This was going to be his first Christmas entirely alone. Logan had assumed he’d spend it with Duncan, but with his best friend still off the grid, that plan was off the table.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since lunch, and he quickened his pace through the lobby, eager to grab something from room service and crash for the night.
Sliding his keycard through the reader, he waited for the soft beep and pushed the door open. He stepped inside and froze, his breath catching in his throat.
Fairy lights traced the edges of the ceiling, their soft, golden glow bathing the room in warmth. Tinsel cascaded across the walls, catching the light with a cheerful sparkle. In the corner stood a magnificent Christmas tree, its lush branches dressed in delicate ornaments, candy canes, and strings of lights. A glittering star perched proudly at the top, completing the picture.
Logan stepped further inside, his eyes trailing over the scene. His heart clenched as he took it all in. For a moment, he thought it might be some kind of mix-up - a gift from the hotel for its long-term guests. But the personal touches told him otherwise. The decorations weren’t generic; they felt intentional and thoughtful.
His gaze then landed on the kitchenette. The table was set with an entire Christmas meal - roast turkey, potatoes, stuffing, and an array of vegetables. The scent of cinnamon and roasted herbs lingered faintly in the air, and he felt his throat tighten.
This wasn’t random. This was…
Before he could complete the thought, the door to his bedroom opened.
Veronica stepped out, and for a moment, Logan thought he might have imagined her. She wore a sleek black dress that hugged her figure perfectly, paired with a shimmering green shrug that glittered with every subtle movement. Her sling was cleverly wrapped in red-and-white striped fabric, transforming it into a festive candy cane. A Santa hat sat jauntily atop her head, the fluffy white trim framing her face, while her lips curved into a warm, almost shy smile that somehow lit up the entire room.
“You’re home,” she said, her voice light and warm, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Logan stared, his brain scrambling to catch up. “What’s this?” he managed, his voice cracking slightly.
Veronica tilted her head, her smile turning into a teasing smirk. “Do I need to explain the concept of Christmas to you?”
Her tone was playful, but Logan couldn’t shake the lump in his throat. He glanced back at the tree, the lights, the meal - everything that had been so carefully arranged - and then back at her.
“Why…?” he began, but his voice faltered.
Veronica stepped closer, her Santa hat slipping slightly askew. She shrugged lightly, her eyes meeting his with a mix of mischief and sincerity. “Why not?”
He let out a shaky laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting into a genuine smile. “You really went all out, huh?”
She smirked. “What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic.”
Logan laughed again, the sound lighter this time. “Well, you’ve outdone yourself.” He paused for a second. “Did you do this all by yourself? What about your arm?”
“Yeah, I actually roped Mac in for a lot of the manual labour,” she admitted with a grin. “I now owe her big time.”
His gaze lingered on her, the festive glow highlighting the rare softness in her expression. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words, his usual bravado replaced by something quieter. “Thank you,” he finally said, his voice low but full of sincerity.
Veronica waved him off, but her cheeks flushed faintly, betraying her pleasure. “Don’t thank me yet,” she said, nodding at the table. “You haven’t even tried the food. For all you know, I’ve poisoned it.”
He smirked, his usual wit returning. “At least I’ll die with a festive backdrop.”
Veronica chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Go change out of your surfer boy ensemble and join me,” she said, jerking her thumb towards his room. “Dinner’s ready, and I’ve got a list of Christmas movies we can mock. Or enjoy. Your call.”
Logan grinned, the weight in his chest lifting just a little. “Mocking Christmas movies with you? Now that’s a holiday tradition I can get behind.”
Hours later, Logan was full to bursting, sprawled across the sofa with Veronica tucked against his side. The room was warm, the soft glow of the Christmas tree casting flickering shadows on the walls. The faint scent of pine lingered in the air, mingling with the hints of cinnamon and something distinctly her - a sweetness that he could never quite place but always noticed.
Veronica’s head rested on his shoulder, her hair brushing against his arm. He felt its softness, light as silk, and had to resist the urge to run his fingers through it. She shifted slightly, her warmth seeping through the thin barrier of his shirt, and he became acutely aware of every point where they touched.
Her outfit sparkled faintly in the twinkling lights, catching the green and red hues like she was glowing. She looked almost ethereal, like an angel. The thought made him ache in a way he wasn’t ready to name. He wondered what she’d say if he told her that - probably something sharp and deflective, but her cheeks might turn that faint shade of pink he loved.
They’d spent the evening trading sarcastic commentary through Elf and A Christmas Story, their laughter weaving through the room. It felt easy, natural, like they were in their own little bubble where nothing could touch them.
Logan wanted to freeze this moment, to hold onto the lightness and warmth that had been missing for so long. But then his phone buzzed, its shrill tone slicing through the quiet.
Veronica sat up, pulling away as he leaned forward to fish the phone out of his pocket. The name on the screen made his stomach drop: Mr. Mars.
“Hello?” Logan said, keeping his voice steady despite the knot tightening in his chest.
“Hi, Logan, it’s Keith Mars,” came the familiar, even tone on the other end. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Just lustful thoughts about your daughter. Logan shoved the inappropriate reply into the back of his mind and cleared his throat. “Uh, no, Mr. Mars. What can I do for you?”
“I’m running an investigation alongside the sheriff’s department,” Keith said, his words measured but carrying a weight that made Logan sit up straighter. “Are you available to come by tomorrow morning?”
Veronica’s gaze was on him now, sharp and questioning, her brow furrowed as she tried to piece together the conversation from his side alone. Logan could feel her curiosity pressing against him like a tangible force.
“Yes, sir. I can do that,” Logan said after a brief pause. He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, the click of it closing feeling louder than it should have. When he turned, Veronica was staring at him, her arms crossed and her expression expectant.
“What was that about?” she asked, her tone cautious.
Logan rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers tugging at his sleeve as he tried to process the conversation. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Do you know anything about an investigation your dad’s working on?”
Her frown deepened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “No.” She paused, searching his face. “You don’t think it’s about your case, do you? But… why would my dad be involved?”
Logan shrugged, trying to keep his tone light even as his stomach churned. “Guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
For a moment, she just looked at him, her gaze steady and unrelenting. Then she crossed her arms tighter, tilting her head slightly. “And then you’ll tell me?”
A wry smile tugged at his lips despite the unease settling in his chest. “Wouldn’t want to risk your wrath.”
She smiled back, but it was faint, not quite reaching her eyes. “You better not.”
Logan leaned back against the sofa, trying to shake the unease.
***
The suite was cold, the kind of cold that settled deep in the bones, untouched by the low hum of the heating system kicking in to warm the winter air. Logan shut the door behind him with a soft click, but in the suffocating silence, it might as well have been a gunshot. His fingers flexed against the wood for a moment before he forced himself to move, his boots heavy against the polished floor as he crossed the room.
His gaze was already fixed on the coffee table. The tapes. They lay there in a neat row, almost reverent in their order, untouched since he'd placed them there. Their presence was a dull ache, a constant reminder. Each one a piece of his father's depravity, a grotesque little museum of stolen moments.
He stared at them, jaw tight, hands curling into fists at his sides. They were grotesque relics of his father’s monstrous legacy. And now, they were his burden to bear.
At least I have them, he thought bitterly, the words offering no solace. Lamb’s incompetence shone through again. The man couldn’t secure an evidence locker to save his life, leaving the tapes vulnerable, ripe for the taking by some two-bit deputy looking for a quick payday. And Logan knew – he knew – what would happen if those tapes got out. Journalists would be crawling over each other, offering obscene amounts of money for a glimpse of his Oscar-winning father defiling a sixteen-year-old Lilly Kane. The Kane heiress.
So, when Sacks had left that folder in plain sight, Logan had pounced. He’d sent the email, the one that had made him feel so complicit, offering fifty grand. Fifty grand to bury this. Fifty grand, and the tapes were his.
He sank onto the couch, the cool leather a small comfort against his suddenly clammy skin. His movements were slow, heavy, each one an effort. One by one, he fed the tapes into the recorder connected to the TV. The screen flickered to life, and with it came the sounds - Lilly’s laugh, bright and teasing, full of a bravado that now seemed so fragile, and then the sickeningly familiar cadence of Aaron’s voice. It was unbearable.
He didn’t bother wiping away the tears that slid down his face. What was the point? It wasn’t just seeing his father with Lilly. It was… everything. Her smile, the way she looked at him, the way she kissed him. Just like she’d kissed Logan. His stomach churned, and he swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat.
Why, Lilly? Why him?
Logan scrubbed his hands over his face, his breath hitching. She’d never asked. Never questioned the bruises, the scars, the endless “accidents” he’d lied about so convincingly. She must have known. Must have seen the way he flinched when his father was near, how he came alive when Aaron was away filming.
Maybe she hadn’t cared. Maybe she’d never really loved him. The thought twisted in his gut, a cold, hard knot.
But despite the betrayal, the humiliation and the pain, he still wanted to protect her. Protect her memory, at least. Lilly Kane had been a force of nature - a hurricane of wild energy, reckless charm, and undeniable magnetism. No one deserved what had happened to her. The world had already seen her lifeless body, the image seared into everyone’s memory. They didn’t need to see this. This final, irrevocable destruction of her image.
A knock at the door broke through his spiralling thoughts. He wiped his face hastily, though he knew it wouldn’t matter. Whoever was there would see right through him.
He opened the door to find Veronica standing there. Her expression softened the instant their eyes met.
"Oh, Logan," she murmured, stepping forward. Before he could react, she wrapped her arms around him.
He froze. Veronica Mars didn’t hug people. And she definitely didn’t hug him. But her embrace was surprisingly strong, a silent offer of comfort. It felt like she was trying to hold him together, a fragile, desperate attempt to keep him from shattering. He allowed himself to lean into her for a fleeting moment, a small, selfish indulgence, before she pulled back.
"Can I come in?" she asked softly.
Logan managed a wry smile. "You don't usually ask permission, do you?"
She returned a faint smile, but didn't reply, her eyes already scanning the suite. They landed on the coffee table, on the neat stack of tapes, and her expression shifted, growing sombre.
“You watched them?”
"Yeah," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Guess your description wasn't quite enough to eviscerate my soul. I had to see it for myself."
Veronica nodded slowly, then moved to the couch, patting the cushion beside her. He hesitated, then sat down, the weight of the tapes a physical pressure on his chest.
“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” he said, his voice cracking. “Wondered what I missed, what I did wrong to make her…” He broke off, swallowing hard. “And now I’m sitting here, watching these tapes, trying to figure out why. Why she’d… why she’d go to him. Him.”
"She wanted to hurt Celeste," Veronica said quietly, a hint of frustration in her voice. "I don't think she meant to hurt you, not really. She just… didn't think. She never did." She sighed, her voice softening. "You know I loved Lilly, but sometimes I just want to shake her. Make her understand the pain she caused you."
Logan blinked, caught off guard. Veronica rarely spoke ill of Lilly, let alone defended him.
"How did you know I had them?" he asked, his voice rough.
"My dad mentioned the buyer took a ridiculously low offer. I could only think of one reason why," she replied. "He was going to come by, but I told him I wanted to… see you." She hesitated, biting her lip. "What are you going to do with them?"
He glanced away, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. "I'm going to erase them."
Veronica's expression fell. "Why?"
"I can still testify against him," he said, his voice strained. "You can too. They don't need these. I can't… I can't have the world see this."
She exhaled slowly. "I understand, Logan. I do. But… like you said, hearing about something and seeing it are two very different things. The jury needs to see them."
"Do they?" he snapped, the question laced with desperation.
"If you destroy those tapes, Aaron's chances of walking free increases exponentially," she said, her voice even, unwavering.
Logan stared at her, the words sinking in.
"And almost getting burned alive to retrieve them? Not exactly my idea of a fun night out," she added, trying for a lighter tone, but her voice wobbled slightly, betraying her.
His chest tightened with a fresh wave of guilt. Keith had ended up in the hospital. Veronica had nearly died – all because of these tapes. Could he really risk Aaron walking free? Could he live with that?
"What if we made a deal?" Veronica said suddenly, her eyes bright with an idea. "Woody Goodman is furious these tapes are loose. If I tell him we tracked them down, and insist on proper safeguards - secure storage, limited access, for the jury's eyes only - he'll listen. He'll have to. And this time," she emphasised, a steely glint in her eyes, "we make absolutely sure no one else gets their hands on them." Her blue eyes locked on his, and she took a deep breath. "But if you want to destroy them, if that's really what you need to do… I'll walk away. I didn't see them. And it wasn't you." She shrugged, a gesture of finality. "The choice is yours, Logan."
For a moment, he searched her face, searching for a tell, wondering if this was some elaborate manipulation, some calculated move in a game he didn't fully understand. But her expression was open, vulnerable, the concern in her eyes undeniably genuine. He believed her.
He glanced at the tapes, then back at Veronica. He couldn't do it. He couldn't destroy them and risk letting Aaron escape justice. He couldn't live with that.
"Call Woody," he said quietly, the words heavy with resignation.
Relief washed over her face, softening her features. And for the first time that night, a sliver of peace settled within him. Logan felt like he’d made the right choice.
***
Chapter 10: Chapter Ten
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Pacific Coast Highway unspooled before them, a ribbon of asphalt winding along the breathtaking Neptune coastline. The late afternoon sun painted the landscape in hues of gold and amber, turning the familiar blur of palm trees and ocean vistas into a postcard-perfect scene. But Logan barely registered any of it. His focus was divided, a constant hum of the engine vying for attention with the quiet presence beside him.
Veronica had been unusually quiet for most of the drive, her fingers twisting a silver ring on her left hand - a nervous habit he’d come to recognise. That particular fidget, the restless turning of the ring, always meant she was thinking, her sharp mind dissecting some problem, some puzzle, turning it over and over until she’d examined every facet. She was lost in thought, completely absorbed, a familiar furrow creasing her brow.
Veronica had been quiet for most of the ride, her fingers idly twisting a silver ring on her hand. Fidgeting from Veronica usually meant she was thinking, turning over something in that sharp mind of hers until she had picked it apart from every angle. Like she was mulling over a case, or putting together a plan. Completely lost in thought.
And she was beautiful.
Logan swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. It was a stupid, predictable reaction. Veronica was always beautiful. But today… today there was something different. Something about the simplicity of her worn jeans and the soft black t-shirt, the way the sunlight caught the subtle shades in her hair when she turned her head just so, the way her profile was etched against the backdrop of the ocean. It was a quiet beauty, a natural elegance that resonated deep within him, a dull ache he'd been trying to ignore for weeks now growing sharper, more insistent.
It wasn't just about her looks. It was the way she’d looked at him earlier, a flicker of something he couldn't quite name in her usually guarded eyes. It was the way she’d reached out, a fleeting touch that had sent a jolt of electricity through him. It was the fact that, after everything - the hurt, all the tangled emotions - he desperately wanted to reach out and touch her again. Wanted to brush a stray strand of hair back from her face, to trace the delicate curve of her neck with his fingertips, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his touch.
But he held back.
Because this was Veronica. Independent, fierce, utterly unpredictable Veronica. And because last time, when he’d allowed himself to hope, when he’d dared to believe things were finally shifting in that final night in the suite, she had run.
That final night in the suite, the memory of it burned in his mind, a brand seared into his soul. She’d looked at him then, really looked at him, with a vulnerability he hadn’t seen in months. The walls were down, the distance gone, and for a fleeting moment, he’d seen a glimpse of the Veronica he knew so well. And then, just as he’d leaned in, just as he’d allowed himself to believe… her breath had hitched, a small, almost imperceptible sound, and she’d bolted. Just like that. Gone.
He’d known, even before it happened, that it was too soon. She’d been through so much. The brutal attack, the lingering trauma, the messy breakup with Duncan. She needed time. Time to heal, time to process, time to figure things out. He’d understood that, intellectually. But his heart wanted what it wanted. And what it wanted was her.
But something had changed between them. He could feel it, a subtle shift in the atmosphere whenever they were together. The anger, the hurt, the resentment had dissipated and in its place, something new had bloomed. Something fragile, something tentative, something undeniably there. Something dangerous. A spark of possibility, a flicker of hope that refused to be extinguished.
And God, did he want it. He wanted it with a desperation that both terrified and exhilarated him. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her close, to recapture that fleeting moment of connection from that night in the suite. But the fear was a constant weight, a cold fist clenching around his heart. The fear of being rejected again, of seeing that flicker of vulnerability replaced by the familiar guardedness, of watching her run again.
But for now, he would take what she could give him. He’d cling to it, savour it, treat it like the precious, fragile thing it was. The late-night texts they’d exchanged over the Christmas break, filled with inside jokes and shared silences. The phone calls, sometimes lasting for hours, where they talked about everything and nothing, the mundane details of their days interspersed with glimpses of something deeper, something more vulnerable. The way she’d started to trust him, to confide in him, sharing pieces of herself she usually kept locked away, buried beneath layers of sarcasm and steel. It was progress, wasn't it? Or was he just fooling himself?
And then, yesterday, the text. Just four words, simple and direct, yet they’d sent a jolt of both hope and dread through him: Will you come with me to visit Duncan?
His first reaction had been surprise, a flicker of disbelief that she would even ask. Then, as the meaning sank in, panic had clawed at him, a cold fist squeezing his heart.
Was she going back to him? The thought was a sharp, painful twist. A wave of nausea washed over him. He’d known, deep down, that it was a possibility. He’d even told himself he’d be okay with it, that he just wanted her to be happy. But the reality of it, the thought of her back in Duncan’s arms, was a physical ache, a hollow emptiness in his chest.
But then… then he’d thought about it. Would she have asked him to drive her if that were the case? Would Veronica really be that cruel? Even for the sake of convenience, even to avoid a long, awkward bus ride, would she really subject him to that? Would she deliberately twist the knife like that? He didn’t think so. He hoped not. He clung to that hope, that fragile thread of logic, like a lifeline.
So here they were, driving up the long, winding road that snaked its way through the manicured landscape of Serenity Hills. The name itself felt like a cruel joke, a stark contrast to the reality of the place - a high-end mental health retreat where the Kanes had stashed their perfect son, their heir with an awkward condition. The late afternoon sun glinted off the pristine, almost sterile buildings, giving the entire facility an air of cold, detached perfection.
And now weeks after Duncan’s episode, weeks after the brutal, terrifying outburst that had left Veronica shaken and bruised - all the physical evidence was gone. The ugly purple and yellow bruises had faded, before finally disappearing. The sling that had immobilised her arm was gone too, her movements fluid and unhindered once more. If he hadn’t seen the damage with his own eyes, if he hadn’t witnessed the raw terror in her face that night, he wouldn’t have believed it. He wouldn’t have believed that Duncan, the quiet, gentle giant he’d known, was capable of such violence. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Logan pulled into the visitor’s parking lot, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires a jarring sound in the otherwise tranquil setting. He put the car in park, his gaze sweeping over the manicured grounds, the perfectly trimmed hedges, the discreetly placed security cameras. The facility exuded luxury, a quiet, understated opulence that spoke of wealth and privilege. Not that he’d expected anything less from Celeste Kane. She’d always favoured appearances, projecting an image of perfect control and effortless grace. But even knowing what to expect, the sheer, breathtaking beauty of the place, in that cold, impersonal way that only places catering to the wealthy and damaged could achieve, still managed to unsettle him. It felt… antiseptic. Like a gilded cage.
The gardens were immaculate, a carefully curated display of vibrant colour - deep crimson roses bursting with unnatural perfection, clusters of fragrant lilac cascading over meticulously trimmed hedges that lined the winding, perfectly paved pathways. A fountain, a centrepiece of sculpted stone, sat at the heart of it all, water trickling down its edges in a gentle, almost hypnotic rhythm. It was a scene of idyllic tranquillity, a picture of serenity, and it grated on Logan’s nerves.
It was a performance, a carefully constructed illusion designed to soothe the anxieties of wealthy families and mask the messy, complicated realities of mental illness.
Beside him, Veronica sighed, a small, almost imperceptible sound. She glanced out the window, her gaze lingering on the manicured landscape, before finally unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil he knew she must be feeling.
Logan turned to her, studying her face. She looked composed, her expression carefully neutral, but he knew her well enough to see the subtle cracks beneath the surface. The almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders, the way she’d braced herself, physically and emotionally, as if she were about to step into a battle, not a simple visit. Her jaw was tight, her eyes shadowed, and he could see the faintest flicker of… fear? Or resignation, perhaps?
Not for the first time, he wondered why she was even doing this. She’d already ended things with Duncan. And after what had happened, after what he’d done to her, after the violence, the terror - Logan wasn’t sure Duncan even deserved this. He certainly wouldn't have blamed her if she'd simply walked away.
But Veronica had a code. She always had, even when she tried so hard to pretend she didn’t. A sense of loyalty, a deep-seated need to see things through to the end, a stubborn refusal to abandon those she cared about, even when they’d hurt her. It was a part of her he both admired and, at times, found infuriating.
He knew it was hypocritical of him to feel that way, considering his own track record. Hadn't he spent the better part of a year treating her like dirt, pushing her away, hurting her at every turn? And then, when he’d needed her, when he’d knocked on her door, desperate and vulnerable, asking her to find his mother, she hadn’t hesitated. Not a single sarcastic quip, not a single “I told you so.” Her agreement had been immediate, absolute. He’d thought of it as offering her a job, a way to use her skills to solve his pain. It hadn’t been until weeks later, the realisation dawning with a wave of shame, that he’d understood. Payment hadn’t even occurred to her. Just that he needed her - that had been enough.
Logan exhaled sharply, a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and pushed open his door. "Let's do this," he muttered. He followed her out of the car, the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet a counterpoint to the uneasy quiet in his chest.
They walked towards the discreetly elegant entrance of the facility, where a polished receptionist, all crisp professionalism and chilly politeness, greeted them with a practiced smile before directing them outside. Duncan was waiting for them in the gardens, a tableau of forced serenity against the backdrop of manicured perfection.
When they stepped through the glass doors and into the manicured landscape, Logan’s first thought was that Duncan looked exactly the same. The same quiet intensity in his features, the same gentle curve of his mouth.
And yet… not.
He sat on one of the white wrought iron benches near the fountain, his hands loosely clasped in his lap, a picture of calm composure. His hair was neatly combed, his clothes pressed and clean, as if he were a perfectly curated, sanitised version of himself, a mannequin mimicking human behaviour. There were no visible signs of the boy who, just weeks ago, had nearly killed Veronica in a blind, seizure-induced rage. No hint of the raw, untamed violence that had erupted from him, shattering the illusion of gentleness.
And yet, as Duncan lifted his head, his gaze meeting theirs, Logan thought he caught something in his eyes - a flicker of guilt, yes, but also something hollow, something deeply, profoundly empty. It was a look that made Logan's stomach clench.
Duncan swallowed, a visible tremor in his throat, when he saw Veronica. His gaze flickered to Logan, a brief, almost hesitant glance, before returning to her. He didn't speak, the silence stretching between them.
“Hi,” Veronica said, her voice carefully neutral, betraying nothing of the emotions swirling beneath the surface.
Duncan let out a slow breath, a shaky exhale that seemed to release some of the tension he was holding. He stood, the movement stiff, almost hesitant.
“Hey.” The single word hung in the air, weighted with awkwardness and unspoken apologies.
The three of them stood there, frozen in an uncomfortable tableau, the silence stretching between them, taut and fragile, threatening to snap. The air crackled with unspoken emotions.
Duncan shifted awkwardly on his feet, his gaze darting around the manicured gardens as if searching for an escape. He exhaled sharply, a small, involuntary sound. “Well. This isn’t weird at all,” he said, the attempt at lightness falling flat.
Logan smirked, a dry, humourless twist of his lips. “Not in the slightest.”
“Totally normal,” Veronica added, a flicker of amusement, or perhaps something else entirely, playing at the corner of her lips.
Duncan gestured vaguely to the white wrought iron bench behind him. “Sit?”
Veronica settled onto one end, her movements deliberate, almost cautious. Logan took the space next to her, leaving a small, almost imperceptible gap between them. He stretched his arm along the back of the bench, his fingers hovering just above her shoulder, not quite touching her, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her, a small, reassuring presence in the midst of the awkwardness.
Duncan, still standing, let out a dramatic, theatrical sigh. “So,” he began, a wry smile playing on his lips, “there’s this guy in here who swears he was abducted by aliens.”
Logan raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Full-on X-Files stuff. Government conspiracy, microchips-in-the-brain abduction,” Duncan said, shaking his head with a mixture of disbelief and delight. “He’s got diagrams and everything. Detailed sketches of the spaceship, the alien probes…” He trailed off, a hint of a chuckle in his voice.
“Have you asked him what he thinks about Area 51?” Veronica asked, feigning wide-eyed seriousness.
“Oh, that’s child’s play to him,” Duncan scoffed. “He’s convinced he’s got a secret implant, a tiny little tracking device the government uses to monitor his every move. Says they’re listening to his thoughts and controlling his dreams.”
Logan leaned forward, grinning, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to ease. “And have the doctors… confirmed this?” he asked, his voice laced with playful sarcasm.
Duncan shrugged, a wry twist to his lips. “They won’t deny it,” he deadpanned, the timing perfect.
Veronica snorted, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that broke through the lingering tension in the air. Logan’s grin widened, a feeling of warmth spreading through his chest. For the first time in a long time, maybe even since before everything had fallen apart, they were just three close friends, joking around, sharing a moment of levity in the midst of the awkwardness and the pain.
Duncan smirked at Logan, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “And then there’s this other man in here who has the exact same eyebrows as you.”
Logan scoffed, a playful roll of his eyes. “Impossible.”
“I’m telling you, Echolls,” Duncan insisted, his smirk widening. “Same dramatic arch, same ‘I’m judging you’ energy. It’s… unsettling.”
“Except mine,” Logan retorted, gesturing with mock seriousness to his own perfectly sculpted brows, “are flawless.”
“Obviously,” Veronica deadpanned, but he could hear the amusement in her voice.
Duncan laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that echoed through the quiet garden. He shook his head, a fond smile gracing his lips. “God,” he murmured, the laughter fading slightly, “I almost forgot what it was like hanging out with you two.” He trailed off, his gaze drifting away, a shadow flickering across his face. The easy camaraderie they’d found for a fleeting moment cracked, the fragile bubble of normalcy they’d created dissolving, and the weight of reality, the unspoken pain and awkwardness, crept back in, heavy and suffocating.
Logan knew what he meant. Despite his staying with Duncan at the Grand, despite the forced camaraderie and shared grief, it had been a long time. A long time since before. Before the shared grief, before the vastly different ways two best friends had coped with the same devastating event. Logan, consumed by fire and anger, lashing out at the world. Duncan, shutting down, building walls around himself, keeping everyone, including Logan, at arm's length. Lilly’s murder had fractured so many things, ripping apart the fabric of their shared lives. And afterwards, when time had tentatively begun to knit some of the pieces back together, there had been an unspoken tension, a constant, underlying current of unease, no matter how hard either of them tried to pretend it wasn’t there.
We are both in love with the same girl.
The unspoken truth hung in the air between them, a ghost of what had been and a constant, aching reminder of what could never be again.
“So,” Veronica said, her voice softer now, a gentle shift in the conversation. “I saw Meg. I assume you know she woke up?”
Duncan’s posture stiffened slightly, his shoulders tense, but he nodded once. “How is she?”
“She’s… doing okay, considering,” Veronica replied, her voice laced with a careful blend of hope and concern.
Logan relaxed a fraction, a wave of relief washing over him. So, this was about Meg, about the baby. Not some awkward, ill-conceived attempt to rekindle things with Duncan. The thought brought a small, almost selfish sense of relief.
“She told me more about the baby,” Veronica continued, her voice gaining strength, “and she’s asked me to help her. She’s really terrified.” Her gaze met Duncan’s, her blue eyes filled with a mixture of empathy and determination.
Duncan frowned, his brow furrowing as he absorbed this information. “What did she say?” he asked, his voice low, a hint of anxiety creeping in.
Veronica hesitated, her gaze flickering between Duncan and Logan, before pushing forward, choosing her words carefully. “Duncan,” she began, her voice laced with urgency, “the Mannings… they want to send the baby away. To be adopted. Through the Levi Stinson Sanctuary House.”
Duncan frowned, his brow furrowing deeper. “She mentioned something about that in the letter to her aunt. I don’t know anything about them, though.” His voice was laced with concern, a hint of unease creeping in.
Logan looked between them, his gaze searching their faces. “I take it they’re not exactly… good people?”
Veronica sighed, a weary, almost defeated sound. “They’re an extreme Christian adoption network,” she explained, her voice tight with disapproval. “The kind that uses religion as a weapon, cherry-picking verses to justify their own twisted worldview. ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child’ isn’t just a saying to them - it’s a doctrine, a justification for abuse sanctioned by their interpretation of the Bible.” Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of their implications.
Duncan rubbed a hand over his jaw, his fingers tracing the line of his jawbone, a nervous habit Logan had noticed he often did when he was stressed. His frame, already tense, seemed to tighten further, his shoulders hunching slightly. “Jesus,” he breathed, the single word laced with a mixture of disbelief, horror, and a dawning sense of dread.
“And you and I both know what the Mannings are capable of,” Veronica pressed, her gaze intense, her eyes searching his. “What they do to Grace.”
Logan frowned, his brow furrowing. “Grace?” The name was unfamiliar, a loose thread in the tapestry of their shared history.
Veronica turned to him, her expression hardening. “Meg’s little sister. Duncan found some emails Meg had sent to Child Protective Services. She disguised it as a child she was babysitting, and it took us a while to figure out it was actually her little sister.” Veronica swallowed hard, her throat constricting. “We went to Meg’s house, hoping to find out more, to understand what was going on. Instead…” Her voice trailed off, the memory clearly painful. “Instead, we found her locked in a cupboard.”
Logan’s stomach twisted, a sickening lurch. “What?”
“She was the palest child I’ve ever seen,” Veronica said, her voice trembling slightly, a shudder running through her. “Like she hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks. They force her to sit there for hours, sometimes the entire day, writing out religious punishments over and over again in these ‘discipline workbooks.’” Her voice hardened, the softness replaced by a steely resolve. “There were piles of them. Stacks of these workbooks, filled with page after page of ‘The path to God is paved with righteousness.’ It was… awful.”
Logan swore under his breath. “What did you do?”
“The Mannings came home,” Veronica continued, her voice tight with suppressed anger. “They found us there. He… he was terrifying. He had a baseball bat.”
“Yeah,” Duncan interjected, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, but Logan could see the memory flickering in his eyes. “I actually thought he was going to use it.”
“He called Lamb,” Veronica went on, her voice laced with bitterness. “Who, of course, played his part perfectly. He closed the cupboard, denied everything, and then had Lamb arrest us. He let the Mannings go scot-free. For a moment, I actually had this… this stupid, naive hope that maybe, just maybe, Lamb was going to do something, that he was going to try and help Grace.” She sighed, a sound heavy with disillusionment, the weight of a thousand broken hopes settling on her shoulders. “But, you know… it’s Neptune.” She took a breath, her gaze meeting theirs. “I told Meg I’d help her. But I don’t just want to help her. I want to help Grace too. I have to.”
Duncan swallowed, nodding slowly. “What are you thinking?”
“We have to start gathering evidence on the Mannings,” Veronica said, her voice firm, a glint of steel in her eyes. “Show everyone what they’re really like behind closed doors.”
Duncan frowned, his brow furrowing. “Wouldn’t it be… easier to try and work with them? Come to some sort of agreement, a compromise?” He trailed off, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.
Veronica’s jaw tightened. “I don’t think they are interested in compromises. They’re already building a case against you, Duncan. They’ve dug into your medical history, your blackouts, your past dissociative episodes. They’re trying to paint you as unstable, a danger to that baby.”
Logan sat up straighter, his own anger rising. “So they’re making this a fight for custody.”
Veronica nodded grimly. “And think about the public perception,” she said, her voice laced with bitterness. “The Mannings are a united, stable force. Respected members of their church, pillars of the community, model citizens with their three other children. And then there’s your family,” she continued, the words dripping with sarcasm. “The family that lost their firstborn ‘wild-child’ daughter - who, oh yeah, was having an affair with a much older, married movie star. Who covered up her death, and are now in a whole heap of legal trouble.”
Duncan’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching.
“And then there’s you,” she continued, her gaze meeting his, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and determination. “They’re going to paint you as a liability, Duncan. A ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any moment.” She sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of the situation. “I know your family is powerful,” she conceded, “but the Mannings are playing this smart. And they’re playing dirty. They’re going to drag all your skeletons out of the cupboard, parade them in front of the judge, all while acting like paragons of virtue, holier than thou.”
Logan exhaled, shaking his head in frustration. “So we have to make sure the Mannings don’t get to play the ‘pillar of the community’ card unchallenged.”
“Exactly,” Veronica said. “We have to overturn that perception. We have to expose the truth about them, about what they did to Grace, about what they’re capable of.”
Duncan ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, his movements agitated. “God,” he murmured, his voice laced with despair. “How did it come to this?”
Veronica’s voice softened, her hand squeezing Duncan’s arm reassuringly. “We’re going to figure it out,” she said, her voice filled with quiet determination, a promise hanging in the air between them.
A beat of silence stretched out, the only sound the gentle rustling of leaves in the manicured gardens. Then, Logan asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity, “How’s it… going in here?” He gestured vaguely around the serene, yet sterile environment.
Duncan let out a long, weary breath, leaning back against the wrought iron bench. “Not so bad, actually,” he admitted, a flicker of something that might have been hope crossing his face. “I’ve been… having some therapy sessions. With my parents, too.” He paused, a wry smile twisting his lips.
Veronica leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “God,” she breathed, a grin spreading across her face, “I wish I could’ve been a fly on the wall for those.”
“Yeah, I bet,” Duncan smirked, a hint of dark humour in his voice. “Me, my mom, my dad, and a therapist who probably cries in his car after every meeting. I can just picture it – the poor man scribbling furiously in his notebook, trying to unpack all our family dysfunction, probably questioning his life choices.”
Logan whistled, a low, drawn-out sound. “That poor bastard,” he agreed, a grin mirroring Veronica’s. The image of the beleaguered therapist, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the Kane family drama, was darkly amusing.
“Yeah,” Duncan continued, his voice laced with weariness. “We’ve covered the gauntlet. A lot about Lilly.” He paused, his gaze drifting away, a shadow falling over his features. “I basically came right out and told Mom that if she’d been… different with Lilly, she’d probably still be here now.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken accusations and years of pent-up resentment.
“And how did she react?” Veronica asked, her voice soft, curious, but with an undercurrent of something else – perhaps a hint of vindication?
Duncan shrugged, a small, almost dismissive gesture. “She cried.”
“Wow,” Veronica breathed, a note of surprise in her voice. “The Ice Queen cracked.”
“And the fact that they genuinely thought I’d killed Lilly,” Duncan continued, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, “and now… now we’re supposed to just go back to playing a happy family, like nothing ever happened.”
Logan nodded slowly, understanding the unspoken sentiment. “The Kane special,” he murmured. “Pretend it didn’t happen. Sweep it under the rug and hope it goes away.”
Duncan was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the manicured gardens. Then, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, I know. I’ve done it to both of you, too.” The admission hung in the air between them, raw and vulnerable.
“You’re not the only one,” Veronica admitted quietly, her voice laced with empathy. “It’s… tough to talk about the painful things, the things that cut deep. It’s easier to look for… normal. For a semblance of normalcy, even if it’s just an illusion.”
Duncan smiled faintly, a small, almost sad smile. “Yeah. But I’m trying,” he said, the words a quiet promise.
***
The drive home was quiet at first, the soft, melancholic strains of "Chasing Cars" drifting from the radio. Logan stole a glance at Veronica, who was staring out the window, her profile etched against the darkening cityscape. The passing streetlights cast shifting shadows across her face, making her expression unreadable. He still couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. Was she replaying the visit to Duncan, dissecting every word, every nuance of their interaction? Or was her mind on something else entirely?
"That went… better than expected," Logan finally said, his voice breaking the silence, the words a tentative offering. "No shouting, no accusations, no punches thrown. I’d call that progress," he added, a hint of wry amusement in his voice. He was trying for lightness, trying to break through the wall of her quiet contemplation.
Veronica exhaled, a small, almost imperceptible sigh, and shook her head slightly. "I guess," she murmured, her voice laced with a lingering sadness. "I mean, I’m glad he’s getting therapy, that he’s finally addressing… everything. With his family, too. It’s… good. It’s just hard not to wish things had been different for Lilly, too."
"Yeah," Logan agreed quietly, the single word filled with a shared understanding, a quiet acknowledgement of the tragedy that had shaped their lives. "That therapist must be working overtime untangling that family’s mess. Imagine if Lilly were in those sessions, too," he added, trying for a touch of levity, a way to lighten the heavy mood. "The poor guy would’ve been a goner. Completely overwhelmed."
That coaxed a small, fleeting smile from Veronica, a brief flicker of light in her shadowed eyes. "She would’ve had him questioning his whole career," she said softly, a hint of fondness in her voice. "And she definitely would have had him wrapped around her finger by the end of the first session, charming him, manipulating him, getting exactly what she wanted."
Logan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, but the humour faded quickly, replaced by a familiar ache in his chest. "There must have been a reason," he said, his voice laced with a quiet desperation, "why she was always looking for more. For validation, for excitement. And why she ended up—" he hesitated, his hands tightening around the steering wheel, his knuckles white in the dim light. "Why she ended up sleeping with Aaron."
Veronica nodded slowly, her gaze distant, lost in the labyrinth of her memories. "She made it seem like nothing got to her," she said quietly, "like she was untouchable, invulnerable. But she was never good enough for Celeste. Never the perfect daughter, never the golden child. And everything, every single thing, always got blamed on Lilly. Never her precious Duncan." The words were laced with a bitterness that Logan recognised all too well. It was a bitterness he shared.
Silence stretched between them again, until Veronica shifted gears, both physically and metaphorically. "It still makes me sick," she said, her voice tight with a mixture of anger and guilt, "that I had to leave Grace there. That I walked away, knowing what’s happening to her, knowing what they’re doing to her."
Logan’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. "There was nothing you could have done," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "Not then. Not without putting yourself in danger, too." His own past, the memories he’d tried so hard to bury, surfaced, unbidden. "There were times when I was a kid," he admitted, the words dragged out of him, "that I told people. A teacher, once a nurse. Hell, even a cop, once. And nothing ever changed. Nothing ever changed. There’s a reason so many rich people get away with abusing their kids, Veronica. It’s easier to look the other way, to pretend you don’t see the bruises, the fear in their eyes, when someone has money and influence. They can buy silence. They can buy protection."
Veronica looked at him then, her eyes searching his, her expression unreadable in the dim light. Maybe it was sympathy. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was a complicated mix of both.
“I know,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just wish… I just wish someone would have…” She trailed off.
“What?” Logan prompted gently, his voice laced with concern.
“Saved you,” she whispered, the words so quiet he almost didn’t hear them. They hung in the air between them, charged with emotion.
She cleared her throat, breaking the spell of the moment. "We need to get evidence on the Mannings," she said, her voice regaining its usual firmness. "Something solid, something they can’t talk their way out of, something that will finally expose them for what they are." She paused, her brow furrowing in thought. "We could try getting into their house again," she mused, "plant a camera, something to document what they’re doing to Grace."
"Risky," Logan mused, his mind already racing, weighing the potential consequences. "You think Meg would help? Would she be willing to take that risk?"
"I do," Veronica replied, "but I’m not sure when she’ll be home. I wondered about asking her other sister, Lizzie. She was the one who brought Meg’s laptop to Duncan in the first place, so her parents wouldn’t see it." She chewed on her lip nervously. "I just… I just don’t want to put any of them in an even worse situation. They’re already living on a knife-edge. If the Mannings find out they’re helping us…" Her voice trailed off, the unspoken fear hanging heavy in the air.
Logan nodded, understanding her hesitation. "We’ll figure something out," he said, his voice filled with a quiet confidence he didn't entirely feel. "We always do."
Veronica hesitated, her fingers twisting the silver ring on her finger again. "Do you think… do you think we’re doing the right thing?" she asked, her voice laced with uncertainty.
Logan frowned, glancing at her, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
"I know Duncan’s a good person," Veronica said carefully, choosing her words with precision. "But he had no control that night," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "And what if… what if it happens again? If he did that to his child?" The unspoken fear hung heavy in the air between them.
Logan didn’t answer right away. He’d been thinking the same thing, the same terrifying what-if. The Duncan he knew, the Duncan he’d grown up with, his best friend … that Duncan would be a great father. Kind, protective, loving. But he also couldn’t get the awful image out of his head - walking into Duncan’s bedroom that night, the image seared into his memory, seeing him hurting Veronica so badly, the raw violence of it, the utter lack of control. The memory was a cold fist clenching around his heart.
"I don’t know," Logan admitted finally, his voice rough, honest. "I want to believe he’d never hurt his own child. I desperately want to believe that. But… I also never thought he’d hurt you," he said, the words laced with a quiet pain.
Veronica swallowed, her throat constricting. "Meg is good," she said, her voice strained. "She’d be there. She’d protect the baby. She wouldn’t let anything happen."
Logan let out a long, weary breath. "My mom was good, too." he said quietly, the words laced with a lifetime of unspoken grief and a bitter understanding of the complexities of family dynamics. "I know she had her own demons, but she could never stand up to my dad. And I’m not saying Aaron and Duncan are anything alike," he added quickly, trying to quell the rising panic in his chest. "They’re not. But sometimes… sometimes having one stable person isn’t enough."
***
***
Notes:
Please, please take the time to leave a comment. They mean such a lot and make me want to post faster too!
Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven
Chapter Text
The first day back at school after the Christmas break should have been a letdown, the magic of the holidays already fading beneath the harsh glare of fluorescent lights and the mundane scrape of trainers on polished linoleum. The festive cheer, the warmth of family and friends, the excitement of presents all felt a million miles away, replaced by the familiar drudgery of routine. But Veronica carried a spark of that warmth with her, a tiny ember glowing in her chest, a reminder of New Year’s Eve, of laughter and shared secrets. It was enough to push back the usual wave of dread that always accompanied the return to school. Wallace was back. Wallace was home.
The guilt, however, was still there, a dull, nagging ache in the back of her mind. She’d been a lousy friend to Wallace these past few months, she had no excuse. Finding out his mom had lied about his dad, about his entire identity, was something Veronica could unfortunately relate to. She understood the shock, the confusion, the feeling of your world tilting on its axis. But instead of offering him the support he needed, the empathy she was usually so good at, she’d brushed his feelings aside, too wrapped up in her own problems, her own dramas, to truly see his pain. She’d allowed her own darkness to pull her under, neglecting the one person who’d always been there for her, no questions asked. She’d only realised how badly she’d messed up, how far she’d mis-stepped, when he’d fled to Chicago, leaving her with nothing but a gnawing sense of regret and the hollow echo of his absence. She hadn’t felt so utterly alone, so adrift, since those awful, terrifying months after Lilly’s death.
But she was done making excuses. Done being passive, done letting her own insecurities and anxieties dictate her actions. Which was why, as she approached his locker, a small, brightly wrapped box clutched in her hand, she slid it inside. A silent peace offering, a gesture of apology wrapped in the comforting aroma of sugar and chocolate. She knew he’d roll his eyes, but he’d accept it. Wallace was predictable that way, his loyalty and forgiveness as reliable as the sunrise. And God, she had missed that predictability, that unwavering presence in her life. She’d missed him.
She shut the locker with a quiet click, the metallic echo a small punctuation mark in the cacophony of the hallway. Shifting the weight of her bag on her shoulder, she scanned the crowd, a sea of familiar faces buzzing with the usual first-day energy. Students groaned dramatically about surprise pop quizzes, catching up on gossip with breathless excitement, shuffling reluctantly towards their classrooms like condemned prisoners marching to their cells. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume, stale coffee, and the faint undercurrent of nervous anticipation that always accompanied the start of a new term.
She spotted Jackie, down the corridor, near the bank of vending machines. Her dark eyes, sharp and watchful, scanned the crowd with an almost predatory intensity. Her posture was rigid, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. For a split second, instinct whispered for Veronica to turn the other way, to melt back into the anonymity of the crowd, to avoid the inevitable confrontation. But she squared her shoulders instead, a small act of defiance against the nagging voice of self-preservation. New year, new Veronica. Or at least, a slightly less combative one, she reminded herself.
She’d promised Wallace she’d try. Jackie had stabbed her in the back, betrayed her trust in the most humiliating way imaginable. Wallace had asked her to let it go, to move on. And she was trying, she really was. But the memory of Homecoming, of seeing Jackie draped all over Logan, who was so wasted he could barely stand, still made her blood boil.
It was a visceral reaction, a surge of anger so intense it took her breath away. She still wasn’t sure which part tipped her over the edge the most - Jackie betraying Wallace, or the fact that she’d chosen Logan to do it with.
“Jackie,” Veronica called, her voice echoing slightly in the bustling hallway. She closed the distance between them, each step deliberate. Jackie’s gaze flicked to her, a glimmer of surprise, quickly masked by something more guarded, flashing across her face. But she didn’t immediately turn on her heel and walk away, didn’t offer some dismissive excuse and disappear into the crowd. Veronica decided to take that small act of non-avoidance as a minor victory. Baby steps.
“Wallace is back,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “He surprised me on New Year’s Eve.” She kept her tone light, casual, as if their shared history wasn’t crackling with unspoken tension.
Jackie’s expression barely shifted, her face remaining carefully composed, a mask of neutrality. But Veronica, who was remarkably good at reading people despite not knowing Jackie all that well, saw a flicker of something pass behind her eyes - a hint of regret, a flicker of vulnerability that was quickly extinguished, replaced by her usual guardedness. Before she nodded, a small, almost perfunctory gesture, as if she were going through the motions. “That’s good,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of any real emotion. “I wasn’t sure when he was coming back.”
“You should come over at lunch,” Veronica offered, trying her best to keep her voice warm. “I’m sure he’d like to see you.” She held her breath, waiting for Jackie’s reaction.
Jackie crossed her arms, a familiar pose that made her look even more closed off, even more defensive. Her nails, manicured and sharp, tapped rhythmically against the sleeve of her leather jacket, a nervous tic. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice laced with uncertainty. “I think he’s still mad at me.”
Veronica exhaled, a small sigh of understanding. “He was mad at me too,” she admitted, her gaze meeting Jackie’s. “He had every right to be. But Wallace isn’t the grudge-holding type. He’s forgiving. If you make the effort, if you show him you’re genuinely sorry, he’ll meet you halfway.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “He cares about you, Jackie. He really does.”
Jackie chewed her lip, a clear sign of her internal struggle. The hesitation was plain on her face, her conflicting emotions playing out in the subtle shifts of her expression. Then, she sighed, a soft exhale of uncertainty, resignation, and perhaps a flicker of hope. “I’ll… I’ll think about it,” she said finally.
Veronica gave her a nod, a small, encouraging gesture, before slipping back into the current of students, weaving through the maze of bodies, backpacks, and hurried conversations. She’d barely taken ten steps, however, when she spotted Hannah, sitting hunched on a bench outside a classroom, her fingers clutching a crumpled test paper. The corners of her mouth were pressed down in a tight frown, her shoulders drawn in tight.
Veronica adjusted her path, angling towards her. She pasted on a bright, cheerful smile, the kind she knew could disarm people, lower their defences before they had a chance to build them up. “Why so glum, chum?” she asked, her voice light.
“Oh hi, Veronica,” she mumbled, the words muffled, barely audible. “I failed my algebra test,” she confessed, her voice laced with a mixture of frustration and resignation. “My dad is going to freak.”
Veronica tilted her head, feigning a casual glance at the red marks bleeding across the page. “You act like you torched the family Christmas tree,” she teased gently. “It’s just one test. Everyone bombs a test now and then.”
“Yeah, I know,” Hannah muttered, a small, weary sigh escaping her lips. “He’s… he’s really big on academic achievement.” She glanced up at Veronica, a wry smile twisting her lips. “He will break out his favourite – I’m not mad, I’m just…” She trailed off, mimicking her father’s dramatic pause.
“Disappointed?” Veronica finished, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Oh, yes – my dad is a fan of that one too. But lucky for you, I happen to have a knack for numbers. And an even greater knack for explaining them to people, even the most baffling algebraic equations.”
Hannah blinked up at her, her frown softening at the edges. “You’d tutor me?”
“Of course,” Veronica replied, the words coming easily, naturally. But there was a flicker of something else beneath them, a shadow of guilt crossing her features. The only reason she was offering to help her was the chance to gain access to Hannah’s house. “What are friends for?” she added, the question laced with a self-deprecating irony. Ugh, I am the worst. She never would have given the younger girl a second glance, never would have offered her help, if it weren't for her own agenda. But before her stomach twisted in guilt too much, before the self-loathing became overwhelming, she reminded herself why she was doing this. Keeping Logan from serving a prison sentence for something he didn’t do - that was worth it. It had to be.
Hannah’s lips curved into a relieved smile, the tension in her shoulders visibly easing. “You’re the best,” she breathed, the words filled with genuine gratitude.
Veronica forced her own smile wider, a little too bright, ignoring the uneasy twist in her stomach. “That’s what they tell me,” she quipped, the lightness in her voice a carefully constructed façade.
Hannah tucked the failed test into her bag, a small, defeated sigh escaping her lips. Then, she glanced at Veronica with sudden curiosity, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Hey,” she began, her voice casual, “are you and Logan Echolls… like, a thing again?”
Veronica felt her stomach drop, a sudden lurch of unease. “What?” The word came out sharper than she intended, her brain scrambling, trying to catch up. Did Hannah know something? Had she somehow picked up on Veronica’s ulterior motives?
“I mean, you guys used to date, right? Everyone was talking about it last year.” Hannah pressed, oblivious to Veronica’s inner panic, her youthful enthusiasm undeterred. “Are you… together again?”
Veronica shook her head quickly, a little too quickly, she realised. “No,” she said, her voice a little too high-pitched. “We’re not dating.” Then she added, her tone more measured, “We did, yeah. But not anymore. Why?”
Hannah grinned, a wide, unabashed smile that made her look even younger. “He’s, like, so hot,” she confessed, her voice casual, but there was a definite gleam of interest, a spark of attraction in her eyes. “I was just wondering if he’s, you know… available.”
A strange, unexpected heat flickered in Veronica’s chest - something sharp and unpleasant. Jealousy. The realisation made her stomach twist, a painful clenching sensation. She had no claim to Logan, not anymore. So why did that simple, innocent question make her insides clench with such visceral possessiveness?
There was a part of her, a petty, irrational part, that wanted to claw Hannah’s pretty little face while declaring, in no uncertain terms, that Logan was off-limits. And then there was another part, a more rational, albeit equally catty part, that wanted to laugh in Hannah’s face. Logan? Interested in a sophomore? Even if that sophomore was a pretty, willowy blonde with wide, innocent eyes… surely Logan had more discerning taste than that. And the last time she’d checked, he was screwing a former Laker girl, all curves and… Ugh. That was a mental image she definitely did not need right now. The thought alone made her cringe.
She instead forced a casual shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “I think he’s seeing someone,” she said, the words tasting strange on her tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste. She didn’t examine them too closely, didn’t allow herself to dwell on the implications.
Hannah pouted, a small, almost childish expression of disappointment. But before she could press the issue, before she could ask any more questions Veronica didn’t want to answer, she grabbed the opportunity to escape. “Anyway,” she said, her voice brisk, “I’ll see you later, okay? We’ll figure out a time to study.”
“Yeah, see you,” Hannah replied, her attention already shifting, her disappointment seemingly forgotten. She waved as Veronica turned on her heel, walking briskly down the hall, trying to ignore the way her pulse had kicked up at the mere mention of Logan’s name, trying to ignore the lingering sting of jealousy, trying to ignore the unsettling realisation that she still cared, perhaps more than she wanted to admit.
***
Veronica pushed through the hospital doors, the cold January air still clinging to her as she made her way inside. It had been a busy start to the year already - clearing Wallace of a hit-and-run he hadn’t committed, watching the fallout of Terrance Cook being questioned about his potential involvement in the bus crash, and navigating Logan and Weevil’s latest scheme to put a camera in a church confessional. She'd told them to hold off until she checked the bugs she'd already planted in the motorbikes - just as soon as she got them back. But first, she had someone else to visit.
She stepped into Meg’s hospital room, a wave of relief washing over her as she took in the scene before her. The sterile, antiseptic smell of the hospital was slightly less pronounced today, replaced by the faint, sweet scent of baby powder and something vaguely floral.
Meg looked so much better - her skin had regained its natural colour, the hollow shadows beneath her eyes were less pronounced, and instead of the drab, impersonal hospital gown, she wore soft, comfortable clothes, a pair of faded jeans and a cosy, oversized jumper. She was seated in the chair beside the bassinet, her arms wrapped protectively around herself, almost cradling herself, as she gazed at the tiny bundle nestled inside. The room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the machines and the soft, snuffling sounds of the newborn.
Veronica approached cautiously, peering into the bassinet with a warm smile. “Hey there, little one,” she whispered softly. The baby, swaddled in pastel blankets, stirred slightly at the sound of her voice, her tiny face scrunching up in a miniature frown before settling again into peaceful oblivion. “She’s beautiful, Meg,” Veronica breathed.
Meg gave her a soft, tired smile, her gaze still fixed on her daughter. “My parents want me to call her Faith,” she sighed. She made a small, almost imperceptible face, a subtle expression of distaste. “I’d rather… I’d rather wait until I talk to Duncan before we name her. It feels like it should be a decision we make together.”
Veronica sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the bassinet. “And the adoption?” she asked, the single word hanging heavy in the quiet room.
Meg exhaled a small, shaky breath, and shifted slightly in the chair, her arms tightening around herself again. “They’re pushing for me to sign the papers, but they’ve agreed to let me breastfeed her for a few weeks first,” she said. “Which I guess is something.” Her blue eyes, usually so bright and full of life, darkened, the light within them dimming. “But I don’t trust them,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what rights I have. They said because I’m seventeen it’s up to them.” A flicker of fear, raw and palpable, crossed her face. “And once I’m out of here, and no longer under the protection of the hospital I’m scared of what they’ll do.”
Before Veronica could respond, the door opened, and Meg’s sister stepped inside. The brassy blonde look was gone, replaced with a more natural, darker blonde. She wore casual jeans and a simple, strappy top, a far cry from the revealing outfits she used to favour. Although it wasn’t the first time Veronica had seen her recently, the transformation was still striking.
Lizzie’s gaze swept over the room, taking in the scene - Meg, the baby and Veronica, before she greeted Meg warmly. “Hey,” she said softly, a genuine smile gracing her lips. Then, her eyes swivelled back to Veronica with a flicker of something unreadable passing between them. Veronica braced herself slightly. Lizzie hadn’t exactly ever been warm and fuzzy, even before. But ever since she’d found out she was dating Duncan, the temperature had dropped considerably. Though she wasn’t sure if she had gained any favour by helping retrieve the files from Meg’s laptop. “Hi, Lizzie,” she replied, her voice carefully neutral. “Good to see you again.”
Meg, ever perceptive, sensing the undercurrent of tension, cut in smoothly. “It’s okay, Lizzie. Veronica is here as my friend and you can trust her,” she said, her voice reassuring. “She’s trying to help me. She’s trying to help me keep the baby.”
Lizzie’s expression softened, a flicker of surprise, quickly followed by gratitude, crossing her face. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, her voice laced with relief. “God knows we need all the help we can get.” Lizzie sunk down on the edge of Meg’s bed, her finger curling around her niece’s tiny hand.
Veronica nodded in understanding. “Well, first thing. I spoke to a friend of mine, Cliff - he’s a lawyer. He said your parents can’t force the adoption. Both Meg and Duncan would have to give their consent.”
Meg looked up, worry etched on her face. “Even as a minor?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes,” Veronica assured her. “They’d have to prove in court that both you and Duncan are unfit parents.” She hesitated, her gaze shifting between the two sisters. “With you, Meg, it’s unlikely. There’s no real grounds for them to argue you’re unfit. But Duncan is another story.” Her voice trailed off.
Lizzie frowned, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion.
Meg shot Veronica a sidelong glance, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, as if she were silently questioning how much she was permitted to divulge to her sister. Veronica recognised the unspoken dilemma: Lizzie would inevitably learn the truth, whether through her, Meg, or their parents, who were clearly poised to weaponize the information. "Duncan has type four epilepsy," Veronica explained. "It can sometimes cause violent episodes."
Lizzie blanched. “What?”
“They’re rare,” Veronica added quickly, trying to reassure Lizzie, trying to minimise the fear. “And they’re controlled with medication - most of the time.”
Meg folded her arms, her expression concerned, her brow furrowed. “They weren’t so controlled recently,” she pointed out, her voice laced with worry.
Veronica sighed, acknowledging the truth of Meg’s words. “A few weeks ago, he had an episode,” she admitted to Lizzie, her voice low. “He dislocated my shoulder.” Lizzie looked horrified, her eyes wide with shock. Veronica shifted uncomfortably. “He’s been in a clinic ever since, trying to get his condition under control and to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Lizzie stared at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable, before turning to Meg, her eyes filled with concern. “But what if it does?” she asked, her voice low. “What if he hurts you, Meg, or your baby?”
Meg looked torn, her gaze shifting between her sister and her baby, her face etched with uncertainty. “I don’t know,” she whispered, her voice filled with doubt.
Veronica leaned forward, her voice gentle and understanding. “Look,” she said, her gaze meeting Meg’s, “I know this is a lot to think about. It’s a huge decision, and you need to be sure. Maybe wait until he’s out of the clinic and talk to him. I do understand your concerns, Lizzie, but I’ve known him a long time. I think he could be a really great dad. But you also need to feel like you can trust him.”
Meg nodded slowly, her gaze shifting towards Lizzie, a flicker of worry in her eyes. “Our parents already know about his condition,” she said quietly. “They’re going to use it against him. They’re going to use anything they can.”
“Are you still planning to live with your aunt?” Veronica asked. “I think having a longer-term plan is going to be crucial here, especially if there’s any kind of legal battle over custody. The court needs to know you have a safe, stable home for your baby, a way to survive financially and a support system in place.” Meg nodded slowly, biting down on her lip anxiously, her eyes filled with worry. “I don’t think you need to have it all figured out right now, Meg,” Veronica continued, as she reached out and squeezed Meg’s hand. “But it’s definitely something worth thinking about.”
A beat of silence passed, the weight of their situation pressing down on them. Then, Meg shifted and asked tightly, “And what about Grace?”
Lizzie sat up straighter, her brow furrowing. “Grace? What about her?”
Meg met Lizzie’s gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and determination. “She knows,” she said quietly. “She knows what they do to Grace.”
“Oh,” Lizzie sighed, a small, weary sound.
“They were strict with us,” Meg began, “Beyond controlling with Lizzie and me. Grace is the only one they’ve locked in a cupboard,” she clarified, “but they had other forms of discipline for us. Sometimes they’d make us kneel in the corner for hours, other times they’d only give us bread and water for a couple of days. One they particularly liked was keeping us up into the night, copying bible verses, page after page, until our hands cramped.”
“One of Dad’s favourites,” Lizzie added, her voice flat, “was for each of us, at dinner, to detail how we had sinned that day, to confess our transgressions in front of the whole family. And then he would assign punishments. Scrub the floor with a toothbrush. Or saying that no one could speak to us, acknowledge our existence, for three days. And the random room inspections,” she continued, her voice laced with bitterness. “’You don’t need privacy unless you have something to hide,’ Mom would say, as she rifled through our things.” Lizzie paused, a flicker of anger crossing her face. “And when we were younger,” she added quietly, “he would use a switch on the back of our hand.”
“And once we got older and realised no one else was tired because they’d been up all night copying ‘Obedience is next to godliness’ out three hundred times, I would ask them why. My dad would just say ‘We’re preparing you for God's kingdom.’”
“Or, ‘The devil is leading you astray.’” Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Then came the series of losers they paraded from church, inviting them over for these awkward dinners, telling us we needed to marry a godly man. I was fourteen the first time.”
“Once we turned around thirteen,” Meg explained, “most of that stopped. They still controlled everything, but the physical punishments lessened. And then they began to concentrate more on Grace. I think seeing it done to her – someone so sweet and innocent, it made something in me snap. That’s why I contacted CPS.”
Veronica’s stomach turned, a familiar lurch of nausea. She had suspected, had pieced together fragments of information, but hearing it confirmed hit differently. The Mannings hadn’t just abused Grace; they had hurt all their children. The realisation settled over her like a shroud, a heavy blanket of despair. Neptune really was on the hellmouth.
“And if our parents were crazy before, since the accident they’ve gone into hyperdrive,” Lizzie added. “They pulled me out of school and sent me to a private religious academy. They think the bus crash was some kind of punishment from God,” she continued, her voice laced with disbelief, “and that we all need to atone.”
Veronica took a steadying breath. “Cliff said getting Grace away from them is more complicated. Without solid evidence, CPS won’t step in. They need grounds to remove her.”
“What kind of evidence?” Lizzie asked, her voice tight with anger.
Veronica hesitated, her gaze shifting between the two sisters. “Statements from you both about our own experiences would be helpful, and what you’ve witnessed with Grace,” she began, her voice carefully measured, “And would you be willing to put a hidden camera in Grace’s room? To get footage of them locking her in the cupboard for hours? Making her write all those religious passages?” Lizzie stiffened, looking perturbed, but Veronica quickly added, “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Lizzie. I know how terrifying your father is.”
Lizzie let out a deep breath, and met Veronica’s eyes. Her own eyes were filled with a fierce protectiveness. “I’d risk it,” she said, her voice firm, unwavering. “For Grace, I’d risk anything.”
Veronica gave her a relieved smile, but then another thought occurred to her. “But what about you?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. “If we can get Grace out, and Meg turns eighteen… you might be stuck there.”
Lizzie gave a humourless laugh, a dry, brittle sound. “I hate that school,” she admitted, “but at least it keeps me away from them.” She continued, her voice hardening, “Since the bus crash I’ve convinced them I’m a pious little repenter. I’ve learned to play the part, to give them what they want to see.” She looked at Veronica, her eyes filled with a quiet determination. “Please save Grace,” she said, her voice firm, unwavering. “Save Meg’s baby. I’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out.”
Veronica wasn’t convinced. She saw the weariness in Lizzie’s eyes, the forced bravado in her voice, and she knew that ‘fine’ was probably the furthest thing from the truth. But she nodded anyway, knowing it wasn’t her decision to make.
***
The Neptune High Winter Carnival was in full swing, a swirling vortex of teenage energy, sugar-fuelled children, and world-weary teachers who had long since surrendered to the chaos. Laughter and excited screams, a symphony of youthful exuberance blended with the whirring of carnival rides, the clanging of ring toss games, and the relentless thump of upbeat pop music blasting from the speakers near the makeshift main stage.
They’d gone all out on the sparkling decorations, a veritable blizzard of shimmering snowflakes, twinkling lights, and brightly coloured painted signs adorning each booth, transforming the school grounds into a winter wonderland. The air was thick with the scent of popcorn, cotton candy, and the faint hum of the Ferris wheel’s motor.
Veronica leaned against the FBLA booth, its plywood walls plastered with large sparkling menus, and numerous oversized penguins complete with a central igloo. She watched as Cassidy arrived to take her place, having asked him to swap shifts and relieve her earlier than scheduled.
The younger Casablancas brother was grinning at something Mac had said, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and she was laughing, her head thrown back, the red streaks in her hair catching the flickering carnival lights as she nudged him playfully. Veronica smirked – the awkward, stumbling Cassidy of a few months ago was slowly but surely morphing into something resembling a smooth operator.
Mr. Pope had asked everyone in his class to take a shift working the booth, a mandatory exercise in community spirit. But somehow, miraculously, Logan’s name had been mysteriously omitted from the list. She had no idea how he managed it or what strings he’d pulled.
Just then, a familiar, grating voice interrupted her thoughts, dripping with sarcasm. “Ronnie, have you seen there’s a fortune teller? I wonder if they’ll predict whose bed you’ll be warming next, since Logan and Duncan seem to have kicked you out of theirs.”
Veronica rolled her eyes, a sigh escaping her lips. “Oh, slut jokes. How very last year of you, Dick,” she said dryly, watching as he grabbed a handful of brightly coloured syrup bottles and began mixing a truly horrific concoction into a large, plastic cup. He was a walking, talking, syrup-fuelled disaster.
He took a dramatic sip of his murky drink, his face contorting into a grimace. “Ugh. That’s… offensively sweet. Want some?”
“Hard pass,” Veronica replied, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
He shot her a lazy, almost predatory grin before turning his attention to his real mission: annoying his little brother, Cassidy.
Veronica, meanwhile, had her own priorities. She picked up the final two slushies she had carefully crafted - one a vibrant blue raspberry, the other a swirling, rainbow mix - and weaved her way through the crowded carnival, her eyes scanning the sea of faces. She passed the clown booth, where people were gamely shooting into a wide-mouthed, garishly painted clown, an inflatable bouncy castle that looked precariously close to bursting under the weight of far too many overly energetic children, and the Dance Team booth where Hannah Griffith stood with a few of her friends, her laughter echoing through the air as they watched over the leap-frog game. Veronica recalled manning the leap-frog herself in her first year of High School when she was in the Dance Team. Looking at Hannah and her friends, it felt like a life-time ago, a distant memory of a life she barely recognised.
Hannah caught her eye and waved enthusiastically, a genuine smile lighting up her face. Her friends, however, exchanged whispered glances, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
“No, she’s not scary at all,” she heard Hannah tell them, her voice laced with exasperation, accompanied by an eye roll. “Veronica’s totally cool.”
Veronica shook her head, amused by the teenage drama, before her attention was caught by someone standing alone near the Goldfish Toss. Jackie Cook. She stood apart from the crowd, her posture rigid, her gaze fixed on the plastic swirling goldfish.
Jackie was trying to act like she didn’t care about the way people were treating her, trying to project an air of nonchalance, but Veronica knew her look all too well. Neptune High had never learned its lesson about punishing kids for their parents’ mistakes. With the scandal surrounding her father, Jackie was feeling the brunt of it, the ostracism palpable.
“Lost, little lady?” Veronica asked as she approached, her voice laced with a hint of wry amusement.
Jackie turned with a look of surprise. “Just enjoying the… friendly atmosphere,” she grimaced, the sarcasm dripping from her voice.
They chatted for a few minutes, the conversation awkward at first, then settling into a tentative truce. When Veronica offered her the rainbow slushie, Jackie shook her head, a small, almost rueful smile playing on her lips. “Better not get too cold,” she said. “I signed up for the dunk tank fundraiser.”
Veronica raised a brow, her curiosity piqued. “Willingly?”
“I thought it would be fun,” she admitted with a sigh. “People put money in the jar for who they want to see dunked. Mine was pretty much empty for weeks. Then, after the news broke,” she continued, her voice hardening, “guess whose jar filled up the fastest?”
“Ugh, this school is the worst,” Veronica muttered.
Jackie nodded, her jaw set, her expression grim.
Veronica’s gaze drifted towards the dunk tank, where a large crowd was gathering. She had previously considered donating to Dick’s jar herself, fantasising about the satisfying sploosh as he hit the water - until she remembered that he’d probably consider being sanctioned to wear a Speedo in front of the entire school a personal victory. She shuddered at the image.
“So, who’s the second slushie for?” Jackie asked, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Let me guess, Logan? His pining is getting a little old.”
Veronica choked on her sip of rainbow slushie. “He is not pining,” she sputtered, her cheeks flushing.
Jackie just raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I made an - admittedly bitchy - comment about you, and he pretty much chewed my head off.”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “Please. Logan bites everyone’s head off. You could compliment his shirt, and he’d find a way to be offended.”
Jackie let out a small laugh. “Right.” She hesitated, then added, “Veronica, I know we haven’t talked about it since - but I am sorry about what happened with Madame Sophie. It was mean, and I shouldn’t have done it.”
Veronica blinked, surprised, then gave a small nod. “Thanks. That actually means a lot.” She then smirked. “Do I still get to hold it over you forever, or does the apology cancel that out?”
Jackie snorted. “Oh, please. Like you weren’t already going to hold it over me forever.”
Veronica grinned. “Yeah, but now I get to be gracious about it.”
Jackie rolled her eyes but smiled. “Great. I can’t wait for that.”
“Well, good luck with the dunk tank,” Veronica said as she continued her journey through the carnival. She passed more booths - the pretzel and churros stand, where the warm, sugary aroma made her stomach rumble in protest; the large, garishly painted Milk The Cow game, where people were gamely trying to squirt milk into a bucket; and the kissing booth. Yuck, can you say spread the herpes?
She finally spotted Logan. He was standing near the Tilt-a-Whirl, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking frustratingly handsome despite the ridiculous winter carnival setting. He looked out of place, like a lone wolf amidst a pack of overly enthusiastic puppies.
She walked up behind him, pressing the blue raspberry slushie into his hand. Logan swivelled round, giving her a warm smile. “Bearing gifts? Should I be concerned?”
“Probably,” she said with a grin, her eyes sparkling. “But don’t worry, it’s not poisoned.”
“Good to know.” He took a sip, his eyes widening slightly in surprise, and hummed in approval. “Not bad. And look what I brought.” He lifted a paper tray with a large, golden-brown pretzel perched on it. “For you.”
Her face lit up, a genuine smile spreading across her features. “Wow, it’s like we know each other or something,” she joked, her voice laced with playful sarcasm.
“A blue tongue for me, and a sugar rush for you,” he replied with a grin, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Just then, a sudden commotion erupted, a surge of movement as the Triton’s began their annual, and utterly ridiculous, streaking run through the carnival. Logan grabbed her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers with surprising strength, pulling her out of the way of an incoming, near-naked runner with a frown. “Watch it,” he snapped in annoyance. All Veronica could think about was the sudden, unexpected thrum of electricity that shot up her arm, the warm, tingling sensation of his skin against hers. It was a fleeting contact, a brief moment of physical connection, but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat.
“Charming tradition,” Logan muttered, letting go of her hand once they were safely out of the way, the crowd of streakers disappearing into the night. Her hand suddenly felt cold, the absence of his touch a stark contrast to the warmth that had just been there.
“Aw, come on. Where’s your holiday spirit?” she teased, taking a bite of her pretzel, the salty dough warm and comforting. “Nothing says Winter Carnival like public indecency.”
“Not to mention probable frostbite,” Logan countered, shaking his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. He glanced around, taking in the swirling chaos of the carnival. “Alright, what’s next? Any particular booth calling your name?”
They wandered through the carnival, a comfortable silence settling between them, punctuated by the sounds of the games, the laughter of children, and the ever-present pop music. They stopped at a few booths along the way, observing the various games and attractions. Veronica spotted a ring toss, the brightly coloured rings glinting under the carnival lights, and nudged Logan with a smirk.
“Ah, I believe winning a stuffed animal here was demanded,” Logan mused playfully, and then made a show of failing spectacularly at the ring toss, the rings bouncing harmlessly off the pegs. He feigned frustration, exaggerating his misses, before finally landing one on the last attempt, the ring encircling a small cone. He handed her the prize - a tiny, grey stuffed shark with beady black eyes - with exaggerated gallantry, bowing slightly. Veronica rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, but kept it anyway, tucking it under her arm as they moved on.
They passed the Milk The Cow game, which Logan insisted was rigged, a conspiracy against the common carnival-goer. Eventually, they found themselves standing before a dimly lit tent, its entrance draped with deep purple fabric and shimmering beads that clinked softly in the breeze. A weathered wooden sign, its paint peeling slightly, declared: Madame Esmeralda – Seer of Truths & Revealer of Destinies. The air around the tent seemed to shimmer with a faint, almost theatrical mystique, a stark contrast to the brightly lit chaos of the surrounding carnival.
Logan grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well, well. It’s fate,” he declared, gesturing towards the tent with a flourish.
“More like a scam,” Veronica countered, already stepping back, her arms crossed defensively. “No thanks. I prefer my fortunes to come with a warranty.”
“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” he challenged, raising his eyebrows at her.
“Firmly rooted in reality,” she retorted. “Not to mention my last foray into the supernatural led to my humiliation on live TV.” Her complaint went ignored, as Logan was already reaching for his wallet, the crisp bills rustling in the cool night air.
“Two readings,” he told the woman inside the tent, handing over the cash before Veronica could muster another word of protest.
The fortune teller, Madame Esmeralda, looked exactly as expected - flowing, dark robes that seemed to absorb the dim light, large gold hoop earrings that swayed with her every movement, an excessive number of rings that glittered on her gnarled fingers, and dark kohl lining her eyes, giving her an almost otherworldly appearance. She waved a hand over the cloudy crystal ball in front of her, the low light casting eerie, dancing shadows across her weathered face, etching the lines of age and wisdom into her skin.
Logan went first, settling into a plush, velvet cushion. Madame Esmeralda peered intently into the ball, humming a low, rhythmic tune to herself before declaring, her voice a low, raspy murmur, “Your future holds a great journey. You seek answers, but beware - some truths come at a cost.”
Logan smirked, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Vague and ominous. Classic.”
“You will have a choice to make,” she continued, either ignoring or enjoying his scepticism, her gaze fixed on the crystal ball. “One that may change the course of your life. Choose wisely.”
“Noted. I’ll keep my life-changing decisions to a minimum,” Logan said, standing up and offering Veronica a knowing look. “Alright, Veronica. You’re up.”
Veronica frowned. “Really, Logan?”
“You want to know what fate has in store, right?” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
With a sigh, she took his seat, the velvet cushion cool beneath her. Madame Esmeralda studied her for a long moment, her gaze piercing, before waving her hands over the crystal ball again, the air around it shimmering with an almost palpable energy.
“You are walking a dangerous path,” she intoned, her voice softer now, more serious. “You dig what others have buried. But the bridge is weak.”
Veronica raised an eyebrow. “The bridge?”
The woman’s gaze locked onto hers, her eyes dark and intense. “Be careful, child. Some bridges collapse when you cross them.”
Despite the ridiculous and vague words, something cold slithered down Veronica’s spine, an unease settling in her gut. But she forced a smirk, covering her unease with bravado. “Right. Well, I’ll try to avoid any collapsing infrastructure.”
Madame Esmeralda said nothing else, simply watching with those knowing eyes as Veronica stood and joined Logan outside the tent, the clinking of the beads a soft, unsettling sound.
“Well?” Logan asked, eyebrows raised, a playful grin on his face. “Are you enlightened?”
She scoffed, the bravado still clinging to her voice. “Please. It was all just vague warnings and cryptic nonsense. I can’t believe you spent actual money on that.”
“You won’t be saying that the next time you’re crossing a bridge and you hear a giant cracking sound,” Logan intoned dramatically, mimicking Madame Esmeralda’s raspy voice. “You’ll be saying thank God for Madame Esmeralda’s warning.”
She rolled her eyes affectionately, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Well, speaking of finding answers – can you play look-out for me? I have some… bugs to catch.”
“Bugs?” Logan raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.
“As in little electronic eavesdroppers,” Veronica confirmed, her voice low. “I planted a few on our suspect’s motorcycles. Just need to retrieve them so I can get the data from them.”
“Motorcycle bugs,” Logan mused, a slow grin spreading across his face. He glanced around the carnival, taking in the swirling crowd. “Alright, I’ll keep watch, but we still need to hit up the cotton candy, and the hot dog stand. There’s no way you’re going to be done with just a pretzel.”
“True dat. I’ll be quick.” She slipped away from the tent, weaving through the crowd. The school parking lot, usually a bustling hub of activity, was eerily deserted, with everyone otherwise occupied at the carnival. The late afternoon light, filtered through the carnival’s festive lights, cast long, distorted shadows from the school building, giving the lot an almost ghostly feel.
She moved quickly, her fingers nimble as she retrieved the tiny listening devices from their hiding places on the motorcycles. The silence was broken only by the distant sounds of the carnival, a muffled symphony of laughter and music, and the soft crunch of her shoes on the gravel.
With the last bug retrieved, she turned to leave, a sense of satisfaction washing over her. She’d managed to slip in and out without being seen. But as she walked away, a figure suddenly emerged from the doorway of the school building, specifically the darkened Auto Shop exit, a looming silhouette against the faint light spilling from the carnival grounds.
“What are you doing over here, Blondie?” Thumper asked, his voice low and menacing, the words echoing in the empty lot. “This ain’t exactly a popular carnival spot, is it? Especially not for someone like you.”
Veronica’s heart lurched, but she forced herself to remain visibly calm, effecting a casual attitude. She thought the school had been closed up for the day, and so Logan had positioned himself by the exit to the carnival to keep watch, thinking no one would approach from the school. He now stood just out of sight, too far to get his attention.
“I was looking for Weevil,” she responded, her voice steady. “I thought he might be here.”
Thumper scoffed, a harsh, guttural sound. “Weevil? You think he’d be standing guard in an empty parking lot? At a carnival?”
Veronica shrugged, trying to project an air of nonchalance she didn’t feel. “I looked for him in the carnival, and thought I’d check here. No harm, no foul. I’ll find him at school tomorrow.”
His eyes narrowed as she took a step back, but instead of letting her walk away, he shifted his weight, blocking her path. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face, and she noticed his hand was clenched so much his knuckles were turning white. Veronica felt a chill crawl down her spine, a primal fear that had nothing to do with the cool night air. It was the look of a predator, toying with its prey, and she knew, with a sickening certainty, that he’d been looking for an excuse, and she’d just handed him one. Her eyes darted to the side, looking for an escape route.
Suddenly, a voice cut through the tension. "Veronica? What are you doing out here?" Mr. Clemmons emerged from the school building, his face etched with worry, but his expression transformed into one of relief when he saw her. "Thank goodness! I've been looking all over for you. There's been a bit of a... situation." He lowered his voice, glancing at Thumper. "The money for the senior trip has gone missing. Mrs. Hauser and I have checked the lockers already. I need your help."
It was the first time in her life she’d ever felt the urge to hug Mr. Clemmons. She managed a shaky smile. "Of course, Mr. Clemmons. Just let me tell someone where I'm going, and I'll be right with you."
Thumper was already walking off before she finished her sentence, and she swivelled to tell Logan that the promised sugary treats would need to be paused briefly while she saved the day yet again.
***
Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve
Chapter Text
Veronica sat cross-legged on Hannah’s bedroom floor, the plush carpet soft beneath her, her algebra textbook open between them, its pages filled with confusing equations. The room, a haven of teenage girlhood, smelled faintly of vanilla candles, the sweet, warm scent mingling with the subtle aroma of Hannah’s floral perfume. Hannah had set out an assortment of snacks on a low, circular table - a bowl of fluffy, buttery popcorn, a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies, and two tall glasses of fizzy soda, already sweating onto colourful, cartoon-themed coasters. The effort, the small, thoughtful gestures, made Veronica pause for a fleeting second, feeling yet another flicker of guilt.
Hannah was chattering about school, her voice light and animated, about how Mr. Wu’s physics test was a nightmare, a cruel exercise in memorisation, and how she couldn’t believe Maddie was still going on about her spring break plans, regaling everyone with tales of potential beachside adventures. The conversation was easy, flowing in and out of topics like music, classes, and the latest gossip, neither of them needing to steer it in any particular direction, a comfortable, meandering stream of words. It reminded Veronica of something she hadn’t let herself think about in a long time, a memory she’d buried deep beneath layers of grief and hardened cynicism.
Lilly.
Flashes of those lazy afternoons in Lilly’s room came back to her in full colour, vivid and sharp, like a forgotten photograph suddenly brought into focus. The two of them sprawled on Lilly’s pink, floral-patterned duvet, the Spice Girls’ Spiceworld album on repeat, their voices echoing through the room as they sang into hairbrushes, taking dramatic pauses between bites of sticky strawberry Twizzlers. Taking turns giving each other personality quizzes they found in glossy, dog-eared copies of Teen magazine, debating the merits of each answer with theatrical seriousness. Lilly's favourite thing—picking a random theme, cutting out images and headlines from glossy pages, and decorating them with glitter gel pens, creating elaborate collages that were always chaotic, always hilarious, a testament to their boundless imaginations.
“Veronica, how does it feel to be the world’s youngest Academy Award winner?” Lilly would say in her best journalist voice, holding out a brush like a microphone, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
They’d take turns giving over-the-top, ridiculous answers, weaving elaborate stories of their fictional fame, eventually breaking character with uncontrollable giggles, their laughter filling the room.
Since Lilly’s murder, Veronica hadn’t had anyone to be girly with, to share those light, frivolous moments. Mac was great, but glitter and pop quizzes were decidedly not her style. And somewhere along the way, Veronica had started to resent that old version of herself - the one who loved pink, who spent hours debating which Backstreet Boy was the cutest, who believed in fairytales and happily-ever-afters. That girl was gone, buried beneath a mountain of pain and a hardened shell of self-preservation. But looking at Hannah, at her bright, eager eyes and her easy laughter, Veronica could see a reflection of who she used to be, a ghost of a past self she’d thought she’d lost forever.
The radio hummed in the background, the soft chords of Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol filling the room with a melancholic sweetness.
“Oh my God,” Hannah sighed, flopping onto her stomach, her chin propped on her hands. “This song is so romantic. Could you imagine a guy actually saying this to you?”
Veronica bit her tongue, resisting the instinctive eye roll. Instead, she tapped her pencil against the textbook, trying to maintain a semblance of focus. “Not really. Alright, so if we take the coefficient here and distribute it across the terms inside the parentheses, we’ll end up with a simplified expression. Just keep the order of operations in mind, or the whole thing falls apart like a badly written love triangle.”
Hannah groaned, but smiled as she straightened, her eyes sparkling. “I wish Mrs. Raymond explained it like you do. That actually makes sense.”
They worked through a few more equations, Hannah gaining confidence as she tackled each one, the frustration in her brow slowly smoothing out. Veronica had to admit - it felt good to teach something, to have someone listen and appreciate it, to see the lightbulb go off in their eyes.
The sound of footsteps in the hall made her glance up just as the door to Hannah’s bedroom opened. Tom Griffiths stepped through, pausing mid-step when he saw her. His expression flickered with surprise, a momentary lapse in his carefully constructed composure.
“Hello, Veronica,” he blurted out, the words escaping him before he could stop them, and then she could see the flicker of regret on his face, the subtle tightening of his jaw. As far as he knew - or, at least, as far as he thought he knew - Veronica had been a young teenager approaching him for a standard nose job and lip implants, a client seeking his professional services. He was supposed to maintain patient confidentiality, a cornerstone of his profession. So, seeing a potential patient, a minor no less, hanging out in his daughter’s bedroom, amidst algebra textbooks and sugary snacks, was fairly unexpected, to say the least. To let on he knew her was a clear breach of his perceived professional boundaries, a potential ethical quagmire, and he was clearly scrambling to regain control of the situation.
Hannah’s brows knitted together, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. “Wait - you know Veronica?”
For the briefest second, silence hung between them, thick and charged. Veronica’s mind raced, a whirlwind of potential answers. Well, I followed him around one day to find out where he gets his coke from, probably wasn’t the right answer.
Mr. Griffiths forced an awkward chuckle, the sound strained and unnatural. “Oh, I—uh—I just recognise her from school functions.” He glanced at the clock, a sudden urgency in his movements. “I have to head out. See you later, sweetheart.”
Hannah watched as he grabbed his coat and disappeared out the front door, the sound of the door closing echoing through the quiet house. Then she turned back to Veronica, curiosity all over her face, her eyes wide with unspoken questions. “How does my dad know you?”
Veronica hesitated, giving herself a second to form a plausible excuse, to find the right words to navigate this delicate situation. Finally, she let out a sheepish sigh, the sound laced with feigned embarrassment. A version of the truth would probably work best here, albeit a heavily edited one. “This is actually kind of embarrassing, but…I saw him at his work.”
Hannah’s expression shifted, her brow furrowing in confusion. “But…he’s a plastic surgeon.” For a moment, Veronica could see the pieces clicking together in Hannah’s mind, the realisation dawning on her.
Her eyes widened in horror, a gasp escaping her lips. “Oh my God! But you don’t need anything done! You’re gorgeous.”
Veronica put on her best ‘mortified’ look, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink. “Uh, thanks. It was just a consultation, that’s all.” She reached for her soda, taking a long sip to cover the lie, before casually flipping the textbook page. “So, should we try another problem?”
Hannah let out a breath, clearly relieved, the tension in her shoulders easing. She nodded, her eyes bright with renewed focus. “Yeah. I think I’m actually getting this.”
Hannah leaned back against her bed, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. "So, I hear the senior trip is back on, thanks to you."
Veronica raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. "Me? Yeah, I guess I helped out. It was no big deal."
Hannah grinned, a wide, infectious smile spreading across her face. "That's not what people are saying. The girls in dance think I'm, like, the coolest person ever for being friends with the girl who got Mrs. Hauser fired."
Veronica shook her head, a hint of exasperation in her voice. "I didn't get her fired. I just... exposed a little truth."
"Well, either way, you're a hero," Hannah declared, her voice filled with youthful enthusiasm. "Are you going on the trip?"
Veronica nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "That's the plan."
Hannah beamed, her eyes lighting up. "Awesome. I wish I was a senior - I love rollercoasters."
After a little more small talk and algebra review, Veronica excused herself to go to the bathroom. Only she didn’t go straight there. Instead, she moved quietly through the hall, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, her senses heightened. She was looking for Tom Griffith’s office, a place where she hoped to find some answers. A door slightly ajar caught her attention - a small study lined with bookshelves, their spines filled with leather-bound medical textbooks and neatly arranged journals, a sleek, modern desk sitting neatly in the centre of the room.
She stepped inside, the air thick with the scent of leather and old paper. She spotted a computer on the desk, its screen dark, a sleek, black phone resting beside it. Working quickly, she pulled a USB drive from her pocket and plugged it into the computer, initiating the file transfer.
The progress bar inched forward, agonisingly slow, each percentage point a victory. Almost there.
Then - a noise. A soft creak, a subtle shift in the air, a sound that sent a jolt of adrenaline through her veins.
Veronica froze, her hand hovering over the keyboard.
She yanked the completed USB drive out just as she turned to face the door. And stopped dead.
Hannah stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, a mixture of confusion and disbelief quickly shifting into realisation.
"What are you doing?" Hannah asked sharply.
Veronica forced a casual expression, a practised mask that she hoped would conceal the panic churning within her. "I got lost looking for the bathroom."
Hannah’s gaze narrowed, her eyes searching Veronica’s face for any sign of deception. "Were you looking for something?" A beat of silence, then her eyes widened further, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. "Wait... are you here on a case?"
Veronica hesitated. She should have known by now that her PI work was fairly well known around school. "A case? Of course not," she denied.
But something had clicked for Hannah, the realisation dawning on her. "But my dad knew you."
"Like I said, I thought about having some work done," Veronica repeated, keeping her voice even, trying to maintain the facade.
Hannah’s expression darkened, her eyes hardening with suspicion. "Can you just be honest?"
Veronica exhaled, realising the jig was up. All she could do now was damage control, try to salvage what little trust remained.
"You know Logan Echolls was accused of murder over the summer, right?"
Hannah folded her arms, her posture defensive. "Yeah, obviously. That’s all anyone talked about when school started. What does that have to do with anything?"
Veronica took a step closer, her voice softening, pleading. "Your dad was the one who came forward to say he saw Logan on the bridge that night. But he’s lying."
Hannah frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Why would he lie about that?"
Veronica softened her tone further, trying to tread carefully. "Hannah… your dad has a drug problem. And he got into financial trouble. He’s connected to the Fitzpatricks, a crime family, and they gave him a lot of money. In return, they asked him to make sure Logan took the fall for Felix Toomb’s murder - because the Fitzpatricks were likely the ones behind it."
Hannah's face twisted in disbelief, a storm of emotions raging within her. "And who told you he’s innocent? Logan Echolls? He doesn’t exactly have a great reputation."
"Logan was attacked by the PCHers," Veronica said, her voice firm. "There were at least six of them. He had broken ribs, a concussion - he could barely stand. He didn’t do it."
Hannah stared at her, processing the information, her mind reeling. Then her expression turned to something more pained, a wounded look in her eyes. "So you've been conning me this whole time? Making friends with me just to use me?"
Veronica flinched, the accusation hitting her like a physical blow. "I—"
"Why didn’t you just ask for my help?"
Veronica let out a bitter laugh, the sound laced with self-deprecation. "Right. Just walk up to you and ask for help in taking down your dad? That would’ve gone over well."
"Well, we’ll never know now, will we?" Hannah’s voice wavered slightly, a hint of tears in her eyes. "Do you even know the reputation you have at school?"
Veronica swallowed, the question hanging heavy in the air. "Yeah. Of course, I do."
Hannah’s eyes shone with hurt, a raw, vulnerable emotion. "I stood up for you. I told people you were super cool. That you were kind."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things, a chasm of broken trust. Then Hannah exhaled, shaking her head. "You must really love Logan."
Veronica blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected declaration. "What?"
Hannah scoffed, a bitter, cynical sound. "If you're willing to stab me in the back for him, that has to be the only reason."
Veronica opened her mouth, but no words came out; her mind a blank slate. She didn’t even know what to say.
Instead, she turned and left, gripping the USB drive tightly in her hand, feeling like she had just betrayed a sweet girl who didn't deserve it. She just hoped it was worth it.
***
Mac's fingers danced across the keyboard, a frantic ballet against the soft glow of the monitor. Waveform visualisations, jagged peaks and valleys representing the raw audio, pulsed and shifted like a digital heartbeat. The small, overworked fan in the corner whirred a monotonous lament, its low hum a constant, almost tangible presence in the cramped room. It mingled with precise clicks of Mac's keystrokes and the occasional, sharp beep of her audio editing software.
Veronica sat on the edge of Mac’s bed, her legs crossed and her laptop balanced precariously on her lap. Her screen displayed a chaotic map of digital pins and lines, the recent movements of Hector and Thumper. Piles of crumpled receipts, GPS logs marked with frantic scribbles, and yellowed notepad pages covered in notes formed a chaotic nest around her.
Mac’s eyes, usually bright and animated, were narrowed in concentration as she worked on cleaning up the audio files. “So,” she said, her voice a little strained, never breaking eye contact with the screen, “you excited to go on the Goliath for the senior trip?”
Veronica’s gaze was fixed on the map, her expression a mask of focused calculation. A strand of her hair fell across her face, and she impatiently brushed it aside. “Who doesn’t love rollercoasters?” she replied, devoid of enthusiasm. “Shame we also have to put up with the 09ers, who’ll spend the whole trip drinking and then puking on the bus all the way home and somehow we’ll all get punished for it.”
Mac snorted. “It’s like you’re clairvoyant or something.”
Veronica smirked, a flicker of playful mischief in her eyes as she pushed her laptop aside. "Speaking of clairvoyance," she drawled, "will Cassidy be joining us on the Goliath? Or will he be too busy scheming in some billionaire lair, plotting world domination with a monocle and a fluffy white cat?"
Mac swivelled in her chair, a playful eyebrow arched. "You know he’s not a senior, so that won’t be possible. And if it’s like that - I distinctly recall seeing you and Logan at the Winter Carnival, and I swear I could feel the electricity crackling from across the fake frozen pond."
Veronica shifted uncomfortably, a flush creeping up her neck. "The problem was never electricity," she muttered, her gaze drifting towards the cluttered desk.
Mac tilted her head, her expression softening. "Then what was it?"
A sigh escaped Veronica’s lips, heavy with unspoken emotions. "It felt like... like everything went to hell after Lilly died. Like the world tilted on its axis and when we finally got the answers, I just needed... stability. Something solid to cling to." Her voice was barely a whisper, a stark contrast to her usual sharp, confident tone.
Mac’s voice was gentle, laced with a quiet understanding. "Did Duncan give you that?" Veronica shrugged, a dismissive gesture that didn't quite hide the pain flickering in her eyes. "If you don’t mind me saying - Duncan knocked up his ex-girlfriend, didn’t bother to tell you, and then tried to strangle you. That doesn’t feel very stable, Veronica."
"Fair point," Veronica admitted, her voice tight. "And Logan..." She trailed off, searching for words that wouldn't betray the tangled mess of her emotions. "He hasn't been going after the PCHers in quite the same way. Actually, he’s even working with Weevil now." She bit her lip, a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. "And honestly, Mac, I don’t think I could have gotten through the last few weeks without him. Without his support."
Mac leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her gaze steady and knowing. "That might be your answer, Veronica.
Veronica groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. "Oh my god, Mac, did we just have girl talk? Are we going to braid each other's hair and talk about our feelings?"
Mac grinned, a flash of her usual mischievous charm. "I think we just did. We better smoke a cigar and grab a beer to make up for it. Counteract the emotional vulnerability with some good old-fashioned grit."
Veronica laughed, a genuine, warm sound that momentarily chased away the tension in the room. Mac turned back to her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard in a final flurry of activity. "Alright," she announced, a note of satisfaction in her voice, "this is the best I could do with the recordings. They're much clearer now." She handed Veronica a sleek, silver USB stick. "Take them home, see what you can dig up."
Veronica took the drive, slipping it into her pocket. "Thanks, Mac. Meanwhile," she continued, her voice regaining its usual sharp edge, "I cross-referenced the GPS logs with the city maps, and Thumper was definitely lurking around the River Styx in the last couple of weeks. Plus," she added, a note of grim satisfaction in her voice, "I went through Tom Griffith’s computer files – it confirmed what we already suspected." She paused for dramatic effect. "It seems like he spiralled into crippling debt due to his not-so-little coke problem, his marriage imploded, and then, suddenly, he received multiple large payouts that miraculously cleared everything up. And his bank statements showed who it came from – Liam Fitzpatrick himself."
Mac whistled, a low, drawn-out sound. "So, bribery or blackmail?"
"Either way, he’s in deep," Veronica replied, her eyes narrowing. "But here’s the kicker – either Hector or Thumper killed Felix. Weevil’s second-in-command. Neither Felix nor Weevil would ever allow the PCHers to sell drugs, especially for the Fitzpatricks. Yet, according to Dick, Hector’s been dealing on the down-low."
Mac made a face, a mixture of disgust and scepticism. "You trust Dick?"
"I trust that he has a big mouth and a small brain," Veronica retorted. "And he got his last batch of party favours directly from Hector."
Mac nodded, chewing on her lip, her brow furrowed in thought. "So, what’s next?"
Veronica stood, stretching her arms above her head, her muscles protesting after hours of tense concentration. "I take these recordings home," she declared, tapping her pocket where the USB drive rested, "and pray they give me the final smoking gun I need to tie either Thumper or Hector to this mess."
Mac saluted her with two fingers, a playful glint in her eyes, as Veronica gathered her things. "Good luck, detective."
"I make my own luck," Veronica said with a confident smirk, a hint of steel in her voice, before turning and disappearing into the cool, dark embrace of the night.
***
The cool night air kissed Veronica’s skin as she stepped out of Mac’s house, the weight of their conversation settling around her like a damp cloak. Mac’s gentle prodding about Logan had been a persistent, nagging whisper, but it was Hannah’s barbed remark, sharp and precise, that truly resonated, echoing in the hollow chambers of her mind: You must really love Logan.
She hated the way the words burrowed under her skin, the way they chipped away at her carefully constructed defences. She hated how much she’d been thinking about him lately, a constant, unsettling undercurrent in the chaos of her life. Not just in passing, not as a casual friend, but with a raw, unsettling intensity. She’d been replaying moments, fragments of the past few weeks, like a worn-out film reel: the times she’d wanted to kiss him without the familiar tidal wave of panic crashing over her; the quiet, unwavering way he’d taken care of her and the way she felt inexplicably safe in his presence. And there was the way he looked at her, a gaze that saw past the fractured pieces she felt herself to be, as if she were something whole, something worthy.
A tremor of vulnerability, a sensation she rarely allowed herself to feel, ran through her. She was tired of the emotional tightrope, the constant push and pull, the fear that always seemed to win. Before her resolve could crumble under the weight of her own anxieties, she made a sharp, decisive turn, the Le Baron’s tires squealing slightly on the asphalt. The Neptune Grand loomed in the distance, a beacon of faded grandeur against the night sky.
She wasn’t going to orchestrate some grand, over-the-top declaration of love, a theatrical performance for an audience of one. That wasn’t her. But she needed to talk to him, to see if he was on the same page as her. The thought of it, the mere possibility, sent a nervous flutter through her chest, a fragile hope blooming in the darkness. The night was cold, but a warmth started to spread through her, a desperate, fragile anticipation.
The moment she stepped into the elevator, the cool, polished steel reflecting her own pale face, a wave of stark, icy nerves washed over her. What if he said no? The thought echoed in the small, confined space, amplifying her anxieties. What if it was too late? The numbers on the panel blinked, and her stomach twisted into a knot of apprehension. But she pressed on, driven by a desperate need for clarity, for resolution.
The doors slid open onto the penthouse floor, revealing the dimly lit hallway. She took a deep, shaky breath, the air thick with the hushed opulence of the Neptune Grand, and walked towards Logan’s suite. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a frantic drumbeat as her nerves crept higher with each step.
Then, the door clicked open.
Kendall Casablancas stepped out, a vision of polished perfection in a tight, shimmering dress that clung to her curves. Her lipstick was a vibrant crimson and upon spotting Veronica, her expression became a smug, self-satisfied smirk.
Veronica’s heart lurched, a violent, sickening drop, like it was being squeezed in a cold, unforgiving vice. Logan doesn’t owe you anything, she told herself, the mantra a hollow echo in her mind. He was single, free to do whatever he wanted. But the raw, visceral pain that ripped through her was undeniable, a searing ache that stole her breath.
Kendall’s sharp eyes raked over Veronica, clearly reading the expression etched across her face. "Oh, honey," she said, her voice dripping with condescension, a saccharine sweetness that masked a triumphant edge. "Logan’s exhausted. Maybe come back another day?" The implication hung heavy in the air, a suffocating blanket of humiliation. She twisted the knife deeper with a cruel flourish. "You know, some men just need a real woman to keep up with them. But I’m sure you’ll get there someday."
Veronica swallowed the lump in her throat, the raw, burning sensation of unshed tears. She wouldn’t give Kendall the satisfaction of seeing her break, of witnessing the devastation that threatened to consume her. With a rigid, forced composure, she turned on her heel and walked away, her heart splintering with every step, letting out a huff of relief when the elevator doors closed before Kendall could reach them.
***
A few days had passed since the Winter Carnival, but Logan still found himself replaying the night in his head, a mental loop of fragmented moments. The laughter, light and genuine, the easy banter that flowed between them like a familiar melody, the way Veronica had looked at him with a flicker of something warm and unguarded - like maybe, just maybe, she was seeing him the way he always saw her. He’d wanted to kiss her more times than he could count, the urge a constant, nagging ache, but he’d held back, waiting for a sign, something undeniable, a clear indication that she felt the same.
But now wasn’t the time to dwell on the "what ifs" and "maybes." He pulled up at Dog Beach, the familiar scent of salt air and damp sand filling his lungs. The usually bustling beach was empty, the vast expanse of sand stretching out before him like an empty canvas. He scanned the horizon, the rhythmic crash of the waves a soothing background to the silence, until he heard the low rumble of a motorcycle engine, a sound that cut through the stillness like a jagged edge.
Weevil pulled up beside him, cutting the engine and swinging one leg off the bike, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly. “Took your time, rich boy,” he drawled, his voice laced with a hint of sardonic amusement.
Logan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I had to stop and pick up my VIP parking pass,” he retorted, his voice dry.
Weevil smirked, a flash of white teeth in the fading light, but got straight to business, his expression shifting to one of focused intensity. “What do you got?” he asked, his voice low and direct.
“Veronica got the bugs back,” Logan said, lowering his voice slightly, the sound barely carrying over the rhythmic crash of the waves. “She’s going through both the recordings, and tracking exactly where they’ve been.” He paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon, searching for any sign of movement. “Bootsy seems to be clean so far - nothing came up. But the other two had a ton of interference on the sound recordings. Mac’s working on clearing it up. If we don’t get anything, our next move is a camera at the church.”
Weevil nodded, his expression grim. “And Dick?” he asked, a hint of suspicion lingering in the question.
“Played his part,” Logan confirmed. “Hit each of them up for E. Bootsy told him to go fuck himself, which tracks. But Hector? Sold him ten hits.”
Weevil’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. “And Thumper?”
“Nowhere to be found,” Logan said with a shrug. “So it’s between Hector and Thumper, but Hector’s looking real good for it right now.”
Just then, the deep, aggressive growl of multiple motorcycle engines filled the air, the sound echoing across the empty beach, cutting through the tranquillity of the setting. Logan’s spine stiffened, his senses sharpening.
“Shit,” Logan muttered, his eyes darting around, searching for an escape route. “We should—”
“We run, it looks worse,” Weevil cut in, his voice sharp, decisive. Then, before Logan could react, before he could even process the sudden change in Weevil’s demeanour, Weevil grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him forward roughly, his grip surprisingly strong. To anyone watching, from a distance, it looked like they were mid-argument, a heated confrontation, Weevil in control, Logan on the defensive, his face contorted in a mask of anger and frustration.
Within seconds, they were surrounded, the roar of motorcycle engines filling the air, a mechanical chorus of menace. PCHers on motorcycles rolled in, their headlights cutting through the fading light, casting long, distorted shadows across the sand. One by one, the engines cut off, the silence that followed heavy and charged, broken only by the rhythmic crash of the waves and the salty tang of the ocean air. Thumper and Hector were the first to step forward, pulling off their helmets, their faces grim, their eyes narrowed.
Hector’s gaze darted between them, his expression a mixture of confusion and suspicion. “What the hell’s going on here?”
Weevil let out an exaggerated scoff, a dismissive sound that echoed across the empty beach. “Just having a word with Logan. I’ve got it,” he said, his voice laced with a forced casualness.
Thumper shook his head slowly, his lips twisting into something almost amused. “Nah. That’s not what’s going on here,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. His eyes locked onto Weevil’s, his gaze unwavering. “You were seen, man. Visiting Logan at the Neptune Grand.”
“So? Veronica was there. I needed her help with something,” Weevil retorted, his voice tight, his jaw clenched.
“You know my cousin works there,” Hector snapped, his voice rising in anger. “He said you were in his suite for hours. Are we supposed to be buddies now with the asshole who murdered Felix?”
Logan’s eyes darted to Weevil, a flicker of apprehension in their depths. Probably adding that they were watching South Park wouldn’t help the situation, he thought sardonically. Weevil was shaking his head, his expression grim.
“I know some of you are dealing drugs for the Fitzpatricks,” Weevil began urgently with a desperate attempt to regain control of the situation.
“So fucking what?” Hector shot back, his voice thick with anger. “We wanted to make some extra cash. You’re the one betraying Felix.”
“There’s nothing you can say to that,” Phuong added in, his face a picture of betrayal, his eyes filled with a cold, hard anger.
“And he needs to pay for what he did,” Thumper said, his voice a low growl, his eyes fixed on Logan, his gaze filled with a simmering hatred.
The group suddenly split into two, a chaotic ballet of betrayal and violence, tension crackling in the air like a live wire. Logan knew what was coming, but before he could do anything, a fist slammed into his gut, a brutal, bone-jarring blow that knocked the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping for air, only for another hit to crack against his ribs, a sharp, searing pain that radiated through his chest. He swung back blindly, but soon he hit the sand hard, the damp grains clinging to his skin, still barely able to catch his breath before a heavy boot connected with his side, a brutal kick that sent a jolt of agony through his body.
Weevil wasn’t faring much better. The PCHers had turned on him with a savage fury, their fists and feet landing with sickening thuds, the sounds echoing across the empty beach. He was fighting back, his movements quick and brutal, but he was outnumbered, barely holding his own against the onslaught, his grunts and curses lost in the chaos.
Logan rolled onto his side, gasping, his vision blurring. A shadow loomed over him, and then Thumper crouched low, his face a mask of cruel satisfaction, his voice a venomous whisper in his ear.
“You’re gonna pay for what you did,” he hissed, his breath hot and foul against Logan’s ear. “And this? This is just the start.”
He was immediately jolted back to that awful night on the bridge - the night that had started this whole mess, the night Felix ended up dead, and Logan found himself in the crosshairs. The night he'd also been outnumbered, desperate, fighting for his life against a tide of rage and misunderstanding. The memory crashed over him, a wave of nausea and fear, the taste of blood and salt air mingling in his mouth. The same feeling of helplessness, the same crushing weight of being cornered, was back.
A final, brutal kick landed squarely against Logan’s ribs, a crushing blow that sent a wave of white-hot pain through him, before the group backed off, leaving him coughing and groaning in the damp sand. He forced himself to look up, just in time to see Weevil spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground, the dark crimson stain stark against the pale sand, glaring daggers at Thumper and Hector, his eyes filled with a burning rage.
“Take his bike,” Thumper ordered, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, the words cutting through the silence like a cold blade. He then stared down at Weevil, his expression a mask of cold indifference. “And I guess it goes without saying – you’re out.”
***
Logan pressed a makeshift ice pack, a damp towel filled with ice cubes, against his bruised ribs as he stepped into the bathroom, wincing with each movement. He eyed himself in the large mirror, the soft, recessed lighting highlighting the damage. A dark bruise was already forming beneath his left eye, the skin swollen and discoloured, and his ribs ached with every shallow breath, a dull, throbbing pain that radiated through his chest. He was pretty sure they weren’t broken this time, a small, if somewhat battered, victory.
It certainly wasn’t as bad as last time, the memory of shattered ribs and agonising breaths still a raw, visceral experience. This felt more like a… a declaration. A reminder that the rest of the PCHers weren’t going to let go of the Felix situation, even if their leader had. Plus, he had to admit, their attention had been split by Weevil, the focus of their rage momentarily diverted.
He exhaled, a quiet hiss of pain escaping his lips, and placed the towel on the cool marble countertop. There was a knock at the door, a sharp, insistent rap that sent a jolt of nervous energy through him. His stomach tightened, a knot of apprehension forming in his gut. Veronica? He wasn’t sure how she’d react to this latest brawl. He still found himself hoping that it was her.
Instead, when he opened the door, his breath catching in his throat, he was met with Duncan Kane, his expression unreadable, his eyes shadowed and intense, standing in the elegantly appointed hallway.
Duncan’s expression tightened, a flicker of concern crossing his features as he took in Logan’s injuries. “Jesus. You okay?”
Logan leaned against the doorframe, letting out a humourless chuckle, a dry, brittle sound that echoed in the quiet hallway. “Oh, you know me, DK. Just another day in paradise.”
Duncan winced, the sound a soft, sympathetic murmur. “What happened?”
Logan debated brushing it off, dismissing the incident with a casual wave of his hand, but shrugged instead, the movement sending a jolt of pain through his ribs. “Ran into the PCHers. They weren’t thrilled with my company.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tensions, and Duncan shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting around the suite, avoiding Logan’s eyes. “I, uh… I’m finished at the clinic,” he said, his voice measured, carefully controlled. “I was hoping I could come back.”
Logan looked down for a moment, his gaze fixed on the wooden flooring beneath his feet, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He didn’t know how to feel about this. The suite had originally been Duncan’s, but after everything that had happened… after what Duncan had done to Veronica… it felt wrong to just let him back in. He didn’t want her to be uncomfortable.
But at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to say no, to turn Duncan away. Duncan had taken him in when his own house burned down, some stability he desperately had needed.
“Yeah,” Logan said, forcing his voice to stay neutral, to mask the internal conflict. “Sure.”
Duncan nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his face, and stepped inside, heading towards his old room. “Thanks, man. I’ll just go and unpack.”
Logan exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, the gesture a mixture of frustration and exhaustion, before collapsing onto the plush, leather couch. He flicked the TV on, the sudden burst of sound filling the cavernous space, a welcome distraction from the swirling thoughts in his head.
Then came another knock, sharp and insistent.
Logan sat up sharply, his pulse spiking, a jolt of adrenaline cutting through his weariness. Veronica. He needed to warn her about Duncan first, to give her a heads-up, to gauge her reaction. But when he opened the door, his anticipation quickly turned to irritation. He was met with Kendall Casablancas, her perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently against her designer handbag.
She smiled, a practiced, almost predatory smile, like she’d been expecting a warmer reception, and stepped inside before he could stop her, her expensive perfume filling the air with a cloying sweetness. He shut the door with an irritated sigh, the sound echoing in the suite.
“Kendall, what part of me not contacting you for weeks made you think I wanted to see you?” he asked.
She smirked, leaning against the polished granite countertop like she owned the place, her posture radiating an air of entitled confidence. “Oh, come on, Logan. You don’t seriously expect me to believe you haven’t missed me?”
He gave her a flat look, his eyes cold and distant. “I can’t say you’ve crossed my mind.”
Kendall pouted, her lips forming a perfect curve, and she strode closer, her high heels clicking against the marble floor. “You’re in a mood. Do you need me to make you feel better? Kiss your bruises better?”
Logan barely held back a scoff, the sound a mixture of derision and disgust. Why had he ever slept with her? Oh, right. A distraction from Veronica. Nothing more.
Kendall trailed her fingers along his arm, her touch light. “Bet you’ve been lonely.”
Logan pulled away, the movement abrupt, annoyance flaring within him. “By any chance, are you still struggling to find a new gravy train now that Mr. C is out of the picture?”
Kendall’s smile faltered, the mask slipping for just a fraction of a second, revealing the calculating ambition beneath. Then she masked it, tilting her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s not very nice.”
“I’m not in a nice mood,” Logan said, his patience wearing thin, his voice laced with a cold, hard edge. “Kendall, I’m tired. And you need to leave. Right now.”
She lingered a moment longer, her eyes scanning his face, as if considering her options, weighing the potential benefits of staying against the certainty of his dismissal, before flipping her hair, the gesture a dramatic flourish, and striding towards the door. “Your loss, Logan.”
He didn’t reply, just watched her go, his gaze fixed on her retreating figure, before shutting the door behind her with a heavy sigh, the sound a mixture of relief and exhaustion.
He really needed a drink. A strong one.
Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Veronica’s hands moved mechanically over the worn countertop, the damp rag tracing circles as the faint hum of Java the Hut buzzed around her. The air carried the rich, bittersweet scent of roasted beans and cinnamon. She glanced up, catching the flicker of late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the streaked windows, just as Wallace sauntered in. His lanky frame moved with an effortless swagger, and that easy, lopsided grin of his lit up his face as he made a beeline for his usual booth. She felt a quiet warmth bloom in her chest, chasing away the dull ache of exhaustion that had settled into her bones.
“Hey, Alice, mind if I take my break now?" Her tone was casual, but there was a hopeful lilt to it.
Alice, her perpetually perky manager, stood behind the counter, her brunette hair swept into a high ponytail that bobbed with every frantic movement. She barely lifted her gaze from the espresso machine she was wrestling into submission, her fingers deftly twisting knobs as steam hissed and sputtered like a cornered animal.
“Sure thing, Veronica. Go for it," she chirped in response.
Veronica spent a moment meticulously crafting two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, adding an extra flourish of whipped cream and a generous scattering of miniature marshmallows. She then grabbed a ceramic plate from behind the counter, carefully balancing a generous slice of vibrant red velvet cake on it, its cream cheese frosting glistening under the lights. She placed them onto the table, and then slid into the booth across from Wallace.
Her best friend didn’t even feign protest. His dark eyes sparkled with delight as he snatched up his fork and plunged it into the cake, the rich crumbs scattering across the plate. He took a bite, letting out an exaggerated groan that made her lips twitch into a grin despite herself.
"You," he said, voice muffled around a mouthful of cake, "are a saint. Like, straight-up canonise-you, Saint Veronica of Java the Hut, patron of weary souls and perfect desserts."
She smiled, a flicker of amusement lighting her tired eyes. "I accept offerings in the form of snacks and unwavering loyalty."
"Done and done," he replied, swallowing another bite before giving her a more scrutinising look, his brow furrowed with concern. "But real talk - you okay? You look beat."
Veronica sighed, her fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the edge of the table. "Just juggling a lot. Between digging into the Pizza Boy muggings, chasing down leads on that asshole trying to out students before they’re ready, double-checking the cameras at the Mannings’ place, and staying up half the night sifting through recordings to crack Logan’s case. I’m kinda running on fumes at this point."
Wallace grimaced, his brows knitting together as a shadow of genuine worry crept into his warm brown eyes. "Damn, V. You ever think about, I don’t know, sleeping?”
Veronica tilted her head as she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Sleep? Oh, you mean that mythical thing people do when they’re not trying to keep Neptune from imploding? I’ll pencil it in my calendar right after I teach the world to sing in perfect harmony."
He gave her a knowing look, the kind that saw right through her bullshit. The vinyl creaked beneath her as she leaned back, wrapping her hands tighter around the mug for its fleeting warmth.
"You’ll figure it all out," he said, his tone steady, reassuring. "You always do."
She huffed a small, brittle laugh, the sound tinged with exhaustion and a hint of self-doubt, but before she could toss out another deflection, Wallace leaned forward. His elbows pressed into the table, and his voice dropped.
"Speaking of Logan’s case, is the man in question also part of the reason you’ve been kinda off at school this week? Like, ‘snapping at freshmen and glaring at the vending machine’ levels of grumpiness?"
Veronica scoffed, rolling her eyes with exaggerated indignation. "Grumpy? Me? Never."
Wallace just waited, eyebrows raised, his silence a gentle prod that she couldn’t dodge. The air between them thickened, the distant clatter of the shop fading as the moment stretched taut.
She relented with a sigh, her bravado crumbling. "And what makes you think Logan has anything to do with it?"
"Oh, I don’t know," Wallace said, leaning back with a faint, teasing smirk. "Maybe the way you practically sprinted into the bathroom to hide when you saw him in the hallway? Or the fact that he’s been slinking around school with his patented kicked-puppy look all week?"
Veronica frowned, her fingers pausing mid-tap as confusion flickered across her face. "Kicked-puppy look?"
Wallace nodded, his tone softening again. "Yeah, you know the one. And he actually cornered me yesterday and asked me if you were okay, said he hadn’t heard from you since he texted about Duncan being back at the suite. He didn’t know if you were upset with him about it - said if you were, he’d move out. Like, pack-his-bags-and-go desperate."
Veronica sighed, running a weary hand through her hair, the gesture a silent admission of defeat. "A week ago, I went to see Logan at the Grand… and found Kendall leaving."
Wallace’s expression shifted, the playful ease draining from his face. His brows furrowed, and he leaned forward slightly. "Ouch. I get why that’d mess with you, that’s a gut punch. But - hear me out - the guy just offered to move so you’d be comfortable. It’s obvious he’s crazy about you. Have you actually tried talking to him about it?"
Veronica’s lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line. "Talking. Yeah. That’s always been our strong suit."
Wallace fixed her with a look. "V, come on. You’re the smartest person I know - hell, probably the smartest person in Neptune - but even you can’t read minds. Maybe there’s more to it than you think. Maybe it’s not what you’ve already decided it is in that overactive brain of yours."
She exhaled sharply through her nose, a short, jagged sound, and shifted her weight in the booth.
"I know what I saw, Wallace. She was leaving his suite, looking very pleased with herself." Her voice dipped low, laced with a quiet venom that masked the hurt simmering beneath.
Wallace winced, a sympathetic twist to his mouth, but he didn’t back down. "Okay, I’m not saying that doesn’t look bad. It does. But did you actually ask him about it? Or did you just—" He lifted his hands, fingers splaying in a quick, dramatic burst, mimicking a tiny explosion. "—decide you knew everything and vanish into full sulk mode?"
Veronica’s glare could’ve melted steel, her blue eyes narrowing to slits. "I do not sulk."
Wallace raised his eyebrows, silent and unrelenting, his expression a mix of exasperation and gentle challenge.
She deflated with a sigh, slumping back against the booth. "Fine. Maybe a little. But I’ve been busy, okay?" Her tone was defensive, but the excuse felt flimsy.
He hummed knowingly, his lips twitching into a knowing smile. "Right, too busy solving every crime in Neptune to have one real conversation."
She waved a hand dismissively, the gesture sharp and unsteady. "It’s not just that, Wallace. It’s… complicated." The word hung heavy, loaded with all the things she wouldn’t say - the ache of old wounds, the fear of trusting Logan again.
"That’s the thing, though," Wallace said, his voice dropping to a steady, pointed cadence as he locked eyes with her. "It really doesn’t have to be." There was no judgment there, just a quiet plea, and it hit her harder than she wanted to admit.
Wallace wasn’t exactly president of Logan’s fan club – that had pretty much been severed the day he took a crowbar to her headlights. Wallace’s loyalty to her had always come with a healthy dose of scepticism about the guy who’d spent almost two years as her number one tormenter. Even after Logan’s orbit had shifted, pulling him closer to her in ways neither of them had expected, Wallace had kept his distance, watching with wary eyes.
So if he suspected there was more to this Kendall situation, if he was willing to nudge her towards talking it out despite his own reservations, then maybe he was onto something. The thought lodged itself in her mind, stubborn and insistent, tugging at the edges of her doubt. Maybe she should talk to Logan.
But the thought of cracking herself open, of standing in front of him and risking the kind of hurt that had carved itself into her before, twisted her stomach into knots. Vulnerability felt like a trap, and she’d spent too long building walls to let them crumble now.
Veronica’s gaze flicked over to Alice, who was now juggling a steaming pitcher of milk and a growing line of customers at the counter. The queue stretched out the door, a restless shuffle of impatience she couldn’t ignore. Her smile slid into place like armour, a well-worn mask that snapped up with practised ease, sealing away the storm churning beneath her ribs. "Duty calls," she said, her voice light and breezy, a deliberate pivot away from the raw edge she’d been teetering on. She pushed up from the booth, and took a step towards the counter.
Wallace shook his head, scooping up another generous bite of red velvet cake, the fork scraping softly against the plate. "Oh, and Veronica?" His voice caught her mid-turn, a playful lilt threading through the words.
She paused and half-turned back to him, one eyebrow arching as she glanced over her shoulder. "Yeah?"
"If you find another slice of cake back there," he said, nodding at the counter with a grin that didn’t quite hide the knowing glint in his eyes, "you know where to find me."
***
The faint, persistent hum from the many tenants of Sunset Cliffs seeped through the cracked window of Veronica’s apartment, blending with the sharp, insistent sizzle of chicken cutlets frying in a well-worn skillet.
Veronica stood at the stove, a breaded piece browning to a perfect, golden perfection as she pressed it down with a spatula, the metal scraping softly against the pan’s seasoned surface. The small kitchen was thick with the comforting scent of garlic and oregano, a fragrant cloud that clung to the air. A pot of rich tomato sauce bubbled gently on the back burner, doctored with a generous splash of robust red wine and a handful of freshly torn basil leaves, their vibrant green a stark contrast to the deep red. Pasta twirled lazily in a steaming pot beside it, and a plate of creamy, white mozzarella waited patiently on the counter, sliced and ready to crown the dish.
The rhythmic thump of Backup’s tail against the worn fabric of the sofa caught her attention, a comforting, familiar sound amidst the domestic chaos. She wiped her floury hands on her faded jeans, leaving streaks of white against the denim, and pulled out his bag of kibble, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet apartment. She filled his stainless steel bowl, a sound that always seemed to elicit an immediate response. The pit bull bounded over, his nose diving into the food before she could even step back. She smirked. At least someone’s priorities were straightforward.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, the screen flaring with the bright light of an incoming text. She glanced at it, her eyes scanning the message. It was Lizzie confirming the cameras were set at the Mannings’ place. Nothing from Logan. Not surprising, given her deliberate silence after his messages, a self-imposed exile from their usual communication. He’d texted about Duncan’s return days ago, a simple, factual message, then followed up with a tentative “You okay?” that she’d pointedly ignored. Their usual stream of banter since her stay at the Grand - daily updates, sarcastic jabs, a constant, playful back-and-forth - had levelled to radio silence for the past week, and the void felt louder than she’d expected, even though she was the architect of it.
Wallace spilling that Logan had tracked him down, asking about her well-being, only twisted the knife deeper, a sharp, painful reminder of her own stubbornness. She’d left him hanging, and he’d definitely noticed. It just wasn’t for the reason he thought.
Duncan’s return wasn’t a shock. She’d braced for it after his clinic stint, but the idea of him back in the suite still soured her stomach - not because she cared where he crashed, but because it dredged up feelings that she’d rather leave buried: shattered lamps, hands around her throat, the hollow ache of chasing a stability that never existed. She’d told herself she was over it, but the bruises on her memory begged to differ.
A sharp knock rattled the door, slicing through her thoughts. Backup’s head snapped up, kibble forgotten, ears perked as a low growl rumbled in his chest. He lumbered towards the sound, and Veronica’s brow creased, her fingers brushing the counter’s edge. Keith was still at the office, and she’d already seen Wallace earlier that day. Her mind flicked to Thumper’s looming shadow in the school lot, but she shook it off. Paranoia was a lousy houseguest.
She crossed to the window, peering out. Logan stood under the dim apartment lighting, his hair a chaotic mess, and a bruise stained his jaw, purple blooming against pale skin. Hands shoved deep in his pockets and he shifted restlessly. Her stomach twisted - irritation, yes, but laced with a warmth she refused to name. Wallace’s voice nagged at her—“Maybe there’s more to it than you think”—and she cursed him for sowing doubt.
Unlocking the door, she eased it open, bracing her leg against Backup’s eager shove. “Logan Echolls,” she said, her tone dry, layered with practised ease. “Did the Grand run out of overpriced scotch, or are you just slumming it tonight?”
Logan’s lips quirked into that trademark smirk, though it faltered at the edges, not quite reaching his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability betraying his usual bravado. “Missed the charm of dog hair and existential dread,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of self-deprecation. He nodded at Backup, who strained against her hold, tail wagging with enthusiastic greetings. “Good to know one Mars still likes me.”
Veronica didn’t budge, arms crossing tightly over her chest. “He’s easily bought. What’s your excuse for dropping by uninvited?”
The smirk faded, his gaze sharpening as it locked onto hers, his eyes searching hers for answers. “You’ve been dodging me for a week. Wallace said he’d vouch for me, but I figured I’d plead my case in person.” His voice softened, shedding its usual edge. “If it’s Duncan, I’ve already started scouting new places.”
Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, the words catching in her throat. “It’s not Duncan,” she murmured, the confession slipping out before she could catch it.
Logan tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Okay. Care to enlighten me on what I’ve done this time?”
The question landed heavy, pressing against her ribs. She could deflect, sling a quip, and shove him out the door, but Wallace’s prodding gnawed at her. Kendall’s smug exit flickered in her mind, sharp and stinging. She stepped back, letting the door swing wider, a silent concession she didn’t fully voice.
Logan crossed the threshold with a casual stride that belied the tension in his shoulders. Backup greeted him with a sloppy nudge, and he paused to scratch the dog’s ears, earning a contented huff before Backup trotted back to his bowl. Veronica shut the door, the click echoing in the quiet and moved over into the kitchen before she faced him, keeping the counter as a buffer.
“What’s with the bruises?” she asked, her voice softer than she’d intended.
He sighed, clearly itching to skip the small talk, but humoured her. “PCHers jumped me on Saturday. Nothing new.”
“Shit, Logan.” Her frown deepened, gaze dropping to the counter. “Are you okay?” He nodded and fixed her with a pleading look to get to the point.
“I came by that night to see you,” she admitted, the confession slipping free. Silence stretched taut as Logan’s brown eyes bored into her, searching for the subtext. “Kendall was leaving,” she added, her tone flat.
His eyes widened with realisation as he dragged a hand through his messy hair. “She showed up uninvited. I told her to get lost. That’s it.”
Veronica’s fingers curled around the counter’s edge, nails biting into the wood, her grip tightening. “She didn’t look rejected,” she said, voice cool, probing for a reaction. “More like she’d just won something.”
Logan’s laugh was short, bitter, laced with frustration. “Trust me, I wasn’t rolling out the red carpet. She barged in, I told her to get lost. End of story.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze sharpening, his eyes intense. “You saw her leaving and didn’t stick around to ask. Why?”
The question hit like a jab, and she flinched inwardly. She could shrug it off, but his steady, unguarded stare made evasion feel flimsy. “Didn’t think I needed to stick around,” she said, her voice quieter, the edge dulling. “Looked pretty clear.”
“Clear?” His laugh was dry, tinged with frustration. “Veronica, nothing about us is ever that simple.” He straightened, his gaze piercing.
Her throat tightened, a crack forming in her armour. “I don’t know,” she confessed, the words rawer than she’d meant. “I saw her, and it just… threw me.”
He froze, eyes searching hers, turning her words over. “Why did it throw you?” he asked softly.
The air thickened, electric with unspoken truths - Kendall’s smirk a gut punch, the ache of imagining him with someone else, the fear of being replaced. She pushed off the counter, needing to move, to break his intense stare, to create some distance between them. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, too fast, her voice betraying her anxiety. “You don’t owe me anything. You’re free to date… whoever.”
“I’ve never dated Kendall,” Logan protested incredulously.
She shrugged, feigning indifference. “Sleep with. Whatever.”
“I didn’t sleep with her. I haven’t seen her since…” He trailed off as he stepped around the counter, closing the gap, his voice low and rough. “You think I’d do that? After everything?”
Her breath hitched, pinned by his intensity. She wanted to snap back, to retreat behind sarcasm, but his bruised face and unwavering gaze held her there. “I don’t know what to think,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not anymore.”
Logan’s jaw tightened, a flicker of hurt crossing his features. “Then ask me. Straight up. No games.”
The challenge dared her to cross a line she’d avoided for months. Her pulse raced, a chaotic drumbeat in her chest. “Okay,” she said, forcing steadiness into her tone. “Did you want her there?”
“No.” His answer came fast, firm, his eyes locked on hers. “She’s nothing to me, Veronica. Never was.”
She nodded slowly, the knot in her stomach easing slightly, the tension releasing its hold, but the relief brought a sharper sting - why did it hit her so hard, why did his words matter so much? She turned away, pacing towards the couch, needing distance to process the emotions swirling within her. “You didn’t call after,” she said, tossing it over her shoulder, her voice laced with a hint of accusation.
Logan followed, his footsteps soft but deliberate, stopping just behind her. “I texted you. Twice. I thought you were the one shutting me out.” He paused, then added, “And I wasn’t exactly winning any beauty contests after the PCHers used me as a piñata.”
She glanced back as guilt pricked her – he could have been hurt again, or worse, and she wouldn’t have known. “I’ve been swamped,” she muttered, deflecting.
“Swamped,” he repeated, a smirk tugging at his lips, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Or running?”
“Both.” The honesty slipped free, raw and unguarded, and she froze, the word hanging heavy in the air, a silent confession. Their eyes met, and the room shrank, the walls closing in, leaving only them, a tangle of history and tension crackling like static. Panic began to rise, the urge to flee overwhelming, and she stood, intending to make an excuse to escape to the bathroom.
Logan stepped closer, his fingers closing gently around her arm, his touch light, his voice dropping low, a husky murmur. “You don’t get to just say that and walk away. Why’d it throw you, Veronica? Why does it matter if I was with her or not?”
Her breath caught, his question slicing through her defences, exposing the raw vulnerability beneath. She turned to face him fully, hands curling into fists at her sides, her body tense. “It doesn’t,” she lied, but her voice wavered, betraying her deception.
“Bullshit.” He closed the gap, near enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, his breath ghosting over her skin. “You wouldn’t be this pissed if it didn’t. So tell me - why?”
Her chest tightened, a storm of frustration and longing swirling inside her, threatening to overwhelm her. “Because I—” She stopped, the words choking her, and his gaze softened, urging her on, his eyes filled with a quiet insistence. “Because I hate the idea of you with her,” she snapped, the admission bursting free, raw and unfiltered. “Happy now?”
Logan’s smirk faded, replaced by something raw, unguarded, a flicker of relief and something akin to tenderness in his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, a husky whisper against her skin. “I am.” He reached out, his hand brushing her arm again, tentative but deliberate, pulling her closer, closing the distance between them.
Her pulse hammered, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs, as his other hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face up, his touch gentle but firm. His breath ghosted over her lips, warm and inviting, and she didn’t pull away - couldn’t. For the first time, the instinct to flee, to erect her walls, was absent, replaced by a yearning she couldn't deny.
Their lips were a heartbeat apart, the world narrowing to just the two of them, the air thick with unspoken desires, when the door swung open with a jarring creak, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. “Veronica, I’m home!” Keith’s voice boomed through the apartment, shattering the fragile intimacy of the moment.
She jerked back, heat flooding her face, a blush creeping up her neck, as Logan dropped his hands, stepping away with a frustrated exhale, his expression a mixture of disappointment and amusement at their luck. Keith stood in the doorway, keys jingling in his hand, his sharp eyes flicking between them, taking in the charged atmosphere. Backup barked once, a single, sharp sound, tail wagging enthusiastically, oblivious to the tension that crackled in the air.
“Logan,” Keith said, his tone neutral but his eyes conveying a silent question. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Logan rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips, a flicker of awkwardness in his movements. “Just… dropping by,” he said, casually, but a hint of underlying tension remained.
Keith raised an eyebrow, glancing at Veronica, his gaze searching hers for answers. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she said quickly, smoothing her hair, her voice steadier than she felt, trying to project an air of normalcy. “Fine. Uh - Logan’s staying for dinner.” The words tumbled out before she could second-guess them, a spontaneous invitation that surprised even her, and she shot him a look, daring him to argue, to contradict her impulsive decision. “Chicken Parm’s almost ready.”
Logan’s grin widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Smells better than the Grand’s room service. I’m in.”
Keith snorted and stepped forward to hang his coat on the rack by the door. “Good thing I didn’t stop for takeout. I’ll just go and wash up,” he said, disappearing into the bathroom, the sound of running water filling the apartment.
***
The early morning sun, a pale gold orb just peeking over the horizon, cast a long, ethereal glow across the school parking lot, painting long, distorted shadows across the asphalt. The air was cool and crisp, a sharp, invigorating chill that carried the faint, lingering scent of dew. The distant, melodic chirping of birds, a chorus of early risers, punctuated the peaceful silence, a fragile tranquillity before the chaotic onslaught of the school day.
Logan pulled his car into the near-empty parking lot, the tires crunching softly on the gravel, earlier than strictly necessary, an act driven by restless energy rather than any genuine need. Sitting around in the suite wasn’t an option - not when his mind was still looping last night’s near-moment like a scene stuck on replay.
They’d been close. So agonisingly close. Veronica’s breath had hitched, a soft, almost imperceptible gasp, her lips slightly parted. His hand had brushed the soft, delicate skin of her jaw, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through him, a spark that ignited a fire within his chest. And then - Mr. Mars, party of one, your timing is atrocious.
Keith’s voice had shattered the fragile moment like a baseball through glass, a jarring intrusion that sent shards of disappointment and frustration scattering through the air. Veronica had practically leapt back in embarrassment and Logan had stood there, fists clenched at his sides, trying to control the surge of frustration, while Keith gave him that patented you’re on thin ice, Echolls stare.
Surprisingly though, Mr. Mars had been friendly, almost disarmingly so, with a side of warm, genuine gratitude for the rest of the dinner. He’d even pulled him aside, a hushed, almost conspiratorial gesture, when Veronica went to find dessert, and quietly thanked him for both stopping Duncan’s episode and looking after his daughter afterwards. And Logan was pretty sure he meant it, the sincerity in his eyes a stark contrast to their usual guarded interactions.
Logan looked in the rearview mirror, adjusting his carefully gelled hair, ensuring every strand was perfectly in place, and exhaling sharply, a nervous puff of air that betrayed his outward composure. He wasn’t about to let last night’s almost-kiss fade into nothing. He was pretty sure Veronica felt the same way, the charged atmosphere, the lingering tension, the way her eyes had held his. But maybe she just needed a gentle nudge, a subtle push in the right direction, to see how she’d respond.
Pulling out his phone, he flipped it open, the familiar glow of the screen illuminating his face, and shot off a text, his fingers moving with a nervous energy.
His stomach rolled nervously, a flutter of butterflies mixed with a hint of anxious anticipation, as he lay the phone on the dashboard, the screen facing upwards. What if she told him he was crazy, that he’d misread the situation entirely? What if she’d had time to think, to rationalise, and decided she didn’t want… His phone buzzed, the sudden vibration jolting him from his anxious reverie. His hand shot out like a reflex, grabbing the device with a desperate eagerness.
As he read her first response, his lips quirked into a playful smirk, a flicker of amusement lighting his eyes. She was playing hard to get, but he could see the underlying spark of interest. Each response he sent, he waited a beat, the silence stretching out, each passing second amplifying the nervous anticipation.
Logan grinned, a genuine, unadulterated smile spreading across his face, as he tapped out his final reply, his fingers flying across the keyboard:
Yeah, she was into it. He knew it. This was going to be good.
He swung out of his car, the door slamming shut with a solid thud, and strolled towards the growing crowd of students gathering near the yellow school buses, a noticeable spring in his step. Dick was already there, holding court, regaling Luke and Sean with what was probably a wildly exaggerated story of his latest conquest. Logan barely paid attention, only catching fragmented snippets about a hot tub and a lifeguard, the details blurring into a haze of self-aggrandising nonsense, until Dick paused mid-sentence, his eyes catching Logan’s.
“Duncan bailing?” Dick asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice, his gaze flickering over Logan’s shoulder.
Logan nodded, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips. “Dude’s buried in make-up work at the Grand. Probably still trying to figure out what year it is.”
Dick looked slightly confused, his brow furrowing slightly, probably not understanding the concept of skipping out on the senior trip for school work, the idea of academic responsibility a foreign concept to him, but he shrugged it off, dismissing the thought, and carried on with his story, his voice rising in volume.
Logan’s gaze skimmed the parking lot, searching the sea of faces. No sign of Veronica yet, a knot of anxious anticipation tightening in his stomach. Wallace wandered over, his eyes narrowed, eyeing him like he’d just caught him whistling a love song, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “I’m going out on a limb and saying the fact you’re practically skipping around says that your talk with Veronica went well?”
Logan scoffed, a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes. “I don’t skip.”
Wallace nodded, deadpan, his expression a mask of mock seriousness. “Right.”
The crowd started shifting towards the buses, a chaotic flow of students, splitting off into pairs and groups as they began claiming seats, their voices a cacophony of excited chatter.
Wallace shot him a knowing look, a hint of playful teasing in his eyes. “So, I’m guessing I’m losing my BFF as my seat partner? You know she’ll steal all your snacks. You have to hide the good ones right at the bottom of your bag.”
Logan grinned, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. “Thanks for the tip. Haven’t seen her yet to ask.”
His phone remained stubbornly silent as he climbed onto the bus, the worn vinyl of the seats cool against his skin. He slid into an empty seat, pulling out his phone again, his fingers tapping nervously against the screen, and sent another text, a hint of impatience creeping into his message.
At the front of the bus, Mrs. Murphy clapped her hands sharply, the sound cutting through the rising tide of student chatter, demanding attention.
“Before we depart, a few reminders,” she announced, her voice amplified by a portable microphone, echoing through the bus. “The journey will take around two hours, less if we don’t have to stop to use the restroom to refresh our makeup every half an hour.” She paused, fixing Shelly Pomeroy, who was primping in front of a compact mirror, with a pointed look. “After the antics on the Junior trip, there will be strictly no alcohol or there will be serious consequences. And finally,” she paused for dramatic effect, “no cell phones will be allowed. I will be collecting them and keeping them safe for you.”
The announcement began an instant uproar. A wave of groans and protests swept through the bus, a cacophony of teenage discontent.
“What?” Carrie yelped, her voice high-pitched with disbelief.
“That’s insane,” Gia complained indignantly.
Dick threw up his hands in mock outrage, his eyes wide with theatrical disbelief. “And where exactly are you keeping them? ‘Cause my phone’s worth more than, like, half these students.”
Logan exchanged a glance with Wallace, who had found someone from the basketball team to sit with. He gave Logan a perplexed look, his eyes questioning the empty seat next to him.
“Where is she?” Wallace asked and Logan shrugged in response.
Mrs. Murphy moved down the aisle, her expression stern, collecting phones with an almost militaristic efficiency, while Logan kept a watchful eye on the bus door, his gaze scanning the parking lot.
Still no Veronica.
His fingers hovered over his phone screen, a nervous energy crackling within him. Should he call her? He had a bad feeling, a sense of unease that settled in his stomach like a cold stone.
Mrs. Murphy stopped beside him, her hand outstretched, her expression expectant.
He shook his head, a flicker of defiance in his eyes.
Her expression darkened, her lips tightening into a thin line. “Mr. Echolls, you are not above the rules.”
His phone buzzed, a sudden vibration that broke the tension.
Veronica.
He flicked his phone back open to view the message, his heart pounding with anticipation.
Logan frowned, his brow furrowing in suspicion. Something about it felt… off. Veronica was rarely sick, a force of nature immune to common ailments, and they’d literally just been talking about their plans for the day, the playful banter still echoing in his mind. Had the mention of the date sent her running after all?
Before he could respond, to challenge her excuse and to demand an explanation, Mrs. Murphy sighed, her patience clearly exhausted, and plucked the phone right out of his hand, her fingers closing around it like a vice.
“Hey—” he began, a protest rising in his throat.
“You know, Mr. Echolls,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of dry amusement, "a day without that little rectangle won't be the end of the world. Despite what you all seem to think." She then continued walking down the aisle.
Logan clenched his jaw, his muscles tensing, as she walked off with his phone, locking away his only shot at getting answers, at unravelling the mystery of Veronica’s sudden absence.
The bus lurched forward, the engine groaning, and that was it. He was trapped, rolling towards Magic Mountain, a day of forced fun looming ahead, while the one person he actually wanted there was not coming.
And he wasn’t buying her excuse for a second.
***
The bus rumbled to a halt, the engine groaning in protest after the long, chaotic journey back from Magic Mountain. Logan stumbled off, his head pounding, the artificial cheer of the amusement park still ringing in his ears. The sugar rush from the copious amounts of junk food he'd consumed had long since faded, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache, along with the buzz from the illicitly smuggled drinks, which most of the 09ers had brought with them.
Mrs. Murphy, her face a mask of fury, had busted them in the park, the scene a chaotic tableau of slurred words, unsteady steps, and at least three guys actively vomiting on the return journey. She'd been livid, her voice echoing through the bus, promising dire consequences for the entire senior class.
"You'll all be punished!" she'd declared, her voice trembling with rage. Logan had stifled a snort. What were they going to do, take away their lunch privileges?
He reached Mrs. Murphy, who was standing by the bus door, handing back phones with a grim expression. He snatched his back, the cool metal a familiar comfort in his hand, and flipped it open. No new texts, no missed calls, nothing since Veronica's cryptic message that morning. The emptiness of his inbox mirrored the hollowness in his chest.
He decided to head straight to Veronica’s, the need to see her overriding his exhaustion. He drove through the familiar streets, the setting sun casting long, distorted shadows, and pulled into the Sunset Cliffs parking lot. He parked, his gaze immediately scanning the area. Her car was parked in its usual spot.
He climbed out of the car, his movements stiff and weary, and walked towards the apartment building, his footsteps echoing as he jogged up the stairs to the top row where her apartment was. It was in darkness, no lights visible through the windows. He knocked on the door and heard Backup bark in response, but no one answered.
He headed back towards his car and pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the call button, and pressed it.
The distant sound of a ringtone cut through the silence. But it wasn’t coming from the apartment. He rushed back down the stairs and looked around, his eyes searching the dimly lit parking lot. The ringing continued, growing louder as he got closer. He followed the sound and then he saw her phone, lying on the cracked asphalt, bathed in the faint glow of a nearby streetlight.
He picked it up, his fingers trembling slightly, the cool metal a stark contrast to the sudden rush of heat in his veins. The ringing stopped, leaving an unnerving silence. He stared at the phone, his mind racing, a cold dread settling in his stomach. Something was very, very wrong.
He needed to call someone, anyone. He scrolled through his contacts, his thumb hovering over Mr. Mars’ name, and pressed the call button.
Keith answered on the second ring, his voice slightly muffled, a background hum of noise filtering through the line. “Logan? What’s up?”
“Mr. Mars, it’s Veronica,” Logan said, his voice tight, his words tumbling out in a rush. “She’s… she’s missing.”
“Missing? What do you mean, missing?” Keith’s voice sharpened, the background noise suddenly receding as if he’d walked somewhere quieter. “Where are you? What happened?”
“I’m at your apartment,” Logan said, his gaze sweeping across the darkened building. “She didn’t go on the senior trip today. Said she had the stomach flu.”
“That’s… strange,” Keith said, a note of confusion in his voice. “She was looking forward to that trip. She was getting ready to go when I left this morning to catch a flight.”
“Well, she’s not here,” Logan continued, his voice strained. “Her car is still in the parking lot, and Backup’s home, but she’s not answering. And… I found her phone on the ground, outside.” A heavy silence fell over the line. Logan could almost hear Keith’s mind racing, processing the information, piecing together the unsettling details. “Something’s wrong, I can feel it,” Logan added, his voice barely a whisper.
“Alright, listen to me,” Keith said, his voice firm, authoritative. “I’m in Houston for a case. I’m going to book the next flight back to Neptune and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to drive to Mars Investigations,” Logan said, his voice gaining a newfound resolve. “Check the office, just in case she’s there. Then I’ll round up Wallace and Mac. They’ll help me find her.”
“Good,” Keith said, his voice tight with worry. “Keep me updated, Logan. And please be careful. I don’t like the sound of this.”
“I will,” Logan said, his voice echoing the fear in Keith’s. He hung up, the silence that followed heavier than before. He looked at Veronica’s phone one last time, then slid it into his pocket. He turned and walked towards his car, the urgency to find Veronica propelling him forward.
Notes:
Thank you so much to everyone who is kind enough to leave their thoughts, feedback or reactions. It makes SUCH a difference. It took over a year to write this fic and it means such a lot when I hear from those reading it.
Also I made an error when counting the chapters - there are actually 20!
Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Text
Veronica sat cross-legged atop her bed, the faded floral duvet bunched beneath her like a nest, a half-eaten bowl of soggy cereal teetering on her knee. Her focus was locked on the glowing screen of her laptop, perched precariously amidst the folds of fabric. A pair of headphones hugged her ears, feeding her the final audio recordings from Thumper. The sound was a relentless drone: the guttural growl of motorcycle engines, the occasional clink of a beer bottle, and muffled snippets of conversation buried under layers of static and wind.
Her fingers danced over the keyboard, scrolling through jagged waveforms that spiked and dipped like a jagged heartbeat, her brow creasing as she strained to sift through the noise for anything remotely useful. Most of it was useless - a tedious slog of biker slang, crude jokes, and rambling chatter about carburetors and backroads she couldn’t care less about.
The floorboards creaked, pulling her attention briefly from the screen. Her dad loomed in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim hallway light. A worn leather travel bag hung from his shoulder, its straps frayed from years of use, and his face carried that familiar blend of parental concern and the restless edge of a man already halfway out the door. “I’m off to Houston,” he said, his voice cutting through the muffled roar in her headphones like a blunt knife. “For the Lehane case. Did you book the rental car?”
Veronica tugged one earbud free, letting it dangle against her collarbone as she kept her eyes fixed on the laptop.
“Yeah,” she muttered, her tone distracted as she dragged the audio scrubber back a few seconds, chasing a faint voice she couldn’t quite place. “Options were slim, though. A Hummer H2 - six miles to the gallon, absolute gas guzzler, but…” She glanced up at him, her lips twitching into a theatrical smirk. “Think of the intimidation factor.” Keith’s expression remained stubbornly blank, his eyes narrowing slightly as if waiting for the punchline. Undeterred, she leaned back against the headboard, propping the cereal bowl on her stomach. “Or… a Chevy Corvette,” she added, dangling the second option like bait.
Keith shifted his weight, the travel bag swaying slightly as he raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Which one’d you pick?”
“The Corvette,” she said, a mischievous glint sparking in her eyes. She tilted her head, letting her hair fall across one shoulder. “Figured you’re overdue for a midlife crisis. Time to trade the sensible slacks for some leather pants and a bad attitude.”
He let out a low, exasperated groan, the kind that only a father well-versed in her antics could muster. “It better be red,” he shot back, adjusting the bag on his shoulder with a grunt.
“Of course,” she replied, barely suppressing a grin as she popped a spoonful of soggy cornflakes into her mouth.
Keith lingered in the doorway for a beat, then poked his head back into the room, his tone sharpening with suspicion. “You’re joking, right?”
Veronica sighed, her finger hovering over the pause button as the audio looped into another stretch of incoherent rambling. She pressed it, silencing the bikers mid-sentence, and met his gaze with a reluctant shrug.
“Yeah, alright - I twisted the rental guy’s arm. They dug up a Blazer from the back lot. Figured if I led with that, you’d be pissed about it.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, the cereal bowl wobbling dangerously. “But come on, Dad, a Corvette? You’d have looked like a retired cop turned wannabe Fast-and-Furious extra. The Blazer’s more your speed - rugged, practical, no midlife crisis required.”
Keith snorted, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he shook his head.
“You’re a menace,” he muttered. “At least we can bill it.” He shook his head with a wry half-smile, the kind that said he was already mentally tallying the expenses as he hefted the travel bag higher on his shoulder, the leather creaking faintly. “Enjoy the roller coasters. Call me when you get back.” He leaned in, pressing a quick, familiar kiss to her forehead, his stubble grazing her skin. “I already fed Backup, so don’t fall for his sad-eyes routine,” he called over his shoulder as he strode down the hall, his voice echoing faintly. The front door clicked shut with a dull thud, leaving the apartment steeped in a sudden, heavy quiet.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, jittering against her mug of morning coffee. She’d just finished texting Logan about Magic Mountain - his sly push to label it their first date. His final text - “A bold demand, but I accept” had lit a warm spark in her chest. Now, alone in the silence, that spark flared into a quiet thrill she couldn’t shake. Her lips twitched into a rare, unguarded smile as she reached up, pulling the elastic from her hair. She shook out the messy blonde strands and brushed them, then styled it into a high ponytail ideal for the rollercoasters with a swift tug. A flicker of excitement simmering beneath her usual cool.
She slipped the headphones back on, hitting play, and the guttural roar of motorcycle engines flooded her ears again, a rough grind that set her teeth on edge. Her eyes followed the jagged peaks of sound - until a voice cut through, raw and deliberate. Thumper. He was talking to Liam Fitzpatrick, their words low and taut, fraying through the static but heavy with intent.
It wasn’t the details that struck her - just the chilling edge in Thumper’s voice as he made a casual admission that pinned him to Felix’s murder. Her pulse kicked hard, followed by a rush of adrenaline. This was it - proof, the break she’d been chasing, the final piece needed to free Logan.
She checked her watch, wincing at the time. She tore the headphones off, letting them drop onto the rumpled duvet, and her fingers darted across the keyboard, shaky but sure as she isolated the clip. She worked the audio to amplify the crucial exchange, and sent the file to her email - while the original stayed secure on her laptop. She grabbed her bag, keys clanking as she shoved them in, and lunged for the door, locking it with a sharp twist. The stairwell blurred as she bounded down two steps at a time, her sneakers thudding against the worn wood.
The parking lot slammed her with a gust of crisp air, laced with the sting of gasoline and mown grass. She fished her phone out, thumbing to Cliff’s contact as she hustled towards her car. The call rang once, twice, then flipped to voicemail, his gruff tone rumbling through. “Cliff, I’ve got it,” she said, her voice brimming with urgency, spilling fast. “Proof of who took Felix out, it’s on tape, we can—”
Suddenly a savage blow slammed into her back, a brutal force that tore the air from her lungs. She pitched forward, knees cracking against the asphalt, pain igniting as her palms shredded on jagged grit. Her phone launched from her grip, skittering across the parking lot with a grating screech. She gasped - then a second strike smashed into her head with a sickening, bone-deep thud. Darkness surged, drowning the crunch of boots, the bite of gravel and the frantic thud of her pulse. She collapsed, a ragdoll on the icy ground, consciousness slipping away.
***
The world swam back into focus through a haze of pain, a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed behind Veronica’s eyes like a metronome set to torment. Her mouth tasted of rust and salt - blood, she realised, she could feel crusted at the edge of her lips. Her tongue sat heavy, coated with the chalky grit of dehydration. She blinked, flinching as dim light clawed at her senses, and pieced together the world around her. The air hung thick, reeking of mildew and the sour bite of rusted iron. She was in a cavernous void - an abandoned warehouse, or storeroom perhaps - its concrete floor unyielding beneath her. Shadows hulked with debris: splintered crates, a snarl of chains coiled like a dormant viper, a cracked motorcycle helmet tipped over, its visor glinting under a lone bulb swaying overhead. The light carved lazy arcs, throwing jagged shadows across stained walls.
Her wrists burned, chafed raw by coarse rope that bit into her skin, tying her to a heavy metal chair. She shifted, testing her bonds and felt the chair’s bolts groan but hold fast, anchored to the floor. Her ankles were bound too, the rope so tight it pinched her nerves, sending a jolt of numbness up her calves. A sharp sting flared at her temple as she tilted her head - a trickle of dried blood had matted her hair, evidence of the blow that had knocked her out in the parking lot. How long had she been here? Minutes? Hours? The fog in her mind refused to clear, but the ache in her skull told her it hadn’t been gentle.
A shadow stirred, and her gaze snapped to it. It was Thumper. Well, shit.
He loomed a few yards off in his battered black leather jacket. His boots scraped the grimy floor as he paced, kicking up dust that danced in the flickering light.
Thumper had always carried a cold edge - unlike Weevil, who could flash charm even in their early favour-trading days. Weevil had never scared her. But Thumper’s stare, sizing her up from across the room, twisted her gut. His shaved head and the harsh light cut his face into stark, predatory angles. Yet fear radiated off him - raw, electric - and that scared her more than the ropes. A cornered man was a dangerous one.
He muttered under his breath - words she couldn’t catch, followed by a low growl of frustration. His dark eyes darted to her, then away, then back again. Rather than let him wrestle silently with whatever twisted choice he was mulling over, Veronica swallowed, her throat rough as sandpaper, and forced her voice steady.
“Nice place,” she rasped, dripping sarcasm despite the quiver in her chest. No way was she letting some thug who couldn’t come up with a better moniker than Thumper think he’d rattled her. “What’s the rent? Bet the roaches get a discount.”
Thumper stopped pacing mid-step, his head whipping towards her. “Shut up,” he snapped, his voice a rough bark that echoed off the concrete. He kicked a nearby crate and it splintered with a sharp crack, sending shards of wood skittering across the floor. His hands flexed at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, and for a moment, she thought he’d lunge. Instead, he glared at her, his breath heaving, eyes wild with something she couldn’t quite name - panic, maybe, or rage.
She squinted, leaning forward against the ropes’ bite, ignoring the fire in her wrists. “Wild guess here - you’re freaking out,” she said, voice level, probing his cracks. “What’s got you so jumpy, Thumper?”
He took a step closer, boots thudding heavy against the floor, and his shadow fell over her, swallowing the faint light.
“I ain’t going down for Felix,” he snarled, his voice cracking on the name, raw with desperation. “Not ‘cause of you, you nosy little bitch. I don’t know what you think you heard, but you’re wrong.” His hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of her hair, and he yanked her head back, hard. Pain lanced through her scalp, sharp and hot, as strands tore free, and she bit down on a gasp, refusing to give him the satisfaction. His face hovered inches from hers, close enough that she could smell the stale beer on his breath, see the sweat beading on his brow. “You don’t get it, do you? This is bigger than your smart mouth.”
Her neck strained, muscles screaming, but she locked eyes with him, unflinching.
“Then enlighten me,” she ground out through gritted teeth, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Because your little kidnap-and-freakout doesn’t scream innocent.”
He held her there a moment longer, fingers digging in, then shoved her head back with a grunt, letting go.
She slumped against the chair, breath ragged, scalp pulsing, and took stock. Her dad was in Houston. Logan, Wallace, Mac - they’d be gearing up for Magic Mountain.
“My friends are expecting me on the trip,” she pointed out.
He grinned, a cruel, jagged thing. “Yeah, I saw your phone. That flirty bullshit with Echolls.” His voice took on a high-pitched mocking tone, “‘Milkshake, two straws,’ ‘hold my hand on the log flume.’” He grimaced. “Real cute. Didn’t know you were back to screwin’ him. Guess an 09er snaps his fingers, and you spread your legs, huh?”
Her stomach churned, anger flaring hot beneath the fear, but she kept her face stone-cold.
“Then you know Logan’s waiting and he’ll know something’s off when I don’t show.” Her voice stayed firm, defiant, though doubt gnawed at her chest.
Thumper laughed, a harsh, barking sound that grated on her nerves. “Told him you’re sick,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing. “Texted from your phone something like ‘pukin’ my guts out, catch you later.’ He bought it. Probably off ridin’ coasters with his rich-ass buddies now.” He leaned in, his breath hot against her face. “You’re a ghost, Mars. No one’s lookin’.”
Her heart sank, a cold weight coiling in her gut. He’d covered his tracks - Logan might buy the lie, might not, but it gave Thumper time. She swallowed the panic, forcing her mind to stay sharp.
“You know who my dad is,” she said, locking eyes with him. “He’s not some chump who lets his kid vanish. He’ll tear this town apart looking for me.”
Thumper’s grin faded, a scowl twisting his face as he straightened, knuckles cracking. “Your dad’s been a damn thorn in my side since he arrested my older ‘bro and put him in jail before I was out of middle school. But I saw him leave this morning, bag packed heavy like he’s not back tonight.” He shrugged. “You’re alone, princess. No daddy, no boyfriend, no cavalry.”
Rage flared in her chest, and she flung herself forwards, straining against the ropes. Her fingers curled for his jacket and she yanked him towards her. She wasn’t quite sure what she was trying to achieve, but he spun back, his fist slamming into her shoulder with a force that snapped her head sideways, her lip splitting against her teeth. The blow drove her hard against the chair, metal biting her spine, a deep, bruising ache blooming in her bones. She gasped, breath hitching, tasting fresh blood as he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.
“Try anything like that again, and I’ll break something you need. Got it?”
She nodded once tersely, her shoulder screaming and lip stinging as blood trickled onto her shirt. He let go, stepping back, and she slumped in the chair, chest heaving. She wasn’t a person to him - just a threat to his freedom. Her mind churned, grasping for a plan, a way to stall. Her dad was gone. Her friends were distracted. She needed to keep Thumper talking, spot a weakness in his nerves, because sitting here waiting wasn’t an option.
***
The warehouse sprawled around her, hushed but for the faint drip of water echoing in the gloom. Veronica’s head pounded, a vicious rhythm synced with the raw sting at her wrists, where ropes had now chafed her skin to a bloody mess. Her knuckles bore specks of dried blood from fighting the restraints, and the chair’s frigid metal had numbed her legs through her jeans. She’d been tied here since morning - hours dragging by like years - and Thumper had been out back most of that time, probably scheming or stewing, or whatever creeps like him did to pass the time.
She had no idea of the time, no way to glimpse the outside world and gauge the light. It was disorienting.
The door slammed as Thumper stormed back in, slouching against a stack of crates in the corner. His gaze locked onto her. The silence wound tighter than a noose, more suffocating than his earlier pacing, setting her nerves on edge.
He finally got to his feet, boots thudding across the concrete as he closed in.
“What’d you hear?” His voice scraped, low and frayed. “What’d you record? Tell me, or I swear…” He cut off, looming over her, his bulk blotting out the dim light. His hands twitched as if eager for a target, fear glinting behind the rage in his eyes like lightning in a storm.
Veronica’s pulse surged, her mind racing for an angle. Bluff big, make him think she had a landslide of evidence? Or play it small, let him think it was nothing? She settled on a middle ground, keeping it vague.
“Enough to make you squirm like this, I guess,” she said with a shrug, voice steady despite the twist in her gut.
He didn’t like that. His hand shot out, his knuckles smashing her cheek. Pain erupted, sharp and searing, jerking her head aside. Blood flooded her mouth again and she blinked back the sting of tears, refusing to let them fall. She wiped her bound hands across her mouth, feeling the blood smearing.
“Cute,” she forced out, smirking through the ache. “So why were you even waiting outside my place? How long have you been stalking me, Thumper?”
His face twitched, a snarl curling his lip. “Since I saw you sniffing around the bikes. Been watching you long enough to know something was coming - your nosy ass always stirs shit up.”
“So, why did you kill Felix? What’d he do to earn it? Or were you just following orders?”
Thumper’s eyes blazed, wild and unhinged, and he yanked her forward, fabric tearing as the ropes dug deeper into her wrists. “You don’t know shit,” he hissed, so close she could smell his sweat. “You said you had a tape. What’d you do with it? Who’s got it? Your dad? That 09er punk?” His grip tightened, and she winced, wrists howling.
“Maybe,” she rasped, voice thin, stalling with ambiguity. “Maybe it’s already out there, and you’re screwed.”
“If I am, you’re dead first,” he snarled, shoving her back so hard the chair rocked.
She took a breath, trying to keep her composure.
“Okay, here’s my theory,” she said, leaning into it despite the pain. “You hooked up with the Fitzpatricks, pushing their drugs. They wanted the PCHers in line, but Weevil wouldn’t bite, and Felix wouldn’t back a coup, as the Fitpatricks murdered his brother. So you knifed Felix and pushed Weevil out as leader, leaving you in line to step in, giving the Fitzpatricks what they want: cheap labour to move their product. How’s that?”
“You missed the part where Felix was banging Molly Fitzpatrick,” he spat. “He knew the rules.” Veronica’s breath caught, a jolt of shock cutting through the haze. “Oh, Blondie didn’t know that,” he sneered, grinning at her flinch.
“So you gutted Felix for screwing Liam’s niece - to impress the new boss? And Logan was just a handy fall guy? Conveniently on the bridge, and a good distraction for Weevil and the PCHers.”
“Still digging for answers, huh? Doesn’t matter why Felix is dead - it matters what you’ve got on me. You said on the phone you had proof.” He paced, boots scuffing, then whirled back, jabbing a finger at her. “I ain’t taking the fall. You hear me? Whatever you’ve got, it’s dust - or you are.”
He was unravelling, fury and fear clawing at each other. She knew it was madness, but she couldn’t stop herself from pressing harder, voice low and cutting.
“God, I thought you PCHers were family. And you stabbed him for loving a girl and to pocket a few extra bucks on the side? You’re truly disgusting, Thumper - pathetic doesn’t even cover it.”
He froze, eyes narrowing to slits, and for a heartbeat, she braced for another hit. Instead, he kicked the chair leg, jarring her bones, and growled, “Keep yapping, Mars. See where it lands you.” He spun away, muttering under his breath, leaving her slumped and her chest tight.
***
The apartment thrummed like a hive under siege, voices clashing and footsteps pounding the wooden flooring that stretched from the kitchenette into the narrow living room.
It was still early with a bruised purple bleeding through the blinds - but sleep was a phantom Logan couldn’t grasp. He hunched over the kitchen counter, maps sprawled across the cramped surface. He traced lines with Mac, cobbling together the start of a search grid, his eyes raw and stinging. The coffee in his mug had gone cold and acrid hours ago, but he couldn’t stop
Veronica was out there, her absence a jagged hole in his chest, every wasted tick of the clock a stab at her odds.
Keith stood a few feet away leaning against one of the cabinets, a phone jammed to his ear, barking orders in a voice stretched thin but with the kind of steel that held this mess together. Wallace darted through the bottleneck, weaving towards the printer jammed against the living room wall, fliers spilling out one after another, ink smearing his fingers from replacing the ink cartridges.
Weevil loomed in the hallway waiting for his next task, his eyes slitted and restless, his shadow spilling towards Veronica’s closed bedroom door and Deputy Leo hunched on a stool scribbling notes, his uniform crumpled.
The place was a whirlwind - doors creaking, ideas volleyed from the couch to the hall - but it was the only thing keeping Logan’s sanity from shattering.
Backup’s mournful whines pierced the chaos every few minutes, a guttural plea that twisted Logan’s gut. The pit bull had already bowled over three people in the tight living room, his bulk knocking shins against the coffee table’s legs. After the third tumble - a near miss that sent a stack of maps sliding off the counter - Keith had snarled, “Enough, damn it,” and wrestled him down the short hall into his bedroom, the door thudding shut on those sad eyes. Logan felt each whine reverberate in his ribs, a raw echo of the dread choking him.
Mac perched on a chair across from him, her pencil tapping the map in a jittery beat and her brow creased deep enough to hold shadows.
“If we split Neptune into quadrants, we can start organising a grid - focus on places someone might stash a person. Like we can rule out much of the 08 and 09 areas, anyone not supposed to be there would stick out like a sore thumb.”
Her voice clung to calm, a fragile shield, but Logan caught the quiver threading through it, the crack in her steady facade. She was terrified, the same as him, masking it with logic. He nodded, dragging a highlighter across a grid square, his hand trembling enough to smear a crooked streak over downtown. His throat burned, exhaustion and panic clawing up his spine, but he forced his gaze back to the map.
The front door creaked open off the living room, and the noise snagged for half a breath. Duncan stepped in, hands buried in his pockets, looking like he’d stumbled into a war zone uninvited. The air turned dense - Keith’s jaw clamped, a vein pulsing in his neck, and Wallace flicked his eyes to the rug. Duncan shifted, awkwardness seeping from him.
“Uh, I heard about Veronica. I want to help.”
Silence stretched, taut and cutting, until Keith cleared his throat, shattering it. “Wallace needs help. He’s printing fliers and about to hit the neighbours again - see if anyone’s home now that wasn’t last night and ask if they saw anything.”
Logan watched Duncan’s shoulders slump with relief, tension bleeding out as he muttered, “Yeah, sure, I can do that,” and shuffled over to Wallace, who thrust a stack of fliers into his hands without a glance. Veronica’s loved ones had clearly not forgiven him, but weren’t going to turn away offers of help.
The room lurched back into its frantic pulse - someone near the couch yelled about checking the pier, another by the hall countered with searching highway motels, their voices tangling like wires.
Then three firefighters barrelled through the door, their jackets rustling, boots thudding on the linoleum. Keith’s face cracked open, a fleeting warmth piercing his grim shell. “Phil, Adam, Eddie - damn good to see you.”
Phil, whose badge announced he was the Fire Chief, clapped Keith’s shoulder, nearly knocking him into the fridge. “What do you need, man?”
“Fliers on your engines,” Keith asked, voice snapping back to command. “And if you’ve got news contacts, get her face out there.”
Phil nodded, all business. “Leave it with me – Jennifer Stevens at Channel 9 owes me. Lamb pulling his weight?”
Keith’s snort was sharp, bitter. “Won’t take the report ‘til 24 hours are up, despite knowing that rule’s bullshit. Few more hours, and he’s got no excuse. Sacks and D'Amato have stepped up anyway - Sacks is out canvassing, hunting CCTV from any building nearby.”
Logan’s ears snagged on Wallace’s phone buzzing, Jackie’s name cutting through the fog as he spoke to her. When Wallace finished the call, he looked towards Logan.
“She’s at school,” Wallace informed him. “Just realised we’re all AWOL. I told her Veronica’s missing - she’s on her way. She wants to help.”
Then the door blasted open, banging against the living room wall, and Cliff stumbled in, a frantic wreck. His usual slick grin was gone – his hair a wild tangle, tie skewed, his eyes wide.
“I missed a message,” he gasped, his voice splintering. “From Veronica.” The room plunged into a stunned hush, every head jerking towards him. Logan’s gut dropped, a cold, sick plunge, as Cliff fumbled his phone onto speaker with shaking fingers.
Her voice sliced through the static. “Cliff, I’ve got it. Proof of who took Felix out, it’s on tape, we can—” A bone-jarring thud cut her off, followed by a harsh scrape - like the phone skittering across asphalt - then silence. Dead, empty silence.
Logan’s breath locked, his vision tunnelling to a pinpoint. That case - his damn case. She’d been chasing it for him, and now she was gone, maybe bleeding out on some cold pavement because he’d dragged her into this. His hands gripped the counter’s edge, knuckles whitening, lungs seizing as guilt slammed into him, heavy and relentless.
There was a sound of a chair screeching across the linoleum as Mac jumped to her feet. “Where’s her laptop? The recording’s gotta be there.” She bolted down the hall towards Veronica’s room, her footsteps a frantic echo off the thin walls. “I’m on it!” she yelled back, the bedroom door closing shut a second later behind her.
Weevil kicked off the archway, already moving like he was happy to finally be given a task he could revel in. “Thumper or Hector - they’re the only ones still tied to Felix. I’ll track ‘em down.” His voice was a low snarl, fury propelling him out the door, the slam rattling the frame.
To Logan’s surprise, Wallace appeared at his side, a steady hand clamping his shoulder.
“Hey, man, this ain’t your fault. She’d have dug anyway - you know how she is. We’ve got something now; we’re gonna find her.” His tone was firm, a rock in the flood, but Logan’s head roared with static, guilt and terror drowning out the comfort. He nodded, jaw clenched until it throbbed, forcing a ragged breath through his teeth.
They had to find her. There was no other damn choice.
Chapter 15: Chapter Fifteen
Notes:
This chapter is one where it might be an idea to re-read the warnings before proceeding.
Chapter Text
Veronica slumped in the chair, her body a wreck of cold and exhaustion after a night that refused to end.
The warehouse loomed around her, a cavern of shadows and stale air, but she barely noticed it anymore. Her wrists screamed, the ropes biting deeper into already raw flesh, every twist and scrape from her hours of futile sawing against the chair’s edge adding fresh sting to the ache.
Blood crusted her knuckles, a testament to her stubborn fight, and fatigue dragged at her like a lead weight, pulling her towards a sleep she couldn’t risk.
She was freezing, the damp chill of the concrete seeping through her clothes, her breath fogging faintly. Her eyes burned, heavy and sore, fluttering shut only to snap open in panic - Thumper’s threats ringing in her ears.
“One noise, Mars, and you’re dead.” He’d growled it before disappearing out back the night before, leaving her alone with her fear and the faint drip of water somewhere in the gloom.
She should’ve been hungry - her stomach usually growled like a beast by morning - but even that was gone, smothered by a bone-deep tiredness that fogged her thoughts.
Her penknife, her trusty little blade, was probably lost somewhere in the parking lot, and she cursed herself for not tucking it somewhere clever, like her bra. Instead, she was stuck, shivering, scared, and running out of time.
Then came the scuff of boots. Thumper slunk back in, his frame all sharp angles and restless energy. He snapped the overhead light back on, the dim light illuminating the junk surrounding her. He carried a crumpled paper bag, pulled out a stale-looking sandwich and sat on a crate across from her. He tore into it, chewing loudly, his dark eyes fixed on her with a smirk that twisted her gut. He was taunting her, the bastard.
Her throat ached, dry as dust, and her bladder pressed painfully, a need she couldn’t ignore any longer. “I need the bathroom,” she said, her voice rough and low. “And water. I’m not kidding.”
Thumper paused mid-bite, narrowing his eyes. “You wanna go? Tell me where the evidence is. Who’s got it. Then you’re free.” His tone was cold, edged with desperation.
She met his gaze, defiance flickering through her exhaustion, but she softened her words. “Please, Thumper.”
He snorted, tossing the sandwich aside, and stood, pulling a knife from his pocket.
“Fine, as you asked so nicely. But you try anything, you’re done.” He sliced the ropes on her wrists and ankles, yanking her up by the arm. His grip was bruising, but her legs barely held her, weak and trembling from hours bound, and she staggered as he dragged her towards a corner door.
The bathroom was a hellhole - grimy tiles, a toilet that stank, a sink streaked with filth. There was no window, just a cracked mirror tilting on the wall. He shoved her in, leaning against the frame. “Make it quick.”
As he pulled the door closed, she turned away, fumbling with her jeans, and relieved herself, the act mechanical knowing he was just outside the door listening. At the sink, she twisted the tap - murky water cleared after a sputter - and scrubbed the blood from her hands, wincing as it stung.
Looking in the mirror, her face was a battlefield: lip split, cheek bruised and her hair a tangled mess. She splashed water on it, cleaning what she could, then drank handfuls, desperate and gulping, the metallic taste a small mercy.
She scanned the room for something, anything. No handy weapon, nothing obvious, but a jagged shard of broken tile lay near the toilet, sharp-edged and small. Not much, but all she had. She snatched it up, her heart pounding, and crept to the door. As it creaked open, she lunged, slashing at his face with the shard.
He reacted fast, dodging so it grazed his cheek, a thin red line blooming.
“You little—” he snarled, grabbing her wrist and twisting until the tile clattered free. She kicked his shin, hard, and swung her fist into his ribs - a solid hit that she wished could have winded him. But his wiry frame took it, barely flinching, his strength a shock as he shoved her back. She stumbled, clawing at him, but he grabbed her hair, yanking her down.
His elbow slammed into her stomach, knocking the breath from her, and his boot followed, crashing into her ribs. Pain flared, sharp and hot - a crack she felt in her bones - and she crumpled, gasping on the filthy floor. He seized her shirt, ripping it open, buttons flying, and squeezed her breast, his hands rough and invasive. Then he fumbled with her jeans, unbuttoning them, his leer dark.
“Always wondered why Weevil comes runnin’ when you call,” he sneered. “You must throw him a bone sometimes.”
She thrashed as panic surged. “He’s a good friend,” she spat, “something you wouldn’t get.”
Her jeans began to slide down her hips, and she realised what he intended to do. She kicked out desperately, clawed and then swung her own elbow up – feeling relieved when it cracked into his nose. Blood sprayed, and he cursed, staggering back. She scrambled, but he grabbed her hair again, dragging her across the floor, her scalp screaming.
He hauled her to the chair, slamming her into it, and retied her with fresh ropes, so tight it cut into her wrists. “Try that again,” he bellowed, blood dripping from his nose, “and next time I don’t stop!”
He stomped off, leaving her there her chest heaving, her shirt torn and jeans halfway down her thighs. She tugged at her pants with her bound hands, shaking uncontrollably, the fabric catching on the ropes as she tried to cover herself. Her head dipped, hair falling over her face to hide the tears she couldn’t stop, hot and silent down her cheeks.
Her ribs ached, her stomach churned, and all she could think was Dad, please find me. Hurry.
***
The Neptune Grand’s conference room stretched wide before Logan, a frenzied orchestra of voices, rustling papers, and clinking gear. It was an upscale chaos that dwarfed the cramped apartment they’d abandoned yesterday. It was nearing noon, sunlight pouring through towering windows, bouncing off the polished table now smothered in maps and fliers.
Jackie and Cora had hijacked the operation the day before once they’d arrived at the apartment, sweeping Duncan - and Dick, who had shown up more out of curiosity than any real desire to help - out the door with a brisk, “Come along, boys. We’ve got work to do.” Somehow, they had sweet-talked the hotel into lending them the glossy space for free, probably pitching it as a great look for the local news.
Now, Logan lingered near the entrance, hands jammed in his pockets, surveying the controlled frenzy with a mix of awe and dread.
Word had spread like wildfire, drawing a tide of faces — some familiar, some not — all eager to help with the search. Wallace and Duncan had spent yesterday knocking on doors along Sunset Cliffs, then pinned a whiteboard to the wall with a list of neighbours, marked as checked or unchecked. They hadn’t uncovered much — just one shaky account of Veronica bolting from her apartment, only to disappear from sight at the stairs. Despite the number of residents in the building, no one had seen her reach the parking lot or witnessed what happened next.
However many of her building’s residents trickled into the Grand that morning as word spread of the new location. Many of them clustered together swapping thoughts, their voices low. A pretty redhead named Sarah had approached Logan to explain why she had come to help. “I lived there ‘til last year. Veronica was kind to me when I had no one else.”
Someone must have alerted Java the Hut, as Alice closed up for the day and swept in early with some of her baristas, lugging a coffee machine and trays of pastries as offerings for the bleary-eyed volunteers. She claimed the back wall, her chipper voice slicing through the hum as she slung cups. Logan’s gaze flickered to her for a moment, distracted by the memory of those perky announcements from summer - her voice ringing out, almost too light, too eager, “Veronica, your boyfriend’s here!” He wondered, with a twist in his chest, if she’d ever said the same about Duncan, with that same energy.
Even teachers from Neptune High filtered through - Mr. Clemmons, a worried frown etched deep, and then Mrs. Murphy, Mr. Wu and Mr. Pope entered hauling school supplies they thought might help, and boxes of clipboards they’d raided from some storage closet. Rebecca James trailed them, offering a stiff wave to Mr. Mars. “I’m here if anyone needs to talk,” she offered, awkward but earnest before joining the search crews.
Even Jake Kane had tossed in printers and paper, but his generosity stopped short of actually showing his face. Duncan and Logan had seized the machines and set them up to spit out giant maps of Neptune that were now tacked to the walls, bristling with pins and scrawled notes, and grids for the teams clawing through the town.
Logan’s gaze snagged on Alicia Fennel hashing out lunch plans for everyone with Corny, the school stoner - an unlikely pair, her crisp nod clashing with his hazy smirk. Not long later, the door swung wide, and a stack of Cho’s Pizza boxes rolled in, Mr. Cho and his son Hamilton at the helm. “Cho’s is covering lunch for the search,” Mr. Cho grunted, kindly brushing off payment, while Hamilton ditched his apron, and merged into the next search crew prepping to roll out.
Two faces from the previous school year - Ms. Dent and Ms. Stafford, both former journalism teachers somehow both muscled into command of the search teams. Ms. Stafford, ex-Pep Squad tyrant, clapped with relentless pep, “Let’s move, people! Veronica’s counting on us!” while Ms. Dent, quieter but firm, handed out grid assignments. Logan caught a smirk tugging at his lips. Veronica would’ve loved the irony of the two of them rallying the troops.
Weevil had barrelled back that morning, knuckles raw, reporting he’d cornered Hector and it wasn’t him, but couldn’t find Thumper. Not long after, Mac finally found the segment on the recording from Veronica’s laptop confirming once and for all it was Thumper. Keith and Leo had immediately left to tear through his house – finding only his bewildered older sister he lived with who swore she hadn’t seen him, and a bedroom full of stale beer cans and filthy socks, but no Veronica. Leo had released an APB on his bike, asking all police to be on the lookout for him.
Once Keith and Leo had returned from Thumper’s house, a tense huddle occurred afterwards to debate plastering Thumper’s face on the news.
“It could corner him,” Keith had finally decided, “make him panic even more and hurt her.”
They’d held off, banking on stealth for now. Deputy Leo and Deputy Sacks had dug up some CCTV from close by the Sunset Cliffs, grainy footage of a van around the right time, but the plate was a blur. Mac and Cassidy hunched over a laptop in the corner, tweaking the video to try and sharpen it, while Cassidy tapped away next to her, both chasing clarity.
School must’ve finally waved the white flag on classes - half the senior class flooded in, a ragged wave of bodies. Corny and Butters hauled in walkie-talkies, tossing them to search leaders, while Wanda Varna muttered about rounding up rides for the crews. Mandy set up a water station, her hands trembling dramatically as she passed out bottles, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. He remembered her blatant hero worship of Veronica from class.
Michele, still raw from the loss of her friend Rhonda in the bus crash, yammered on about it, her voice shrill. Jackie, her face hard as granite, finally snapped at her. “Zip it, we’re here for Veronica, not your sob story.” The room went still for a moment as Michele tensed, her lips parting in a retort, but instead, she shot Jackie a venomous look and pointed out that Jackie’s father was a suspect. It hung in the air, bitter and cold, before one of Michele’s friends pulled her away, murmuring something about it not being the time.
Logan wasn’t sure - he was pretty sure Veronica would’ve loved a Jackie and Michele showdown. Not that it mattered now. The thought was fleeting, swallowed by the cold, heavy knot in his stomach as he focused on the doors, waiting for any word that might come. He was surprised that Jackie was even defending Veronica – the last time he spoke to Jackie, she’d made some pretty pointed and bitchy comments about her.
Even 09ers like Luke, Casey, Gia and Shelly Pomeroy piled in, likely to find out what all the fuss was about. Very quickly Gia declared herself media boss, snagging Jessie Doyle and Hannah Griffith for social media with a breezy, “You’re with me, girls. We need photos for content – get snapping!”
Mac sidled up to Logan, her voice a low hum against the chaos. “That’s Tom Griffith’s kid, you know. Surprised to see her here.” Logan’s eyebrow twitched - Hannah’s presence was quite the curveball.
Shelly waved her hand, her pink manicure glinting, and declared, “We should blast MySpace and Facebook. Maybe post updates on a blog.”
Gia excitedly announced she had an idea and chirped, “I’ve got the perfect person for press.”
Not long after Woody Goodman swaggered through the door in a pristine suit. “I’ll handle the reporters outside.” He then breezed out, leaving a whiff of cologne and campaign polish in his wake. Logan rolled his eyes. Some people were all about the show, the image, and the pursuit of whatever they could get out of a situation.
Casey and Luke arrived back later, their arms loaded with phones from Best Buy. An idea for a makeshift tip hotline began to take shape as they pinned brand new maps to the wall, to pin anywhere there was a rumoured sighting of Veronica. A new stack of fliers churned from the printers, the hotline number stamped in bold black across the bottom.
Meg slipped through the door with Lizzie, and Meg looked exhausted, like a new mom running on fumes.
Duncan leaned close to Logan, his voice low. “Celeste is babysitting, believe it or not. Won’t step foot in here of course, but it’s freed up Meg and me.”
Meg joined the conversation. “I’m not quite up to joining a search party,” she said softly. “But just tell me where I’m needed.”
Cassidy glanced up from his laptop, waving her over. “Hey, Meg, I’m digging through motels, dives, any place she might be stashed. Can you help me scout them and pass it to the teams?”
Meg nodded as she moved towards him. Then she paused, her eyes snagging on a pack of cheerleaders arriving - Kimmy, Pam, Ashley, and a few others - still decked in practice gear, their high ponytails swinging behind them. “I know just the girls for the job,” she said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips, a ghost of her old spark as she beckoned them over.
Her younger sister Lizzie had marched to the busiest knot in the room, giving orders that a phone-charging station was needed, and began sprouting cables like weeds. She certainly wasn’t the shiest Manning sister.
Butters had set up in a corner, hunched over a police scanner, taking notes from what he heard of their search. “Unit 5’s by the pier, they found nada.”
Logan slumped against the wall, irony slamming him like a brick. A year ago, Veronica was a pariah - alone at lunch, her name spat like venom with her and Keith persona non grata after Lilly’s murder torched their world. If you’d told her then this room would be bursting with neighbours, teachers, friends and strangers trying to help find her, she’d have scoffed, that biting, “Yeah, right,” laced with disbelief and an eye roll.
The real twist, the one that gouged deepest: the sharpest mind for tracking a lost soul, who’d have sniffed out every lead by now, was the one they were searching for.
Logan’s chest ached with a hollow burn. He caught Keith’s eye across the room. He was red-rimmed, unshaven, but still moving, still fighting to find his daughter.
They didn’t have her yet, but this room was proof she wasn’t alone out there. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.
***
Veronica slumped in the chair, her body a trembling mess of pain and cold. Her arms ached, bruised purple where Thumper had gripped and yanked her. Her hands were still stinging from all the scrapes, but worst of all - her chest was a furnace of agony. Every breath stabbed like a knife, sharp and shallow. She couldn’t fill her lungs, couldn’t get enough air, and waves of dizziness rolled over her, thick and disorienting. She fought to stay conscious, her vision blurring at the edges, and a cold fear gripped her - not just of Thumper, but of her own body failing her.
That she might not make it through this. Not if she couldn’t breathe, not if she blacked out.
A muffled voice cut through the haze – Thumper was out back, on the phone. His tone was low, urgent, and her stomach lurched with panic. Who was he talking to? What was he setting up? She couldn’t hear the words, but the sound alone spiked her dread. He was planning something, and it certainly wasn’t her rescue. Her head spun again, and she gripped the chair’s arms, fighting the nausea, terrified she’d pass out and leave herself defenceless.
The back door creaked open and Thumper slunk in, wiry and tense, his face still smeared with dried blood from her elbow.
She forced her voice out, hoarse and shaky but resolute.
“You didn’t think this through, did you? Heard I had evidence and panicked. No plan, just a mess.” He glared, eyes narrowing to slits, but she pushed on, desperate to bargain. “I can get you out of this. Let me go - I’ll say I was in a car accident, hit my head. It explains the injuries, the time. I delete the recording and you skip town. Free and clear.”
Thumper snorted, leaning against a crate. “Most of the town’s out lookin’ for you, Mars. Ain’t that easy to just walk away.”
Her breath hitched - surprise jolted through her, followed by a fragile spark of hope.
“They are?” she asked, voice trembling before she could catch it. Swallowing, she tried to steady herself despite the dizziness threatening to pull her under. “Come on, I can barely breathe since you kicked me. I’ll sell the accident story, no one will dig deeper. You just need to disappear. Take the back road out of Neptune, dodge the highway stops, and hide in Tijuana ‘til this fades.”
He wiped his nose with his sleeve, the blood flaking off. “Got my own plan. Don’t need your roadmap.” His voice was flat, dismissive, and her spark guttered out.
Lifting his phone towards her, there was a distinctive click before he sauntered off to the back room.
Was he going to demand money to escape?
Her chest tightened, pain flaring as she tried to draw air, as another wave of dizziness hit. Her head lolled before she jerked upright. She was scared - really scared that her injuries weren’t just bruises anymore, and Thumper wasn’t biting.
Whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t likely to be her ticket out, and she wasn’t sure she could hold on much longer.
***
Logan leaned against the counter in the Grand’s lobby, exhaustion carving hollows under his eyes. He, Weevil, and Wallace had spent hours tearing through Neptune, chasing every suggestion Meg’s team had dug up - warehouses, back alleys, old PCHer dives - but they’d hit nothing but dead ends.
Veronica was out there, slipping through their fingers, and the weight of it gnawed at him. They’d just dragged themselves back through the door of the Neptune Grand to retrieve the newest list when Logan’s phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number.
He opened it, and his breath caught. It was a photo of Veronica, slumped in a chair and her shirt was torn open. Her face was a mess of bruises and blood, one eye swollen and her lip split. His heart slammed against his ribs, a surge of rage and fear choking him.
“What is it?” Wallace asked in concern.
Before he could answer the phone began to ring in his hand, shrill and insistent, from the same number. Logan snapped to answer it, his voice a low growl.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got your girl,” came the smug reply.
Logan’s grip tightened, the phone creaking. “I know. What do you want?”
“I’ll let her go,” Thumper said, pausing for effect, and Logan’s pulse spiked. “All you gotta do is walk into the sheriff’s station, and confess you killed Felix. You got one hour, Echolls, or I start really hurtin’ her.” The call ended abruptly.
The demand landed like a blade, but he barely registered it past the photo seared into his mind. Thumper had her life in his hands. He saw her laugh in his mind, her smirk, then this - broken because they hadn’t found her. His chest burned, a fierce, unshakable resolve snapping into place.
The phone trembled in his sweaty grip, and he turned to Weevil and Wallace, their faces tense, impatiently waiting. His jaw clenched, eyes hard with fury and determination.
He’d confess, take the hit - anything to get her back.
***
Logan sat anxiously in the Grand’s conference suite, the image of her face flashing behind his eyes every time he blinked. Keith had caught him before he could bolt for the Sheriff and demanded to see the photo. Now they were all crammed around a table: Keith, Cliff, Wallace, Weevil and Mac. The air was thick with argument, their voices overlapping, but Logan barely heard them.
He was going to confess.
One hour, Thumper had said, or he would hurt her, and he’d already seen what worse started like.
Logan’s hands clenched, his nails digging into his palms, and he snapped, “I’m doing it. I’ll confess. End of story.”
Cliff was perched on a chair and he shook his head resolutely. “Everyone knows she’s missing, Logan. The whole town’s buzzing. Even Lamb, dumb as a bag of hammers, would smell coercion a mile off. You walk in there, he’ll lock you up because he can and he’s still not going to buy it.”
Wallace sat across from him, pale as a ghost, his hands trembling on the table. When he’d seen the photo, his reaction had been brutal. One glance at the phone and he’d lurched to the trash can, heaving until his stomach emptied.
Keith had just stared, heartbroken but steady, his ex-sheriff mask hiding the worst of it. But Wallace wasn’t used to this, not hardened to life’s ugliness.
“Thumper didn’t say Lamb had to believe it,” Wallace put in. “Just that Logan confesses, and she’s free. That’s the deal.”
Leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, Weevil sighed. “That’s naive, man. Thumper wants an out, not a damn performance. He’s not gonna let her go ‘cause Echolls plays martyr for an hour.”
Wallace’s head snapped up, his eyes furious. “Who you calling naive?” he shot back, voice breaking. “My best friend is out there getting hurt, and we’re just sitting here arguing!” He choked on the words, slamming a fist on the table, and the room stilled for a beat.
Mac broke the silence, her tone measured. “If Thumper wants an out, maybe we can give him one. Come up with another way - something he could latch on to?”
The suggestions swirled - Cliff tossing out legal angles, Keith talking about the search grids and narrowing down the location of the photo, Weevil growling about other potential PCHer hideouts to check - but Logan couldn’t focus, their voices a dull roar in his ears. His mind was stuck on one thing – that Veronica was suffering because of him, and because they hadn’t found her.
The photo haunted him: her swollen eye, the blood on her lip, and the fear he couldn’t see but knew was there. His chest ached, guilt and rage tangling into a knot he couldn’t unravel.
“I don’t care what he believes,” Logan snapped, cutting through the noise, his voice low and hard. “I confess, she walks. That’s it. I’m not gambling her life on anything else.”
They kept talking, but he was already gone, lost in the image of her, counting the minutes ticking down.
Fifty minutes left. He’d do it.
He had to.
***
Veronica gripped the chair’s arms, fighting to stay conscious. The warehouse loomed dim around her, the air around her seeming to thin out.
She swallowed with difficulty though her parched throat and forced her voice out. “The only copy of the recording is in my email,” she declared. “You’ve got my bag from the parking lot, right? Log in, delete it. And it’s done.”
Thumper slouched back in, his skinny frame coiled with a restless energy that seemed lighter now, almost smug. He carried a crumpled paper bag, and his lips twitched into a grin that set her on edge.
“Don’t need to sweat that no more,” he said, his voice smoother, like a weight had been lifted. “Echolls got an ultimatum. Now we see if he loves you enough, Mars. Then it’s all over.” He pulled a sandwich from the bag – even from the distance the bread looked, with some greyish meat sandwiched between. He tossed it into her lap, a casual flick that threw her off. “Eat. Might as well.”
She stared at the sandwich, then at him, her stomach knotting - not from hunger, but from the shift in his demeanour. He looked… solved, like he’d tied up every loose end. Her pulse quickened, a fragile hope tangling with dread.
“What’d you do?” she asked, prodding, keeping her tone level despite the dizziness threatening to swallow her. “What’s this ultimatum?”
Thumper leaned against a crate, crossing his arms, his grin widening. “Told Logan he’s gotta confess to killin’ Felix. One hour, or you pay. Simple.”
Her breath caught a sharp pang in her chest that wasn’t just the injury.
“That’s your big plan?” she snapped, sarcasm cutting through her haze. “Lamb’s an idiot, sure, but even he won’t buy that. Logan’s been clear about his innocence since day one - because you’re the murdering scumbag, not him. You think he’ll just confess, and Lamb’ll swallow it whole? When I’ve conveniently gone missing?”
Thumper shrugged, picking at his nails, unfazed. “Don’t matter if Lamb believes it. Long as Echolls says it, I’m off the hook. Town’s too busy chasin’ you to notice me slippin’ out.”
She frowned, the sandwich still in her lap, her mind racing despite the fog.
“You’re betting on Logan caving,” she said, slowly. “You think he’d throw himself under the bus for me, just like that?”
“He’s all over you, ain’t he?” Thumper shot back, his tone mocking but sure. “Saw them texts, all that sappy crap. Guy’s hooked. He’ll do it, and I’m gone.” He paced a few steps, his wiry frame moving with a loose confidence, then glanced back. “Got my exit lined up. You’re the last thing to clean up.”
Her chest tightened, pain flaring as she tried to breathe deeper, and she pressed a hand to her side, wincing.
“You’re dreaming,” she muttered, though her conviction wavered. Logan would confess - she could picture him, jaw set, storming into the station - and it twisted her up, with a fierce mixture of affection and frustration he would even have to. “And what if he doesn’t? What if they see through it before you hit the border?”
Thumper stopped, turning to her, his grin hardening into something colder. “Then you’re still here, and I got backup plans. But he’ll do it. Bet he’s already practicin’ his sob story.” He nodded at the sandwich. “Eat. No sense dyin’ hungry.”
She ignored it, her stomach too churned, her head too light. Another wave of dizziness hit, and she gripped the chair harder, forcing her focus. “You’re staking it all on this,” she said, voice low, probing for weak spots. “Logan confesses, I’m free, you’re out. What if my dad’s already closing in? He’ll be back from Houston by now - you know that.”
He laughed, a short, dry bark. “Keith Mars is good, I’ll give him that. But he ain’t findin’ you here. I got you stashed too deep - nobody’s sniffin’ this place out.” He tapped his watch, still grinning. “Forty minutes left. Tick-tock.”
She stared at him, her breath shallow, pain and fear coiling in her gut. He was calmer now, cocky, like he’d outsmarted them all. But she knew Logan, knew Keith, knew her friends - they’d fight this, confession or not. Still, time was moving on, and she was slipping too, her body faltering with every ragged gasp.
“You’re a fool,” she whispered, more to herself, her voice fading. “This unravels, and you’re done.”
Thumper just shrugged again, turning away, humming faintly as he wandered back.
“We’ll see, Blondie. We’ll see.”
He disappeared out of sight, leaving her with the sandwich and a sinking dread.
***
Logan paced the Grand’s conference suite, his phone heavy in his pocket. Thumper’s ultimatum gnawed at him - forty minutes gone, twenty left to confess to Felix’s murder - and the clock’s relentless march fuelled the panic twisting his gut. She was out there, suffering, and every second he stood there felt like a betrayal.
Mac sat at the table, laptop screen casting a faint glow on her focused face, fingers hammering the keys. Keith hovered beside her, peering at the data and Wallace sat on the couch, pale and quiet, still looking like he’d been punched in the stomach.
Before he’d been able to leave – Mac had realised she could try and trace the call Thumper made to find a location.
“I’ve got a ping from the burner’s call to you, Logan on the north side of Neptune, the urban edge. Cell logs tie it to a tower near the industrial sprawl - old warehouses, rail yards.” Mac’s fingers darted across the keys, pulling up a jagged signal map.
Logan froze mid-pace, looming over her shoulder, his breath shallow and ragged. “How tight can you make it? She’s got twenty minutes, Mac - twenty.” His voice quaked, the photo searing his thoughts: Veronica’s shirt torn open down the front, jagged edges framing bruises on her chest. His brain had snagged on the ripped fabric, looping back like a broken record.
Thumper had stabbed Felix, a guy he’d grown up with, laughed with, without a flinch. What would he do to Veronica, someone he hated, someone about to seal his downfall?
Logan’s mind recoiled, fear and fury twisting in his gut. He saw her helpless, her scars torn open by a monster’s hands.
Mac’s brow furrowed, tucking a strand of her brown and red hair behind her ear as she squinted at the data.
“It’s a mess - tower’s got a fat footprint, five square miles at least. City grid’s a nightmare – there’s signals bouncing off every building, overlapping like static. I’m cross-checking backup logs, but it’s crawling.”
A faint beep sounded, and she tapped harder, frustration edging her tone.
Meg stood nearby, arms folded, her usual softness sharpened by resolve. She caught Mac’s update and turned without hesitation.
“North side, industrial stretch - I’m on it. I’ll get the search teams redirected.” She strode towards Ms. Dent, already barking orders into a radio. Logan watched, struck by her command - Meg Manning, the angelic cheerleader he’d pegged as a pushover, now orchestrating half of Neptune’s volunteers with a steel he hadn’t seen coming.
Keith’s gaze flicked from Meg to Mac, his voice steady but laced with strain. “Thanks, Meg. Mac, if you can shave that radius down, we can swarm the area.”
Logan’s mind spun, the sprawl of five miles slamming into him like a wall. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening, and his voice broke as he rounded on Mac.
“Five miles? That’s a damn city! She’s—” He faltered, the words choking him - bleeding, alone, god knows what - before he forced them out. “Thumper’s got her right now. If I confess, he lets her go. That’s the only thing that works right now.”
Cliff had snapped his phone shut and had been staring into space like he was thinking through different plans, but he shook his head again at Logan’s words. “Come on, Logan. Lamb won’t buy it. Her going missing, that photo - it screams setup. He’ll detain you, and we’ll still be scrambling.”
Mac’s screen pinged, and she leaned in, muttering, “I’ve narrowed it to three miles now, near the rail yards and warehouses. Too many towers overlap - can’t get tighter without more time.” The map on her screen showed a red blob, still sprawling, a mess of streets and buildings.
Logan’s chest heaved, his watch glaring back - fifteen minutes left.
“Three miles? That’s still dozens of places!” His voice cracked, desperation spilling over. “I’m not waiting anymore.’”
Wallace lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed, voice low. “They’re trying, man. Teams are out there ‘cause of her. Give Mac a shot. We can go and search again too, rather than sitting here doing nothing.”
Keith stepped closer, his tone firm but pleading. “We’ve got it to three miles, Logan. The teams are canvassing - hundreds of people. A confession’s a gamble - Thumper might run anyway. Just give it a few more minutes, that’s all.”
Logan stared at Mac’s screen, the pulsing red zone on the map a mocking indictment, still far too large, too vague, a frustrating blur of uncertainty. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, the digital trace stalling.
She let out a sound of exasperation. “I’m not sure I can get it down any further,” she admitted, her voice small, laced with a hint of defeat. “City towers – there’s too much noise, too many overlapping signals.”
There were just twelve minutes left.
Twelve minutes to pinpoint a location and to find Veronica. He saw her face again, her determined expression, and something snapped within him, a surge of desperation.
“Screw this,” he growled, the words raw and guttural, and he bolted for the door, Keith’s shouted response fading behind him, swallowed by the urgency of his actions.
He flew over to the Balboa County Sheriff’s Department at such reckless speed, the city streets a blur of passing lights and scenery, he was surprised he wasn’t pulled over. He stormed into the Sheriff’s Station, the air thick with the stale scent of paperwork and cheap coffee, shoving past a startled deputy, his movements driven by a desperate, single-minded purpose. He faced Lamb, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the storm raging within him.
“I killed Felix Toombs.”
Lamb made a big show of looking up from the paperwork cluttering his desk, his expression a mask of mock surprise.
“Sure you did,” he drawled, his voice laced with sardonic disbelief.
Logan rolled his eyes in weary frustration. “You’ve been accusing me of murder since summer, you’ve got what you want. Arrest me already.”
The Sheriff looked amused as he gestured to a Deputy to come forward. Logan turned around, placing his arms behind his back, the cold steel of the handcuffs snapping shut around his wrists, the sound echoing in the sterile, fluorescent-lit room.
“Big move, Echolls. Let’s see if it flies,” Lamb continued, his voice dripping with condescension, as Logan dropped onto a hard, plastic bench, his gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor, his mind a whirlwind of anxiety and desperation, praying that his desperate gamble would buy her the time she needed.
***
Thumper’s phone buzzed, a harsh jolt piercing the quiet. He grabbed it from a crate, his frame stiffening as he listened, back to her.
“Yeah? … He what? … Detained, not closed?” His voice edged up, a growl seeping in. “Your guy’s sure?” He whirled, eyes blazing, and snapped, “Tell me if anything changes.” He slammed the phone shut so hard the crate juddered. His glare stabbed into her, his thin face quivering with fury.
Veronica dragged her head up and forced her gaze to meet his, her voice a hoarse rasp.
“Told you it wouldn’t work, genius. Lamb’s not closing the case – Logan’s not going to be convicted in a day. That’s not how it goes. Someone confesses, they don’t just slap ‘case closed’ on it. It’s months to a trial - months. He did your bidding, though. Now let me go.”
Thumper’s jaw clenched, his hands flexing into fists, and he took a step closer, his breath heaving.
“You think you’re so smart, huh? This was my out - Logan takes the fall, I’m free, done. The Fitzpatricks’ got a man on the inside who says he confessed, but they’re still diggin’ ‘cause of you!” His voice rose, cracking with desperation. “All this - it’s your fault, Mars. If you’d stayed out of it, Logan would be in a cell, I’d be runnin’ the PCHers, and everyone’d be happy. But you - you ruined it all!”
Her lips curled, a weak, scathing smirk despite the pain.
“Boo-hoo, Thumper. You stabbed Felix, and now your big plan is a bust. Cry me a river.”
A snarl tore from his throat. He lunged, grabbing a rusted metal bar from a pile of junk.
“You little—”
He swung.
Pain detonated in her stomach, white-hot and searing. Air ripped from her lungs as she doubled over, gasping. He kicked the chair sideways, and she hit the concrete hard, agony splintering through her ribs.
He loomed over her, wild-eyed, and swung again.
Her arm shot up instinctively. There was a crack. A sickening snap. Her scream strangled in her throat.
She clawed at the floor, nails scraping uselessly, trying to crawl, pulling the chair still attached to her by ropes.
Thumper grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and slammed it against the concrete.
The world tilted.
Blood flooded her mouth, warm and metallic, as her skull rang with the impact. Everything blurred, the edges of her vision darkening.
“You should’ve kept your nose out!” he roared, his voice distorted, frantic.
Panic set in as she thought, This is it. I’m dying.
“Please stop,” she begged.
Pain dulled, receding into a strange, distant hum. Weightlessness crept in, like being unmoored from her own body. The world warped, stretching and fading.
A flash - her dad at the kitchen table, eyes crinkling in amusement as he slid a plate of pancakes to her, syrup pooling at the edges. The smell of coffee. The hum of the radio. Safe.
Another flicker - her mom sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, laughing as she painted Veronica’s toenails a ridiculous, lime green.
“It’s a statement,” her mom had said, waving the tiny brush like a wand.
Then Wallace at her kitchen counter, eyes closed in bliss as he bit into a snickerdoodle, still warm from the oven.
“I don’t know what kind of magic you put in these, Mars,” he mumbled through a mouthful, “but if I die tomorrow, know that this is what I want to be buried with.”
It shifted - summer, the Echolls’ backyard, the sun baking the pavement around the pool. Logan sat beside her on the diving board, dangling his feet over the edge, a melting popsicle dripping down his wrist.
“Bet you can’t hit the pool house from here,” he said, tossing a pebble towards the roof. It fell embarrassingly short.
Veronica smirked, plucking a pebble from the ground. “Watch and learn.” She launched it, and it clinked against the gutter.
Logan’s jaw dropped. “Fluke.”
The memory wavered - Lilly’s bedroom, pink walls plastered with magazine cutouts, music blaring from the stereo.
“No, no, Veronica, it’s step, kick, then spin. You’re a disgrace to the girl power movement.” Lilly grabbed her hands, pulling her into the rhythm, both of them breathless with laughter. “Again. From the top!”
The memory swirled, bright and golden—
—then darkness swallowed it whole.
***
Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Text
A hand shook her, jolting Veronica awake, causing pain to flare through her chest and skull like a live wire. For her second, her first thought was surprise that she was still alive. She blinked, her vision swimming, and a scarred face loomed into focus.
Liam Fitzpatrick stood staring down at her. He was everything she remembered from that awful day at the River Styx - tall and menacing, his pockmarked skin etched with years of cruelty. Her breath caught, feeling the memory of his hand around her throat as he pinned her to the pool table with a tattoo gun buzzing an inch from her cheek.
This was it - she was dead.
The final loose end in Thumper and Liam’s plan. Her heart thudded, weak and erratic.
Liam knelt beside her, the cold gleam of a knife flashing as he pulled it from his pocket. She recoiled instinctively, her body tense, but he was quick, slicing through the ropes around her wrists with a swift motion. The frayed cords fell to the floor with a quiet thud. He moved to the ropes binding the chair to her, cutting them free, the sound of the blade against the tough fibres sharp in the silence. With one firm push, he shoved the chair aside, then motioned for her to stand.
Her legs, uncooperative and weak, refused to follow her command. She tried to push herself up, but her feet slipped uselessly on the gritty floor. Without a word, Liam lifted her, his arms strong beneath her, hoisting her onto her feet. The world tilted sickeningly and her head spun, nausea sweeping through her like a tidal wave. Her knees buckled, but before she could collapse, he wrapped an arm around her waist, half-carrying her through the warehouse, the air thick with dust and the scent of oil.
He moved with purpose despite her wavering steps, until they reached the grimy bathroom. The door scraped open and he set her against the sink.
“You’re a mess,” he remarked, his voice flat as he shoved a toothbrush, a damp cloth, and a clean shirt into her trembling hands. “Clean up.”
Veronica’s head was spinning, her thoughts fractured and distant. She stared at the items in her hands as though they didn’t belong, her mind too foggy to process.
Unsure what else to do, she followed his command. Her fingers shook violently as she tried to scrub the blood from her face. It was crusted and sticky, not easy to wipe away. The cracked mirror before her reflected a ghostly version of herself - one eye swollen shut, her lip split open, her skin a sickly shade of white. She brushed her teeth mechanically, the minty sting barely cutting through the dizziness threatening to swallow her whole.
She pulled her torn shirt off with the hand that wasn’t searing with pain and tried to slip the clean one on, but it was a struggle. Every movement seemed to worsen the agony coursing through her body, but she forced herself to continue.
“Why?” she managed, her voice slurred, thick with exhaustion. Liam stood in the doorway, his arms crossed as he watched her.
“Thumper fucked up.” His tone was disturbingly casual, like he was recounting a minor inconvenience. “He went too far.” Veronica’s stomach lurched at the nonchalance in his voice. This was Liam - pure evil, the worst of the worst - and here he was, playing nurse, tending to her like some kind of twisted caretaker. Fear and relief collided in her mind, a brutal mix that she couldn’t untangle.
Her grip tightened on the sink as dizziness surged again, her body swaying with the effort to stay upright.
Liam didn’t say anything more, just guided her back through the warehouse, not towards the chair, but to a cot tucked away in the shadows. He lowered her onto it with surprising gentleness, like she was a fragile thing, and she sank into the rough material, her breath ragged, each inhale a laborious effort. Pain radiated through her body like a heartbeat - steady, unrelenting.
He perched on a crate nearby, watching her with cold, calculating eyes. His hands rested on his knees, scarred and unmoving. “He definitely did a number on you, girl,” Liam concluded, his voice low, almost amused. “Sorry ‘bout that.” The apology felt like a mockery, absurd in the face of everything that had happened, and Veronica blinked at him, her mind too scrambled to respond, her throat too raw to speak.
Liam leaned in, elbows on his thighs, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Tomorrow, my brothers are comin’. Got a fun day planned for you. Thumper’s screw-up don’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves first - then we’re done with you.”
His words landed like shards of ice, cold and brutal, and the meaning seeped through her haze, chilling her to the core. She didn’t have the strength to fight, didn’t have the words to protest. Her chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow gasps, but she couldn’t muster the energy to do anything about it.
The room around her swam in and out of focus. The cot seemed to tilt beneath her, and her vision blurred once more.
The last thing she saw before she passed out again was Liam’s smirk, fading into the shadows.
***
A familiar voice pierced the haze, bright and teasing.
“Veronica!”
It shocked her from the darkness, her eyes snapped open. A figure leaned over her, blonde hair spilling forward. For a moment, a flicker of memory struck her - Lilly’s laughter echoing in her mind - but something was wrong. These weren’t Lilly’s mischievous blue eyes, but instead they were a cold, steely grey, sharp and too serious.
Veronica’s brain, sluggish and in agony, churned until it clicked: it was Molly Fitzpatrick. Liam’s niece.
Her chest tightened, confusion swarming through the fog.
“God, I didn’t think you were breathing,” Molly gasped, and Veronica realised her voice was shaking.
Her hand hovered near Veronica’s shoulder like she’d shaken her awake, and her face was concerned. It was real – genuine - and it didn’t fit with the girl she knew. The last time Veronica had seen Molly, it had been at the River Styx, and the girl had betrayed her to Liam with ease, her loyalty to family an unmistakable flag as she’d exposed Veronica despite being undercover.
Now, this?
Molly was staring at her expectantly as if she was waiting for Veronica to say something and her thoughts scrambled into something sharper.
“I’m going to help you,” Molly murmured quietly.
Veronica’s throat felt like sandpaper as she croaked, “You’re… helping me escape?” It felt absurd, but her mind couldn't focus enough to reject it. “Why?”
Molly’s frown deepened, like the question was secondary and not worth the effort. But she leaned closer, her voice low. “I loved Felix. You’ve been the only one trying to find out who really killed him.”
The words hung in the air, faint but electric, a tiny spark of sense in the murky confusion swirling around Veronica. She clung to them, the only solid thread in a sea of chaos.
Veronica’s nod was weak but deliberate, her understanding flickering through the haze. “Where’s Liam gone?”
“He’s out back,” Molly replied, as she glanced back at the warehouse’s rear. “I managed to sneak in after I heard what they’re planning. He’s distracted, but if he catches me…” She swallowed hard, her eyes darting with the weight of the risk. “He’ll kill us both. I came through a window, but it’s too high for you to climb in your condition but the front door’s locked tight.”
Veronica’s brain fought through the fog. She didn’t have much left in her, but she had to do something. She rasped out, “I need a diversion. Distract him - buy me time to get out. Can you do that?”
Molly nodded quickly, her face set with determination.
“And my bag. Can you find it? I need it,” Veronica asked, desperation creeping into her voice despite the effort to mask it.
Molly’s eyes flicked over her for a moment, then her nod was sharp, confirming her resolve. “I’ll get it. Just stay here.”
Veronica’s pulse hammered in her ears, her heart pounding with adrenaline as she forced herself to sit up her legs trembling beneath her. Molly’s steps faded as she walked to the back of the warehouse, but Veronica’s gaze never left the shadowed doorway.
She was so close.
Molly returned moments later, shoving Veronica’s messenger bag into her trembling hands. “Got it,” she whispered. “Good luck.” She then darted off again, her footsteps vanishing into the distance.
Veronica clutched the bag, her fingers stiff with cold and fear, her ears straining for any sound. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as her heart pounded in her chest, each beat deafening in the silence. Had Molly been caught?
Was this a trap?
Then, a sudden boom shattered the quiet - an explosion, sharp and violent, rattling the walls. Liam’s voice bellowed, a curse tearing through the air.
“My car’s on fire!” Panic laced his shout as his heavy footsteps thundered towards what Veronica assumed was an exit to the back of the building.
It was now or never.
Veronica gritted her teeth, tried to grab onto everything she had to force herself upright from the cot. Pain immediately flared in her chest and arm, white-hot and searing. She ignored it, stumbling towards the main door.
Her legs felt like they were going to give any second, barely able to hold her weight, but she pushed forward, each step a battle against the blackness creeping into her vision.
She fumbled through her bag, her bloody, shaking fingers scrambling for a lock pick. She nearly dropped it twice, her hands trembling so badly with fear and exhaustion. She shoved the tool into the lock, working it slowly, each click of the tumblers feeling like an eternity. Her breath was shallow, a thin wheeze as her sight dimmed, everything fading at the edges.
Then finally - a click.
The door creaked open, and she staggered outside, the cold night air biting at her skin, but a welcome shock. She barely registered the sensation, her body too worn to feel the chill.
Stumbling across the gravel, she pushed forward, heading around the other corner from where Liam’s distant cursing still echoed. She fought her body’s screams to stop and she begged her legs to continue as she stumbled into the road, but they refused to obey, giving out just as headlights swept towards her. She hit the asphalt with a smack, her body shaking with the impact.
The car was too close, the tires squealing in protest as it swerved.
A voice cried out—“Holy shit, it’s a girl!”—and the vehicle jerked to a halt.
She saw black shoes running towards her, and the next thing she knew, a hand was pressing against her wrist, as if they were checking for a pulse.
The same voice was shaky and urgent as they muttered, “I think I can feel it.” The fog was so dense she couldn’t tell if the voice was male or female.
Time blurred, sounds warping into a distant hum as her vision began to swim. Then more voices approached, some concerned and others frantic.
One shouted into a radio, the crackle of static cutting through the night air. “This is search team B. We need an ambulance, now! North district, by the rail yards – tell them to move it!”
Veronica’s world shifted, the edges of her perception bleeding into shadows. The faces around her smeared, indistinct, as she slipped further under.
The spark of escape flickered out, swallowed by the dark.
***
Slouching on the cold metal bench, Logan’s jeans pressed against the unforgiving steel, the chill seeping into his bones. Hours blurred together, bleeding into a thick, grey haze of nothingness.
His fingers tugged at his hair, yanking at the roots as if the feeling could snap him out of the suffocating silence. His mind buzzed, restless and frantic, gnawing at him more than any sound ever could.
He had been cut off - no phone, no updates, nothing but the grim memory of that moment with Lamb. The Sheriff’s smug, arrogant grin had been the last thing burned into his brain when they’d locked him up.
“Like father, like son,” Lamb had sneered, his voice dripping with condescension, before slamming the cell door shut.
That was it. No one had come for him. No one had told him if Thumper knew what had happened, or worse.
Was she safe?
The longer he sat, the heavier the weight of it all pressed on him. He had gambled her life on this. And now, he was locked away, waiting for the consequences to unfold. His chest hollowed out, a suffocating void where hope had once lived. Every breath felt like an effort, each one stinging with the terrible fear that he had lost her.
His thoughts circled in a tight, dizzying loop, a nightmare that he couldn’t wake from.
He had failed her.
Then, faint at first, a buzz outside the cell cut through the static of his mind. It grew louder, voices overlapping, footsteps quickening, a sense of urgency rising. Logan straightened, his pulse spiking as he tried to make out the sounds, straining to catch something, anything. The door banged open with a force that rattled the walls, slamming against the frame.
Cliff stormed in, his tie crooked, mid-argument, with Lamb sauntering behind him, that damn smug look still plastered across his face. Leo followed, looking dishevelled, harried, as if he was caught in the middle of something bigger than he could handle.
“—coerced, Lamb, and you damn well know it!” Cliff spat, jabbing a finger at the sheriff.
Logan shot up from his bench, his voice hoarse, rough from the tension that had built up inside him.
“What’s happening?” His words felt like they were barely audible over the rising chaos.
But they ignored him. They kept arguing, Cliff’s legal tirade crashing against Lamb’s cold indifference.
Lamb shrugged, hands casually shoved in his pockets.
“A confession’s a confession, McCormack. Don’t see why I should care about anyone else.” He flicked a dismissive glance at the two of them.
“WHAT’S HAPPENING?!” Logan demanded, this time louder, his voice cracking with raw desperation. He gripped the bars, his fingers white-knuckled, his pulse racing. The beat of his heart thudded in his chest, a drum of fear that seemed to drown out everything else.
Cliff’s voice cracked with fury. “It’s nonsense, Lamb and you know it. You’ve seen the photo, know about the threat. Thumper’s call was traced - and you’re playing dumb ‘cause it’s easier, you smug prick!”
Leo stepped between them, hands up, trying to calm the situation, but Logan didn’t care about their fight. He didn’t care about Lamb’s smug indifference or Cliff’s righteous anger. He just needed to know.
“Where’s Veronica?” he rasped, slamming his fist against the bars. His voice broke, the sound raw, pleading. “Tell me what’s happening!”
Leo shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting away, not meeting Logan’s. That movement, that hesitation, was enough to send a cold shiver down Logan’s spine. His mind raced, spinning out of control, the horrifying thought flashing across his mind like a knife through his chest - her bloodied face, her stillness - and for a split second, his world came crashing down.
She’s dead.
It was the only explanation that made sense, the only reason they wouldn’t say. The only reason they wouldn’t tell him.
His knees buckled beneath him, and the air left his lungs in a rush, a hollow ache filling his chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move - no, no, no.
Lamb sighed, his voice slow and theatrical as he leaned against the doorframe. “Looks like it’s your lucky night, rich boy.”
Logan’s head snapped up. His heart stopped for a beat, and then, before he could process the words, Leo stepped forward, key in hand, unlocking the cell with a sharp clang that echoed through the cold concrete walls.
“I’m heading to the hospital now. She’s there,” Leo said, his voice gentle, almost apologetic. “Ride with me if you want.”
Logan’s voice shot up, raw and frantic. “The hospital?” His throat was tight with fear, his fist itching to punch something – anything - just to stop the suffocating panic rising in his chest. “What the hell’s going on?”
Cliff swallowed hard, his face pinched with something that Logan couldn’t quite place. “She’s been found, but…” His voice faltered, and he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
Logan’s pulse raced in his ears, a pounding drum that drowned out everything else. Found?
Found, but what? Alive? Broken? Unconscious?
Leo placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder, firm but gentle. “Come on,” he urged, his voice strained. “Let’s get to the hospital and you’ll get your answers.”
Logan stumbled out of the cell, his legs unsteady, his heart hammering in his chest. Found. The word twisted inside him, like a knife turning deeper with each step. Alive? But the looks on their faces - the way they wouldn’t say - no, no, no. He could barely think, the storm of fear and fragile hope tearing through him, a whirlwind of terror that threatened to swallow him whole. But he kept moving, kept following Leo to his car, each step a fight to keep it together. He couldn’t lose her, not like this.
Logan’s grip tightened around the edge of Leo’s passenger seat, his fingers locking into the vinyl as if he could ground himself, hold on to something real amidst the storm swirling in his head. His heart pounded in his chest, a jagged rhythm, each beat a drum of dread that reverberated through his ribs. The cruiser’s engine hummed beneath him, a steady buzz in the midst of the chaos in his mind, but all he could see were flashes - snippets of her face, Veronica’s wild eyes, her laughter, and then... that photo. The one he couldn’t escape, no matter how many times he tried to blink it away.
Cliff had said she was found, but the way the word hung in the air like an unanswered question - it was a guillotine waiting to fall.
Alive, or…
No. He couldn’t let his mind go there. He just couldn’t.
The hospital rose ahead of them, its silhouette harsh and uninviting against the velvet darkness of the night. It was a brutalist block of stone and glass, its windows glowing with a sickly yellow light that made it look like a prison rather than a place of healing. His stomach churned, a familiar weight of dread settling in the pit of his gut.
There were too many memories tied to this place - too many nights spent in its sterile halls. The echo of Aaron’s fists, of being dragged in here as a kid, bruised and broken. His own night on the bridge, his father’s stabbing, and then Veronica trembling in his arms as she tried to come back from Duncan’s rage.
And now, this. Her face, that image, seared behind his eyelids, driving him mad with the not-knowing.
He could already smell it before they even pulled up - the sterile sting of bleach, the thick, suffocating scent of sweat and despair that clung to the air in the waiting room. The kind of smell that lingered, that never quite left you, no matter how hard you tried to scrub it away.
The tires screeched as Leo swerved the cruiser into the ER parking lot, the sound of rubber on asphalt a brutal shriek against the quiet night. Logan was out of the car before it had even fully stopped, slamming the door behind him with a force that felt like a gunshot in the stillness. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. All that mattered was getting to her - getting to Veronica.
Inside the ER, the chaos hit him like a wave, a tidal force that nearly knocked the wind from his chest. The sound of beeping monitors, frantic voices shouting over each other, a nurse screaming for a crash cart - everything clashed together in a clamour that made his head spin. A child’s wail cut through the noise, raw and desperate, and a man sat slumped against the wall, blood dripping from his arm, his face pale and tight with pain. An orderly pushed a rattling gurney past, its wheels squealing against the floor, the hurried pace of the ER staff only adding to the frenzy.
Logan’s breath came in shallow gasps, his chest tightening as his eyes darted around, scanning the room, looking for any sign of her - her father, her face, anything that would tell him she was here, that she was okay. But there was nothing. Just chaos.
His heart raced, blood pounding in his ears as his gaze landed on the intake desk. He moved towards it instinctively, his feet almost dragging as he searched for a familiar face.
“Veronica Mars?” His voice was raw, frayed at the edges, his desperation spilling out.
The receptionist barely looked up, too busy to care. She didn’t have time for his panic.
Logan’s pulse roared in his head as he shoved forward, his body moving before his brain could catch up. Where is she? He wanted to scream it, to demand an answer, but his throat was thick with fear, his voice getting caught in the tightness that refused to let go.
Leo’s badge flashed as he pushed past the counter, his voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a knife. “Veronica Mars – where is she?” The demand was clear, urgent.
The nurse barely spared his badge a glance, flipping through a chart with a practiced air.
“Trauma bay. Critical. Family only.” Her voice was detached, already shifting her focus to the next crisis that demanded her attention.
Logan’s heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, he lurched forward, the need to see her driving him forward. But Leo’s arm shot out, grabbing his bicep with a grip that was all business.
“Keith will be with her,” Leo said, his tone firm but low. “You can’t just—”
“Screw that,” Logan snapped, his voice raw with panic, yanking himself free of Leo’s grasp.
Leo stood his ground, his gaze steady, unflinching as he locked eyes with Logan.
“Just give me a minute.” And then, before Logan could argue further, Leo disappeared through the double doors.
Logan stood there for a moment, his body coiled tight with anxiety, the sound of his boots scraping against the tiled floors echoing in his ears. Every second felt like an eternity. Critical. The word churned in his stomach, digging in like a blade. He couldn’t stop the onslaught of images that tore through his mind - machines, stillness, blood. What had happened to her? Had she been conscious? Had she spoken, or was she too far gone?
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until the pain was enough to ground him. He couldn’t do this. He had confessed everything, but it hadn’t been enough. She’d been gone, and now... this.
The doors swung open suddenly, and Leo stepped back out, his face tight with something Logan couldn’t quite read. Behind him, Wallace and Mac burst into the waiting room through the main doors, eyes wide with panic, the air around them crackling with the urgency of the moment. They skidded to a stop beside Logan, but he barely registered their presence, his mind still stuck on the idea of Veronica, her life hanging in the balance.
“She’s in surgery,” Leo told them all, his voice controlled, tight with frustration. “Keith’s back there, waiting. That’s all they’re saying.”
Logan’s gut twisted, and the floor seemed to tilt beneath him. Surgery? He didn’t need to hear the word again to understand the weight of it. His heart pounded harder, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Thumper... did they get him?” His voice cracked, and he forced himself to stay upright, to keep his mind focused on the immediate threat.
Leo shook his head, his expression dark. “They’re hunting him. Checkpoints are on every road out - he’s not slipping through.”
Wallace stepped forward, his voice raw, his words urgent. “One of the search teams found her, man. She had collapsed in the road. They think she came from a warehouse, from what they could tell.”
Logan staggered back a step, his knees nearly giving out from the weight of the news. He gripped the back of a chair, trying to steady himself, but all he could see was Veronica barely alive, the road marking her fall. The thought of her stumbling out of that warehouse, maybe half-conscious, maybe bloodied and broken. His breath hitched as the images overwhelmed him, tearing through his mind with brutal clarity. Thumper’s hands on her.
He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the images to go away, but they lingered. Every moment felt like an eternity, and each second that ticked by was a weight on his chest.
Mac dropped into the chair beside him, her voice soft. “We just have to wait. She’s a fighter, Logan.”
Wallace sat on the other side, his jaw tight, but he didn’t need to say anything.
Logan whispered, the words barely audible, as if speaking them out loud could make them real.
“She is a fighter.” The words felt fragile, as though uttering them might shatter the moment entirely, but they were all he had left.
A prayer more than a statement.
The hospital roared around them - the beeps of monitors, the hurried footsteps of staff, the rattling of a stretcher as it sped by - but they sat, unmoving, a trio in a world that seemed to move too fast. The storm churned on around them, but for now, they were anchored in place, waiting for news that would either break them or give them the faintest hope.
***
Hours later, Logan still sat in the harsh, fluorescent light of a waiting room, his body heavy and slack against the cold, unforgiving plastic chair.
Time stretched like molasses, each second dragging and gnawing at him. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the spinning chaos of the last few hours, but the emptiness in the room was a constant reminder of just how much was out of his control. His nerves felt raw, like he'd been torn open and left to bleed out in the silence.
Leo had left hours ago, presumably to join the chase for Thumper, leaving Logan with Wallace and Mac - a tight circle of silence and frayed hope.
They’d then been allowed to move into a quieter room. Keith sat opposite him, staring down at the floor, his face a mask of exhaustion and worry. Logan could feel the weight of Keith’s concern like a pressure on his chest. He'd barely said a word since they arrived - too much was hanging in the balance, and nothing could change it. Wallace sat next to Logan, his fingers fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket, the restless energy radiating from him like a storm cloud. Mac’s foot tapped steadily on the floor, her eyes locked on the doors, a desperate anticipation in her every movement.
And still, no word from the surgeon. No sign of Veronica.
The minutes stretched on, unrelenting. It felt like they had been sitting here for years, waiting for the next breath, the next piece of news that might end the suffocating uncertainty. The seconds cut deeper into him, the pulse of the clock echoing in his ears. What was taking so long?
The sudden sound of the doors parting made them all jump, instinctively sitting up straighter. But instead of the surgeon, it was Alicia, bustling in with a grocery bag in her arms. She moved with purpose, setting the bag down on the table and pulling out the familiar items of comfort - sandwiches, chips, sodas, and cookies. A quiet, maternal hum of normalcy that felt miles away from Logan.
She gave her son a pointed look, her gaze soft but unwavering.
“You need to eat,” she said, her voice steady with gentle warmth. She placed the food in front of him with gentle insistence.
Wallace sighed, barely looking up. “Really not hungry, Mom.”
Alicia wasn’t fooled. She fixed him with a look, the kind that made you feel like a kid. Reluctantly, Wallace reached out, grabbing the cookies and opening the package. He took a bite and then twisted one between his fingers, but it was clear he wasn’t really tasting it - his mind was elsewhere, lost in the same storm of worry that everyone else was drowning in.
“Come on, you all need to take care of yourselves,” Alicia said to the room, her voice low and understanding. "Veronica’s gonna need you strong, not worn out.”
Logan nodded, his throat too tight to speak, too hollow to argue. She was right, of course. But he wasn’t sure how to find the strength she was asking for when everything inside him felt like it had been drained dry.
Alicia’s gaze softened as she moved to Keith, placing a hand on his shoulder. Keith just shook his head, the weight of the day written all over him.
"No news," he murmured, the words barely audible.
Alicia let out a small, resigned puff of air.
"People are still at the Grand, waiting. Keep me posted and I’ll tell them. I’m heading home to put Darrell to bed."
She squeezed Keith's arm, a silent show of support before she bent down to hug Wallace, her arms enveloping him briefly before pulling away. Her eyes lingered on her son, full of concern.
“Stay strong,” she said softly.
With that, she was gone. The door swung closed behind her, the silence falling again, thicker this time, as they remained in their places in the waiting room, where nothing but the clock and the rhythm of their own heartbeats could keep them company.
It felt like time continued to slow, the sterile white walls around them closing in as the wait gnawed at their insides. Logan shifted restlessly in the hard chair, the plastic groaning under his shifting weight, his eyes darting between the others in the room. Keith, sitting across from him, was the picture of quiet tension, his face drawn and haggard, as though the very act of breathing was taking everything out of him.
And then, finally, the doors swung open.
The surgeon stepped through, looking in her mid-40s and her scrubs wrinkled from hours of work but her face was a mask of professional composure. Keith sprang to his feet the moment she appeared, his body tight with the kind of tension only a parent could understand. They exchanged a few words, too soft for Logan to catch as he waited anxiously, then he saw Keith gesture to them a split second before the surgeon turned to face them.
“She’s out of surgery,” she announced calmly. Her hands were clasped in front of her, as if it was something she’d learned long ago in medical school – the pose for giving news to loved ones waiting in despair. “Veronica is in recovery now and we’ve stabilised her. She had some internal bleeding, and I needed to repair a ruptured liver, but the bleeping has now stopped. I did have to place a chest tube for a collapsed lung from a broken rib puncturing it. She’ll move to ICU shortly and the rules say there are only two visitors allowed at a time, and one can stay overnight.”
The words hung in the air like a cloud, a tangled mess of relief and dread. Logan’s breath hitched painfully in his chest, his heart pounding as the surgeon continued, detailing the damage done to Veronica’s body in a voice so clinical it almost didn’t seem real.
“She has multiple rib fractures, likely from blunt force such as kicks or a fall,” she continued, the words landing like blows, each one making his stomach churn. “A fractured forearm – her radius, probably defensive in nature. A concussion from a head injury, no fracture, but serious. She has a forehead laceration that needed some stitches, and she’s covered in cuts and bruises.”
Logan’s chest constricted, a vice tightening around his ribs as the images flooded his mind - images of Veronica, broken and bloodied, a helpless victim. But she was alive. The surgeon’s words had just confirmed it, cutting through the fog of dread that had choked him for hours. His greatest fear that she hadn’t made it had been shattered, leaving him trembling with relief. She was here, breathing, fighting. Yet, as the weight of that truth settled, another fear, sharp and insidious, clawed its way to the surface.
He couldn’t stop seeing it: that photo, the one Thumper had sent to him. Veronica’s shirt ripped open, her face frozen in a look that burned into his skull. The image still looped relentlessly, each flash stoking a sickening question he’d tried to bury. He knew he should wait, should ask later, alone, away from Wallace’s tense presence and Keith’s watchful eyes. The hospital waiting room, sterile and suffocating, was no place for this. But the question was a jagged thing, scraping its way out, raw and desperate, fuelled by the need to know if his second-worst fear had come true.
“Was there any sign of sexual assault?” His voice cracked at the end, the tremor betraying just how far he had fallen from composure. Wallace jolted beside him, his sharp intake of breath cutting through the air like it hadn't even occurred to him. Keith’s head jerked up, his eyes wide, searching the surgeon’s face with an intensity that made Logan feel like he was about to choke on the silence.
“No.” The surgeon’s gaze softened, just the slightest hint of compassion in her eyes. “There were no obvious signs of anything like that,” she said quietly, and for a moment, Logan couldn’t move. A shaky exhale rippled through the group, the air around them feeling less suffocating as that particular nightmare was pulled away. But the rest of it - the fractures, the internal injuries, the long road ahead - remained, gnawing at them like a festering wound.
“She’ll be in ICU for a few days, if all goes well,” the surgeon continued. “There’s a tough road to recovery ahead, and we’ll need to monitor her closely for complications. But she’s doing well at the moment, and that’s a good sign.”
She offered them a nod before turning and walking away, leaving them behind in the silence of the waiting room, the weight of her words sinking in. The air was lighter, but it was still thick with worry. They had answers, but the answers brought with them new burdens, new fears to carry.
Keith was the first to move when the call came, his footsteps slow and heavy as he headed for the ICU doors. Logan could see the exhaustion etched in the older man’s face, but there was something else there too - determination, the kind that came from love, from not giving up no matter how hard it got. He returned a few moments later, his eyes red and his voice rough when he spoke.
“I’ve given permission for the three of you to see her, normally it’s family only. But the rule is two at a time,” he declared, and his gaze shifted to Wallace.
Mac gave a small, almost imperceptible wave of her hand. “You and Wallace go first,” she offered.
Logan nodded gratefully, the relief flooding through him like a balm. He wasn’t sure he could keep it together for much longer. He had to see her, had to know she was still in this fight, although he dreaded it in equal measures. He followed Wallace through the door, the cold air of the ICU rushing to meet him, the scent of antiseptic and faint beeping machines filling his senses.
The stark white of the room swallowed Logan whole, every detail sharp and cold as he stepped closer to the bed. Veronica lay there, still and tethered to a maze of machines. Monitors beeped with mechanical precision, IV lines dripped steadily, and the chest tube snaked from her side like a grim reminder of just how much she had endured. Her face was a wreck: a raw, red gash stitched across her forehead, one eye swollen shut, and her lip split in a jagged line. Purple and yellow bruises bloomed across her skin like ugly blooms. Her left arm, encased in a cast, lay stiff against the sheets, while her chest rose and fell shallowly.
Logan’s throat locked. He stood frozen, his eyes tracing every cut, every bruise. His chest tightened, guilt and relief warring in equal measure.
He had always been able to find the words - quick, sharp, clever. A joke, a sharp remark, a quote - something to hide behind. But now? His words felt like lead, sinking deeper into his gut with every attempt. He wanted to speak, to tell her something – anything - but his voice failed him. The knot in his throat was too tight, and even the simple act of swallowing felt impossible.
He wanted to reach for her hand, to feel some connection to the girl he loved, but all he could do was watch. He watched as Wallace stepped forward and gently took Veronica’s good hand.
“Damn, Vee,” Wallace murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a quiet gesture of comfort. “You really know how to scare a guy.” His voice was thick, but he continued softly, almost a prayer. “But you’re not going out like this. You hear me? You’re too damn stubborn for that.”
Logan stood motionless beside them, his chest still a tight knot of helplessness. He willed her to wake, to open her eyes and give him something - anything to hold on to. But she remained still, lost in the haze of unconsciousness. He wanted to take her other hand, but it had an IV in, and her arm was held in a cast.
Seeing her like this was like an antithesis to everything he knew Veronica to be. She was a force of nature – always on the go, full of passion and determination.
Time passed, slow and heavy, and soon they stepped out of the room, allowing Mac some time with her, and leaving Keith to be with his daughter. Mac trailed out after her visit, her face pale, drawn from exhaustion. She didn’t say much, just hugged them both before murmuring that she would be back early in the morning.
Logan, in an attempt to fill the silence, checked his phone, though he knew there would be nothing but a stack of unanswered texts - Duncan, Jackie and even Dick, all asking for news. His thumb moved slowly over the screen, typing the only words that felt real: Out of surgery, ICU. Bad but alive.
Mac’s departure left a heavy silence in the room, but it was broken soon enough by a nurse, her face softening with empathy as she approached.
“You both look beat,” she said, her voice gentle. “Don’t make me choose who sits out. Go and join her father.” Logan nodded in thanks, a gratitude flickering in him as they filed back into the room and took seats next to Keith, the chairs scraping against the floor as they settled in, weary but unwilling to leave her side.
Wallace tapped his phone, his fingers moving quickly. “I just texted Mom,” he said. “She’s telling everyone at the Grand that she’s out of surgery so they can go home.”
“Are you supposed to use a phone in here?” Logan asked.
“Ah, crap,” Wallace winced, shoving it back in his pocket.
More hours stretched on, slow and unrelenting. The hospital room was a cold, sterile cocoon, and Logan couldn’t escape the beeping of the machines, the constant reminder of Veronica’s fragility. He focused on the steady rise and fall of her chest, the rhythm of the chest tube monitor, counting the beeps one by one. Each beep was a lifeline, fragile and steady.
One. Two. Three.
He stared, unblinking, as the clock passed midnight. The world outside was asleep, but inside this room, time felt suspended, caught between the present and the future. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but he refused to look away. The rhythm of her breathing was the only thing that anchored him, a fragile tether that kept him from falling apart.
Eventually, the silence broke. Logan’s legs were stiff, the weariness of the night finally catching up to him.
He muttered under his breath, “Coffee.” He shuffled down the hall, the sound of coins clinking in the vending machine breaking the stillness. But as he approached the machine, a familiar figure appeared in the dim light - Leo, his uniform sharp, eyes hard with determination.
“How’s she holding up?” Leo asked, his voice low, but there was something like hope in it.
Logan’s fingers tightened around the plastic cup, the warmth of the coffee doing little to soothe the chill that had settled in his bones.
“She’s out of surgery,” he replied, voice dull, distant. “In the ICU - beat to hell, but alive.”
Leo’s grin was sudden, fierce, and it took Logan by surprise. The brief flash of triumph in Leo’s eyes was a stark contrast to the conversation they had just shared.
“We got him,” Leo declared, voice low but sharp with satisfaction. “Thumper. Caught him at the Tijuana border, trying to run. He’s done.”
The words hit Logan like a punch to the gut, a jolt of adrenaline that sliced through the fog of exhaustion and dread. His grip tightened around the cup, coffee splashing over the rim, but he couldn’t care less.
“Do you think you could get me in there with him?” Logan begged, his voice soft, but with a desperation that had him on edge.
Leo’s expression softened, a sympathetic look in his eyes. “If I could, I would,” he replied. “But we want the charges to stick. But I can promise you, he won’t be having a good time on my watch.”
Logan nodded slowly, his jaw clenched and he trudged back to the room with the coffees, the thin thread of triumph a small, flickering light in the oppressive dark. As he re-entered the ICU, he passed on the news. They sat again by Veronica’s side, waiting for her eyes to open, waiting for her to come back to them.
Sometime later he rubbed his eyes, the hospital room a dim, fading blur. Wallace was slumped in a chair beside him, head tilted back, both of them running on fumes as the night dragged on. Keith dozed intermittently in a chair next to Veronica’s bed, his posture slumped, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. Time had become an abstract concept, each passing minute feeling like it stretched endlessly, heavy with the weight of waiting.
Ellie, the nurse who’d made sure they could all stay who had short, curly hair that framing her face, her no-nonsense attitude softened by kindness finally stepped in. Her voice, though gentle, left no room for argument.
“You two need sleep. Real sleep, and preferably at home. She’s stable. Go home,” she said firmly, the command cutting through the haze of fatigue.
Logan hesitated, glancing back at Veronica’s still form. Every part of him wanted to stay, but he couldn’t deny the growing weight of exhaustion. Wallace nodded with a yawn.
“She’ll be here when we get back,” Wallace said, already standing. They shuffled out, the thought of a bed after days of sleepless nights, outweighing the guilt that lingered in the back of Logan’s mind. As they gathered their things, Ellie was already setting up a cot ready for Keith.
The next morning, Logan was back early, bleary-eyed but restless. He joined Wallace and Mac in the ICU, the sterile scent of the hospital still sharp in his nose. Veronica lay there, unchanged – still unconscious, her bruised face pale under the harsh light.
The monitors ticked steadily, keeping time with each breath. Mac was the first to speak, brushing a hand near Veronica’s shoulder before sighing.
“I’ll head to school, but I’ll be back later,” she informed them.
After Mac left, Keith turned to them, his voice rough from lack of sleep.
“Veronica will mostly be sleeping today. You two should try to do something normal, like go to school too.”
Wallace snorted, crossing his arms in disbelief.
“If you think I can focus with my best friend in the ICU, you’re dreaming, Mr. Mars,” he said, his tone laced with dark humour.
Logan smirked faintly, the corners of his lips twitching in reluctant agreement. Wallace was right - there was no way he was going to sit through class. The thought of anything normal felt like a cruel joke.
Later, he watched Ellie adjust the IV line, his eyes tracking every movement. He leaned closer, his voice low, a thread of urgency woven into it.
“She hasn’t woken up yet - is that normal?” The question slipped out sharper than he intended, his chest tightening as he asked.
Ellie met his gaze, calm and steady.
“Perfectly normal. Her body’s been through a lot. Rest is what she needs right now – it will help her heal.”
Logan nodded, the tension easing a fraction, but the knot in his stomach remained. He sank back into his chair, the room settling into its quiet rhythm - taking turns with coffee runs and snacks, orbiting around her bed like silent sentinels, waiting.
Around midday, Alicia entered with multiple Tupperware containers of homemade lunch for them all containing chicken pasta salad, fruit, and cookies.
“You’re eating,” she said firmly, setting the food down with a look that brooked no argument. “All of you.”
Logan thanked her, and grabbed a tub and a fork, taking a bite. He thought of how lucky Wallace was - having a mom who cared enough to cook, to check in, to fuss over him. His own mother flickered in his mind - Lynn, more vodka than hugs - and he pushed the thought down, focusing instead on the food. Alicia lingered, chatting with Keith, before she promised to return and left. He noted the vibe was slightly awkward between the two, but he wasn’t sure why.
The afternoon dragged on, light slanting through the blinds. Keith had stepped out to stretch his legs and Wallace was in the bathroom leaving Logan sitting alone. He was watching the usual rhyme of her chest rise and fall, when her good hand twitched, followed by her eyes fluttering open - hazy, unfocused, scanning the room as if she wasn’t sure where she was.
“Where...?” she rasped, her voice barely more than a croak, confusion creasing her brow.
Logan leaned in, his heart hammering in his chest as he tried to keep his voice soft. “You’re safe, Veronica. You’re in the hospital - it’s okay.”
Her gaze found him, cloudy with pain and the remnants of drugs, and she whispered, “What... happened?”
He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, careful of the stitches. “You’re safe now. We’re with you. Just sleep.” Her eyes fluttered closed, the effort too much for her, and she drifted back off.
Keith returned just as Veronica stirred again, Wallace trailing behind him. Veronica’s eyes cracked open again as she whispered, “Dad?” Her voice was fragile as she shifted her head on the pillow.
Keith grabbed her hand, his face crumpling in relief. “I’m right here, honey.”
Wallace hovered close by, his voice gentle. “Vee, it’s so good to see your face again.” But Veronica’s brow furrowed, lost, and before they could say more, her eyes slipped shut again, the quiet of the room reclaiming her.
When Ellie entered to do her routine checks, she saw their concerned faces and offered a reassuring smile.
“It’s normal, I promise - really normal,” she said. “She’s groggy, confused, on a lot of medication. Just keep it simple and reassuring. Don’t give her any details until she’s more awake. It’ll all stick soon enough.” Logan nodded, his throat tight.
The vigil resumed. Keith sat near Veronica’s head, his hand resting on her pillow, Wallace slouched in his chair, and Logan perched near her feet, their chairs creaking in the silence. Coffee cups piled up beside them as they waited - waiting for her to fully surface.
***
Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Logan slouched in the stiff ICU chair, rolling a crumpled coffee cup between his palms, the cardboard edges warping under his restless grip. The room smelled of antiseptic and something too clean, too artificial - like it was trying to scrub away the reality of what had happened. But the beep-beep of Veronica’s monitors never let him forget. Two days of this limbo, of waiting, of watching. The sound was burned into his brain.
He and Wallace had barely left her side, only slipping home for a few hours of fitful sleep when Keith insisted. They’d both shut down his talk of school, their voices sharp with defiance: no one was going anywhere until Veronica was out of danger.
Logan had made a quick call to the deputy overseeing his bail conditions. Even though Lamb had dismissed his confession, the original charge lingered, and the ankle bracelet’s restrictions loomed like a leash. The last thing he needed was to be hauled in for violating them while Veronica lay fighting for her life.
Now, Wallace slumped in the chair beside him, flipping through a dog-eared magazine, his eyes skimming the pages without focus. The crinkle of paper and the uneven tap of his sneaker on the linoleum filled the quiet, a restless undercurrent to their vigil.
Keith had ducked out twenty minutes ago, declaring he was on a mission to find real food - anything better than the bland, soulless cafeteria mush they’d been forcing down while keeping vigil. That left Wallace and Logan behind, watching over her.
Veronica lay motionless, her face a bruised map of pain, stitches cutting harsh fault lines across her skin. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest was the only sign she was still tethered to the waking world. Over the day, she’d mumbled in her sleep, slipping in and out, never long enough to grasp reality. Sometimes it was just incomprehensible murmurs. Other times, the words were jagged with fear, a broken whisper of something that made Logan’s stomach knot. He didn’t know if she was trapped in nightmares or just lost in the haze of her injuries, but either way, it was unbearable.
Then her good hand twitched, followed by her eyelashes fluttering. Then she took a sharp inhale, like she was surfacing from deep water. Logan held his breath, waiting, watching. Was she really waking up or just drifting again?
Her eyelids cracked open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as her gaze found his. “Logan… Wallace?”
Her voice was barely more than a rasp, dry and raw, but it was enough. Enough to send Logan’s heart hammering, enough to shake the air in the room. It was the first time she’d acknowledged anyone by name.
Wallace jerked upright, dropping his magazine and shot forward, relief flickering across his face. “Hey, girl.” His grin was immediate and warm. “You back with us?”
She blinked, her gaze dragging across the room - the sterile walls, the tangle of tubes, the blinking monitors. Confusion flickered, her brow knitting together.
“What… happened?” Her voice came slow, deliberate, like she was testing her grip on the words.
Logan’s throat tightened, a knot he couldn’t swallow. They’d braced for this question, but now, with her eyes searching his, he felt unmoored. He reached out, his fingers curling gently around her uninjured hand, and he squeezed softly.
Keep it simple, Nurse Ellie had advised earlier. But there was nothing simple about the way Veronica was looking at him now.
“Thumper took you,” Logan said, his voice low, steady, though each word pressed like a bruise against his chest. “But you’re safe now, in the hospital. Your dad’s here. Wallace and I - we’re not going anywhere.”
The words sat heavy between them.
Guilt surged, sharp and unforgiving. She’d been chasing Felix’s killer - his case, his mess - until it swallowed her whole. Until it left her like this - bruised, battered, broken. He’d failed to protect her, and the weight of that failure burned hot.
Her lips tightened, her gaze flickering as the name settled, as memories sifted through the fog. “Thumper…” she echoed, testing it, tasting it. Then her eyes snapped back to his, sharp despite the exhaustion, cutting straight through him.
“You… confessed?”
Not a question. It was a memory surfacing through the haze.
Wallace shot Logan a look - she’s on it already - but Logan barely registered it. His throat tightened as he nodded, pinned in place by her stare. “Yeah. Thought it’d get him off you.” His jaw clenched. “I hoped.”
The words tasted bitter. Like failure.
Veronica exhaled - a weak, breathy huff that might have been a laugh if she weren’t so wrecked. “Stupid,” she murmured, voice rasping but firm. Her eyes narrowed, the barest flicker of her old fire burning through the exhaustion. “Dumb move.”
Wallace let out a breath, shaking his head, half a chuckle, half raw relief. “That’s our girl - calling you out already.” He leaned in, giving Logan a look. “Told him it wouldn’t fly clean, V.”
Logan smiled, rubbing a hand over his face. Of course she woke up just to tell him he was an idiot.
She was back.
Her gaze dragged to Wallace, unfocused but intent. Her lips parted, her voice rough. “Should’ve… listened,” she rasped, a smirk twitching at the edges before her lids sagged, strength bleeding from her like the words had taken too much. “How’d I… get out?”
Logan’s throat clenched. How the hell did she? His voice came out steady, but the weight of uncertainty settled like lead in his chest. “We’re not sure.” He hesitated. “You were found on the road.”
Wallace leaned in, offering a small, wry grin, his fingers drumming restlessly against his knee. “You saved yourself, Superfly. What else would anyone expect?” His voice was light, but his eyes were searching, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.
Veronica’s brow furrowed, the creases deep, etched with something more than confusion - like she was trying to pull a memory from the depths of a fever dream. “Lilly… helped,” she murmured, her voice barely there, slipping between them like mist.
Logan’s breath hitched, his body going still. He leaned in, his voice low, sharp with something raw. “Lilly?”
Her lashes fluttered, her pupils lost in the haze of drugs and exhaustion. “Yeah,” she whispered, almost dreamily. “Lilly was there…” Her head shifted slightly on the pillow, like she was following a ghost only she could see.
Logan swallowed hard, unease curling at the base of his spine. Lilly was there? What the hell was she talking about? A concussion, the drugs, the mind grasping for comfort in trauma - he wasn’t sure what this was.
His hand drifted to her forehead, brushing back damp strands of hair near the stitched gash. His touch was light, careful, like she might break beneath it. “It’s okay, you’re safe, Veronica.” His voice was quiet now, softer. “It’s okay.”
Her breath evened out. The tension in her body melted as exhaustion pulled her under again.
Wallace exhaled, rubbing both hands down his face. “She’s in there. Really in there. First time she’s kept up like that… even if she’s talking crazy.”
Logan nodded, the tight knot in his chest easing, just slightly. He didn’t know much about psychology, but he knew what it meant to retreat into your own head, to latch onto something – anything - to survive. Hell, he’d done the same when Aaron’s fists and words cut too deep, when escape was the only way to endure.
The door swung open and Ellie bustled in, her dark curls tucked back, a warm presence against the clinical cold. “Did I hear her speaking?”
Wallace nodded, running a hand over his short hair. “Yeah. She actually followed what we were saying for the first time.”
Ellie’s lips lifted into a small, encouraging smile as she checked the monitors. “That’s great. Just don’t overload her, boys.” She adjusted the IV, then turned to Logan, her eyes kind. “You’re doing fine.”
Logan barely nodded, his gaze flickering back to Veronica’s face, the tension in his shoulders refusing to fully unwind.
***
It was the third day in the ICU. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, throwing long, thin shadows across the sterile walls. Logan sat stiff in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, fingers absently rolling the cap of his water bottle. He’d noticed it that morning - how Veronica looked even paler than before, if that was possible - but now, in the fading light, the worry gnawed at him sharper, deeper.
The doctor had assured them she was fine. But something inside Logan twisted with fear.
Across from him, Wallace sat cross-legged in his chair, scrolling his phone, a half-finished algebra sheet crumpled at his side. Mac had stopped by both before and after school, dropping off their homework on her second visit. Wallace scratched at the assignment sometimes, muttering about slopes and intercepts, but Logan hadn’t even looked at his. The numbers blurred, just shapes and symbols in a world where all he could hear was the soft, too-shallow rhythm of Veronica’s breathing.
At the foot of the bed, Keith had built himself a makeshift office, a stack of files spread out on a tray table. His pen tapped absently against the paperwork, a quiet drumbeat in the hush of the room.
“The cases are piling up,” he’d sighed when Logan had glanced at the stack.
But Logan knew better. This wasn’t just about work - it was about not sitting still, not letting helplessness sink its claws in. Keith needed to do something, to feel like he was still in control of something.
Logan wished more than anything that he could cover their bills, take the weight off Keith’s shoulders so he wouldn’t have to split his focus between work and the daughter who needed him. But he knew better than to suggest it.
The offer would be refused outright - not with anger, but with the kind of quiet, unwavering pride that made it clear Keith Mars took care of his own.
That morning, Weevil had swung by, quick and gruff, a bundle of something clutched in his hands. Without meeting anyone’s eye, he tossed a knitted blanket over the bed.
“My Abuela thought she might be cold. She made it,” he muttered, the words rough like he felt like he needed an excuse.
The blanket was bright, an explosion of colourful yarn that clashed against the sterile white of the hospital room. It didn’t belong here, but neither did Veronica who was lost again somewhere between pain and sleep. The blanket stayed, draped over the foot of her bed like an anchor, something real in all the unnaturalness of this place.
Weevil didn’t linger. He stepped out into the corridor just as Duncan approached from the other end of the hall. Logan couldn’t see them from where he sat, but he caught the shift in Weevil’s tone and the sharp edge in his voice.
“…not the time right now,” Weevil was saying, his words low and taut with barely restrained anger, “but you and me are gonna have words sooner or later.”
Logan leaned forward slightly, straining to hear Duncan’s response. It was defensive, maybe indignant - but Logan couldn’t catch it all. The heat in his own chest flared again, the resentment curling tight in his ribs. He still didn’t know what to do with it, what to do with Duncan. All he knew was that if Weevil decided to take a swing at him, he wasn’t sure he’d bother stopping it.
Keith had noticed Duncan too. He stepped out into the hall, intercepting him before he could make it inside. His voice was low, even.
“She’s doing okay.”
That was it. No invitation and no opening.
The line had been drawn. Keith had let Duncan help in the search for Veronica, but that didn’t mean he was welcome back into her life.
Later, Meg came by, slipping into the room with quiet footsteps. She didn’t say much, just set a small vase of yellow daisies on the side table.
The flowers were too bright, too full of life. They didn’t match the hush in the room, the weight of exhaustion and worry. They belonged in the sunlight, in a place where things were okay.
Logan had been clinging to yesterday - the moment her voice had cut through the fog, the first real sign of her fighting her way back. He’d let himself believe it was the start of something, that she was climbing out of the wreckage.
But now, she was still again. Too still.
Her casted arm rested rigid at her side, motionless. The stitches on her forehead stood out, stark against her pale skin. Weevil’s blanket lay draped over her legs, a bright clash against the sterile white of the hospital bed. The calm in the room felt like a lie.
A monitor chirped - sharper, more urgent than before. Logan’s grip on the bottle cap faltered. It slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor with a hollow clatter.
Veronica shifted, her breath hitching, a faint groan slipping free.
Logan sat up fast. Her face twisted, her brows pinching together in pain. Something was wrong.
He reached out instinctively, his fingertips ghosting over her forehead. The damp strands of hair clung to her burning skin.
Too hot.
Too wrong.
His stomach clenched. “She’s burning up,” he said, his voice tight, the knot in his chest twisting sharper, pulling deep.
Wallace had been perched on the edge of his seat, his brow furrowed with a gnawing unease that had only deepened at Logan’s words. His phone slipped from his fingers and it clattered onto the scattered pile of forgotten homework, abandoned mid-equation, as he leaned forward. His hand reached for her arm to confirm it for himself.
Keith was already moving, his files shoved aside as he urgently reached for the call button.
Ellie rushed in a moment later, her eyes flicking between the monitors. “It’s a fever spike,” she announced, hands moving fast - checking the chest tube, adjusting the IV. “The most obvious culprits would be the liver repair or the tube site. We need to run tests. Please, step out - just for a moment.”
Her words landed like shards of glass, cutting through the haze of hope that had briefly flickered in the room. They were sharp, final, leaving no room for argument. Logan’s reaction was instantaneous - his entire frame stiffened, every muscle coiling as if ready to spring. His jaw clenched, a vein pulsing at his temple, his dark eyes flashing with a volatile mix of fear and defiance. But Keith was already on his feet, his steady hand clamping onto Logan’s shoulder, guiding him toward the door with a nudge that brooked no resistance.
“Let them work,” Keith murmured, his voice firm.
Wallace stumbled after them, nearly tripping over himself as they spilled into the hallway.
“Shit,” Wallace muttered, the word slipping out like a prayer, raw and ragged, as the door clicked shut behind them. His hands raked through his dishevelled hair, tugging at the roots.
Logan, though, couldn’t stay still. He paced the narrow corridor, his sneakers scuffing against the worn linoleum in a restless rhythm. His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles blanched, nails digging crescent moons into his palms. He was so angry - a fever - after she’d finally spoken and he’d let himself believe that the worst was behind them.
“She was fine yesterday,” he growled, the words tearing from his throat, rough and jagged. Yesterday, she’d smiled – faintly, but it had been enough.
Wallace leaned heavily against the vending machine, its faint hum a dull backdrop to the tension radiating off him. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, as if holding himself together, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. Keith stood like a sentinel by the ICU doors, his broad frame rooted to the spot, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His silence was heavy, his eyes shadowed with a quiet, unreadable weight that Logan couldn’t bear to look at too long.
A doctor brushed past them, white coat flapping as he hurried into her room, the door swinging shut with a soft thud that echoed in the sterile hallway. Time stretched thin, each second pulling taut until it felt like hours - two, maybe three - before Ellie finally stepped out again. Her scrubs were slightly rumpled, her expression calm as she waved them back inside with a tired flick of her hand.
“Her fever’s down,” she said, her tone clipped but steady as she adjusted a fresh IV drip, the clear liquid glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. “The doctor started her on a broad-spectrum antibiotic. It was definitely an infection – a nasty one that spiked hard - but it’s under control now.” Her hands moved with quiet efficiency, betraying none of the chaos that had unfolded earlier.
Veronica lay there, still and fragile, her skin nearly as pale as the crisp hospital sheets beneath her. The blanket had slipped down to her feet, twisted in a heap, leaving her exposed in a way that made Logan’s chest ache. Relief hit him first, a sudden rush that loosened the knot in his gut, but it quickly tangled with something hotter, something jagged that clawed its way up his throat.
“She was getting better - why the hell did this happen?” The words tore out of him, rough and unsteady, cracking at the edges. His voice was loud in the small room, anger spilling over to mask the fear still gnawing at him - the fear that he’d almost lost her, again, just when he’d let himself hope.
Ellie didn’t blink. She turned to face him, her hazel eyes locking onto his with a calm that felt almost defiant. “Healing isn’t linear,” she said, her voice even but firm, cutting through his spiralling thoughts. “It’s messy, unpredictable. This is a normal complication - scary, sure, but we’ve got it handled. She’s tougher than you’re giving her credit for.” Her words were a quiet rebuke, sharp enough to pierce the fog of his frustration, and they hung there, heavy with truth.
Logan let out a shaky breath, the fight draining out of him as his shoulders slumped. He dragged a hand over his face, feeling the stubble scrape against his palm. Wallace stepped closer, his hand landing on Logan’s arm with a solid, reassuring grip.
“Ease up, man,” he said, his voice low and steady, a faint trace of warmth breaking through. “She’s doing her job. And Veronica? She’s a badass - you know that better than anyone.”
Logan glanced at Wallace, then back at Veronica’s still form, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt like a lifeline. He nodded, just once, the knot in his throat loosening enough to let him breathe.
Keith remained a statue by the bedside, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bearing an invisible weight. His gaze stayed fixed on Veronica, unwavering, the worry etched into his face deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth.
Then - soft, so faint it could’ve been a trick of the room’s hum - Veronica stirred. “Cold…” The word slipped out, a fragile whisper that barely disturbed the air, but it hit like a thunderclap in the silence.
Logan reacted instantly, his movements swift but careful. He reached for his hoodie that was slung carelessly over the back of a chair. He draped it over her, the grey fabric settling awkwardly around the tangle of tubes and wires snaking across her body. Then, almost as an afterthought, he grabbed Weevil’s knitted blanket from the foot of the bed and layered it over her too, tucking it gently around her shoulders.
Her fingers twitched beneath the layers, a faint, fleeting sign of life that made Logan’s breath catch. He slid into the chair beside her, the plastic creaking under his weight, and reached for her good hand. His touch was tentative as he slipped his fingers around hers. Her skin was cool, but she was there - real and alive beneath his grip. He held on, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles, anchoring himself to that small, steady connection. The chaos in his chest quieted, just a fraction, as he felt the faint pulse beneath her skin.
Her breathing steadied, each rise and fall of her chest a little stronger, a little more certain. The room seemed to exhale with her, the tension easing like a tide pulling back from the shore.
Ellie, standing at the foot of the bed, scribbled a quick note on Veronica’s chart, her pen scratching against the paper in a brisk, practiced rhythm. She glanced up, catching their eyes with a reassuring look.
“She’ll bounce back,” she said, her voice carrying a quiet confidence that didn’t waver. “Give her time.” Then she turned, slipping out of the room with the chart tucked under her arm, leaving them to the soft beeping of the monitors once again.
***
Logan’s phone buzzed as he slumped in the X-Terra’s driver seat, parked outside the hospital after another endless day. He didn’t recognise the number and briefly considered ignoring it, but instead he answered, voice flat. “Yeah?”
Leo’s reply came quick, worn: “Meet me at the Grand.” Logan muttered an okay, fired the engine, and drove, the night air sharp through the window, Neptune’s lights streaking past. Ellie had promised that Veronica’s vital signs were stable, and she practically shoved him and Wallace out the door, telling them they needed some rest. Logan was relieved to step out into the cool evening air, something to cut the hospital’s antiseptic chokehold.
He reached the Neptune Grand lobby, all polished marble and muted chatter - guests milling, a bellhop hauling bags past the concierge desk. Leo leaned against a wall near the elevators, uniform creased, eyes heavy from too many shifts. He straightened as Logan approached, hands in his pockets.
“How’s Veronica doing?” Leo asked, voice low, intent. “Heard she was talking yesterday – we need to get a statement from her.”
Logan shrugged, jaw tight. “She was. An infection spiked today - she’s out of it. No way she’s talking anytime soon.” Leo’s face tightened, worry flashing clear as day, and Logan felt an odd sting, it was clear Leo still cared about Veronica, it was written all over him, but at least it meant Leo wanted Thumper to bleed for this too.
“Damn,” Leo said, rubbing his neck. “Thumper’s call log’s a goldmine. Liam Fitzpatrick’s all over it, so it looks like he was involved in the kidnapping. I hoped she could confirm it. And get this - Liam’s car was outside the warehouse, blown to hell. Torched, like a stunt gone wrong.”
Logan’s brows lifted. “What, Veronica?” He pictured her rigging a car bomb, then shook it off - she could barely stand when they found her, collapsed in the road. “Doesn’t seem likely.”
Leo nodded, grim. “Agreed, but it makes me wonder if it was tied to her escape – like some distraction, maybe? No clue who, though.” His frown deepened, the puzzle unsolved.
Logan’s mind flickered - Lilly helped, she’d rasped yesterday, dazed. Lilly torching a car from the grave? He almost smirked - if anyone’d do it, it’d be her, all flair and fury. But it faded fast - ghosts didn’t play here.
“Thumper enjoying lockup?” Logan asked, voice dry, needing a win.
Leo’s grin turned sharp. “He didn’t have a good time. I yanked his mattress and pillow myself, accidentally skipped his meals. He’s at county now - made sure word spread what he did, killing Felix Toombs for a Fitzpatrick. Plenty of ex-PCHers in there’ll make it rough.” Logan’s lips twitched, a dark satisfaction settling in – he hoped Thumper would pay, slow and hard.
“Anyway, the reason for my visit. Some good news,” Leo said, pulling a small tool from his pocket. “Mac sent Veronica’s recording to us. That plus Thumper grabbing her? Charges against you for murder have been dropped, officially.” He crouched, snipping the ankle monitor free with a clean snap, the plastic hitting the floor. “I wanted to come and tell you myself that you’re free.”
Logan stared at the cut band, relief surging hot, then souring - freedom, sure, but Veronica’s cost loomed larger. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice rough, flexing his ankle. “Guess Lamb wasn’t first in line for that.”
Leo shrugged. “Give Veronica my regards - tell her to get better fast.” Leo clapped his shoulder, gave him a tired nod and headed out. Logan trudged to the elevator, exhaustion dragging at him - Veronica’s fever replaying in his head.
The door to his suite opened, and Logan paused mid-step, the scene before him jarring against the storm still churning in his head. Duncan was sprawled across the couch, legs kicked out, a controller gripped loosely in his hands. Beside him, Dick hunched forward, his fingers hammering the buttons with relentless focus, the TV blaring the screech of tires and revving engines from some racing game. The normalcy of it felt like a punch to the gut after the sterile quiet of the hospital.
Duncan’s head tilted up, his eyes catching Logan’s in the dim light. Worry carved a faint line across his forehead, softening his usual easy demeanour. “How’s Veronica?” he asked, voice steady but laced with something heavier.
Logan let his keys clatter onto the counter, the sound sharp in the room. He didn’t have the energy to soften the edges of his reply. “She took a turn today. An infection hit her hard.” His tone was flat, drained, like the words had been wrung out of him over hours of waiting and watching.
Dick paused the game mid-race, the screen freezing on a pixelated car mid-drift. He squinted up at Logan, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. “Is she gonna be okay?” The question hung there, awkward and unguarded, a rare crack in his carefree attitude.
Logan’s brows shot up, a flicker of irritation cutting through his exhaustion. “What, you’re worried about her now?” The words came out sharper than he meant, edged with a bitterness he couldn’t quite swallow.
Dick shifted uncomfortably, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Nah, not worried - just, you know, it’s weird without her around busting our balls.” He forced a smirk, but it faltered, lacking its usual bite, and his eyes darted away.
“Is she out of the danger zone?” Duncan cut in, his voice tighter now, more insistent, slicing through the tension like a blade.
Logan sighed, the fight seeping out of him as he dropped onto the far end of the sofa. The cushions sagged under his weight, mirroring the way the day had pressed down on him. “The nurse thinks the antibiotics are working. She’s stable - for now.” His shoulders slumped, the relief warring with the bone-deep fatigue that clung to him like damp clothes.
Duncan’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “This wouldn’t have happened if she wasn’t chasing your mess, Logan.” The words landed like a fist, heavy with blame, each syllable deliberate and cutting.
Dick snorted, tossing his controller onto the coffee table with a clatter. “C’mon, man. No one tells Ronnie what to do. She lives for that Nancy Drew shit.” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it, a deflection that didn’t quite mask the unease in his slouch.
“Yeah, and that Nancy Drew stuff almost got her killed,” Duncan fired back, his voice rising, sharp with frustration and something deeper.
Logan stared at the floor, the worn carpet blurring under his gaze. The guilt he’d been carrying for days spilled out, raw and unfiltered. “I know it’s my fault.” His voice cracked, low and rough, the admission scraping against his throat. The room grew heavier, the air thick with the weight of it, and for a moment, no one moved.
Duncan shook his head, a sharp, jerky motion, and pushed to his feet. “I’m going to bed,” he muttered, his footsteps heavy as he disappeared into his room, leaving the words to fester.
Dick glanced at Logan, his brow creasing with a flicker of genuine concern. “Don’t blame yourself, man,” he said, quieter now, almost careful. “She’d kick your ass for that.”
Logan managed a tight, tired smile, nodding toward the TV. “Bandicoot?” His voice was flat, too worn to argue, grasping for something – anything - to pull him out of the spiral.
Dick’s grin returned, a little lopsided but real, as he snatched the controller back up. “Don’t think I’m gonna go easy on you just ‘cause you’re all emo and mopey.” He mashed the start button, the screen flickering back to life with a burst of cartoonish music, and for a moment, the noise drowned out the ache still lodged in Logan’s chest.
***
Logan hadn’t meant to let the morning slip away like this. His alarm had blared for a solid hour, a shrill, relentless wail cutting through the fog of sleep, but exhaustion had pinned him to the mattress like a lead weight.
Yesterday had hollowed him out - hours slumped in that unforgiving ICU chair, Veronica’s fever spiking, her fragile frame lost in a tangle of tubes, and Duncan’s accusing words looping in his skull like a broken record. Sitting there, powerless, watching her chest rise and fall, terrified her heart might just give up, had sapped him dry - more than any brawl or sleepless night ever could. When he finally pried his eyes open, the late morning sun seared through the blinds, the clock glaring 11:47. Shit. Panic hit like a jolt of electricity, yanking him upright. If she’d crashed overnight—if he’d missed it—
He bolted from the suite, barely grabbing his keys, the yellow Xterra roaring to life as he tore through Neptune’s sun-bleached streets. His tires squealed as he swerved into the hospital lot, the engine’s growl still echoing as he abandoned the car at a crooked angle and sprinted for the entrance. The automatic doors parted too slowly, and he shoved past them, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, stomach twisting into a tight, nauseous knot. If something had happened, if she’d taken a turn while he was out cold…
A blur of motion cut into his path, and he skidded to a halt, his shoes screeching on the polished floor, stopping just inches from slamming into Keith. The older man was half in his jacket, one arm sleeved, the other clutching his keys, his brows shooting up at Logan’s near-collision.
“Whoa there, kid,” he said, voice calm but edged with surprise.
Logan’s chest heaved, frustration clawing at his throat. He barely choked it back. “I overslept—how is she? Did something happen?” The questions tumbled out, sharp and breathless, his hands flexing at his sides.
Keith’s expression softened, a steadying hand lifting slightly as if to hold Logan’s spiralling thoughts at bay. “No, she’s doing good,” he said evenly.
But the words didn’t sink in, didn’t loosen the vice around Logan’s lungs. “Then why are you leaving?” His voice cracked, suspicion lacing the edges.
Keith adjusted his jacket, exhaling a small, tired breath. “I’ve got a billing issue on a case - something that couldn’t wait. And Wallace’s mom dragged him to school to sort out his schedule so he doesn’t fall behind. Veronica’s alone right now.”
Logan’s stomach dropped. “Wait - alone, alone? Since when?” The idea of her lying there, unguarded, sent a fresh wave of dread crashing over him.
Keith nodded, already stepping past, his stride purposeful. “They moved her this morning. She’s in the PCU now.”
Logan froze, the letters jangling in his head like a warning bell. “The PCU - what does that mean? That sounds bad.” His voice pitched up, sharp with the fear he couldn’t shake.
Keith stopped, turning back with a look - exhausted, patient and a faint flicker of should’ve led with that in his eyes. “It’s the Progressive Care Unit, Logan. It means she’s improving.” A small, weary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, softening the lines worry had carved there.
The knot in Logan’s chest didn’t unravel all at once - it loosened, but stubbornly held its shape. “Are you sure?” he pressed, needing more than a smile to lean on.
Keith met his gaze with a firm nod, unflinching. “They don’t move patients unless they’re sure. It’s a good thing.” He glanced at his watch, a quick, habitual check, and sighed. “Sorry, I’ve got to run, but her nurse is still Ellie - look out for her.” Then he was gone, disappearing down the hall, leaving Logan standing there, heart still racing, brain still half convinced that moving her meant something worse.
Keith’s words - It’s a good thing - echoed in Logan’s head, but they didn’t fully take root, not yet. Not until he was shoving open the door to her new room, his breath caught tight in his chest, braced for the worst. He half-expected to see her fragile and fading, barely clinging to life like she had been yesterday, a ghost of herself swallowed by tubes and sterile white sheets.
Instead—
She was awake.
Propped up slightly against the pillows, her eyes were sharp and clear and her skin was no longer that sickly, death-pale shade that had haunted him for hours. Relief slammed into him, raw and overwhelming, a tidal wave that nearly knocked the air out of him. Before he could rein it in, a wide, unguarded grin broke across his face, splitting the tension that had gripped him all morning. “Jesus, Veronica. You scared the shit out of us yesterday.”
She rolled her eyes, a familiar flicker of exasperation in the gesture, and her voice - scratchy, rough around the edges - carried that dry, biting edge he’d missed more than he’d admit. “So I’ve heard. Repeatedly.”
He crossed the room in three quick strides, dropping into the chair beside her bed with a thud, the relief still thrumming through him like a live wire. “Yeah, well, maybe next time don’t nearly die, and we’ll all take a chill pill,” he said, the words tumbling out with a lightness he didn’t fully feel, a shield against the memory of her fevered and still.
“Noted.” She shifted slightly, a faint grimace tugging at her features as the movement pulled at something painful. But there was life in her face now, a spark that had been snuffed out in the haze of the ICU, and it hit him hard how much he’d needed to see it.
He took her in, cataloguing the changes. Her skin had lost that ghastly pallor, with a faint flush creeping back into her cheeks. The dark circles under her eyes were still there, carved deep from exhaustion, but they didn’t swallow her face anymore. Her lips - yesterday tinged a faint, terrifying blue - were pink again, cracked but human. She was still a wreck, no question – her hair tangled, frame dwarfed by the hospital gown. But compared to the hollow shell she’d been in that fevered blur, she was Veronica again. His hoodie lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed, tangled with Mrs. Navarro’s knitted blanket, its bright stripes a jarring splash of colour against the muted room.
“You know, if you wanted an excuse to keep my hoodie, there were easier ways,” he said, leaning back in the chair, forcing a casual lilt into his voice as he hooked an arm over the backrest. The posture was deliberate, a mask of nonchalance but beneath it, a storm of questions churned, clawing at his throat. What happened? What did that bastard do to you? How did you escape?
They burned on the tip of his tongue, sharp and insistent, each one a thread he wanted to pull until the whole mess was clear in his head. But he swallowed them down, hard, the effort tightening his jaw. She was still pale, still fragile, the edge of her smirk barely hiding the exhaustion in her eyes. It wasn’t the time - not yet - and he wouldn’t push her.
She smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching up in that way that always meant trouble. “Too late. Your hoodie is mine now.” Her voice was still raspy, but the defiance in it was pure Veronica, and it tugged a reluctant grin from him.
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head as the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction. “Fine. Just don’t go getting attached. You’re already stealing my sanity - you don’t need my clothes too.” The quip came easy, a reflex honed by years of their back-and-forth, and for a moment, the room felt less like a hospital and more like them.
She let her head sink deeper into the pillow, her eyes tracing him with a gaze that softened from that sharp-edged smirk into something quieter, more unguarded - something that landed like a quiet blow to his chest, stealing the air he’d just reclaimed. “You look like hell, Logan,” she said, her voice low, threaded with a concern that caught him off guard.
He scoffed, a quick deflection, but the warmth of her words slipped under his skin, sharp and disarming. “Yeah, well, not all of us get to nap in a hospital bed for three days straight.”
“Mm. I’ll trade you.” Her tone was dry, but there was a flicker of exhaustion behind it.
“No deal.” His hand moved before he could second-guess it, brushing against hers - light, tentative - then curling around her palm. He kept it gentle, not possessive, just a quiet presence. She didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch; her fingers flexed slightly, holding on in return, and that small gesture loosened the knot that had been strangling him for days. For the first time since her fever spiked, he let himself breathe - really breathe. She was okay.
A beat of silence stretched between them, soft and familiar, the kind that didn’t need filling. It settled over them like a worn blanket, and despite everything, it made his chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
Then she exhaled, a faint puff of air, her lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. “I’m glad you’re here.” The words were simple, almost tossed out, but they hit him hard, tightening his throat. She’s glad. He felt it like a pulse under his ribs.
He covered the swell of it with a smirk, tilting his head. “Yeah?”
She nodded, then sighed with exaggerated flair, her eyes glinting. “Yeah, I’m starving. And they had the audacity to give me broth.”
He gasped, mock horror widening his eyes. “Broth? The monsters.”
“I know, right? It’s like they don’t even know me.” Her voice carried that dry bite again, a spark of the Veronica he’d been aching to see.
“Unbelievable. What do you want?” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, ready to play along.
“Maybe Chinese? Or sushi?” She said it casually, like she wasn’t hooked up to half a dozen tubes.
He arched a brow, scepticism tugging at his grin. “Are you even allowed to eat real food?”
She met his gaze, her expression utterly unimpressed. “Who’s going to stop me?” The challenge in her tone was pure Veronica – stubborn and defiant.
Logan’s grin broke wide and real, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep. “Not me.”
Her smile brightened in response, warm and unguarded, and it cracked something open inside him in relief, but shadowed by the memory of her winces, the fragility still clinging to her frame. He squeezed her hand, just once, then stood, the chair creaking as he rose. “Gimme a minute.”
She blinked, her eyes following him with a flicker of curiosity as he slipped out the door, phone already pressed to his ear.
The call connected after two rings, a voice crackling through. “The Lucky Panda, how can I—”
“How fast can you get an order to Neptune Memorial?” Logan interrupted. “If it’s here in ten minutes, I’ll tip you a hundred bucks.”
A beat of stunned silence hung on the line. Then— “Uh. What’s the order?” The guy’s voice wavered, caught off guard but quick to recover.
Logan didn’t hesitate, rattling off a list of things he knew she could manage, that were easy to eat with one hand - dim sum, dumplings, egg rolls, beef and broccoli. Easy bites, nothing too heavy. He paused, then added, “Actually, make it two boxes of egg rolls. And wonton soup. And—” He stopped, a flash of Veronica’s grin crossing his mind, the way her eyes would light up at the next bit. “—custard buns.”
The guy on the other end of the line let out a low whistle. “You got it, man.”
Logan ended the call with a tap, sliding the phone into his pocket as he turned back toward her room. The knot in his chest lighter now, more bearable. This wasn’t much, just food and a fleeting moment of normalcy, but it was something he could give her. After days of watching her fade, of feeling useless against the chaos, seeing her smile meant everything. He pushed the door open, already anticipating the look she’d give him when the bags arrived.
***
Hours later, the Xterra’s engine snarled as Logan pulled into the Grand’s parking lot, the hospital’s sharp antiseptic tang still clinging to his senses, coating his throat. Veronica’s voice echoed in his head - dry, biting, alive - but it tangled with the memory of her winces, the way she’d shifted and faltered under the weight of her own body. He could still see her losing the thread of their conversation, her words trailing off as exhaustion overtook her, her eyes fluttering shut before she’d even finished half her lunch. She’d passed out, a custard bun still clutched loosely in her hand, and he’d sat there, staring, useless.
It’s all because of me. My case, my mess. The thought burrowed deep, a relentless ache. He trudged up to the suite, the door slamming shut behind him with a hollow bang, and started pacing the room. Each step reverberated with her - her stitched forehead, the jagged line stark against her pale skin; her arm locked in a cast, stiff and unnatural; the way pain dulled the sharp blue of her eyes, clouding them over like a storm rolling in.
The door flew open, and Dick barrelled in, a chaotic burst of energy that shattered the quiet. He had a case of Coronas tucked under one arm, bottles clinking, and his dented, scratched-up party pig - a keg that looked like it’d survived a war - hoisted over his shoulder. He dropped it with a heavy thud, the floor vibrating, and clocked Logan’s expression in an instant.
“Dude, you’re a corpse - no more moping. We’re throwing a party tonight to cheer your ass up.”
Logan shook his head, a tired reflex, but Dick was already in motion, thumbs flying over his phone screen, texting out invites. He kicked a duffel bag by the couch, its contents rattling.
“It’s a done deal, bro. Luke’s bringing the good stuff - tequila, Jäger. We can start setting up.”
Logan waved him off again, his voice flat and heavy as he sank onto the couch, the cushions swallowing him. “There’s no we, Dick. I’m not feeling it.”
“C’mon, man – Veronica was rescued, but you’re brooding like some emo poet. You need this.” Dick’s grin didn’t waver, a stubborn, blinding force as he dragged the coffee table into the corner with a scrape. “This is the beer pong station - Beaver’s coming with cups. It’s gonna be awesome.” His enthusiasm was a battering ram, oblivious and unrelenting.
Logan’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. He hadn’t seen Duncan since last night, and the absence chewed at him, a quiet, persistent gnaw. Was Duncan dodging him? He’d made it crystal clear where he pinned the blame - right on Logan’s shoulders - and Logan couldn’t argue.
The guilt was a weight he’d been carrying too long to deny. Dick’s dumbass energy, though - loud, brash, and stupidly simple - felt like the opposite of that suffocating silence. Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea. Maybe letting it crash over him could drown out the dark spiral spinning in his head, if only for a night.
“Fine,” he muttered, slumping deeper into the cushions, the word barely audible but enough to surrender.
Dick let out a triumphant whoop, cracking open a Corona with a hiss and tossing another to Logan, who snagged it midair with one hand. The can was ice-cold, beads of condensation slick against his palm. “That’s my boy - help me move this crap,” Dick said, already shoving the coffee table aside with a scrape, clearing a path to the makeshift bar. Logan followed, half-hearted, as Dick plugged his iPod into the sound system and cranked up some grating nu-metal track - Korn, probably, all jagged screams and overblown bass. It clawed at the air, loud and obnoxious. Logan popped the tab on his beer, the sharp snap cutting through the noise, and took a long swig. The bitter taste sliced through the fog in his head, but the guilt stayed lodged, heavy and unmoving.
Night crept in, and the suite exploded into chaos. Dick’s brother, Beaver, slunk through the door first, dumping a teetering stack of red Solo cups by the pong table. Luke barged in next, lugging a bottle of Patrón and a fifth of Jäger, crowing about some hookup who’d scored it cheap off a shady liquor run. Sean swaggered after him, already half-lit, tossing a crumpled pack of Marlboros onto the bar like a trophy. Then came Shelly Pomroy and Madison Sinclair, sweeping in with a gaggle of girls - all glossy lips and hairspray, their laughter shrill as their perfume clashed with the growing stench of spilled beer. Gia Goodman trailed behind, wide-eyed and chattering nonstop at John Enbom, who nodded absently, while Carrie Bishop brought up the rear, cool and aloof, sipping from a silver flask she didn’t offer to share.
The room filled fast, 09ers sprawling across couches and leaning against walls as the music pulsed, a relentless thud that rattled the windows. Dick hollered over the din, rigging the pong table with sloppy enthusiasm, beer sloshing onto the floor in foamy arcs. Logan gripped a whiskey he’d poured from the bar, the glass cool and slick in his hand, the amber liquid burning a slow path down his throat. He leaned against the wall, watching the chaos unfold through a haze. Shelly sidled up, flipping her hair with practiced ease. “Hey, Logan - how’s Veronica doing?” Her tone was light, curious, but it grated against him.
“Fine,” he said, voice clipped, staring past her at nothing. He couldn’t - wouldn’t - unpack it here, not with her pain still raw in his mind, not with these people who didn’t really give a damn. They’d shown up at Search HQ days ago, sure, but it was for the thrill, the gossip, the chance to say they were there - not for her.
Carrie tilted her head, stepping closer, her dark eyes assessing. “Is she out of the woods yet?” Her voice was quieter, less performative, but it still pricked at him.
“Kind of,” he snapped, sharper than he meant, turning his shoulder to cut her off. Their gazes lingered, expectant, but he didn’t budge - couldn’t bear dragging Veronica’s name into this mess of noise and shallow chatter. They shrugged, drifting back to the pong table, and he tipped another shot down his throat, the sting a fleeting distraction.
The party spiralled into a blur. Luke and Sean kicked off a chugging contest with the party pig, foam spraying across the carpet as they bellowed about who’d puke first, their laughter hoarse and wild. Madison shrieked, half-delighted, half-horrified, as Dick flicked a lighter under a Jäger shot, the flame licking up before he knocked it back, coughing through a manic grin. Someone dragged out a PlayStation 2, hooking it to the flat-screen, and soon half the room was screaming over Guitar Hero. Dick butchered “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” his fingers slipping on the plastic guitar while Sean flailed in an exaggerated air-guitar solo, nearly toppling into the bar.
Logan stayed on the fringes, the whiskey glass emptying faster than he bothered to track. Then John Enbom stumbled forward, brandishing a pre-release Wii, his words slurring as he bragged, “My dad’s tight with Satoru Iwata - Nintendo’s CEO. Hooked us up months before the November drop.” He waved the chunky controller like a prize. “Check this shit – the Just Dance prototype.”
The room erupted, hoots and cheers bouncing off the walls. Shelly and Gia launched into a drunken dance-off, flailing to a glitchy, pounding beat, their movements sloppy and uncoordinated. Madison cackled, filming it all on her flip cam, the tiny screen glowing as she zoomed in.
Logan’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk, but the noise didn’t touch him - not really. Veronica’s face kept flickering behind his eyes - stitched and bruised, pale under the hospital lights - and no amount of whiskey could blur it out. He drained the glass anyway, the burn sharp but fleeting, and set it down hard on the bar, the clink lost in the chaos.
Dick, more than three beers deep and buzzing with reckless energy, snatched his surfboard from the corner - why the hell it was even there, Logan didn’t bother to question - and propped it against the bar with a wobbly flourish.
“Bet you fifty I can nose-ride this bitch right here,” he bellowed, clambering onto it like a drunken king. His arms flailed, windmilling for balance, a sloppy grin plastered across his face as if he thought he looked legendary. The board tipped, inevitable and graceless, and he crashed into the couch with a thud, knocking over Luke’s tequila shot in a spray of amber. The room exploded with hoots and curses, a chaotic chorus. “Worth it!” Dick yelled, sprawled out and cackling, tangled in cushions. Logan shook his head with a flicker of amusement.
And then, because Dick was Dick, he had to push his own stupidity to new heights. “I heard if you put vodka in your eyes, it gets you drunker way faster,” he announced, words slurring but brimming with that unshakable, idiotic confidence. “Like, instant high.”
Luke snorted, wiping tequila off his shirt. “It’ll get you blind faster, dumbass.”
Dick’s grin widened, unhinged. “Only one way to know for sure.”
Logan’s eyes flicked to Cassidy’s across the room, a split-second exchange cutting through the noise. He won’t, right? Cassidy’s brows arched, a silent Oh, he will. Logan exhaled hard through his nose. Jesus Christ.
Before anyone could intervene, Dick grabbed a shot glass, tilted his head back, and poured the vodka straight into his right eye. For one fleeting, surreal moment, nothing happened - then, “FUCK!” he roared, jerking back like he’d been zapped, hands slamming over his face. He stumbled, legs buckling, and hit the floor hard, writhing like a fish yanked from the tide. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, IT BURNS, HOLY SHIT—” His voice cracked into a howl, pure, unfiltered agony.
The room lost it. Luke doubled over, wheezing so hard he could barely breathe, while Sean slow-clapped, grinning like he’d witnessed a tragic masterpiece. Madison’s shriek pierced the chaos, sharp and dramatic.
“God, Dick, why did I ever date such a loser?”
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache blooming. How the hell am I friends with this idiot?
“Dude, are you crying?” Sean choked out, still laughing.
“MY EYE IS DYING,” Dick bellowed, rolling onto his side, one hand clawing at his face. “FUCK YOU, SEAN.”
“Call 9-1-1,” Logan deadpanned, voice dry as dust. “Tell them we’ve got a terminal case of dumbassery.”
Luke tossed Dick a beer instead, shrugging lazily. “Drink through the pain, man.” Dick groaned, snatched it, and cracked it open with a shaky thumb, chugging through a blurry, bloodshot eye, still sprawled on the floor.
A petite blonde edged through the mess and it took him a second to place her as Cindy, that freshman he’d hooked up with at Shelly’s party two years back. Now a junior, she wore the same flirty smirk, her straight blonde hair framing a face that was cute, sure, but plain - nothing like Veronica’s sharp, striking edges. Logan’s gut twisted at the comparison, a sudden, sour pang.
He’d always seen Veronica that way - beautiful, fierce, even when he’d lashed out after Lilly’s death, blaming her for things she couldn’t control. Had he punished her for that, out of some screwed-up guilt, picking Cindy as an easy distraction back then? The thought churned, bitter and heavy, as Cindy leaned in too close, her giggle grating over the noise.
“You’re even hotter when you’re quiet - wanna ditch this and get out of here?” Her hand grazed his arm, lingering, her eyes too bright, too eager.
“I live here,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping like venom, “so where’d we go? Into the bar for a quick fuck?” He smirked, cold and cutting, watching her flinch, her confidence cracking.
Her smile wavered, but she pressed closer, undeterred. “C’mon, Logan, we could—”
“Piss off,” he snarled, sharper than he’d intended, shoving past her with enough force that she stumbled into the pong table, beer sloshing over the rim of a cup. Her laugh rang out, shrill and forced, but it wasn’t just her - it was that night, the memory of his anger clouding everything, of letting Veronica down again. A flash of her in a white dress cut through his head - pure, fierce, angelic - and the guilt clawed deeper, a jagged ache in his chest. He grabbed the whiskey bottle from the bar, skipping the glass, and took a long pull, the burn raw and unfiltered down his throat.
The suite spun into a fever pitch. Sean puked into a potted plant, the acrid stench cutting through the beer haze. Gia tripped over the Wii cords, sprawling with a yelp, while Shelly and Madison screeched as pong beer splashed their tops, soaking through designer fabric. Dick staggered to his feet, restarting Guitar Hero and butchering every note with drunken gusto, while John bet Luke he couldn’t shotgun three Coronas in a row, slurring odds as Luke cracked the first can. Logan leaned against the window, the cool glass pressing into his shoulder, the bottle dangling from his fingers. Veronica flickered in every shadow - falling, breaking, all because of him. He tipped the whiskey back, chugging hard, the room blurring into a dull roar, Dick’s yells fading to a distant echo. He drank deeper, chasing the dark, willing it to swallow him whole.
***
Notes:
You might wonder who would be daft enough to put alcohol into their eye, and this wouldn't happen. Well, it did. A friend of mine (as a teenager) used to do this and only stopped when an optician told him he was damaging his eye and could go blind (which, duh!).
So yeah, never underestimate teenage boys.
Chapter 18: Chapter Eighteen
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Logan woke to a skull-splitting headache and found himself sprawled across the suite’s couch, one leg dangling off the edge. Sunlight stabbed through the blinds and he groaned, squinting against the glare. He glanced at his watch – it was already mid-afternoon. He hadn’t gone to sleep until the early hours of the morning. The air reeked - stale beer, smoke, something sour he didn’t want to identify - and the room looked like a bomb had hit it. Empty Corona bottles littered the floor, red cups stacked crookedly by the pong table, a puddle of Jäger glinting on the rug. Dick’s surfboard leaned up against the bar - why the hell was that even there? - and a busted lamp lay toppled by the TV, its shade crumpled like it’d lost a fight.
He shifted, wincing as his head pulsed, and a warm beer can rolled off his chest, clattering to the floor. Flickers from the night before flashed through his mind - Dick’s idiot vodka-eye stunt, the Wii dance-off, Cindy’s grating giggle - but Veronica’s face still cut through sharpest. Her obvious pain, the way she’d faded mid-sentence, the way her eyes looked before she passed out. He thought of all the questions he wanted to fire at her, but instead had to swallow down. Instead, he’d ordered food for her like it would fix everything, then left her there and ran to this shitshow. His stomach churned, not just from the whiskey.
He fumbled for another beer and cracked it open, taking a sip with a grimace. It was warm and flat, one of Luke’s leftovers. The fizz was weak but it was enough to dull the edge. He took another swig, bitter and tepid, trying to shove all the images away, but it stuck, as heavy as the suite’s wreckage.
His phone buzzed, vibrating somewhere under a cushion. He fished it out, the screen smudged and bright.
The words hit like a punch, guilt spiking hot and fast. His thumb hovered, a half-typed “Busy” fading as he deleted it - too chickenshit to send. Too hungover to drive, too wrecked to face her. She’s better off without me there. If only I hadn't asked her to work on my case, she wouldn't be in this condition.
Instead he ignored the message and tossed the phone onto the coffee table, where it skidded past a spilled ashtray, and sank back, staring at the ceiling. The surfboard loomed in his peripheral vision - Dick’s dumbass bet, maybe? He couldn’t remember, didn’t really care. For him the party had been like white noise, a blur to drown her face from his thoughts, but it hadn’t worked - she was still there, in every shadow, every quiet gap. She’d hate this - me like this, he thought, lifting the can again, sipping slow. Her voice, soft and slurred with painkillers, tangled with the memory, and he drank faster, trying to chase it away.
The suite mocked him – ping pong balls scattered, a flip cam abandoned by the Wii, Sean’s puke crusting in the potted plant. He’d let Dick turn it into a warzone, let himself sink into the bottle, and for what? To forget her wincing, to dodge the truth - I got her hurt. Another swig, the beer barely registering now, just a reflex to keep the buzz, keep the distance. Wallace’s text glowed in his head - asking for you - and he clenched his jaw, guilt and shame tangling tighter. She doesn’t need me dragging her down again – she wouldn’t be in the hospital if it wasn’t for me.
He reached for the tequila bottle on the bar - half-empty, cap missing - pouring a sloppy shot into the same glass he’d used last night, sticky with whiskey residue. The burn hit hard, raw down his throat, and he leaned against the wall, bottle dangling, the room tilting slightly. Her white dress flashed through his mind – looking like an angel, fierce and fragile, before they tore her down - and he shut his eyes, willing it gone. Staying away was better. It was safer for her. He’d prove it.
***
Logan sprawled across the suite’s couch, a half-empty bourbon bottle teetered precariously on the cushion beside him, its amber contents seeping into the fabric with a slow, steady drip. The TV droned on in the background, some mindless infomercial buzzing through the haze, its flickering light casting shadows across the cluttered room.
The air thrummed with the fresh wreckage of last night’s chaos - Dick and the boys had barrelled in once again, restless and loud, their sights set on that pre-release Wii again. It had kicked off with Cassidy hunched over the console, wires trailing like veins, while Luke and John bickered over who’d take the first crack at Wii Sports. They’d thrashed at virtual golf balls for an hour, griping about the jittery controls, until boredom won out. Then Sean had pulled out a joint and a baggie of coke he bragged was the good stuff, passing it round as Dick cackled about blindfolded beer pong, his voice bouncing off the walls. Logan had slumped there, half-conscious, clinging to the bourbon bottle as the suite filled with thick pot smoke and the sharp, frenetic shouts of those who were coked-up. The TV had sputtered into static when Sean, stumbling, yanked the power cord loose.
Now, morning - or maybe afternoon, who could tell? - slunk in, the room heavy with the stale reek of weed, sweat and booze. A crumpled dollar bill clung to the coffee table, stuck there by some unseen residue, next to an empty Patrón bottle glinting dully in the dim light. Logan’s head pounded, a relentless throb behind his eyes, his unshaved stubble prickling against his jaw. His shirt was creased and blotched with bourbon and cigarette ash, and stuck to his clammy skin. Time had slipped away, days bleeding into one another since he’d last stepped out of this festering pit.
A sharp bang snapped him upright, the bourbon bottle tipping and rolling to the floor with a muted thunk, spilling what little was left. The knock came again, louder, edged with impatience.
“Logan, open the damn door,” Keith Mars barked, his voice slicing through the fog like a blade.
Logan lurched to his feet, the room tilting beneath him, and fumbled with the lock, fingers clumsy and slow. The door groaned open, and Keith stepped inside, his boots crunching over a stray Corona can flattened on the carpet. His sharp eyes swept the scene - Wii controllers and cords tangled across the floor like tripwires, a faint smear of coke dust on the bar, Dick’s surfboard propped haphazardly against the wall. Then his gaze settled on Logan, piercing and unrelenting, taking in the dishevelled mess of him - greasy hair, shadowed eyes, the faint tremble in his hands.
“You look like hell,” Keith declared, his tone clipped. “You haven’t been at the hospital in three days. What’s going on?”
Logan swayed, catching himself against the bar, the sticky spill of bourbon cold under his palm.
“Been busy,” he mumbled, the lie slipping out, weak and slurred, barely cutting through the haze that clung to him.
Keith’s brow creased, a flicker of anger tightening his features. “Busy? She’s lying in that hospital bed, putting on a brave face through the pain. Every time that door swings open, she sits up a little, thinking it’s you - then deflates when it’s not.”
Logan dragged a hand through his greasy, matted hair, forcing a smirk despite the churn in his gut.
“What, didn’t realise I’d been hired as her personal cheerleader,” he said, his voice rough and edged with sarcasm, a flimsy shield against Keith’s words. But his chest tightened with a dull ache flaring, as her face flickered in his mind - those blue eyes, lighting up with hope, then dimming into quiet disappointment. He leaned harder against the bar, the sticky bourbon cold under his palm, trying to shrug off the weight pressing down on him and let out a sigh. “She’s better off without me there. I’m the last thing she needs right now.”
Keith folded his arms, his stare unwavering, cutting through the excuses. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not making any sense, Logan.”
Logan’s throat tightened, guilt rising like bile, sharp and bitter. “You know why,” he said, the words spilling out louder, raw and jagged. “It was my case that got her hurt. You kept Duncan away from her, fair enough, I get it, but she wouldn’t be in the hospital if I hadn’t pulled her into this mess. It was my fault, Mr. Mars.”
Keith paused, his gaze steady but thoughtful, mulling over Logan’s words as he weighed the raw confession. After a beat, his voice came, firm but measured, cutting through the haze with a calm resolve. “I don’t blame you, Logan. Veronica’s the type to throw herself in for the people she cares about - that’s who she is, and you’re one of them. I blame Thumper for what he did, and I blame myself for not being there to stop it.” He stepped closer, his eyes locking onto Logan’s, unyielding yet carrying a trace of understanding. “You’re the one that raised the alarm, got the search started for her. I wouldn’t have even known until I got back, and I’m incredibly thankful for what you did. But, Logan,” Keith continued sternly. “What I will blame you for is ditching her now, when she’s counting on you to show up. That’s your choice, but I think you’re making the wrong one because she needs you right now.”
Keith’s words landed like a sudden gust, sharp and bracing - she cares about me, and I’m hiding. Logan’s breath hitched, the truth burrowing deep. He could still feel her hand in his, the memory vivid, her fingers warm and that quiet look in her eyes when she’d told him she was glad he was there. Logan knew she’d meant it, the words carrying a rare, unguarded weight, even if she’d quickly swerved to complain about the food with a classic Veronica deflection.
That soft tone lingered now, a thread he’d tried to ignore, tugging at him. He pictured her waiting, her gaze flicking to the door, hope fading while he let her down.
“I thought you’d be happy to have me away from your daughter,” Logan said roughly.
Keith tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “If you were in my shoes - a father to a teenage daughter - would you have wanted her dating you last summer?”
Logan shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “No. Not really.”
“But like it or not,” Keith continued, his tone firm yet edged with something warmer, “my daughter cares about you. And I know you care about her. You’ve stepped up lately - more than once.” His gaze held steady, thoughtful, a faint crease of concern etching his brow. “So you’re getting a one-time pass for this mess. Shape up, son.”
He turned, his boot brushing past a crumpled plastic cup, and stepped out, the door clicking shut with a gentle finality that settled into the stillness.
The suite fell silent, save for the faint, erratic hum of the TV flickering static across the walls. Logan exhaled a shaky breath, nodding faintly to the empty room, the weight still heavy but shifting, nudging him forward.
He dug his phone out from under a couch cushion, the screen flashing a low-battery warning, and jabbed at the housekeeping line, his voice gravelly.
“Yeah, it’s Logan Echolls, Presidential suite. The place is a wreck. Can you get it sorted today? I’ll toss in five hundred extra as an apology.”
The staff at the Neptune Grand were good at taking things in their stride – even the mess caused by entitled rich boys, and they agreed instantly. He ended the call and plugged the phone into a charger tangled on the bar. The chaos of the room loomed - spilled bottles, scattered cans, a faint haze of smoke - but he turned his back on it, heading for the bathroom.
The door groaned as it swung shut, and he peeled off the ruined shirt and threw it in the trash with a dull thud. No amount of housekeeping was saving that.
He twisted the shower knob, and water roared to life, steam rising in thick curls. Stepping in, the heat hit him like a shock, prickling his skin, and he pressed a hand against the slick wall, head dipping under the stream. The scalding rush drowned out the static, Keith’s words - she needs you - blending with her voice in the hiss of the spray.
It was time to pull himself together.
***
The room smelled of remnants of lunch and faintly of the wilting daisies someone had left on the windowsill. Veronica shifted against the stiff pillows, her breath catching as a dull ache rippled through her chest. The pain came in waves, a slow build that gnawed at her broken ribs, only easing when the next dose of pain relief kicked in. Talking too much left her winded, and laughing or coughing - God forbid - was a white-hot stab she’d learned to avoid. It was past lunch now, the tray long cleared, and there was still no sign of Logan. She found herself missing his presence more than she’d expected.
She glanced at her dad, perched in the chair beside her bed, flipping through a dog-eared paperback he’d probably read twice already.
“Is Logan coming?” she asked, her voice scratchy, each word a small effort.
Keith looked up, his eyes softening. “I’m sure he’ll be here at some point, kiddo,” he said casually. His phone beeped with a message, and he set the book down, leaning forward to read it. “Leo is here, he’s hoping to take your statement. You think you’re up for it?”
She exhaled, slow and shallow, testing the ache. “Might as well get it over with,” she said, her tone flat but resolute. The sooner she ripped off this bandage, the better.
Keith gave her a small nod, squeezed her hand gently, and stepped out. A moment later, the door creaked open again, and Leo D’Amato walked in, his deputy uniform crisp but his expression hesitant. It was awkward – it always was with exes, even one like Leo, where things had stayed light and easy. Now, though, she had to spill the ugliest days of her life to him, and the air felt thick with it. Her chest tightened from the thought of having to say it all out loud for the first time. She’d barely let herself think it through before now.
“How are you doing, Veronica?” He pulled the chair closer, sitting at a careful distance.
She arched her brow, her voice dry as dust. “Oh, you know - spa day vibes. Five-star service. Highly recommend the chest tube.”
Leo responded with a wan smile. “Guess we’ll hold off on the Yelp review.” He sobered a little, leaning in. “You don’t have to do this all at once, Veronica. Just say the word.”
She nodded, staring at the IV line taped to her hand. The words felt stuck, jagged in her throat. Where did you even start with something like this?
“As you know, Thumper grabbed me outside my apartment,” she said, keeping it clipped, factual. “I didn’t see it coming, but he made it clear he’d been watching me for days after he got suspicious. I don’t think he had a specific plan, he just panicked when he heard I had the recordings, and just… reacted.”
Her voice stayed even as she walked through it - day by day, blow by blow. But her mind snagged on flashes she didn’t voice: the stale smell of the warehouse, the ropes cutting her wrists.
“He punched me here,” she said, gesturing vaguely to her shoulder, then her cheek, “and here.”
The details came out mechanical, a report she could distance herself from. Leo scribbled notes, but his jaw tightened at things she didn’t say aloud - bruises she skipped, moments too raw to touch.
Until she hit the part that stuck on the second day. “When he took me to the bathroom, he untied me. I saw it as my chance to escape, and he really didn’t like it.” Her fingers twitched against the hospital sheet, remembering the tile floor, her ragged breathing.
“That’s when I’m pretty sure he broke my ribs, then he groped me and then he… he tried to rape me,” she said. Her voice wavered, thin and unsteady, and she looked away, her good hand curling tight. The memory still burned - his sour breath, her panic spiking as she swung.
“He stopped when I broke his nose.” Leo’s eyes flickered - anger, yes, but a glint of satisfaction too, and she almost smirked despite herself.
“Thumper was deluded enough to think that Logan falsely confessing was his get-out-of-jail-free card. The worst part? He bragged that the Fitzpatricks have an inside man at the station - someone feeding them info. You might want to look into that, Leo.” He nodded in response, and she took a shallow breath, wincing when it still caught against her ribs, and pushed on. The words felt even heavier now, like she was dragging them up from somewhere deep.
“When he found out he wasn’t free and clear like he thought, he lost it. Grabbed a metal bar and just… went off. I can’t—” She stopped, swallowing hard. The crack of metal on bone echoed in her head, her vision blurring with it.
“That’s when I thought I wasn’t going to make it. Most of the damage came from that – my broken arm, probably the punctured lung and internal bleeding, the works.” She left out how she’d begged, just once. How she’d seen Lilly before blacking out. Some things didn’t need saying.
Veronica paused, her good hand brushing the cast on her left arm, trying to bring herself back to the hospital room.
“Honestly, I was surprised to wake up after that at all. Then, when I did, Liam Fitzpatrick was there.” Her voice faltered, the memory souring her throat. Her stomach twisted, a cold sweat prickling her skin as Liam’s face swam up - his fake smile, his hands too gentle.
“He acted… kind at first. Helped me clean up, gave me water. I was out of it, I didn’t get why.” She could still feel the damp cloth, his fingers brushing her arm, her confusion curdling into dread. “Then he started talking about the next day, all casual, like it was nothing. I realised he was making me ‘more palatable’ for his brothers. He was clear that he was preparing me for them. Gang rape and murder, just another Tuesday for the Fitzpatricks.” She tried to force a laugh, a weak jab at levity. It came out choked, her voice cracking, and the silence swallowed it. Her eyes stung, but she blinked hard, refusing to let it spill over. “I passed out after that,” she added, quieter, her gaze fixed on the IV again. Leo’s pen had stopped, his face pale as he absorbed details she only half-spoke.
Leo leaned forward, his voice soft. “How’d you escape?”
She straightened slightly, wincing at the pull in her chest. The question jolted her back, away from Liam’s voice looping in her head. “Someone helped me, but I’m not going on record with who. They’d be dead if it got out.” Her tone was firm, unyielding, and she met his gaze, daring him to push.
Leo frowned, clearly unhappy, but after a beat, he sighed. “Off the record, then. Tell me so I can try to protect them as much as I can.”
“I don’t want to be responsible for someone getting hurt, Leo. But Liam’s car was blown up as a distraction to get me out. I managed to pick the lock, and…” She trailed off, shrugging faintly. She thought about how her fingers kept slipping on her own blood as she tried to work the lock, the way her legs shook so hard she was terrified they’d give up on her before she got out. Leo’s notes filled in gaps she left hanging, his eyes sharp with questions he didn’t ask. Leo’s eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across his face, but he scribbled it down, nodding.
He shifted gears, leaning back. “You should’ve seen the search, Veronica. Half the town was out there – teachers, your neighbours, kids from your school, everyone. And I’m not saying I like the guy, but Logan was relentless – I don’t think he slept the whole time, and there was no doubt he would have done whatever Thumper demanded, that much was clear.”
Her chest tightened, a mix of confusion and something softer stirring. Logan’s face flashed in her mind - how he’d looked when she’d first woken, his jaw clenched but eyes soft, flooded with relief, his hand closing over hers like he thought she’d slip away if he let go. She could still feel the rough warmth of his grip, the way his thumb had brushed her knuckles, unsteady, before she’d drifted back out.
She swallowed, her throat dry as sandpaper. The idea of him out there, tearing himself apart to find her and taking the fall for Felix’s murder, tugged at something raw, something she didn’t want to name.
“Yeah, well,” she muttered, aiming for flippant but failing, “that’s Logan.” The words crumbled, too thin to mask the ache pulsing under her ribs, sharper than the bruises.
Leo’s gaze lingered, like he caught the shift in her tone. “His charges are dropped, by the way - officially. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Relief flooded her, sharp and sudden, loosening the knot in her chest. She exhaled, shaky, her shoulders easing for the first time in what felt like days.
“That’s… good,” she managed, the word clipped but wobbling at the edge. She swallowed hard, forcing her face still, but her fingers curled tighter into the sheet, betraying the emotion she couldn’t quite bury.
The effort of talking was grinding her down - her voice scratched like gravel, each breath spiking pain through her ribs. How long had they been at this? Her mind snagged back on Liam again—his fake smile, his voice so calm as he’d prepped her for his brothers. What would have happened if Molly hadn’t helped her? A shiver ran through her, cold and involuntary, and she clenched her jaw to stop it. Not now. Leo noticed, his brow creasing as he snapped his notepad shut.
“I’ll come back if I’ve got more questions. Thumper’s locked up - we’ve got him solid, and I’ll do everything to make sure he stays there for life. Liam’s still out there, but we’ll get him. I promise.”
Her stomach lurched at Liam’s name, a sick twist that made her breath catch. Thumper’s gone, at least. She pictured him in a cell, his fists useless now, and it steadied her enough to nod faintly. “Make sure you do,” she said, her voice quiet but edged with steel, though her eyes drifted to the window, hazy and unfocused.
Leo stood, offering a small smile that felt more like a promise than pity. “Rest up, Veronica. You did enough today.” He paused at the door, glancing back like he wanted to add something, then left without another word. The click of the door echoed in the quiet, leaving her with the steady beep of the monitor. Enough? A bitter huff escaped her, too weak to call a laugh. Spilling half her soul to an ex in a hospital bed didn’t feel like enough. Her head sank into the pillow feeling suddenly too heavy. Images flashed through her mind of Thumper’s metal bar, Liam’s hands as she tried to push them away.
The door swung open again, cutting through her thoughts. Ellie bustled in, a syringe ready. “Time for your next dose, hon,” she said, brisk but warm, like she’d patched up too many broken people to flinch. “You’ve talked yourself out. Rest now.”
Veronica’s lips twitched, a faint smirk flickering through the fog. “You’re not the boss of me,” she mumbled, but it lacked bite, her voice slurring at the edges. Ellie’s no-fuss care was a lifeline, pulling her back from the spiral of Liam’s face and Logan’s silence. The pain relief hit her vein, cool and spreading, dulling the fire in her ribs and softening the sharp edges of her fear. She melted into the pillows, the room smudging into a haze. Logan’s hand, warm in hers. Thumper caged. Liam free. The thoughts looped, fraying as they went, as exhaustion dragged her under, the hospital fading to black.
***
The morning sun slipped through the hospital blinds, painting thin stripes of light across Veronica’s bed, but the glow felt hollow, offering no real comfort. It was a new day, yet the second day of Logan’s absence pressed down on her, thick and stifling, like a storm cloud she couldn’t shake. She hadn’t heard a word from him since his last visit, and the quiet gnawed at her. It wasn’t like he owed her an update - but Wallace had mentioned how he’d barely left her side while she was in the ICU, slipping away only to crash for a few hours. So why the sudden vanishing act? Two days without a text, a call, or even a quick drop-in felt off, like a chord struck wrong.
She’d prodded Wallace and her dad for answers, but their evasive shrugs and mumbled “he’s probably fine” replies only fuelled the unease coiling in her chest. Were they hiding something? Or worse - what if Logan was caught up in some mess, and no one bothered to check? The questions churned, sharp and restless, tightening the knot of worry she couldn’t unravel.
Her body wasn’t helping matters. The pain today was brutal. A deep, relentless ache that clawed at her chest, tugging her stitches with every shallow breath. Her side throbbed if she dared to shift even slightly, a constant reminder of the damage to her ribs and liver. She couldn’t sit up without wincing, couldn’t lie back without feeling like her body was betraying her.
Even eating was a lost cause. She’d gotten an earful from the doctor for sneaking bites of the Chinese food Logan had smuggled in - salty, greasy bliss that felt like a rebellion against the sterile hospital walls. Now, they insisted on a bland, liver-friendly diet: oatmeal, broth, nothing with actual flavour. Not that she cared to eat anyway; the morphine dulled her hunger but left her queasy, the world tilting just enough to keep her on edge. Her patience frayed with every twinge, every sour wave of nausea, and she found herself snapping at the air, her temper a raw, jagged thing she couldn’t rein in.
“Tough one, huh?” Ellie’s voice broke through the fog, steady and a little too chipper as she flipped through Veronica’s latest results. “But your lung’s holding up, and this morning’s X-ray says we can finally pull that chest tube.”
Veronica managed a grunt, her mood too sour for anything resembling enthusiasm. Ellie didn’t seem fazed - she just moved with ease, her braid swinging slightly as she prepped the site. The cold sting of antiseptic hit first, followed by the quick, sharp jab of the anaesthetic needle. Veronica hissed, more from annoyance than the pinch itself, her eyes narrowing at the ceiling.
“Just clamping the tube now,” Ellie said, her tone calm and matter-of-fact, like she was walking Veronica through a recipe instead of a medical procedure. She peeled away the old dressing, her fingers steady, then paused. “Okay, deep breath in and hold it for me.”
Veronica complied, her chest tightening as she sucked in air. Then came the pull - a strange, hollow tug as Ellie slid the tube free, like a thread being yanked from deep inside her. It wasn’t agony, just unsettling, over in a heartbeat but leaving a faint, ghostly ache behind. Ellie pressed a fresh dressing down, securing it with tape, then layered a waterproof cover on top, her movements quick but careful.
“There we go,” she said, her voice softening just a fraction, a hint of warmth breaking through her professionalism. “Now that’s out, how about a shower? I swear, clean hair can make even the worst day feel a little less awful.”
The suggestion caught Veronica off guard, piercing the haze of pain and suspicion. A shower. It was such a small thing, mundane even, but it felt like a blessing. She’d been denied a shower for too long, her chest tube and fresh surgical wounds keeping her tethered to the bed, but now, with those barriers gone, the prospect felt like a small, hard-won triumph.
Her hair was a greasy, tangled wreck, her skin tacky with sweat and the faint chemical tang of hospital antiseptics. The thought of hot water cascading over her, stripping away the grime and the weight of the last few days, sparked a flicker of longing she hadn’t expected. It wouldn’t fix the ache in her chest or the nagging worry about Logan, but it was a piece of normalcy she could hold onto, a chance to feel less like a broken thing tethered to a bed.
She glanced at Ellie, searching her face for a moment - those crinkled eyes, that steady patience - and felt a grudging gratitude stir. “Yeah,” she rasped, her voice rough from disuse, “that’d be… nice.”
Ellie’s smile widened, a quiet victory in the sterile room. “I’ll grab some towels and set it up. You’ve earned a break.” She rolled a shower chair across the room, its wheels squeaking faintly against the lino floor. She paused to adjust Veronica’s IV, her fingers deft. “I’ve just given you an extra dose of pain relief,” she said, her voice steady and calm. “And I’ll support you as you move over.”
Veronica braced herself, drawing a shallow breath before easing her legs over the edge of the bed. The motion ignited a fierce, burning pain in her side, sharp and relentless, radiating from her ribs to her liver. It seared through her despite the morphine flooding her veins, a reminder of how fragile she still was. She clenched her jaw, swallowing a groan as the drug dulled the edges but left the core of the agony untouched.
Ellie slid an arm around her, her presence solid and reassuring. The transfer to the chair was a shaky affair - Veronica’s legs wobbled beneath her, unsteady and weak, like they’d forgotten how to bear her weight. Every shift pulled at her stitches, sending jolts of pain through her torso. She gripped Ellie’s arm, her knuckles whitening, until she finally sank into the seat, breathless and trembling.
With efficiency, Ellie hooked the IV to the pole on the chair and wheeled Veronica into the bathroom. The harsh fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting her reflection into sharp relief. As Ellie untied the hospital gown and let it slip to the floor, Veronica caught sight of herself in the mirror and froze.
The woman staring back was a stranger. A jagged incision sliced from just below her ribcage down towards her navel, veering slightly to the right. The skin around it was raw and puckered, held together by a grim row of staples that looked more industrial than medical. Bruises sprawled across her torso - ugly purples bleeding into sickly yellows, a brutal map of the violence she’d endured. Tubes jutted from her body: an IV in her arm, a catheter tucked out of sight but ever-present. Each mark, each intrusion, screamed her vulnerability.
Her throat tightened, a knot of emotion choking her breath. Twice in mere months, her body had been reshaped by the hands of others - one act unintentional, one deliberate, but both a violation, a theft of the self she’d known. The scar, angry and red, seemed to taunt her - a permanent brand etched into her flesh.
Tears spilled over, hot and sudden, tracing paths down her cheeks. She felt branded, as if her skin would forever bear the scar of one man’s actions.
Ellie’s voice cut through the silence, gentle but firm. “It’s from your liver laceration and the internal bleeding,” she said, her tone soothing. “The staples will come out in a few days, and the scar will fade over time, I promise. It’s tough to see it the first time.”
Veronica nodded mutely, the words sinking in but doing little to shift the weight of the mirror’s truth. Ellie guided the shower spray with care, the warm water cascading over her skin, washing away the crusted blood and the yellow stain of Betadine that lingered around the scar. She worked shampoo through Veronica’s hair, her fingers untangling the matted strands, offering a quiet space for Veronica to process the storm of emotions churning within.
The water soothed her, a fleeting balm against the ache in her muscles and the deeper hurt in her chest. It rinsed away the physical traces of her ordeal, leaving her feeling marginally lighter. Ellie shut off the spray and wrapped her in soft towels, drying her hair with tender strokes.
Veronica’s eyes closed to a sudden but sharp longing for her own mom. She pictured Lianne as she used to be - before the drinking, before the lies. The mom who would scoop her up after a fall, clean her scraped knees with gentle hands and whisper that everything would be okay. The mom who knew the exact right words to say to make her feel safe.
But that version of Lianne had faded long ago, replaced by someone distant and unreliable.
Now, in the hospital bathroom, with pain throbbing through her body and fear gnawing in her mind, Veronica ached for that comfort, for the simple reassurance that only a mother could give. No matter how futile it was, she couldn’t help but wish it was Lianne drying her hair for her, helping her take her first shower – instead of a nurse.
Where was her mother now? Had she seen the news, the endless coverage of the kidnapping? Did she even know? Or – worse - did she know, and simply not care?
“You’ll feel more like yourself in your own clothes,” Ellie said, breaking through her thoughts as she retrieved a soft T-shirt and cotton trousers Keith had brought from home. She helped Veronica back to bed, the familiar fabric settling against her skin like a thin but precious comfort.
Exhaustion crashed over her, heavy and unyielding. She hadn’t realised how much a simple shower could demand, how it could drain every last scrap of strength from her battered body. Her eyelids fluttered, and she sank into the pillows, the pain retreating to a dull, persistent throb.
“The first shower is always tiring,” Ellie said, fluffing the pillows around her. “Try to get some sleep.”
Veronica mumbled a faint thanks, her voice barely audible, and let sleep pull her under.
When she stirred awake, the room glowed with the soft amber of afternoon light filtering through the blinds. She blinked, her vision sharpening, and a weak smile tugged at her lips as she saw Mac perched in the chair beside her bed.
“Hey, you,” Veronica rasped, her voice rough and gravelly from disuse.
Mac returned a small smile, her eyes lighting with relief. “You look way better than the last time I saw you.”
“Big improvement over drooling on myself,” Veronica quipped.
Mac laughed, a light, welcome sound that cut through the room’s lingering heaviness. “Yeah, you’ve graduated to full sentences. That’s a win.”
Veronica shifted slightly, a wince flashing across her face as her side twinged. “So, what’s the latest? Any news on… anything?”
Mac sat perched on the edge of a stiff vinyl chair beside the bed, her fingers restless as they toyed with the buttons on her jacket. Her usual spark was dimmed, her blue eyes shadowed with something heavy. She hesitated, her lips parting then closing again.
“Okay, what’s up?” Veronica pressed.
“It’s nothing,” Mac mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “You don’t need—”
“Mac,” Veronica interrupted, gentle yet unyielding. “Talk.”
Mac exhaled, a shaky breath that seemed to carry the weight of whatever she’d been holding back. “When we were searching for you, I spent a lot of time with Cassidy. You know, since we’ve been dating, he’s always been weird about his laptop - super protective - but I’m the same with mine, so I never thought much of it.” She paused, glancing at Veronica, who gave a small nod to keep going. “One of the search days got hectic, everyone was frantic, and while he was in the bathroom, I grabbed his laptop. I figured he wouldn’t care, given the circumstances. That’s when I found… recordings.”
Veronica’s stomach gave a faint lurch, a ghost of old panic stirring. “Oh god, not more tapes,” she said, half-joking, though her voice trembled at the edges. “The last ones nearly got me killed.”
Mac didn’t smile. Her face was ashen, her words dropping like stones into still water. “There were three voices on the recording - Cassidy and two others. One I recognised right away: Captain Crunk from Ahoy, Mateys.”
Veronica’s brow creased, the name landing blankly. “Captain who?”
“It’s a pirate radio show,” Mac clarified, her voice picking up speed as the dam broke. “Captain Crunk and Imitation Crab - they trash-talk kids at school. They’re really funny if you’re into that. But the third voice - I didn’t know it. They were pushing Cassidy to come clean about Woody Goodman. Said he’d… messed with them when they were kids. Called him a pervert. They mentioned the Sharks, and I looked it up later - it was the Little League team Woody coached.”
Veronica’s jaw slackened, shock rippling through her like a cold current. Woody Goodman - the mayor, the pillar of Neptune’s polished façade - tainted by something this ugly? It snapped into focus with a clarity that made her head spin.
Mac’s voice tightened, her hands clenching in her lap. “Cassidy was arguing against them spilling it. Then I found another file - he’d edited his own voice out, scrubbed it clean like he was hiding something.” Her eyes widened, fear flickering in them. “I did some research and I figured out Captain Crunk is Marcos Oliveres - one of the kids from the bus crash.”
The room seemed to tilt. Veronica’s mind raced, connecting dots she hadn’t even known were there. Cassidy had been on that bus, trailing it in the limo with Dick, and Woody Goodman had pulled his own daughter from the bus before it left. A bomb had silenced those kids - Marcos included - and now this tape screamed a potential motive, and Woody had a lot to hide, but it sounded like Cassidy did too. Her pulse thudded in her ears, adrenaline cutting through the fog of painkillers.
“Does he know you heard it?” she asked, her voice sharp despite the ache in her chest.
“No,” Mac said quickly, shaking her head. “I copied it to my phone and acted normal. He’s sweet, Veronica - I mean, he’s Cassidy. I don’t think he’d… but I don’t know anymore.”
Veronica nodded, her mind already three steps ahead. “Tell my dad everything. Give him the tape. He’ll figure it out.”
Mac swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. “Okay.”
“And be careful,” Veronica added, her tone softening but urgent. “Promise me you’ll steer clear of Beaver until Dad clears him.”
“I will,” Mac whispered, her voice fragile. She hesitated, her gaze lingering on Veronica’s battered face. “You okay?”
Veronica summoned a grin, brittle but defiant. “Peachy. Just dying for some sesame chicken.”
Mac could respond with: “Peachy? Veronica, you’re laid up in a hospital bed craving sesame chicken, this town’s turning into a Dateline special, and I’m wondering if my boyfriend’s the shady guy they zoom in on during the reenactment.”
“Well, that makes you the scrappy sidekick who cracks the case,” Veronica replied with a sympathetic smile.
“You know that goes against our business model. I’m gadgets – you’re the detective.” Mac managed a wry smile in response before she slipped out, her footsteps fading down the hall. Veronica sank back into the pillows, her body protesting the movement with a dull throb. The silence crept back in, thicker now, tangled with the mess of thoughts spinning in her head. Logan’s absence still gnawed at her, a quiet hurt that wouldn’t let go.
Woody Goodman had hurt children in the worst way imaginable. Murder wasn’t much of a leap to hide a secret like that.
And Cassidy – the soft-spoken younger Casablancas brother - could he really be hiding something this dark? The questions stacked up like bricks, pressing down on her.
She turned her head toward the window, watching the sun sink lower, staining the sky with hues of violet and ash. The hospital’s hum buzzed faintly in the background, a steady reminder that life marched on, even when hers felt frozen in this bed. Logan’s face flickered in her mind—his lopsided grin, the warmth in his eyes - and the ache sharpened. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come?
The door creaked, and her breath caught, hope flaring for a split second - until a nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand, offering her a smile in greeting. Veronica let the air out slowly, the brief spark fading.
***
The afternoon light had dwindled to a muted, ashen glow, seeping through the hospital room’s narrow window. The frenetic hum of morning rounds had long since dissipated, leaving behind a stillness that pressed against the walls, broken only by the faint, rhythmic beep of a monitor somewhere down the hall. Veronica sat propped against her pillows, her eyes flicking to the door with every muted shuffle of footsteps beyond it. Each sound tugged at her - a fragile thread of hope that it might be Logan, only to be disappointed each time.
Her dad had stopped by earlier, his familiar frame filling the doorway as he delivered the latest piece of the puzzle she couldn’t stop turning over in her mind. He’d spent the night hunched over Mac’s recordings, the two of them working through the tangled threads of static and voices until they’d struck gold: the third voice belonged to Peter Ferrer. The name had hit Veronica like a blow. Another victim of the bus crash. That ill-fated trip to Shark Field, headed by Woody Goodman, had carried three of his victims, and two were killed on the return. The coincidence gnawed at her, too precise, too deliberate to dismiss.
Keith’s jaw had tightened as he’d recounted it, his detective instincts firing on all cylinders as he dug deeper, chasing the leads with that unshakable resolve she’d always leaned on. While she trusted him to get to the bottom of it, the questions churned relentlessly in her head, a storm she couldn’t quiet, as it had since the moment the bus went over the cliff.
The door swung open and her gaze snapped up, her chest tightening with a flicker of anticipation, but once again it wasn’t him. An older woman stepped inside, her presence soft yet steady, like a warm current cutting through the room’s antiseptic chill. Her brown hair was swept into a simple bun, strands of silver glinting faintly at her temples, and her eyes - deep, warm brown - held a familiarity that tugged at Veronica’s memory. She carried herself with a quiet grace, her steps measured, her smile small but genuine.
“Hi, Veronica,” the woman said, her voice a low, soothing cadence, like the rustle of leaves in a late summer breeze. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I’m Claudia Ruiz, one of the trauma psychologists here.”
Veronica’s brow creased, her mind sifting through names and faces until it clicked. “Are you related to Carmen?”
Claudia’s smile deepened, etching faint laughter lines around her eyes. “She’s my daughter,” she confirmed, nodding. “But anything we talk about stays between us - confidential. If you’d rather see someone else, that’s perfectly fine.” She was Carmen’s mirror image, softened by time, those same warm eyes now framed by a face that had weathered more years.
She settled into the chair beside the bed, her movements deliberate, unhurried, as if she understood the fragility of the moment. “I’m here to talk about what you’ve been through,” she began, her tone gentle but firm across the gulf of Veronica’s guarded silence. “I’d like to meet with you a few times before you’re discharged. The doctors are patching up your body, but we need to tend to the rest of you too - the parts that don’t show on an X-ray.” Her gaze held Veronica’s, kind yet unflinching, cutting through the armour she’d spent years perfecting. “I understand you were kidnapped from your home. And I know this isn’t your first time in a hospital bed this year. There was another incident, wasn’t there? With your boyfriend?”
“Ex-boyfriend,” Veronica corrected, the word slicing through the air too fast, too sharp. “Duncan. He has epilepsy—it wasn’t his fault.” The defence tumbled out, automatic, a well-worn shield she hadn’t realised she still carried. She frowned, a flicker of unease rippling through her. Why did she still protect him, polishing his image even now?
Claudia nodded, unfazed, her calm like a steady hand on Veronica’s fraying nerves. “There’s also something else we need to discuss,” she said, her voice softening further, cushioning the blow she was about to deliver. “Your test results came back. This might be hard to hear, but you tested positive for chlamydia.”
The words landed like a punch, knocking the air from Veronica’s lungs. She flinched, her hands curling into the thin hospital blanket. “What?”
Claudia’s expression didn’t waver, her warmth a quiet anchor. “You reported an attempted rape,” she said gently. “If there’s more you haven’t shared - something too difficult to put into words - we can work through it together.”
“No,” Veronica said, shaking her head, her voice firm but trembling at the edges. “Thumper didn’t - I wasn’t raped by him.” Her mind raced, clawing through the fog of memory. She’d blacked out, yes, her body battered and screaming when she’d come to, but the pain had been distinct - bruises, cuts, nothing more invasive. She’d have known, wouldn’t she? “He didn’t,” she repeated, a mantra to steady herself, to push back the creeping doubt.
But if not Thumper, then who? Her thoughts snagged on Duncan, and her stomach twisted, a sickening lurch of betrayal. He’d sworn it had only been Meg - but he’d lied about her pregnancy, about how deeply she’d mattered. What else had he hidden? The possibility clawed at her, raw and nauseating, a wound she hadn’t seen coming.
Claudia leaned in slightly, her presence a soft tether in the spiralling chaos of Veronica’s mind. “I’d like to schedule some sessions with you,” she said. “It’s not just about what happened - it’s about making sure you have the support you need to move forward, a safe place to unpack it all, piece by piece.”
Veronica swallowed hard, her throat dry, her instincts warring within her. Dodge, deflect, retreat - it was her playbook, her survival. But Claudia’s steady gaze, her unshakable calm, held something Veronica couldn’t quite sidestep. Something safe. “I don’t know,” she murmured, the words barely audible, a crack in her defences.
“I won’t push you,” Claudia said, her voice a balm against the jagged edges of Veronica’s hesitation. “But I’d like you to consider it.”
There was a quality to her - not just professional poise, but a quiet, almost motherly kindness that seeped into the room, wrapping around Veronica like a blanket she hadn’t known she needed. For the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself feel the exhaustion - the bone-deep weariness that had settled into her marrow, the weight of every fight, every loss, every unanswered question pressing down until she could hardly breathe.
“…Okay,” she whispered, the word slipping out before she could snatch it back. “I’ll talk to you.”
Claudia’s smile bloomed, a flicker of warmth that lit the dimness of the room. “Good,” she said simply. “I’ll arrange it.”
***
Notes:
Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment, reaction or thought. Honestly, it means the world and makes the whole process worth it. I'd love to hear your thoughts especially as we creep towards the end!
Chapter 19: Chapter Nineteen
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The hospital corridor stretched out like a gauntlet, its sterile white walls closing in as Logan gripped the gift bag tighter. The handles bit into his palm, a sharp reminder of the world beyond this antiseptic limbo. He’d sobered up – finally - scrubbed away the grime of the past couple of days with a hot shower and a razor. His reflection in the hotel mirror had looked almost human again, but it couldn’t erase the hollow ache in his chest. Three days. Three days since he’d last seen her, drowning instead in a bottle and his own regrets. But he couldn’t stay away any longer. She deserved better than his absence.
He’d stopped on the way, picking up anything he thought might keep her occupied - some cards, a couple of paperback novels, a handheld puzzle game. Small tokens to fill the void of the hospital’s monotony, to maybe coax a smile from her. His steps slowed as he neared her room, heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted out. What if she asked too much? What if she saw right through him?
He took a steadying breath and pushed the door open.
The room was awash in the pale glow of afternoon light slipping through the blinds, softening the harsh edges of the clinical space. Veronica sat propped up against a stack of pillows, her head turned toward the window. She looked different - fully awake now, her eyes sharper than they’d been before, and it warmed him to see her in something other than a lifeless hospital gown. The bruises on her face and arms had begun to soften, their angry purples and blues beginning to give way to yellowing edges. The jagged cut on her forehead that was stitched neatly but still raw, caught the light, the dark threads stark against her pale skin.
Then she turned, saw him, and her face lit up. “Logan,” she said, her voice raspy but warm, a smile tugging at her lips. Relief flooded him, tangled with a sharp twist of guilt that stole his breath. He’d braced for anger - hell, he’d earned it - but her warmth caught him off guard, leaving him a little unsteady.
“Hey,” he managed, forcing a grin as he crossed the room. He set the gift bag on the bedside table, the paper crinkling too loudly in the quiet. “Thought you might be climbing the walls by now.”
Her eyes flicked to the bag, curiosity sparking. “You brought me presents?”
“Yeah, just some things to keep you busy.” He pulled out the haul and laid them out like an offering. “Not exactly high-stakes entertainment, but better than counting ceiling tiles.”
She reached for the cards, her fingers brushing his, and that small touch sent a jolt through him. “Thanks,” she said softly. “I was starting to think you’d ditched me for good.” Her tone was light, teasing, but it sliced right through him. He swallowed hard, throat tight. “Where’ve you been, anyway?” she asked, her gaze steady, searching.
He hesitated, the lie already bitter on his tongue. “I was sick,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Didn’t want to risk passing it on to you. You’ve got enough going on.”
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, that razor-sharp mind of hers clicking into gear. She didn’t buy it - he could see it in the way her lips pressed together, the slight tilt of her head. Veronica didn’t miss much. But she didn’t push, didn’t call him out. Not yet. Instead, she nodded, letting it slide. “Well, I’m glad you’re back.”
The guilt increased - she shouldn’t have to settle for his half-truths. He sank into the chair beside her bed, his eyes tracing the lines of her face - the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her hair spilled across the pillow. “I thought about you every second I was away,” he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should’ve been.”
She reached out, her hand closing over his with a gentle squeeze. Her skin pulsed with life, settling him. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft. “You’re here now.”
But it wasn’t okay. He’d let her down, abandoned her when she needed him most, and that failure gnawed at him. He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with hers, holding on like she might slip away. “How are you doing?” he asked, needing the truth. “Really?”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Better, I guess. They confirmed the infection’s finally gone, so no more IV antibiotics. That’s a win. But they’re talking about switching me from IV pain meds to oral ones soon.” Her brow furrowed, a flicker of worry crossing her face. “I’m not sure how that’s gonna go. Moving’s still rough - my ribs and my liver aren’t exactly team players right now. The IV stuff keeps the pain mostly under control, but it makes me so woozy I can barely think straight sometimes.”
He nodded, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a slow, soothing rhythm. “You’ll figure it out,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “You always do. And if the pills don’t cut it, I’ll smuggle you something stronger. Maybe bribe a nurse.”
She snorted, a hint of her old spark flaring. “Yeah, because you’re so subtle. They’d catch you before you made it past the front desk.”
“Worth a shot,” he said, grinning. “You know I’d just charm them into letting me by.”
Her laugh was soft, a little strained, but it warmed the room. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less from Logan Echolls.”
He squeezed her hand, reluctant to let go. “So, what else? Catch me up. Any exciting hospital gossip? Orderlies sneaking off for secret trysts?”
She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed. “Not much to report. They keep trying to feed me Jell-O, and I keep refusing. It’s a standoff.”
“Smart move. That stuff’s suspect.” He glanced at the cards on the table, seizing the chance to shift gears. “How about a game? I could use the distraction too. Anything but poker, though - I’m pretty sure you’d bankrupt me.”
Her grin widened, and for a second, they were back to last year. “Afraid I’ll clean you out again?” she teased.
“Of course, but at least this time, Sean’s not here to swipe the winnings – or Weevil to take your finest hospital Jell-O in revenge,” Logan joked. “I guess I’m dealing,” he added, flashing a grin as he reached for the deck. He shuffled with a flourish and then slid her cards across the table. His eyes stayed on her as she scooped them up with her good hand, a faint wince flickering across her face with the effort. It tore at him to see her hurting, but she brushed off his unspoken worry with a stubborn shake of her head. Carefully, she adjusted her cast-bound arm, positioning it just right to let her fingers work the cards.
They played a few rounds, the game light and straightforward. She called for threes, he demanded sevens, and they traded barbs about his rotten luck. “You’re cheating,” he accused, narrowing his eyes as she swiped another pair with a flick of her wrist.
“Skill, Logan. It’s called skill,” she fired back, a smirk dancing on her lips.
“Sure it is.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, as she clinched the win - because of course she did. For a fleeting moment, the hospital room felt less like a cage and more like a sanctuary, a bubble where the world’s chaos couldn’t touch them.
As the game wound down, Logan’s gaze drifted to the window, the sky outside deepening into twilight.
“Is your dad swinging by?” he asked, glancing back at her.
Veronica shifted against the stiff pillow, voice tinged with a sigh. “He wants to, but he’s drowning in cases. I feel bad when he stays here overnight - the cot wrecks his back. I think he’s scared to leave me alone though.”
“You know,” Logan replied softly, “I could stick around for a while. Keep you company. Maybe even sneak in some more food if you’re up for it.”
Veronica’s eyes lit up, a flicker of mischief dancing in them. “You’d risk the wrath of the nurses for me?”
“Always,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes serious. “But only if you promise not to rat me out.”
She held up her little finger, a playful grin tugging at her lips. “Pinkie swear.” He hooked his finger with hers, a silent promise that he wouldn’t leave her side again. Not if he could help it.
As the evening wore on, they talked about everything and nothing - movies they’d seen, books they’d read, the latest gossip from school Dick had told him. It was easy, comfortable, a balm for the jagged edges of his guilt.
When Veronica’s phone buzzed with Keith’s call, Logan slipped out, giving her space. He leaned against the hallway wall, nursing a vending machine coffee that tasted like burnt regret, and ordered lasagna from Mama Leone’s. The lights buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows as he waited, lost in thought.
Back in the hospital room, he found Veronica staring blankly at the ceiling, her phone resting like a dead weight on the crisp white sheet covering her lap. “Is he okay with the night off?” Logan asked softly, setting the lukewarm coffee cup on the plastic tray table with a quiet click.
She nodded almost imperceptibly, her voice thin and quiet. “Yeah. It’s… the first time I’ll be alone at night since…” Her words trailed off, as if she couldn’t find the right words to finish the sentence.
Logan’s chest tightened with a familiar ache of protectiveness. “I can stay. All night. As long as you need.”
Veronica hesitated, her gaze still fixed on the ceiling, then murmured without directly answering him, “I need to use the bathroom.” She pushed herself up slowly, a visible tremor running through her, wincing with each small movement. One hand clutched the cold metal of the IV pole, using it for support as she carefully pulled it along with her. Logan hovered nearby, a knot of uncertainty in his stomach – wanting desperately to help, but afraid of overstepping, of invading her fragile space. As she finally stood, her balance wavered precariously, and he instinctively lunged forward, catching her arm to steady her, his touch gentle but firm. He wordlessly guided her to the bathroom door, his concern etched on his face.
When she emerged, her face was pale, pain etched into the lines around her mouth. She sank onto the bed, her breathing shallow and uneven. Wordlessly, she shifted over, patting the mattress beside her. “Lie with me?” He took a step towards her, and then hesitated.
“Please?” she whispered, her voice raw.
Logan kicked off his shoes, the soft thud barely disturbing the quiet, and eased onto the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her any further. She curled into him almost immediately, seeking warmth and comfort, her head resting lightly on his chest, their bodies fitting together with ease, like pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t realised was incomplete until this moment. The faint, clean scent of jasmine from the hospital soap mingled with something unmistakably her own, her soft, warm fragrance. After the agonising days of fearing he’d lost her, being close enough to breathe her in again felt like a miracle.
“I feel so weak.” Her voice was so quiet and the words caught in her throat, and she remained looking away from him, her gaze fixed on some distant point as if she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes while admitting such vulnerability. “Pathetic. I’m scared to sleep alone, I can’t even walk to the bathroom without help, and just brushing my teeth hurts so much I can barely breathe.”
A surge of anger flared in him, hot and sharp, aimed squarely at Thumper – at the bastard who’d inflicted this pain, this fear. But he kept his voice steady, his tone gentle. “You were attacked, Veronica. Your control was ripped away, and you almost—” He stopped, swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat. “If you weren’t struggling, I’d be worried.”
Their eyes finally met, a fragile connection in the sterile room, and something shifted in the air between them, a silent acknowledgement of the emotions swirling around them. He wanted more than anything to bridge the gap, to reach out and touch her, to make the first move towards the intimacy he craved, but he held back, wanting to give her control, to let her set the pace.
To his profound relief, she leaned in, her lips brushing his - a tentative, feather-light touch that lingered for a few agonising seconds before the kiss deepened, a hungry, desperate claiming. He’d been wanting to do this for so long, the longing a constant ache in his chest, he could barely hold back the flood of longing, pouring everything he felt into that one kiss as her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt.
But after only a few breaths, she broke away with a quiet gasp, pressing her forehead to his. He could feel the fine tremor in her body as she tried to steady her breathing.
"I can't..." she said, frustrated, her voice barely a whisper. "I can't kiss you properly. Not yet."
Logan cupped her cheek gently, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. "Hey, it's okay. We’ve got time," he said, his voice low and sure. "You’re still healing."
Her hand fisted tighter in his shirt, and she leaned in again, catching his mouth in another soft kiss - slower this time, broken by brief, careful pauses as they both adjusted to the rhythm her lungs allowed. He matched her pace, letting her lead, his hands steady and reassuring at her waist.
He couldn’t believe that after everything - all the fear, all the uncertainty - she was here, letting him hold her, letting him kiss her again.
Eventually, they pulled apart, their breaths mingling in the quiet room, and his fingers grazed her cheek, cradling her face as he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “I’m so sorry I let you down. I couldn’t stand it – knowing you’re here because of me.”
Her brow furrowed, a crease of confusion forming between her eyebrows. “What? Logan, why would you—”
“It was my fault,” he admitted, shame burning in his throat. “You were working on my case. My freedom wasn’t worth this.”
She shook her head vehemently, her eyes filled with a fierce conviction. “No, Logan. I screwed up. I got caught near his bike.” Veronica let out a shaky sigh. “And anyway, I would’ve worked to keep you out of jail whether you asked me to or not. Please don’t blame yourself for this.”
He searched her eyes, seeing the unwavering truth reflected there, and some of the heavy weight on his chest eased, like a tight knot finally loosening.
Veronica curled into him again, her head resting on his chest, one arm draped loosely across his waist, her fingers brushing the edge of his shirt. Logan shifted carefully, moving slowly, his every instinct screaming to be gentle. He wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders, his hand settling with feather-light care against her back, careful to avoid the IV line and mindful of the bruises and surgical scars hidden beneath her shirt.
He glanced down, catching the faint crease between her brows, the slight tension in her body. "You okay?" he whispered, his voice low. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
She shook her head without hesitation. Still, Logan carefully adjusted his hold, just enough to let her know he was there, but not trapping her.
Her legs tangled with his, her knees tucked against his thighs, their bodies fitting together with an ease that felt both new and achingly familiar.
Holding her like this, Logan felt a rush of warmth, a quiet awe that she’d let him this close, had offered him this trust after everything she’d been through. Her warmth seeped into him, chasing away the chill that had settled in his bones, and for the first time in days, the relentless chaos in his mind stilled, replaced by the simple, profound reality of her presence.
She was here. Alive. Breathing softly against him.
Her hair tickled his chin, carrying the faint, sweet scent of her shampoo, and he closed his eyes, tightening his hold by the barest fraction - cradling her, as if by holding her gently enough, he could somehow protect her from every sharp edge of the world.
Her breathing slowed, growing steady and even, each exhale a soft puff against his collarbone. He could feel her drifting, her body growing heavier as sleep, finally offering a respite from the pain, pulled her under.
Logan didn’t move, didn’t dare shift, afraid the smallest motion might jolt her awake. Instead, he focused on keeping his own breathing calm and steady. He wanted her to feel safe, to know he wasn’t going anywhere – not tonight, not ever if she’d let him stay. For the first time since the day she was taken, Logan let himself truly relax, the tension in his shoulders melting away, replaced by a sense of peace.
They fell asleep wrapped in each other, her heartbeat a faint, steady echo against his chest, the harsh reality of the world outside fading to a distant, insignificant hum.
***
Logan stirred, his arm still draped around Veronica, her head tucked under his chin. His six-foot frame ached from curling into the narrow hospital bed, but he stayed still, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace they’d found. In sleep, Veronica’s face softened, the lines of pain eased, but the vivid purple bruises on her arms stood out starkly against her skin. Every time he thought he couldn’t feel any angrier with Thumper, a fresh surge burned in his chest again, and Logan wished again he could deliver a fraction of that pain back.
A soft knock broke the quiet. A young nurse peeked in, her eyebrows lifting at the sight of them tangled together. “Breakfast tray’s coming,” she said, voice hushed. “And, uh, Mr. Mars usually swings by early.”
Logan flashed a wry smile, untangling himself gently. “Noted. Any chance you’ve got a spare toothbrush?”
“I’ll bring one,” she nodded, slipping out.
He eased off the bed, moving slowly to keep from waking Veronica, and ducked into the small bathroom attached to the room. The nurse brought him a toothbrush and toothpaste, and he scrubbed away the fog of the night. When he returned, Veronica was still asleep, her breathing steady. He stepped into the hall, closing the door softly.
The hospital was stirring. Medicine carts clattered down the hall, and clusters of doctors - some barely older than him - murmured about their patients. A breakfast cart rolled by, its trays rattling with plates of bland food and lukewarm drinks.
Logan’s mind churned, replaying the night before: the way Veronica’s lips had pressed against his, tentative at first, then fierce and passionate. For a fleeting moment, kissing her had felt like the world snapping back into place.
In the cafeteria, he grabbed a coffee, a pastry and a muffin, the thought of her smile tugging at him even from a floor away.
Back in her room, Veronica was awake, scowling at a tray of hospital oatmeal.
“This tastes like sadness,” she muttered, pushing it away.
Logan smirked, setting the muffin on her tray. “Good thing I know the antidote to your kryptonite.”
She brightened with a flicker of her old fire, and she tore off a piece. “You’re gonna regret spoiling me.”
He settled into the chair beside her, his grin softening as he met her gaze. “You’re worth the trouble, Veronica. Always have been.”
Her blue eyes sparkled, a rare tender smile breaking through her usual smirk, softening the edges of their usual guarded sentimentality. They fell into easy banter, trading quips as normal, but Logan caught the strain in her expression, the way she kept shifting to try and hide her discomfort. When the doctor arrived for rounds, he stepped out, giving her privacy but lingering just outside the door.
His phone buzzed and he sighed, seeing the school’s number. As an emancipated minor, Logan had some freedom with no parent needed to sign off on his absences, but he’d missed days searching for Veronica and staying by her hospital bed. Graduation was on the line and he needed to catch up.
He answered, bracing himself. “Yeah?”
“Logan, it’s Ms. James.” The school counsellor’s voice was warm but carried that earnest edge that always made his skin itch. “How’s Veronica holding up?”
“She’s holding her own,” he said, glancing at her hospital door, his fingers tightening around the phone. “Still stubborn enough to scare the doctors.”
“I’m relieved to hear that.” Ms. James’ sincerity practically hummed through the line. “I’ve been worried about her - and you, Logan. This must be taking a toll.”
Logan shifted, uncomfortable with the concern in her tone. “Yeah, well, life’s a beach, right?” he quipped, dodging the weight of her words.
She didn’t take the bait, pressing on gently. “I wanted to touch base about school. Keith Mars told me how much you’ve been there for Veronica, and I’m so proud of you for that. I also know this year has been very tough, and I want you to know I’m here - not just as your counsellor, but as someone who believes in you. Your grades are stellar, Logan, but as you know you’ve missed a few assignments, and with graduation so close, we need to keep you on track.
He bristled slightly, the idea of being managed grating on him. “I’ve got it handled. I always do.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she said kindly. “That’s why I worked with your teachers to give you some breathing room. Your history paper and math assignments can be turned in late - Mr. Daniels says the English essay is due online by next Friday. I also set up a make-up lab with Mr. Wu for Tuesday.”
Logan raised an eyebrow, half-impressed despite himself. “What, you moonlighting as my personal assistant now? Gonna knit me a sweater next?”
Ms. James laughed, light and genuine, cutting through his deflection. “Only if you want neon pink. Look, Logan, you’ve got too much going for you to slip now. I can buy you a little time, but I need you to meet me halfway. Deal?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, glancing at Veronica’s door again. Essays and labs felt like a bad joke when she was still stuck in a hospital bed, but he knew she’d kick his ass if he tanked his future. “Fine, I’m in,” he said, sighing. “But if Wu pulls out another frog, I’m sending you the therapy bill.”
“Noted,” she said, amusement warming her voice. “Can you stop by school tomorrow to grab your assignments? It’ll help you hit the ground running. And Logan—” She paused, her tone softening. “Keep looking out for Veronica. She’s lucky to have you.”
He snorted, sidestepping the warmth. “Yeah, she’d say I’m just here for the vending machine coffee.” His voice dipped, quieter. “Thanks, Ms. James. Really.”
As he hung up, Mr. Mars approached, his face looking brighter after a night in his own bed. He’d caught the tail end of the call, his expression softening as he overheard Logan’s reluctant agreement to the plans.
“School keeping you on a short leash?” he asked, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
Logan shrugged, pocketing his phone. “Just making sure I don’t tank my diploma. Apparently, I’m too charming to flunk out.”
Keith chuckled, clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder. “You’ll graduate. You’re too smart not to.” His gaze flicked to Veronica’s door, a silent question in his eyes.
Logan nodded, answering the unspoken. “She’s holding up. Giving the nurses a run for their money.”
“Good,” Keith said, his voice thick with relief. “Thanks for being here, son. Means a lot.”
Logan’s chest seized, the word son landing like a quiet shock. Son. His own father had spit that word like a curse, when he bothered to use it at all - Aaron’s hands more likely to bruise than comfort, his attention a spotlight that burned. Keith Mars was different, always had been: the dad Logan envied, the one Veronica leaned on like bedrock. He’d spent years jealous of their bond, and once they started dating he was certain he’d never measure up in Mr. Mars’ eyes. Yet here was Keith, brushing off Logan’s lost weekend of partying, calling the school to vouch for him, and now… son. It wasn’t just a word; it was a door cracking open, and it shook him more than he’d ever admit. He ducked his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips to cover the warmth spreading under his ribs, raw and unfamiliar.
Keith tucked a manila folder under his arm, his coat rustling as he nodded toward Veronica’s room. Logan followed, pausing at the door.
“You guys want some alone time?” he asked, his voice casual but his eyes searching Veronica’s.
She shook her head, her lips quirking faintly. “Nah, misery loves company.”
Keith settled into the chair by her bed, the folder resting on his lap. “Did the doctors make their rounds yet?”
Veronica nodded, shifting against the pillows, her movements careful. “Yeah. They’re pulling all the IV meds, so I’m officially tube-free. Switching to pain pills for a few days, then to as-needed. Physical therapy starts today to build my strength back. And if my lung and liver keep cooperating, they’re talking discharge in a few days.”
Logan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a relieved grin tugging at his mouth. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.”
Keith’s face lit up, his shoulders relaxing. “Damn right it is, kiddo. You’re on the home stretch.”
They lingered on the topic, Veronica’s voice growing steadier as she talked through the logistics - therapy schedules, follow-up appointments. Keith jotted notes on a scrap of paper, ever the planner. Then he paused, his expression shifting to something more serious.
“I’ve got some news of my own. Liam Fitzpatrick was picked up by the police yesterday. They’re charging him with aiding and abetting in kidnapping and false imprisonment.”
Veronica’s gaze dropped to her hands, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. Keith pressed on, his voice careful.
“From what I hear, he also made some specific threats. They’re looking at charging him with criminal threats, too.”
The air grew heavy, and Veronica’s jaw tightened, her discomfort palpable. Logan’s stomach churned, hating how the mention of Fitzpatrick dimmed the light in her eyes. She cleared her throat, eager to pivot. “What’s in the folder, Dad?”
Keith glanced at Logan, hesitation flickering in his eyes. Veronica caught it and waved a hand. “It’s okay. You can tell him.”
He opened the folder, his voice measured. “It’s research on Woody Goodman. Mac found recordings - Beaver Casablancas and two other boys, talking about past abuse by Woody.” He looked at Logan, gauging his reaction.
Logan’s eyebrows shot up. “The mayor?” His voice dripped with disbelief, tinged with disgust.
Veronica nodded, her expression grim. “Yeah. He targeted boys on his Little League team. The recording was Beaver arguing with two others about whether to go public, but he was against it.” She paused, then added, “The two boys he was arguing with? They were killed in the bus crash.”
Logan’s jaw clenched, shock rippling through him. “Wait. Who are we pointing the finger at here - Woody or Beaver?”
Veronica shrugged, her eyes clouded with uncertainty. “Could be either. Or both.”
Logan shook his head, grimacing. “Beaver doesn’t strike me as the mastermind type. Woody, though? Guy’s already got a rap sheet of slime.”
“And he told Gia to stay off the bus,” Veronica put in.
Keith flipped through the folder. “I tracked down names from the Little League roster. Got in touch with a few, including Johnny Ludden. He confirmed the abuse.” He pulled out another sheet. “I ran a background check on Woody, too. Ten credit cards under different corporate names, a pilot’s license. Even got his medical records.”
“Anything juicy?” Veronica asked, leaning forward slightly, a spark of her curiosity breaking through.
Keith scanned the page. “Flat feet, seasonal allergies, heart arrhythmia. Oh, and treated twice for chlamydia.”
Logan snorted, unable to resist. “Mayor Goodman, brought to you by the clap. Classy.”
Veronica’s face went pale, her hands stilling on the blanket. Logan’s grin faded, concern flickering. “You okay, Veronica? Do you need a breather?”
She shook her head, but her voice was tight. “I need to talk to Duncan.”
Logan froze, a jolt of unease hitting him. It was the first time she’d mentioned him since she woke up. Keith’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Veronica, I don’t want that boy anywhere near you again.”
“I’m stuck in a hospital bed, Dad,” she countered, exasperation flaring. “He’s not going to do anything. I just need to talk to him. About the baby.”
Logan’s chest tightened, a flicker of worry curling in his gut. She wasn’t looking at him, her gaze fixed on the wall, and something in her tone felt off - like she was holding back. After everything, after her near-death experience, was she rethinking them? Was she reaching for Duncan again? He swallowed the thought, forcing his voice to stay casual. “Want me to track him down for you?” Logan’s chest tightened, a flicker of worry curling in his gut. She wasn’t looking at him, her gaze fixed on the wall, and something in her tone felt off - like she was holding back. After everything, after her near-death experience, was she rethinking them? Was she reaching for Duncan again? He swallowed the thought, forcing his voice to stay light. “Want me to track him down for you?” Her phone that had been found in the parking lot remained in her apartment, likely now with a dead battery.
Her eyes flicked to his, unreadable, before she gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Keith’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking, but he held his tongue, his silence thick with unspoken protests. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said, his tone firm yet softened by worry. He closed the folder with a crisp snap and set it on the tray table.
Veronica leaned forward slightly, eager to shift gears. “So, what’s next with Woody and Beaver?”
Keith exhaled, settling back in the chair. “I need to sit down with the Casablancas kid. Hear his side of this mess.”
“Dad,” Veronica said, her voice sharpening. “Be careful. If one of them is behind this, they’re dangerous. Like, ‘blowing up a school bus full of kids’ dangerous.”
Keith nodded, his expression grim but resolute. “I know, kiddo. I’ll watch my back.”
***
The hospital’s physical therapy room was quiet, the only sound the low, almost imperceptible hum of the ventilation system. A young male therapist, with kind eyes and a gentle manner, carefully guided Veronica onto a specialised exercise bed. He adjusted the controls, smoothly elevating the head of the bed until she was in a semi-reclined position, her back supported by the padded incline.
“Alright, Veronica,” he said, his voice calm and reassuring, the sound amplified slightly in the stillness of the room. “We’re going to take it slow today. With your broken ribs, we’ll avoid any movements that strain your torso or cause pain. I’ll show you how to do these exercises safely, focusing on controlled motions that won’t aggravate your injury.” He demonstrated a slow bicep curl with a resistance band, keeping his movements precise and limited to the arm. “We’ll start with your good arm, just gentle movements to get the muscles firing again. Then, we’ll try some seated, gentle weight-bearing exercises to build strength for walking, keeping your core relaxed to protect those ribs. Once that cast is off,” he gestured to her other arm, “we’ll start the more intensive work, rebuilding the muscle there.”
As he spoke, Veronica’s gaze drifted around the empty room. The closed door seemed more significant now, the silence amplifying the feeling of isolation. It was just her and this young man, the only two occupants in this contained space. A subtle unease began to prickle at the back of her neck, a feeling of vulnerability that settled in her chest like a cold stone.
Whether he noticed the subtle shift in her posture, the slight tightening around her eyes, or remained focused on the prescribed routine, the therapist picked up another light resistance band and held it out to her.
“Just start with some gentle curls, like this. Don’t push yourself. I’m going to be close by with another patient, but I will be back to check on you and wrap things up when the session is over.” He offered a small, encouraging smile before turning to make a note on his clipboard, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the room as he left her alone with her growing discomfort and the heavy silence.
The dull ache in her arms mirrored the unease coiling in her gut. She’d dismissed Keith’s concerns about Duncan visiting, insisting she could manage. Logan had made the call to Duncan before heading to school for his assignments, his reluctance clear in the tight set of his jaw.
The door swung open and Duncan appeared, clutching a bouquet of roses, their cheerful yellow jarring against the clinical calm of the physical therapy room.
“Veronica,” Duncan said, his face breaking into a relieved smile. “I’m so glad you asked to see me. I’ve been desperate to come by.” He set the roses on the bed beside her - bright, pretty, utterly useless. Veronica’s mind flicked to Logan: he had smuggled in her favourite snacks, games to help keep her sane and a funny swear-word colouring book he’d found to help her grip a pencil again. Trust Duncan to bring something lovely but meaningless.
She forced a thin smile, her skin prickling. Duncan’s presence set her on edge, his past violent episode lurking in her memory like a shadow. Now, standing in front of him, she realised she hadn’t missed him, hadn’t even really thought of him and being this close to him made her distinctly uncomfortable. But she had to get this over with.
"Thanks for coming," she said, her voice carefully neutral.
"How are you doing? Healing okay?" Duncan asked, dragging over a stool to sit on. His voice was gentle, but it still made her stiffen.
"I'm fine," Veronica said quickly. Too quickly. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to make the lie sound casual. "Getting there."
He hesitated, then added, "I haven't really had any updates. Logan and I... we're not exactly talking right now."
That got her attention. She frowned slightly. "Why not?"
Duncan's jaw tightened. "You wouldn't even be in the hospital if it weren't for him."
Veronica went still. She had to take a breath to stop herself from losing her temper.
"That's a little ironic, coming from you," she said, her voice quieter, sharper. "Blaming Logan for something he had no control over - after what you did."
Colour rose on Duncan's face. He looked away, fumbling for his phone like it might save him.
"I, uh... brought pictures," he said quickly, thumbing through his camera roll. "We called her Charlotte Lilly. Charlie for short." He turned the phone towards her so she could see her tiny face, pink cheeks, a wisp of blonde hair like her mother’s. “Meg wanted something classic.”
“She’s beautiful,” Veronica said, her tone warm but her mind already drifting. “How’s Meg holding up with the Mannings?”
Duncan’s smile faded. “Once Meg learned her rights, she got tougher. They’ve eased up a little, but she’s still terrified they’ll take Charlie. She’s staying with her aunt Chris, who moved to Neptune temporarily so Meg can finish high school, and so I can see my daughter. I saw Lizzie too. I grabbed those recordings you wanted; they’re on a USB stick.”
Veronica nodded. “Thanks, I’ll pass them to Cliff. He’ll handle the case from there.”
Duncan leaned closer, his voice softening. “I’m glad you asked me here, Veronica. I’ve got news.”
“Oh?” Her curiosity piqued, though wariness lingered.
“With everything that’s happened, it occurred to me that it’s unlikely you will be able to win the scholarship from my parents.”
Her stomach sank. She hadn’t really thought too much about that, having been focused on her recovery. But Lianne had drained her college fund – twice, and she had been counting on being Valedictorian.
“Right,” she said, voice tight.
“I talked to my parents,” Duncan continued. “You shouldn’t lose out over something that wasn’t your fault. After my episode you could’ve sued us, gone to the police, and you didn’t. So I convinced them to cover your college tuition. Fully.”
Veronica’s breath caught. “What? Duncan, I can’t—”
“You can,” he said firmly. “They want it kept quiet, but it’ll give you options again.”
Her throat tightened, gratitude warring with pride. “I… don’t know what to say.”
“Think it over,” he said gently. “No rush.”
She bit her lip, the weight of his offer making her next words feel heavier. “Duncan, I asked you here for a reason,” she said, steady despite the churn in her gut. “I need to ask you something… difficult. Other than Meg, have you slept with anyone else?”
Duncan froze, shock flashing across his face. “What? Why would you even ask that?”
“Please,” Veronica said, her gaze unwavering. “Just answer.”
He crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “No. Just Meg. What’s this about?”
Veronica exhaled, the truth cutting as it left her. “I tested positive for chlamydia. If I’ve only been with you—” She let the implication hang, sharp and heavy.
Duncan’s face flushed, his voice rising. “You’re accusing me of cheating?”
Veronica’s fists clenched, the thin resistance band stretched taut across her trembling wrists, biting into her skin like a physical manifestation of her restraint. “No, don’t you get it?” Her voice was tight, strained, as if forcing the words through a constricted throat. “If it wasn’t you…” She swallowed hard, the memory a jagged shard lodged in her memory. “Then someone else… at Shelly’s party… raped me. Before you—” The word caught, a bitter, venomous taste on her tongue. “Before you slept with me and left.”
He went utterly still, every muscle in his body seeming to freeze. His eyes, usually so familiar, now searched hers with a desperate intensity, a flicker of something akin to fear mixing with confusion. “Veronica,” he said, his voice low, almost a plea. “That was ages ago. Why… why drag it up now?”
A raw, visceral anger surged through her, hot and sharp, constricting the already small room to the suffocating space between their locked gazes. “Drag it up?” she repeated, her voice trembling with the force of suppressed emotion. “I’ve got a black void where that night should be, Duncan. A gaping hole in my memory, filled with… with nothing. A house full of people who hated me, and I’ll never know… what they did. It makes me sick,” she finished, her breath catching in a ragged sob.
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking visibly in his cheek. Defensiveness flared in his eyes, like a primal instinct to protect himself. “I didn’t plan it, Veronica. You know that. I’m not… I’m not the villain here.”
“I’m not saying you are,” she snapped, her voice cracking under the weight of her pain. “But if there was someone else… and from what little I pieced together later… from what others said… I could barely sit up, Duncan.” Her voice dropped to a haunted whisper.
“What… what are you saying?” he stammered, a dawning horror beginning to cloud his eyes.
“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, the carefully constructed dam of her composure finally cracking. Tears welled, hot and stinging. “That when I woke up, alone with my underwear on the floor… I felt violated. And I understand that wasn’t your intention, Duncan. I know you were out of it too. And I’m not standing here calling you a rapist. But, can’t both those things be true? Can’t I feel raped by what happened that night even if your intent wasn’t the same as… as whoever else might have been there?”
He stood abruptly, the sudden movement jarring the tense stillness. He paced a tight, agitated step, his hands raking roughly through his hair, his breathing ragged. “What do you want from me, Veronica? What am I supposed to say? I can’t… I can’t change what happened. And it’s not like Logan was a saint that night either.” His voice held a desperate edge, grasping for any way to deflect the blame.
“No, he wasn’t,” Veronica said softly, the anger momentarily receding, replaced by a weary resignation. “But he’s the only one who’s ever apologised. Who has looked me in the eye and said he would do anything to take back that night.” The contrast hung heavy in the air, a stark indictment of Duncan's lack of acknowledgement.
Duncan huffed, a short, dismissive sound, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge the uncomfortable truth. “Honestly, Veronica, I thought… I thought you asked me here because you’d… rethought the breakup. Not to… to throw this in my face, years later.”
Her jaw dropped, a harsh, disbelieving sound escaping her lips, the carefully constructed wall of her composure finally crumbling. Frustration, hot and acidic, boiled over, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. “Reconsider us?” she spat, the word laced with incredulity. “I’m with Logan, Duncan. And you tried to kill me. You think I’d just… forget that? That I’d suddenly want you back, after everything?”
His eyes flashed with a raw, wounded look, a vulnerability she hadn’t seen in years, but he didn’t back down. “I’m not that person anymore, Veronica. You know that wasn’t me. That was my condition, not me.”
She leaned back heavily against the exercise bed, the fight draining out of her, exhaustion crashing over her like a cold, relentless wave. The resistance band slipped from her numb fingers, landing limply on the floor. “Just go,” she said, her voice raw and shaky, the carefully constructed edges of her control finally fraying. “Please, just go.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened, a muscle clenching and unclenching in his cheek. A torrent of words seemed to form and die on his lips, held captive by the unyielding, weary glare in her eyes. With a sharp, jerky movement, he snatched his phone from the table, the roses left abandoned.
“Fine,” he said, his voice clipped, devoid of the earlier vulnerability. “I hope you find whatever you’re chasing.” The door swung shut behind him with a decisive thud, the sharp clank of the latch echoing in the sudden, heavy quiet of the therapy room.
Veronica sat frozen, the low hum of the room fading to a distant, almost imperceptible pulse in her ears. Her numb fingers grazed the cool, smooth edge of the table as Duncan’s parting words burrowed deep, a seed of unease taking root. His dismissal stung, but it was the colder, sharper tendril of fear that now coiled around her heart. If Duncan hadn’t given her chlamydia, then someone else had touched her that night, had violated her..
Her mind, a fractured landscape of second-hand accounts and fleeting sensations, clawed its way back to what others had told her about Shelly’s party. She could almost hear Dick’s cruel, knowing laugh echoing in the recounted chaos of the crowded room.
A fleeting image, pieced together from fragmented stories, surfaced: Beaver Casablancas, left alone with her. His face, his perpetually nervous eyes darting, his subsequent denial when she’d asked him about the night. She’d latched onto his denial then, believing his account that he’d left the room and thrown up on Carrie’s shoes.
Duncan was being a jerk, continuing to deflect and minimise his own role, but a chilling certainty settled within her: he wasn’t lying about this.
Her breath hitched in her throat, the full weight of the realisation sinking into her like a shard of ice piercing her heart. Cassidy hadn’t just been in the room and left.
He’d lied. His nervous denial now felt like a carefully constructed shield.
And if he’d lied about something as monumental, as devastating, as that – what other dark secrets could he be hiding?
Notes:
Just one more chapter to go!
Thank you again to those who have left feedback and comments on the way. Please do leave your thoughts before the final chapter - it really does make my day.
Chapter 20: Chapter Twenty
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Logan leaned against the metal railing of the hospital’s hidden garden, the faint scent of jasmine curling through the evening air. The small, enclosed space was a rare find - tucked behind the oncology wing, its ivy-draped walls and cracked stone benches softened the sterile edges of the hospital. He’d spent half the day charming the nurses to secure it, flashing his best lopsided grin until Ning, the young nurse who’d tipped him off about Keith’s suspicions, relented with a knowing smile and a key. Now, as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in streaks of coral and gold, Logan surveyed his handiwork with a flicker of pride.
The scene was meticulously planned. A high-end projector, borrowed from Dick, sat on a metal stand, its lens trained on a crisp white sheet strung between two iron posts. A plush cashmere blanket, sourced from a boutique in Neptune’s upscale district, spread across the grass, surrounded by cushions Ning had scavenged from the staff lounge. A silver bucket held warm popcorn, its buttery scent mingling with the takeout bags from Veronica’s favourite boardwalk diner - burgers and fries, still hot, their greasy warmth a comfort against the garden’s cool earth. The setup was intimate, a bubble of solace carved out for Veronica.
Logan had debated the movie choice for hours. He wanted romance, but with enough wit to lift Veronica’s spirits. Her quietness today had been palpable, her eyes drifting even as she gripped the colouring book he’d bought her, paired with vibrant pencils. He’d spent the afternoon in her hospital room, sprawled across a vinyl chair, grinding through school assignments on his laptop while she coloured in steady, deliberate strokes. The scratch of her pencils against paper had been a soft rhythm, a way to keep her company without pressing her to talk. She hadn’t mentioned Duncan’s visit, and Logan hadn’t asked. Duncan’s mood told him enough - his roommate had stormed into their suite last night, slamming his door with a force that shook the walls. No words, just the usual cold shoulder between them. Logan figured Veronica hadn’t given Duncan the reunion he’d been fishing for, and the thought eased a knot in his chest.
After hours of silence, Veronica had finally opened up and told him what had been bothering her. He was horrified to hear that yet another wound had been reopened with her recent discovery, and her fears of what that meant.
Logan knew nothing he said could fix it – but he wanted to give her one good memory. He’d settled on The Philadelphia Story for tonight. The classic felt right for the garden’s timeless quiet, its black-and-white charm a nod to his mother’s old VHS collection. Lynn had loved Cary Grant’s suave wit, Katharine Hepburn’s sharp edges, and Logan could still hear her laugh echoing from their old living room. Veronica would appreciate the banter, he thought, and maybe it’d coax a real laugh from her, one that reached her eyes.
Logan’s life was shifting, and he was leaning into it. That morning, he’d signed a lease on a sleek two-bedroom apartment in a great neighbourhood, perched high for total privacy. The place was a gem - floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Pacific’s endless churn, a wraparound balcony where waves roared softly in the distance. Its dated decor begged for a refresh, and Logan was buzzing to bring his vision to life. It was to be his first real home without Duncan’s shadow or his parents’ ghosts. He wanted a space where Veronica could relax, free from the tension of Duncan’s brooding presence. School was another win; he’d made serious headway on his assignments today, his laptop humming in Veronica’s room as he chipped away at essays and problem sets. By next week, he’d be back on track.
He adjusted the projector one last time, the sheet rippling as the opening credits flickered to life. Everything was ready. His heart gave a quick, nervous thud, not unlike the first time he’d kissed Veronica. He grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and headed toward her room, the hospital’s sterile halls a stark contrast to the garden’s warmth.
He leaned against the doorframe of Veronica’s hospital room, his heart giving a familiar tug at the sight of her. She was propped against the pillows, blonde hair tucked behind one ear, her nose buried in a dog-eared novel. Pencils and a colouring book lay scattered across the blanket, signs of a restless attempt to fill the hours after her first physical therapy session. She looked worn, her shoulders slumped, but the stubborn set of her jaw was pure Veronica. He knocked lightly, flashing a grin. “Hey, Bobcat. Ready for a surprise?”
Her head lifted, a spark of interest breaking through her guarded look. “Logan, what are you up to? Sneaking me out already?”
“I promise it’s something better than hospital food.” He wheeled a hospital wheelchair into the room, patting it with mock grandeur. “Your ride awaits.”
Veronica’s eyes narrowed, her lips twisting into a scowl. “A wheelchair? Really, Logan? I’m not helpless.”
Logan levelled his gaze with hers, his grin softening. “No one’s calling you helpless, Veronica. But you pushed hard in PT today, and I’m not letting you wipe out before you see this. I’m laying a bet that your snooping instincts are itching to know what I’ve got planned. Tell me I’m wrong.”
She crossed her arms, glaring, but a spark danced in her eyes, betraying her. Logan knew that look - her curiosity was a force of nature, and he was banking on it. “You’re the worst,” she muttered, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Fine. But if this is lame, you’re pushing me back uphill.”
Veronica eased off the bed, already dressed in jeans and a hoodie thanks to Ellie, who’d helped her change earlier that morning. Ellie, in on Logan’s secretive plan but keeping Veronica in the dark, had passed it off as a routine wardrobe switch for comfort. Veronica settled into the wheelchair, gripping the armrests, her knuckles tight with frustration, but Logan caught the faint flush of excitement in her cheeks and grinned.
He wheeled her out, his steps careful but confident, the hospital’s sterile halls stretching before them. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, and at the nurses’ station, Ning shot him a covert nod, her smile a quiet endorsement of his plan. Veronica’s hands fidgeted in her lap, her head turning to scan the corridors, already trying to crack his secret. Logan’s chest warmed - she was still the girl he was in love with, always chasing the next puzzle.
When they reached the garden, he pushed open the wrought-iron gate, its hinges creaking in the cool evening air.
“Your evening awaits,” he said, a mix of pride and nerves in his voice.
Veronica’s eyes widened, her breath catching as she took in the setup – the burgers, popcorn, and the promise of a movie under the stars. “Logan,” she said, her voice soft, almost disbelieving. “You did all this?”
“For you.” He shrugged, masking the warmth in his chest with a casual tone. “Our date got sidelined, so thought we’d start over.”
She gave a wobbly smile as she squeezed his hand and something in Logan’s chest unclenched. They settled on the blanket, where he had carefully arranged the cushions so she could lean back against them for support. They unwrapped the burgers, the fries spilling onto the paper bag.
“Logan,” she said, her voice low, almost hesitant. “Thank you.”
Before he could respond, she leaned forward, her hand finding his jaw. She kissed him, slow and deliberate, her lips warm and soft against his, carrying a quiet intensity. Logan felt his breath catch — and then hers faltered first. After only a few seconds, she had to pull back, breaking the kiss with a soft gasp, pressing her forehead lightly against his.
Logan’s hand cupped the back of her neck, his thumb grazing her hairline as he steadied her, holding her close without crowding her. For a beat, she just breathed, shallow and careful, before she shifted and tucked herself against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
Her eyes found his briefly, a flicker of warmth beneath the guarded gaze, before she closed them, simply leaning into the safety of him.
Logan’s pulse still thrummed, but he kept his voice light. “Gotta step up my game if that’s the reward,” he murmured, earning a soft snort from her. “Just say if you need a break or want to stop,” he added. “I don’t want to make the pain worse by being out here.”
The movie started, Cary Grant’s voice crackling through the projector’s tinny speakers. Halfway through the opening scene, Logan cursed under his breath. “Forgot the hot chocolate.” He’d meant to grab the thermos from the nurses’ station, a last-minute addition Ning had suggested for the chilly evening. “Be right back. Don’t let Hepburn run off with Stewart while I’m gone.”
Veronica rolled her eyes, nudging him. “Hurry up, or I’m eating your fries.”
He jogged back through the hospital, the halls quieter now, the thermos still on the break room counter where Ning had left it. He grabbed it, the metal warm against his palm, and hurried back, his steps light with the thrill of pulling this off.
But as he pushed through the garden gate, his heart plummeted. Veronica wasn’t alone. Cassidy Casablancas stood over her, his lanky frame silhouetted against the projector’s glow. Veronica’s posture was rigid, her arms crossed, her voice low and sharp.
Horror clawed at Logan’s gut. Cassidy, of all people. Logan’s grip tightened on the thermos, his pulse roaring in his ears. Whatever Cassidy was saying, it wasn’t good - and Veronica looked like she was one wrong word away from breaking.
***
Veronica traced a fry through a smear of ketchup, a quiet smile curving her lips as the projector’s glow flickered across the ivy-clad walls of the hospital garden. The evening felt like a stolen moment, a delicate haven Logan had crafted amidst the storm. Warmth bloomed in her chest, easing the bone-deep fatigue that had become her shadow. This was him giving her a memory to hold onto, a reminder that she wasn’t just the girl who’d nearly died.
The wrought-iron gate creaked, and Veronica glanced up, expecting Logan’s easy grin and the forgotten thermos. Instead, Cassidy slipped into the garden, his lean frame relaxed, a smile curling his lips with effortless charm. His eyes held only a glint of sharp calculation, like a chess player sizing up the board.
“Veronica,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Her pulse surged, warmth souring into dread. She knew Cassidy wasn’t here by chance. She tilted her head, forcing a casual tone to buy time.
“Beaver. Slumming it in hospital gardens now? How’d you find me?”
Cassidy slid his hands into his pockets, his shrug smooth and calculated. “Logan needed a projector, so he borrowed Dick’s. Mentioned his little date setup. I charmed a nurse, said I was dropping off snacks for you lovebirds.” His smirk dripped with confidence, his eyes steady.
Veronica’s stomach knotted. He’d manipulated his way here, just as he’d manipulated everyone. She gripped the blanket’s edge, anchoring herself. “You always were a great liar,” she said, her voice low, daring him to bite.
Cassidy’s smile tightened, his voice dropping to a venomous edge. “Thought you’d learned your lesson by now, Veronica. Poking into other people’s secrets? That’s why you’re here.”
Her throat constricted, but she held his stare, refusing to buckle. “What’s got you so scared, Beaver? Worried I know too much?”
A shadow moved at the gate - Logan, thermos in hand, his face a storm of shock and rage. Her heart leapt, but she flicked her eyes, signalling him to hold back. She needed answers from him first.
Cassidy stepped closer, his hiss cutting the air. “Your dad came sniffing around today, asking about things he shouldn’t. What do you think you’ve got on me?”
Veronica rose, legs trembling, but her voice was forged in steel. Her fear burned into clarity, fuelled by the truths she’d pieced together.
“I know about Woody Goodman,” she said, each word a blade. “How he abused you, Marcos, Peter – and other kids who trusted him. Marcos and Peter wanted to expose him, especially with his mayoral campaign. They were ready to speak, but you couldn’t let that happen.”
Cassidy’s jaw clenched, his silence an invitation. She pressed on. “You orchestrated everything. On the school trip you planted a rat on the bus so Dick and his cronies would bail for a limo. You got a bomb from Curly Moran, wired it to the bus, and detonated it. When Curly caught on, you killed him and framed the investigation to point at me.”
His eyes glinted, a smirk twitching like he was impressed. Veronica’s nails dug into her palms, fury rising. “And then there’s me. You got chlamydia from Woody. You passed it to me at Shelly Pomeroy’s party. You raped me.”
The word hung in the air, raw and unyielding. Cassidy shrugged, his indifference a gut-punch. “Dick said I needed to man up. Lose my virginity.”
Her vision flashed red, but she kept her voice razor-sharp. “So you raped me while I was unconscious? That’s your idea of being a man?”
Cassidy’s smirk faltered, his hands twitching at his sides. She caught a glimpse of Logan at the gate, his phone glowing as he typed furiously - calling for help, she hoped. Her heart pounded, but she felt a strange clarity, a fire kindling where fear had been. She wasn’t the helpless girl that Cassidy had taken advantage of, or that Thumper had tried to break. Not anymore.
“You lied about everything,” she said, stepping toward him, her voice rising. “But it’s over, Cassidy. You’re not smarter than us. Not this time.”
His face twisted, the mask crumbling. “You think you’ve won?” he spat. “Your dad’s about to get a nasty surprise. Left a little gift for him in his car.”
Veronica’s heart stuttered, but Logan’s nod from the gate steadied her - he’d heard. She forced a smirk, mirroring Cassidy’s arrogance. “And me? What’s my prize?”
Cassidy drew a syringe from his pocket, then a pistol from his waistband, his movements chillingly precise. “This stops your heart,” he said, nodding his head toward the syringe. “Clean, quiet. Refuse, and the gun gets loud.”
Veronica’s breath hitched, the pistol’s gleam pinning her in place. Her heart raced, but before she could speak, Logan lunged from the shadows, silent and swift, tackling Cassidy to the ground. The gun skidded across the dew-slick grass, the syringe tumbling into the dirt. Two security guards charged through the gate behind him, their radios spitting static and their boots heavy on the stone path. Logan held Cassidy down, his jaw tight, his voice a low snarl. “You’re done, Beaver.”
“My name is Cassidy,” he spat out, then deflated, his eyes hollow as a guard cuffed him. “You don’t understand, I had to protect myself.”
Veronica stepped forward, her voice steady despite her shaking hands. “No. You chose to destroy everyone instead.”
The guards hauled Cassidy up, dragging him toward the gate. He didn’t fight, his head bowed. Veronica turned to Logan, panic clawing at her chest. “My dad—”
“I texted Keith,” Logan said, pulling out his phone, his fingers already dialling to call. “He’s safe.” He handed it to her as Keith’s voice crackled through.
“Veronica?” Keith’s tone was sharp with fear. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Dad,” she said, her voice fracturing. “Beaver's being held by security. But your car - there’s a bomb.”
“I got Logan’s message,” Keith assured her, his voice strained. “The bomb squad’s on the way. Stay with Logan until I get there.” Her legs began to tremble as the adrenaline ebbed. Logan was there in an instant, his arms wrapping around her as he took the phone from her.
“I’ve got her, Mr. Mars.”
Veronica sank against him, his arms steadfast around her. The garden was still, the projector paused, its frozen frame casting a ghostly glow across the ivy. She tilted her head up, meeting Logan’s eyes, still fierce with worry and something softer. A faint smile curved her lips.
“Thanks for the date, Logan.”
He exhaled a shaky laugh, pulling her even closer, his warmth cutting through the night’s chill. “Anytime, Veronica.”
***
Veronica slid into a cushioned bench at the Seaside Café, a bright, budget-friendly spot where the air smelled of fresh coffee and warm pastries. Sunlight spilled through wide windows, glinting off polished wooden tables and chalkboard menus scribbled with cheerful specials. Soft acoustic music hummed in the background, blending with the quiet clink of mugs and the low murmur of conversation. Across from her, Meg cradled three-month-old Charlotte in her lap, the baby’s tiny fingers wrapped around a colourful teething toy, her happy babbles a sweet contrast to the café’s gentle bustle. Veronica’s gaze drifted to the street outside, where Neptune’s latest scandal simmered just beneath the surface, waiting to boil over.
Meg shifted Charlotte in her arms, her blonde ponytail swaying. “So, how’s life? Between classes and keeping a tiny human alive, I barely get two minutes to talk to you anymore at school. Maybe if a certain someone didn’t monopolise your lunch breaks...” She arched an eyebrow, teasing.
Veronica smirked, stirring her iced tea, the ice clinking against the glass. “Being back at school is still weird. It’s been weeks, and I’m still the star of the goldfish bowl. Stares, whispers, you name it. Even the 09er are fake-nice now, which is honestly unsettling.”
Meg’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “What, because of the kidnapping or because Logan’s got that whole protective ‘I’ll break your face’ energy?”
“A bit of both, probably,” Veronica said dryly. The scrutiny at Neptune High hadn’t faded - every glance was a reminder of hospital beds, IV drips, and headlines screaming her name.
She leaned forward, eager to shift gears. “Enough about me. How’d it go with your parents? Cliff said you and Lizzie were bringing the hammer.”
Meg’s face lit up, a fierce glow Veronica hadn’t seen since Junior Year. “We did. The evidence you gathered - those recordings of Grace - it was enough. Cliff laid it out, and Lizzie and I said we’d go public with our own histories unless they signed Grace over to Aunt Chris and dropped their threats on Charlotte. They folded.”
Veronica’s chest warmed, a rare flicker of justice cutting through Neptune’s muck. “Meg, that’s incredible. I’m so proud of you both.”
“Thanks to you,” Meg said, her voice thick as she stroked Charlotte’s curls. “You once told me that I needed to get tough, and I did. For Grace, and for my daughter.”
Veronica grinned, the weight of her own battles lightening for a moment. “And Duncan? How’s that working?”
Meg shrugged, bouncing Charlotte gently. “He’s all about Charlie. Sees her every chance he gets. Therapy at the clinic seemed to really help him. We’re not together, but the Kane’s offered to pay tuition to Stanford for both of us, and to pay for a nanny, since my parents cut me off.”
Veronica raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Jake and Celeste still not giving up on President Kane, huh?”
“Basically,” Meg said, her laugh tinged with relief. “Honestly, I thought being seventeen and pregnant was a life sentence. If the Kanes want to play chess with Duncan’s future, I’ll take the help.”
Veronica nodded, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. She’d wrestled with the same offer from the Kanes, her pride bruised but her pragmatism winning out. After hours of discussing it with her dad, she’d accepted. The Kanes owed her. After all Jake had believed she was his daughter, yet offered nothing and their cover-up of Lilly’s murder had cost her father his job, their home and their stability. Swallowing her resentment stung, but she wasn’t foolish enough to reject a lifeline that could reshape her future, especially when catching up enough in order to graduate on time had been tough enough.
“Things with Duncan are still…” Veronica hesitated, the word snagging on something in her throat. “Off. Like we’re stuck in this weird limbo.”
Meg’s gaze softened. “You followed your heart. He’ll get over himself eventually. He just needs time.”
Time. Veronica wasn’t sure it could untangle everything between her and Duncan or if she even wanted it to. It was hard to move past waking up with someone’s hands around your throat. Harder still to say that out loud when he’d tried, in his own flawed way, to make it right.
Her eyes flicked to the window, catching a cluster of red-and-blue campaign signs plastered on a lamppost. She grimaced. “Ugh, Stuart Fuller’s running for mayor now that Woody’s been charged. That guy hit on me once while I was babysitting his kid. Total creep.”
Meg’s jaw dropped, then she cackled. “Oh my god, did he offer you weed too?”
Veronica choked on her tea, laughter spilling out, sharp and cathartic. “Yes, gross, right? From Goodman molesting kids to Fuller chasing teenage girls - being a skeevy asshole is practically Neptune’s motto.”
Their giggles faded, but the shared jab at their town’s rot lingered like a secret. Veronica glanced at her watch, swearing softly. “Crap, I’m late. I’m meeting Logan at his new place.”
Meg winked, shooing her off. “Go swoon over your penthouse prince. Don’t keep him waiting.”
***
Veronica climbed the sleek black stairs to Logan’s new apartment, nestled in a discreet building perfectly positioned for privacy. Her boots whispered against the polished steps, the faint scent of fresh paint mingling with crisp air. Her pulse quickened as she reached his door. Logan had been her anchor through the hospital blur - slipping her contraband snacks, holding her through the worst nights, and always knowing how to pull her from pain with a sly quip or tender distraction. Now, standing on the edge of something new, she felt the spark of their rekindled flame, thrilling and raw.
Logan opened the door before she could knock, his grin all boyish charm and barely contained excitement. “Welcome to Casa Echolls. Prepare to be impressed.”
Her pulse skipped as his eyes locked on hers, all warmth and mischief. She arched a brow, stepping into the apartment’s airy glow. “Dazzled? By what, the upgrade from Dick’s couch to an actual address?”
Logan’s laugh was low and electric. In one fluid motion, he closed the distance, hands finding her waist as he pulled her into a kiss that crackled with urgency. Her breath hitched, her lips meeting his with equal fire, the world narrowing to the heat of his mouth and the thrum of her heart. He spun her, her back meeting the wall beside the door with a soft thud, his body a thrilling press against hers. His hands slid up to cradle her face, and she grinned into the kiss, dizzy with the sheer joy of being there.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, both of them breathless, his thumbs tracing her jaw. “I missed you,” he murmured, his voice rough with feeling.
Veronica’s lips quirked, her hands still tangled in his shirt. “Noted,” she teased, but her voice softened, betraying the warmth pooling in her chest.
Logan smiled, stepping back and taking her hand, his fingers lacing through hers with easy confidence. “Come on, Bobcat. The tour begins.” He tugged her gently forward, his excitement infectious as she followed.
Stepping deeper into the apartment, Veronica saw it was worlds apart from the Echolls mansion’s ostentatious sprawl or the Neptune Grand’s sterile sheen. Polished hardwood floors glowed under warm recessed lights, walls painted a sleek charcoal, furniture spare but cozy - a buttery leather sofa, a sturdy wooden coffee table, a record player perched in the corner. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a wraparound balcony, where the Pacific’s glittering horizon stretched endlessly. Logan led her through each room, pointing out personal touches - a shelf he’d actually built himself, a framed photo of them laughing on the beach. “Just wanted a place you’d feel at home in sometimes,” he said, his tone light but his eyes were searching hers.
Veronica’s heart fluttered, but the words didn’t push. No pressure, just Logan offering a piece of himself. She ran her fingers along the balcony railing, the sea breeze tangling her blonde hair, and turned to him, pride swelling. “It’s amazing, Logan,” she said, her voice soft but fierce. “You did this. I’m so proud of you.”
He smirked, leaning closer. “High praise from Veronica Mars. I’ll take it.” His gaze softened. “How’d it go with Claudia today?”
She exhaled. “Okay. We spoke about Thumper’s plea deal. Twenty-five to life and no trial, which is a mercy with Aaron’s coming up.” She paused, voice tightening. “Got an update on Beaver too. They’re still slogging through his charges – the bus crash, Curly, the rest. It’s a lot.”
Logan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded, his hand brushing hers. “He’ll go down, Veronica. They all will.”
She squeezed his fingers, anchoring herself. “Speaking of Aaron, are you ready for the trial? You, me, Duncan, Dad and those tapes. I just hope it’s enough.”
“Life sentence, minimum,” Logan said, voice hard. “He’s done running.”
Veronica’s lips curved, a spark of hope igniting. “Oh, and Dad wants you over for dinner again, by the way. You two geeking out over baseball is still weird, but…” She trailed off, a thought flickering. Her dad had finally asked Logan to call him Keith, a massive leap from the day he’d thrown him out of their apartment.
Logan’s smirk returned, full wattage. “He’s got taste. Can’t resist my charm.”
She rolled her eyes, but warmth flooded her. “How goes the Alterna-prom plan? You lock down a venue yet?”
“Yeah, Duncan offered his suite,” Logan said, a hint of surprise in his tone. “Guess he’s trying to play nice.”
Veronica’s eyes softened, a spark of warmth piercing her lingering tension with Duncan. “That’s awesome,” she said, her voice quiet but genuine. “I’m glad you two are finding your rhythm again. Wallace asked Jackie, and Mac’s stuck going with Butters.”
Logan arched an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Veronica sighed, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “My bad, and Mac’s already chewed me out for it. But at least it’s given her something to focus on other than what her boyfriend was up to. I've been trying to distract her as much as I can, but it's tough.”
Logan stepped closer, the balcony’s breeze ruffling his hair. “Speaking of which, I have something to ask you.”
“Oh yeah?” she said softly.
“Veronica Mars, will you be my date to alterna-prom?”
Her heart thudded, a giddy rush she hadn’t felt since their first stolen moments. “Hell yes,” she said, and his lips crashed into hers, warm and hungry. The kiss deepened, electric, and she pulled back, breathless, a wicked grin spreading. “You know, this balcony is great, but I’d love to see the bedroom.”
Logan’s eyes widened, a look of concern flickering. “Are you sure? I know you got the all-clear from PT, but I don’t want to—”
“I’m good, Logan,” she cut in, voice firm. “Take me to your room.”
He searched her face, then nodded, leading her inside. The bedroom was understated - crisp white linens, a low wooden bed, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains, casting golden patterns on the floor. Veronica’s pulse raced as she shrugged off her jacket, her fingers steady but her heart pounding.
As she lifted her shirt, her fingers brushed the scar on her abdomen, a thin, pale line from the surgery that saved her liver, her life. It was still stark against her skin, a reminder of internal bleeding and too-close calls. She hesitated, vulnerable under Logan’s gaze.
He stepped closer, his hands gentle as he knelt, pressing a soft kiss to the scar. “Proof you’re a survivor,” he murmured, his breath warm, eyes locked on hers. “You’re beautiful, Veronica.”
Her throat tightened, emotions swirling - fear, gratitude, desire. She pulled him up, kissing him fiercely, pouring everything into it. “You’re such a sap,” she teased, voice husky, as she tugged his shirt off, revealing the lean lines of his chest.
“Says the girl who’s trembling,” he shot back, grinning as he eased her onto the bed, his hands careful but sure. Clothes fell away in a slow, deliberate dance - her jeans sliding off, his belt clinking to the floor, their laughter mingling with whispered breaths. Logan’s lips traced her collarbone, her throat, each kiss igniting sparks that chased away the past’s shadows. His fingers skimmed her hips, pausing at the curve of her waist, his touch reverent and gentle.
“Still okay?” he asked, voice rough with want, his eyes searching hers.
“More than okay,” she breathed, her hands exploring the warmth of his back, nails grazing lightly. She arched into him, desire pooling low, her body alive under his touch. Logan’s lips found the sensitive spot behind her ear, drawing a soft gasp, and she retaliated, nipping his shoulder, earning a low chuckle.
He moved lower, kissing a path down her stomach, lingering near her scar before trailing to the dip of her hip. Her breath hitched, fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. “Logan,” she murmured, half-plea, half-challenge, and he grinned against her skin, wicked and adoring.
His mouth found her, warm and deliberate, tongue teasing with slow, purposeful strokes. She gasped, hips lifting instinctively, pleasure sparking through her like a live wire. His hands steadied her, one gripping her thigh, the other splayed across her hip, grounding her as he deepened the rhythm, responding to every shudder, every soft moan. Her head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut, the world narrowing to the heat of his touch, the crescendo building until she shattered, a sharp cry escaping as waves of release pulsed through her.
Logan rose, his grin smug but tender, kissing his way back up her body. “You’re welcome,” he teased, voice low, and she laughed, breathless, swatting his chest.
“Don’t get cocky,” she shot back, pulling him closer, her lips claiming his in a hungry kiss. Her hands roamed, nails scraping his back, urging him on.
He paused briefly, reaching for a condom from the bedside table, tearing the packet with and rolling it on with a steady hand, his eyes never leaving hers. He entered her slowly, deliberately, the stretch and heat stealing her breath. She gasped, clutching his shoulders, the intimacy overwhelming yet perfect. They found a rhythm, bodies syncing in a dance of trust and need - slow at first, then urgent, her hips rising to meet his, each thrust stoking the fire building inside her.
“God, Veronica,” Logan groaned, his forehead pressed to hers, sweat beading on his brow, eyes dark with intensity. “You’re gonna wreck me.”
“Not if you keep up,” she quipped, breathless, nipping his lip. Her hands roamed, nails scraping his back, urging him deeper, faster. Pleasure coiled tight, a wave cresting as his fingers found her, teasing just right, pushing her to the edge.
“Logan,” she gasped, her voice breaking, and the wave crashed, release shuddering through her, white-hot and blinding. His name was a soft cry on her lips as he followed, a low moan against her neck, their bodies trembling in sync.
They collapsed, tangled in sheets, laughter bubbling up as they caught their breath. Logan brushed a damp strand of hair from her face, his smile soft, unguarded. “Worth the wait, Veronica?”
Her lips curved into a playful smirk as she nestled closer to Logan. “You’ll do,” she teased, her voice light, but she softened the jab with a tender kiss. Beyond the open window, Neptune’s waves crashed softly, their rhythm a serene counterpoint to the stillness of Logan’s bed. In that quiet sanctuary, Veronica felt hope bloom - fragile, fierce, and entirely theirs.
fin
Notes:
And that's the end! I've already started a large magic dystopian AU, so please make sure you follow me for updates if you'd like to read that.
Once again a thank you to everyone who took the time to leave their thoughts. I'd particularly love to hear from you now and your overall thoughts/comments for the final chapter. This took so long to write and was agonised over - but comments make it all worth it.
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