imagines & fics

Why am I not surprised he's here?

“Well, here I am,” I say.

“Your mother's worried. I called your apartment twice. Then she actually called me when you didn't get home.”

I raise an eyebrow at the sheriff. “My mother? Worried? You must be joking.”

He's standing there, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his hands in the pockets of his shearling-lined trench coat. Ridiculously, the phrase ‘wolf in sheep's clothing’ runs through my brain.

He hums noncommittally and sits down next to me. He offers me a cigarette. I'm out, so I take one and light it. They smell worse than they taste.

We sit there, smoking.

“So,” I say. “What’d you need me for?”

I feel like I should be more respectful, maybe. I'm speaking to the only law enforcement Fabletown has. But I'm tired - exhausted. I didn't sleep last night and slept very little the night before that.

“I thought you'd wanna know I found the knife,” the sheriff tells me. “It was in a trash can a few blocks away.”

“How'd you find it?” I ask, curious.

“I followed my nose.”

“Oh…”

We sit in silence for a moment. I think about asking how the sheriff found me, but I'm guessing the answer is the same.

Eventually, I finish my cigarette and flick the butt away.

“Come on,” says the sheriff with a sigh. “I'll walk you home.”

“Okay.”

-

I sleep for nearly twelve hours. When I finally drag myself out of bed, I do something I haven’t done once in my two years at The Hollow Stag: I call in sick.

Jordy sounds far more understanding than I expect. I guess word got to him about what happened the other night.

I spend the day cleaning up my room, then tidying the apartment at random. My mom, who's been out who knows where, brings home Chinese takeout, and we eat it in silence.

My fortune cookie reads ‘love will find you in an unexpected place’. I snort. As if.

“We need to talk,” my mother says when we're cleaning up.

“Alright,” I say.

“What happened yesterday? You can't do that. I didn't know where you were.”

“I'm a grown-up. I can go out if I want to,” I say.

“Someone got murdered, Abby, and you witnessed it. What if the killer decides he needs to get rid of you?”

I'm cleaning the table, but at her words, I pause and look up.

I hadn't thought about that.

“You need to be careful,” my mother insists. “I want you home, where I know you're safe, or at work. You can't wander off on your own right now.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I promise.

“Good.”

I'm weirdly touched by my mom's worry. I'm not used to it from her. As I get ready for bed, I try to remember the last time my mom seemed worried about me, but other than the other day in sheriff Bigby's office, I can't really think of an example.

But then again, she usually doesn't have to worry. I'm pretty self-sufficient.

Which won't save me from being killed.

-

Over the next three weeks, I do as my mom said: I'm always at home or at work.

I try not to think about what happened, which proves surprisingly easy. I've always been good at pushing unpleasant things out of my mind. Instead, I read a lot and throw myself into work harder than ever. I've never made this much in tips before.

It's not so busy at the bar tonight. It's a Wednesday. Most of my regulars have work in the morning.

I'm using the peace and quiet to clean all the glasses. They tend to get weird stripes on them.

After the only person who's been around all night leaves, I'm thinking about calling Jordy to ask if I can close early. But then the sheriff walks in.

I sigh. Of course.

He walks over and sits down at the bar.

“What'll it be?” I ask. I sound annoyed, I realize, and force myself to smile. “Sheriff.”

He doesn't smile back. “Do you serve coffee?”

“It's one in the morning.”

He says nothing, and I sigh. “We don't serve it, but I have it. Give me a minute.”

I go into the back office to make two cups of instant coffee, then return with them. I set one down in front of him, black like the pits of the witching well. Lucky guess. He drinks it without complaint.

Once he takes his first sip, he sets down the coffee and then looks at me again. I've noticed he does that a lot. He just looks at you until you start talking.

I don't know if that works on everyone, but it sure works on me. “What do you need?”

“Someone else is dead.”

I feel a jolt go through my body, like I've been startled by a scary movie.

“Who?” I ask, breathless.

“Girl named Joan.” He tilts his head to the side. “Did you know her?”

“Can't say I did.”

He unpockets a picture and slides at me over the bar top. I take it.

The girl is pretty. She's got long red hair and the kind of smile men have thrown themselves on the sword for. She's got her arms around a guy with a strange birthmark on his forehead.

“Another redhead,” says the sheriff. “It's starting to be a pattern.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because she was found in the park. On a park bench, to be precise. A few days after I found you right at that exact spot.”

I stare at him. I can't decide if he’s making an accusation or not. His words sound like he is, but his tone is almost apologetic, and he's looking me straight in the eyes.

“I don't think you did it," he says, an offering.

“You don't?” I ask in surprise, and look away. His gaze is so intense.

“No. At first, I did, but now… It seems too easy. I think someone really wants me to believe you’re the killer.”

“Who would want that?” I ask.

“Do you have any enemies?”

I laugh, shaking my head. When I realize he's not joking, I try to school my expression back to normal.

“No, I don't have any enemies.”

“What about back in the Homelands?”

“I've never been to the Homelands,” I remind him.

He winces. “Right. I forgot you're so young…” He thinks for a moment. “Does your mother have any enemies? Anyone who would try to get to her through you?”

“Try about a thousand,” I say. “Anyone she's ever screwed over, and add to that everyone who doesn't like witches in general. Oh, and I guess anyone who hates half-breeds could technically decide to frame me, too."

“So most of Fabletown, then,” the sheriff says. I'm surprised to see that the corner of his mouth is actually turned up.

“Just about.”

We sit in silence for another moment. The sheriff finishes his coffee.

“I'm gonna keep my eye on you,” he tells me. “Both to confirm you're not secretly killing redheads and to make sure that you aren't a target.”

“Okay.”

“Don't be surprised if you see me around.”

“I barely leave my apartment at this point,” I say. “But I'll keep that in mind.”

The sheriff nods.

“Want another coffee?” I ask.

He nods again.