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Chapter or Story 
Chapter or Story
Jarod seemed deliriously cheerful, and that, inexplicably, infuriated Parker. And puzzled her. She'd invited herself onto the boat and into his world, after all; she believed he deserved happiness, and begrudged him nothing.
So why the ol' bitch shtick?
Parker dreaded these instances of incomprehension, the accompanying introspection, inevitable self-reproach, the past uncoiling, the reel of memory unwinding, the barrage of jump cuts, and agonizing montage sequences.
She had struggled for decades to reconcile dysfunctional familial and professional allegiances with personal aspirations, a childhood friendship, and lapsed faith, reconcile her devotion to an absent, aloof, iniquitous father with her mother's goodness, reconcile corrupted values with unwavering integrity, and Mr. Parker's crippling expectations with Catherine Parker's unconditional love.
Regardless of blood, and despite stigma, social and cultural norms, fuzzy feel-good aphorisms, inspirational quotes, convention, holy scripture and just how fucking taboo family estrangement and disintegration still is widely considered, there were lines that, once crossed, irreparably shattered trust and ruptured even the closest families, and that line was Ethan's conception; it was a violation Parker would never forgive.
She acknowledged and accepted that others might be unforgiving of her. And why wouldn't they be?
Parker had tried to purchase her father's affection with Jarod's tears. She'd sacrificed a childhood friend at the altar of family loyalty, deprived Jarod of freedom to secure her own, ravaged his family to preserve hers, and she was still quite incapable of reconciling the woman who looked away from the pain in Jarod's eyes with the woman who vowed she wouldn't look away from the pain she'd seen in the eyes of Jarod's clone- only to resume averting her eyes.
Memory was rather damning, unforgiving; the past bombarded her. She was often nauseous with guilt, and perplexed that the antidote—distance, time, giving Jarod his freedom, allowing him to believe he'd successfully faked his death, simply not seeing him—had been no antidote at all.
Seeing him again certainly is no panacea either.
Parker studied Jarod quietly and analytically, searching for answers to questions she couldn't ask, questions Jarod couldn't answer. The Pretender was naturally disguised; he could have confidently walked past Lyle and an army of sweepers without fear of being recognized, apprehended.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, he wielded a stainless steel spatula, and he wasn't afraid to turn his back to Parker. Which is imbecilic, considering how many knives I've driven through it.
She swallowed hard, drew a breath, held it for several moments, released it. If battling nausea were a sport I'd be fucking all-pro.
The vertigo, indubitably, contributed to Parker's distress, or, rather, the silent argument—regarding aforementioned vertigo—in which she was presently engaged, her mother's dogged insistence that neither the boat nor water were responsible for the lightheadedness. Tree. Blanket. Picnic. Mom. I hope the man I fall in love with makes me lightheaded.
Parker considered a spicy riposte. Correct me if I'm wrong, Mother, but weren't you under a psychiatrist's care?
Face it, Mom, Mister Dysequilibrium, yes Mr. Woozy himself, impregnated you without your consent--with another man's sperm. Your lightheadedness was a sign that screamed "beware," but you didn't hear it, because you were listening with your heart.
Poised on a knife-edge of survival, and determined not to make the same mistakes Catherine had made, Parker frequently tugged at the interwoven threads, clawed the stitching, but she was incapable of severing herself from Catherine, and the communal, and inescapable, patchwork of horrors.
Christ, I must be twice as mad as you were then for letting you talk me into coming here.
"Are you all right?" Jarod asked Parker.
Startled, Parker stiffened, and hastily stammered, "What do you mean?"
"What I mean," Jarod explained slowly, covertly pocketing his mobile, "is are you all right. You're awfully quiet back there."
"What are you doing," Parker demanded with poorly concealed frustration.
"I can't think on an empty stomach," Jarod answered lightly, noting the tension gathered around her eyes. He couldn't be certain Parker hadn't seen his phone, and provided her ample opportunity to interrogate, before suggesting softly, "Let's take this outside."
Parker drew a breath, inhaling barbed rebuttals and sharp demands, and observed Jarod exit with his plate and cup. He didn't look back over his shoulder; he didn't have to. These were the terms of their unspoken agreement, her unwritten contract with him, evidently, and she didn't have any wiggle room.
Grudgingly, Parker carried her coffee and saucer to a low, dry dock that abutted a tiny tract overgrown with wildflowers and honeysuckle, and sat beside Jarod on the wood. The paint was peeling but the sky was cloudless and the air was pleasantly fragrant. The food—dry toast—wasn't entirely revolting either.
Parker's palate, however, objected. She was truly afraid for Broots, Jarod surmised, and still grieving Sydney and their half-brother. And she was angry with herself for reaching out to him for help, angry with life's sadistic sense of humor, and dead ancestors—her father and mother included—whose sins she was being coerced to suffer.
The predicament in which she'd found herself certainly wasn't some fabled suppose-to-be predestined inevitability, or an accident. There were an untold number of people to blame, monsters who had deliberately chosen to hurt others, chosen greed, child abduction, rape, murder, chosen to subsidize the Centre, climb into bed with the Triumvirate, become the fuck-buddy of various militaries, and look the other way, and she was being held accountable for their actions. Parker wasn't inclined to forgive them. Or herself.
Jarod was proud of Parker for placing Broots' sanity and safety ahead of her pride, choosing the correct path, regardless of how many times she'd reconsidered, turned back to the beginning at a halfway point, or how she'd stumbled and fallen and sobbed angry tears into tightly clenched fists. Jarod imagined the deals Parker had made with herself, with deities and various shady associates she'd cautiously, anonymously contacted, the lies she'd told, promises she'd made, money she'd offered, and hypotheticals she'd contrived prior to permitting herself to consider asking him for help. Parker believed, erroneously, that she'd suffered a crippling defeat in a decades-long war with him, that this was her white-flag moment. And, knowing her, she believes I'm tormenting her for the thrill of tormenting.
Conditions, needless to say, weren't ideal for a healthy appetite, digestion. Parker's pallor wasn't one that Jarod typically associated with good health. Her stomach was in knots, her throat was tight, there was a slight tremor in her hands. Jarod imagined that a restful night of sleep was probably as difficult to attain as nourishment. Something, after all, was wrong enough to compel her to ask him for help.
Parker, nevertheless, ate, slowly, mechanically.
Jarod restrained himself, lingered over his coffee. He didn't dare speak, explain that she'd fought a long and painful war, fraught with obstacles, a war with herself, and had triumphed. This was no surrender. Robert E. fucking Lee she is not.
Nor did Jarod level accusations, demand more than the sanitized version of the truth she'd shared with him. He was afraid to spoil the moment, break the spell. He wanted her to voluntary share the entirety of the truth with him, with no prompting on his part. They were at obvious cross-purposes.
Parker was already wondering how many more concessions she'd have to make, and if she could afford to be indebted to Jarod. He had further complicated her life by refusing to accept cash, raising questions regarding other currencies, but he provided no intimation of his expectations.
Stocks, information, servile mole inside the Centre, bootlicker, backscratcher?
Regardless of fee and currency, Parker resolved to pay.
Pay-- and get this the hell over with, and back to my life.
Jarod imagined what her life inside the Centre, without an ally, would look like. His stomach tightened at the thought of Parker alone in that hellhole with Lyle. That single horrific notion solidified his decision to submit his own proposal to her, one she couldn't refuse, and although he wasn't decidedly optimistic that she'd eagerly welcome it, he was confident he could persuade her.
"I don't know about you," Jarod said when their plates were empty, "but I feel like walking."
Parker rose wordlessly and accompanied Jarod on a narrow dirt footpath that dead-ended at a small park- a fifteen-minute jaunt.
Beyond a tiny water feature a the park's edge, Jarod lifted a hand to indicate a small breach in the bougainvillea hedge, and threaded himself through it. Parker followed and joined him on a concealed stretch of patchy grass, shaded from the sun by a canopy of serpentine vines. They moved slowly, forging a new path on undisturbed land.
"I realize that all you really want is another pair of eyes on this," Jarod said. "I'm hoping that you and I can bounce some other ideas off of each other, see if something sticks."
"I have a plan," Parker reminded crossly.
Jarod whispered her name, and explained softly, "No one's going to believe you're capable of murder, let alone murdering Broots. You love him, you don't trust anyone else with his life, and I know this is difficult to hear, but you're going to have to trust someone else this time."
"You," Parker inquired cynically. "The incident has to be witnessed, and you're already dead."
"I know, and I hate to do this to you," Jarod explained delicately, "but I- I have to ask you to trust me, to at least try."
"What does that mean," Parker murmured disconsolately, reflexively turning away in revulsion. Jarod lowered his head, briefly, and handily concealed the spasm of pain that tightened his face. "What the hell are you really asking, Jarod?"
"I'm asking you to trust me, to at least listen. Lyle has a history of terrorizing Broots. The Triumvirate must have quite a file on Lyle-- ethics violations, hundreds of allegations, that business with Thon, but nothing tangible. We can change that. You have the opportunity to give Broots his freedom and strip Lyle of his."
"Lyle," Parker snarled. "That's your plan?"
"That's my plan," Jarod affirmed impassively.
"And just how the hell do you intend to pull this off," Parker demanded with teeth clenched in anger, and fingers curled into fists at her sides, "without getting Broots killed?"
Jarod noted the quaver at the conclusion that belied Parker's stunning ferocity, and answered her promptly, "There are a number of approaches we -"
"A number," Parker interrupted hotly. "There isn't time to plot, pro and con this to death. I have to be back in Delaware tonight."
"Flawless," Jarod asserted, "requires time-- a minimum of thirty-two hours. And you're free the remainder of the week."
"Free," Parker repeated sharply. "No, I have to be back tonight."
"Look, this is something the two of us should discuss in private, and that's why your phone is--- in the car," Jarod ventured, "or is it in Blue Cove?"
"Home," Parker answered glumly.
"Mhm, and for the same reason you're driving a retired sedan instead of one of the Centre's new SUVs. You've been judicious, competent; now isn't the time for mistakes."
"There isn't time to argue," Parker shouted.
"Then stop arguing," Jarod suggested astutely. "Broots is on temporary medical leave, and Debbie-- has learned a lot from you, and she has help. Broots' cousin Newton, his wife, and two adult children are spending the night like you planned. If circumstances change within the next thirty-two hours, I'll be immediately notified, and I'll personally drive you back to Blue Cove."
"You texted someone," Parker snarled with a withering glare.
"Yes," Jarod answered somberly. "Now, we're going to walk back to the boat, and you have until we get there to tell me the truth," he said, clarifying sternly, "the unabridged version."
