staring down the sun

[23] somehow here is gone

He knew it was a bad idea to let go of her. As soon as he had loosened his grasp, Elena took off to follow that cop to Saint Agnes. He couldn't stop her. And in that split-second, Connor actually considered letting her go for good, that he and Murphy would run back to the church, just as they had agreed if shit didn't go as planned. But in the split-second after that, Connor and Murphy took off after her, because they had silently agreed they wouldn't leave anyone behind ever again...especially Elena.

They find her ducked in an alley about a block from the church, her hand on the brick wall as she peers around the corner at the tragic sight. The flames light up the night sky in an ugly orange blaze, and Connor fears they have somehow stepped directly into hell.

Sirens of more firetrucks approaching wail in the air, cutting through the smoke that drifts around them. Connor spots Beck with some uniformed officers as they help the paramedics triage the victims. But only a handful of the mass of people seem to be moving. He fights the instinct to pull out his rosary, purely out of fear that they will be recognized. Instead, he whispers his prayer, crossing himself as he turns back to Elena and Murphy.

Elena presses her cheek against the wall, her voice visibly caught somewhere in her body. Connor places his hand on her shoulder, rubbing small circles with his thumb again and gently saying her name. She finally blinks and looks at him, tears stinging from a sadness he'd give anything to erase for her.

"I know," she starts, defeated. "We need to go."

Connor moves his eyes to Murphy, who places his hand on Elena's back and guides her away from the corner. Connor swallows as he wraps his arm around her, his lips brushing against her hair as he softly tells her, "We'll get them, lass. I promise ye."

. . .

The television entertained itself as they sat in the motel room. Murphy had turned it on to see what the news said about the fire, but when some sitcom rerun came on, he lowered the volume enough to still make white noise.

As morning comes without answers and without any sleep, Connor finishes up a phone call with Duffy, whose instructions were for the trio to stay put for now until, for lack of a better term, "until the smoke clears." The irony was unintentional, as evident in the detective's solemn tone once he realized what he said.

Sighing, he looks at Elena sitting on the bed. Her legs are drawn up to her chest, and her eyes are still, staring at the floral pattern on the blanket. Connor slides the cell phone into his pocket and steps toward the bed. Murphy chews on the edge of his index finger as he sits at the table with a newspaper, briefly sharing a look with Connor as he crosses the room.

Connor gently positions himself, sitting sideways on the bed so he can see the door and the TV. He keeps himself from looking at Elena, afraid he'll break her if he catches her jade-green stare. Whenever Connor or Murphy would be upset, the other twin never needed to say anything or even share eye contact; they had learned that they simply required the other brother's presence near them for comfort. So that's what Connor felt like he was good at...just being there.

He hears Elena let out a long, deep breath, and he feels the release of everything she was holding in for the moment, dissolving into the slightly musty motel room air. He can't help but turn his head to look at her. Just as he had feared, he catches her eyes, but her shoulders drop with relief and she gives him a half-smile.

Murphy shifts in his chair, setting the paper down and turning up the volume on the TV. Connor looks at the screen, seeing the news cut back in with a special report.

The anchor announces that NYPD and FDNY suspect arson at Saint Agnes, though they have yet to find evidence to prove that. That speculation is more likely to be true based on witness accounts and how fast the fire spread. They cut to a reporter in the field, who further explains what happened. "So far, five people have died, with several more in critical and serious conditions at area hospitals. People are obviously concerned as this church is known for taking in the victims of sex trafficking following the Saints' assassination of the notorious Lombardo crime organization. What we do not know is if the girls were still at the church when the fire started."

Connor's jaw tightens, and he feels Elena reach for his hand, squeezing it just tight enough as if she's making sure he's still there. He rubs his thumb over her fingers, his eyes glued to the TV.

The reporter adds, "Darren Hawkins, who is running for Congress this fall, had this to say about the unfortunate events that took place tonight."

Cut to a pre-recorded shot of a well-groomed man in a dark blue suit, mid-40s, dark hair greying at the sides, and that typical politician smirk. "This is the problem with our country now. We've allowed these vigilantes to continue their murderous spree, and now innocent lives are paying the price."

The reporter's eyes widen. "Sir, are you blaming the Saints for this tragedy?"

That fucking smirk. "Clearly, someone is coming after them. Maybe they didn't light the match here, but they are responsible. If these so-called Saints turn themselves in to the authorities, innocent lives will be safer again."

"Fuck," Murphy exclaims quietly, though strangely not moving. Usually, he'd be the first one to jump into action, to go after that motherfucker and whoever started that fire. Connor stares at his twin, waiting for Murphy's instinct to kick in at any moment. But instead, he just sits there.

Elena squeezes Connor's hand again but lets go to hug her knees once more. The palpable sense of defeat sends a chill up Connor's spine as he slowly shifts his eyes between his brother and his friend. He wonders if they can...if they should...keep going.

The motel phone rings, breaking the tension both externally and internally. Connor twists to reach for the nightstand behind him and picks up the receiver. "Hello?" he answers, trying to mask his accent.

"Some guy was here looking for you." He recognizes the voice of the motel's owner, the middle-aged woman with long dark hair and a soft, matronly tone. "Said his name was Beck or something. I told him I didn't know who he was talking about, so he left just a moment ago."

Connor clenches his teeth, holding in his growing concern as they keep sitting there in that room. "Did he say anything else?"

"He left a note, just in case. I'll bring it to you. He said he was going to keep looking." She pauses, waiting for Connor to answer, but he can't; he physically cannot get his voice to work anymore. "I'll be up in a minute," she exhales before hanging up.

She says nothing when Connor cracks the door open just enough to see her. Instead, she hands him the note with a polite smile and knowing eyes, then leaves.

He latches the chain lock and leans against the door as he opens the note. A handwritten time, date, and location to meet. Underneath that, a small sentence scrawled, reading, "I can help you."

Connor's stomach drops, and he feels Murphy and Elena's eyes on him. "What?" his brother asks quietly, yet his shoulders square up.

It could be a trap. The thought is valid, but so is the thought that the cop really does want to help. But only if Connor was correct in reading the guilt, the fear on that man's face as he said, "Saint Agnes is on fire."

Connor shifts his eyes between Murphy and Elena again, afraid that no matter what he thinks, no matter what he feels in his gut, someone is still going to get hurt.