I had two drafts of this epilogue written, both very different. Ultimately, this one seemed to be more me, more Mac, more fitting for this story. Thanks to my impartial, Annabeth, for making me see that. I deleted the other draft.

I hope I did you all justice. Your kind words and recognition mean the world to me.

This story is dedicated to Alva Starr. She fed me the ideas and I ran with them. Without her, Aberdeen wouldn't be possible. This started out as a little one-shot a few months ago and turned into so much more. It's really hard for me to see her go. I hope you approve.

18 months later, just outside of Reno, NV

The driveway was long, the house secluded, just how Aberdeen wanted. Noah babbled in the backseat as Aberdeen pulled up to their home. Noah was almost one now. It had been over a year since the massacre in Cainville, since Aberdeen had lost her family, the only living people who meant anything to her.

Now there was Noah.

Noah was still young, still developing, but from the moment he was born, she could see the similarities. Noah came out of her womb with stark white hair and eyes the clearest crystal Aberdeen had ever seen. That is, except for one man before. They haunted her every waking moment.

Aberdeen was making a living by being a freelance artist, dabbling in photography and painting portraits when she wasn't busy working part time as an office clerk at the garage beside the local diner. The smell of gasoline, paint fumes, and motor oil often haunted her, giving her frequent flashbacks, ones she had to quell with prescription narcotics.

She had done her best as single mother. She went by the name Abigail Stanley, now. They were able to buy a house and land under that name with the money from her savings, the money she had gotten from Stanley helped to pay the bills.

People asked about Noah's father almost daily. Aberdeen merely said he died in battle. That was the truth, after all. He had died in a battle. After that they stopped asking questions. People accepted it, even if Aberdeen couldn't.

The backdoor to the house, which she usually locked twice, with the regular lock and a padlock, was left ajar, gapped an inch from its rightful place in the doorjamb.

Aberdeen shook her head, telling herself she had merely forgotten to lock it in her rush to get Noah to daycare on time. Noah had kept her up all night. She didn't get much sleep anyway. He always made sure of that.

Aberdeen got out of the Suburban, making her way to backseat where Noah still cried gleefully to be home. He was shy, antisocial. Yet another similarity. Instinctively, Aberdeen placed a hand on the black widow tattoo on her shoulder, covering a ring of teeth shaped scars in that place. It was visible beneath the thin straps of her camisole, having already discarded her work blouse in the desert heat.

Logically, Aberdeen should have moved farther away, thousands of miles from Cainville and it's many tortures, but she just couldn't stand the cold. The desert was her home, no matter how many horrors lurked in the night.

"Bub bub bub. Yes, Noah. We're home." She cooed. She unlocked Noah from his car seat and lifted him with a huff. He was nearly twenty-five pounds now. She bounced him on her hip with one arm, grabbing his diaper bag and her purse in the other. She had now mastered this task, juggling three things at once.

She approached the door, pushing it easily with the hand that clutched the bags. She took a step forward, entering the kitchen. By the dining room table was Noah's playpen. Aberdeen sat the bouncing boy in the pen and he immediately picked up a stuffed monkey with a rattle inside. It was one of his favorites. He bashed the stuffed animal into the wall of the pen and giggled as Aberdeen grabbed the mail from her purse. She shook her head as she browsed the covers of the envelopes slowly, finding nothing of interest and setting the envelopes on the dining table. She decided to start dinner.

She entered the kitchen, opening the refrigerator to find the milk, setting it on the counter. That's when she saw it. The salt was spilt on the black marble counter, drawn in the center was a crude interpretation of a spider.

She screamed, more loudly than she intended and smeared the drawing with her hand, finding that it was indeed there. Salt spattered on the dark cherry floors of the kitchen. She ran to the dining table and dumped the contents of her purse to find the little orange bottle marked 'Zoloft.' She wrenched open the cap and downed two tablets, willing the memories, the pain away.

She heard the snicker close behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the silhouette. She blinked, willing the image to just be in her mind. Her mind was only playing a cruel, cruel trick on her. "No, no, no, no, no." She muttered, running her hands down her cheeks, pressing the palms of her hands into her eyes. "This can't be happening. You're dead. You're fucking dead. I killed you myself."

"Y'ain't so lucky, sweetheart. Thought ye'd fuckin' run out on me. Shoulda done a better job hidin'." He stepped closer. His voice, so real. The footfalls, the sound of his boots on the hard wood floor, sounding so vivid, she thought she felt the slight tremors of his presence nearing. She lowered her hands, but kept her eyes closed tight. "Took me a while ta find ye."

She blinked, almost sure that his strong, calloused hand was resting on the spider tattoo on her collarbone. It felt as though his chest brushed against the scope of her back. She shivered, convinced she felt his rancid breath tickling the faint baby hairs on her neck, warm against the shell of her ear. "Ye did me proud. Ol' man an' golden boy... well, they didn't even see it comin'." He muttered, his lips close to her throat.

Slowly, he trailed his finger tips along her collar bone, wrapping his deft fingers around her throat easily. He applied little pressure and tilted her head back against his shoulder. "M'girl's so fuckin' tough." He growled.

Never had her visions been this vivid before. Surely, if this was Mac, she wouldn't still be alive. Noah cooed in the playpen, giggling loudly. She was almost sure this was reality. If only that fucking Zoloft would kick in soon. "He's mine, ain't he? S'why ye ran?"

"No, Mac. He's mine. He was never yours." She whispered, self-assuredly.

The grip on her throat tightened, as did her eyelids. She never once opened her eyes. "Yer a fuckin' liar, Aberdeen." He sneered. It had been so long since she had heard her real name, she shivered. "I ain't stupid. I kin do the fuckin' math."

"You would have never wanted him." She gasped, her throat strained against his palm.

"Ye might be right. Guess we'll never know, huh?" He released her, the presence no longer holding her upright; she stumbled backwards, falling against the kitchen island.

She was forced to open her eyes. She saw him, leaning his back against the cabinets, just beside the refrigerator. She didn't know if this was real or just her vivid imagination finally getting the best of her. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.

"S'alright though." He laughed, pushing himself off of the counter. He stomped past her, over to the play pen where Noah had stopped giggling, chewing quietly on the monkey's ear. Mac leaned over the pen, eyes intent on the little boy sitting in it's confines. "I forgive ye." He grunted, leaning down and picking up the baby. Aberdeen shook, but she couldn't will her feet to move. "Now we can just be one big, happy family." Mac cradled the child, close to his chest and smiled down at his flesh and blood. "Isn't that right, son?"