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To say a lot happens after the events at the Lilly house would be putting it lightly.
There are officers and detectives and paramedics, neighbours standing at the ends of driveways and the edges of their lawns. Justine thinks she could probably ignore it all, still coming down from the adrenaline rush of a near-death experience. She doesn’t know where Mr Graff has gone, or what happened to that woman; Alex Lilly and his parents are right in front of her, and all she wants is to stand there until someone makes sure they’re okay. She doesn’t even learn there’s more than one crime scene until later, when they’re taking her statement.
And for a while it feels like that’s all there is, endless questions and examining of the things she’s said, photographs and fingerprints (again, like they didn’t already take them before) and gunshot residue tests. She tells them everything, even knowing how the words sound as they come out of her mouth. Tells them because it’s the truth, and while she doesn’t trust them not to use that against her, she trusts her luck even less to not blow up in her face should she give them nothing. Tells them because any story she could come up with herself would surely sound just as unbelievable, and why not just say what actually happened in that case?
They actually let her leave the station, after. They keep letting her leave, no matter how many times they call her in, and every time their scepticism seems a little less pronounced.
She hasn’t seen or heard from Archer Graff since that day at the house. That their paths haven’t crossed at all in the course of the investigation seems impossible, and yet it remains the case. It’s hard not to wonder how he’s doing, him and his family, especially when it becomes clear his testimony is actively helping support her own.
Somehow her life goes on, as does the lives of everyone else in their cursed little town.
She’s read stories about communities struck by tragedy, how they either pull together or fracture apart. Maybrook doesn’t seem to be doing either. The town just … exists, just as it did before the disappearances. Just as it did during them.
She’s not exactly advocating for the place where she lives and works to completely fall to pieces, but it would be nice if maybe it decided to swing in the other direction instead. She can’t be the only one to feel like their lives have turned a corner they can never come back from. Knowing there are others who share that sense would be a pretty big relief.
She isn’t quite the pariah she was when the children were missing, but it’s not like people are lining up to make house calls, either. Justine’s never been as social a creature as people seem to presume. Generally the solitude hasn’t bothered her, but a situation like this makes her wish she had someone she talk to about it.
Someone other than the counsellor she’s been appointed, that is.
She wonders how many of them have been swamped with calls from new clients. How many doctors and specialists have ended up with a bunch of kids they never would’ve seen otherwise suddenly needing their care? Are there even enough of them in the local area, or would they need to get help from elsewhere?
She’s still not sure how much she should be talking, anyway. It feels a bit like waiting for a trap to spring shut – that despite all the evidence, everything she’s said and everything that’s been said for her, they still might try to scapegoat her. Hell, even if they can’t pin the kids on her, Paul and that other guy she shot are right there. Why focus on the circumstances of the weirder case when there’s an easier one lined up and ready?
So she waits, and waits, and while the jaws of the trap remain open she knows they still surround her.
The looks she gets from people when she’s out don’t stop, but now there’s at least one other reason for them.
It comes out pretty quickly in the investigation that she was at the scene with Archer Graff. Anyone putting in even a second of thought could figure out why they’d have an interest in working together, but she still can’t help but wonder how it looks to people. She can give it a pretty good guess already. Gossip tends towards the least nuanced interpretation, and she knows the kind of talk that’s followed her from her last job. The situation with Paul won’t have helped things any; she’s only seen Donna in passing since, and while she hasn’t seemed eager to re-air their dirty laundry, even that much was awkward enough.
Not that Justine’s really done much to deter her reputation.
Once, twice, three times a homewrecker. Right?
Mrs Graff hasn’t tracked her down to throw accusations – or vodka – at her, though, so maybe she’s the more reasonable sort. Or maybe she hasn’t heard the likely gossip.
Maybe she just doesn’t care, more concerned with the return of her son.
She’d hoped just knowing her students were all alive would be enough. It should be enough. She still feels that urge inside her, though, to reach out to all of them and see how they’re doing, even knowing how it’d likely go over.
There’s a curiosity she can’t deny, too, a separate urge to dig her fingers into this mystery and put it all together, impossible as the scenario is.
It makes her feel a little fucked up, fixating on such a tragedy, especially when the situation is about as resolved as it’s going to get. But when it’s reached into as many of their lives as it has – when it’s impacted hers in such an undeniable way – how can she just turn around and move on?
She doesn’t need a counsellor to tell her it’s not good to let one event define her life, no matter how traumatic. And it’s not like she wants it to go that way. But it’s hard not to linger on those thoughts, and surely she’s not the only one with that struggle?
One might think now would be the time to stop drinking – to stop and reassess, make a healthy change in her life.
One might also think now would be the perfect time to continue drinking. After all, how else is she meant to cope with everything she’s been through as of late? With the fact that witches are apparently a very real thing, and very much willing to just completely ruin your day?
Drinking at home hasn’t completely lost its shine, but it’s getting there. She has less of an incentive to avoid going out now that she’s no longer the most infamous person in town. And as much as she still loves her place, the thought of seeing that woman again in a state where she’s not well equipped to deal with it is … unappealing, to put it lightly.
So she decides to go out.
The bar where she met Paul that night is out of the question. Luckily, it seems that a town large enough to attract a witch is large enough to have more than one place to get drunk.
She can’t remember coming here, though that might not mean much in the scheme of things. It’s not even that far from the other bar, doesn’t look that much different from the outside; put the two of them next to each other on a dark night and she’d challenge anyone to confidently tell them apart. A bar is a bar, though, and it’s only the inside of them that matters.
It’s quiet inside, a handful of people scattered around the space and music playing low from someplace she can’t see. There are fewer neon signs hanging around the place, but a couple more TVs, and booth seats line the walls instead of regular tables and chairs. She doesn’t know if this building is smaller than the other bar, or if it’s just the décor that gives it that vibe. Whatever the case, it feels a little classier, cosier, just different enough to surprise her.
The bartender clocks her when she steps inside. Just a quick look, enough for him to get an idea of her before he nods.
There’s no point in pretending she’s there for anything other than what she is, so she heads for a seat at the bar. No one else seems to have paid any attention to her; if the service doesn’t suck and the mood stays this calm she could see herself coming back here. She pulls out a stool, goes to settle down –
“Ms Gandy?”
And there, sitting in a booth almost directly across from her, is Archer Graff.
She has that wide-eyed look on her face when she sees him, half frozen in the process of sitting on a stool. She glances to both sides, like she’s expecting to see someone else, but apart from a few regulars and Jeff the bartender, the place is pretty quiet. It’s one of the reasons he likes coming here.
Archer’s sure he hasn’t seen her here before. Considering what he saw that time at the liquor store, maybe she prefers to do her real drinking at home. Never quite been his style, but he can’t pretend he doesn’t understand it.
Still, he went and opened his mouth, didn’t he? They’ve seen each other now. No pretending otherwise.
He gestures to the open space of the booth. “Want to join me?”
There’s a moment where he thinks she might just stand there forever, poised over her seat, staring at him. Or maybe she’ll just turn around and leave. But instead:
“Yeah,” she says, and hurries across the floor.
He makes more room for her than he has to – it’s a large booth, with more than enough space to seat a group of people. But she’s got her hackles up already, holding herself in that same way she had after the school meeting and when he’d watched her after – which, okay, he can admit now was a little much. And considering what had happened the last time they were together, he can’t say he holds the hesitance against her.
He doesn’t move so far that he loses sight of the front door, though, not with it being his entire reason for picking this spot. As she slides around the ‘c’ of the seat, he’s amused to find she does the same.
Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. All she’s been through, who wouldn’t want a clear view of the exit?
She settles in place finally, not looking comfortable in the slightest.
“What kind of person sits alone in a booth?”
“Same kind that sits alone at the bar, I guess,” he shrugs. “It’s not like there’s a crowd.”
She follows his gesture, looking around once more at the largely empty bar. Her eyes flick away from his briefly when she turns back to him – but then there’s a shift, and she sets her jaw, holding his gaze dead on as she straightens up.
Like a challenge.
Archer’s not entirely sure how he should interpret that.
“So.”
“So,” she echoes.
“… You want a drink?”
Behind her glasses her eyes are hard. She nods once, short and sharp.
He raises a finger, casual as anything, looking away from her for a moment. Justine doesn’t move. Coming over here is already starting to seem like a bad idea, but getting up and leaving would be a back down she’d never forgive herself for. Maybe her sense of danger is completely fucked after all she’s been through, but she doesn’t feel at risk. Not the way she should after what happened.
She’s too stubborn to back down, and she still has enough faith in her instincts to want to put them to the test.
So she doesn’t move. She’s tense the entire way through, but shit, she’s been tense almost since the moment she walked into her all but empty classroom. Sucks that she’ll have to hold herself like this for however long it takes for the bartender to finally come over, but she’ll manage –
Before the thought’s even out of her head there’s a man coming to a stop before them, sleeves rolled up and a dishrag hanging over one shoulder.
… Huh. Better service here. Tony could really learn a thing or two from this guy.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.
“Whiskey,” Mr Graff says, making a little motion with his thumb and forefinger. “And another beer.”
The bartender nods, turning her way, and now there are two sets of eyes on her.
Why does that suddenly make her uncomfortable?
“I’ll have a whiskey, too,” she says, words falling out of her mouth before she can think them through. “And a coke. … And a vodka tonic. Please.”
The guy only nods, any judgement kept off his face as he returns to the bar. And just like, that they’re alone again.
He actually seems a little hesitant to meet her eyes, which – she’s not sure what to make of that? He didn’t have any trouble inviting her over here to begin with. And god knows he certainly hasn’t had a problem getting in her face in the past. Much as she’d love to believe in her ability to death stare a person into submission, Archer Graff doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be easily cowed.
Whatever. She’s not backing down either. If he’s feeling intimidated for whatever reason, let him.
The silence seems ready to stretch on –
Mr Graff laughs a little, the noise plainly awkward. Raps his knuckles softly on the tabletop.
“I probably should’ve checked who was buying.”
Justine smiles tightly. “You know us teachers, famously rolling in cash.”
He dips his head, and on anyone else she’d call the look contrite.
“Guess we’ll have to avoid making this a habit.”
He finally looks at her again. There’s the smallest hint of a smile on his face, and it’s … weird? It’s weird, sitting here with him like this. On multiple levels. But that sense of danger still isn’t present, and he doesn’t seem offended by the idea of paying for her drinks.
Who would she be to turn down free booze?
Slowly, Justine settles back into the booth. She doesn’t return his smile, but she does try to ease back a little on whatever look she’s been giving him.
He must pick up on at least that much. Mr Graff blows out a long breath, sits a little more comfortably.
“I wasn’t sure it was you. Doesn’t seem like your style, this place.”
“Guess it’s both our lucky night.”
He smiles again, though it looks a little more forced this time. Tone, it turns out, is something else he’s likely to pick up on, and Justine gives herself an irritated mental note to remember that.
“So,” and there’s enough of a pause she thinks they’re about to have a repeat of this conversation’s start, “how are things?”
She reminds herself that she doesn’t really know this man; that staking out a house together for few hours doesn’t give her any deep, reliable insight into who he is. They wouldn’t ever have been social before this – not out of an inherent dislike, but simply because they’re different people. So when she thinks she sees an embarrassed wince flash across his face, she has to take a moment to seriously consider whether she’s projecting.
Seriously, things?
“Things are probably as good as you’d expect. Why? How are things for you?”
That mental note lasted about five seconds, but she’s too busy watching him to care. His gaze has dropped back to the table; he looks like he’s trying to work out what to say, and holy shit, maybe she was right about the embarrassed thing? He opens his mouth to answer –
There’s movement at the edge of her vision, and she looks over.
He’s saved from answering his own damn question by Jeff’s return. He’s got their drinks balanced carefully on a tray, which he sets down in a practiced motion, placing the glasses before them.
“Thanks,” Archer says.
Jeff nods, wedging the tray under his arm. Only once he’s stepped away does Jeff seem to eye the drinks set before Ms Gandy, a look he shoots Archer’s way.
Archer pretends not to notice.
Ms Gandy doesn’t need to pretend. Her attention is locked on the glass of coke. As he watches, she pushes it away from herself slowly – not towards him, but into a space where a third person might sit. For a moment she doesn’t move, like she’s judging its placement. An instant later she’s pulling back, her hands closing around her vodka tonic.
… Another thing he’s not sure how to interpret.
Even having acted full in his view, Archer can’t help but feel he’s witnessed something private. If there’s one thing he’s never been good at, it’s moments of vulnerability, be that showing it or seeing it. His fingers seek out his beer bottle, eager to fidget.
“It’s quiet now, but you should see this place when there’s a game on,” he says. “It’s good for business, but I think I prefer it this way.”
“Was there something you wanted to talk about, Mr Graff?”
He blinks, surprised.
“I haven’t seen you around since everything went down. I guess I wanted to find out how you’re doing.”
“Well, I haven’t been charged for murdering a junkie or a cop, so I’ve got that going for me,” she scoffs. “At least, they haven’t charged me yet. That’s something they should’ve done by now, right?”
Archer can only shrug helplessly. Her voice is light, but the venom beneath her words is undeniable. Not that he can blame her for it. It wasn’t until well after the fact, after he first made it safely home with Matthew, that he stopped to even consider where she might’ve gotten the gun; not until his interview with the authorities when he thought of the cop car they’d seen parked outside the house. The truth of it is, he’s not familiar enough with the legal process to know if she should’ve been charged by now. Speculating on such a thing feels like it would only cause more uncertainty.
He doesn’t know if she’s expecting an actual answer. Either way she shakes her head, takes a sip of her drink.
“Thanks for having my back with that, by the way,” she says, not quite looking at him.
“Sure,” Archer replies. “I mean, of course.”
He’s not sure exactly how much help his statement was, but he’d given it truthfully all the same. They’d entered the house together after being invited in by the cop. Shortly after stepping inside they were each attacked, him by an unknown male, Ms Gandy by the cop. Their fights had taken them to separate parts of the house; before he could go to help her, he was forced into the basement stairwell. He’d heard the shots during his struggle with the stranger; a few moments later, Ms Gandy shot him, too, saving Archer.
The cops had asked him a few times, in various ways and various tones, whether there was a chance events had played out differently than he was remembering. Archer remained adamant his recollection was accurate.
That she even thinks she needs to thank him sits strangely with him.
Archer takes a pull from his beer, trying to settle the feeling.
“I’m not getting threatening phone calls anymore,” she continues after a few moments. “But maybe that’s because no one wants to talk to me. I don’t know if I’m more of a pariah now than I was before the kids were found.”
“The investigation will clear everything up. People just need time to come around.”
She looks at him intently. “So you know how the investigation’s going? Because I haven’t heard a thing.”
… Shit.
Moments like this are why Archer tries not to blindly offer comfort. What would’ve been a generally accepted platitude by most is instead being given a significance he hadn’t intended, or foreseen.
How much of that is just this particular woman’s stubborn nature, he isn’t sure.
“I gave my statement to the cops, all my physical evidence. Did a walk-through of the scene. They’ve, uh … tried to speak with Matthew a couple times.” Why he ever agreed to such an idea, let alone more than once, is beyond him. Just because Matthew hadn’t responded doesn’t mean the whole ordeal hadn’t been traumatic. “As far as the lawyer’s told me, they’re still looking into everything.”
Ms Gandy gives a little ‘ah’, the look on her face saying without words exactly what she thinks of his response. Nothing of what he’s said supports his confidence in the investigation’s outcome, and she isn’t impressed.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking. Could look like conspiracy, or something.”
Archer nearly laughs at that.
“I don’t know that anyone would believe I was conspiring with you.” The emphasis on ‘with’ goes unsaid, but he’s sure she can infer it. “But you can leave if it’ll make you feel better.”
She frowns at him. The effect is in no way lessened by her glasses; instead, he thinks it makes her look more severe. He holds her gaze until she turns away, glancing over the bar one more time. She turns her drink in place while she’s thinking, the motion familiar to him though he’s never seen her do it.
He waits, and watches, and says nothing. A little challenge of his own.
He knows she’s made her choice when she looks back to him, and while deliberately holding eye contact, slips her bag off her shoulder and onto the seat next to her.
Archer raises his beer to her with a little smirk, takes a drink.
They sit in silence for a short time, Archer looking out across the bar while Ms Gandy distractedly stirs her drink. He wasn’t lying about liking the place like this: there’s a song he doesn’t recognise playing through distant speakers, and the warm lighting brings out the depth of the wood furnishings. It’s somehow not completely unpleasant, or even all that awkward, sitting here with her.
“Have you spoken to the other parents?”
“Not personally. My wife’s run into a few of them. No one knows what to make of any of this.”
“Welcome to the fucking club,” Ms Gandy spits, taking an angry drink. “At least they missed out on being accused of something monstrous.”
She sits back in her seat, arms folded across her chest. Maybe it’s the body language more than anything, but in that moment she looks the youngest he’s ever seen her. Not that he’d forgotten up til now – just that it wasn’t something he paid much thought.
She’s not looking at him, or the table. Instead her eyes seem to be locked on the glass of coke, still sitting exactly where she left it. Condensation is gathering on the glass’s surface, droplets ready to run down and collect on the table.
It doesn’t escape his notice that he was one of those accusers she mentioned.
The silence doesn’t feel quite as pleasant now.
“So … you’re doing alright.”
“I guess,” she shrugs.
Archer fiddles with his beer bottle, eyes on his hands instead of her. “And what about – physically?”
The question throws her for a moment, enough that she can only stare at him at first. It shouldn’t take as long as it does for his meaning to click, but then it does, and suddenly the fact that he’s not looking at her feels far more significant.
The marks around her neck have long since faded, though it’s easy to still imagine them there. They’d turned vivid quickly, bruises standing out boldly against her skin. Good for the evidence photos, at least. The police had been thorough in their documentation, taking snap after snap as she’d stood there trying to breathe comfortably.
It’s easy, too, to recall the pressure against her throat – not just from Paul’s hands, but from Archer’s arm. When she wakes in a panic, the shadow of a nightmare still clinging to her heels, she can feel that crushing force as strongly as if she were back in that house. It’s a struggle to breathe, to convince herself to calm down; not even her own hand clawing at her neck is enough to break the spell. That she can’t tell who’s responsible for choking her in these dreams is somehow equally disturbing, whether she’s being pinned against a cupboard or another body.
Did they have to map out both men’s hands against the marks on her throat for them to believe her story?
She’s been silent too long, she realises at about the same time she realises she’s still staring at Mr Graff. Who has also realised the length of her silence, and is looking at her now with what might be genuine concern.
“Ms Gandy –”
“Look, you had your arms around my neck, okay, just – call me Justine.”
She feels her face go hot the moment the words are out of her mouth. Christ, and she’s not even drunk yet, what the fuck. She gets the perfect view of Mr Graff’s eyebrows shooting up before she snaps her gaze to her whiskey instead, purposefully not looking at him as she takes a long drink.
And if she uses the hand holding the glass to hide her flushed cheeks – well, that’s just practical thinking, isn’t it?
She’s still not looking at him when she puts her glass back down, the silence feeling far too prominent for all that it hasn’t gone on that long.
“Well, you call me Archer, then.”
In her youth, Justine experienced the phenomenon of seeing one of her teachers outside of school and not knowing how to address them. On becoming a teacher, she’s since discovered there’s an equally awkward variant: running into the parents of her students, and them deciding to be on a first-name basis with her. It’s a level of familiarity that’s never felt warranted, especially from parents she’s spoken with no more than a couple of times.
Archer Graff would ordinarily be one of those sorts of parents. And yet, she stands by her logic here. After what they’ve both been through, together, maintaining some kind of forced, professional distance seems ridiculous. She just … hadn’t expected him to reciprocate.
Maybe it just feels as weird as it does because she’s sitting across from him in a bar rather than running into him at the store. Maybe it’d feel weird no matter the circumstance.
And through all this, she still hasn’t given Mr Graff – Archer – an answer to his question.
“Anyway, it’s fine,” she says, gesturing vaguely to her neck. “No permanent damage.”
She has pictures of her own, ones she hopes no one will ever see, sitting in an unnamed folder on her laptop. Beneath the fluorescent light of the bathroom the bruises stood out even more visibly, shades of blue and purple she’d struggled to look away from, the marks so clear she imagines she could find a fingerprint in them.
She still doesn’t know why she took them, other than it feeling like something she needed to document. Like the whole thing might fade impossibly into memory without some tangible proof.
For all that she went through, to come out of it with virtually no injuries at all is both miraculous and bizarre. And despite the fact they’ll likely last longer, the mental scars left behind just don’t evoke the same immediate visceral reaction.
Archer looks not that different than he did that night outside the hospital: tired, but relieved. At least, that’s what she thinks. Something about the idea makes her shift in her seat uncomfortably. She hasn’t given much thought to that part of her attack, the way he threw himself to her defence with seemingly no hesitation, but now she can’t help but remember it.
And now he’s looking at her that same way, albeit with a carefulness she’s not expecting. He’s very clearly eyeing her neck, though only in short bursts – he keeps glancing away for a few moments, then back again, like he doesn’t want to be caught staring. Never mind that she’s sitting right there, and can also very clearly see what he’s doing.
The attention is like a physical weight, and she has to fight the urge to shiver, or reach up to cover her neck.
… How fucked up is it that there’s a part of her that still wants him to apologise for nearly strangling her?
It all suddenly feels too much – his attention, her memories, that urge to say something she’ll probably regret. As well as them apparently being on a first-name basis now?
She doesn’t want to be the focus anymore, doesn’t want to be the only one feeling like this. So she takes another long drink – of her vodka tonic this time – and asks something else she’ll regret instead.
“How’s Matthew?”
The way his hackles rise almost immediately is worthy of being studied.
It’s not like it makes any sense. She – Justine – isn’t the first person to have asked about him, and she sure as fuck won’t be the last. Hell, she has more of a reason to ask than basically everyone else. If there’s anybody in this town he would trust to mean well, it’d be her.
And yet, it doesn’t undo his reaction.
It feels unearned, this protectiveness. A performance, his wife would have called it. As though feeling this way helps his son any when the damage has already been done. The time for being that sort of father has long since passed, he missed it –
Archer clears his throat.
“Recovering. A lot of doctor’s appointments, a lot of tests. I want him home as much as possible, but we have to do what’s best for him.”
“I still can’t believe they were all just there, alive.”
He nods, not really listening. “He’s a tough kid. He’ll make it through this. He held out as long as he did in that place, he can get through this.”
It’s hard to think of his son the way he is now compared to how he was. He had hoped, when he first saw Matthew standing there like he was, that maybe it was just some kind of trauma. Not that him (and a bunch of other children) being traumatised was a good outcome, but at least it would be a known quantity, medically speaking. People recovered from trauma; or at least, they found ways to manage it. And hell, Matthew had reacted, hadn’t he? Turned when he heard his name.
He’d held onto that hope as he carried his son home. Held onto it as the doctors did their tests, asking him questions about Matthew’s condition he didn’t have answers for.
Held onto it right up until those test results came back.
Malnutrition. Muscle wastage. Possible brain damage.
Whatever that woman did to his son, it won’t be easily undone.
… The thought of his boy lying there, hooked up to a bunch of machines, having absolutely no reaction to any of it …
“And Mrs Graff?”
It’s his turn to reach for his whiskey.
“She’s doing okay. It’s a lot, to process that level of grief and then have your situation change.”
Never mind the fact they’re still not sleeping in the same bed. She might as well be Mrs Graff to him too these days. Matthew’s room no longer feels quite like the mausoleum it did before, but he still has this compulsion to watch over it, at least until his son is occupying it again. On those nights when he can’t bear to sleep in his child’s bed – or when the spectre of his nightmare is too close to the surface – he finds it easier to retire to the spare room instead.
Maybe at some point he could have pretended, lied to himself that he was trying to keep from waking her. He has no such desire now. They see more of each other now between the constant hospital appointments and legal meetings, but his wife has never felt more like a stranger.
Finding Matthew feels like the sort of thing that should bring them back together. Instead, he wonders if it’ll be what breaks them apart.
The fucked up part of it is, he doesn’t know which outcome he should be hoping for.
He hasn’t really been looking at Justine through this, at least not more than necessary. He really hasn’t said more than anyone would expect to hear – certainly hasn’t told her the full truth of things – and yet even that much feels uncomfortably like failure. Never mind the fact that she asked – these are admissions he shouldn’t be making. Catching a glimpse of her only cements that in his mind: she hardly seems to meet his eyes, hands clenched around her vodka and her lips pressed into an unhappy line.
They’re not friends. They hardly know each other. He shouldn’t be saying any of this to her – shouldn’t want to say more – and she definitely didn’t sign up to listen to his complaining.
… But she did ask. Even if only to be polite.
And as she so directly put it, he did have his arms around her neck.
“He, uh, didn’t talk much about school. I was always more interested in how he was doing at baseball.” Archer can’t help but smile at the thought of his son on the field, pride welling up inside his chest. “Hell of an arm, that kid. But I’m sure he would’ve appreciated everything you did to try to find him, and his classmates.”
She’s gone from avoiding his gaze to outright staring at him, a look of shock clear on her face. Archer’s expecting – he doesn’t know what he’s expecting, actually, whether she’ll brush it off with that casual directness of hers, or accept the sentiment as intended.
What she does is reach for the glass of coke, grabbing it with an urgency that borders on frenzied. He’s still watching as she proceeds to drink – all of it, all in one go.
She’s a little out of breath when she sets the glass down, the heavy clunk loud and out of place in the quiet they’ve been occupying. She pushes it away sharply, almost to the edge of the table, dragging her sleeve across her mouth as she sits back.
Archer can feel himself frowning. He looks from her, to the glass, the back again.
“You alright?”
“Totally,” she coughs, and takes a sip of her vodka.
She holds his gaze as she drinks, another challenge. It feels like there’s a story there, from her ordering it to whatever that was just now, and Archer’s surprised to discover he wants to ask. He’s got his doubts she’d answer, though, so in the end he just holds his hands up in surrender and lets it go.
Let her be weird.
She sits back in her seat, arms wrapped around herself as she looks out over the bar. And maybe it’s too bold of him to assume, considering, but he gets the sense from her expression that maybe she needs a minute. So he leaves her to her thoughts, and takes a moment for himself to savour a long pull of his beer.
It’s fancier than the stuff he’d have at home, but Jeff’s good people and deserves the support. Besides, drinking the same shit that he does at home would largely defeat the purpose of going out.
… Maybe she’s about to bail. She’s definitely stuck around longer than he would ever have expected. Probably should’ve ordered some snacks when she first came over; they’ve been here long enough to warrant it. Plus, it’d give them something else to distract themselves with. The fact it’d offset the alcohol certainly wouldn’t hurt –
“Mind if I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She turns back to look at him. “What did it feel like?”
Archer flinches as though struck.
It’s probably too late to pretend he doesn’t know what she’s asking. In any other instance he could use her vagueness as a shield, buy himself a little time to deflect or evade the question. But she’s watching him with those same hard eyes as before, and there’s nothing else she could possibly be referring to.
To act otherwise would be insulting to them both.
He swallows against his suddenly dry throat.
“It was …”
He thinks back to that house, that basement, the darkness and all the uncertainty hiding within it. Even with every instinct warning him he’d still gone inside, gone down those stairs, because the possibility of his son being in there somewhere wasn’t something he could just ignore. And Matthew had been in there, they all were, by some miracle –
But so was that woman, who’d come clawing at him out of the darkness.
His skin crawls at the memory, and he has to reach up to adjust his collar.
“Shit, I don’t – I’m not that kind of guy, I don’t know how to describe –”
“You know what we say to the kids in our class?”
The interruption catches him off-guard. He thinks the surprise must show on his face, but Justine is utterly impassive, the closest to a stranger she’s been since even before this whole ordeal began.
He doesn’t like that look, some distant part of him thinks.
She’s waiting for him, he realises then. He shakes his head.
“‘Use your words’.”
A flush runs through him, anger or embarrassment or some combination of the two, he doesn’t know. All that’s clear is the reaction, immediate and instinctive. Archer clenches his jaw to keep from snapping out something he might regret, taking in a deep breath through his nose. If his surprise did show on his face before then this right now must surely have as well, and that only makes it worse –
Justine’s expression hasn’t changed at all, though. She’s not smirking, or laughing at him; if he sees that familiar challenge in her eyes there’s every chance it’s only because he’s looking for it. She just watches him, still and silent.
That word from before comes back to him: performance. The intensity of that initial reaction is dying down, but that doesn’t change the fact that he had it.
Use his words, huh?
“… It’s like I was in the passenger seat of my own brain,” he says. “I could see everything, feel everything I was doing – but I couldn’t control anything. There wasn’t really any thought, even, just this awareness that it was happening, and that I couldn’t stop it.”
“And after?”
“After it was like … I don’t know, like a rubber band snapping, and I was back in the driver’s seat.”
It’s … not a relief, exactly, putting it out in the open like this. There’s still something impossible, something insane about the entire scenario, and giving voice to it only makes that more apparent. To say nothing of the stress reliving that moment brings up, an anxious feeling he can’t ignore no matter how much he wants to.
But she’s the only one he’s said this to outside of the cops, and knowing that she was there to witness at least some of it …
Well, it helps make it feel a little more real, helps him feel a little less unhinged.
Only now does Justine look away, frowning at some spot off to the side. “Mixing metaphors,” she mutters.
Archer frowns. “Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
She knocks back the rest of her whiskey, setting the glass down a little more dramatically than she means to. Sitting back in her seat with her arms crossed would be equally dramatic, so she resists the urge, instead leaning forward to plant one elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand.
She shouldn’t have asked. She doesn’t know why she did.
Well, no, she does know. She was curious, in a mean and destructive way that’s all too familiar to her. He’s the only one she could ask, at any rate, and considering the circumstances, she doesn’t think she could be blamed.
And if that idea of him apologising is taking root even more, that’s entirely her business.
Archer’s looking at her weird. Like he’s trying to work something out, or maybe like he’s expecting something from her. And to be fair, he’s not wrong for wanting the latter. She was the one who asked. Acknowledging what he’s shared with her would be the expected, normal thing to happen in a conversation.
But at the same time, she’s not here to walk him through his catharsis. Being able to express himself is the bare minimum Archer Graff should be capable of.
She doesn’t give him anything. He seems to realise pretty quickly that’ll be the case; that look fades from his face, his attention turning to her empty glass.
“You want another drink?”
“Yes,” she answers immediately.
Justine watches him raise his hand, then make that same little motion with his fingers again, gesturing to the two of them. Order placed, just like that.
Would’ve been nice to get another vodka, but she’s not complaining.
Maybe it would’ve been a good idea for one of them to go up and get them. To disengage a little from the conversation, give them both a bit of space, even if only for a few minutes. But it’s too late for that now, and they’ll both just have to deal.
And Justine’s totally dealing. She’s so good. Not at all feeling that pit in her stomach from what he told her. Not at all finding the memory of what happened in that house replaying in her head, a phantom pressure against her throat.
She breathes in deep through her nose, trying to steady herself.
“But you’re fine now, right? No more murderous fugue states?”
“It wasn’t a fugue state,” Archer says, a little snippily. “But yes, I’m fine.”
He pauses then, hand reaching for his neck. He did that before, she notes, narrowing her eyes. She watches as he fiddles with his collar for a moment, a distracted look on his face.
“She, uh, took my necklace. They didn’t find it with the rest of her.”
That gets her attention. Justine sits up, curiosity alive and ravenous inside her chest.
“So is it true what they did to her?”
Archer’s face twists. “I didn’t exactly stick around to have a good look. I had to get Matthew –”
“But you saw her.”
She’s leaned forward without even realising it, like that might somehow incite him to answer. She stares him down, obstinate spirit in full swing. He hasn’t got a clue about how committed she can be, but he’s about to learn –
Jeff chooses that moment to deliver their drinks. Justine doesn’t move, barely blinks; her attention only shifts when he goes to collect their empty glasses, including the finished coke. She tries not to frown at it as he carries it away.
It was a stupid impulse to have ordered it. If she’d been trying to make herself feel better, she’s failed spectacularly.
The instant Jeff steps away from the table her eyes are locked on Archer again. He doesn’t quite hold her gaze, attention flitting from her to the now retreating bartender. It’s a strange thought that occurs to her then: that in that moment his evasiveness reminds her exactly of some of her students.
Matthew had been rather more blatant in his trouble making.
“Well?”
One last cautious glance around, and then Archer leans in. Voice low, he says, “They’d ripped her apart. Literally.”
Justine lets out a shaky breath.
She hasn’t seen the photos. The only image she’s looked at came from the cops, a slightly grainy security camera screenshot they asked her to identify from. She’s heard the stories, though. Most of the town probably has. Talk of a visceral scene, like something out of a horror movie, pieces strewn across some random front lawn.
And the children there at the centre of it.
Her mind is capable of conjuring up any number of things. She won’t lie: she’s spent some time imagining what horrible injuries might have been done to the woman. That her students could be responsible for the violence barely even factors into it; she’s witnessed more than enough weird shit lately to know that anything is possible. But having someone even vaguely confirm that what she’s been picturing isn’t far off the mark?
The satisfaction that fills her is sweeter than she’s expecting.
“Good fucking riddance,” she snarls, and throws back the rest of her vodka.
Archer tilts his glass in her direction, but he doesn’t drink. There’s a grim look on his face, and she can’t say she doesn’t understand it. They were her students, but they’re these people’s children; even knowing they weren’t in control of themselves doesn’t change that they did what they did, or how.
How do you juggle knowing what’s been done to a person, alongside what they could be made to do under the worst possible circumstances?
The line of thought dampens her vicious glee a little. It’s strange to think, but she wants Archer to be getting just as much gratification out of this as she is.
She doesn’t quite know what to say after that, and Archer seems pretty preoccupied himself, so they sit in silence for a while. Justine sinks back into the booth, taking the moment to decompress as much as she can. This entire conversation has been A Lot, and this latest branch of it isn’t any different. If she thought she was even close to being done processing, tonight has added a goddamn mountain of revelations and interactions and emotions for her to untangle.
It’s way too much to think about right now, so she doesn’t even try.
She watches Archer subtly from behind her glasses. His hands are loosely curled around his whiskey, turning it in slow circles along its bottom edge. He’s careful enough to not let any precious liquor slip out of the glass despite his clear distraction, and Justine finds herself a little transfixed.
He could be anybody in that moment – just another face at the bar when she comes in to drink, a stranger she’d give a once-over before dismissing. No sign of whatever mundane problems brought him in here. Nothing to hint at those less-mundane horrors now linking them.
She wonders what he’s thinking about. Whether he also now has a mountain of his own to work through.
He catches her looking then. Despite herself, she gives him a grim, thin-lipped smile.
Maybe he realises just how much he’s brought down the mood, as he gives another of those awkward little laughs and says, “Not sure I’ll ever look at an old woman the same.”
“Or terrible red hair,” she agrees. “Or clown makeup.”
Archer’s eyebrows pull together. He cocks his head. “How do you know about that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how do you know about that? Did you see her?”
Whatever easygoing mood had settled over them seems to evaporate in an instant. Archer is the one leaning forward now, an intent look on his face as he stares her down. The sight is so vividly familiar that for a moment she swears she’s been transported back in time, and they’re actually standing at the gas station.
But – no. He’d definitely made her uncomfortable, approaching her the way he did; it was a fucking dick move, and she hopes he knows that. But there was no aggression then, and there’s none now.
… He could maybe stand to work on his intensity a bit. Or controlling his face a little better.
“Are we – talking about the same person? Old woman, red hair, bad makeup?”
“Hey, I asked first, alright?” Archer says, pointing at her. “Now are you telling me you saw her?”
Justine can’t not roll her eyes. I asked first, Jesus, is she dealing with an actual child now? “Yeah, I saw her! She was in my house!”
“She was in your house?”
“Not in my house, okay, she was – on the ceiling.” The look Archer gives her clearly states how little that last addition has helped the situation. “It was after a dream.”
Archer’s face changes, confusion falling away in an instant. He sits back heavily into the booth.
There’s a moment then where she thinks maybe this is it – this is the line of weirdness and confessions he won’t be able to cross. She knew even as she was saying it exactly how strange a thing it was to admit to. Just as strange to be talking to him about her dreams. There’s a level of familiarity, of intimacy in that that she hasn’t shown to even some of her closest friends. It wouldn’t be that out of the ordinary for him to be repelled by it.
But then:
“She was in my nightmare.”
And that shouldn’t send a chill through her the way it does.
It’s too weird to be anything – anyone – else. She was able to turn people into her puppets – why the fuck wouldn’t she be able to psychically project herself, or whatever the hell that was?
Archer looks a little sick. “It was her, wasn’t it.”
Justine can only think of one thing to say in that moment.
“What the fuck.”
Archer kind of wants to crawl into bed and never come out. Shut himself and his son and his wife inside their house and let nothing ever threaten them again.
How is this the reality he’s found himself living in? He thought he knew what dangers to expect when it came to raising a kid. Guns and alcohol and drugs, poor driving and schoolyard brawls. Hell, even the shit he couldn’t be prepared for, cell phones and the internet and goddamn TikTok – at least he maybe had a chance of figuring out how to handle that.
But witches? Witches with the power to control people, as well as just … show up in people’s dreams?
How can that even be a thing? How is he meant to deal with that?
What else can he do against such an impossible thing but keep his family out of harm’s way?
… But even if he could somehow do that, the universe has so kindly just proven to him that some evils don’t even need to be present to seep their way inside.
It’s fine. Not like he was sleeping that great anyway.
How had she known to show up in his dream, though? Something to do with Matthew? Or maybe –
“You know what?” Justine ignores the way he startles. She holds up her whiskey. “Cheers to us. For getting this bitch solved when no one else could.”
Archer frowns a little, not quite sure where this shift has come from. Justine wiggles her drink at him, giving a tiny nod of her head towards it, and what else can he do but bring his glass up?
The clink is sharp and clear as she knocks their glasses together.
He watches her over the rim as he takes a sip. Her own mouthful is far bigger, nearly half the contents gone when she sets the glass down again.
“We could totally be like those characters in those shows that drive around the country helping people and fighting spooky stuff. You and your map, and me and my … snooping, I don’t know.”
Archer can’t pretend to hide his confusion. “You mean where they’re talking into the camera?”
“No, not that fake garbage,” she says, wrinkling her nose and flapping her hand at him. “It was like, a whole genre. You don’t know?”
He can only shake his head. She makes a pfft noise at him, waving her hand like she’s dismissing him. He has to keep his amusement from showing – this is probably the most casual, the most carefree he’s seen her, and it’s oddly reassuring.
If she can manage to treat this whole thing with some levity, maybe there’s some hope for him, too.
That the alcohol is surely playing a role is a detail he mentally glosses over.
“My knees aren’t really in a monster chasing state these days,” Archer plays along.
“Probably still a better option than the cops.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand how they missed surveying like that,” he slowly concedes, “but who knows, maybe there was some witch magic or something that got in their way.”
Justine narrows her eyes. “You know you don’t need to make excuses for them, right? They’re good enough at that on their own.”
“There are decent people there. The chief kept a level head about things, especially during the investigation.”
“And you know that for a fact.”
Archer bites his tongue.
Maybe if he’s lucky she’ll just think he’s speaking generally. It’s no secret that he made his feelings known following the disappearances; that doesn’t have to mean he was having meetings with the chief about how the investigation was going. She’s giving him the sort of look that says she’s waiting to call his bluff, though, like she can see right through him – and hell, maybe she can.
It’s not something he particularly wants to find out. So he shifts focus a little.
“That cop from the house – you don’t think he did everything he could to find our kids?”
Justine’s face closes off almost instantly. She goes still for a moment, so thoroughly it’s like she’s been frozen in place – and that is suddenly a far more terrifying thought than it ever used to be. Then she reaches for her whiskey, one hand curling tightly around the glass. But she doesn’t drink, just sits there holding it, staring at him but not really seeing.
Archer feels a spike of guilt at her reaction, but not enough to apologise. Not enough to try to take the words back.
Not enough to not dig the hole a little deeper.
“So … you knew him. Were you close?”
“Paul was – we were – complicated,” she says. Her voice shakes.
He’d like to pretend he’s above petty gossip, but he can’t deny there’s a certain appeal. Even if in his circles it tends more towards who botched what construction gig, or which kid’s parent got a little too invested in the most recent Little League game. So maybe it’s just the fact it’s linked to this whole nightmare scenario that has him curious. How did she know him? Was he only there because of her?
She just … doesn’t seem like the type to hang around with a cop, is all.
Doesn’t seem like the type to shoot one with his own gun, or another stranger in the head, either. And yet.
Maybe the lesson here is still that he doesn’t know her.
Justine doesn’t look miserable, but maybe that’s cause for concern in and of itself. “He didn’t deserve what happened.”
And for someone who’s not the greatest when it comes to emotions – he’s capable of admitting at least that much, okay? – Archer apparently decides now is the time to try.
“Wasn’t like you had a choice. Look,” Archer says, leaning forward until he’s sure she’s actually seeing him, “maybe it’s not my place, but he would’ve had no control over himself. It’s not like he wanted to hurt you.”
Justine gives a startled laugh. “Jesus, I’d hope not. Not that I don’t deserve it.”
The comment lands with a near physical weight over and between them, so obvious and uncomfortable not even he could pretend not to notice it. In an instant the mood shifts; he’s never known what the phrase ‘sucking the air out of the room’ could feel like, but he has some idea now. Justine seems caught between wanting to look away and staring him down, a tinge of red to her cheeks that wasn’t there before. Archer isn’t sure himself what he should do, whether she’d want him to acknowledge it or not.
Can’t pretend he didn’t hear it, either.
“Hey –”
“Let’s just leave it, yeah?”
What the fuck is wrong with her?
She definitely hasn’t drunk enough to be saying stuff like this. Especially to Archer Graff of all people. He doesn’t need a firsthand display of her neuroses, and certainly not when it comes to Paul. Not when he doesn’t know her. Not when he doesn’t really care.
God, she deserves a prize or something for making things awkward. A bonus prize even, since she wasn’t even trying to do it this time.
The rush of embarrassment makes her head spin a little, on top of leaving her face flushed. She hates everything about this entire situation, hates that she did it to herself, hates that even for a moment he seemed ready to ask –
It’s clear he’s still not sure whether he should be giving her some privacy, and she finally has to look away in earnest. If she didn’t feel absolutely rooted to the seat she might genuinely just leave now, never mind the rudeness. Just get up and walk out, no explanation offered. She doubts he’d even try to stop her.
Instead, she takes in a deep breath, tries to calm that spreading sense of agitation. Her fingers are still wrapped around her whiskey glass, holding so tightly her hand aches.
She can’t look back at him just yet. Maybe when her face feels a little less warm.
She’s still vaguely aware of him in her peripheral vision, the way he’s started fiddling with his beer bottle again. He eventually takes another long drink, the bottle sounding nearly empty when he puts it down again.
“I, uh … I’m worried about what’ll happen with Matthew. Whether he’ll recover.”
Justine frowns at the abrupt comment. She shifts in her seat a little, just enough to put him back in her line of sight a bit more fully.
“From the moment I knew he was missing, I wanted to do everything I could to bring him home. Joined search parties, cooperated with the police; I went out looking for him on my own a few times, like he’d just … spring out from behind a fence or something.” Archer makes a gesture with his hand, closed fist popping open into a splayed hand. “But he was gone. Vanished.”
She swallows uncomfortably, an unpleasant twisting sensation working through her insides. She has a feeling she knows what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, and she – she doesn’t need this. He doesn’t need to, not on her account.
She opens her mouth to stop him –
“I trusted the cops. I waited. And the whole time he was just in that house?” Archer takes a steadying breath, face set like he’s bracing himself for something. “I failed him as a father. I should’ve done more. And now –”
Archer’s voice has grown increasingly wobbly until right this moment, when it seems to break completely. Justine looks at him fully now, just in time to see the way he hides his mouth behind his fist, the bright sheen to his eyes. She tries not to watch him too intently. He deserves at least the same courtesy he offered her – and besides, seeing him this emotional feels like she’s intruding.
Even if it is a bit like driving past a car accident.
He doesn’t wallow in his emotions for long; she can all but see the iron grip he has on himself lock back into place. She musters up her courage before he can close himself off too much.
“You’re not a bad dad.”
“You can’t say that.”
Justine rolls her eyes explosively at him. “You literally just explained everything you did to try to find him. You know you were out there doing more than what half –” She cuts herself off before she can blame the other children’s parents for not solving their disappearance. It’d be a bit much, even at her worst. “You did a lot, okay? You helped find him, for Christ’s sake!”
He shakes his head. “I wasn’t there for him, even before all this happened. Not the way I should’ve been.”
“Yeah, well,” she throws her hands up at him, “now you’ve got the chance to fix that, don’t you?”
Archer finally looks at her properly. His eyes are still shiny, his face about as miserable as she’s ever seen – but he’s still holding himself together. Hell, the fact that he’s even making eye contact is probably significant for a guy like him.
He looks at her like he’s really, genuinely turning over her words inside his head. The scrutiny isn’t even aimed at her and yet it’s still discomforting to be considered the way she is now. She refuses to squirm under the attention, holds herself in place.
“You’re right,” he finally says, voice rough, “you’re right. I need to do right by him. Gotta get my shit together.”
He blows out a long breath, dragging his hands over his face and back through his hair. Physically he doesn’t look much better – she knew he was older, but he hadn’t looked old until just then – but at least now he seems to be carrying himself with a bit more ease.
She should be relieved for him. And part of her is. A little proud, too, that she could knock some sense into him.
But then he gives her this small, hesitant smile, and her thoughts stall.
“This isn’t the sort of thing I talk about. To anyone. So … thank you for that.”
It’s a genuinely heartfelt moment that Justine immediately has to blow up.
She’s not the one he should be saying this to. The only reason he’s talking at all is because she embarrassed herself before, and somehow that turned into him baring his soul. She’s not that person. She doesn’t need this.
And what was that about not walking him through his catharsis?
“Sure, you know, cos that’s what I’m here for. Your emotional healing.”
The smile falters a little. “Sorry?”
Justine’s sure that at any moment her glass is going to fracture in her grasp. Her throat feels like it’s about to close up, but she’s not going to let that stop her.
“Maybe you were right to worry. About failing him as a father.”
Archer stares at her. “Wha – Did I do something? Where is this coming from?”
He’s more shocked than angry, though she doubts it’s going to stay that way for long. She feels like she’s buzzing all over from the adrenaline, heart thumping in her chest – but she doesn’t look away from him.
“You know he was a bully, right?”
The silence that follows is worse than nearly anything she’s ever experienced. Which feels like it’s saying a lot these days. The way Archer’s face goes from confused to furious is going to live in her memory for a good long while, as will the way he leans in and points at her.
“Fuck you.”
He digs into a pocket, fiddling with something she can’t see – and then he slaps a handful of bills down on the table, shoving himself out of his seat without another look at her. She can’t even move to watch him go, following him with only her eyes as he storms across the bar and out the door.
The moment he’s out of sight it’s like a spell has broken. She drags in a shuddering breath, slumping back into the booth, suddenly exhausted. It’s only when she realises how stiff her hand is that she remembers she’s still holding the whiskey glass, and she downs the rest of it in one go.
It doesn’t help the sick feeling churning her insides.
He’s left his own whiskey basically untouched. Justine eyes it, considering.
She sits there for a few minutes, staring at the glass until she no longer feels quite so shaky. Tries telling herself in that time that it’s not actually guilt she feels, just something pretending to be that. Pretending very convincingly.
So convincingly in fact that she can’t ignore it any longer.
“Fuck,” she mutters, and pushes herself up from the table.
She’s almost out of the booth when she reaches back, snatching up Archer’s whiskey. One quick mouthful, and the glass isn’t quite empty but she puts it down all the same, and aims herself straight at the door.
It’s not as chilly outside as she’s expecting. How much of that is to do with the alcohol and the way her blood is rushing through her, she can only guess. She’s still clearheaded enough to be thinking straight – at least she thinks so. Still, that doesn’t mean she has a plan. She gave Archer more than enough of a head start; if he’s left she has no way of knowing where he’s headed, and driving blindly around town looking for him probably isn’t the best bet.
She doesn’t even know what she’d say if she found him –
She turns the corner into the car park, and there he is.
He’s standing in front of her car, she realises. The way she’s parked puts him along its side, in front of the doors. His arms are hanging at his sides, and he’s staring at the car with such focus she wonders if he’s even noticed her approach.
“I might know some stuff that’ll get this off.”
She doesn’t jump at the sound of his voice. He sounds perfectly neutral, doesn’t even turn to look at her when he speaks, and she follows his gaze over –
Right. The ‘witch’ graffiti.
With everything that’s happened, the thought of having her car fixed up has lost any importance it might’ve once had. She’s kind of forgotten it’s there, honestly.
“Yes, I also know how to google.” The words come without thinking. Archer huffs, shaking his head, and she has to stop from kicking herself. “Doesn’t matter. I think I’m just gonna rock it.”
“… You’re gonna rock it?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna rock it.”
He just sort of … stands there, eyes still on the graffiti. Then he nods, and turns away.
He’s not leaving, is he?
“Archer, wait.” She’s already followed after him a few steps before she realises he’s stopped. Justine takes in a deep breath, then just spits the words out: “I shouldn’t have said what I did. About you.”
She can only see half his face the way he’s standing, and the orange glow of the streetlights don’t help much. Hell, Archer’s face doesn’t help much – apparently when he decides to close off completely it can work really, really well. She doesn’t try too hard to decipher whatever’s there for both those reasons.
The fact that he’s stopped says more than enough.
Eventually, he shrugs. “Not like I wasn’t thinking it.”
“Even more reason, then. So. Sorry.”
Her heart’s doing a weird fluttery thing in her chest, and if this is the sort of reaction she has to apologising then maybe that says something about her. She’s not sure that’s what it is, though.
Archer finally looks at her again. He’s frowning as he considers her, and Justine can only stand there and wait for his judgement.
She almost misses it at first, the tiny nod he gives her. In an instant it’s like a weight’s been lifted from her, and she blows out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
So that’s that. They’re good, or as good as they’re going to be. Everything that needs to be said has been put out in the open.
What else is there for them to do now but go their separate ways?
She points a little awkwardly to her car, digging into her bag for her keys –
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Archer says suddenly, and she nearly stumbles to a stop. “Not with the cop thing, though I guess there was that, too.”
He pauses, and she’s both surprised and curious enough to just stand there, waiting for him to get his thoughts together.
It seems to take him a bit, but finally he draws himself up, looking at her straight in the face. “What happened at the house – I know I didn’t want to hurt you, but it’s gotta be different for you. I’m sorry for that.”
And it’s not quite the apology she would’ve expected, nor the one that part of her from earlier wanted, but it’s better than she deserves.
What does she even say after such a statement? A ‘thank you’ feels like it’s not enough, or too ingenuous. She shouldn’t just leave him hanging, not when she’s sure the words were a struggle for him.
In the end she can only mimic him, dipping her head in a small nod.
Now they’ve surely said everything they need to. It’s the awkwardness of being open with someone that she feels then, having to just casually walk away from a moment that was actually fairly significant. But standing around won’t make her feel any less raw, and one of them has to move first.
She takes another step towards her car.
“I want to thank you, too.”
And immediately comes to a stop. Again.
Thank her?
“… Why?”
“For shooting that guy in the house.”
Justine goes cold all over.
Archer doesn’t move any closer, but he does raise a hand out towards her – calming, like she’s some skittish thing. His eyes are on her, have been this entire time, and the intensity of the way he’s watching her makes her breath stick in her chest.
It’s not – he shouldn’t be thanking her for it. She shakes her head –
“No, look, maybe it’s fucked up to say,” Archer continues. “But it’s true. You got blood on your hands for me. That’s not nothing. If you hadn’t …”
In the silence that follows she feels the weight of all that uncertainty, all the outcomes that may have otherwise come to pass. They’re almost as heavy as the guilt she feels.
The cops haven’t told her much about the other man – James, she thinks, they said his name was James. Maybe there isn’t much to tell, outside of him already being known to the police. An addict, one of them had scoffed, as though that somehow made his death less of a tragedy.
He’d been a victim of that woman as much as everyone else. And Justine had just … shot him in the head.
Was there nothing else she could’ve done? Just how differently might things have played out if she hadn’t had to kill them?
In that moment, she knows with absolute certainty Archer isn’t thinking about random might-have-beens. Isn’t even thinking about his own safety. All he’s thinking about is the line from her shooting that man, to him finding Matthew.
Justine swallows, her throat painfully dry. “What else could I do?”
She doesn’t realise what she’s said until after the words are out of her mouth, doesn’t know if Archer recognises them for what they are; if he does, he makes no comment. He only looks at her with that same intensity, gaze made all the more piercing for the way the light casts over his face.
She’s prided herself in the past on not giving anything away, keeping a professional face even under the worst circumstances. She doesn’t know how well she’s managing that right now. Even if she was, she feels like Archer would still see right through her.
Much like he is now.
“You seeing anyone about it?”
“There’s a counsellor,” she says, shrugging. “I’ve got another appointment in a couple weeks.”
“Good, that’s good. Keep seeing them. You don’t want this shit sticking around in your head.”
Justine narrows her eyes at him. “And you’re totally one to take your own advice, right?”
Archer huffs a laugh. “Guess I might have to.”
She’s not a superstitious person by nature – though after everything that’s happened, maybe she should change that? – but it’s starting to feel like every time she intends to walk away, something keeps that from happening. Which is stupid – it’s not like she can stand out here all night. Hell, they might as well go back inside if this is the way things are going to go – and there’s a little voice in the back of her mind that agrees heartily with that idea, back inside for another free round, yes please –
Justine very pointedly ignores that voice. Keys held decidedly in her hand, she again moves towards her car.
“You, uh, sure you should be driving?”
She can’t help it – she laughs. Almost immediately she wishes she hadn’t: the last thing she wants is for Archer to somehow think she’s laughing at him. Trying to explain the line of thinking currently running through her head feels like an insane person’s task, and she’s not quite there yet. She can already imagine the look he’d give her in the process.
But the point remains: she shouldn’t just leave him to assume the worst. She’s not even sure what she’s going to say when she opens her mouth –
Archer, looking entirely unbothered, gets there first.
“I know you don’t need me looking out for you. If we hadn’t been drinking together maybe I could tell myself to ignore it, but …” He shrugs. “Wouldn’t want to see you make a mistake behind the wheel.”
Without even thinking, Justine replies, “Wouldn’t be the first one of those.”
The last had even involved a cop!
At least she’s still aware enough to realise admitting that little detail won’t do her any favours.
Archer is looking elsewhere in what feels like a very deliberate way, and not for the first time that night she gets the feeling he knows more than he’s letting on.
Whatever. He can’t think so little of her if he’s still here talking with her.
Maybe she shouldn’t be treating this so lightly. It’s … nice, that he apparently cares enough about her to worry about that. Not that she needs it. But it’s nice. Nice is a nice change, one she’s not used to, and certainly not what she would’ve expected from Archer Graff.
She’s officially thought the word nice too many times. Still, the point stands. She appreciates someone considering her like that.
She wonders just how quickly she could make him regret that, push him back towards who he was in the bar, spitting curses in her face and looming over her.
That she’s standing there thinking how best to argue why she should drive home under the influence is probably the greatest example why she shouldn’t drive home under the influence. She sighs, annoyed at her own reasoning.
“So I guess you’ll be leading by example then,” she says.
Archer frowns, and she gestures with her head towards him. He follows the motion, glancing behind him to find the subject of her attention – his own car, parked not too far off.
She hears him laugh again, and when he turns back there’s a rueful little smile on his face. He holds up both his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.”
Good. So now they’re both stuck standing out here. Turnabout’s fair play, motherfucker.
She sticks her keys back in her bag, folding her arms across her chest. She should get around to organising a ride before too much time passes. Not that she thinks she’d struggle to get one under regular circumstances – but with the way things have been going so far, she wouldn’t be surprised if something were to go wrong.
Archer doesn’t look like he’s in any particular hurry to leave, hands in his pockets as he stands there, watching her.
“You have anyone you can call?”
She smiles tightly. “Ah, no.”
“… Split a cab?”
A cab? God, he’s old. “Best not,” she says, delicately as she can.
Never mind that they were sitting across from each other for however long only a short while ago; something about the idea of sharing that small a space with him fills her with a strange nervousness. She can already feel it there, low in her belly, twisting and hot, and it spreads until her entire body seems to thrum with it.
Totally strange. There’s absolutely nothing else she associates that particular feeling with, no sir. Nerves are clearly the only explanation.
At least Archer seems oblivious to her minor crisis. If he had to pick a single moment this entire evening to be oblivious, this would be the one.
“Let me get you an Uber, then,” he offers easily. “Though I know you teachers are all rolling in cash.”
He says it in such an offhanded way, a glint in his eyes and a quirk to his mouth, and Justine can’t help but be charmed.
A different little voice in her head this time reminds her she’s a grown, independent woman, and that she’s more than capable of paying for her own ride home. She doesn’t like owing people things, especially not when she doesn’t know them well. At the same time, she tells herself he shouldn’t be making such offers if he’s not willing to honour them, and there’s nothing wrong with her taking advantage of a situation like that.
It’s not another free drink, but she’s not about to turn it down.
So that’s how they end up standing together outside the bar, waiting for her ride to show up. Somehow it’s not as awkward as she would’ve expected it to be. She can only imagine the picture the two of them make though, standing there, leaning against the building.
Not that it really matters. In fact it might actually be a nice change for people to gossip about something completely pedestrian, rather than the previous troubles surrounding her.
“You better not be waiting for me to leave before driving off yourself.”
Archer looks over at her. “Leading by example, remember?”
She narrows her eyes at him, but she can’t stop the smile that’s tugging at her lips. Archer’s expression then is strange, or maybe it’s just because she’s seeing it up close – his mouth has barely twitched, but there are crinkles around his eyes, and she can’t explain why but the only word she can think is warm.
She turns away before she can spend any more time thinking about it – or staring at his face.
She doesn’t keep track of exactly how long it takes for her ride to show up, but it doesn’t feel like a long wait. The car pulls up – it’s small and blue, and that’s enough for her to recognise it – and even before it’s come to a stop she’s walking over. Hand on the door, she glances back to find Archer’s stepped a little closer, like he’s making sure she covers even that small a distance okay. She gives him another tight smile and a little wave, and then she gets into the car.
The window is open. Her driver is a young, bored-looking woman who at least has enough patience to wait for her to get her seat belt on before shifting into gear. Justine watches her check her mirrors, one side then the other –
“Wait, Justine.”
She turns towards the voice.
Archer has moved almost to the window. He digs into his wallet, fishing for something she can’t see. It only takes a moment for him to find what he’s looking for, and then he’s holding out to her –
It’s a business card. His business card, Graff and Co Builders and its little logo displayed clearly, and beneath that, his name and phone number, neatly printed.
“Just in case you ever want to –”
… What? Hang out like they’re friends or something?
Swap traumatic stories?
Get drunk and do something they probably shouldn’t?
“… do this again sometime,” he finishes, weakly.
She stares at it, there in his hand. When she looks up at his face she finds his expression guarded, no hint there that she can read.
Before she can think twice about it – before he has the chance to draw his hand back – she reaches out and takes the card.
Just for a moment she thinks he looks surprised, but then she blinks and it’s gone. Archer’s already stepping back from the window, a little nod the only acknowledgement he gives her before rapping his knuckles on the car’s roof.
She keeps her eyes on him through the side mirror as the car pulls away, watches the way he just stands there, watching her go. It’s only a matter of seconds before he vanishes into the distance and the dark, but she thinks even then he hasn’t moved.
Justine keeps a hold of the card the entire trip home, turning it carefully between her hands. She hangs onto it even after she’s put his details into her phone.
Her thumbs make not a single mistake as she names the contact Archer.