C. Adams: Version 2.0

The weekends were Brian’s chance to get a lot of projects finished; meet deadlines, and things of that sort. He wrote for several different magazines, articles that were due in the middle of each month. He hated deadlines and he hated not having the time he really wanted to work on his book. Alas, writing doesn’t pay until it’s written. Taking on these smaller projects paid for his over-sized apartment, kept gas in his car, and allowed him to be comfortable enough to buy pretty much whatever he wanted. But because of these habits, he really had nothing to show for himself. There was no savings; no plan. The plan was only going to be a plan after he finished his book and became the rich man he knew he’d be.

It had been two days since she’d heard from him, now. She’d had little time to focus on that fact as she’d been not only busy at work, but toughing through the pain of unexplainable illness that had suddenly and inexplicably washed over her a couple of nights ago. The symptoms were so strange and unrelated to anything she could think of, she passed it off as the stress she’d endured the previous weekend while visiting her parents.

Today, she’d left work after a dizzy spell, refusing a lift home from her partner, and grabbed a coffee at the little cafe down the street from Brian’s place. Her plan was to show up unannounced, bringing the coffee as a preemptive apology. Although, his not returning her calls should’ve given her the right to barge in, anyway.

It was a short drive from the cafe to Brian’s place. Birdie pulled into the steep driveway, rolling her eyes when she saw the back end of Brian’s damaged Z28 at the end of it; a fit of road rage never really could be topped from her little brother’s. She was just happy he had no desire to own a gun.

Birdie parked and got out of the car, making her way to the door as she dialed his number again. And again there was no answer. She knocked on the door and rang the bell a few times in attempt to wake him from what must have been a medicated slumber. She tried to peek through the windows, but the blinds were all drawn closed.

Rolling her eyes once more, Birdie set the coffee down on the porch, and pulled out her lock-pick kit. Crouched down at the doorknob, she had the lock picked in less than a minute. Being a Federal Agent had its perks now and then. She grabbed the coffee, tucked the set back in her jacket pocket, and let herself into the house.

“Brian?” she called out, then took a breath in and gagged. Letting out a disgusted cough, she made her way to his office. Moldy mugs of discarded coffee surrounded dozens of empty packs of cigarettes and general disarray. The smell was awful, and she wondered how Brian could tolerate it. But he wasn’t in there, and his computer wasn’t, either. Which could only mean that he was working downstairs again.

Birdie closed the door of the office hoping the smell hadn’t permeated the entire house, before heading downstairs. “Brian, come on,” she called out. “I brought you some coffee, but I’m highly considering not giving it to you, since you’ve been blatantly ignoring me all weekend.” Almost down the flight of stairs without a reply, she let out a small laugh. “You really need to lay off the sleep meds. Just because it’s a prescription, doesn’t mean it’s okay to take half the bottle at a time,” she stepped off of the staircase and turned the corner into the kitchen. “This place is a disaster, as usual,” she commented, setting the coffee on the counter before turning to get the milk from the fridge.

“Did you have a party last night?” she asked, bypassing a pile of empty pizza boxes to get to the milk, before turning to pour some into the coffee. “Seriously, wake the hell up, Bry,” she called out as she brought the coffee into the living room.

She stopped there where the tiled floor met the carpet of the living room area, frozen in place at the sight of the still form on the couch. Beside him, a dinner plate with lines of cocaine. Surrounding it, were eight-balls of even more of it, tipped over prescription bottles, candy wrappers and cigarette ash and empty cans.

His computer was beside him on the couch, as if he’d finished working for the night and simply turned over to go to sleep. Only, he was holding a pipe in one hand and a lighter in the other. And he was perfectly still. There was no rise and fall of his chest. There was no color to his face.

As an Agent, Birdie knew exactly what she was seeing. She’d seen it many times before. Yet nothing in the world, no crime scene or tragedy she’d ever witnessed, had ever made her chest hurt the way it did right then.

With shaking hands, she set the coffee cup down on the table, reached into her pocket for her phone, and called her partner. She wasn’t entirely sure what he said in response on the other line, but she was fairly certain it was something about coming right over. She hung up without acknowledging whatever it was.

Birdie’s gaze never left the form of her brother. She didn’t know what to do. Really, there was nothing; there was no answer. She felt the burning, insistent stinging in her eyes that was followed by tears that she couldn’t stop if she’d had the desire to try. “What have you done?” she asked him in barely a whisper. It wasn’t, perhaps, to his body, but wherever his spirit might be. She said again, louder, screaming in frustration, “What have you done!”

She was sitting on the porch when Agent Ashton Sinese, her partner, showed up with an ambulance and officers in tow. Her elbows were perched on her knees. Her gaze fixed on the gravel of the driveway, she only recognized their presence through her peripheral vision.

Ashton wasn’t sure what to expect when he’d show at the property. Birdie was always strong; emotionally and stomached. He’d never really seen her in pain. But he knew how close she was to her younger brother. This would be devastating, surely, for her.

He parked his car beside hers, and spotted her on the porch. What he could see of her face seemed to be forced stoicism, though he could tell that she’d been crying at some point before they’d arrived. Her expression now, however, was barely readable. He approached cautiously after directing the officers inside, and sat down beside Birdie.

“Farran… uh, Birdie,” he started.

She let out a small huff of what might’ve been laughter, “You calling me by my first name… sounds funny.”

“Shut up, Farran. I’m tryin’ to be supportive, here,” he playfully replied. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, and she nodded. “Hey,” he said, more seriously, and cupped her chin, making her look at him. “I’m so sorry,” he told her as she met his eyes; his own, moist with sudden tears that he must have acquired through some strange connection of touching her and feeling the pain she’d been hiding so well.

Birdie’s brows pinched at the sincerity in his voice, and she nodded in thanks and then found herself wrapped in an embrace. A little of her resolve broke and she found herself wondering, as a distraction, when the last time was that she’d gotten a hug from her partner.

Ashton’s heart broke a little when he felt Birdie’s body shake with a few silent sobs. But just as soon as it had started, it was over and she was pulling away; stoic face back in place. “There’s so much I need to do right now,” she told him, looking away toward her car. “I need to get everything in order; figure out if he had any kind of insurance. I… I need to tell my mother…”

“Farran, hey, listen,” he gripped her shoulder, and she looked over at him again. “I’ll take care of things here, okay?”