Chapter Three: Monday Part I

Disclaimer: Not my show. Sadly. Or this would totally be an episode.

So, after a extremely long wait that I am immensly sorry for I finally updated this story. See told you it wasn't abandoned. :) Anyway sorry again for the long wait.

AN: I know I said before each day was going to be a chapter...yeah no. Now there's parts. :) So this is Monday Part I.

AN: Magic Hour is Piper's restaurant; Grand Design is Paige's wiccan supply store. Hope that clears things up.

Chris twisted the key in the lock and pushed the door open stepping into his Aunt Paige's small store. With her vacation to New Zealand, Paige had entrusted the care of Grand Design to Chris and Cathy, the head employee. He turned the lights on heading to the back room of the store. The store was Paige's newest pet project, and Chris wondered how long it would stick around. Paige had a habit of being a little eccentric with her life, but Chris loved the store and hoped Paige wouldn't be getting rid of it in the near or distant future. He'd already decided that if she did choose to sell it he would, if able, obtain it for himself. After all it would only take a few dozen cookies and a bag of lollipops.

Chris pulled out the papers and started inventory, methodically checking each product. He started violently, dropping a box of white candles, when Cathy made her usual loud entrance. He noted absently she was fifteen minutes late, but he wasn't going to fuss. He knelt down picking up the candles he'd dropped. Groping under the shelf he mentally cursed himself for allowing himself to be startled like that. Finally snatching the candle, he sighed and put it with the others. He slid the box back into its place and continued inventory all the while ignoring Cathy as she prattled on about traffic this, and her niece that, and her husband blah, blah, blah. He didn't feel bad about ignoring the chatterbox. Everyone did, he knew of not one soul who actually listened to her. All you needed to do was nod and 'muhum' at regular intervals.

Inventory took up most of the next hour, and in the entire time Cathy had not once fallen silent for more time than it took her to take a drink. Chris sat down behind the counter and pulled out his sketch pad and pencils. He drew the pencils across the page doodling idly. He didn't know what to draw exactly. He continued drawing lines and was taken aback to see them form into a rough portrait of the man he'd drawn for Darrel. Chris stared at it a moment then tore it up and tossed in the trash.

He jumped at the bell chime when a customer walked in. It was one of GD's regular clients; Sherri, if he remembered rightly.

Chris swore quietly, picking up his dropped pencil. He had no idea why he was so nervous today. Wait, no that was a lie. He knew why. He just didn't want to acknowledge it. He'd been jumpy since yesterday. The little trip down memory lane with the blonde woman, Karen Beecher, and the unknown sadistic stalker-murderer had shaken him up more than he first realized or wanted to admit. The feeling was only accentuated when he'd gone home to an empty house. But now in the light of day, and in the store with Cathy and Sherri the feeling seemed foolish. It wasn't as if the man knew about him and would now come after him. And if for some reason the man did, Chris would be more than a match for the guy even with his diluted powers. He hoped.

He watched silently as Sherri picked up her items chatting with Cathy. Chris rang her purchases up asking politely how she was and telling her that Paige was on vacation. Sherri left then and the rest of the time until Cathy's lunch break passed quietly with only two other customers.

"Just leave the sign on open. I'm staying here," Chris said.

"You sure, honey? You can have lunch with me if you'd like," Cathy asked. She really was a nice person, just a touch annoying at times.

Chris laughed lightly shaking his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm just not hungry today."

"Alright, I'll be back in half an hour. Oh and I'll get you a coffee."

"Thank you," Chris yelled after her.

He directed his attention back to his paper dragging his pencil across it. Chris was in the process of adding a small eagle on the horizon of a rather beautiful landscape when the door opened again. It was a young woman; pretty, petite, and blonde.

"Hello, um this is like a store with natural remedies and stuff, right?" she asked.

"For some things, yes," Chris answered after a moment. He shook his head to dislodge the thoughts of Karen Beecher. The resemblance between the two women was uncanny. "What kind of remedy are you looking for?"

"Just something to help with sleeping. I've been having trouble falling and staying asleep lately, but I have this aversion to pills so I'm looking for something natural," she said.

"Well," Chris said standing up to pick out the items, "We have several things that may help. Valerian for one. You drink the tea around an hour before you go to bed. It will take two to three weeks to take effect though so—"

"I kind of need it now," she said smiling wanly.

"Ok, so Valerian is out. We have Melatonin supplements. It's a sleep hormone and you'll take it about thirty minutes before you go to bed. Is the insomnia stress or anxiety related?"

The woman nodded her head.

"Right. We have Chamomile and Sage tea. Both will help you relax and reduce anxiety. You can also try some aromatherapy. Lavender is especially helpful."

"I think I'll try the teas and the aromatherapy first. If they don't help I'll be back for the Melatonin."

"Alrighty," Chris said picking out what she requested, "Lavender for the aromatherapy?"

"Whatever works best."

"Oils or incense?"

"Both."

Chris nodded gathering everything and ringing her up. "Your total is—"

"Do you have anything for nightmares?" she asked suddenly.

Chris blinked. "Um, well the only thing I can think of is a dream pillow." He moved to the back of the store stopping at some shelves piled with small draw string bags.

"How do they work?"

"You fill the bag with certain herbs, scents, and a few personal trinkets that help you relax. Then you place the bag in your pillow case. The herbs release fragrances that calm you before you sleep and the trinkets emit positive energy. You'll have to replace the herbs regularly," Chris explained.

"But they do work?" she asked dubiously.

Chris smiled reassuringly. "Have for me. Pick out a bag you like and I'll get you the right herbs to put in it."

She did as he said and Chris picked out several herbs and scents for her. "The total is $59.63."

The blonde whistled lightly. "That's kind of expensive," she said pulling out her checkbook.

"The good stuff always is. Can I see your driver's license?" he asked.

She pulled it out and set it on the counter. Chris copied down the number he needed and glanced at the name. Cheryl Beecher.

Chris looked up at the woman. "Beecher?"

"Yes," she replied guardedly.

"Beecher," Chris repeated. "Then you're Karen's…"

"I'm Karen's sister. You knew her?" Cheryl asked surprised.

"Well, um, kind of…but not really. We were just acquaintances," Chris stuttered not entirely sure how explain his knowing Karen. He couldn't exactly say he'd watched her die. Yeah, that would go over real well.

"Oh," Cheryl said. "What's your name?"

"Chris. Chris Halliwell," he replied shaking her hand.

"Halliwell, Halliwell. Are you related to Phoebe Halliwell by any chance?" she inquired.

Chris smiled and nodded. "I'm her nephew."

"Wow. Small world, huh? Karen was a big fan of your aunt, talked about her all the time. Don't think she mentioned you though," Cheryl mused.

"Don't think she'd ever had a reason to. Like I said, we didn't know each other that well. I'll have to tell Phoebe Karen was such a big fan."

Cheryl studied him closely. "You're using past tense. So I take it you know about…about what happened?" she asked softly.

Chris nodded. More than you actually, he thought. "Yeah. I'm sorry."

Cheryl gave him a small smile. "Thank you. It was sudden, you know, and I never ever expected anything like this to happen in a million years. It was always the sort of thing you heard about, but were never affected by. I keep blaming myself because I was supposed to fly in from Phoenix earlier, but I delayed. And now I've had to fly in for her murder case."

"It's not your fault. One cannot take the blame for the ways of Fate," Chris said.

"No. No I suppose not," Cheryl said taking her bags.

Chris hesitated then picked up a business card scrawling his cell number on the bottom. "You know what, since you're not from around here and all, don't be afraid to call if you need anything. Oh and let me know how the teas and dream pillow work."

"Thank you," Cheryl said politely taking the card. "You are very kind, Chris. I hope God shines upon you."

"And you," Chris replied. Cheryl smiled and left. Chris watched her walk away shrinking into the distance.

00:00

Cheryl leapt back, barely avoiding the horn blaring taxi, and almost dropping her bags from Grand Design. She sighed pressing her hand to her chest to calm her racing heart. Christ, Cheryl. You're gonna get yourself killed, she chastised herself. Her mood immediately darkened with the thought. Giving herself a mental shake, she looked both ways before carefully crossing the street again. She walked down the block heading for the small motel room she was calling home while she stayed in San Francisco.

Cheryl swallowed dryly at the thought. She was at the motel because she couldn't stay with Karen. She couldn't stay with Karen because Karen was dead. Cheryl unlocked the door placing her bags on the table and clicking on the television to fill the silence. She had always regarded herself as a practical and realistic girl. Dead is dead. You say it and move on. But she was having trouble saying it and moving on.

Karen had been her big sister. Cheryl had never thought of a world without her. She was just always there, even when Cheryl had thought she wanted Karen gone. Now Karen really was gone. The news hadn't really sunk in all that deep, and Cheryl found herself expecting each phone call, each text, each knock on the door to be her sister. It never was.

She turned to the kitchen area and stopped. There were three bowls sitting upside down on the counter. Cheryl frowned. Did I put those there? She could add forgetful to the list of things she regarded herself as. She sighed, irritated, and grabbed the closest bowl. She reached for the next one and dropped it with a scream. The bowl shattered on the floor and a spider the sized of her thumb scurried across the table. Cheryl screamed again snatching the tissue box and smashing it on top of the arachnid over and over. "DIE! DIE YOU STUPID SPIDER! DIE!" she yelled.

Cheryl stopped her homicidal attack only when she was sure the eight-legged creeper was no more than a smear on the hard surface. She got a paper towel and wiped off the bottom of the tissues before returning the now squished box to its place. She scrubbed off the countertop, then flushed the paper towel down the toilet. Couldn't be too careful. She turned over the last bowl, peeking under it and ready to snap it back down at the slightest indication of any eight or six-legged fiends. Finding nothing she put the bowl with the others, and swept up the shattered fragments of the one she'd dropped.

Finished and positive no more creepy crawlers were lying in wait for her, Cheryl picked up her phone and dialed the hated, familiar number. She held a hand to her mouth struggling to keep the tears at bay while she listened to it ring over and over. Why could he never answer? Did he care that little about either of them?

The phone clicked going to the answering machine. "Hello. You've reached the Martin residence. If you're looking for Alan, Victoria, Shawn, Alice, Jared, Sam, Caroline, or me, Melinda leave a name, number, and the message and we'll call back as soon as possible, bye." Cheryl smiled weakly at the sound of her youngest half-sister's voice, but even it couldn't dispel the despair settling over her having to listen to it again. She cleared her throat gruffly. "Hey Alan, it's me. Again. The police and I have been trying to reach you, but as you can tell we can't. Call me when you get this," she paused swallowing thickly. God she couldn't believe she was going to say this. "I need you to call me Dad," she whispered, "Please."

Cheryl hung up, clicking the cell closed. She held it close, clasping a hand over her mouth. She wiped at the escaped tears on her cheeks, sniffling slightly and tossed the phone on the bed.

Pulling out Karen's family album, one of the things the police had returned to her, she curled up comfortably in one of the plush chairs. Cheryl flipped through the pages, memories stirring in her mind as the pictures flew by. Oh Karen, she thought running a finger over a picture of her and her sister during a family picnic. You were all I had left. What am I going to do without you?

00:00

"Hello, Grand Design. Chris speaking. How may I help you?"

"You could start by answering your cell phone."

"Darrel?" Chris asked dropping his feet from the counter. "What are you talking about?" He grabbed his phone from the desk. Five missed calls. Oops

"I tried calling you ten times, Chris," Darrel answered.

"Five," Chris interjected.

"Whatever. Why didn't you answer?"

Chris shrugged. "Had it on vibrate and sitting on the desk. I didn't hear it."

Darrel sighed. "It doesn't matter. Listen someone recognized that portrait you drew."

"What?" Chris said. "You know who he is?"

"No. We don't know who he is, but someone picked the guy out as a suspect for a different case, one we didn't even think was connected. Now we're not too sure," Darrel said.

"What kind of case?"

"A missing persons. Girl disappeared about two weeks ago. No one's seen or heard of anything since. I want you to come check out the crime scene with me."

Chris bit his lip. He wanted to help, he really, really did. But he didn't want to take another trip down memory lane with a new potential murder victim.

Darrel seemed to sense his hesitation. "No deep mojo stuff. Just to talk with the woman that picked out our guy and a quick empathic sweep of the house. No memory lanes today."

"Alright," Chris relented, "Can you come get me?"

"Sure can. I'll be there in ten." The phone clicked as Darrel hung up.

Chris rolled his eyes at the device. "Someone needs to teach you manners, Darrel," he muttered.

00:00

"And you are absolutely sure this is the same man?" Darrel said holding out the copy of the picture.

The woman stared at it intently, taking a long drag on her cigarette. "Absolutely. I only saw Em's man twice, but boy was he a looker, and that is definitely him."

"Do you know his name?" Chris asked.

"Nope," she replied. "Knew Em kinda well, she was real private, but never was properly introduced to her man."

"So you have no idea as to what his name is?" Darrel asked.

"That's what I said. Could be Bill, John, Craig, or even Leslie for all I know. I don't got a name to give you."

"Alright. Thank you for your time, ma'am." Darrel turned gesturing for Chris to follow. Once they were well out of earshot Darrel leaned down whispering gruffly in Chris's ear: "She tell the truth?"

Chris nodded. "Up straight and honest as they come Darrel," he said as they approached Emily Brent's, the missing woman, house. It was a small plain thing. White with faded blue trim and an adequately kept front yard, it held a used but homey feeling. Inside was much the same, holding a familiar atmosphere that made everyone feel at ease instantly.

Darrel led Chris to the kitchen where a stern looking brunette woman dressed in a crisp business suit was standing next to the table.

"So what makes you think your serial killer is connected with my missing person?" she asked without preamble upon seeing the two males.

"Molly Ridon identified our Serial John Doe as the boyfriend of Emily Brent," Darrel answered. "I wasn't aware they were sending someone from your department."

"They don't tell you everything Inspector Morris. Who is that?" she asked jerking her head at Chris.

Chris took the initiative, stepping forward and extending his hand. "Chris Halliwell," he said.

The woman ignored him turning to Darrel. "The psychic? You brought the psychic?" she said disbelievingly.

Chris bit down his instant sarcastic and insulting remark. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to do that to this woman. The whole psychic skepticism routine was starting to get old though and rub raw nerves. Seriously. Didn't anybody besides Darrel realize how much he and his family helped them on the more difficult and demonically inclined cases? Probably not because of the whole magic exposure thing, but really. After all apparently the Halliwell name was rather popular in law enforcement.

I'm calling you Mousie, Chris thought bitterly, since you neglected to introduce yourself like a polite and well mannered person.

"I did. He's a consultant on this case. Without him we wouldn't even know what the guy looked like," Darrel stated. "Chris. Take a look around. See if you can tell what happened to Brent, but be careful." In other words, none of what happened yesterday.

Chris nodded and left the room ignoring Mousie's glare. Let the two adults talk things out while the kid does all the work, he thought sardonically.

He probed around the house, shifting through the many emotions flowing in the atmosphere. There were none that pointed towards foul play. No glaring pain. No fear. And most importantly, no death. Whatever had happened to Emily, it hadn't happened here. She had been very much alive when she was here last. Had been? Chris frowned and felt his heart drop. Emily Brent was dead. He was certain.

Chris wandered back to the kitchen, knocking lightly on the door frame to get Darrel's and Mousie's attention.

"Get anything?" Darrel asked.

"Emily was alive when she was here last. What happened to her didn't happen here," Chris said. "I felt nothing pointing to death or even fear."

"Wait. You mean there's a chance she's still alive somewhere?" Mousie asked earnestly. At least she cared about her missing people.

Chris looked at Darrel and shook his head. "No. Wherever she is, she is very much dead."

The woman stared at him. "You sure?" asked Darrel.

"Positive."

Darrel sighed. "Did you see it?" he asked worry tingeing his words.

"No," Chris paused, "I just know."

"You 'just know' that my missing person is dead?" Mousie said disbelievingly.

Chris glared at her but didn't retort. "Where's her bedroom?" he asked Darrel instead.

Mousie clenched her jaw and Darrel answered softly, "Upstairs. Last door on the left." Chris nodded.

"Well how the hell do you know?" Mousie demanded again.

Chris arched an eyebrow at her. She was ticking him off. "Well gee Jo," he said sweeping Mousie's mind for her real name, "maybe it's because I'm a psychic."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Chris," Darrel warned.

"How did you know my name?" Jo asked quietly.

"I'm gonna take a look at the bedroom now," Chris said ignoring Jo's question.

Darrel nodded and Chris took it as a go ahead. He left the kitchen, climbing the stairs heading to the last door on the left. People generally conducted their most personal and therefore emotionally charged activities in the bedrooms. Thus they were an information goldmine for a person like Chris. Tragically, they also tended to be entirely embarrassing and emotionally unsettling, you know, considering everything that went on in them. Too bad.

Chris pushed the door open slowly peering around the room. It was neat, but not overly clean with an light and airy color scheme. The walls were beige, the carpet brown, and the fabrics a creamy white. Books cluttered cases and a desk, and clothes were strewn about here and there. The bed was unmade and there was an empty water glass on the nightstand. It appeared untouched.

He took a deep breath delving into the memories carefully, pulling back whenever he felt control slipping. Whether he told Darrel or not, the last time he lost control of his psychometry like yesterday had been…well a long time ago. Nothing like that had happened since he was a child and it disturbed him to no end. He'd always been in control. Not that he would tell anyone, especially not Darrel. The man didn't need to be worrying about him.

He growled in frustration trying to sort through the information he was getting and pick out what was important. God, she was a boring person. He hadn't noticed before downstairs, but thinking back, the girl never seemed to have company. In fact he could barely find a sign of another living being having been in the house, let alone a boyfriend. Sheesh, she was a loner even more than he was. Not that Chris thought he was…but Wyatt always said it.

Chris sighed pacing the room. He turned at the window then spun back to it. His gaze landed instantly on the fence around the backyard, particularly one corner. There was tug on his psyche, almost a voracious need to get to the fence. There was just something about it.

That settled it. He was down the stairs and out the back door before he realized his decision to go. Walking up to the fence, there no marks of anything out of the ordinary. A lovely little flowerbed that contained no squished plants or footprints of any kind, and a sturdy white fence with no broken boards, fresh nails, or scuff marks.

Nevertheless, Chris found himself vaulting over and landing gracefully on the other side. He turned back glancing at the slightly tall tree's now concealing Brent's house from his view. He focused his attention forward again. A small part of his brain told him he should have informed Darrel instead of doing what he was doing, but he quickly ignored it.

He was standing at the edge of what appeared to be some sort of construction site. There was a chain link fence flush up against Brent's wooden one, piles of wood and metal, the framework for a building and sheets of plastic hanging down from just about everywhere. Chris could make out the shadows of a few large machinery in places. The site seemed to be abandoned, having a feeling of neglect, but it also seemed to be a work in progress. Just delayed for some reason; the point being no one had been here for a while.

The dirt was pounded hard from many feet making individual footprints nearly impossible to pick out. Chris weaved his way through the plastic hangings, pushing them out of his path as he feet moved on autopilot. He knew where he was going, but he didn't. But he did. He knew where he was going, he just didn't know what 'where' was.

Chris stopped at a large plank laying flat on the ground with large orange marked stakes around it complete with caution tape. Well if that didn't scream danger, Chris didn't know what did. Well, you know, aside from a person actually screaming 'Danger!'.

He ducked under the tape, subconsciously noting that this was a dumb idea, and grasped the edge of the board to pull it up. Grunting with the effort he gave the board a shove of telekinesis, frustrated when it took way more effort than it normally would.

"Damn freakin' power stealing demons," Chris cursed as he struggled against the board. It flipped back finally, falling against the stakes and revealing a large sink hole in the ground. Chris heaved a sigh of relief and stepped forward, peering into the darkness. The hole was deep, the bottom cloaked in shadows.

There was fear in the hole. The same bone chilling fear Chris had felt at Karen's house. Chris shifted trying to see into the shadows at the bottom, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Something was wrong. Darrel, he decided, definitely time to go get Darrel.

He stood quickly and his heart leapt to his throat when the ground dropped beneath him.

00:00

Darrel sighed scrubbing his hands over his face. Jo Harper stood in front of him, sour expression plastered permanently on her face.

"Look," he said reasonably. "I'm not trying to interfere with your case. I just—"

"Not trying to interfere? Your 'consultant' just told me my missing person is dead. You're relying on a teenage psychic for your case. It's unprofessional," Harper said angrily.

Darrel bit back another sigh. "If Chris says Brent is dead it is because he believes with the utmost sincerity that she is. I'm sorry, but if Chris says she's dead, she's dead."

Jo huffed. "So what exactly? Are you just going to listen to a boy about a police case?"

"Yes actually I am. Chris knows what he's talking about."

"You know something Morris? The others were right about you," Harper said, "You do whatever you think is right to solve cases don't you? How do you know that boy isn't involved somehow and that's how he knows everything? Maybe you're just covering up for those Halliwells, you and your dead partner both."

Darrel clenched his jaw, snuffing down the urge to deck the woman. Taking jabs at Chris, himself, or any of the Halliwells he could handle, let it roll off him because he knew it wasn't true. But to insult Andy, Andy who'd died a hero protecting the girls, was going way too far.

"Now you listen here," Darrel said dangerously, "Andy Trudeau was a good cop who died protecting good people. Don't you ever think you can insult him like that. And I've know the Halliwells for a long time. I've known Chris practically all his life so don't go saying things about him or his family because none of them would ever do something to hurt another human being." He was careful to specify the 'human' part.

Harper was silent, not saying anything or moving an inch. "Working with a psychic is unprofessional."

"It's not unprofessional if the psychic knows his trade," Darrel answered.

"This kid," Jo said softly, "he really what he says he is?"

"He knew your name."

"Did you tell him?"

"No."

Harper scrutinized him and sighed. "This case is big, Darrel. Does your psychic know anything else?"

Darrel shook his head. "Chris isn't God. He doesn't know everything."

"Pity. He'd be more help," Jo said.

Darrel resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. That would be unprofessional. He settled for a soft sigh turning away from Harper. He rubbed the bridge of his nose wondering where Chris was and if he'd found anything else more of use.

He walked over to the stairs shouting up to the younger boy. "Chris? Did you find anything?"

Darrel frowned when there wasn't an answer. Sudden fear flooded him that Chris had gotten sucked into another psychic attack. He rushed up the stairs, opened the door to the bedroom expecting to see Chris and stopped short at the sight of the empty room.

"What? Your psychic run off now?" Jo asked irritably. Darrel turned surprised having not realized she'd followed him. He ignored her comment moving down the hallway to look for the missing witch.

He heard Harper huff behind him just a the unmistakable sound of a scream filled the air. It cut off abruptly. He looked at Harper as they both immediately palmed their weapons.

"Outside," Jo said shortly. The two cops made their way outside alert for any danger. Darrel looked around quickly, glancing up and down the street trying to determine the direction of the yell.

"Around back," he said hearing another shout. It was muffled and punctuated as if the person was struggling. He ran around the house seeing only a white fence lined with trees and flowers and an empty small yard. The shouts were definitely coming from the other side of the fence. Darrel moved over to the fence noting the fresh foot prints in the soil of the flower bed. He holstered his gun gripping the top of the fence to climb over. Jo followed him, landing with thud beside him. They were in a construction site. Darrel drew his weapon again peering around at the plastic sheets and piles of wood.

The yells were louder now as Darrel moved through the site and accompanied by splashes. Darrel caught his name in the shouts and instantly picked up his pace.

"Chris!" he called back loudly, suddenly very sure that was who it was and trying to let the boy know he was on his way. He moved through the maze of the half built foundation layout, following the cries as best he could.

00:00

Chris stumbled grabbing at the ground with his hands. Fear of his own raced through him as the dirt crumbled and he slid into the hole.

He cried out in shock, his first instinct to orb, but nothing happened. He plummeted downward, squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation of the sure to be painful landing, and screamed again when he made a splash instead of a splat.

Gasping he immediately swallowed a mouthful of brackish water. He thrashed desperately for something solid, his hands meeting nothing but yielding water. He kicked his feet frantically, pushing himself to what he hoped was the surface.

Moments later his head broke the surface. Chris sucked in air greedily, shouting again and trying stifle his panic. He groped out to either side, seeking something to hold on to. The mud was slippery offering no handholds, only a sure slide back into the water.

"Darrel!" Chris screamed pushing the call both verbally and telepathically. He had no idea if Darrel would hear him and that thought threatened to frighten him more. "Darrel!"

He continued shouting as the water grew thicker trying to engulf him. He squeezed his eyes closed clawing desperately at the yielding liquid. His clothes were heavy pulling him down in the water. Struggling, he managed to wriggle his way out of his hoodie, slipping under the water completely at times, and kick off his shoes.

He scrabbled at the sides of the hole, fingers sliding through the slick mud like a hot knife through butter. He couldn't find a grip, slipping repeatedly back into the dark water. Chris choked back a sob as the memories filtered through his head. Things he didn't want to remember now or ever again.

He screamed again, the sound tearing from his throat almost involuntary as he fought to get out of the imaginary car sinking underneath the cold water of the bay. He remembered how his mother's hair had floated around her blank face tinged green by the water. He remembered the biting pain on his head and the searing fire in his chest. Remembered Jordan reaching out to be saved and not having the strength to pull him to safety. Remembered the fear and hopelessness of being trapped as the car filled with water. Of not being able to focus and save the others in the car with him.

Chris sputtered spitting out a mouthful of water. He pulled himself together, repeating over and over that he wasn't in that car, that he was alone, that no one was with him, that he wasn't stuck in a sinking death trap. He froze allowing a small cry of relief when he heard Darrel yell his name from above. It sounded distant, but at least Darrel had heard him.

"Darrel!" He shouted again keeping his panic tucked tightly just under the surface. He wanted out of this hole, out of this water. "Darrel!" He didn't eve care that he sounded panicky, shaky. He wanted out.

"Chris!" A dark silhouette knelt over the opening.

Chris let out a hysterical chuckle followed by a distressed confirmation. "Here. Please get me out."

A muffled swear word reached his ears followed by a command obviously directed to someone else. "Hang on Chris. We'll try to find a rope here. Are you okay?"

Chris gulped trying to take deep steadying breaths and failing miserably. "There's…there's water. There's water Darrel. Why is there so much water? I can't. I can't get out." He shivered not at all sure if it was from the overwhelming panic or temperature of water. "I can't get out."

"Hey. No Chris. You're fine," Darrel said, "we're gonna get you out, okay? Just hold on."

"There's…there's nothing…here to hold on…to."

"Just try and relax, Chris. You'll be out soon. Just relax and keep your head above the water, alright?" Darrel soothed moving around the edge of the hole to try and get a better view of the witch. He could just make out Chris's shadow.

Chris gasped, trying to follow Darrel's suggestions and still searching blindly for a handhold. Something or anything solid would do. He shoved at the memories searing his mind, forcing them back. He stretched out further for the opposite wall. Maybe it was solid. Maybe it was stone instead of mud.

He touched something clammy and slick. Not rock but not mud either. He grasped it hoping it was solid and tugged a little to pull himself closer. Whatever it was gave way sliding into the water beside him. It made a sloshing sound and as it slid Chris's hand was dragged down across something that almost felt like cloth.

A cold gripped Chris's chest tightly and he froze wanting to let go but unable to break his grip. Dread and disgust seized him forcing a strangled whimper from his cold lips.

"Chris?" Darrel called immediately. "Hang on they're almost here."

Chris didn't need to ask who they were as he moved his lips soundlessly trying to force the words out. "Darrel?" he whispered. He exhaled sharply, the new knowledge hitting him like a freight train and nearly forcing all previous panic out to be replaced with horror. "Darrel?" he repeated. "I…I think I found Emily."

Hmmm. Evil me considering there probably won't be another update very soon. I'll try though REALLY I will. Maybe I can write during Chem class...yes good idea. :)

Anyhoo...please review?

AN: Just wanted to say a few things.

First...I have no idea where Cheryl came from. I was just writing along and in she walks into GD and I'm like "who the heck are you?" and she's like "Cheryl" and I'm like "Well I don't do OFC, get out before I make you get hit by a truck!" and she's like "NO! I'm running this part of the story!" and I was like "Shoot, you are: *hangs head* It's taking on a life of its own. I should worry but oh well.

Second...Jo Harper kinda did the same thing. Darrel and Chris walked into Brent's house and she was just there. I kinda like her though cause she's just a third character person. Picture Michelle Rodriguez if you will.

Thirdly...I'm just winging most of this so if the not totally accuarte police stuff bothers you...oh well *shrugs* I get most of the stuff from shows which I'm entirly aware are most defiently not the most authentic.

Lastly...I hope to update The Other Side soon and finish some of my one shots. :)