Back from the cave where writers go when our imagination turns off. Thanks for the reviews that remind me people still care about this story!

Chapter 25

I sat in the back of Luke's Chevrolet Tahoe, fighting my lethargy with anger. Tension poured from Luke and me, squeezing the air around us. Jace sat beside me, oblivious to everything but his sorrow.

Hodge was pronounced dead at the scene.

Since that moment, Jace closed himself off, unwilling to be comforted. I wanted to reach him, to break through the barriers I'd only seen come down on occasion. I was familiar with the road of loss, but I knew experiences weren't universal. From his reaction in the forest, it was obvious that he blamed himself. A nasty emotion I flirted with after the seeds Valentine planted grew, if only you were a better child. I wondered if similar if onlys ran through Jace's mind. And while I wouldn't be able to absolve him, I knew I could at least lead him to a resolution.

But that won't be possible if Detective Garroway got his way.

I glared at the back of Luke's seat, as a new wave of anger crashes into me. When Simon told me about Luke's plan to separate me from Jace, I immediately demanded his attention:

"How could you?" I asked, approaching Luke as he conferred with one of the EMTs. He excused himself from the conversation and guided us to a spot where no one would hear me yell at him.

"Clary, I know what you're going to say," he started. His eyes were rimmed with shadows. I knew he wasn't getting enough sleep. But anger triumphed empathy.

"So you're a psychic now? Is this side gig the reason you've been a shitty detective?"

His eyes widened briefly, soon followed by warranted irritation.

"Well you've done nothing but make my job difficult since this case first started. I thought you were smarter than this."

His words stung like a slap in the face. I knew I deserved them. I broke every rule Luke made, and continually found myself in situations where I need to be rescued. I recognized my shitty behavior, and I told myself I would apologize to Luke one day, but today he wouldn't get the satisfaction. Because today Luke was wrong.

"How could you think separating us is the best solution?" I asked. "That's double the manpower needed to protect us."

"I'm not too concerned about abusing department resources," he said dryly. He ran his hand over his face. "My priority is keeping you safe."

"Jace is in danger," I said, my tone laced with restraint.

"No, Clary. You're the one who's in danger."

"Hodge said—"

Luke held up his hand.

"I don't care what Mr. Starkweather said under delirium. The fact is Clary, I need to get you somewhere safe."

As I began to protest, Luke interrupted saying he would show me why he's certain I've been the target this whole time. Luke knew I wasn't scared. I was too far past it. He knew I could handle the truth.

Which is how Jace and I found ourselves at a storage facility twenty minutes outside the city. Simon stayed behind to monitor the scene for tampering—Luke only trusted Simon to do the job. Silence hung in the air as we passed storage unit after storage unit, orange doors bleeding into one another. We stopped in front of one of the units, and Luke entered the combination into the electronic keypad. His door was also reinforced with a padlock. The door opened shrilly, protesting the quick movement. Darkness trickled out, only held at bay by the flimsy bulb in the hallway. Luke went in first and within a few moments two work lights illuminated the space.

My father's face looked back at me.

"Holy shit," Jace whispered, awe temporarily eclipsing his grief.

I tore my gaze from the newspaper clipping displaying his algorithmic eyes and took in the rest of the space. The walls were littered with clippings detailing organized crime. Red string connected a series of clippings. Post-it-notes dotted the walls, making claims and connections. Boxes of case files were used as makeshift furniture for more manila folders. There was a table in the middle of the room filled with a variety of pens, string, paper, and empty cans of beer and coffee. A futon was squished into the corner of the room covered in newspaper like a makeshift blanket. Everything I knew about my father was in this room. As well as things I never wanted to know about.

"What is this place?" I asked, turning to Luke. His frustration emanated from him and stuck to the walls of the unit. Success did not breed here.

"It's how I will take down Valentine," he said, quietly.

This room was a shrine, a museum of evil that warned people just how cruel one man could be.

Two dead in suspected mafia explosion.

Witness mysteriously disappears before trial.

Professional murder toughest kind for cops.

Is there a new Capone?

Article after article detailing the horrors my father wrought, the frustration of the police force, and the media's fear that nothing this crime wave would never end. Unlike the crime bosses of the past, Valentine's reign of crime wasn't tied to any one region of the city. His networks intertwined like roots, stretching to destinations all over the country. It made it more difficult to avoid him. He was everywhere.

I shuffled through manila folders, glancing over details of cases Luke wasn't assigned to. Pages and pages of haphazardly photocopied crime looked back at me, giving me the impression Luke wasn't supposed to have these.

Luke grabbed a large bundle of files held together by a struggling rubber band. He dropped them on the table with a resounding thud, scattering pens and loose paper. "Anyone who is familiar with Valentine's inner workings will tell you: it's either cash or a bullet. And for me, the choice was obvious."

This was news to me, and I found my sleep-deprived mind had trouble processing it.

"Wait a minute, are you saying you worked for Valentine?"

Luke never talked much about his past. And as someone who is familiar with hiding their skeletons away, I never thought it odd. But I had incorrectly attributed his silence to fear. But unlike me, he didn't fear his past. He was ashamed of it.

"But you're a cop?" Jace pointed out, not quite having grasped the enormity of Luke's admission. I couldn't help the jealousy that snuck through me. Jace was never forced to watch evil corrupt goodness. He still believed the privileged story that good triumphs over evil—that the people who claim to protect the virtuous are motivated by altruism and never strayed by personal gain. I could see Jace's mind working—the brain searching through scenarios and anecdotes both fictional and real to find an explanation that disqualifies his previously-held assumptions. When he found an explanation that fit, fear caught in his eyes. "Valentine has cops working for him," he said, testing out the new fact.

The statement fell on unsurprised ears. Luke warned me that Valentine had cops on his payroll. But he never told me how he knew that information. I'd always assumed Luke's investigations led to this discovery. The trust I had in Luke pulled tightly, threatening to snap. The deceit slowly weaved its way through my fond memories of Luke, shifting and changing the man I thought I knew. A familiar lashing of pain went through me as the betrayal reached my mind. It sang litanies of you can't trust anyone, you have no one, you'll never escape Valentine.

"When did this happen?" I asked. My voice sounded robotic, even to my own ears. I needed optimism, some part of the story that I could cling to, that I could hang my hope on. Because if Valentine was capable of corrupting someone like Luke, how would I ever survive?

"Years ago," Luke said, with a sigh. "I grew up in a rough neighborhood. But if you had a good crew, you'd find yourself on the winning side of fights. Everyone knew Big Val—I expect you didn't know your father was a junior?"

I shook my head. It was weird to hear about a relative you never knew. But my what-if questions would never come to fruition. I had too often imagined my life through fantasy-colored glasses. What if my mother never died? What if my father loved me? What if I had a normal childhood in a middle-class suburbia with Sunday dinners with the grandparents and father-daughter dances at schools that were both embarrassing and tender? I could imagine these scenarios all I wanted. But I still spent my middle school and high school years flinching every time a door slammed. And during the eighth grade father-daughters' dance, I spent the evening fetching my father's friends beers until their roving hands became talons, hooking into clothes, pulling me close into clouds of sweet-sour breath and hungry desire.

So naturally, I had no inclination to think about my grandfather.

"It doesn't matter anyway, I suppose. The old bastard is dead, and you're better off for it, Clary. When he was alive, he was a tyrannical brute—the kind of son-of-a-bitch who forced people into submission. He had control over a couple blocks radius—so not the largest operation—but he ran a successful campaign of fear. If you were late on a payment or skimped on what you owed, he'd carve a heart into your arm, branding you with a reminder that he let you live."

Luke leaned against the wall of interconnected newspaper. His arms were crossed, and he looked above him at a large pipe that housed a spider taking advantage of the influx of bugs to the work light.

"My mom always warned me and Amatis to stay away from that crowd."

I stifled a gasp. Luke rarely mentioned his sister. I found out she existed by accident. The memory isn't associated with any age. My life wasn't gauged by yearly milestones—I didn't celebrate my birthday. There was a clear line in the sand, reminding me of when my life was good and full of love and hope and when it all fell away. This memory existed BMD (before mom died).

We were in my mom's studio. At this point I garnered enough trust enough to use Jocelyn's expensive oils. I was washing them off in the ensuite bathroom—paint cans currently took up residence in the kitchen sink—when Luke stormed in. I stayed hidden because I thought it was Valentine. He rarely came to her studio, but when he did, he was often annoyed that I was with her—as if I was trying to undermine his status in her life, as if her love for me could somehow eclipse her love for him. I didn't recognize this at the time, of course. I just stayed out of his way.

When I heard soft voices, I knew it wasn't Valentine. Valentine spoke aggressively. He was sharp-witted, and his syntax took refuge in insults. If he wasn't pointing out how you were doing something wrong, then he was associating your mistake with a flaw in your character. However, something stopped me from revealing my hiding spot. And when I peeked through the crack in the door, I saw Luke's tears.

"He gave them to her, Jocelyn. Amatis would still be alive today if—if—" Luke's voice dissolved into sobs. My mother held him in an embrace and rubbed soothing circles on his back. She towards the bathroom, and I caught her eye. She gave a quick shake of her head, instructing me to remain hidden for now. This was a private moment. She returned to Luke, shushing him. She whispered something in his ear, which caused another sob. Some time passed like that: Jocelyn holding Luke and comforting him. But something she said sparked a change. Luke pulled away, his face marked with anger.

"You always defend him. Even if the facts are right under your nose."

My mother's expression turned stony, marring her usual beauty. The sudden shift in demeanors—the comfort at which the two could switch between sadness and anger—told me that this wasn't the first time they've had this fight.

"Facts? You're basing your accusations on a rumor. The police ruled Amatis's death an overdose."

"Oh and how many dirty cops are on Valentine's payroll?" Luke asked, sarcastically. My mother raised her eyebrow.

"I only know of one," she said, coolly. I couldn't see Luke's expression, but his body stiffened.

"I'll prove it was him," he said. He walked back the way he came. As he opened the door, he turned back and said, "And then you won't be able to look away from the truth." The door shut quietly as he left.

"Did Luke leave?" I asked, carrying my clean paint brushes back to the easel I was painting differently-shaped noses on. I tried to appear nonchalant, but I was an eager kid, desperate to feel like an adult. If I could go back in time, I'd kick my little ass for ever wishing to grow up.

My mother gave me a forced smile, but the worry remained engraved on her face.

"Love makes us do crazy things," was her only explanation.

I remember nodding along gravely, as if I understood the platitude. I always assumed she was referring to Luke's anger—that his distress and outburst was caused by love. It wasn't until I learned about Valentine's corrupt nature that I realized she could have been referring to herself.

"Amatis had a penchant for breaking rules—she was far too free-spirited." Luke's face softened as he talked about his sister. A smile picked up the corner of his mouth. I saw Jace glance at me, but his expression didn't betray his thoughts. "She was an easy target," Luke said, the somber note hung in the air, erasing the previous joy of speaking his sister into existence.

"I don't blame her," Luke said, but I wasn't sure he was even talking to us anymore. "Never, not once. She was always going to be another statistic, another drug abuser who needed help but circumstance gave her temporarily relief. And when the relief wasn't enough—it could never be enough—she broke. And in her wake, she left a lot of unpaid dealers who worked for Big Val. And someone had to pay."

Luke pulled up his sleeve, revealing a pale scar on his shoulder. In the right lighting you could make out the crude heart shape. Luke had previously revealed that he got the scar while working. My cheeks flamed at my own gullibility. Deception was an occupational hazard.

"I was lucky that all I got was this brand," Luke said, his eyes turning stony as he recalled the past trauma to the front of his mind. "If Valentine hadn't placated his father, saying I could be useful, I wouldn't be here right now. But maybe that would have been for the better."

"Luke, how could you say that?" I whispered, familiar with the sentiment and horrified that it was being acknowledged.

"Valentine breeds an unforgiving atmosphere. Either you submit or become a predator yourself. Regardless, you become the monster Valentine needs you to be."

"Which one did you become?" Jace asked, voicing my thoughts.

"I became the worst version of myself...I'm so sorry, Clary. You have every right to be angry," Luke said.

I wasn't angry. Or at least my numb body couldn't process the emotion. The stinging betrayal felt like a paper cut to the newest revelation: Valentine was going to win. I could see it now, as clear as could be. The odds were always stacked in his favor—he made it that way. He could corrupt anyone—Luke was proof of that. Fate's hand was promised to Valentine, and he could wield her however he pleased. He would find me. No matter how far I ran or how well I hid, I would eventually be his to control.

I found myself glancing at Jace, who met my gaze. He tried to hide his fear, but the night's events chafed away his usual composure. My fear was just as palpable. Silent communication passed between us as it became apparent how unmatched our opponent was and just how slight are chance for survival was.

"It still might not be Valentine," Jace tried, hoping to pump the air around us with optimism. But this did little to placate my despair. Even if it wasn't Valentine now, he would come for me later. Our fates were intertwined. On some level I always knew this, but I had blindly believed that I could fight it. When I made the decision to leave all those years ago, I thought I was making my own destiny—I could forge a life of happiness even if it wasn't meant to be mine. I was fooling myself then, allowing myself to be swept into the fairy tale that I deserved freedom and happiness.

But Jace.

I could still save Jace.

"I won't go, Luke."

Luke's face broke. He gestured to the room around him.

"Clary... I showed you all of this — I need you to realize what's at stake."

I realized what Luke gave up to show me this. He completely obliterated our relationship, the belief instilled in me long ago that Luke withheld the law, that his moral compass never wavered. But I didn't so much care about his betrayal. It seemed par to the course of what I've come to expect of people in Valentine's orbit.

"I won't leave, Jace."

It was a declaration. Something stronger than 'I love you.' Because in that moment I knew how little time I had left and exactly what I would do with my remaining freedom.

"What're you talking about?" Jace asked. I didn't want Jace to know. My vulnerability could spread so thin. I desperately wished Luke wouldn't elaborate, that he would bow under my need for discretion.

"Fine. We'll work something out."

I thanked Luke silently. The look between held more than gratitude. We accepted each other. All the cards were on the table, and we could still look at one another. We weren't that different. Valentine did and will forever control our destinies — will force us to embrace the darkest parts of ourselves. But even in the darkness, we found each other, bound by the desire to be good, the desire to be more than Valentine ever thought we could be.

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