Survival

30. It's All Over

The metal door at the side of the room opened, revealing a woman in slacks and tightly pulled back hair. Her face was lined with tension and her eyes were hard, drawn only to Stephanie.

"If you'll excuse us, officer," she said.

And the label came to mind instantly: FBI. Desperately, she caught the eye of the police investigator that sat in front of her, hands clasped on the metal table between them. He looked back at her apologetically. But still, he gathered up his jacket and cap and without sparing another look toward Stephanie he headed out.

Fatigue and despair coursed through Stephanie, turning her neck to rubber. She folded her arms on the table and let her forehead rest against them. God, she just wanted to go home. But that was a whole other story. There was no home for her anywhere, anymore.

The table moved as the agent sat down, a folder thumping against the structure. That obviously warranted her attention, but Stephanie didn't want to raise her head. She just wished it would explode already.

"Stephanie Armstrong."

If she weren't so damn tired, her lips would curl at the disdain in her voice. As it was, Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut, hating that tears hit the table under her.

"Well, I'm impressed," the woman said in that irritating over-confident tone, steely with years of experience.

Stephanie sniffed, but made no further movement.

"You've managed to outrun the state for two years. I have to admit though, I was expecting someone a little more... tough."

A very choice phrase popped into mind, yet Stephanie wouldn't rise to the bait. Her mind was stuck on reply, a litany of senseless emotions bouncing around on the inside of her bloated skull.

"So, what's the story, Stephanie?" The woman asked again, her voice somehow harsher as it bounced off the walls of the room and attacked Stephanie's head.

There was an expectant pause, a noise of irritation and then a bang.

Stephanie jerked her head up to see the woman standing on the other side of the table, her hands flat on the surface she had clearly just attacked. Blearily, Stephanie dashed away the tears on her face.

"You want to play that game with me?" The agent demanded. "Fine."

Stephanie bit down on her tongue, staving back the irritation and anger that flowed through her veins. Just let me sleep, she wanted to say. Just let me wake up and see that this is all a nightmare. A horrible, horrible nightmare.

At this point, she didn't even care if she woke up and none of it was real. If Daniel and Aaron and Caroline had been a fever dream cooked up by her brain when she caught the flu and had to sleep in the backseat of her car in the middle of the freezing winter in Minnesota.

The agent's blazing eyes fell down to the thick portfolio on the table. She slapped it open, revealing pages and pages of notes and images that blurred in Stephanie's sight to incandescent lines.

The woman picked up a stack of photos and separated them, arranging them in front of Stephanie with unnecessary force.

"Do you see these, Miss Armstrong? Do you have any idea how many people have died because people like you haven't come forward with information? Because you evaded the law?"

Stephanie didn't want to look down, knew that what she'd see wouldn't be something that she'd ever be able to let go of. But she did. She did and she felt the breath being torn from her lungs.

Mangled corpses. Blood spattered crime scenes. The white of bone protruding out from pale, blood stained skin. Surprised expressions. Dead eyes. White sheets over countless still bodies.