Fire in the Blood

part one of the GTA V 'verse Trevor-centric series do not spray into eyes.

I don't own Trevor (probably for the best), I definitely don't own the lovely sandbox that is the Grand Theft Auto universe, I'm not profiting a cent from this mess, and even the title is taken from the track "Fire in the Blood/Snake Song" from the film Lawless. That said, my ideas and expressions are my own and I'd appreciate if you wouldn't take or repost without asking first. Thanks!

Summary: Evelyn is a bank teller taken hostage in a recent robbery—but that's all done with now, she got out alive, and life goes on. Or so she thought, until a terrifying criminal with a rough voice and too-bright eyes showed up on her doorstep towing a bloodied colleague and informing her that her house is their new safehouse. Soon, her own home becomes her battleground as she tries to keep far enough ahead of Trevor Philips to prevent her entire life from crumbling into ashes. Rated M for violence, language, drug use, a bit of sexy stuff, and—well—Trevor.

One: Bank Heist

Trevor Philips returned to himself and opened his eyes.

He was crouched beside a vehicle, machine gun in hand, and there was a throbbing ache at the side of his face—no, his ear, and as he placed the pain, he got his last memory back, as well as the significant memories leading up to it.

Bank heist in Chumash with Frank and Mikey—the third of its kind since they swore off working together ever again, but funny how things work out. Funny how boredom sets in and you find yourself working second-rate jobs just to stave it off.

Franklin and Michael had been working on the vault, leaving Trevor on crowd control—he excelled there; people tended to be way too frightened of him from the first second they laid eyes on him (ski mask or no ski mask, though all three had gone with the former option for this particular job) to put up much of a fight, and he had a way of discouraging heroes. All was going fine until the police showed up much earlier than expected—three cars, which Trevor thought was probably overkill for a junky little bank like this one. Then again, it was Chumash— nothing ever fucking happened here; the police were probably bored shitless.

Since he was closest the front, Trevor sidled to the door to yell out some vague threat about them having hostages, and apparently his cover wasn't as secure as he thought, because before he could even really get the words out, someone's bullet tore a hole in his mask, inconveniently taking part of his ear with it.

That's when everything went red.

He remembered bits and pieces—got a vague flash of himself screaming something along the lines of them "not respecting proper copper-bank robber procedure," but most of it was gone. He touched his ear and winced. Not too much of it was missing from the feel of it, but it was oozing blood, and it stung like a bitch.

His radio was squalling from where it was hanging at his waist. "T? T! What the hell is going on out there?"

Well, if the guys were still bothering to radio him, he couldn't have been out for too long, so that was good news, at least.

He lifted the radio, keyed it on. "Uhhh. That's a good question." Given that he couldn't hear any gunshots or shouts, he judged that it was at least eighty percent safe to hoist his head up above the head of the car he was crouching behind, so he took a look.

After getting an eyeful, he keyed his radio again. "Yeah, so the cops showed up. I—I handled it," he said, putting on a casually unaffected tone, though handled it was something of an understatement.

There was a second of silence, then Franklin came online: "Trevor, man, Michael's bangin' his head against the safe deposit boxes. I take that to mean you handlin' things ain't necessarily a good thing?"

Trevor swung around, turning his back to the tableau of police officers lying in their own blood in the sandy soil as he flung out his gun hand demonstratively. "Hey, give me some credit, for fuck's sake, all right? We got a stay of execution for what, another two minutes till the rest of the men in blue show up, so might I suggest you guys hurry the fuck up in there?"

He dropped the radio to swing from his waist without waiting for an answer, instead striding inside to check on the hostages. Hopefully none of them had done anything fucking moronic in his brief absence. Personally, he figured you'd have to be one stupid shithead to piss off the man who'd just got done making soup out of six police officers, but there were lots of stupid shitheads out there, as he could personally attest.

Fortunately, this group seemed to have a collective brain between them. He scanned the people cowering on the floor for anyone doing something stupid like making a phone call, then, to re-establish his role as boss of the situation, gnashed out, "So who likes bacon?" and fired a spray of bullets into the ceiling, pulling a gratifying amount of muffled shrieking from the hostages.

"Hey, man, cut that shit out," said Franklin as he and Michael appeared from the back of the bank, carrying the loot in heavy-duty knapsacks.

Michael paused for just a second, taking in the sight of the bloody hole in Trevor's ski mask, then he shook his head. "Handled it, huh?" he repeated skeptically.

Trevor showed his hands. "Oh, well, excuse the fuck outta me, sorry for not being bulletproof!"

"Come on," Michael growled, heading for the doors. "We got about a ninety second window before the real cavalry gets here."

Franklin followed him out, and Trevor took a few steps after them before a thought struck him. He turned abruptly on his booted heel and walked to the exact center of the lobby, then pointed his gun towards one of the ten or so hostages lying flat on the ground. "Eenie."

He swung his gun around clockwise to the next hostage in line. "Meenie." Again. "Miney."

The last movement found him looking down his sights at a skirt that wasn't unduly short, but had certainly ridden up a few inches above where it was supposed to fall at the knee, treating him to the sight of a pair of particularly shapely legs. "Moe," he growled through an unexpected burst of delight, then he was striding over, reaching down and taking hold of the legs' owner by the elbow. "Upsy-daisy, sweetheart," he grunted, hauling her to her high-heeled feet—she stumbled; he tightened his grip on her arm to ensure that she didn't fall over and slow him down. She caught her balance and raised frightened eyes to his.

He was wearing a ski mask, so aside from noting his eye color and that he was, in fact, in possession of a nose and a mouth, she wasn't going to get much information that way.

On the other hand, there was nothing to shield her from his view, and he was pleased to note that the legs weren't writing checks the face couldn't cash. She was a white woman, just an inch or so shorter than he was in her high heels, and he initially clocked her as being in about her early twenties, though maybe he was under-guessing: he was so used to being around prematurely-aged meth heads that her clear, unlined skin probably looked younger to him than she actually was (and a second later he caught a glint of silver in her long brown hair, lending further credence to the older-than-she-looked thing).

It was the eyes that really got him, though: a little bit of green, a little bit of brown—and a whole lotta scared, he thought as they rested unblinkingly on his masked face. Looking into those big ol' innocent eyes, he doubted she'd ever laid a finger on anyone with the intent to harm in her life—which made her perfect for what he had in mind.

The examination of his selection took all of a second. Satisfied, he bent down to pick up the purse lying closest to her hiding spot, slung it over his shoulder, tightened his hold, and started moving toward the exit, hauling her with him and addressing her as she stumbled over her heels again: "The nicer you play this, dollface, the greater the chances of you walking away without a bullet in your head, so don't do anything stupid, okay?"

She said nothing. Come to think of it, she hadn't made a peep the entire time, which was a little unusual for a civilian woman on the wrong side of a gun. Trevor was starting to wonder if he'd taken a fucking mute as his hostage when they burst out of the bank and the noon sunlight blinded him, derailing his train of thought to a more immediate line of inventive cursing.

Franklin was already behind the wheel of the getaway car, and Michael was standing by the shotgun door, waiting. When he saw Trevor, he groaned. "T, what the fuck?"

"T, what the fuck?" Trevor mimicked in an unflatteringly high-pitched imitation of Michael's voice. "You want to have no backup plan when the cops run us down? Shut up and let me deal with it!"

Michael was muttering something, doubtless casting aspersions on Trevor's ability to deal with it, but Trevor tuned him out, opening the back door, shoving his hostage in, and immediately climbing in after her, forcing her to move one seat over or end up with a lapful of bloody bank robber (not that he'd have minded if she'd stayed put). The second Trevor's feet left the ground, Frank was taking off.

Trevor got settled, then glanced over to see that his hostage was automatically buckling her seat belt into place. "Oh, yeah, safety first, probably a good idea," he said mockingly. She had time to shoot him a frightened, uncertain glance before his attention was called away by Michael, who was surveying them in the makeup mirror.

"So, T, since you're dealing with it, answer me this: what's more suspicious than three men in ski masks driving away from a crime scene in broad daylight?"


Michael answered his own question: "Three men in ski masks driving away from a crime scene in broad daylight… with a terrified woman in the backseat. What're we supposed to do, take off the masks and give her a good eyeful to recount in exhaustive detail to the forensic artist later? Or do you suggest we drive past the incoming cop cars like this?"

Trevor had forgotten that little detail, but he wasn't going to let on to Michael that he was anything less than in complete control of this situation. He stalled as he glanced surreptitiously around the car for something that could serve as a blindfold. "Jeeeeezus, enough with the micromanaging! It's like you think I've never taken a hostage before!"

Michael froze, pressed his eyes closed, and then, speaking like a man at the end of his rope and too tired to care, said, "Believe me, T. I know through excruciating experience that you've taken a hostage before."

Trevor was just about to snarl an order for him to leave Patricia out of it when inspiration struck, and he turned abruptly to the girl. "Close your eyes," he barked.

"Oh, sure, that's gonna work," Michael pronounced sarcastically.

"You shut the fuck up!" Trevor commanded as the girl complied, and just for incentive, he put the still-warm barrel of his gun against her head—she flinched back, but neither opened her eyes nor made a sound. "You're gonna want to keep them closed for a second," he said encouragingly, "and no peeking! Or… you know." He poked her with the barrel again, and she released a shaky exhale through her nose, but her eyes remained steadfastly closed.

Assured that she wouldn't dare open those peepers until given the all-clear, Trevor pulled his mask off, turned it backwards, then stretched it over her head—she jumped, reaching up to touch his hand as he tugged it down over her eyes as if she wanted to stop him, but she thought better of it and let her hand fall. Trevor made sure the mask was covering her eyes and nose but that her mouth was free, then he leaned back and nodded smugly at his partners. "All clear, gentlemen."

There was a bit of scornful huffing on Michael's part, but neither man complained out loud about the jury-rigged blindfold as they pulled their own masks off. As soon as his face was clear, Franklin glanced over his shoulder at Trevor, then at Michael, then said, "Man, not to step outta line, but I think you two would benefit from couples' counseling."

"Aw, what?" Michael scoffed, as Trevor simultaneously barked "Hey! You're giving the lady the wrong idea!"

"Hey, I'm just saying—when y'all were like 'hey, let's work together some more,' I was like, 'Hell yeah'—thought you'd've sorted out your issues or whatever, right?" Franklin scoffed. "Man, was I wrong."

"I don't think that's exactly fair," Trevor objected. "We don't fight all the time."

"Yeah," snorted Michael. "Just on days that end with 'y.'"

"And anyway, in my defense, just because M here is a good business partner doesn't mean he's not a backstabbing prick," Trevor said pointedly.

"Oh, yeah," Michael said with a hard little chuckle, "and just because T has a gift for escaping death traps doesn't mean he isn't a hypersensitive, spoiled brat child of a sociopath—"

"Oh, am I? Am I, M?" demanded Trevor, leaning forward into the front seat and raising his voice.

Michael, in turn, pitched his voice to carry over his friend's: "—who holds one hell of a grudge and has severely overestimated his own worth—"

"Oh, that's rich—you wanna talk about overinflated self-worth!" howled Trevor. He was about two seconds away from beating Michael across the head with the butt of his assault rifle, but fortunately, Franklin intervened. Still, it took him a moment to get the two full-grown men to stop squabbling with each other.

"Hey, shut up, y'all, shut up, shut up!"

They finally grew silent, though Trevor drove the heel of his hand hard into the back of Michael's seat and Michael retaliated by jerkily throwing his discarded mask back at Trevor's face. Franklin looked between them in disbelief, eventually deciding that to call them out on their respective childish actions would mire him too deeply in their drama. He just gripped the wheel, sighed, and said, "Look, all I'm saying is that y'all better figure something out, because I am sick and tired of playing mediator for two old white dudes who can't find a way to get along on their own."

Michael threw up his hands but otherwise said nothing, apparently deciding to take the high road… or whatever sissy euphemism he liked to use for backing out of a fight just when it was getting good. Since apparently no one was going to provide him with more fuel, Trevor leaned back into his seat, getting comfortable.

A little too comfortable. This was wrong. He frowned and sat up again. "Hey—where the fuck are the police?"

"Man, I don't even know," Franklin said, glancing at him in the rearview. There was a brief, awkward pause as all three men looked around for evidence of flashing red-and-blue lights, then Franklin said, "You think you killed 'em all?"

"Nah," Trevor said skeptically. "Chumash is small, but it ain't that small. Besides. Listen." They all took another second to take in the sound of sirens, but the noise was distant, nowhere close to the little backroad route they were on.

After another beat of silence, Michael ventured, "You don't think we just… took the exact right roads this time, do you?"

"Since when has that ever happened to us in the history of, well… ever?"

Trevor leaned back again with a smirk. "Hey," he said optimistically, "gotta be a first time for everything, right?"

Michael shifted in his seat. "Just… keep driving. We'll get to the bottom of it eventually."

"Sure. Bottom of the Pacific Ocean, way this is going," muttered Trevor. When neither of his partners deigned to respond to him, he decided he'd better find another way to entertain himself.

His eyes fell on the hostage beside him, then traveled downward to the purse he'd lugged out to the car along with her—he always one for remembering odd details, and he was glad for it now. He could burn at least a few minutes figuring out Doe-Eyes' story. "Let's see what we got here," he rumbled, picking up the bag and rummaging around. He found the wallet pretty quickly; it was a big thing, practically a clutch, and he stretched his long legs across the floor space towards her as he clicked it open—he figured he might as well lounge, since she was all but pressed against the door. If he didn't know for a fact that was the standard reaction of a blinded hostage against the threat of those she couldn't see, it might have hurt his feelings.

The purse belonged to her, all right, as her license confirmed—she was wearing glasses in the picture, slim, black-rimmed things, but it was unmistakably her. He scanned her information (he was right, she was twenty-seven—older than he initially took her for) then glanced up at her. "Evelyn Noble?" he tested.

Her masked face turned towards him—just a little, but the response was obvious to anyone paying attention, which he definitely was. He chuckled and flipped the license around between his fingertips. "What happened to the glasses, Evy? They gave you a kind of sexy librarian vibe."

Michael groaned from the front seat. "Aw, come on, T, would you give it a rest?"

"What?" Trevor demanded, offended.

"Believe it or not, there are situations where it just ain't appropriate to be hitting on a lady," Franklin chimed in.

"You know what? That attitude is exactly why you're single," Trevor pronounced, jabbing a finger at the rearview mirror. "No imagination. Let me give you a little advice—every occasion is an opportunity to meet new people."

"Oh, well, excuse me, dog, but I don't see you celebrating your silver wedding anniversary, you know what I'm saying?"

"That's different," Trevor said, settling back into his seat. "That's by choice."

"Yeah, man. Sure. I still don't think you're gonna get lucky with a girl you just pulled out of a bank at gunpoint."

"I don't know. Why don't we ask Evy? Evy?" Trevor said, turning to the girl. "What do you think?"

She remained still, and he remembered he still wasn't actually certain that she could answer him. "Wait, wait, wait, first things first—you're not a mute, are you?"

There was a brief pause, then, finally, she spoke: "No, I'm not a mute." Her voice was a little lower and a little huskier than her appearance would suggest, features that twinned surprisingly well with her faint southern drawl. It was exactly the kind of voice you wanted to hear first thing in the morning after a marathon in the sack the night before, and Trevor found himself warming at the thought, but he pulled it back. Despite what Michael and Franklin apparently thought of him, he did have some sense of appropriate timing.

(It just didn't usually mesh with everyone else's sense of appropriate timing.)

"And you speak English, right?" he asked instead.

"I'm an American."

Trevor snorted. "Believe me, princess, that don't exactly answer the question."

"Yes, I speak English."

"So what the fuck kinda accent is that?"

Michael and Franklin exchanged quick glances, all but holding their breath. Luckily, their hostage proved smart enough to refrain from getting defensive and turning the question back around on the guy in charge—instead, she answered the question clearly and simply: "Louisiana." She paused, looked like she was going to say something else, and Michael and Franklin both drew breath to stop her, but she simply added, "My accent's not even strong."

"Sure, suuure," Trevor drawled. So—" he shifted sideways, closer to her, putting his arm across the back of the seat behind her and pretending not to notice as she flinched away. "Evy. Would you ever date a bank robber?"

"That ain't exactly the question—" Franklin began to protest.

"Shh!" hissed Trevor violently. "We're starting with the basics. Evy, please. Your thoughts."

She was still and quiet for a moment, then she said, "You have to know there's no way I can actually answer that question."

Trevor was taken-aback. "Oh? Why not?"

"Well…" Her voice shook a little, but she pushed on. "Operating on the assumption that this isn't just some twisted lead-in to an inevitable torture-rape-murder scenario—"

"It's not," Michael and Franklin said, emphatically and in unison.

"What kind of monsters do you take us for?" demanded Trevor in loud, indignant tones.

Evelyn ignored the projected outrage, though her voice sounded a little stronger when she spoke next. "Well, then, you have to know that I'm going to try to curry favor to ensure my own survival and wellbeing. So, yes, sure, I'd date a bank robber—but if you have a brain in your head you know that there's no way to tell if I'm telling you the truth or the answer I think you want to hear."

There was a brief, thoughtful pause following her conclusion, and then Trevor slid back to his own seat, sighing, "Ah, well, at least you're being honest about your dishonesty. Better than certain other people I could name in this car."

Michael's only response was an extended middle finger, Franklin sighed, and Trevor took to going through the rest of Evelyn's purse. It was an idle philosophy he held that you could tell a lot about a woman from the contents of her purse, and it wasn't like he had anything better to do, short of making jabs at Michael. Franklin was reaching the end of his patience there, so the purse it was.

"So, Evy," he said as he sorted through the contents, "what were the unfortunate circumstances that conspired to bring you to that particular bank this afternoon?"

There was a touch of wryness in her tone when she answered. "Well, I sort of work there, so…"

Trevor raised his eyebrows. "No shit. You weren't behind the counter."

"I was supposed to clock in at noon. I got there like two seconds before you guys came in." If her tone was a little bitter, none of the three men could really blame her for it.

"No kiddin'. Of all the shitty luck," Trevor said.

"Yeah, tell me about it," she mumbled.

At that moment, Trevor happened upon something interesting in her purse. Not a vibrator, unfortunately—wouldn't that be fun to discuss—but interesting all the same. "What is this," he muttered, ostensibly to himself but pitched so she could hear, "a fuckin' library?"

She got visibly tense at the question, and Trevor noticed. "Ooh, what, did I strike a nerve? Embarrassed about carrying The Story of Psychology around in your purse? You probably should be; it's fuckin' weird."

In lieu of answering, she said, "Why are you going through my stuff?"

"Well, think of how irresponsible it would be of me to assume you aren't carrying some kind of weapon!" he said, seamlessly shifting into his high horse persona. "I mean, my colleagues here could be endangered! I'm responsible for you, gotta make sure you don't have a tazer stashed away."

"I'm blindfolded," she said bluntly. "I don't even know where my purse is, except for that apparently, you're holding it and going through it." She didn't say now, get your grubby hands out, but it was definitely implied.

"All right, now, take it easy," Trevor said with a half-assed attempt at a soothing tone. She didn't say anything, but she was seething, and he knew it, which made him take particular delight in noisily sifting through the rest of her purse.

Unfortunately, the book was the only thing of real interest (read: the only thing he thought he could use to get a rise out of her). She had a cell phone, a couple of standard, day-to-day tubes of makeup, a pair of sunglasses, and a little golden plastic spray bottle, which he promptly spritzed on his throat: some kind of citrus scent; it was nice. And that was it. With a grunt, he shoved everything back in and then dropped the purse in her lap. "Not much in there. Aren't you ladies supposed to carry your lives around in your purses?"

"I don't know, maybe. Hold on, let me check with the hivemind," she deadpanned. Franklin and Michael chuckled, but Trevor was not amused.

He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then asked, "Oh, you think that's funny? Guy tries to make conversation, y'know, reduce the tension a little bit, and you make fun of him?"

Wisely, Evelyn stayed silent, and Franklin, ever the peacemaker, attempted to defuse things: "Hey, man, listen—if you get got, don't be a sore loser about it. Personally I thought it was pretty funny."

"Oh, that's funny to you?" Trevor demanded cuttingly. "You think me being accused of being sexist is funny?"

"Trevor," said Michael warningly, "calm down."

"DON'T. FUCKING TELL ME TO CALM DOWN," Trevor roared, his gravelly voice suddenly deafening inside of the small confines of the car.

Franklin and Michael lapsed into a second of startled silence, and that's when the hostage moved, angling her knees in the direction of Trevor's voice and speaking up, her voice low but clear. "Hey, listen, I'm sorry, okay? I really am. I don't think you're sexist; I don't even know you. It was a dumb throwaway joke and I shouldn't have made it."

A tense silence immediately followed the brief apology, everyone waiting to see how Trevor would respond to this. For his part, he watched her suspiciously, sorting through the apology to find any evidence of insincerity or mocking. When he was unable, he relaxed, just minutely, and leaned back into his seat. "See there?" he asked casually. "A little bit of common fucking courtesy, that's all that I ask."

The wave of relief that rippled through the car was palpable. No one wanted to be trapped in a vehicle in the middle of a Trevor tantrum—not even Evelyn, who had the pleasure of being unaware of what, exactly, he was capable of doing in the grips of a rage.

Contented by the apology, he took to staring out of the window, and everyone else, sensing now that the peace was fragile and not helped along by potentially explosive chatter, stayed quiet.

The silence stretched out for maybe fifteen more minutes before Michael sighed and looked over at Franklin. Franklin glanced back at him and shrugged, and Michael turned around and looked back at Trevor.

"All right, gentlemen, just to recap," he said tiredly, "it's been about forty-five minutes since we saw a police car, and that was all the way back at the bank, so I think we pulled off the impossible and actually managed to evade the cops this time around."

"Really interesting, Michael," Trevor said, still looking out the window. "Is there a point to this?"

"Yes, and my point is that a hostage is a little superfluous at this point, don't you think?"

Trevor finally looked at him, but it was mostly so that Michael could see the mockingly-shocked look on his face as he pressed a hand to his chest. "Oh, that's cold, man. All right, but I'm not gonna be the one to shoot her."

"What?" Evelyn demanded, and Michael swung quickly into damage control mode.

"No one's gonna shoot you," he said loudly, then glared at Trevor. "T, think you can go for two seconds without scaring this poor girl? I mean, I understand that's like asking you to go without breathing, but—"

"I was just kidding," Trevor said scornfully, then looked at Evelyn. "What do you think, Evy? Want to hang out with a couple of bank robbers for a little longer, or you ready for the ride to end?"

"Um. It'd be okay if you just dropped me off now," she said carefully, and Trevor snorted.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call the art of understatement," he pronounced, glancing around and spotting a shoulder on the relatively isolated road they were driving down that looked about right. "Hey, pull over up here."

Franklin obliged, and as the car came to a stop, Trevor scooted over to Evelyn, taking her by the shoulders. "I'm putting you out of the car and taking my mask back. You keep your fucking back turned, eyes closed, and the phone in the purse until you can't hear the car anymore or else you're getting a bullet in your brains, and I'm a crack fuckin' shot from a moving vehicle, you understand me?"

"Perfectly," she said, her voice only shaking a little bit as she gathered up her purse and held it tightly in both hands, as if he might try to take it from her. He had no intention of doing so; he'd already pocketed the little bit of cash in her wallet and nothing else particularly interested him.

As he leaned over her to open the door, she hesitated, then asked, "Are you wearing my perfume?"

"What, you think only girls like to smell pretty?" he asked, giving her shoulders a push. "Come on, you're wearing out your welcome, let's go."

She climbed out of the car, and he followed—he didn't necessarily need to escort her, but he enjoyed holding her by the arms, staying just a hair behind her as he walked her a few steps off the road. She was shaking, probably terrified that he was just taking her away to murder her in cold blood, but her steps were steady, at least. Once they were safely clear of any traffic that might happen along, he rubbed the sides of her arms encouragingly and asked, "Eyes closed?"

"Glued shut."

"Ooh, trust me, you don't want to do that. Makes a hell of a mess," he said, and drew the mask off of her head. It had the effect of rumpling her hair, so helpfully, he reached over to smooth it down, saying as he did, "Well, Evy, you've been a pretty decent hostage, all things considered. No screaming, no begging, no biting or fucking scratching, though between you and me, biting and scratching ain't so bad under the right circumstances."

She said nothing, but he didn't blame her. He reached forward, gathering the hair that had spilled over in front of her shoulders and pulled it back, running his fingers through it and enjoying the silkiness of the strands on his rough fingertips before letting go and patting her on the shoulders. "Next time, then. Remember—don't move till the car's gone."

"Roger that," she muttered, and he backed away to the car, keeping his eyes on her as he slid back inside.

"Go on, Frank," he said, and as Franklin put the car in gear and drove off, Trevor turned to keep his eyes on the girl. She didn't so much as move for as long as he could see her, then the car took a bend and she was lost from view.