Connor heard the shuffle from his mother's room and dropped everything to hurry upstairs. A heartbeat later he was knocking on her door. There was no answer, but he identified the murmur of the shower. He pushed the door open only enough to stick in his head and saw the steam coming from the bathroom. He was about to go back to the kitchen to fix her a true cappuccino, when he noticed there was something missing on Gillian's nightstand. She had two framed pictures there, one of him, one of her father. But now only his picture was there. And he spotted the edge of the missing frame showing out from the paper bin by Gillian's desk.
He went back downstairs, his head full of questions nobody seemed willing to answer, which was a weird first that gave him a very bad feeling. He could tell something was awfully off, and the picture in the paper bin confirmed his suspicions about King Gillian being involved. But not even Tanya would say what had really happened, so he knew he'd have to wait for his mother to speak up. And he hated waiting.
Upstairs, Gillian kept her face up to the hot rain, eyes closed, aware of her son expecting any kind of explanation about her unusual behavior. It would've been easier if he were still a little boy, but now he wouldn't buy just anything. And what was she to tell him? You see, the son of a bitch you have for a granddad ordered to shoot down a man who was using me as a shield? Connor had no siblings, neither did she. After the divorce, his father had become only a name in his birth certificate. She and King Gillian were all the family Connor had, and she was to strike half of it out for good?
Yes, she knew King Gillian hadn't intended to kill her. He just didn't care she was there, with innocent civilians caught in the mess. And that felt even worse. She wished he would've actually wanted to kill her. But the way he didn't give a flying shit about what might happen to her was so, so much worse. That complete lack of concern... of love. That was what hurt the most. And she didn't want a coldblooded killer in the family, in her life, in Connor's life. Especially when he wasn't enough of a man to do it himself, but had his pretty soldiers do the killing for him.
Which didn't exactly provide a good way to explain to her son what had happened.
She was still so exhausted. She didn't remember crying so hard and so long ever before, not even when her mother died. Poor Russell had to bear hours and hours of her just crying her heart out, curling up in bed, unable to utter a single coherent word. And he did, of course. He stayed right there by her side, soothing her, taking care of her, picking up the calls from her team asking about her, and Banks' calls, and even Taylor's calls. He'd convinced everybody to let her be, not to visit, not to call until next morning, because she needed to rest.
She needed a new heart. That was what she needed. Or at least a way to patch up hers enough to keep going.
Russell would be back for lunch. And surely Aldana would tag along, after meeting with the troopers. Thank God for her, really. She'd taken the captain's chair and made the right calls right away.
Gillian rubbed her face under the water. Gosh, a part of her so wanted to just lay down and cry herself to death. But lucky her, her pride was kicking in. That man didn't deserve her being down and broken over him. That man didn't care if she lived or died, so he wasn't getting anything from her anymore. Not even a name. Connor was downstairs, worried and waiting. Her son, her reason to live. So she was through crying over that old man. She had to stand up, face her son, try not to hurt him too bad, and start moving on.
Closing the faucets was like turning her back to her whole past in the PD, her whole life up to that moment, King Gillian included. It wasn't easy. At all. It felt like having her skin glued to the tiles, but she had to move, she had to take a step, and then another, and another. She could almost feel, hear her skin ripping apart, bleeding strips still glued to the tiles, as she tried to step out of the shower. It was excruciating. She thought she would fell to her knees never to stand up again. It was pure, raw agony.
But she finally made it. She turned around and walked out, skinned, bleeding, aching like seven hells put together. But alive and on her feet.