He tries to remember what the Captain had told him yesterday afternoon (god it seems so much longer than that).
Leight has blood on his hands; Knightley is trying to avenge murders.
He blinks.
Does that mean Knightley holds Leight responsible for the death of his brother and their parents?
They were 17.
Peter can't imagine what Leight could have done as a 17-year-old to be held responsible for the fire. Even if it was his idea to go out for ice cream, it would be his fault they hadn't died, not that the fire happened.
But Charles Knightley can't possibly believe that because the Captain said that he and Leight were friends, and Leight doesn't suffer idiots.
There has to have been something else, something that Peter is missing. So he spends another ten minutes scrolling through the list of results, looking for a headline that's just the slightest bit different. He doesn't find anything.
It's with a heavy heart that he gives up and closes the web browser. He stares at the yellow umbrella, all alone on the beach, and he stops feeling sorry for it because he understands exactly how it's feeling (or would be feeling if it was flesh and blood instead of wood and canvas).
Then he realizes he's empathizing with a picture of an umbrella and he blinks, harsh and rapid, because he really must be losing his fucking mind.
Suddenly, he notices a file on the desktop entitled "READ ME."
It wasn't there before. He didn't create it. His heart rate accelerates.
He really must be losing his fucking mind, but he's miles past caring. He double clicks.
A standard word document pops open. It's empty, but for one line of text.
>Peter Grayson, isn't it? (Type response below.)
Peter blinks. More letters and words type themselves before his eyes.
>Don't be shy. I promise I won't bite (unless you ask for it).
>Yes, Peter types because it's his best hope to stop this insanity and get the answers he needs. >Who are you?
>Tisiphone.
>You mean Charles Knightley.
>Oh you are clever. I can see why he likes you. But by all means, please, call me Charlie.
Peter stares. He thinks back to the one time Leight mentioned knowing someone named "Charlie," and he's pretty sure it was implied that "Charlie" was dead.
>I take it you have questions. Go ahead.
>How are we communicating?
>Yes, that. I'm afraid I've hacked this computer (not yours, is it?), and we're sharing the same file. It's like a GoogleDoc but less legal.
>No, it isn't my computer. How did you find me?
>Few people run the search "Leight Knightley" on news archives. Everyone who cares already knows. You're the exception.
>How do you know my name?
>You live (or is it lived, now?) with Malcolm Leight, and I'm rather invested in keeping tabs on his life.
Peter doesn't know how to respond to that. This is the least safe he has ever felt. He has been watched. His life is not his own.
>You're wondering what else I know about you.
>Very well, there isn't any harm in you knowing that I know everything about you—
>your birthday, your parents' names, your criminal record, your favorite color, and most importantly, your relationship with Mal.
Peter wants to slam the computer shut. He wants to run out of this room, out of this house, out of this goddamn city. He wants to hide. To disappear.
>Oh, you didn't think you were the only one he let call him 'Mal,' did you?
Peter did think that. In two years, he has never heard anyone else use the nickname. It's always been "Leight" with everyone, even friends like the Captain.
>No, he types rapidly, >of course not.
>Of course. Now, what else do you want to know? Shall I guess?
>No. Peter (almost) uses enough force to break the keyboard.
Leight is the only one allowed to make guesses about what's going on in his head. Or, Leight was the only one. His eyes are burning, but he won't cry, not when he's talking to the man who caused this nightmare.
He bites his lip until it bleeds. >Why did you contact me?
>Oh, that. I contacted you to arrange a meeting.
>In person?
>Yes, of course.
>Why would I agree to that when you're trying to kill me?
>My dear Peter, whatever gave you that impression?
This is too much. He's reeling. Everything is surreal, so real, it hurts. He wants to wake up. >You don't want to kill me?
>Did Mal tell you that I did? Silly boy.
>Why should I believe you?
>I'm afraid you don't have the slightest reason to believe me. >The question, however, is whether you have reason to believe Mal.
He stops. Two days ago, he would have said he trusted Leight with his life. He had, hadn't he? He believed that Leight would protect him, but now..
Now, Leight has betrayed him, lied, broken his word. He shouldn't trust Leight. He shouldn't believe him. He shouldn't fucking love him anymore.
>I thought so.
>It wasn't just him. Peter swallows down the coppery taste from his bleeding lip.
>Captain John Smith? You know he believes everything Mal tells him.
>I..., then he stops typing. He doesn't know what he's saying. He deletes the letter. Before he has a chance to think it through, he types, >Okay.
>You'll meet with me? Today?
>Yes.
>Let's say noon, then. Do you know the Fury? It's a club, in an abandoned factory, down
>Down by the airport, yes, I know it.
It's the club he saw Leight go to after they finished at Raymond's apartment. Mal has been there. >Are you sure it's safe?
>I know he was there; I know everything about him. Don't worry. It's perfectly safe. You can trust me.
>Okay.
He knows he shouldn't trust Charles Knightley, shouldn't believe anything he says, but the world has turned upside down, and his brain hasn't had time to turn the image right-side up.
"Hey," Peter smiles as he walks into Sam's kitchen and sees her standing by the stove.
"Peter," she smiles back. "Did you sleep well?"
The corners of his mouth turn down because no, of course he didn't sleep well because he dreamt of Malcolm fucking Leight fucking Saffron the whore.
"Fine." Then he sets her laptop, which was under his arm, on the table.
He deleted the shared file, cleared the web history, and told Charlie never to access it again.
San looks at him sideways. "Would you like some breakfast? I'm making eggs."
Peter has to look away because he feels that stupid urge to cry because Leight reminded him yesterday morning that they were out of eggs. "Eggs would be lovey," he manages to choke out.
"Scrambled?"
He nods.
"There's coffee in the pot. Over there. Mugs are in the cabinet. Do you want anything in it?"
He goes "over there" and finds the coffee maker. He gets himself a mug, pours himself a cup of coffee, stares at the deep brown liquid, and frowns.
"I take it black," he murmurs belatedly even though he normally takes his coffee with cream.
But today, he wants to drink it dark and bitter and black because Leight takes his coffee dark and bitter and black.
"Sit," Sam says, gesturing to the table.
Numbly, Peter sits. He stares into his mug, but he doesn't drink.
The eggs sizzle as Sam stirs them around in the pan.
"You know, Peter," she comments casually, "you can stay longer if you need to. I have the space, and I don't mind your company. I understand, after all. It's no trouble."
Peter shakes his head. "I don't want to impose. I'll find somewhere else. I don't know."
He shrugs. His coffee emits small bursts of steam. "I don't know if I can stay here—in Philadelphia, I mean. I don't have anywhere to live. I can't work with him, and I think by now I've burned my bridges with Crick."
"I don't have friends here, and I can't deal with it. And everything—everything reminds me of him. He was my life, and now—now I just feel like my heart is dead. Rotting. Necrotic."
Sam's left hand clenches involuntarily. She runs her thumb along the inside of the silver ring she wears. Her eyes are focused somewhere just past his head.
"I do understand," she repeats quietly. "I really do. I would have left, if I'd had anywhere to go."
"That's the thing," Peter smiles sadly. "I don't either. I can't really go back to my hometown; there's a whole other set of memories there. I think I've outgrown my college towns. I'm just a little too old and jaded to go back to San Francisco."
"And that's it. There are so many memories I don't want to relive, but I don't know if I can just settle somewhere new." His coffee has stopped spouting steam. "I must sound ridiculous."
Sam just shakes her head and turns her attention back to the eggs, which are almost done. She turns down the heat, pulls out two plates, and divides the eggs between them.
She carries the two plates (and two forks) with her to the table, and she sits down across from Peter, handing him a plate (and a fork).
"You don't sound ridiculous," she says finally, pushing her eggs around with her fork.
Then, for the thousandth time, she's saying, "I understand."
Peter just sighs and forces himself to eat. The eggs are probably fine (good, even), but he isn't hungry, so they taste like ash as he chews, slowly, methodically, thoroughly in contempt of his body's need for fuel.
He swallows. "Anyway, I can't leave right away. I'm going to wait until this case is closed."
He doesn't know what compels him to say it, but it feels important. Essential. Pivotal.
Sam looks at him suddenly, her head tilted slightly to one side.
She sets her fork down. "You're in the middle of a case?"
"Yes."
Hadn't he mentioned it before?
"I have a meeting at noon. I..." he looks away, calculating.
When he looks back, his eyes are hard. "If I give you the Captain's phone number, will you promise to call him if I don't text you every hour? All you have to do is tell him I went to the Fury."
"Of course," she replies. There's still something funny in the way she's looking at him. "Is this case particularly dangerous?"
"I can't really say," he frowns. "Police business and all that jazz."
"I don't care about the details. Just tell me if it's dangerous, or if Leight thinks it is."
"Yes," he concedes.
He takes a sip of his coffee (finally), and it's just as dark, bitter, black as he could have hoped. "Everyone seems to think it's dangerous."
"Dangerous for you?"
"How do you—" He scrunches his brow, and his glasses wiggle uncomfortably. "You shouldn't you know that."
She rolls her eyes. "Just answer the question."
"Fine," he shrugs. "Yes. Everyone thinks I'm likely to be murdered in the near future."
"Peter," she stares at him steadily with her clear, candid, dark brown eyes, "you're an idiot."
He doesn't flinch. "That's certainly what Mal seems to think."
"No, really, you're an idiot. Have you really not thought about this?"
"I've been trying not to think. Or feel. Or do anything because just about everything hurts more than I can bear."
"Peter," she smiles sadly, "think about it."
"About what?" he snaps, not without frustration.
"Just think about it."
Against his better judgment, Peter thinks about.
He doesn't really have anything better to do. The bus ride from Fairmont to Center City is long; the taxi ride from Center City to the Fury will be even longer.
He doesn't have anything to do but think, and he isn't going to let himself think about Charlie Knightley because if he thinks about Charlie Knightley, he'll realize that meeting with him is the stupidest idea he has ever had.
(Leight and Sam are right; he truly is an idiot.)
So, instead, he takes Sam's advice, and he thinks about it.
He thinks about how Leight broke his trust. He thinks about how Leight broke his heart. He thinks about how Leight managed to break him apart so completely.
He doesn't like thinking about this. His eyes are smarting. The woman in the seat next to him is staring (just out of the corner of her eye) but pretending she isn't.
He isn't really thinking anymore. He's feeling, and that isn't what Sam told him to do.
So he starts again, from the beginning this time. The case began when Raymond Fisher died; then everyone started acting funny. Leight told him it was dangerous, asked him to leave.
Peter refused.
Leight told Peter he loved him (again and again and again).
Peter came home to the sight of Leight fucking the whore that nearly broke them up (or whatever) months ago.
And then Leight didn't do anything; he just let Peter leave.
Peter slams his head against the window.
Oh..
OH!!
.
.