Broken Without You [The Mary Chronicles: Year One, Episode #3]

Chapter 1

There has been no silver lining. Not in his tiny corner of the world. He knew that when he met her. Knew when he’d entered into this messy business that he was too far in to ever get back to normal, and it’s of his own making. The web that has been woven only gets more complicated, at how interconnected it’s becoming. That Magda is not some random phenomena but has a purpose, intent, and that she’s a danger to himself, and quite possibly to Carmen.
To them. 
“Carmen,” he says, urgently but calmly. 
Her eyes lift up as she sips her coffee. “Yes?”
“Have you heard about the recent murders in Vegas?” he asks, watching her face closely.
She frowns, brows furrowing. “Murders?”
Right. Specifics. “There have been two murders where the killer is leaving behind a religious object. The first victim, Christ on the cross—”
“Yes...I know,” she interrupts, gaze lowering. “I’ve…been…following your investigation.”
He sighs. Of course she has. “Tell me about these Magdalenes,” he asks.
“Like what?” she returns, haltingly. 
“Are they dangerous?”
She shrugs. “I wouldn’t know…why are you asking?”
“Carmen, I’m going to describe someone to you, who I think may be involved…” he starts, watching  her expression not change or alter one bit. “Will you listen and tell me if you recognize anything about this individual?”
Her lips purse just a little. “Okay…”
“A woman who’s about five-seven. At least half black, possibly something else. Long, very curly, caramel-blond hair with dark roots; she also has nose and lip rings, and light eyes.” 
Carmen just stares at him, blinking only once before she answers. “I don’t know this person,” she says softly, after some thought. 
He watches her face closely, trying to determine if she is deceiving him but he knows Carmen. At least, in some things he knows he can believe with absolute certainty—in that lying is not part of her skill set. But three months is a long enough time to learn new skills.
He frowns, running a hand through his hair. He’s disappointed but, ultimately, not surprised.
“She is a suspect?” she asks curiously.
“Possibly…” He hesitates. “Carmen, she called herself Magda.”
Her brows knit and he can tell she’s thinking about this coincidence, if it is such. “I don’t know what to say… I’m sorry.”
He nods, believing her, but he can feel her holding back on something but with this woman, it’s never what he thinks. 
“It’s okay,” he says, at length. Nothing ever comes that easy. Not for him. “Long shot anyways.”
And it wouldn’t shock him in the least if Carmen was being protective...of her old life, of habits long ingrained as sacred. He understood that. He also knew the connections that he made didn’t necessarily translate to the same thing in Carmen’s mind. To her, his reference of a Magda had nothing to do with anything since, in her mind, Magda does not equal Magdalene the way Dorian might. There is zero connection and he has no proof that Magda is one of these Magdalenes. The fact that he could understand her narrow perspective amazes even him. 
But it’s a tedious process. With a tired sigh, he kneads the back of his neck, trying not to rush her or himself in his thought processes. The issue of Magda has to be resolved, and it starts with talking about her but their re-introduction to each other would take more time and he had to be patient. Culling information from Carmen took finesse. He thinks back to what she’d said. How the ones that followed the rules, did what they were told, were Marys. And the flawed ones were called Magdalenes. He got the symbolism of the names and how they were assigned. He wondered how it was all devised, and why. 
“About these flawed girls,” he says. 
She looks down, averting her gaze. 
He knows he needs to word himself carefully. “If some of these girls go bad, or don’t accept things, and they’re given to this Amelia woman, do you know what happens to them, how she reforms them?”
She looks off, thinking. “I don’t know what she does with them.” She says nothing for a long time. “Sometimes, they come back...as Magdalenes.”
“You said you knew of two Magdalenes?” he asks. 
She nods, lips in a thin line. 
“And the ones that don’t reform?” he pushes. “What happens to them?”
Her eyes dart to his again but her expression is both quiet and thoughtful. Eventually she shakes her head. “I’ve never thought about it…what does it matter?” she asks, her gaze both questioning and confused.
Just then, the doorbell rings. He freezes. Carmen glances at the door, utterly unaffected, and still sipping on her coffee. He reminds himself that he has no control over this young woman or their unique position. She is her own entity and she doesn’t follow the normal rules that he does. Then again, his sense of right and wrong has been turned upside down lately. 
Another ring of the doorbell and a knock. Shit. He hadn’t heard his phone at all, so he quickly moves around the breakfast bar to his room and retrieves it. Nothing. By the time he’s back out, Carmen’s rinsing her mug and looks up at him. 
“I should go,” she says quietly, but it almost sounds like a question. She looks back at his front door. “It’s Rachel.”
Disbelieving, he heads to his front door and peeks through the peephole. “Fuck,” he whispers.
And she has a casserole dish in her hands. 
“I’ll go,” Carmen says, moving whisper soft across the tile floor and toward the patio doors. 
“Wait,” he snaps, pushing off the door.
Through the door, he hears Rachel say his name and knock a few times before she rings the bell again. Jesus Christ. He swears under his breath as he reaches the patio doors before Carmen can slip out and out of his reach again.  
Carmen lowers her hand from the latch and looks up at him just as his hand is about to descend upon hers but he pulls that hand back. Her expression is guarded and vulnerable and it gives him pause. With her mused long hair, the wrinkled dress, and the quiet, safe, intimate night they’d shared, he’s at a loss for words, which is significant to him since there are millions that need to be spoken between them. 
When the doorbell rings again, she moves and he breathes, letting out the air he’d been holding. “Will you come back?” he asks, and he can’t stop the hope that inches in his voice.
She looks away, then undoes the lock on the door. “We’ll see…”
“We need to talk more, Carmen,” he says, the urgency back in him.
“About the Magdalenes?” she asks, brows furrowing. 
“Yes,” he says, “and other things.” 
About us for starters.
Her eyes flicker over to the door and she nods, again turning her eyes outside. “Very well…” she says without emotion. “I’ll be in touch.” With that, she opens the door and leaves silently. 
With a heavy sigh, he turns around and jogs to the front, opening the door forcefully. Rachel’s already turned back when he calls out her name. He walks out, leaving the door open, and meets her halfway on the pathway leading up to his front door. 
“Sorry,” he says, his heart hammering in his chest. He thinks about making up an excuse but lying to Rachel eats away at him. She deserves as many truths as possible—starting with the fact that she needs to stay away from him. 
Rachel walks back, biting on her lower lip. “No, I’m sorry…” she starts. “I know you said we’d get together in a day or two but I couldn’t wait…” She blushes. “I know you’ve been busy with the case and I thought I’d bring over something that you can just heat up quick and easy. You mentioned you’d have today off so...”
“It’s fine, really.” He smiles to ease her worry and peeks down at the dish, lifting up the lid. His brows shoot up in surprise. “Quiche?”
“You know your food,” she says with a light laugh.
“It looks amazing,” he states, meeting her gaze. Another blush and he smiles at how he brings that out in her. It’s been a while. He’d lost that affect on Everly over the years. But the other woman he could make blush all over blooms in his mind just then, and he has to force himself to push the image of Carmen aside because she’s so unattainable she might as well be from a different galaxy entirely. 
She surprises him again by rolling up on the balls of her feet and planting a soft kiss on his mouth. Close-lipped and simple, but sweet. He smiles, trying to feel the vibe and not overthink it. He allows himself another kiss, with just a hint of tongue. 
When he pulls back, she’s smiling huge. Dorian’s not sure what he feels. Mostly conflicted, if he’s going to be honest. As he takes the dish and has her take lead toward his house, he looks over his left shoulder, searching for a glimpse of her but there’s nothing there. There’s no one that he can see.
And the hollow inside him, he knows, will likely only grow more hollow.