𝐶𝐿𝑂𝐴𝐾 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝐷𝐴𝐺𝐺𝐸𝑅 | 𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐆𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐒 [DISCONTINUED]

𝟑𝟗 | 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒

"𝐼𝑓 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑤𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑."
—𝑀𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝐿𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦

𝒟.

𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄, Diego would've liked to imagine that his hands would be wrapped around Harold Jenkins' neck while he watched the life leave his eyes. Instead, he was pacing inside a cage-like cell—one which had nothing except a stone bench which he never bothered to try out.

It was long past morning. Who knows what could've happened by now? Did Natalia and Allison manage to find Jenkins' grandmother's house? Were Jenkins and Vanya even there?

Diego clenched his fists. He hated not knowing what was going on.

And out of all the times he had been arrested, this was the time he really didn't deserve it. Yes, his prints were all over Patch and the crime scene, but it was all a misunderstanding—and he was absolutely sure the police would not give two shits about his excuses.

He scanned the room for about the thousandth time. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to look at—all that the room had to show off were dusty windows and fly-filled spider webs.

The door opened, a sound new to Diego's tired ears. Beaman walked in, and the grim expression on his face didn't change in the slightest as he walked to the cell.

Diego knew that pleading would make him look like an even bigger idiot. Still, he wanted to take the chance, so he gripped the metal bars. "You gotta get me out of here, bro."

"I can't. They're transferring you upstate this afternoon."

"I didn't kill Patch," Diego implored.

"I know." Beaman sighed, and he rolled his eyes as he jerked his thumb towards the door. "Your girlfriend's out there, arguing with every single officer she can."

Pride filled Diego's chest, and, with his chest a little puffed out, he smugly corrected, "Fiancée."

"Sorry." Beaman rolled his eyes again. "Your fiancée is raising hell in the bullpen and making my morning difficult."

"Seeing that you've got the wrong guy, hell deserves to be raised."

"I'm not the guy you gotta convince."

Pride was immediately replaced by anger. He grabbed Beaman's jacket collar as he hissed, "That's bullshit, you know that."

Beaman raised his eyebrows as he looked down at his collar, which Diego was gripping. Taking the hint, Diego released his jacket and took a breath to collect himself.

"You were there, Diego. At the motel." Beaman sighed. "And there's the . . . contentious history you two had."

Diego's eyebrows furrowed. He had considered their arguments witty, maybe even a little feisty, but never contentious. "Did he say that?"

"What?"

"Did he use that word?" Diego asked, a little more insistently. "'Contentious'?"

"What the hell does it matter?"

"It matters to me." Diego took Beaman's pause to his advantage, and he raised his eyebrows. "Answer the question."

Beaman sighed, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. Diego could see him breaking—Beaman always broke in the end—and finally, he looked back at Diego.

"It's my word." He scoffed. "He put up with a lot of your shit. I never understood it."

"Maybe it had something to do with our . . . contentious relationship."