31Written for the Deckerstar Big Bang organized on tumblr. Thanks to coldflash-is-life on tumblr for being my artist collaborator. See archived fic on AO3 for a link to the fanart illustration.
Chapter 1/8
Loop 1
A pulsing tempo and a chorus of trampling beats drove Chloe from slumber's rib-cracking embrace. She extended an arm out from under the blanket and groped across her nightstand surface. Her fumbling fingers eventually located the oversized snooze button, cutting off the radio in the middle of the song's chorus.
"As for the two of us?
Only time—"
The blocky, red digits on the alarm's face declared it to be seven in the morning.
Flopping onto her back again, she stared at her sun-speckled ceiling. It was another beautiful day in LA. But every day was gorgeous in SoCal. In the ringing silence, she strained to hear beyond her closed bedroom door.
Three months ago, the apartment would have been rife with the sounds of life. Trixie had been an inexplicable early bird since she was seven, prone to climbing onto the couch to watch early morning cartoons. Maze might wander in at this hour after spending all night out chasing a bounty or a good time. She'd slam cabinets open and shut as she searched for the hair of the dog. Not that she ever had a hangover. On the mornings after Marcus spent the nights, he would have crawled out of Chloe's bed hours ago to catch up on paperwork or throw together a haphazard breakfast of slightly burnt toast and overcooked eggs for the household. And before Marcus, Lucifer had been prone to breaking and entering, eager to catch new cases and treat the Decker women to admittedly the best omelets she's ever had.
But now? There was only silence.
She sat up and scrubbed her face with her palms. No point ruminating on the past. The harsh acetone of hindsight had stripped it of its once rosy veneer. Maze wasn't her roommate anymore. Marcus was a murderous asshole and dead. And Lucifer? Who knew where he was or what he was doing?
No, enough of that. Time to get up, make breakfast, send Trixie to school, and go into work. This was her reality.
She relied on the years of rote practice to take her through her morning routine. But she felt far older than her spry age of thirty-six. (Almost as old as—) Soon, she'd showered and dressed. In front of her full-length mirror, she smoothed out the faint wrinkles in her blazer. As she patted down her sides, an irregular bump in her left pocket gave her pause. She reached into the pocket, fingertips brushing against something soft before grasping a thin shaft. Her breath caught in her throat, knowing full well what it was before her trembling hand drew it out.
It was a feather. In its original pristine form, it would have been snow white and as long as six inches. But something snapped it in half, pink tinged the top portion of the shaft while dried blood clumped around the broken end of the quill. She had pocketed it on that fateful day, right before untimely backup herded her away from Marcus' corpse and the loft that resembled a war-zone.
Nothing remained in the aftermath other than bullet holes, bloodstained feathers, broken statues, and the shattered remains of her worldview.
Bringing the morbid souvenir to eye-level, she rolled the quill between the fingers. But despite its matted vane and the bloodstains, it shone with an unearthly glow through no fault of the early Californian sun.
Unearthly. Because it wasn't of this Earth.
"Mommy!"
Chloe snapped out of her stupor, stuffed the broken feather back into her pocket, and spun to face her daughter—fully dressed with her bookbag slung across her back and lunch bag in hand—hovering in her open doorway.
"I'm going to be late!" Trixie exclaimed.
Her stomach sank after glancing sideways at the clock on her nightstand and reading the time. Somehow, she had lost almost forty minutes. She told herself it was the fatigue or the lack of caffeine—anything mundane to chase away the cold slither coiled around her spine.
She snapped up her phone and keys before heading downstairs. She grabbed a protein bar from the cabinet on the way to the door. No time for coffee now. Depending on traffic, she might have time to hit a Starbucks drive-through. But more likely, she'd have to settle for the awful office coffee.
"You got everything you need?" she asked her daughter, balancing on one foot as she zipped up her left boot. "Your karate uniform?"
"It's Wednesday," Trixie sighed. When did she learn to express exasperation like that?
Right, karate lessons were Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Wednesdays were… "Okay, Tracy will pick you up today."
"I'm going to Madison's after school, remember? You said I could last week!" Trixie protested.
Right. Right. Chloe should have checked her calendar before opening her mouth. "Sorry, monkey. Madison's mom is picking up both of you, right?"
Trixie nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Jeez, mom, do you have everything you need?"
Chloe ruffled her daughter's hair, eliciting another round of protest, and ushered them out the door. Trixie was growing up so fast. If Chloe wasn't careful, she would be a teenager, then a woman in the blink of an eye. She almost wished time would stop.
-x-x-x-
Chloe blew into the precinct as if the hounds of Hell were on her heels. With barely a nod toward Ella, arms laden with a box full of files and deep in conversation with Officer Engles, Chloe sprinted across the mezzanine, down the stairs, and straight across the bullpen to her desk. She collapsed onto her chair before catching her breath.
Dan rolled his chair from his desk to hers. "Cutting it close, aren't you?"
She snuck a glance at the lieutenant's office, where the new CO, Lieutenant Grieve, looked up in time to cast a disapproving look. She ducked behind her computer monitor before hissing at her ex, "I'm well aware."
In the darkened reflection staring back from the unpowered monitor's screen, she noted her frazzled appearance and the flyaway strands escaping her ponytail. She pulled the hair-tie free and quickly redid her hair.
"I'm looking out for you, Chlo. You just came off suspension. You don't want to piss Grieve off this early."
As she opened her mouth to rip Dan a new one, an ear-splitting bang ripped through the bullpen. Chloe instinctively dropped out of her chair, slipped under her desk, and reached for her holstered weapon. Other than flinching, Dan remained in his seat. Upon further reflection, the sound wasn't remotely like a gunshot. But for whatever reason, Chloe's fatigue-addled mind interpreted it as gunfire.
"Sorry! Sorry!" Ella exclaimed.
She peered out into the middle of the bullpen, watching as Ella flew down the stairs to retrieve her box and its contents now strewn across the floor. Chloe's heart continued to pound in her ears like a runaway train. Who needs caffeine after a shot-in-the-arm dose of adrenaline?
-x-x-x-
Her victim was found at a foreclosed warehouse in the Wholesale District. She had no wallet or other identification on her person, thus earning her the moniker of "Jane Doe." To Chloe's eternal relief, there were no signs of sexual assault or violence. In life, Jane Doe must have been the perfect picture of health. Even in the autopsy photos, she resembled an elegant porcelain doll: all pale skin and red hair. By the ME's best guess, she was anywhere from her late twenties to mid-thirties.
Chloe flipped through the crime scene photos, eyes sweeping over shots of the warehouse's interior. In particular, she lingered on the image of the victim, spread-eagled on the dusty floor and a dark red blossom of blood across her chest, radiating out from the railroad spike driven through her sternum. It was far from the most grotesque death seen in her line of work. But there was something unnerving about the scene that sent a shiver down her spine even when viewed through the lens of her memory. She still remembered the unseasonable chill that had settled inside the warehouse. Part of the reason the body had been so well preserved despite the victim having been killed two days prior to discovery.
Uniforms canvassing the area turned up nothing out of the ordinary, other than a few complaints about bright lights and singing at night. But the former industrial boomtown played occasional host to pop-up raves and other dance parties. The LAPD often turned a blind eye as they were hard to catch and harder to shut down.
The folder slipped from her fingers and hit her desk with a soft fwoosh. Her fingers found purchase around the bridge of her nose. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the low thrumming in her temples. Jane/John Does were never easy cases, but now she felt like she was repeatedly ramming her head against a wall.
Who was she kidding? Police work was never easy. Demanding, sure. Even gratifying when she put a murderer behind bars. But easy? Never. She had almost forgotten what it was like to investigate cases the old-fashioned way. Lucifer's connections always opened doors faster than any warrant. He was her golden goose—a provider of her much-needed eggs.
No, it was more accurate to say it was his powers—the Devil's power. He all too happily supplied his skills and his help. But why?
The memory of a red, ravaged figure looming over Marcus' body, where an obsidian blade that struck the death blow jutted out of his chest, flashed across her mind's eye. A cold sweat broke across her brow, and she shivered.
No. Focus on the case. Someone out there was looking for her Jane Doe.
-x-x-x-
She spent hours digging through missing person reports filed within the last week. At one point, Dan dropped off a ham and Swiss sandwich, which she nibbled on sporadically. Chloe didn't have much of an appetite these days, as evidenced by the five pounds she'd lost since that day at the loft. She did, however, gulp down the coffee that accompanied the sandwich. And then another two cups from the coffee machine after that.
On her third trip to the machine, Dan waved her over to his desk. "This came out of the South Bureau, Topanga Division, an hour ago," he said as he offered a sheaf of paper.
She set her mug down before skimming the new report—also from Missing Persons. But notably, it was being filed on behalf of a young girl for her missing mother. Officers estimated she might be around nine or ten years old. Chloe's heart clenched at the thought of this little girl, who must be so scared and lost.
Hairs stood on the back of her neck as Chloe read the description which seemed to match her Jane Doe. At the end was a grainy profile shot of the missing woman taken from CCTV footage. She sprinted to her desk, grabbed her case file, and ran back to Dan's desk. After arranging the crime scene photo alongside the CCTV shot, she looked to him for confirmation. She couldn't say it with 100% confidence, but the height, body shape, and clothes matched.
Dan squinted at the two photos for several seconds, before nodding.
"Where is the daughter now?"
"Still at the Starlight Inn where the report was filed. The motel manager found the girl after the room failed to check out this morning. I think there's a uniformed officer waiting with her in case the mother turns up."
Chloe quickly gathered her files and this new missing person report. "I'm heading there now."
"Okay, I'll call ahead and make sure they stay put and know to expect you."
"Thanks." She chewed on her bottom lip, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall. It was almost a quarter to three.
"Do you need me to pick up Trixie?" Dan asked.
She shook her head. "No, I should be fine. Trixie's going over to Madison's after school. But I'll let you know if anything changes."
"Sounds good. Call me if you need me to take her for the night."
Despite feeling grateful, a drop of bitterness welled up inside. If only he had been this supportive when they were still married... She shook her head and spun on her heels, muttering a quiet "thanks, Dan" on her way out.
-x-x-x-
The Starlight Inn was a budget motel lying on the outskirts of Topanga State Park, an almost forty-minute drive from the station with traffic. Chloe spent a portion of the time conferring with the detective assigned to the missing person's case, who seemed more than happy to hand over the case once Chloe confirmed the missing woman as her murder victim. No new information about her victim's real identity, but surely the daughter could tell her more.
She pulled into the open parking spot next to check-in, where a 'No Vacancy' sign hung in the window. Her first stop was to speak with the motel staff and see if anyone recognized her Jane Doe as the missing mother. A bell chimed as she stepped into the office. On the far side, a beige-colored ice machine hummed loudly despite the 'Out Of Order' sign plastered across it. In one corner, she spotted a security camera aimed at the desk. She trod across the splotchy charcoal gray carpet to the check-in counter, 60s-style Formica-laminated top and all. A bored woman in her mid-forties sat on a stool, flipping through an issue of People.
"No vacancy," the woman said in clear dismissal, never looking away from an article featuring Nick Jonas and Priyanka Chopra.
Chloe slipped her badge over the spine of the open magazine.
That caught the desk clerk's attention, causing the woman to jump to her feet and lift her head to meet Chloe's eyes for the first time. "Eh, officer!"
"Detective Decker," Chloe introduced as she returned her badge to her belt. "An employee here reported an abandoned child earlier today. Would you be able to tell me more about that?"
The clerk nodded, but her brows furrowed and a pout crept across her lips. "I already told the other detective, Carnahan, everything I know."
"I'm investigating another case that I believe the mother may be related to. The LAPD would appreciate your cooperation in the matter."
The clerk sighed, refusing to shed the air of someone being inconvenienced. At least it got her talking. Chloe listened closely and took notes.
The woman and her daughter had checked in a week ago under the name Robin Yeats. There was no telling if that was her real name or not, but at least it wasn't as impersonal and as cold as Jane Doe. They paid up for the week in advance with cash, which was a red flag in this day and age. They needed to either extend their stay or check out as of eleven this morning. When Robin didn't do either, the clerk followed up by going straight to the room. No one answered no matter how loudly or long she knocked, so she used the master key to unlock the door. That was when the clerk discovered the girl.
"She wouldn't say anything. Not where her mother was. Not how long she'd been gone. So I figured she'd been abandoned or whatever and called you guys," the clerk finished with a shrug.
Something about the woman's lack of empathy set Chloe's teeth on edge. Chloe sped through the rest of her questions, eager to check on the young girl. The rest of the information the clerk provided fit Chloe's timeline of the murder: Robin was last seen two days ago, mere hours before she died.
Finally, Chloe showed the clerk a photo of her Jane Doe, the shot tightly framed on the dead woman from the neck up on a metal slab. "Is this Robin Yeats?" she asked, simultaneously dreading and hoping.
The clerk's eyes widened. "Yes! Yes! That's her! Oh my God, is she dead?"
The positive ID compounded Chloe's need to check on the little girl. Robin's daughter had been alone for over 46 hours, locked away in a motel room. "Thank you for your time."
Chloe stopped by her car to put away her case files. None of the photos inside were fit to show to the victim's child. As she leaned against the hood, she took a moment to gather her composure and send a text to Trixie. She had been reluctant to give Trixie her own cellphone at first. But it made sense given her and Dan's jobs and their work hours. Her daughter replied immediately; her message bookended by an angel emoji. Reading Trixie's message eased the anxiety swimming through Chloe's veins.
Before approaching the motel room, she freed her hair from its ponytail, letting the tresses cascade over her shoulders. She considered leaving her blazer behind in the car too, but there was a limit to how far she could dress down when another officer was present. She knocked twice on the door, once painted a sky blue that had faded to an almost gray after years of direct exposure to the sun.
A uniform officer answered, and Chloe had her badge ready.
"Detective Decker, I'm Officer Rollins," a fresh-faced man, probably a recent academy graduate, greeted her. "Detective Carnahan told me you were coming over."
"Is she here?"
Rollins nodded and stepped back, opening the door all the way for Chloe. At first glance, the room's interior was as worn as the rest of the motel with colors and styling still stuck in the 60s. But it was clean and safe. The furnishing consisted of a short bureau, an uncomfortable armchair shoved into a corner, and the full-sized bed that took up most of the space. The LCD TV sitting on top of the bureau was the most modern amenity in the entire room. A young girl, Robin's daughter, sat on top of the mattress.
From her vibrant green eyes to her auburn hair, the child took after her mother's looks. She'd looked up from her paperback as soon as Chloe entered the room. She maintained a wary and thoughtful expression, out of place for someone so young, but didn't hide when Chloe approached.
"Hey there, sweetie," Chloe stopped a foot away from the bed and smiled. "I'm Detective Decker, and I'm with the police."
The girl's jaw dropped, and she gaped at Chloe with wide, saucer eyes. Her bold-faced shock caught Chloe by surprise, who knew she looked more ragged than not these days. But was it so obvious that even a child noticed? Chloe opened her mouth to continue her introduction.
But the girl spoke first with a voice as sweet and crisp as wind chimes. "You're glowing."
What?
The girl gasped, then clasped her hands to her mouth. She bowed her head while her hair fell over her face.
Officer Rollins stepped up to Chloe's side. "Wow, that's the first thing I've heard her say. Hadn't heard a peep out of her all afternoon. Won't tell me her name or anything."
It hadn't escaped Chloe's notice how the girl tensed when Rollins approached. Several possibilities presented themselves: the girl was afraid of strangers, policemen, or men. None of which bode well for convincing her to open up to Chloe.
"I heard from the clerk she's been alone for the last two days. It's almost dinnertime. Officer Rollins, can I trouble you to get something for her? Maybe start with a sandwich, juice, and a cookie?"
Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the girl peek out from under her bangs. An eager look flashed across her face at the mention of food.
"You hungry there, kid?" Rollins addressed the girl, but she lowered her gaze immediately. The officer deflated at her lack of reaction and addressed Chloe instead. "Sure thing, detective. Uh, guess I'll head for the nearby Panera. Best of luck with her."
Rollins quickly saw himself out, leaving Chloe alone with the little girl. Chloe lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. From her new position, she caught sight of a large pendant hanging around the girl's neck. She couldn't see any details beyond its circular shape before the girl lowered her head and her hair covered it. "You can call me Chloe. What's your name?"
The girl bit her lower lip, eyes darting between Chloe's face and the book in her lap. Still, she said nothing.
Chloe tried another angle of attack. "I see you're reading. Can I see the title? Maybe I've read it before."
After a moment of hesitation, the girl lifted her book and flashed the cover: Coraline by Neil Gaiman.
"Oh!" Chloe exclaimed with glee. "Coraline is one of Trixie's favorites too. Trixie's my daughter. She turned nine this year. You two are probably around the same age."
The girl raised her hands and fanned all ten of her fingers out. For a second, a proud light flashed through her eyes.
"You're ten then?" Chloe asked. "And you're already reading Coraline on your own? That's very impressive."
The girl nodded, chest slightly puffed out. Her hair fell to the side, giving Chloe a clearer view of the girl's pendant, which was almost the size of her palm. It was made of a silvery metal, inscribed with symbols and the image of a pot? Or was it a cauldron?
Chloe moved closer to the edge of the bed. She had never seen metal polished to such a prismatic shine before. She reached out and only caught herself a hairsbreadth short of touching it. Warmth flooded her fingertips, quickly followed by a tingle of static that coursed up the length of her arm. She dropped her hand and sat back on her heels. "Your necklace is beautiful. Did your mother give it to you?"
The girl flinched at the mention of her mother. As she scooted back across the sheets to put distance between herself and Chloe, she clutched her necklace protectively to her chest.
Chloe winced. Okay, one step forward, then three steps back. She couldn't give up though. But try as she might, she couldn't convince the girl to utter a single word. The girl understood the questions based on how her intelligent eyes would study Chloe after each question. But she made no further attempts to respond verbally or through sign language.
She dropped her face into her hands, sighing heavily. Silence settled between them as she considered her options. At this current rate, there was no way to broach the subject of Robin Yeats. How could she tell this skittish girl that her mother was never coming back to her? There was no helping it now. After Officer Rollins came back and the girl hopefully ate, Chloe would take her back to the station. If they couldn't locate another family member, she'd turn her over to CFS in the meantime.
A knock on the door interrupted Chloe's train of thought. Ah, that must be Officer Rollins now. She climbed to her feet and strode across the room to let him in.
"Wait!" the girl called behind Chloe as she opened the door.
The man standing on the other side was not Officer Rollins. He was several inches shorter than Rollins, with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and a surgical mask obscuring the lower half of his face. The only details Chloe caught were the wisp of brown hair poking out from under the brim and his dark brown eyes burning with malice.
"Who—"
An ear-splitting bang—the acrid scent of gunpowder shattered the rest of her question. Chloe took two stumbling steps back, unblocking the entrance despite her better judgment, clutching her stomach. Wetness coated her fingers, slicking her palms. Then, as if someone else now controlled her body, she watched as red bloomed across the front of her blouse. She knew this feeling. This had happened to her before.
She was shot.
With that, her legs gave out under her. Her gun. She needed to draw her weapon. But her fingers spasmed uselessly, refusing to obey. The girl's voice, so previously clear and sweet, turned hoarse from the never-ending screaming. A shadow fell over Chloe, blocking out what little light she could make out. No, the assailant was entering the room. He headed toward the girl.
"Stop," Chloe croaked, unable to draw enough air into her lungs.
Still, she uncurled her hands from where they fisted in the carpet's long fibers and curled her numb fingers around the ankle. The assailant paused, sneakers hovering inches to the side of Chloe's head. With a slight shake of his leg, he dislodged her grip and stepped over her without a second glance.
Another gunshot sounded, branding the smell of sulfur and charcoal into her nostrils. Then there was nothing.
She was nothing but light.
-x-x-x-
Chloe's eyes snapped open. The first thing she saw was her sun-speckled ceiling. The first thing she heard was the pop song blaring from her clock radio.
"I can't turn back the currents of time,
Every day keeps rushing forward."
But she couldn't forget. She couldn't rid herself of the sensations: the life draining out of her, her fading consciousness, hopelessness choking the air out of her...
All the sensations of... Dying. Death.
In the background, the song on the radio continued, blind to her building panic.
"I can't afford to stand still and wait,
As for the two of us?
Only time will tell…"
