A/N: Very ambitious (and borderline clinically insane) of me to begin a brand new fucking fanfic two days before I'm about to leave for a two week work trip.
Oh well... Let’s make fun of the girl who took a risk and put herself out there 🙄 That being said, full warning - this is a very OC centric chapter. It sets the scene for what's to come, so even though I know most of y'all would want to skip it because our problematic fave isn't the star, please don't. He is there, I promise! All you gotta do is squint a little harder.
I had a lot of fun writing this (even more so the following chapter that may and may not be coming out later tonight 👀) so please - let me know what y'all think! Your thoughts and comments mean a lot to me!
T/W: Brief mentions of murder as well as implied sexual activities. (idk how else to word that, take it as you will lmao)
TRUDY
The sun fades behind a cluster of cotton candy clouds, painting the sky and ocean a jarring shade of burnt orange that at second glance makes it seem as if the whole world’s on fire. And in some strange, poetic kind of way - it is. At least, that’s how mine feels at this very moment.
Slightly exhausted, I press my back against the bench; ignoring the way its metal bars dig into my skin and take in the quiet. Aside from Charlie, me and a couple dozen other people, the ferry is practically empty. There are still two more weeks to go until the island is packed with loud, sloppy tourists; before the beaches are no longer a holy place and I set to leave.
It’s strange. Five years ago the idea of leaving Kildare forever used to terrify me. I couldn’t imagine a life outside the island. I didn’t want to. Didn’t dare to. Everyone I knew and loved was there; stuck in a comfortable routine, never needing change, so who was I to think any differently?
Beside me, Charlie shifts a little. His head is steadily resting on my shoulder. He’s been fast asleep ever since we boarded the ferry; his nerves calmed by the pill he took to contain his debilitating seasickness. Gently, I turn to look at him and he nuzzles even closer - his warm steady breath lodging in the crook of my neck and almost instantly, I relax.
The touch of his hand; the quick slide of his fingers in between mine leaves a fluttering feeling in the pit of my belly. A feeling I once thought would be impossible to have with any person other than him. My gaze travels to Charlie again - his soft face, round cheeks and button nose. He looks young for his age; almost always passing for seventeen than his actual twenty-three.
Twenty-three.
I suddenly realize I’m now the same age my mother was when she had me. Twenty-three and just a little over two years older than she was when she married my father. Just like Sarah is, except instead of a huge princess gown with puffy sleeves, her dress is sleeveless and in a nice shade of champagne white.
“Are we there yet?” Charlie says, his voice slurred and drowsy.
I shake my head. “Twenty more minutes to go.” And he hums, burying his face even further inside the crook of my neck; his lips gently brushing against my skin and God - I am so in love with him. This isn’t new of course. I’ve felt this way about him long before I could finally admit it to myself, but the reminder is always nice. Especially in times like these when I have no other choice but to slowly return to the pit of despair I’ve spent so many years running away from.
Minutes trickle by.
The empty seat before Charlie and me has now been occupied by a man that looks a lot more like a teenage boy trying his hardest to pass for an adult. He is dressed in that same delicate and sophisticated way kids from my school used to dress whenever we’d go waste away at the country club or golf course. Clean shaven and doe eyed - he quickly notices my staring and almost immediately, shamelessly stares back.
I try to hide my embarrassment behind a smile, but in reality my entire face has now been distorted into an uncomfortable grimace that probably makes the situation worse than it already is. I don’t know this person and he most definitely doesn’t know me and yet-
“First time traveling to the Outer Banks?” That’s how I know it’s his first time. A local would never refer to Outer Banks as the Outer Banks. Maybe on occasion, when they’re trying to prove a point or give the place a certain meaning, but never so easily or in this context.
I look back at him, the smile now completely wiped away from my face and replaced with something stoic. Unreadable. “No. I used to live here.”
“Ah. A local then.”
“Yeah. Something like that.” I nod and turn away, hoping he’d get the hint.
He doesn’t.
“Maybe you can show me around.” I don’t like the way he says that. The way it’s devoid of a question mark. Not asking for a favor but demanding for one. It’s a little too eerie and too familiar for my liking. Not to mention just how much it reminds me of him.
“I’m all booked.” I tilt my head towards Charlie, giving him a hint. He nods, but doesn’t look away.
“I’m not asking you out.” His voice is flat. When my gaze meets his again, there’s a slight smile on his face.
“Didn’t think you were.”
“I’m Patrick. Hahn.” Patrick fullstop Hahn pulls his entire body towards mine only to sheepishly return to his seat when I refuse to shake his jittery, sweaty hand. “I take it you haven’t heard of me. I’m a true crime podcaster.” He announces with the sort of pride only doctors and engineers should have when telling others about what they do for a living.
“Okay.”
“Currently I’m working on a piece about an unsolved murder that happened here around five years ago.”
Time stops. So does my heart and with it the blood in my veins. I stare at him, slightly slack jawed and frozen. Beneath me, as able to feel all of it, Charlie stirs a little. Smacks his lips and falls back asleep.
“Murder?” I hear myself say, but the voice that leaves my throat barely sounds like mine.
“Yeah.” Patrick nods, his bright eyes alight with excitement. “That’s why I asked for the tour. Since you’re a local and all. Maybe you know something.” There it is again - a statement that so very clearly should be phrased as a question, but isn’t.
I shake my head.
“Her name was Susan Peterkin. She used to be the town’s sheriff. Ironic right?” A sardonic smile tugs on the corner of Patrick’s lips. His voice sounds different now - booming and borderline theatrical. Almost as if he’s reading off a script. “On July 29th 2020, Sheriff Peterkin’s body was fished out from the ocean by a clueless sailor. He was a tourist, taking his boat out after a nice long day of doing nothing. Fishing season was in full bloom and although he had never shown any interest in it before, his buddy did - hence the reason why they threw the net in the first place.”
Why is he telling me this?
“But, what they thought would be the great catch of the day, instead turned out to be permanent trauma for his two tween daughters, as well as his wife and himself… of course. Before that, Susan Peterkin had been missing for three days. She was reported as such by her deputy, Victor Shoupe, after she failed to show up for work that day.”
What is his end goal?
“A coroner’s report states that Sheriff Peterkin died due to a gun wound. She was shot in the back by a 9mm. If the ambulance had been called on time, or simply just called for that matter, she would’ve been alive today. Probably even attend Ward Cameron’s daughter’s wedding.”
That.
“You know who I am.”
“No. Not at first. But now… yeah. I do.”
My entire body stiffens and this time it’s enough to completely shake Charlie out of his deep slumber. He jolts - almost like actors do in movies when they’re pretending to wake from a nightmare. “Are we there yet?” He asks, dark hazel eyes marred with sleep and he looks at me so kindly, so lovingly, I almost forget about the threat at bay.
“Yeah. Let’s go.” I smile.
He holds my hand as we leave; never asking about Patrick fullstop Hahn or the reason why I hold on to him a little bit tighter than usual. He knows how uneasy this place makes me feel the same way he knows just how little I like to talk about my feelings and opinions on things. Especially if said things concern my own wellbeing.
But at night - after we’ve made pleasantries with my parents and had dinner - he pulls me closer to him. His lips trace a path from my neck all the way down to my collar bone and I’m really not feeling it, but I also happen to be in a desperate need of a distraction, so… I let him.
The bed is small, barely fitting one person, little alone two grown adults and I’m starting to wonder how on earth I ever did this with- “Rafe.”
“What?” Charlie stops to look at me. I look back, face frozen in shock. “Did you say something?”
“Behave.” I breathe out, “You’re being loud. I don’t want my parents to hear.” His chuckle sends a pleasant kind of rumbling across my entire body, jolting my heart awake and filling it with hunger I haven’t felt in a while. Next time he thrusts inside me, I have to bite on his shoulder in order to keep myself quiet. Charlie’s never liked that, but for some reason he doesn’t complain.
The next morning he wakes with a large toothy bruise on his shoulder that he covers with a long sleeved T-shirt - the kind that looks like he’s stolen it from somebody and heads for his morning run. I decide to sleep in, but it doesn’t come easy.
I can’t stop thinking about Patrick fullstop Hahn.
“Hey, isn’t this the guy from the ferry?” Is the first thing Charlie says when he comes back. His question has me emerge from the en-suite bathroom almost instantly; body wrapped in a towel and an episode of Hahnestly, Who Killed Them on pause.
My laptop, among plenty of my other things are strewn about the unmade bed, as Patrick fullstop Hahn’s face blares from the overly bright screen. “Yeah. He’s some true crime podcaster obsessed with unsolved crime.” I smirk, meeting Charlie’s gaze. There are tiny beads of sweat across his forehead, his long blonde hair haphazardly gathered in something that is supposed to resemble a ponytail but instead looks like a giant nest on the back of his head.
“And you were listening to him?” He asks and I bite my lip, nodding. “Is he any good?”
“He… he’s fine… I guess.” T
The truth is Patrick is actually brilliant. Engaging and a lot more charming through a speaker than he is in real life and although I’ve never liked this type of exploitative media, I catch myself being strangely drawn to it. The way he empathizes with the victims, makes time to contact the family and ask for their approval on the matter…
I wonder if he did the same with Sheriff Peterkin’s family.
“Says here he also has a supernatural podcast?” Charlie looks up from my laptop, the corners of his lips tugged into a sneer.
I grin. “Oh, you mean The Hahnted Files?”
“Look at you. A fan already.”
“Hardly.” I chuckle.
Charlie goes on about his day - showering and doing his best to tame that wild mane on his head while I press play and continue listening to Patrick fullstop Hahn’s podcast. He’s talking about a case I scrolled past while wasting away on Twitter a while back and I’m not paying much attention to it right now either, but for some strange reason I can’t bring myself to turn it off.
“He’s doing an episode on Sheriff Peterkin’.” I exclaim to Charlie the second he’s in the bedroom. The bruise my teeth made on his shoulder looks jarring in the soft daylight. He stares at me. I swallow. “Someone… killed her five years ago and they never found out who did it.”
“And this Patrick guy is what? Gonna try and solve it or something?” I shrug. Charlie sits beside me. “I don’t get it, Tru. Why is this bothering you? I mean - what do you have to do with Sheriff Patinkin’s murder?”
