I brush the tears from my eyes when I hear my name being called. That doesn't stop new ones from forming. Fuck, I nees to get it together.
When I've collected myself enough to not look like a whimpering child I enter her office and sit in the same place as last time I was here. I try not to focus on Gerard but the thoughts creep in. What am I doing wrong!? One second he's affectionate next it's like I have the fucking plague or something. I wish he could just tell me what he's feeling instead of letting me be so damn confused.
I just feel useless.
"Do you know why I called you in today?" Officer Thompson asks seriously.
I shrug, "Not exactly no."
"I was told you knew Jamia Nestor?"
"Knew? I know her. I still know her. Y-Yes I know her." I answer confusedly, why would she use past tense?
She looks down into her mug of what smells like earl grey tea tiredly, "This is never easy to hear but, she's dead."
"W-what? No. You must have the wrong Jamia."
"I'm afraid not, we've identified-"
"No! She-she texted me see!" Frantically I find our sparse conversation on my phone and shove it in front of the cop. She studies the screen for a moment with those piercing grey eyes, "The last message was sent yesterday at 4:39,"
"Yeah, I asked her why she wasn't at the funeral, she said she wasn't feeling well."
The officer sighs, "Then that was a major understatement. We aren't completely ruling out foul play but all evidence points to suicide." I fall back in the chair, fresh tears spring to my eyes. "Her neighbor heard a gunshot at around 1am, he called the police and we found her with a gunshot through her jaw. No sign of any other entry or a struggle, only her fingerprints in the gun."
"But why?" I choke out.
"According to her close friends and coworkers, she was suffering from depression and the deaths she discovered must have pushed her over the edge so to speak, "
Blinking profusely I slowly stand up and mumble, "If that's all you have to tell me."
"No, Frank sit down. When I arranged our meeting it was to discuss new evidence brought up on the previous murders."
I do so, but wish I could curl up into nothingness. I'd been texting her when she was fucking suicidal and I didn't notice anything was wrong. If I did, I sure as hell didn't bother to go see her in person. I stayed wrapped up in my own blanket of misery, blind to the world around me. Those days are a blur to me but they were her last.
My urge to leave is won over by curiosity. I have to know any news on the killer. We need to catch that fucking bastard. I nod mutely.
"Well," she begins, "Upon further investigation and the help if our homicide detective O'Brian, we have tracked this string of murders back to five months ago in San Francisco, anything beyond that we can't be sure of. This pattern seems to be following the tours schedule almost exactly. As if someone-"
"Is hunting us!" I interject fearfully. "I knew it!"
"No, as if someone in the tour is the killer."
My blood runs cold. I've been with these people the past several months. I've been a few trailers away from a killer. We've been in danger this whole time. "You understand you can't tell anyone? It would cause more panic and paranoia than we already have to deal with. And obviously if the killer feels cornered, they might do something drastic out of desperation. We want to have as minimal casualties as possible. If we show our cards now we have nothing to gain. If they drop out of the tour we'll know who it is, so they're stuck there until the tour ends anyway."
"Then why are you telling me?"
"Because we need you. If the pattern continues, there should be another death tonight. We need you to wait in the parking lot. We'll have officers waiting at the other possible exists but its too open there, too exposed. There's no where for them to hide. If you wait there, even if they see you, you should be fine. You blend in, you aren't a threat. Since you already kniw a lot, we've decided to trust you. It's a risk but we don't have any other options right now."
Not yet realizing what I'm agreeing to the word falls out, "Sure."

---

Its getting late and I'm starting to shiver. An early morning mist seeps out over the parking lot. I'm leaning on the back of someone's bus, I think its Sleeping With Sirens. Its the last vehicle, before the wide expanse of pavement. We would have a venue set up here but they were all taken down several days ago. We won't be playing any more shows until we can leave. Out if respect. I see some box stores edging the parking lot but its not long before the last sign-Walmart as it happens to be, is obscured by the thickening fog. I exhale a stream of smoke from my cigarette. It's probably my fiftieth tonight and still not doing anything to calm my nerves. Every time I feel like chickening out I think of Jamia, and Jay and Dahvie and the countless others who've died because of this. And the safety of everyone in that town and on this tour, of my band, of Gerard, but its not like I'm doing this to impress him or anything. I'm not trying to be his hero... Well not only. I just can't let them down. Suddenly I see someone. I can just barely make out a figure all in black walk by about 20 feet from me. As they near I turn, so my back is against the trailer. Out of the corner of my eye I see the person stop and look over at me. I keep my eyes fixed to the cement, facing away from them. Shakily I take a drag of my cigarette, trying to look casual. The footsteps resume and I let out a terrified breath. I watch until the silhouette fades away into the night. Quickly I pull the radio I was given and whisper into it, "Some one just left, I couldn't see who. There isn't a car."
"Alright, stay there, we're sending two officers over there right now, they should see the suspect."
"Y-yeah Ok." This is what we discussed. What we planned. But now that the time comes, I can't just stand by while someone has a very good chance of still being murdered. They weren't anticipating this thick fog. Maybe its the cigarettes or the night air but I feel like I can be a hero.
Quietly as I can I jog after the fading sound of footsteps. I stay far enough behind to be cloaked by the mist until we cross the wide slab of pavement. We reach the plaza of stores. I trail unseen by ducking between buildings every so often.
I glimpse the figure cut into a small alleyway that leads into the residential district of the town.
My pulse pounds in my ears, from fear not exertion. Adrenaline burns through my veins. What the fuck am I doing? Without considering the question I pursue the figure through the cramped brick ally to a quiet street. I'm close enough to see they're wearing a black sweater with the hood drawn, obscuring their face from most angels. I keep a generous distance between us and stay in the shadows along the fences ,avoiding the pools of light cast by streetlamps. The boulevard is nearly completely silent, the lights in all the houses are off and probably have been since nine o clock. We're in a picturesque subdivision, with trimmed hedges and matching homes. Completely unsuspecting.
The figure moves towards a house looking in the windows. Where the fuck are the cops? From around the corner of the neighboring house I watch as a gloved hand tries the doorhandle. Presumably finding it locked, they leave and repeat the same procedure with the next house. I tense up every time. Soon, there's going to be am unlocked door.
Where the actual fuck are the cops!? In my haste I left the radio back in the parking lot. My stupidity is going to cost someone their life if I don't do something. I watch with a plumetting heart as the fourth door, slowly opens when tried. I have to do something.
I am not useless. I dash over the lawn up the steps and slip into the house after them.
I'm in a nice front hall, with a shelf of decorative vases. I grab the heaviest looking one for self defense since it's all I have and proceed into the living room warily. I don't dare breath. My pulse is racing. I'm fucking terrified.
Then I see them. A middle aged man, with thinning blonde hair is asleep on his couch, with a softly flickering television and half eaten bowl of chips. I should be able to see the intrudors face now but the hood is still covering it, all that's visible is the edge of a small nose.
I'm frozen at the top of the few steps. Stuck staring as the figure in black leans over to the sleeping man. The muted television casts eerie flashes of lighting over the horrific scene and two sharp knives are drawn from both pockets. The killer leans over, gently placing a knee on his lap.
I open my mouth to warn him but no sound comes out.I'm too late. One knife is slashed across the mans throut ,the other lodged into his chest. His eyes flash open and he begins to struggle but the knife is already being forced through his neck and it must cut something important because suddenly the left side of his body goes limp. That knife is extracted quickly and plunged into his left eye, through the eyelid with a sickening moist sound. The man tries to yell but is only able to emit a wretched gurgling noise as the air from his lungs escape through the blood.
I still can't move. He reaches towards his attacker with his right arm just to have it cut open. The blade in his chest is removed, blood comes pouring out. Knowing there's nothing left to do his attacker steps back out of range and waits.
The poor man was caught off gaurd, he never had a chance. He stumbles forward off the couch, half blinded and weak from pain. Soon he falls unconscious from lack of oxygen and blood and lays across the floor. I watch from behind as the killer kneels beside the victim who is sprawled face down on the carpet and begins to cut out his heart. It's slow and messy, not like what you see in the movies. The room is silent except for the thick noises of sawing through flesh and ragged breathing. After a long while, the slick organ is ripped out of the girsly hole, torn out of his back.
That's it. An involuntary cry claws its way out my throut far too late to be any help. The figure jerks its head around suddenly in my direction.
Fuck. I want to run but my legs don't obey. I just stand there at the entrance holding my useless vase. Tears slip from my eyes. This is it. I'm sorry Gerard, I'm not a hero, I'm just an idiot.
The figure approaches steadily and moves into the patch of moonlight. I gasp and drop the lamp. It shatters into a million pieces.
"Oh god, Frankie?" Says a familiar voice.
No, no it can't be. Holy fuck no.
I breath his name so quietly I almost don't say it. As if not saying it means it will fade from my memory. As if not saying it will erase this new knowledge. As if it not saying it means it isn't true.
But I did say it and it hangs in the air between us.
"Gerard."

Notes

Yeah, shitty cliffhanger. Sorry. Love you.