The sirens are gone now, as is the pink color in the sky, replaced by natural blue and the artificial red of the police lights. The vehicles themselves couldn't make it through the flooded field down below, so instead they'd come in along a backway and parked at the edge of the hill behind the semi-circle of shacks.

It'd been chaos: all yelling and guns and arms grappling around. They took Gideon from the ground, blood dripping from the soaked hem of his shirt as they lifted him up. Then Erie, from her and Dolly's arms. Clint, Dolly, Jeremy. They were gentler with her, seeing how shaken she was and spotting the diluted blood that'd soaked into the yellow of her jacket from standing in Gideon's blood water. Paramedics fussed over her until they realized the blood was not her own. Thanks for reminding me, she'd thought, eyes welling up. I'd rather it was.

She stands at the edge of that hill now, looking down at the roofs of the shacks. She doesn't want to look anywhere else. She doesn't want to see the flashes of red or the blue sky mixing together, she doesn't want the blood and the water, she doesn't want any of it. All Lacey wants to do is stand there and stare. So she does.

Gideon and Erie have long since been rushed to the hospital. The rest of them remain. Because of Dolly's "miscount" of the injured on the scene, they tossed Clint into the back of a cruiser. Dolly'd insisted he was fine but, according to all other parties, the mark on his head and the hole in his arm say otherwise. They shoved him back there, his good arm cuffed to the door and the other treated by one of the paramedics that'd opted to stay behind for his sake. Already, the tires squelch away, likely headed to the same place they're taking Erie and Gideon.

It makes her blood boil. Her fists clench. I don't like them being within the same mile let alone the same building. Who the fuck thinks it's a good idea to take the man who shot the guy to the same place they're trying to keep him alive? She squeezes her eyes to a close. He doesn't deserve to be helped. Not after all he's done. Let him hurt.

She cracks her eyes open again but the scene down below starts to replay in front of her, the noises echoing in her ears: gunshots, metallic rings, bloodcurdling screams, Gideon's face slipping into peace as the last bit of fight drains out of him. With a noise of distaste materializing at the back of her throat, she turns away sharply and drags her feet through the grass.

Wind slips between the trees and presses against her wet clothes. A plaid blanket lays over her shoulders and she curls her fingers into the scratchy fabric, tightening it around her as she shuffles along, kind of aimless. Her eyes catch on more plaid, the corner of it dipping into the mud. She follows the corner up until it ends at the woman's lap, covering only her crossed legs, which stick out of the open door of the backseat of another police cruiser. She's got no cuffs, not yet. It allows her to smoke freely, a cigarette pinched between two fingers loosely. Smoke drifts between two lips smudged with red. It must irritate her eyes, because they're a deep red, and the inky blots of mascara on her cheeks continue to run. The woman doesn't seem to care, though. She stares off into space, just as aimless as Lacey's walk.

For a moment, she considers going over there to console Dolly. Even just to fill this empty space with conversation, with something that has nothing to do with this entire situation. Or maybe she considers it because she still remembers that time she'd brought Lacey aside and dabbed the blood from her forehead with the tenderness of her own mother.

Then her eyes catch on something, a few distinct markings on the back of Dolly's hand, the one raised to suspend the cigarette a few inches from her mouth. They're haphazard little lines, barely healed scratches. It strikes Lacey now that she's never seen the woman in broad daylight without her sleeves pulled up over her hands until now. That old memory resurfaces again, colored differently. The whole time Dolly had wiped the blood away and disinfected the wound, the whole time she'd frowned and pushed Gideon to eat and drink and for Lacey to get rest, every one of those times where she'd been there, hovering with care that seemed so real, so real, she'd known that Stella was dead. She'd known that she herself had been the one to wrap her hands around Stella's throat and cut off a life that had not yet run its course.

The rage builds and bubbles fast and violent and her neck reddens. She ought to make Dolly suffer for it, she should, and she takes a step forward to act upon this idea, but then- then the woman turns her raw-eyed gaze to Lacey's and they see one another. Dolly's lips quiver when she sees the heat in Lacey's face, the pure disgust. Her features, so strong and sharp, soften, and there is only one word to describe what overtakes them. Shame. Shame and apology and defeat and a million other things, and suddenly, the rage fades out of Lacey as soon as it'd come. Dolly's care had been real.

Lacey can't even bring herself to be angry anymore. Just feels stupid for not realizing before that she'd been lied to, that it was all right in front of her since the start. Even if she wanted to feel the painful warmth build up within her, there's no room for it anymore. Gideon fills that space, and the bleak outlook of his survival. The panic of the paramedics had been enough to make that much loud and clear. So no, no room for anger. Just this twisting feeling, one that puts a shiver into her bones and a sting behind her eyes.

Erie will be fine, at least. They'll nurse him back to health, the doctors and his mother and his friends. He has a fighting chance. But Gideon...

Now she can't keep her own lip from quivering, and she turns away from everyone and everything, turns her thoughts elsewhere too as she marches off to the side. There's a large gray boulder sitting between two thin-trunked trees and she scoots upon it until she's comfortable. She readjusts the blanket around her shoulders so that she can bring her knees up to her chin and cover her mouth with the fabric. Then, a sigh.

As much as she'd rather cast Dolly out of her mind and forget she exists, she can't cast out her words from before. Important words, let loose in a time of desperation. Lacey would be an idiot to let them go.

"Only reason I did was 'cause a close friend called me, and he was afraid, so afraid...he offered me money if I could just...cover it up. I took Clint's car and drove her off to that 'safe place', to the man who started this whole mess. And one of the worst parts about it all is that...that man still tried to pay me."

There's still another person at fault out there in Carrick somewhere, roaming free. Carrying the weight of these deaths with him. Pretending the weight isn't there. Pretending he's not responsible for the suffering around him. She swallows, slow and thick.

I have to get to him. Soon. I'll head over soon.

Atop her boulder, she takes a deep breath and looks out across the scene, at the cars and the shacks and the grass stuck somewhere between dead and alive and the trees above swaying with fresh green. The police roam about, one occupying her father. Two head down the hill, yellow tape in hand, and they begin to wrap it from tree to tree to rope off the scene. She bites her lip as she recalls the abundance of salt thrown across the floor. Wonder what they'll make of that. Another a few yards away makes sure to cordon off Clint's car, too.

Officer Babineaux is here too. Lacey would've expected her to be glowing at the prospect of this case finally closing, but her face is solemn as she brings a water bottle to Dolly and starts talking. Right. She'd known Gideon, too. Well enough to trust him with the details of an autopsy report at the very least. There probably isn't a single person here who isn't reeling from this.

Ah, just one. A bony fella lounges on the hood of a haphazardly parked police car. It bumps its calcaneus against the metal, tapping a silent tune to itself while it stares her direction. The chaos in her chest ebbs for just a moment and she nods at it in acknowledgement. It nods back. Her lips curl into the ghost of a smile.

Footsteps approach and the smile fades. She turns, ready for more protocol, but instead she finds Jeremy there. He crosses his arms over his chest and tenses. He must be stretched thin, stretched to breaking. Has he ever shot anyone before? Has he ever even fired that gun before today? She chews the inside of her cheek. Is he okay?

"You alright?" he asks before she gets the chance.

The roll of her eyes is involuntary. "Yes, dad. I'm fine, same as the last sixteen times you've asked."

She almost expects him to walk off again. That's what he's done every other time. Instead, though, he reaches out. Doesn't say anything. Just hugs her. Hugs her like it's father and daughter's first time reuniting after years and years.

She hugs him back.

When they finally detach, Jeremy is the first to speak. "I gave my statements. One of these guys is gonna drive me back to the truck. See if I can't get a tow service to come haul it out. If you sit tight, I'll be back in a couple hours. Call me if they take you back to the station or just drive you straight home."

Lacey nods. "I will."

She won't, of course. She'd been the first to give her statements while the chaos was still ensuing all around them, while they were still trying to figure out what to do with Clint and Jeremy. Technically, she's free to go at any time. But he doesn't know that. It kills her, seeing him smile as best he can at her words, seeing the relief in the corners of his eyes as she affirms that yes, this small bit of structure is back in our hands. It kills her to break his trust again.

It kills her, every second that she waits for him to walk off, to crawl into the passenger side of a vehicle. Kills her to watch through the tinted windshield as he leans back in the seat and closes his eyes, as he puts his hands to his face and doesn't take them away even when all that can be seen of the car is the red taillights and the turn signal flicking before it turns away.

It's too late now, though, and her mind is made.

She should start walking but she can't bring herself to leave the comfort of the boulder. As a result, this gives another presence plenty of time to fill the space beside her and waft the accompanying musty smell of her being towards Lacey's nostrils. She almost breaks down right then and there, such is the comfort this smell brings, but she forces herself to keep the waterworks at bay and to continue staring straight ahead, over her knees.

Carol tsks. "What will you do now, Miss Waits?"

"I'm gonna make sure this ends for good," Lacey mutters into the blanket. "I'm gonna make sure Ro and Stella get the chance to rest."

"You don't have to do all that, you know. I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with the idea, and that said, we can watch over them. They'll be fine if you go home and leave all this behind."

"No. They won't. It's my responsibility now. It's what I want. For Gideon, too." There's a pause where she plugs the corners of her eyes with her thumbs. "And it's the least I can do, after everything."

Carol digests these words, lets them sit and simmer unless they've properly marinated. "Very well. Tread with caution, Miss Waits."

With caution, she slips from the boulder and starts along the same dirt path that had taken her dad and Clint and Erie and Gideon away. Carol accompanies her on this walk, which eases the sneaking concern that out here, Malevolence has free reign to take her out. Beyond that, though, the company is nice, and at least with Carol here, it's easier to keep her mind off the events of the past few hours.

"Oh, crap. I should've given this blanket back to them," Lacey says out of the blue.

Carol pats her shoulder, and though the pressure is weak, it's there. "I'm sure they won't miss it, girl. Besides, if they decide to take initiative in tracking you down for that blanket, it'll sadly be a testament to what they really care about here, which wasn't ever finding those kids."

Silence passes between them and birds twitter above, darting from tree to tree and rustling the branches. Lacey stares up at them, watching the dark masses skirt around through the new canopy. Without tearing her gaze away, she asks, "Carol, did you ever feel like I took advantage of you? Before the barrier went down? Like I only used you for the salt?"

"You might've been a little self-absorbed and impatient, yes. But you never wanted this. I can't fault you for wanting to keep it all at a distance. And I tell you, you weren't ever as bad as my grandson. I'd trade him in for you any day of the week, trust me."

"Man," she chuckles, although the source feels hollow, "the bar is low."

"Was. You walking out this way for those girls, that proves you're not keeping it at a distance anymore. I'm proud of you. Like you're my own flesh and blood, I'm proud of you."

Lacey plugs the corners of her eyes again. Thankfully, they're coming up on familiar territory, so she has something else to focus on. The dirt path they walk forks, and they take the left, the one that wraps around Isaac's property. His house comes into view, but she doesn't get any closer to it. Instead, she keeps on walking.

Dolly said a close friend called her, paid her off. She runs through it all in her mind, again, to reassure herself she knows who it is, to reassure herself she's not wrong about this again. To reassure herself she's finally been paying attention. Isaac certainly has the money, but he was also just a client of hers. If Dolly spent all this time weaving stories and trying to frame him, they can't be close. Plus, I remember that basement from my vision of Stella. Can't forget Boone's gross ass basement, either. Isaac's isn't the one. He isn't the one.

And so, they take the backway through his property and they don't stop, not until they've long left Isaac's house behind, not until the woods thicken and the path narrows, and not until it opens up to the tracks. She crosses those and still, the trek continues.

As small as Carrick is, it's a long, arduous walk from one end of town to the other, from the deep fields to a sprawling lake, and as strong as Lacey's legs have gotten over the past few weeks, she's still not the most fit of individuals. Pair that with her lack of sleep in the past...ah, she can't even remember when the last time she slept was. She takes breaks, long and many, any time she can find a bench or even a clean enough curb. There, she takes in big gulps of air until the cool breeze heals her lungs, and she leaves herself open to the full arrival of spring on her skin. Oily, grime-laden skin.

The dirt's so thick she could pull it off in ribbons. Instead, she settles for obsessive scratching and picking, and distracts herself with the skies, clear save a few pulled puffs of grey here and there. It smells of wet grass and fresh blooms. When she gets downtown and settles on the curb outside the cemetery fence, petals with their thin aromas wrap around her and tell her it'll all be okay. She's not dumb enough to believe them just yet.

Everyone else does, though. The living and the dead alike. Some of the former passing by give her only brief glances, probably mistaking her for a homeless person, not wanting to make eye contact out of some idea that to acknowledge her existence would somehow be a form of disrespect. For once, she prefers the company of the dead, the smiles that a few wandering benevolent spirits pass her way. Even the bony fellas frolic amongst the tombstones and through streets, barren even with the sun directly overhead, save a car every two minutes. They all soak in this sun, a star so long gone that they all probably thought they'd never see it again. They soak in the shift in the air, the turning of an equinox.

One thing's certain. They may be dead, but they sure do have an appreciation for life.

As much as she'd like to stay here and ruminate with the dead some more, that's not what she's here for. Plus, the longer she sits around, the more time her mother has to drive in guns blazing. Running a tongue over unbrushed teeth, she pushes herself to a stand with a grunt and carries on.

Ghosts are never far away. When she takes the same path across the bridge overlooking the Epling River where they'd found Stella's body washed up - the waters have ebbed enough away to allow this much passage, at least - she doesn't fret at the prospect of a demon lurching out and taking her intestines with it. She can walk with confidence now, fearless confidence. Or pretend to. Truth is, her gut twists and turns with every burning step, and every so often she gets a picture in her mind of the nurses all around Gideon calling the time of death, and her breath fails her. She can't fail him though, not yet. Can't fail anyone else. Can't stop.

She doesn't. Not until she's scuffled her way up the steep pebbled path, beneath trees flush with green tunneling the road up. Not until the ground evens out beneath her feet and the lake sparkles through the trees down below. Not until her climb is complete, and she stands at the top of Lore's Hill.

"Okay, asshole," she mutters under her breath, casting the blanket from her shoulders to rest in the grass. "Let's get this over with."

And yet, as she takes those next steps forward, a small voice sits at the back of her mind, pleading on its hands and knees: Please, please prove me wrong.