Song Remains the Same

Chapter 52: Fair Weather Friends

"Everything you touch it surely dies."
- Passenger

Jamie looked around the motel room in a blank haze, stunned by the phone call that had just ended. Dean's words replayed over and over mentally, leaving her so shocked that she couldn't feel her feet or hands...

Your fucking brother tried to go Ted Bundy on my sister today and if he's not dead already, you better put a bullet in his head or I will!

Ted Bundy was an infamous murderer and rapist. Was Dean saying that Glen had... had tried to... do those things to Alex? Jamie spiraled. Glen wouldn't... he couldn't do either of those things, to anyone, ever—and certainly not Alex, their friend and hunting partner—Dean had to be wrong...!

Glen was an asshole and an idiot and a huge flirt but... he wasn't a murderer, he wasn't a rapist. Jamie knew him. She knew him.

...Didn't she?

The motel room the three of them had been staying in the past few nights had been labeled a crime scene and was locked down when she'd gotten there a few minutes ago—and she'd been unprepared for what she found when she broke in. Blood and disarray everywhere. Signs of a huge struggle. Glen's phone discarded on the floor. No sign of him or Alex anywhere. Panicked, Jamie had called Alex, but had gotten instead a very angry Dean who had told her the utterly unthinkable. Jamie stared at blood stained carpet—it had huge spread like someone had been bleeding out. Alex? Glen? She didn't know, but after talking to Dean, she thought it had to be her brother's. Terrified, she scanned the room yet again in a dazed attempt to assess what happened.

There was a broken lamp, a busted clock radio, and bloody car keys tossed on the floor. There was the messed up bed closest to the window which made Jamie's stomach twist. The sheets were coming off of it, mattress cover and all—like a life-or-death struggle had taken place there. Nearby two bullet casings were circled in police chalk and numbered. Jamie wanted to throw up. There had to be another explanation, there had to be. Shaking, she ran a hand through her uncombed hair. There was no trail of blood leading out of the room. Glen's car was parked outside. So where was he? Dead or alive, he couldn't just have disappeared.

Her eyes zipped to stare at the blood splatters again and Jamie felt the beginnings of a panic attack ramping up. It wouldn't have been her first. This scene brought back horrifying memories of finding her mother all those years ago and Jamie tried so hard not to think of that... so she closed her eyes and focused on deep breathing. In and out. One, two, three. Count to one, two, three. A grounding technique she'd used on herself since she'd been young. And even though her pulse calmed down and her throat didn't close up, she remembered that horrible day without wanting to: Finding her mother sitting hunched over in a silk dressing robe stained with blood while smoking a cigarette and downing sherry with a face of stone as she sat on the luxury chaise in her grand bedroom. Behind her, Dad was bloody and dead on the bed, stabbed repeatedly with a kitchen knife that glinted beside Mother on the expensive lounge.

You're supposed to be practicing! Caroline Ward had shrieked, standing and throwing her glass of alcohol at Jamie, who wore her soft pink ballet leotard and tights. Her aim missed by a mile. At eleven, the sight of a dead father and a mother covered in horrific blood had sent Jamie into a full-blown panic attack. Every one of her senses had gone dark and shaky and to this day she still didn't remember how she got from the master bedroom to the bottom of the grand marble staircase. But she would forever remember falling into one of the maid's arms as Caroline stumbled down the stairs with that bloody knife, smearing red against angelic white as she raged about killing Jamie next. That maid had saved Jamie's life by whisking her out of the house and calling 911 then hiding with her until the police arrived.