"Death is the veil which those who live call life;  they sleep, and it is lifted." - Percy Bysse Shelley

29 Septembre 1803
Roma, Italie

Dearest Journal-Friend,

It is strange how the things that begin with the most hope and promise instead turn into nightmares, while those that remind you of what you thought you could not endure are a sort of salvation.

Marital bliss is not anything what I thought it might be. It certainly is not as it was with Romano , and no one ever lays a finger upon me if I do not wish it. However, when Antonio asked me if I might learn to love him of my own free will, it gave me hope that being what I am might afford me freedoms human women are too often denied. I began to think I had entered a world in which men and women were appreciated for skill and merit, not upon gender or the size of one's physical exterior.

After all, Death equalises us all a bit in that regard. The person in charge of a clan of Vampires is known as a Prince. Yet, there are times the Prince is a woman. It made me wish to cry, knowing there is a way of life that involves equality and no one cares a bit if I marry. I certainly am of no use for bearing anyone any sons.

Despite that, we live within a world that does not share the same values. Despite all the warring and death and loss, so much of society is the same as it has always been. I thought Antonio might be different, and in private he is very much encouraging of long discussions and thought and intellect. I think he loves me more for my mind than my body, something that has never happened before.

Yet when we are in public, he is a different person. He is severe and pious, reprimands me when I speak and shows me off as if I am a trophy. When I am pleasing, he pats my head, and says, "There's my pretty little wife". I feel as if I am a kept pet, although he often offers me a gift. It is a transparently cheap way to placate me.

I do, though, adore gifts.

Antonio has explained that in public, nothing has changed from before I changed. It is called living under the veil. It means taking extra precautions so the world cannot see the truths right in front of it, because truth often ends in death. Lies end in death, truth ends in death. I only wanted to be free and I thought I might.

It would be easier if Antonio and I might be partners-in-crime, but his nationality and his gender make him my superior and he is expected to treat me as such. I am expected to be quiet, doting, grateful, and charm everyone who cares for blue eyes and French accents. How could I choose to love someone who must always put on the facade of controlling me? It humiliates me. I could not do it any more successfully that Antonio might feel love for the Cardinale and Monseigneur who behave as if his life is at their mercy.

I am not here to be a wife, I am here to be a pawn. For this, I should be grateful because I am a refugee whose home has been taken by those unworthy. I am not grateful that we are all used by opportunists.

It is also obvious that though Antonio respects and perhaps even desires me, he does not love me. He thinks I am so daft I do not see how he looks at the Madame de Roussel. She looks at me as if she is innocent and lovely and call her sister. Yet, there is a small window of stained glass between the room where Evienne dresses and my own chambers. I wonder if, in other times, all the secret small windows were to pass messages, as they are everywhere.

I caught Antonio in my dressing chambers, near that window. When he saw me approach, he was--in a state of frenzied excitement, with his trousers unzipped. He tried to move me away from the window, but I could see the figure of Madame de Roussel, as naked and unashamed as the day she was brought into the world. She was standing on something to make her taller and more visible, and when she saw me, she did not have the decency to move. Neither of them did. Instead, Antonio pushed me toward the ground so I could use my lips to please him while he watched her. 

Instead, I bit his thigh just slightly, and the mixture of blood and desire sent him into frenzy, even at his age. The weakness pleased me, because it was a way of punishing him for his infidelity, for not loving me. Afterwards, after we made love and shared blood and were joined as mates again, he tried to explain. I cried, though I cannot cry, because he wanted me to love him but he does not love me.

Antonio said it was difficult, because if humans struggled with monogamy---and I know they all seem to have this weakness that is considered unholy --- it becomes even worse for those like us, who desire more than sexual pleasure. He told me it had little to do with love, that mated immortals often had other companions because "forever is a very long time". He then explained the natural attraction to humans, like Madame de Roussel, who is not more beautiful than I am but has a heartbeat. Antonio said, "Eleonore, how do you think we find food and create children?"

I suppose I hadn't given that part much thought. I told him I never had a Sire to teach me any of these things, and though I had met Lucretia, I thought only she was made that way. I do care for Lucretia, I simply believed her to be a woman of rather loose morals who did not care what others thought.

I asked him if I too should come to feel this way, if I should lower myself and disrespect him by taking lovers.

He said yes, and I was just too young and too attached to the human views of things to feel it yet, but I would one day. Antonio tried to make me believe that whether human or immortal, the desire to have sexual relations outside of marriage is normal and we all agree to pretend it is not to please the Church, but everyone knows.

Everyone, I suppose, expect me. I always thought my Papa a sinner and a weak man for keeping a mistress and her bastards in a place small enough my Maman must have known.

Now I feel naive, and I wonder if she had secrets of her own.

Your beloved and quite bewildered,

Eleni

November 20th, 2015
Aubrey Parish, Louisiana

On most days, Damon felt like the most ignored and invisible person in Aubrey Parish. Sometimes, Azzie would come by to see him and bring him food and she will talk his ear off about things that happened around the Parish. Other days, she left him with Mr. Grimm for company. Mr. Grimm, at the spry young age of ninety-six, wasn't the most exciting company. The fact that he couldn't talk made him a good companion for a girl like Azzie, who is excited about almost everything. For Damon, a person who struggles with social interaction whether drunk or sober, Mr. Grimm is a lot of work and not exactly a scintillating companion.

It had taken Damon a little while to catch on, but he started to figure out Azzie sometimes left Mr. Grimm at the library just so she could be alone for a few hours. He laughed when he finally saw through the pixie-like redhead, her face too innocent for the possibility of ulterior motives. Clearly, Damon had underestimated her, but he didn't blame her for it. She had always been the kind of person to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Azzie needed the kind of person who had the energy and strength to help share her burdens. Though he'd wanted to be, he'd failed on every account, at every attempt.

The day Azzie came to the library in a pretty pink and black dress, wearing her best jewelry and her hair pinned up into a beautiful work of art, Damon was both happy and intensely lonely. Azzie was growing into a beautiful woman, while Damon would likely never be more than the town drunk the people pitied. The way Azzie cared for him every day--bringing him breakfast, helping him away from the curious eyes, fighting the losing battle to keep him clean and sober-- it was a kind of love, but it wasn't enough for her.

Azzie took care of the world. She deserved one person who was strong enough to take care of Azzie.

Damon was happy for her, especially when he saw the change in her smile. He started to realise that for a long time, Azzie had been very lonely, too.

He was only disappointed in himself for not being the one who could take that away and make her feel special, important. In his eyes, Azalea Rose Parker was the most special person ever put on the Earth, even if he never told her that. Damon just assumed she knew.

The sting of the bottles of amber-coloured liquid with which he punished his body nightly helped Damon forget being invisible. He had never stood a chance at being the kind of person good enough for anything but the nightmares and loneliness that were his constant shadow companions. 

Enough years and enough drinks had gone by that it didn't matter anymore. There was no one left to care, not even himself.

Every Saturday, Damon cleans himself up nicely. He is sober, or at least what passes as sober for Damon. He is clean-shaven and presentable, even handsome. Those who didn't know better have no clue he's the same man that's whispered about, "the hobo in front of the library". While Damon didn't have many friends, what he did have were books. In his mind, each and every story he reads or hears becomes a beloved friend. The tales each page presents, the friends and enemies he'd meet every day he opened the cover of a new book, it was possibly the only thing that kept Damon alive  and gave him the motivation to keep going.

When times are hard, Damon tells himself that if he just keeps hanging in there, the next week there will be another Saturday.

Damon not only handles managing the library but is in charge of all things to do with the building, maintaining and ordering new books, and everything that happens at the library is now Damon's choice and responsibility. This came about due to the retirement of another lonely old man, Mr. Walters. Damon tries not to think about how much Mr. Walters might miss the place, just in case the old man changes his mind and wants his library back.

No one has the heart to tell Damon that Mr. Walters isn't going to want the library back. The old man passed away less than a week after leaving the library to Damon. Like the troubled young man who would inherit his legacy, Mr. Walters wouldn't leave his friends inside the library until it was time to say goodbye for good.

The very top floor is Damon's home, a cute nook with a small bedroom, bathroom, and space enough for a television. Azzie says it reminds her of a monastery, but he thinks monks must be very peaceful because his little library home is the only place that makes him feel any sense of safety or joy. The world is not a place Damon belongs, but here, he has a home.

Though he still wonders about Mr. Walters sometimes, Damon is actually the happiest he remembers being in decades. When he feels low, he still looks around and a smile breaks out on his face. No matter what happens in Aubrey Parish, Damon will never, ever be alone again.

Walking down the street, Bryn Aeron tried not to pace. He was nervous because the thing he traveled all this way to accomplish was scheduled for that day. Bryn was finally going to meet Iona Bellerose, the mysterious fan who'd tracked down the tracker. That in itself made him very curious what she'd be like and anxious to meet her.

Thanks to help from Azzie and a Creole man named Henri, the drama of Bryn's arrival had turned into a sense of normalc. Henri was a man with a thick accent whose sole job it was to work the Aubrey Parish welcome gate, but if you could understand him, he knew everything about everyone. He also had endless tales of Aubrey Parish he loved to tell, mostly because his job was among the most dull in the Parish.

Bryn had spent the last few nights in a comfortable if feminine purple room inside the local hotel. To his surprise, the hotel was not really a hotel. It was more like visiting a house that belonged to someone's great-grandmother. So much about the place was attractive to Bryn and his eager imagination, and there were an exhausting number of objects, nooks, and crannies he instinctively knew had amazing stories attached. Especially if Aubrey Parish was a place where the small-town facade hid a world of supernatural beings, trying to imagine all the people who had passed through there awed him a bit. If he was being honest, it maybe scared him just a little, too.

Somehow, the Sheriff of Aubrey Parish and his Deputy got some men together to keep Bryn's car from tumbling down the side, over the rocks, and taking out half of the Parish with it. Bryn was relieved. He didn't believe the stories now that Azzie had shown him how easily could leave. No one was there to stop him, no one was going to have to be directed here without consent because of the rule that there always had to be 8,999 souls present in Aubrey Parish at any given time. It was now parked in the makeshift field-turned-parking-lot, where the old car looked strangely at home.

Like most places where too many people didn't have enough of what was needed for every day life, Aubrey Parish had a kind of camaraderie Bryn thought welcoming. When he told the nice lady who was the receptionist about needing a suit for meeting with someone important, one appeared on the doorknob of his room at dinner time. After finding the tailor's shop for some alterations, Bryn Aeron was as spiffy and professional as he could be. He was actually a very handsome man, not that he'd ever noticed such things, or expected anyone else to do so.

There's no reason to be nervous. You meet people all the time. Why is meeting a woman who sends you e-mails something special?

Bryn knew his nervousness about meeting Iona was irrational and she was probably a very nice lady. Unfortunately, not a single person in Aubrey Parish had a nice word to say about her other than she was rich and "always impeccably dressed". For the most part, the entire Parish avoided her, except for her younger sister and a few friends.

Why in the world did someone everyone is afraid of reach out to me?

There was both humility and skepticism in Bryn's thoughts, and his sweaty palms and realisation that the old suit repurposed for him wasn't as comfortable as he thought didn't take away from the excitement of the day.

There are secrets here, mysteries that no one has even begun to solve, and she chose me to be the one to try to answer them.

It was with no small measure of pride that Bryn found the newspaper's office and stopped at the receptionist's desk that day. He was going to meet Iona Bellerose, and together, they would turn Aubrey Parish upside down.

That day, Damon's mood is cheerful even though Azzie and Mr. Grimm both were at the hospital instead of coming to see him. Even on her busiest days, Azzie still thinks of him, something Damon knows because the desk has a paper bag on it. Inside, there is something inside paper. When he unwraps it, he sees a concoction made of a bagel, cheese, a fried egg, and Canadian bacon. Canadian bacon isn't as good as actual bacon, but it still counts. It's not as if Damon treats his body like he plans on living past fifty anyway, so he is the one person Azzie never lectures about eating healthy foods, and carbs, cholesterol, and all that bullshit.

Instead, there's a note that says "Microwave me for 90 seconds. The coffeepot is on."

Damon inhales, his stomach churning remnants of last night's binge when he verifies the smell is coffee. Most people wouldn't bother to leave Damon a box of Pop-Tarts. Azzie is a very good kind of person.

Making his way behind the desk, his tired face lights up a little. It's Friday. Fridays aren't always the best days for him, because they're reminders of the very vibrant world outside. It's a world full of things he can't be a part of and people who love and care about other people sharing experiences together. Knowing he won't have that in his life is sometimes hard, no matter how much he retreats into his comfortable nook with a good story and a bottle of booze.

Saturdays are different for Damon. They make up for everything that is heavy and sad about Fridays.

The loneliness lifts completely on Saturdays, when the library holds story hour twice a day. Story hour often turns into two, and while it began as a way to tell amusing tales to children, slowly but surely, the adults started to visit. When he tells stories, Damon is transported into his own little world, and he has the way of taking the audience with him. If only once, someone had told a young Damon he was a gifted and powerful performer, the course of his life might have run quite differently.

In the mornings, Damon still tells funny, quirky, and sometimes slightly scary stories to the youngsters of Aubrey Parish. Even the sullen teenagers who hate everyone and everything manage to roll out of bed for a good ghost story.

On Saturday evenings, though, Damon's stories are like a visit to a haunted house. He feels a little guilty when he dims the lights and there is the occasionally scream during his performance. However, the people of Aubrey Parish are in love with spooky stories, romantic stories, and when the two mix together, it is perfect. Every Saturday evening, the library is packed, and Damon is no longer invisible.

He doesn't even mind that Azzie leaves Mr. Grimm there so she can go out on fancy, proper dates. Well, if he is honest, he does mind a little and he talks to Mr. Grimm about it sometimes.

They both agree that Azzie deserves to be happy, and so does Damon. Mr. Grimm doesn't seem to mind Damon anymore. Maybe it's because the old man knows the pretty young girl needs a few hours to herself, just to smile and laugh and be a young girl. Maybe it's because when he looks at Damon, he can identify with the feeling of loneliness. Except for the time he spends with Azzie, Mr. Grimm has been alone and feels invisible for a very long time, too.

Maybe he just likes the ghost stories.

Bryn Aeron is just a little wide-eyed as he looks around the newspaper's offices. In a city where nearly everything is run-down, dilapidated, or a relic from the 1990s, this building seems shiny and new. It belongs in a cosmopolitan city, not in a nowhere town by the Louisiana bayou whose claims to fame revolve around history, crime, and spooky legends.

Looking at the photos and awards on the walls, he could say the same thing about the woman he came here to meet. The stories he's heard don't add up, stories about a young gypsy girl who came from nothing and reinvented herself. Iona Bellerose has that look that isn't cultivated, but those who are born into a lifestyle of privilege and entitlement seem to possess.

Her hair is just the right mixture of colours so that the dyed light blonde eyebrows match perfectly. Her dress is always revealing enough to be alluring, but tasteful enough to advertise her inaccessibility. Her jewelry is genuine and beautiful, yet understated. Iona Bellerose was the kind of woman made for a style catalogue created to sell things to women like her. The idea of her living life in the South, in poverty, as a gypsy--none of that adds up to form a sensible or believable puzzle in Bryn's mind.

What if her whole self-made image was just an act?

Bryn snaps out of his reverie when a small Asian woman with hair like black silk speaks to him in a very welcoming, practised tone. "Hello, my name is Asura. Welcome to the Chronicle. Do you have an appointment here today?"

He doesn't want  it to, but his voice falters a bit, lapsing into the Welsh brogue that's not anyone's idea of classy in today's day and age, but is natural to him. "Ye..yes. I'm named Bryn. Bryn Aeron.  I'm bein' expected to call on a lady named Iona this noon. She said I should be makin' my way to her offices to find her, if'n ye can point me toward the right way there."

Asura's face registers the combination of surprise, amusement, and interest at the sound of Bryn's accent. He notices, but chuckles to himself, attempting not to feel self-conscious here. He knows he is unusual here, and that's one of the last things he thought he'd be in a place rumoured to be full of supernatural monsters, human criminals, and anyone who simply had no desire to be found. He'd gotten little solid evidence about what or who was in Aubrey Parish, but one thing everyone had told him was, "Don't worry. If you're here because you have a need not to be found, you just as likely won't be."

He isn't about to let on that he's the one doing the hunting. Of course, this woman Iona knows, and he can only hope she isn't the worst at keeping secrets.

"Of course, Mr. Aeron. Just one second. Would you care for refreshment while you wait? Tea, coffee, soda pop, the like?" Asura's voice is unfailingly pleasant and her diction perfect. Bryn knows enough of the world to know there are girls all over the world just like her competing to be assistants to the celebrities and hostesses for the world's wealthiest celebrities. Instead, she is here in Aubrey Parish. Bryn wonders what she's hiding from.

A few days in the Parish, and Bryn has already grown paranoid and curious about everyone. Then again, he is always a quick study and travels with his guard up most of the time.

"Aye, not in need of much fancy, so don't trouble o'er me, lass. One of those waters already in the bottle, that'll do well."

Asura smiles and brings him a bottled water, before long fingers with perfectly-manicured pink ovals press against the phone. "There's a 3 PM appointment for Ms. Bellerose in the lobby. The name is Bryn Aeron. Would you like me to send him on up?"

Asura looks shocked by the reply, and puts the phone down quickly, standing at attention like a soldier whose commanding officer has entered the room. Iona never came to the lobby to greet visitors, much to the chagrin of those who concentrate on public relations.

However, she was there to greet Bryn Aeron, the frosty blonde hair and ice-glazed pink lips reminding him a little of a mythological figure. "Mr. Aeron. I'm so happy you could make it. I was beginning to wonder if your trip would end up being possible. I hope the Parish has been to your liking?"

She is a strange creature, at least in his mind, so much the opposite of everyone else to whom he's been introduced. She doesn't bow, curtsy, kneel, hug, or even offer her hand to shake. There is no polite greeting at all. In fact, her face wears an expression that says the idea of touching others or standing too closely is repellent.

It isn't anything he'd want to come home to every night, but he has a sort of respect for her demeanour.

Bryn stands and decides to copy her greeting, not giving her a hand to shake. "I guess you might say I had some unusual kinda car trouble, seein' as the car were on its side and ready ta take me down a slope i' rocks to the river. We both survived." Bryn's look is a full-on grin. He's a little proud that no one has a better arrival story than he does. "A right pleasure to meet ye, Miss Bellerose. I'm glad fer havin' the chance to put a face with the letters ye sent."

He ignores the fact Asura didn't call her "Miss". In his world, life was simple. Ladies were either married or they weren't, and the lack of any ring on Iona's finger told him she was a "Miss".

An almost-smile moves Iona's frosted lips, and she replies evenly, "Come. I'm on the seventh floor. I'll walk us there so you don't get lost."

Iona doesn't even acknowledge the receptionist, who is so eager to please she looks afraid to breathe. Bryn feels sorry for the girl, and calls back, "Thank ye rightly fer bein' so pleasant, Miss Asura."

Iona still says nothing, but as they walk towards the elevator, she remarks, "It is kind of you to be so polite to the help. Unnecessary, but good-hearted."

He doesn't reply. He feels a little sorry for the people who work in the building.  Surely they are more than the help to her.

"Can't help but feelin' a little taken aback by the Parish, Miss Bellerose. Your stories had me picturin' a lawless jungle, or instead a world where people pull their faces off and reveal the terrifyin' monster beneath.

"Please, call me Iona. There is no need for the formality." He secretly wants to snort in reply. Everything about her and her building is overly formal and about the art of perfection. "You'll come to see in time your first thoughts were exactly right. Do not let the charm and veneer fool you. Have you heard of the Masquerade? Some of those who are older call it the Veil."

"I know what a masquerade is, Miss Iona. Can't say as attendin' fancy parties is much my style."

Iona laughs, and the sound leaves the feeling of ice droplets in the air. "It's not nearly that simple, but you're living in one right now. You just didn't need a costume."

Bryn considers her words carefully as they get into the elevator, and Iona punches the 7 button a bit forcefully.  It is either a lucky number, or a very unlucky one indeed.

Either way, Bryn Aeron is now along for the ride. Strangely enough, he's no longer nervous.

Across town at the hospital, Colton realises he's given Scott far more than his allotted 20 minutes of visiting time. It has been a long day, and already the the thing the Sheriff wants most in the world is a nap. Colton feels like he needs time to himself, and he assumes Scott might have the same problem after visiting the girls. The Sheriff is less concerned with the time, and more concerned with the two unopened manila envelopes burning a hole through his briefcase.

The first had been emotional enough, a shock to his system that is still present even though he's made a conscious effort to dismiss it from his mind. Colton rationalises that the second will be better for him. No matter what the results are, they're going to activate not his emotions but the puzzle-solving mechanisms in his brain.

With a sigh, Colton sits back down in the rather uncomfortable conference room chair and hoists the briefcase onto the table. As he flips the latches, the first thought that runs through his mind is the one he wishes would leave him.

Ava. She is in there, and she's still speaking to me. She's saying I haven't done enough. I haven't told the truth.

I haven't told Zia.

Colton pushes the thought of the girl away for now, something easier said than done. The only way he's able to do it is by focusing on the envelope that's not nearly as well hidden. Simply thrown under a pile of papers, anyone snooping in Colton's briefcase would conclude he wasn't trying to hide a thing.

Taking a long sip of water, courtesy of a new bottle from the vending machine, the Sheriff also sneaks a few potato chips before wiping his hands on his slacks. It was way past lunchtime and he was hungry.

Resolutely, he grabs for the envelope. There really is no time like the present, and they'd all been living in a world full of too many questions and not enough answers for too far too long.

Suddenly, Colton's vision blurs and his heart starts racing. Shit, on top of everything else, I'm starting to feel the stress. It's either that, or those double cheeseburgers add up. The only solutions he'd come across in this town for dealing with stress involved drinking, booze, or church, so Colton figured he'd just keep the stress.

The paper feels odd under his slightly trembling fingers, and he takes a sip of water again. There's a sudden urge to pour it over his entire body, but instead he puts the report from the lab on the table.

"Dear Sheriff Ormond,

Thank you as always for your business. For such a small town, you guys often have the most interesting cases for our team to solve. You may be amused to know that sometimes, the department even bets on the outcome to keep it light and cheery!

This time, you made it easy on us. The fingerprints and DNA sample of the individual in question were already in not only a national but and international database. The unknown individual has been positively identified as Viktor Sergei Zenkova, age 48. Born in Russia, he was a convicted fugitive sentenced to serve out his sentence on a Soviet prison ship that, according to Russian authorities, never existed. 

Though much of the investigation has been classified, the ship did exist and carried between 150-200 passengers. Orders were given for the ship to be quarantined and destroyed when reports had it 70 miles from New Orleans, tainted with the first major outbreak of plague seen in decades. 

All were declared lost at sea. The United States government offered pensions, citizenships, and other compensation to the widows and children of the disaster. We'll say it's because of the kindness and morality of our country.

Victor Sergei Zenkova was among those killed when the ship was destroyed. The possibility of a man swimming or even using a rowboat to travel a minimum of 50 miles to your shore, survive exposure to the plague, and begin his life again as both an illegal immigrant and convicted felon without being discovered until his death is almost unbelievable. It is, though, one of those great  and rare true stories. Extensive testing and re-testing have proven it is the same individual, and not even an identical twin would share the exact same profile.

As an added bonus, the DNA of Victor Sergei Zenkova shows a superficial paternal, or at least familial, match to 7 individuals in the system. One currently resides in Aubrey Parish, Louisiana. More specific paternity testing can be done if the individual wishes, and we also suggest testing of any siblings and offspring to solidify the familial link. Mr. Zenkova appears to have left behind multiple families.

Please give us a call any time. We get curious here. "

Sincerely,
Dr. Gregory Carter, M.D.

The Sheriff merely stares at the letter. It is so far-fetched, he wonders if the lab director is playing a trick on him. The story he just read involved an escaped felon, the United States blowing up a foreign ship off the Louisiana coast, Russians demanding reparations, an outbreak of the plague, and a man who should have died multiple times living in Aubrey Parish for half of his life--only to be killed by a random mugger before he could marry a socialite whose husbands have a habit of being dead.

If I ever write this story, I will make a shit-ton of money, Colton thinks to himself.

"Jesus Christ, Victor. You were one indestructible son-of-a-bitch."  He looks up, talking to Victor the same way he talked to Ava. Of course, if any of Brian's Bible lessons ended up being spot-on, he should probably direct his comments in the opposite direction.

"I always thought that behind the exterior, there was a nicer person than most people gave you credit for. There probably wasn't. Who knows what's true about you and what isn't?" Colton pauses.

"The bad news is, you died with people rememberin' a gangster and a pimp who killed an innocent young girl . The good news is, I know you didn't, least not with your own hands." 

Colton's glance moves up and down, the familiar ache in his head starting again. "The bad news is, you still did it. Ava would be a happy married lady like your Mira if only she'd never met you. You hurt Mira, too, and who knows how many other women and children who cried over you. How many other Avas were there? How many other babies got sent away when their mothers disappeared?"

Colton's fist punches the table, oblivious to the noise and the pain. "I don't even know about this Eleni. I don't like her much, but the boy who's like my son, he sure does. The man who's my best friend acts like her daddy. Somethin' deep in my gut says you found your next victim lookin' into those blue eyes, and she turned the tables."

The laugh the Sheriff lets out is a harsh one. "Maybe I ain't partial to her because it ain't right, what I think she did, but justice ain't somethin' so clear. Part of me hopes she did stand up for herself. And you know what? If she did, or it was her and Keegan together, or Chance looking out for his kids, or Mira lurkin' in the shadows, or Virgil finally wantin' what's owed him--buddy, I ain't tellin' no one."

The Sheriff's face is a tired one, but one that has just relinquished a huge burden. "That's what you said to me once, ain't it? "The only favour I'll ever ask is don't tell no one." I did once for you, and now I will another time, for everyone else."

Colton threw the file in his case and stood up. Unlike with Ava, there were no tears, no regrets. Instead, he was overwhelmed by a sense of closure. Colton often looked the other way to help the people who needed it, the kind of people no one else would give the time of day. He will never understand how he made such fatal mistakes with Victor.

He always believed Victor was misjudged, that beneath the surface, there was more good than bad. Even when he met Ava, he chose to believe Victor would protect that sweet girl in a world that wouldn't.

He had looked the other way, and because he did, Ava was dead. The young man who loves her was a shell of a person, and likely would be for the rest of his life. Some things, people don't just get over. Colton knew very well that Keegan couldn't move past grief because he not only hated a man too dead to ever confront or punish, but because he felt responsible.

The Sheriff knew the feeling all too well.

He'd made the choice many times in his life, and in the process, saved lives. He'd given deserving, victimised, broken people second chances. Damned if he'd only be remembered for the one time he misjudged a person and chose wrong.

Everything Colton's life had taught him added up to knowing right and wrong isn't the simple concept people make it out to be. He had always thought he did a good job, kept peace and justice in the town. Instead, he turned into a person who allowed compassion to let him start playing judge, jury, and executioner.

The very first day he shook Victor's hand and said, "You're not such a bad guy", he made a mistake that would forever haunt him.

Colton would not make the same mistake twice. His jaw set in a firm line, he storms toward the elevator. He planned to find Scott, and not only check on him, but put the fear of Brian's God into the boy.

Aubrey Parish needed no more Victor Zenkovas, and the Sheriff would make damned sure there were none.