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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
The service was brief, and probably, Parker mused, what he would have wanted. Beneath a small green tent she listened intently and tearlessly, and stared through dark-tinted Cartiers at the walnut casket poised for interment.
"We therefore commit this body to the ground," the priest said, his voice clear and strong despite his age and failing health, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life."
She should have been thinking of him, the man lying inside the closed casket, the life he'd led. At least, thought Parker, he's at peace now. And that's a helluva lot more than I can say about myself.
Parker's thoughts, instead, were of Michele, seemingly insurmountable grief, a damp, frigid void where peace should have been. "I wasted so much time," she had tearfully confided to Parker, "so many years that I could have spent with Sydney. He wanted us to marry, and I wish we had. I wish we had. How different our lives would be now."
Parker pressed a trembling finger to her lips, demanded mutely that she promptly take control of her emotions.
He and I can't ever get those years back.
Parker lowered her head, closed tear-filled eyes, and abandoned all pretenses of listening to the priest. Suspecting as much, the man dropped his voice to a whisper, and quietly concluded the service.
Several moments later, and with an amiable smile, he informed her gently, "Take all the time you need."
With the aid of a cane he walked to his car, leaving Parker alone with a corpse, regrets.
She was more perturbed than surprised when her mobile vibrated in the pocket of her slacks. Her perturbation grew exponentially when she answered with a hollow what.
"That," Jarod said dully, "is certainly the question. What are you doing?"
Parker revolved her eyes, murmured softly, "Willow's a fucking snitch."
"If she wasn't vomiting right now I'd let you tell her that yourself, but morning sickness being what it is-"
"Taking advantage of pregnancy hormones is beneath you, Jarod."
"Why did you arrange a funeral service for Ray? You know what he did to Sydney, what he did to your brother and-"
"I know what the Centre did to all of us," Parker asserted brusquely. "You don't get to play favorites with Centre victims, indulge double standards. If I'm not responsible for the things I've done to you and your family, if you aren't responsible for nearly beating Lyle to death it's also true that Lyle isn't entirely responsible for his crimes, and neither is Ray."
Jarod closed his eyes, murmured Jesus and Parker's name, and pushed his left hand over his face. "This is about Sydney, isn't it? You read the files, didn't you? If you know the truth you also know all of the implications as well, and that he wanted to protect us both, and when he couldn't do that-"
"He did the next best thing," Parker interrupted fiercely, "and taught you not to hate me--- the way Daddy and Raines taught me to hate you, and that's probably the only reason I'm alive now."
"No," Jarod argued, emphatically, "no, Sydney didn't have to teach me not to hate you. He knows I love you, and that I-" Jarod fell silent abruptly, and after a moment whispered her name. He examined the mobile, confirmed his suspicions that she had, indeed, ended the call, and groaned a nearly inaudible, "Damn it."
"You love her?" Willow's voice was soft and filled with astonishment.
Jarod turned abruptly, observed as Willow joined him on the flagstone wearing her bathrobe and a sympathetic smile.
"What did you say?" He asked.
"You love her," repeated Willow, gently.
"How-" Jarod stammered.
"You shouted it," Willow explained, "on the phone just now. That was her you were shouting at, wasn't it?"
Jarod lowered his gaze, forcefully expelled a breath. "Oh, my god," he whispered, dropping his stunned gaze to the device in his hand. "That," Jarod said, shaking his head in an evident struggle to process his actions, "that was a mistake, an accident."
Willow lounged on a cushioned bench and pressed a damp cloth to her forehead. She shook her head, consoled sternly, "Love isn't a mistake, Jarod."
"Telling her," clarified Jarod, "was the mistake."
"Then you do love her?"
"Always," Jarod confessed in strained, agonized voice, and drew a sharp breath. "That conversation slipped into present tense. It shouldn't have."
"Is this why things didn't work out with--ah, shoot," Willow exclaimed with a frown. "I have pregnancy brain. What was her name?"
"Nia?" Jarod offered helpfully.
"Her, too. They were all beautiful, really, and all obviously in love with you, but, no, I'm talking about the redhead."
"Rachel indicated," Willow rebutted cynically, "she was more than your friend- much more."
"There was nothing," Jarod explained in a hollow voice that Willow didn't recognize, "nothing left to give Rachel or Nia, or anyone else, not--- not after what happened with-" Jarod's voice dissolved to silence.
Willow frowned, moistened her lips. "Nothing left?" She asked, carefully. "You sound like you're talking about death, instead of an argument and a break up."
Jarod nodded thoughtfully, and deposited himself into an iron rocker. "But it didn't die, and there was no argument, break up, or goodbye. She left. She didn't come back. It was abrupt and," Jarod added in a tight, halting voice, "traumatic," he continued forcefully, "for us both."
"Traumatic," Willow repeated, carefully. "You're one of my dearest friends, Jarod, and Nick's best friend. You're going to be our baby's godfather."
"But?" Jarod asked.
"Why didn't I know this? You and her. Wow, Jarod. Sweetie, you're like a shell of yourself when you talk about this, like a part of you died. Nothing left? But, you know, I find all of this secrecy wildly bizarre."
Jarod frowned, sought clarification. "All?"
"Hers, too. The pleas for secrecy, that we ask no questions. What?"
"Hmm, so it was her idea that you all join her in the deception," concluded Jarod in a tight, wounded voice.
"Deception," Willow countered, sharply, "would have been crashing Christmas dinner with sweepers and guns. No one did that to you, Jarod, and-" she fell silent, briefly, when Jarod's mobile chirped. "Is that her?"
Jarod studied the message, and rose. "Uh, no, it isn't. I'm so sorry, but I have to go."
"You'll be back for dinner? Sydney wants you both there."
"I wouldn't miss it, but, uh, don't be angry at her if she does. Try to explain it to Sydney, and try to drink more fluids."
"You mean make up some excuse for her," Willow said. "My god, Jarod, you do love her. You should tell her. You should be at the cemetery with her right now."
"I should be," Jarod agreed.
But instead I'm being summoned by her homicidal brother.
Richard Steltzer waited eagerly in the parking garage, and his smile and friendly wave did little to allay Jarod's dread.
"Please tell me he hasn't hurt himself."
"He hasn't," Richard hastily assured Jarod. The pair bypassed all security checks, and hastily strode to Richard's quaint office. "In fact, he's quite happy, elated."
Jarod swung his gaze at Richard. "You make it sound like bad news."
"I wouldn't use that particular label. It's not bad. It's simply unexpected. He's manic, Jarod. Initially, we thought it was a random surge of energy, that he was trying to burn off some residual anger and pain from his sister's visit. He washed the entirety of his living quarters, walls included, reorganized closets, and he talks constantly. He asked for paint supplies several days ago, and has since decided he's Picasso, and unstoppable. He doesn't seem to care that he's institutionalized, and cannot leave. He's barely sleeping."
"That's a hell of a pivot."
"Indeed. This was all preceded by weeks of depression, suicide ideation. We ran tests to eliminate other illnesses, but I had my suspicions, considering the family history of manic-depressive illness, environmental risk factors, and the abuse-related head trauma he sustained when he was with the Bowmans."
"Have you officially diagnosed him?"
"Mhm. He wept and disagreed when I explained the bipolar diagnosis to him, and maintains that he's insane and deserves to die."
"You'll have to forgive me for not arguing with his logic."
"He hurt you, Jarod," Richard said with some solemnity. "You don't need to be forgiven for how you feel about being hurt. No one will blame you for leaving if this is too painful for you."
"This? What is this? Why am I here, Richard?"
"He's asking to see you, says he wants to talk."
"About?"
"He won't say. He's asked to see his sister, too. She, unfortunately, hasn't responded to any of my messages. I don't want to tell her via voice mail that I've diagnosed her brother with BD," Richard explained, pausing briefly to complete a retina scan, "but I am contractually obligated to disclose all developments to her, Lyle's next of kin, regardless of how discomposing all of this might be for her."
"Ah, so she was just as evasive and skeptical as I said she'd be," Jarod said, pulling open a heavy, stainless steel door, and entering Richard's office. "And a little bit paranoid as well."
"To say the least. I'm certain that she has no intention of visiting again. "
"Why do you say that?" Jarod asked, and, eagerly prompted Richard to expound. "I'm listening, Richard."
Richard dropped himself into his leather chair, and met Jarod's gaze. "Yes, I know you are, and I'm legally bound to say no more."
The pretender nodded his understanding, and smiled to conceal his disappointment.
"Lyle isn't," Richard added tactfully, and observed as Jarod, poised to sit opposite him, faltered, "and, as I stated, he's rather loquacious at the moment. A conversation with him might be mutually beneficial."
Jarod straightened to his full height, and excused himself, against his better judgment, to meet with Lyle. He was convinced there was nothing Parker's brother could possibly say or do to benefit him or anyone, and that no amount of insight Lyle could offer was worth enduring a conversation with him.
There was barely a conversation at all.
Parker's brother greeted Jarod cheerfully, "Por fin, Jarod, usted me honra con su presencia," and, with paint brush in hand, bowed ingratiatingly. Do you want something to drink? Wine? Sex on a beach? Ha! Joke. How about just the beach? I have orange juice. Steltzer holds his juice in terribly high regard. It's in the fridge. Help yourself. How is Sydney? Did he forget about his star patient? Or is there some other reason he hasn't visited?"
Jarod pushed his hands into the pockets of his grey trousers, and swallowed—and nearly choked—on disdain. "He's regaining his strength."
"Ever heard of wheelchairs? And speaking of chairs, Jarod, you can sit. Unlike my sister I don't bite. The people I killed deserved it. Even the Tower and Triumvirate brass distanced themselves from the Centre when they discovered Raines' relationships with sexual predators. Even murderers for hire and child abductors despise child predators, and it's inexplicably gratifying that we, you, I, my dear sister, the Zulu giants, the stiffs in the tower, and most humans on this planet have reached consensus on that point. It instills a real sense of unity to know that, despite often trivial divisions, everyone hates a goddamn child rapist.
Where was I," Lyle said, retrieving a cardboard palette and swirling his square-shaped safety brush into the paint. "Wheelchairs. Oh, you're going to just stand there, and decline my invitation to sit. Hmm, interesting. Displays a lack of trust. Discomfort. I can't say that I blame you, but if I recall correctly you nearly beat me to death, not the other way around. I'd go to Sydney, but, as you can see, I'm enthusiastically pursuing my passions here at l'Institut des Beaux-arts, and I can't emphasize institute strongly enough. Well played, Jarod. You win. I'm in my space for the rest of my life, and you're free. Now bring Sydney to me."
"In time, Lyle."
"Time? Sure. Why not? I've got plenty of that, and plenty of nontoxic finger paint. Apparently, I have to earn the right to use oils like a big boy. Tell me, Jarod, is my sister feeling any better?"
Jarod look askance at Lyle. "What do you mean better?"
"Don't ever play chicken with my twisted twin sibling, Jarod," Lyle cautioned cryptically, frowning in evident concern. "She doesn't swerve."
"What?" Jarod stammered in apparent confusion.
"If anything should happen to her," Lyle interrupted thickly, seizing the wet canvas and thrusting it at Jarod, "you'll live to regret it."
Jarod lowered his gaze to the painting, reluctantly accepted it, opened his mouth to inquire.
Lyle turned away abruptly, and shouted, "We're done here, Steltzer."
Jarod compressed his lips and grudgingly withdrew. A long way from done, Jarod mused.
Back in the garage, the pretender briefly glimpsed Lyle's painting when he carefully deposited it into the trunk. He assumed Lyle was trying to tell a story, but he didn't know what the story was; he had no doubt that Parker would know, and that she wouldn't like it.
While he drove, he attempted to decrypt the deliberate taunts, the hints. If anything should happen to her, Jarod repeated Lyle's words with a snort of annoyance. "Too little too late," he murmured sotto voce. "And I'm already living to regret it."
In fact, Jarod had discovered that there was something new to regret each day. In addition to his tête-à-tête with Lyle, he was already regretting dinner, Parker's absence, and Willow's hastily assembled excuses for the aforementioned absence.
He was fully prepared to come to Parker's defense. Something, after all, had compelled her to avoid him, and it still hadn't been resolved, or even voiced.
Something was wrong, regardless of how many other things had gone, and would go, wrong, and Sydney knew, better than anyone, that additional trauma, such as his abduction, didn't eclipse or supplant prior trauma. Sydney knew.
Parker, however, hadn't received that particular memorandum. She was in Sydney's dining room, spooning Castelvetrano olives onto the charcuterie platter that she was composing, and was entirely unaware that Jarod had arrived, and rushed into the sitting room, trying to outrun nausea, or at least meet it civilly in the guest bathroom. He longed to shower, scrub away the emotional pollution that often accompanied an encounter with Lyle, and perhaps sample a bottle from Sydney's cherished Glenfiddich collection.
The sight of Parker had brought Jarod's legs to an ungainly halt, and Jarod believed it was unfair and illogical, and also perfectly reasonable, that the hard block of years and distance could melt away with such indifferent rapidity, as if ten years hadn't elapsed, and the hollowness and longing between, the entirety of the painful interregnum, had been only his hellish dream.
He lowered his gaze when Parker pivoted out of his line of sight, and continued to the guest bedroom. Ultimately, he forewent the ninety proof palate cleanse. The nausea had, he realized, subsided the moment he'd seen Parker.
Jarod feared the opposite was true for her, that she saw his face and instantly felt repulsed, and until recently didn't understand why.
He'd survived shock torture, water torture, isolation torture. Relationships and phobias, real and imagined, had been exploited, and Centre swill certainly was no cakewalk.
His agony, both the physical and psychological, regardless of how innovative and traumatizing, always concluded; it was the one certainty in an uncertain and painful world, the only rule of torture inside the Centre. It ended. It always ended, and there was always comfort in its end.
Contrarily, the aversion torture that Parker had endured was an entirely different, and truly inescapable, chamber of hell. It was self-perpetuating, transcended walls and years, and even the sadistic torturer himself. The only comfort to be found in that particular variety of torture had belonged solely to Raines', the comfort of its perpetuity.
But, oddly, Parker didn't seem repulsed at all when Jarod joined her and Broots in the kitchen, and appeared to entertain no compulsion to fetch her gun and make him stay away.
"Do you two need any help in here?" Jarod asked.
"Not unless you're volunteering to help with the dishes after dinner," Parker said.
"It just so happens that dishes are my expertise," Jarod playfully boasted.
"If Gianna hears you say that," Broots cautioned Jarod, "you'll never see the outside of her kitchen again. Never."
"Ah, Broots," Jarod returned with a light chuckle, "you underestimate how much I love food, which is often found in kitchens."
"I'll wash, you dry," Parker interjected, just prior to returning to the dining room.
Kitchen duty had never been so appealing. Jarod wanted dinner to be over quickly, and when it finally was, and he was alone with Parker, he wanted to prolong the washing and drying, and be alone with her for a little while longer.
Jarod volunteered for kitchen duty the following day as well, and the next, and the remainder of the week, and he and Parker naturally began gravitating to the bistro table in the kitchen with their cups of tea, and sometimes a scone, and staying up late talking and laughing- until, perhaps inevitably, the laughter died.
"Ah, impeccable timing," Jarod announced brightly when Parker strode into the kitchen, and began filling a kettle with water. "This is the last one," he said, lifting the plate triumphantly, and putting it away. "Is Michele okay?"
"Emotional," Parker answered tremulously. "This is the first time Sydney has walked down the stairs to dinner, and back up to his bedroom, unassisted, since the abduction."
"I told you we would get him through this," Jarod reminded softly, preparing cups and strainers, "and we will."
"Yeah," Parker returned softly, and something in her voice prompted Jarod to turn, and ask, "What's wrong?"
Parker's eyes widened, briefly, in surprise. She answered, stiffly, "Why do you ask?"
Jarod smiled, countered gently, "Why do you evade?"
"Because evading is significantly more acceptable than lying," Parker answered lightly. "I'm not evading," she added hastily. "That question came out of nowhere, and there are no easy answers."
"I don't recall specifying easy answers only."
"Jarod, I'm not certain that an answer exists," Parker argued thickly, and, with some effort cleared her throat artificially to conceal her emotions. "Michele won't stop talking about wasted years and regrets, and I— god," she exclaimed softly, and observed Jarod's frown of concern deepen. She averted her eyes, confessed quietly, "I don't think anything has ever resonated more with me."
"What if it isn't? We can't get ever those years back, no one can, and some of us have to live our entire lives with regret."
"But she won't. She wishes she'd been here with Sydney, and now she is, and she'll spend the rest of her life knowing that, regardless of what happens, she didn't take this second chance with him for granted. Like I said, it's going to be okay."
Parker negated his words with a weary head-shake, and said glumly, "It's a helluva lot more complicated than that."
"How so?" Jarod asked.
Parker revolved her eyes, curled both of her hands into tight fists, and answered tautly, "I'm not talking about just Michele."
