IDLE INTERRUPTED
CHAPTER 2: THE PASSENGER
SUMMARY: You're back in your hometown to help Tom with some legal advice. Little do you know your return to Harmony ends up in different troubles with the law—and with your sanity.
SHIP: Tom Hanniger x Fem!Reader GENRE: Heavy Angst, Dark Fic MINORS DON'T INTERACT TO NOTE/WARNINGS: These include spoilers for the fic!!! Spoilers for the My Bloody Valentine 3D movie, dark and gritty themes, trauma, loss of a loved one, character death, blood, gore, murder, manipulation, BPD, drugging, dubious consent, kissing/making out, sex, nudity, violence, vomitting, plot twists, this is a scary one so MINORS TURN AWAY, 18+ CONTENT WORD COUNT: 7.8k A/N: Many thanks to @justwhisperingfantasies for betareading this chapter! Your comments were a huge help, Whisper <3 This second chapter wraps up Idle Interrupted and another square for the @jacklesversebingo challenge. PROMPT: Character A has to pick up Character B from the police station CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by me using gifs by vampirecoreleone & nyxvuxoa ─〃★ divider by cafekitsune ─〃★ series masterlist ─〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist
⏮️PREVIOUS CHAPTER ▶️PLAYLIST
You always thought, should you ever return to Harmony or even think about that godforsaken town, you’d be plagued with nightmares.
However, it is not your sleep that is haunted. It is your reality.
Or so you think, though you’re not entirely sure.
All you know is how you woke up all groggy and disoriented. But you remember your meeting with Tom, you remember going back to your room and you recognize the cheap wallpaper, the ugly carpet and its dubious stains.
You’re pretty sure you’re no longer dreaming but wide awake, even if the second you open your door, you’re met with a surrealist sight.
Red.
It’s all you can see.
Deep, saturated red.
Red walls.
Red floors.
Stains, puddles, prints. Everywhere.
It’s smeared across the hallway, long streaks of crimson twisting over every surface.
And the stench, rotting iron, fills your nose and sets deep in your empty stomach. It’s making a home there, building up dread and raw fear deep within you. The air is heavy, stale. Somehow, you immediately know, although you cannot make sense of the details.
Your shaky feet carry you down the hallway, your steps timid as you approach the next door. It’s ajar, and the second you glimpse inside, so are your eyes and your jaw.
A scream escapes you, though you quickly muffle it by slapping a hand over your own mouth.
There’s no way. This can’t be real. It has to be a nightmare, right?
Right?
“Holy shit,” you curse, your voice as shaky as your whole body.
There’s a body in front of you, a lifeless woman splayed out on the ground, completely naked and… there’s no words to describe the mutilation.
Her ribcage—It’s split open, bones sticking out in awkward angles, in every direction, revealing an empty pit where her heart should sit.
There’s blood everywhere. The carpet, just as ugly as the one in your room, has soaked up most of it, and it’s still everywhere.
The splatters of scarlet stick against her skin, which is eerily pale in contrast. Paler than any person should be. White as a sheet, every drop of blood drained from her veins and spilled around her instead.
Yet, somehow, despite the damage, you’d recognize that face anywhere. She looks a little older, barely, but she’s still wearing those tacky extensions, now sprinkled with red chunks that you’d rather not try and identify further.
Irene.
Against your better judgment, you dart over to her. It must be the raw, pure adrenaline that’s pushing you to check on her. There’s no way she can be alive, but your fingers search for a pulse regardless. As you touch her neck, your stomach sinks. She’s ice-cold, as is the puddle of blood.
“Fuck, no, Irene. No, no, no, this—,” you whisper to yourself, your lungs feeling tight and unable to take in enough oxygen.
Panicking, you look around yourself, as if you could find an answer to your questions. A solution. A wakeup call.
It’s then, with horror, that you see a second body slumped against the wall. It’s the motel’s manager, though last time you saw her, she didn’t sport a giant hole smack in the middle of her forehead.
Next to her, you find at least one piece of the puzzle. Irene’s heart, neatly carved from her chest, is placed within an empty box, carton heart-shaped, a pink bow wrapped around it.
That sight being your last straw, you hurl over and throw up. There’s little content your stomach has to offer, the mixture of bitter bile and sour acid heavy in your throat. The burning sensation traverses through your very core all the way up to your eyes, which sting with tears.
In your panic, you attempt to rationalize the situation. That couple from 103, if Irene was in there, did the person she hooked up with do this to her? Why? Why would anyone do this? Not only is it gruesome, it’s a sick fucking joke—around Valentine’s Day, mimicking Harry Warden.
That’s what this is about, no? Why else would someone go through the hassle of removing the heart, of presenting it in a Valentine’s Day gift box like serving up a fancy meal on a silver platter?
The police.
You have to call the police.
Your trembling fingers struggle to fish for your phone. You dig in your pockets, before you realize—not your pockets. Tom’s. You’re still wearing Tom’s jacket.
Fear strikes you once more as you scramble to your feet and run to Room 104. Tom’s room. You knock, repeatedly, panicked. You sob, calling out his name, again and again, but there’s nobody answering.
You don’t have it in you to break down the door, neither physically — given how weak and shaky you feel — nor emotionally. Just thinking about what gruesome sight might await you in there nearly makes you vomit again.
Instead, you run back to your own room and grab your phone. Despite the tremor in your fingers, you hastily dial Axel’s number, knowing he’s Harmony’s sheriff now. A job he’s always been working towards, and been boasting about, too.
All those years of keeping the numbers of your old high school friends… you never knew it would come in handy. If only it didn’t have to.
“Police Department, Harmony. Sheriff Palmer speaking.”
You would’ve never guessed that hearing his voice would ever fill you with hope or relief.
“Axel, it’s me—Y/N, I… you need to come here, I’m—Please. Irene. Please come here,” you stutter in between sobs and sniffles.
The rest is a blur, you think you told him where you are, that you found Irene’s corpse. Otherwise, you black out. You’re wide awake, fidgeting in the hallway like some lost child, staring back and forth between Tom’s and Irene’s doors. But your mind is blank.
It’s killing you.
The more you think about it, the more it’s killing you.
Does that mean he’s back? But—Harry Warden died ten years ago. The Valentine’s Day Murderer got shot, so what’s the meaning behind all of this?
The jingle of the front door makes you visibly flinch.
Whipping your head around, your eyes meet that of the sheriff. It’s weird seeing Axel in a uniform, accompanied by a deputy. His eyes scan you from head to toe, stopping briefly at your bloodstained hand.
Irene’s blood was already cold by the time you stupidly checked her pulse, of course. It’s coating your fingers, sticking to your skin, burning you down to your bones. You haven’t washed it off simply because your mind is obviously otherwise occupied.
For some reason you think, even if you were to scrub at your skin, the feeling wouldn’t go away so easily.
“Good grief, what the hell happened here?,” Axel mutters under his breath, glancing around. “Are you hurt?”
Your bottom lip juts out, wobbly, but you can’t bring your mouth to shape any words. The lump in your throat is not helping, so all you can do is squeeze your tear-filled eyes shut and shake your head violently.
“Irene, she’s—” You choke out.
Your shaking hand points to her door, Room 103, the door still wide open.
Sheriff and deputy enter, but you can’t bring yourself to follow them inside. You can’t look at the mess in there again. You simply can’t.
Swallowing, you stare down Tom’s door, which remains undisturbed.
“Where’s Tom?,” you hear yourself ask, but your own voice sounds distant, as if you’re an observer from far away. You wish you were.
Axel exchanges a telling glance with the deputy, then turns to you.
“So you know Tom’s in town?”
You nod, then repeat your question, “Where is he?” It’s a stupid question, considering there’s only a slim chance of him not being in his room. Yet, it’s your wishful thinking that hopes, prays Axel has heard from him, that Tom somehow, miraculously, is unharmed and someplace safe.
“That’s what we wanna know,” he explains, vaguely, to which you tense, not knowing what that means. “Ben said he was talking to Tom yesterday, but we can’t reach him.”
Panic settles in your veins and your eyes glance towards 104.
The number makes you scoff, fourteens following you everywhere. Isn’t the number 4 a bad omen in Japanese culture? You’re sure you read somewhere that the digit is a metaphor for death.
“We—We met up, yesterday. He checked in here too, we were in his room. 104. He said he’d talk to Ben, then I went to my own room, and I fell asleep, and… when I woke up, Irene—Fuck,” you mumble, only half-coherently.
What if Tom’s dead, too? His heart carved out, wrapped up like a present?
Axel, one hand on his gun, knocks on Tom’s door. When he doesn’t get an answer, he kicks it down, making you shriek. Your eyes squeeze shut, unable to bring up the courage to watch.
“He’s not here,” Axel speaks.
Tom’s… not here?
But then, where is he?
The deputy steps further down the hallway, up to the counter in the lobby. While the space is a mess, the man manages to find the guestbook and flips through it.
“Says here the last person to check in was Y/N L/N,” he concludes, “Can’t find Tom’s name anywhere.”
Your eyes go wide as saucers. That’s impossible! You weren’t imagining things, were you? What kind of confusing dream is this?
“Sounds like Mr. Hanniger has an alibi though, if both Ben and her say he met up with him,” the officer adds.
Alibi?
“Unlike another suspect,” Axel sighs, begrudgingly, before shooting you a sharp glance.
“Me?,” you rasp in disbelief. A suspect! You know about what the hell went down here as much as the next person! “And then what, you think I’d call the police on myself?”
Axel nods towards the deputy, who in return reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pair of metal chains—handcuffs. He’s serious.
“Axel, please,” you scoff incredulously, “Is this really necessary? You can’t be serious!”
Not to mention he shouldn’t be able to arrest you on the spot like this. But who are you kidding? You studied law, excelling at your job. Axel has every right to apprehend a possible suspect.
And even you have to admit that it isn’t looking too peachy for you. There’s blood all over you, your fingerprints are all over the scene of the crime. You’re the only one that’s here, allegedly having neither seen nor heard anything.
“You said you were asleep the whole time?,” Axel tests, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, “You really slept through all of this?”
Swallowing, you cast your eyes downwards. In your shock and confusion, you give up.
However, when the deputy steps closer, Axel stops him and places a firm hand on your shoulder instead. The touch makes you flinch, it’s like a gut punch. All of this is.
Sensing you won’t put up a fight, he makes an offer: “Let’s not do the handcuffs, okay? Let’s just take you to the station and then we’ll talk.”
Though his words are kind — at least you think that’s Axel’s way of throwing you a bone — you can’t help but scoff: “You’re still arresting me, so what’s the difference?”
Axel keeps his promise, the only restraint inflicted on you the tight grip of his hand on your upper arm. He guides you outside and to his car.
Distracted by your own thoughts, you don’t listen to him as he mentions something about a quick body-search. You let him pat down your form, allowing him to inspect the pockets of your jacket.
There’s not much in there, an old parking ticket, a couple of loose coins.
“Couple o’sizes too big on you, wouldn’t you say?”
Even during high school, Axel has always been known for poking fun at others. Somehow you know it’s to lighten the mood. That he doesn’t mean to insult you, but is simply attempting a playful jab. However, he misses the mark completely.
“It’s Tom’s,” you grumble, rather defensively. Like Axel has just insulted Tom, not you, while you’re still worried about his whereabouts.
Axel eyes you knowingly, which you hate. Nothing about the judgmental look on his face is for you to appreciate.
Once asserted that you’re not carrying anything dangerous — the sole accusation of which makes you clench your jaw —, you’re nudged into the back of the police car. Apprehended like some damn criminal.
The deputy is left at the scene, waiting for more officers and coroners and people who are just good at estimating the damage after it’s done. Unfair or not, you’re angry. Angry that there’s nobody to step in before these things happen. Angry that Harmony always was, still is, and will forever be a town built on skeletons and horror.
Axel’s voice pulls you from the bitter spiral of thoughts, “What brings you back to Harmony?”
“Business,” you answer vaguely, without meeting his trained gaze through the rear-end mirror. “Didn’t Ben say anything about where Tom is?”
“I think you should worry about yourself more than about that guy,” Axel sighs. “Any lawyer you wanna consult?”
“I don’t need one,” you scoff, your words true for two reasons—you’re the best lawyer that could defend you, and you’re innocent. If anything, police should prove first how you’re capable of slaughtering these people.
Or at the very least come up with a plausible motive.
“Why would I do something like this?,” you mutter through gritted teeth, clicking your tongue.
Axel raises an eyebrow, hesitates, then decides against saying whatever is on his mind.
However, you immediately catch his drift. With Irene as one of the victims… well, it’s no secret you two didn’t get along in the past. She did shove her tongue down your then boyfriend’s throat, after all.
Still, is that really a motive to kill someone? That cruelly, too?
“Seriously, Axel?,” you groan, “That was a decade ago! Besides, just because—”
“Let’s discuss this at the station,” Axel interrupts you.
However, the police station is even less inviting than a blood-stained motel filled with corpses.
You were led into a miniature detention center—there’s no use sugarcoating it.
It’s a small room, sanitary and cold, grey and lifeless. The air is stuffy and the soft humming of neon lamps immediately makes your head throb. In there, you’re pushed down onto a chair and Axel’s measly promise vanishes into thin air as one of your wrists gets handcuffed to the table after all.
Axel mumbles something about safety precautions and following protocol. You know not to take it personally, but it doesn’t exactly ease your anxiety either.
You’ve found yourself in these kind of interrogation chambers countless of times before. Usually in the role of advocate, though. Never in the shoes of the apprehended. The accused.
“Do you really think I killed Irene?,” you ask, bitterly and hurt.
Axel’s silence speaks volumes.
“This is crazy.”
“You have a motive,” Axel hisses through gritted teeth, his patience with you running thin. “What happened between Irene and Jim ten years ago—”
“Fuck you,” you interrupt him, sharply.
“Y/N…,” Axel trails off, trying to sound composed, trying to reason with you, but you’re rightfully outraged.
“No, fuck you! Fuck this whole town, this is crazy!”
Sensing that he won’t get anywhere with you like this, Axel changes tactics: “I’mma ask you again: A lawyer?”
You avert your gaze, shaking your head. You don’t want a lawyer. You want out of here, you want to find Tom, you want to make sure he’s okay. You want to leave Harmony and pretend all of this never happened.
Axel runs your rights by you again, all of which you’ve internalized perfectly during your time at university. You barely listen to him. Not that you could, with all the thoughts that spin in your mind grabbing your attention instead.
He hands you some paper towels and you shakily wipe your fingers clean. Well, as clean as you can, though your anxiety remains glued to your skin, even with the blood removed.
“I can deal with this myself,” you mutter tiredly and rub your temples—that feeling of cotton in your skull still lingers, heavy and thick since last night, when you all but collapsed onto your bed.
“Fine, then I’ll need you to sign this,” Axel sighs and slides a paper across the table.
You eye it briefly, the letters all blurry in front of you. The document should make you realize how serious the allegations are, that by law, technically, they can put you in a cell until further notice. Angrily, you push it away and scoff: “I’m not signing anything. You know this is ridiculous!”
Axel eyes you for a solid couple of seconds and you don’t know which is worse—the unwanted memories his presence trigger, or the pity you think you see in his expression. He mumbles something about how he’s going to make you a cup of coffee, about discussing something with the secretary, then leaves the room.
The interrogation cell doesn’t feel any less suffocating in solitude.
Burying your face in your palms, you cringe at the metallic rattling caused by your restraints. Your face feels chilly, your hands clammy. No matter how much you knead your knuckles, you can’t seem to work away the tension nor the cold sweat.
Axel is sure taking his time fetching that coffee, which can’t mean anything good. For all you know, the police officers are buzzing about, and with each passing minute you’re deeper in shit.
After what feels like an eternity, the sheriff returns, a man in a cheap two-piece suit and a suitcase following him begrudgingly.
“Your duty lawyer,” Axel explains with a nod upon seeing the question mark above your head. “Only one we could get ahold of on short notice.”
Clearly.
The poor guy looks even more nervous than you feel. A complete rookie, probably younger than you. If it weren’t for the severity of the situation, you’d feel bad for him.
“I said I don’t need—”
“Either you sign this paper, or you’ll work with our Harvey Birdman knockoff over here,” Axel groans in frustrated fashion.
Demonstratively crossing your arms in front of your chest, you lean back in your chair and roll your eyes. You don’t say anything. Not even when your quote-unquote legal advisor introduces himself, takes a seat next to you, and waits for Axel to start asking questions.
Hell, even if you would’ve wanted to say anything, your lawyer doesn’t let you. He’s answering for you, vaguely trying to weasel his way through loopholes. “She doesn’t need to answer this.” — “My client will not make a statement about it.”
It’s sad.
Though, as awkward as he is, you have to give the boy credit for convincing Axel to remove the handcuffs from your wrist. You didn’t realize how tight they were until you see the faint reddening on your skin. Rubbing over the marks, you continue to ignore both Axel and your lawyer.
“Y/N, c’mon,” Axel sighs eventually, trying to get through to you once more. “Tell me what happened, hm?”
Before your ‘friend’ can step in for you, you sit up straight and say, with your whole chest: “I already told you. I was with Tom, then I went to my room and fell asleep.”
The interrogation is cut short by commotion outside. Some people arguing, heavy footsteps, the creak of the door.
“Sir, you can’t go in there—”
And another voice, the familiarity of which makes your eyes widen and a weight fall off your shoulders: “Like hell I can’t.”
Tom pushes the door open, green eyes mirroring your relief first, then narrowing at Axel. In three strides he’s by your side, gently gripping your arm and pulling you from the chair. His eyes soften briefly as he gives you a one over. Then, when Axel gets up, he’s back to glaring at the sheriff.
“Tom—”
He doesn’t even let him finish speaking.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Tom rasps.
“Whoa there, you can’t just—” Again Axel’s complaints are cut short, this time by Tom slapping a sheet of paper onto the table. The sheriff’s eyes aren’t the only ones widening.
“You bailed her out?,” Axel asks, skimming over the document.
Tom still barely pays anyone but you any mind, though when Axel steps up and tries to reach out — to him or you, you’re not sure — he’s close to throwing fists. You can tell. By the lock of Tom’s jaw, by the furrow of his brows, the way his grip on you tightens involuntarily.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen Tom this furious, and though you’re just as angry, you have enough sensibility in you still to place a gentle but firm hand over his. Punching an officer would definitely only lead to more trouble. Trouble neither you nor Tom could use right now.
Dismissing Axel with a harsh “Fuck off,” Tom pulls you away and towards the door.
As he drags you outside, as the adrenaline wears down, you almost enter a shell-shocked state. Tom leads you to his car, his grip on you still firm. Without it, you fear you’d crumble. Though, when the inevitable question leaves his lips—a simple, undoing “Are you okay?”—you break down anyway.
Tom catches you in his arms right away like it’s second nature. You slump against his chest, shaking and sobbing and scared. It’s like the nightmare from ten years ago is repeating itself, and you’re fucking scared.
“I thought you were dead,” you sniffle into Tom’s shirt, your trembling fingers holding onto the worn, soft fabric as if you’re scared he’d slip away otherwise. “There was so much blood, everywhere… and y-you weren’t there—where were you?”
Tom tucks your head under his chin, his fingers carding through your hair, soothingly.
“I’ll explain everything,” he murmurs against your forehead. “But not here. Let’s ditch this place.”
You nod as you wipe away your tears, terror still etched on your face. He’s right. You’re still in front of the police station, the parking lot alone making you sick to your stomach. Tom opens the door to the passenger seat for you and you slide in, taking a deep breath.
The car ride is silent. But your thoughts are going berserk. Your skull feels like one giant rock on sore shoulders, with bombs going off inside. Irene’s corpse, that woman’s body, it’s all you can see whenever you so much as blink.
Your throat goes dry, while your mouth seems to be filled with saliva. You try and swallow, feeling the resistance as you fight against the bile threatening to erupt from you. All of you feels clammy, sweaty, cold and hot at the same time.
“You okay there?,” Tom asks and you shake your head.
“Can you pull over?”
Your vision goes blurry by the time he stops at the side of the road, just in time for you to haul the door open, lean outside and throw up again.
It’s less extreme than earlier this morning, more of coughing up a little bit of grossness, just to get it out of your system. Maybe you’re not in as rough of a shape as the first time. Or maybe you’re more grounded thanks to Tom gently wiping your hair out of the way with one hand, and slowly rubbing your back with the other.
Once you feel stable enough, you slip back into the seat properly and close the door again.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” you say, somewhat embarrassed—or rather, vulnerable. You feel so raw. Your fears and shock laid bare before you like a hand of cards, displayed openly for the whole world to see and attack you with.
“You got nothing to apologize for,” Tom reassures you.
Right.
You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not your fault.
And Tom is the last person you fear judgement from.
You’re in this together. Like you were last evening—when you kissed and he apologized and you promised he had nothing to be sorry for. Because you’re a team. You and him against the rest of Harmony.
Right?
“I haven’t thanked you yet,” you bring up then, clearing your throat awkwardly. “For bailing me out. How did you even—?”
“This is Harmony,” Tom sighs dismissively, with a crooked grin, “Word spreads fast here, remember?”
It makes sense, though you’d rather not think about all the rumors. About how everyone must be talking about Harry Warden’s massacre right now, and how it resembles the scene of the crime at the motel.
Not wanting to get sick again, you push the thought aside. Tom offers you a couple more minutes, but you tell him he can continue driving. After you insist that your nausea is better, the car’s engine roars back to life.
You don’t ask him where he’s headed. You don’t care, so long as it’s far away from everything.
“Gotta refill,” Tom says eventually, stopping at a gas station. “Want anything?”
You shake your head no. For one, you don’t think your stomach can hold anything anyway. Other than that, Tom’s done more than enough for you already. While he goes inside to pay, you stay in the car.
The spot is mostly empty. A truck parks near you, the driver hopping out and directly vanishing through the same door Tom went through earlier.
You stare at the door. You stare at it until the glass looks weird. Looks cracked, looks red, looks black. You blink, once, twice. Your mind is still playing tricks on you. The glass turns into wood, a plate appears—103.
The corners, the ceiling, it melts into that motel room before your inner eyes.
Irene’s chest, empty. A heart, carved out, lying there. A pulp of red in the middle of crinkled paper. Something delicate wrapped around it, like a bow.
You stare and watch the blood drip, drip, drip. Along the walls. Then down a shelf filled with bottled water and snacks. Potato chips, and M&Ms. You didn’t know how many flavors of M&Ms existed. There are so many that it feels absurd.
The images that flash before you make less and less sense. A man, slumped on the floor. A hole in his chest. His baseball hat in a puddle of blood, right next to him. His lifeless hand clutches onto a bouquet of cheap roses and a box of chocolates.
It’s the trucker. Then it’s Jim. His hair has the same color. That is, before it was soaked in blood, anyway.
You close your eyes, squeeze them shut, shake your head. Violently. Shaking the images from your brain, shutting this nightmare out of your system. When you open your eyes again, you’re still in the car. When you nervously knead your hands, you notice a sore spot in your palm. A scratch? Upon closer inspection, you realize it’s a splinter.
The pain is sharp, prickling just a little, but so easy to locate. So easy to focus on. To ground yourself with. You pull it out and the pain pulls you back into reality. Though you hiss through your teeth, you’re able to breathe again.
A minute passes, then another. The trucker doesn’t return, and neither does Tom.
Leaning back in your seat, you wait for what feels like unusually long.
Just as you consider to check on Tom, the chime of your phone makes you jump. Reluctantly, you fish for your phone. Seeing Axel’s name on the display nearly makes you want to decline the call. But, after glancing out the window and still not seeing Tom, you answer.
“Hello?”
“Y/N, listen to me,” Axel speaks and his voice sounds… askew. Like he’s in a haste. He didn’t even greet you properly. “That jacket you wore, you said it’s Tom’s?”
You can’t help but scoff, rubbing at your temple. “What the fuck are you on about now?”
“This is important, so just answer the question,” he insists, harshly. “Did Tom give it to you, yes or no?”
You don’t like his demeanor. You can’t pinpoint the reason. It’s less an annoyance, like you initially thought it would be. It’s more of a eerie gut-feeling. Like something’s not right.
“Yeah,” you answer after a long pause, hesitant. “Yesterday afternoon, before we went to the motel.”
“And you had it the whole time since?”
“I— Yes? How’s that important?,” you huff with increasing confusion.
However, you’re not sure you’re happy with Axel’s answer.
“Ben mentioned the jacket.”
Something clicks deep within you. You freeze while the realization slowly seeps in, spreading through your veins like poison. The puzzle pieces begin to make sense, but the picture is starting to look real ugly.
Harmony shifts. The whole world does, the axis tilted yet again.
Axel’s voice tears through your haze: “Is Tom with you right now?”
You tense, then you gulp, and you glance out of the window for a second, but Tom’s still nowhere to be seen.
“Yeah—Well, no,” you stutter anxiously. “I’m in his car, he’s paying for gas right now.”
“You need to get out of there,” Axel instructs immediately, barely letting you finish your sentence.
“What?”
“Don’t you get it?,” the sheriff hisses, less to scold you and more to make you understand. “Ben mentioned Tom’s jacket. He couldn’t have seen it if you had it the whole evening. Tom met up with Ben first, before he gave it to you. He doesn’t have an alibi.”
It sounds so logical, yet it’s going way too fast for you. Nobody can possibly expect you to make sense of anything right now, not after what you’ve been through. Not after what happened ten years ago, after what happened last night.
You’re tired. You’re confused. You’re hurt. You’re angry.
Your tone is even colder than you intended as you bitterly spit into the phone: “Anyone else you wanna accuse, sheriff? Who’s next on the list?”
“Y/N, this is serious,” Axel groans. “Look, I’m sorry for arresting you. Be angry at me all you want, I deserve it, I was wrong. But Tom might be dangerous and you need to—”
Speaking of the devil, your conversation is interrupted by the car’s door. Panicking, you hang up the call as Tom slides back into the driver’s seat.
“Everything’s taken care of,” he says, dropping a bag of M&Ms in the glove department. You have never seen that flavor before, but somehow it feels familiar.
“Who was that?,” Tom asks, pointing to your phone and making your blood run cold.
“Just a colleague,” you lie quickly. “Looks like the agency needs me back soon.”
Tom’s eyes flicker for a moment and you think it’s guilt you see in his expression, but in your paranoia, it might as well be doubt.
“Oh, crap,” he sighs, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck in that habit of his, “I’m sorry for keeping you tied up here.”
Tied up. You hate the way he phrased that. Tied up like Irene’s body, or what was left of it. The image pops back into your mind and your stomach churns all over again.
It can’t be Tom. It can’t be.
He drives off and the car ride is still filled with silence. It’s an eerie one, now. Thick and palpable and heavy. Where you haven’t cared before, you glimpse out of the window and attempt to make out where he’s taking you.
“You okay? You’re pale as a ghost.” His voice sounds so sincere, like nothing has changed. Like everything’s normal. Like you can still find comfort in it, in him. But you can’t. Can you? Axel must have a wrong lead, there must be an explanation. He’s wrongfully arrested you, so it wouldn’t be the first time he’s messed up.
“Just feeling a little carsick,” you answer through a tight throat.
Tom reaches over, then hands you a thermobottle.
“Some of that tea,” he explains. “Maybe it’ll help.”
That tea. You reluctantly accept, but as you take a small sip, the familiar warmth doesn’t fill you with comfort the way it did yesterday. You take another swig, hoping it’ll calm you down. It doesn’t. It still tastes the same. Sugary and sweet. Dizzying.
You’re going insane, that must be it.
“Need me to stop again?,” Tom asks, but you shake your head.
“Just give me a couple of minutes,” you mutter and close your eyes, sinking back in your seat. Just for a while. Just to get some rest. Just to make the world fade to black, to make the migraine disappear.
The soft humming of the car gets swallowed as sleep sweeps over you, swiftly and more easily than you thought possible.
When you wake up again, you don’t know how much time has passed. Nor where you are. Nervously, you glance around, disoriented. You’re still in the car, though when Tom takes a turn, so does your heart. Despite your daze, you recognize the path he swerves the car into.
Straight towards the mines.
Immediately tense, you turn to Tom with wide eyes and too stunned to speak.
He parks the car. In the middle of the damn woods. Right at the damn mine’s entrance. Why? Why are you here?
“What are we doing here?,” you ask and your whole mouth feels dry and cracked.
“I can explain everything.”
“No, Tom,” you snap in anguish. “What the fuck are we doing here?”
You don’t wanna be here. This sis the last place you want to be. You’d pick Harmony’s streets over this any time. You’d rather be at the uninviting police station. Even the godforsaken motel is more appealing. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.
“Calm down, Y/N.”
There’s an edge to Tom’s voice. One you do not recognize. A snarl in his teeth, his brows forming a harsh line. The way he glares at you, fucking glares like he glared at Axel, is a gut-punch.
Instinctively, you twist around and try to exit the car, but the passenger seat is locked and you freeze. You feel dizzy. Not again, but still. Nauseous and tired and rendered helplessly weak. Sluggish, even.
The tea.
The fucking tea.
Your breath is shaky and your eyes are glassy. There’s a tightness in your chest that feels so familiar, a thick rope of pure fight-or-flight instinct wrapped around your chest. Wrapped around your heart, the organ beating rapidly against it as if it it’s trying to break free from your ribcage. Maybe to jump right into a box of chocolates.
“What did you do?”
“Goddamnit, Y/N, shut the fuck up and calm down!,” Tom yells.
It’s enough to make you turn to stone. The person next to you feels like a stranger, someone you have never seen or spoken to before. It’s not the Tom you know.
He stares at you, eyes hard and laced with conflict. He almost looks remorseful, if only for a second, almost as if he doesn’t want any of this for you, but has no choice.
“Fuck!,” he spits out in frustration, slamming his hand against the wheel with enough force to make you wince. You recoil, but with nowhere to go, you can only press your back against the door. Your attempt at stifling a sob fails miserably, your pathetic whimper earning you a deep sigh from Tom.
He closes his eyes for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white as bone.
“I’m not—I don’t want to hurt you, okay?,” he speaks, slowly, and what you would’ve interpreted as an awkward young man yesterday, you know understand to be a threat. “I’m trying to protect you. All I’ve done—it was all to protect you.”
Despite your heart hammering against your chest, you manage to choke out a weak “From what?” because you want to understand, you want to believe.
Tom doesn’t look at you, staring ahead instead, at the pitch-black entrance of the mines. A deep tunnel as dark and twisted as the air between you two. He falters, softens for a second and opens his mouth—until your phone rings and he tenses even more than before.
Your heart sinks and you don’t dare to move, as if you could will your phone to quiet down with the lack of your movement.
“Your colleague?,” Tom asks, bitterly and you know that he knows. That you’ve lied to him. That this basically put the nail in your own coffin. His brow twitches, his jaw clicks, and your breathing hitches.
“Tom…,” you trail off, but how can you possible reason with him?
“Go on,” he shrugs. “Pick it up. Put them on speaker.”
He stares at you then, daring you to disobey.
Not wanting to anger him further, your shaky fingers grab your phone. As expected, Axel’s ID is on the display. Big, bright, bold letters—incriminating you. With tear stained eyes, your gaze lifts up to Tom and you silently plead with him to not make you pick up. To stop this madness.
He doesn’t.
You swallow and press the green button in defeat, putting the call on speaker.
“Axel,” you speak—rather, you hear yourself speak, though the movement of your mouth does not register with your brain. The strain of your voice makes you cringe.
Suddenly, Tom snatches the phone from your trembling hand, emerald eyes still pinning you down.
“Haven’t annoyed her enough already, Sheriff Palmer?,” Tom grumbles into the phone. “What do you want?”
While you nervously chew on your lips, bite your tongue, hold your breath, Axel tries to reason with Tom. He asks him where you guys are, if anything happened—if anything is about to happen.
That thought sends a shiver down your spine. It’s a cold, unsettling feeling that settles deep in your stomach.
“That’s what he told you?,” Tom asks you directly, all blunt and gruff and void of any of the warmth you always associated him with. It stings just as much as a heartbreak. You trusted him. Though the worst part is, part of you still does. “That I’ll do something to you?”
You shake your head, afraid that your voice might give out if you dared to use it.
“Tom, listen—Just let her go, and—,” Axel’s voice sounds distorted through the speaker, or maybe it’s the dull throb in your ears that make everything feel so warped.
“No, you listen, asshole,” Tom hisses angrily. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you think. You think you’re her protector, that it? Harmony’s hero, saving everyone. Like you saved Irene, right? Like you saved that motel owner, or the trucker and that cashier.”
He’s rambling, each word louder than the previous one. Eventually, he hangs up the call, rolls down the window and tosses your phone right outside.
“Can’t believe you’d trust him more than me,” Tom scoffs. “He’s useless. Once a douchebag, always a douchebag.”
Though he stands uncorrected on that one, there’s also a flaw in his scheme.
“The trucker and that cashier?,” you point out his slip-up.
Tom freezes, demeanor darkening even more as he slowly turns his head towards you. He remains quiet, as if testing you. A silent warning that screams ‘Go on, ask more questions and see where it gets you.’
Your voice is surprisingly steady as you suggest with rationality: “Whatever happened, whatever is going on, let’s talk about it, hm?”
His eyes flicker, swirl with something unidentifiable. He casts his eyes down, scanning your form—the tremble of your body, still clad in his jacket. His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a ragged breath, a broken snort.
“You weren’t supposed to see it,” he starts. “You weren’t supposed to be there.”
You reach out to him—whether or not it’s naive. Refusing to see a threat in Tom, wanting to believe in him, you place your hand on his arm and listen to his breath hitch. His eyes tear away from you and he clicks his tongue.
With a creak, he opens the door and exits the car, rounding it. Every step of his, heavy boots against rough gravel, makes your heart thud in tandem.
Once on your side of the car, Tom yanks your door open. Even though you wanted to flee from this vehicle earlier, something tells you you don’t want to leave the safety of it now. You cling to the upholstery, eyeing Tom with uncertainty.
“Get out,” he says, stricken with something heavy, something painful. He wants you to cooperate, but you simply don’t have it in you.
You press your lips into a thin line, fight your tears, and shake your head. But Tom grabs your shoulder, roughly, pulling you outside and shoving you forward. You struggle to stop his steps.
“Tom, please,” you sob, “I don’t wanna be here. Let’s just leave.”
However, your pleas remain ignored.
Tom forces his way to the trunk, along with you since his grip is still iron-clad. When he opens it up, it feels like he’s ripping your rib cage apart, splitting you wide open to reveal a bloody mess.
Instead, it’s the contents of the trunk that are drenched in crimson. There’s a tarp, covering most of the inside. Specks of red in all shapes and sizes are scattered across it, the hefty whiff of iron filling your nose.
It’s a stench you recognize. It’s one you shouldn’t be so familiar with. But you are. And you hate it. You hate that you immediately know what it is.
Blood.
Everywhere.
On the plastic sheet.
On that long wooden stick—a pickaxe. On that gas mask. On that helmet.
Miner’s gear.
Your knees give out, though Tom forces you to stand upright by bracing you against his chest. You don’t know whether to cry or to scream, so you attempt both. Your lungs ache, deflating, ready to shriek—Only for Tom to cover your mouth.
“Now’s not the time to freak out,” he huffs, casually, as if just slightly annoyed. As if any of this is normal. As if there’s not a bloody weapon in his car, staining everything.
“Help me carry this inside,” Tom continues, grabbing the pickaxe and shoving it into your hands. You want to recoil, want to drop the item before it can even touch your skin—as though it’s something toxic.
“For fuck’s sake, Y/N,” Tom groans, shaking your shoulder slightly and pushing the object into your arms. The weight of the handle feels oddly familiar in your grasp. Your fingers curl around the wood, your palm welcoming the scratchy surface. “Pull yourself together! We have to get rid of the evidence.”
We.
You and him.
Why?
What even is this? Whose blood is this? Whose belongings?
Tom grabs mask and helmet, then haphazardly wraps them up in the tarp. He nudges you away from the car, towards the mines. On shaky legs, you follow him, moving on autopilot.
“It will all be okay,” Tom reassures you. His hand finds yours this time, intertwining your fingers together. “Trust me.”
Every step feels like a drag, each decrease of distance between yourself and that forsaken hell-hole triggering another memory. The party. Jim. His hair color. That of the trucker’s.
“I killed him,” you stutter out, your lips moving on their own accord, just like your feet.
Tom squeezes your hand and guides you to the entrance. You’re standing face to face with pitch-black darkness, a void in front of you that looks the way your soul feels. You always avoided that place, but now there’s a magnetic pull drawing you closer.
You follow Tom inside and hold your breath.
“What should I do?,” you mumble, more to yourself. Realization slowly sinks in. What you saw in that car wasn’t some figment of your traumatized imagination.
You killed that guy.
Plunged the pickaxe deep in his chest and left him to bleed out in the gas station. Why did you kill him? What are you supposed to do now?
“The cashier, they saw how I—”
“I told you everything’s taken care of, you don’t have to worry about a thing,” Tom insists.
Somehow his words do not calm you down. Quite the opposite.
“Did you—?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tom interrupts you. “None of them do. Nobody but us, right?”
You stare at him, blankly, and you know what he’s saying. You understand it. You make sense of why he murdered Irene, why he drugged you so you wouldn’t witness it. You feel it. That connection only partners in crime have, that bond you share with only him.
Nobody else from Harmony seems to get it. But Tom does, and so do you.
So when it comes down to it, you know exactly what you’re supposed to do.
“Hands where I can see them, Tom!”
Axel’s voice booms through the mines. He’s right behind you, his gun pointed at Tom.
Tom might’ve cleaned up the crime-scene, but his slip-up during the phone call might’ve lead the sheriff to you after all. And if he wasn’t guided here by the bloody trail from the gas station, where else but the mines would you two be? Of all places, this was Harmony’s core. The beginning and the end.
The pulse of this town.
The heart.
“Let her go,” Axel instructs. “And stay put.”
Tom’s hand squeezes yours, again, and you know what he’s conveying without him saying anything. Your hand slips out of his, finger by finger.
Axel waves you over and with slow, careful steps, you step closer. Pure adrenaline pumps through your veins, hot and raw.
He thinks he’s rescuing you from a monster, and he doesn’t know it’s you he should be wary of.
It’s the element of surprise you need.
Once within range, you quickly raise both arms and bring down the pickaxe. It’s swift. Way easier than it should be. A strike, a horrendous crack, a pained grunt.
Axel drops his gun, collapsing like a broken marionette. The flat side of your weapon may have collided with his nose, but he’s still breathing. He’s still moving, still trying to get back up. So you hit him again, with the clawed side this time.
The sharp metal plunges into the back of his skull. Once. Twice—It’s hard work, like you’re digging for gold veins between thick stone walls. The third time you attack, it’s with a force that makes you lose your grip on the tool. Axel slumps down. And he stays down.
When you look up, sweat sticking to your forehead, blood sticking to your skin, you’re still in the mines. You’re not in the safety of a car, you’re not in your motel room. You’re standing in a puddle of blood, a corpse at your feet, Tom across from you.
And when he reaches one hand out to you, you accept it. Like a secret handshake between accomplices. And when he pulls you closer, you let him.
A/N: So, what did you guys think? I love horror and slasher movies, so writing this was super fun. I'll admit that I struggled a little bit with the crime mystery / detective aspect of this story. Definitely a new experience for me.
Tom Hanniger Taglist:
@0ccvltism @blueschevy @jackles010378 @justwhisperingfantasies @kamisobsessed
@lunaleah @mahi-wayy @slut4axkles @supernotnatural2005
Want to join the taglist? Fill out this FORM Want to be removed? Send a DM Not sure if you're on the taglist? Check here