Guilt: n. a feeling of responsibility or remorse for some offense, crime, wrong, etc., whether real or imagined.

His body was still on the pavement. They'd drawn chalk around him and put a sheet over him. They'd even put up the yellow police line tape. But they hadn't moved the body. They were calling it a suicide. The news was saying he was so racked with guilt over his latest murder that he jumped off the grain mill.

Sasha didn't believe that. Despite what all the eye witness accounts said, Sasha could never believe that Charles would kill himself. After all, he was going to Holland. And he'd told her the night he'd murdered her son-of-a-bitch stepfather that he loved Larry. He wouldn't jump and leave Larry to fend for himself. She felt in her gut that the creepy, sleazy Fed that stopped by her place had something to do with Charles's death. How could she feel otherwise?

He'd been a sweet guy. She'd known almost right away that he wasn't entirely right in the head, but she'd never felt threatened by him. Surprisingly, she'd felt safe and secure with him. It was a feeling she wasn't accustomed to. Even sometimes with Matt she didn't feel safe, not like she had with Charles. He'd promised to take her to Holland. He even told her that she should tell the police the truth: that he murdered her stepfather. And she promised to keep him safe. She swore she wouldn't tell anyone where he was.

The memory returned to her as she stood with the yellow tape pressed against her stomach, her body straining toward the corpse, but not daring to actually cross the line police had set up. The tears stung her eyes and she felt another wave of nausea hit her. He didn't deserve to die like that and he certainly didn't deserve to just lie on the cement. He was a person, a good person, and he deserved a real funeral. He deserved so much more than this.

Sasha knew she couldn't do anything. If she acted as though he were her friend, as though they had a bond, then her stepfather's case would be reopened and she would be facing jail time. As much as she wanted to give Charles everything he deserved, to set things right and repay him, she couldn't. She was too scared. Instead, she was drawn to this crime scene in the middle of the night to pay her respects. She knew Matt was a few feet behind her and she knew that he didn't understand, but she didn't care.

"I'm so sorry, Charlie. I shouldn't have told. I got scared. I didn't feel like I had a choice. But I shouldn't have told."

Her voice was soft and strained and the moment she began talking, the tears forced their way past her eyelids and started their journey down the planes of her face. She swiped at her face, but knew that it was pointless. She'd been holding these tears in for hours, since she'd first heard of his death.

Matt moved behind her, stepping in closer. She could hear the rustle of the grass beneath his feet. She could almost make out the hesitancy in his step. In all the years that they'd known each other, Sasha had only cried twice, and never like this. It wasn't easy to get past the walls that she'd built up around her. It wasn't easy to make her care for anyone but herself. He was nervous and unsure of what she was feeling now; this was unfamiliar territory and he wasn't sure he wanted to enter it.

Still, he had a good heart. Sometimes he drank too much, a quality he knew Sasha hated about him. He knew that, eventually, it'd drive her away and maybe a part of him wanted that. Maybe a part of him wanted a reason to be the victim instead of the savior. The majority of him wanted this broken down girl to smile at him again. Everything in his conscious mind wanted Sasha to be happy. Hadn't he spent the majority of his adult life trying to rescue her, to give her everything she deserved? He didn't know how to do that now. He didn't know how to tell her that the guilt wasn't hers.

His arm fell around her shoulders clumsily and he pulled her against his side. Sasha let her body mold against his, but her gaze refused to leave the black sheet that clung to Charles's body. Matt stayed quietly by her side, but she knew he expected her to say something. Slowly, she began to speak. Her tone didn't change, it remained soft and terse, barely above a whisper, but she knew he could hear her.

"He would have been happy in Holland."

Matt held his tongue. He wanted so badly to tell Sasha that Patoshik never would have made it to Holland on a raft like the one he was feebly putting together, or that Patoshik was a psychopath who shouldn't be romanticized because he did a bad thing that happened to help Sasha out. But he knew that she wouldn't pay any attention to his words. If she happened to, she wouldn't like anything he said. It was better to stay silent.

It had occurred to Matt twice before that killing Sasha's stepfather was the right thing to do. It wasn't right to let the bastard drink himself into a stupor and take out his frustrations on Sasha. Going to the police hadn't helped. It wasn't illegal to drink; a man could drink as much as he wanted, as often as he wanted. It was illegal to wail on his stepdaughter the way he did, but no one had believed the two of them when they'd tried to tell the truth. Twice, when Sasha had shown up at his house with a swollen face and covered in bruises, Matt had weighed the options. He never could step over that line, though. Common sense and the belief that he could protect Sasha kept him from taking her old man out of the game. So why did it horrify him so much that someone else had done it?

All her life, Sasha had confided her secrets in Matt, and only Matt. They'd decided to be friends in first grade, when Sasha kicked a boy in the shins for bullying Matt. And since then, they'd been near inseparable. In the early years, she'd protected him. But as he got older, he realized more and more that Sasha wasn't nearly as tough as she pretended to be. He saw who she really was; he knew all her secrets. And he was determined to protect her, from everyone and everything, forever. But he hadn't protected her from Graham. Patoshik had. And Matt hadn't taken her away from this God forsaken town. Patoshik had promised to. And now that Patoshik was dead, he couldn't let Sasha down the way so many other men had. He'd be up on her pedestal for the rest of her life. Matt had been replaced and he knew it.

The wind picked up speed and whipped Sasha's hair into her face. She felt her eyes stinging, as the blonde strands slapped at them, but she didn't lift a hand to block the blows. A chill raced down her spine and goose bumps rose on her flesh. In her mind's eye, Sasha saw herself crossing the police line, lifting the sheet and sliding beneath it. She saw herself pressing her body close to Charles's and letting the sheet fall over her. She closed her eyes against the image and tried to steel herself against the compulsion to press her mouth against his cold lips. Maybe the police missed something. Maybe they didn't try hard enough. Maybe if she tried, she could breathe the life back into him.

"Grief can do crazy things to a person," her mother had explained to her when she'd married Graham six months after Sasha's father's death. The words came back to her, filling her head and ringing in her ears. Some part of her conscious mind was still listening, was still aware of what was going on around her. Some part of her conscious mind was still sane, rational and reasonable. It was what kept her on this side of the police tape. It was what kept her in Matt's arms. It was what was telling her now that her grief could make her crazy.

She pulled away from Matt, lifting her arms and crossing them over her chest as she pivoted on her toes and turned away from the crime scene. She hadn't seen enough to appease her inner demons, but she knew she couldn't stay. She took long, quick strides to put distance between Charles and herself and she could hear Matt following her. She knew he could keep up, he was keeping his distance from her as well. He was scared.

He let her walk alone for a few minutes before he caught up with her, wrapping an arm around her waist and dropping a kiss to the top of her head. "Let me walk you home," he said sweetly, in the voice he used when she was upset.

Sasha knew what would happen if he walked her home. He'd come inside and kiss her. His hands would grope and pull at her and he'd beg to be inside her. She'd feel the hardness of him against her leg and she'd fight back the repulsion, tell herself that he loved her and she loved him and this was natural. She'd tell herself she could do it again. And when he was laboring over her, she'd picture Charles's face and it'd be enough to get her through.

"No," she said simply, pushing at his chest and walking away before he could protest too much. She didn't look back. She didn't think she could stand to see the way he'd look deflated and hurt. Abandoned would probably be a better word for it. She was being selfish again. She wanted to love someone else, or be someone else. He didn't understand and he wouldn't. It was better this way.

She hurried the rest of the way back to her house, her head down and her arms wrapped around herself. She was strong enough to get by on her own now. She'd use Charles's memory to survive. She'd be thankful for the life he'd given her. And she'd use her guilt to make sure she didn't make anyone else sacrifice for her. Larry was waiting on the steps of the porch for her. It was then that she realized she wouldn't have to be alone. She'd have Larry, this little piece that Charles had left behind, to help her out. He'd protect her and keep her company, just as he'd protected Charles and kept him company. For the first time since Charles Patoshik had expired, Sasha felt grateful and hopeful, instead of guilty and determined.