Teen Wolf Fic: Absolution (2/2)

[welfycat]

Part One



The following five days were quiet, at least to anyone watching from the outside. He worked, patrolled, gave a safety lecture at the Beacon Hills Elementary School, and even managed to sit down for a few meals with his son. Each time he thought about asking Stiles what was going on, but every time they were alone Stiles talked nearly nonstop about school or lacrosse, or peppered him with questions about a case, and he couldn't make himself interrupt. 'He doesn't need to know', in Stiles' voice, constantly echoed in his mind, and he was brought back to the few weeks leading up to the massacre at the Sheriff's Department and how Stiles hadn't even been able to look him in the eye by the end.

He had written out the series of events, as described by Ashley Cook, and lined them up with the version that Scott had given him. Of course, Scott was working from what he'd been told by Matt, but all the same, from the perspective of a Sheriff and not of a father he was forced to admit that her version seemed more likely. Which left him with the dilemma if Stiles and Scott actually knew this, and had lied to him, or if Matt had simply lied to Scott. But if that was the case, how was that related to whatever secret the boys were keeping? Assuming it was related at all.

On Tuesday, after finishing working a double, he was just leaving his home office when he heard the front door open and shut.

"I'm just going to grab a quick shower and a change of clothes, then we can go," Stiles called. "Give me ten minutes."

"I don't know why you don't just shower in the locker rooms," Scott said. "We're going to be late."

"Like you care about being late," Stiles replied, his voice growing distant with the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

The Sheriff stepped into the hallway and found Scott standing by himself, his gaze focused on his phone and his thumbs working over the tiny keypad. His lacrosse stick was cradled in the crook of his arm, the end resting against the floor, and his hair was damp.

"Hey, Mr. Stilinski," Scott said, looking up from his phone and then putting it in his pocket.

"Scott," he replied, glancing up at the squeal of the pipes as hot water was pumped upstairs. "Do you have a minute?"

Scott looked worried for just a moment before he smiled, the same smile he gave every time Stiles and Scott were about to get into trouble over whatever dumb stunt they'd pulled this time. He propped his lacrosse stick up in the corner and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Sure? Me and Stiles are going to go meet up with some of the team in a bit, though. If that's okay?"

"That's fine," he said, actually glad that Stiles and Scott had finally connected with their teammates and were hanging out with more than just each other. "Why don't we step into my office," he said, leading the way without waiting for a response from Scott. A minute later they were seated and now Scott was twisting his lips, obviously trying to figure out what they'd done in order to get called into the Sheriff's office.

"Scott," he said, pausing because he knew he was reopening old wounds for Scott just by asking this. Matt had been a teammate to them, possibly even a friend, and Scott had been shot during the attack. Even if it had turned out to be a graze, Scott had still been hurt and been forced to beg for his mother's life. "Scott, I wanted to ask you something about that night at the Sheriff's Department."

From Scott's suddenly guarded expression it was clear he knew exactly what night he was talking about. "What about it?" Scott asked.

"After everything was over, you told me that Matt had said some things about a party that happened at the Lahey house in 2006?" he asked, wanting to absolutely make sure they were on the same page.

Scott nodded. "Yeah. He said that's why he went after the people that he did, like Mr. Lahey."

The Sheriff nodded encouragingly. "Could you tell me again what Matt said happened? Any specific details you remember would be helpful."

"Why are you asking?" Scott said after a long moment of silence. "There can't be a trial, because Matt's dead. Right?"

"I just have to tie up a few loose ends in the case," he said, and it was the truth. Maybe it was wrong to press Scott to remember that night for no other reason than to satisfy his need to settle this inconsistency; actually, it undoubtably was. But it felt like if he could answer this question then it would put his worries to rest that something else was wrong and just waiting to break free and unleash devastation on Beacon Hills. Maybe the next time he and Stiles and the McCalls wouldn't be so lucky.

Scott pressed his lips together and looked away. "Matt said that he'd been there to visit Isaac, to trade comic books, and that the swim team was having a party. And Isaac's brother threw him in the pool, but Matt couldn't swim and he drowned. Mr. Lahey pulled Matt out and yelled at him that he wasn't allowed to tell anyone because Mr. Lahey was letting the swim team drink," Scott reiterated dutifully. "That's pretty much all he said about it."

That was essentially what Scott had told him before, though with less detail this time. "Matt said that Camden threw him in the pool? Specifically?" he asked, frowning when Scott jolted a little when he said 'Camden'.

"Yeah, I think so," Scott said, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.

"And Matt said that he couldn't swim?" he asked, trying to discern how much of Scott's fidgeting was coming from remembering that night and how much could possibly be Scott trying to evade a direct answer.

"Yeah. I think he was afraid of the water. Matt fell in the pool at Lydia's house, at her birthday party, and he freaked out," Scott said, shrugging as he looked up at the Sheriff. "He was freaked out at the Sheriff's Department too. Even though he was holding the gun, he was crying and it was like he didn't even realize it."

He took in Scott's tight frown and breathed out slowly. It was sometimes hard to remember that Matt had been a classmate of Scott and Stiles', that they had known him on the lacrosse field and had gone to school with him for years. That, in a way, this was a betrayal to Scott and Stiles when to him it had been an outright attack by someone who was dangerous and irrational. He took out a picture from his file, this one of Stiles, Scott, Isaac, and Matt - he'd gone back to the photo album to take it out after he'd returned from talking with Ashley Cook. He pushed it across the desk and watched as Scott leaned forward to look at it. "Do you remember that Matt was on the elementary swim team with you and Stiles when you were kids?" he asked.

Scott picked up the picture, his brow furrowing as he stared at it. When he set it back down his eyes were oddly blank. "I guess so," he said. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"Which would mean that Matt should know how to swim," he insisted.

Scott looked down, his hands now curled into fists on his lap. "I guess. I don't know. That's just what Matt told me. Maybe he forgot how to swim?" Scott suggested, and then when the Sheriff raised his eyebrows, he added, "or maybe he panicked? Maybe he lied."

"Maybe," he allowed, watching Scott's shuttered expression. This wasn't at all like the Scott he was used to seeing. Scott was a little more reserved than Stiles, true, but in the past he'd usually been able to tell what Scott was thinking just from watching for a few seconds. Right now he hadn't the slightest idea and that was a little unnerving. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," Scott said, standing as he spoke. "Maybe he made it different in his mind. You know, like when something really bad happens and so you tell yourself it was different. And if you tell yourself hard enough, you can almost believe it."

He stared at Scott, chilled and concerned. That was something he never would have expected to hear from Scott. Stiles, maybe, if Stiles ever sat still long enough to talk about this sort of thing, but not Scott.

"Scott? Dude! We're going to be late!" Stiles shouted, clattering down the steps.

Scott closed his eyes, his lips quirking in a tired smile, and when he opened his eyes again it was like he was back to the Scott he had always known. "Now he cares," he said to himself as he backed away. "We've gotta go. I'll see you around, Mr. Stilinski."

"Glad to hear it," he said quietly. "Say hi to your mom for me."

Scott smiled uncertainly at him and ducked out of the office, the sound of Stiles speaking rapidly at Scott filling the air for the few moments before the front door opened and then slammed shut once again.

The Sheriff sat, knuckles of his hand pressed to his mouth, and he wondered how each time he spoke to someone about this case he wound up with more questions than answers. Had he underestimated the effect of that night on Scott, along with Scott's ability to keep all of that hidden away? Possibly. Stiles and Scott had both seemed to bounce back from the attack on the Sheriff's Department, and Stiles had kept quiet about any problems he'd had after being roughed up by the opposing team the night of the lacrosse championship game. He'd watched them carefully over the summer, keeping an eye on their lacrosse training the backyard and on their late night movie marathons, and while they both tended to stay out later than he'd like some nights, he hadn't seen anything that suggested they were struggling with post traumatic stress.

He opened the file again and put the picture he'd shown Scott back in the front. The cover page listed the very basics of the case, the number of people murdered, the suspect, the charges, the result. None of those numbers and names would change, nothing he could do now would change anything on that paper, but he couldn't let it go and close the file for good. Not yet. When he woke he discovered that he'd fallen asleep at his desk, his head cradled in his arm on the file. He carefully put the file away before he stood and painfully stretched. With a shot or two of whiskey, he made it up the stairs and into his own bed, not checking in on Stiles for fear of what he might ask.

*****

The next two days were nearly entirely consumed by working the fallout of a party that left two thirteen year olds in the hospital, one with a concussion and the other with alcohol poisoning. The party itself had happened during school hours, though not at the middle school itself, and had ended when a panicked teenager called 911 because one of the young teens had fallen and was unconscious. Grace, the teen with the concussion, was the Mayor's daughter, which left the Sheriff with the unfortunate task of investigating underage drinking that had taken place in the Mayor's pool house. The scandal, when the newspapers were finished with it, would be overblown, but the only thing the Sheriff could think was that at least this time there had been no dead bodies.

On the second day of the case the two teens in the hospital had recovered enough to be interviewed, and he found himself once again with a set of conflicting stories. The boy with alcohol poisoning explained that it was Grace's boyfriend, who was the captain of the middle school basketball team, who had convinced Grace to have a party. Grace was firmly insisting that she'd done it herself and that she hadn't even invited any of the older kids who had shown up. The rest of the partygoers, the ones his deputies had been able to track down at least, either denied any knowledge or directed blame at various members of their class.

He sat next to Grace's bedside, watching as she brushed her long hair away from the bruises that ran down the side of her face, and wondered if this had been Matt six years ago, what would he have been saying. That he'd fallen? That someone had thrown him in the pool? That someone had held him under the water until he nearly died? He would put money on it, that Matt, if asked right after the fact, would say it had been an accident. Grace pressed her fingers against her swollen and discolored jawline, wincing as she did so. He thought of Isaac's black eye that day in the cemetery and how Ashley Cook had said Camden had been bruised when he'd returned to school after the party. "I can't help you if I don't know the truth," he told Grace, looking into her eyes when she looked up at him.

Grace stared at him for a long time, her eyes finally falling to the badge on his jacket. "I don't need any help," she said. "Everything is fine."

The Sheriff softly sighed as he stood. "Alright," he said. "Thank you for your time." He walked from the hospital room, only to being joined by Grace's mother a moment later.

She stood next to him and as soon as the door fell shut she threw her hands in the air and shook her head. "Teenagers."

He nodded empathetically. "Keep talking to her. If she tells you something I should know, you know how to reach me."

"Thank you," she said, putting her hand on his forearm. "I appreciate that you tried."

There was any number of things he could have told her, about how it was his job or that he was glad to do it, but he just nodded and gently removed her hand. "I'll keep you informed as the case progresses," he said, bobbing his head and then walking away. In reality there wasn't much to it, all of the kids seen at the party would be cited, though due to their ages and the fact that the party was on private property it was most likely that the charges would be downgraded in court. Since the Mayor and his wife weren't home at the time of the party and the alcohol hadn't come from their house, they wouldn't be charged with distributing alcohol to minors, though that wouldn't prevent the press from having a field day with the story.

The next day he remained on call but stayed at home. He waited until Stiles had left for school and then brought out the box he'd brought home from the office that held all of the materials he'd gathered over the course of the investigation in the spring. He made stacks by murder victim on the kitchen table and spread out the timeline on the counter. Starting with the murders of the deputies at the Sheriff's Department, he worked his way back through each victim until he arrived at Mr. Lahey. There were pictures of the Lahey house; the mess that had been discovered inside that was indicative of a struggle which had partially been what had led him to bring in Isaac for questioning.

At the time, before it had been a serial case, Isaac had seemed like his most likely suspect - partially because he'd been his only suspect. He reached the back of the file and found the copy of Isaac's medical records, which he had requested as soon as he'd suspected that Mr. Lahey had been abusing Isaac. If they had gone ahead and pressed charges against Isaac they'd have needed those records; he had figured that the defense attorney would suggest that the murder had been in self defense and that it was likely the truth. By the time Isaac's medical records had arrived there had been two more murders and Isaac was no longer on his list of suspects, so he had placed the records with the file without giving them more than a glance to confirm what he had already guessed.

He looked at them now, forcing himself to read all four pages that summarized broken bones - Isaac's collar bone twice, his left arm once, two fingers, and three cracked ribs - a concussion, and a gash across Isaac's shoulder that had required fourteen stitches. Each incident had an explanation, a fall down the stairs, a rough lacrosse practice, and even slipping on a patch of ice during what was probably the only snowfall they'd had that winter. The incidents went back in time, though the escalation as time passed was clear, and it was on the final page that he found what he'd been looking for without knowing that he had been looking for something specifically. The date was May 12th, 2006, which according to the newspaper article he'd found online was the day after the swim team had won the state championship. Mr. Lahey had brought Isaac into the hospital in the afternoon and had stated that Isaac had gotten into a fight with some older boys in the neighborhood. The description of the bruising and lacerations left him reeling, along with the simple notation at the top that said Isaac had been ten at the time.

More had happened at that party than just Matt being drowned, whether or not it had been intentional, and the only person other than Ashley Cook who had been at that party and was still alive was Isaac Lahey. The Sheriff had worked enough cases that he could put together the very basics between what Ashley had told him and Isaac's medical records. Something had happened that night that spurred Mr. Lahey to nearly drown Matt, to beat Camden and kick him out of the house, and to start or escalate the cycle of abuse with Isaac. He thought of Stiles and even though he could see it play out in his mind, a flush of rage driving him, it covered him in a cold sweat of fear. What he couldn't imagine is what would drive him to such a state. The only person left who could answer the question of what had set off Mr. Lahey that night was Isaac.

*****

The kitchen was cleared of all of the files by the time he heard the front door open and footsteps in the front hall.

"I still can't believe they're making you retake chemistry this year, and again with Harris. That's bullshit," Stiles said, his voice ringing with righteous indignation.

"I didn't pass chemistry last year. I wasn't even passing before I missed so much school," Isaac said, his voice less clear than Stiles' but still audible.

"Yeah, well, Harris is going to have to pass you this year. Between me and Lydia, you are going to ace every single test," Stiles promised as the duo walked into the kitchen.

Isaac was shaking his head as he walked. "Only if you dress up as me and take the tests for me."

Stiles looked Isaac up and down and snorted. "Sadly, I don't quite have the same flair with a leather jacket. Someone might notice. Come on. Snacks and then we'll go over the lab until you can do it with your eyes closed, though I don't recommend that because, you know, chemistry." It was only then that Stiles glanced over to the kitchen table. "Dad! You're home," he paused to look at the clock, "early?"

"A bit," he agreed, watching where Isaac had frozen next to the counter and was watching him with a gaze that wasn't quite wary, but wasn't at ease either. Isaac had always given the Sheriff a wide berth, which he'd attributed to Isaac's history and that he'd brought Isaac in for questioning after the death of Isaac's father. He'd always tried to give Isaac space, figuring that he would relax a little as he got used to spending time with Stiles and Scott.

He paused, watching as Stiles unearthed a frozen veggie pizza and shoved it in the oven, and wondered if what he wanted to know was worth bringing back all of this for Isaac. Was it enough to know that something had happened, something that had set Matt on the path to murder and destruction, without ever knowing the specifics of the event? The newspaper rustled in his hands, the story of the underage drinking party at the Mayor's all over the front page, and he sat in torn thought while Stiles and Isaac messed around in the kitchen.

Before long the boys joined him at the kitchen table, demolishing the pizza in about the same amount of time it would take for a horde of starved piranhas to consume a newly discovered source of meat. Stiles managed to continue a one-sided conversation even as he ate, and the Sheriff noticed that Isaac's eyes flickered back and forth between Stiles and the Sheriff. Clearly Isaac was aware he was being subtly observed and he hunched down in his chair as he ate his share of the pizza and nodded or shook his head when Stiles paused for a response.

The Sheriff waited until they'd both finished eating, not even a spare crust of the pizza remaining, and came to the decision that he would ask but refrain from pressing for information. If Isaac wanted to tell him, great, if not, he'd accept that and try to stop chasing after ghosts. "Isaac," he started, immediately gaining Isaac's full attention, "I was wondering if I could ask you about something."

Stiles went still and met Isaac's gaze when Isaac immediately looked to him. When Stiles didn't give any visible indication of what Isaac should do, Isaac looked back at the Sheriff and nodded, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"Around six years ago there was a party at your family's house with the high school swim team, and it's been said that Matt Daehler was in attendance. Something happened that night, something that hurt people, and if you're able to tell me, I'd like to know what it was," he said, picking his words carefully as he watched Isaac.

Isaac's eyes fell to the table though the rest of his body became statue-still. "What does it matter any more?" he asked, glancing up through his eyelashes, his eyes wide and his breathing shallow. "My dad is dead. Camden's dead. Matt's dead. What happened isn't really relevant now, right?" His voice cracked at the last word and he quickly turned to Stiles.

"Perhaps not," he allowed gently, watching curiously as Stiles placed his hand on Isaac's forearm. "Though I'd imagine Matt's parents might like to know what happened to their son, if that's possible."

Stiles looked up suddenly, his attention drawn from Isaac, and his mouth pressed into a thoughtful frown. He nodded once, his eyes meeting his father's, and then turned back to Isaac. "I've got this. Go to Scott, let him know," Stiles said, his voice pitched low as he ducked his head to catch Isaac's gaze.

Isaac glanced at the Sheriff and then looked back to Stiles. "Are you sure? Stiles..."

"I'll take care if it, it will be fine. We knew this might happen," Stiles said, and he stood with his hand still on Isaac's arm. "Go find Scott. I'll be okay."

Isaac stood and walked with Stiles to the hallway, turning back once to look at the Sheriff before he let Stiles guide him out of the house. That look, chin high and eyes narrowed, was one of warning and intent; gone was the Isaac with hunched shoulders and in his place was a young man who radiated the promise of danger. The Sheriff shifted in his chair, disturbed by the change he'd seen come over Stiles and Isaac; it was as though they'd removed the masks of everyday teenagers and revealed two serious young men who were capable of communicating in shorthand and had plans and contingencies.

Stiles came back into the kitchen, his expression still tightly grim, and he paced across the floor several times with his hands motioning at waist level by his sides.

The Sheriff was familiar enough with his son to know that Stiles was rehearsing what he was going to say, working through the deluge of thoughts to pick out what was relevant. As much as he appreciated this, because talking with Stiles usually resulted in a barrage of unordered information, it only made him more concerned. Stiles only ever worked out what he needed to say in advance when it was important and he was anxious about how his dad would react. He'd only ever seen Stiles do the self-rehearsal twice and never for this long.

Stiles came to a stop still facing away from the Sheriff, took a deep breath and exhaled, and then took several determined steps into the kitchen proper. He took a glass from the cupboard, and before the Sheriff could react, Stiles poured himself a shot of whiskey and downed it in one gulp.

"Stiles!" He stared in disbelief as Stiles made an exaggerated face at the taste and then replaced the bottle of whiskey and put the empty glass over on the counter next to the sink.

"I'm not having this conversation completely sober," Stiles said, finally looking at his dad.

His objections about the whiskey died on his lips as he looked at Stiles and saw the edge of raw pain that Stiles was failing to completely hide. A stab of cold fear set him straight in his chair and he purposefully adjusted his body language to appear as nonthreatening as possible. Stiles' posture relaxed slightly in response and the Sheriff nodded.

"There's something I have to tell you before I can tell you about what was going on with Matt. Isaac told me and Scott about it the other day, after you asked Scott about it again, but there's something else you've got to know first." Stiles pushed away from the kitchen counter and started to pace again, frequently looking to his dad to check his reaction.

"I'm listening," he said, his heart sinking at the way Stiles' gaze dropped to the floor, the way his expression contorted with shame.

Stiles' shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath and he stopped pacing when he reached the wall opposite his dad. He leaned against the wall, his head rocking back and forth ever so slightly. "Scott and I were on the summer swim team for two years when we were in elementary school, the team that Isaac's father taught. Isaac and I were sort of friends, we both liked Nightcrawler and Batman, and sometimes when Mom was busy I'd go over to Isaac's house after swim practice. They didn't live that far from here, close enough that I could ride my bike home after. Scott came with us sometimes, and Scott went over to Isaac's a lot by himself too, when his parents were fighting so much. Matt too, but Matt was closer to Isaac than he was with me and Scott. Evidently Jackson hung out with Isaac sometimes too, but I didn't know that until just recently. Jackson was never really good at making friends outside of Danny and who even knows how that happened."

He could feel his heart beating almost painfully in his chest as he watched Stiles' expression flicker with amusement before settling back into steely, grim determination. "I wasn't aware you were friends with Isaac and Matt when you were younger. I don't think I ever saw you with anyone but Scott," he offered when Stiles didn't continue after a minute.

Stiles shook his head. "We mostly saw them at school and at swim practice during summer. And it wasn't really that long. Two summers. After that we didn't really talk anymore. Matt was different, and Isaac stopped talking with pretty much everyone."

"After the party in 2006?" he guessed.

"Yeah," Stiles said, and then closed his eyes to exhale and rubbed his hand against his throat and his collar bone.

He knew well enough by now to recognize the signs of Stiles' fighting back a panic attack and could see that Stiles was starting to have difficulty breathing. "Do you need to sit down? Take a break? A glass of water?"

Stiles shook his head. "No, let's just get through this. I can do it. It's just words." He shrugged his shoulders slightly as he talked to himself.

His eyebrows rose and he thought back to Isaac asking if Stiles had ever told, a rush of possibilities clouding his mind, all of them too likely. "Stiles?"

"Just let me do this. Okay," Stiles said. He opened his eyes and nodded firmly. "Camden used to help his dad with the kids swim team. He'd help us get our strokes right, and he'd time our laps across the pool, and he taught us how to dive. Sometimes at Isaac's house we'd play in the pool there, and Camden would come in with us." Stiles focused at the wall behind his dad and rested his hand over the hollow of his throat. "At first it was just little touches, stuff that could be an accident or that was just Camden playing around. It was weird, but Camden was way nicer at teaching us swimming than his dad and he was kind of Isaac's cool older brother. I think we all wanted to be like him, as stupid as that seems now. Then it was more than just accidentally brushing up against us, and not just in the pool anymore. Anyway, you get the idea," Stiles said, waving his free hand as he slumped against the wall and stared up at where the wall met the ceiling.

It felt like he could barely hear around the ringing in his ears as he stared at his son, disbelief warring with his professional knowledge of how easy it was for someone to hurt a child. "You're saying that Camden Lahey touched you sexually?" he asked, silently willing Stiles to tell him that he'd misunderstood.

"Me, and Scott. And Isaac and Matt. And evidently Jackson too, which I didn't know until Isaac told me a few weeks ago, but it makes sense, them being neighbors and everything," Stiles said and then pressed his lips together. His eyes darted to his dad and then skittered away again. "I'm sorry."

"Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, immediately wishing he could take the questions back when he saw Stiles flinch. The handful of times he'd helped parents through similar situations he'd counseled them against asking those questions directly, just as his training suggested. He knew there were any number of reasons that made sense to children and teenagers as to why they shouldn't tell about what was happening to them.

"Mom was getting sick," Stiles said quietly, the words like a knife rending the air between them. "One of the reasons she signed me up for the swim team was to keep me out of trouble during the summer, I heard her say that on the phone to Scott's mom. She was always tired, and you were busy and you were worried, and I was always getting into trouble at school. I couldn't really say that I didn't want to be on the swim team anymore, or not go over to Isaac's when I knew that mom was resting at home and I had to let her rest. After, after she was gone, when I said I didn't want to swim anymore, you just said that was fine and I got to hang out at Scott's house most of that summer because his dad was finally gone and for some reason you and Scott's mom decided that we could handle ourselves for a few hours at a time. I honestly don't know what you were thinking."

"Stiles, stop," he said, hating that his son was attempting to defuse the situation with self-deprecating humor because of him.

Stiles was silent for all of thirty seconds before he started speaking again. "We made a pact, because I'd just learned the word pact and I thought it sounded cool. Scott couldn't tell his parents because they were already fighting all the time and he didn't want to make it worse. Matt told us his parents would think he was making it up because he didn't want to be on the swim team - he always did hate getting water on his face. And Isaac's dad? Well none of us ever thought that was a good idea, which turned out to be absolutely true. You wanted to know what happened that night? With Matt at that party?"

It took him a few moments to swallow past the lump in his throat and remember that that was what had started his line of questioning originally. "Yes," he said, hoping that this was liking lancing a wound and it would be better to get it out all at once.

"This is what Isaac told me and Scott, so, there's that," Stiles said, finally walking over to the table and sitting across from his dad. "Matt had come over to see Isaac, just like he told Scott, and they were in Isaac's bedroom doing a comic book trade - Isaac says it was Spider-Man, if we're being picky about details. Camden came in, and he was messing around with them. Told them that they were 'party favors' for later. Lahey walked in on Matt sucking off Camden, freaked out and dragged Matt from the room. Isaac says he doesn't know what happened to Matt, not exactly, but the whole drowning thing probably factors in there somewhere. Anyway, Lahey came back and beat the hell out of Camden, and then kicked him out of the house for being a 'fucking faggot'. Then he beat Isaac for 'letting' Camden do that to him. Later, at school, Isaac told me and Scott he couldn't be friends with us anymore, and while we didn't know what had happened at the time, I think we got that things were bad for Isaac and we stayed away like he asked."

"God, Stiles," he said, caught between numb and reeling. He could feel his hands shaking as he pressed them against his thighs. His mind was still stuck back on the fact that someone had hurt his son, someone had done this to his son, and he hadn't done anything about it. He pressed his hand to his mouth and shook his head, at a loss of what to do or say. The people who deserved his fury were gone, well beyond his reach, but that didn't make the anger burning deep inside die with them.

"Yeah, I know," Stiles agreed, running a hand over his face. "I promise, I totally get that if we had said something at the time, maybe Matt wouldn't have started killing people. I really, really get that. I just, after it was all over I couldn't let myself think about it. Things were already bad with mom gone, and if I let myself think it made the panic attacks worse. And with Scott's parents getting a divorce, and you know how much of a mess that was, I think he did the same. And, by the time things were better again, I didn't see any point in telling you. I didn't want you to have to know, because you already deal with so much because of me."

He was on his feet before he registered standing up, barely aware that his face was wet, and he knelt at Stiles' side and ignored the cracking of his knees as they bent. "Son, I do not blame you, not for any of this. Do you hear me?" He placed his hands on Stiles' shoulders and waited until Stiles met his eyes. "You hear me?"

Stiles swallowed hard and nodded and in a matter of seconds Stiles' was off the chair and in his arms. The Sheriff held on like someone might snatch Stiles away if he let go, rocking him out of some parental instinct that he didn't fully understand but had felt the first time he'd cradled Stiles in his arms and found himself gently shifting back and forth. He couldn't tell if the damp was from his own tears or if Stiles was crying as well, but when Stiles finally pulled away his face was remarkably dry.

"We're okay?" Stiles asked, his expression no less desperately pained than it had been at the start of their conversation. "You and me?"

"We're okay," he agreed, forcibly swallowing back his anger. He wouldn't let Stiles see that, not after everything he'd just heard. It felt like it should be night, like hours or years should have passed during their conversation, but not even a full hour had gone by. It wasn't even time for dinner yet and daylight streamed in from the windows.

Stiles stood and offered his hand to help get his dad up from the floor. When they were both standing, the Sheriff leaning against the edge of the table, Stiles looked around the kitchen and then at the door. "I'm going to go upstairs. Homework and stuff, you know?"

"Alright. I'm here, if you need anything," he agreed, watching as Stiles nodded uncomfortably and hurried from the room. He waited until well after dinner, until he was certain that Stiles was asleep upstairs, and then he retrieved the file from his office and the bottle of whiskey from the kitchen. The file went into the fireplace, all the official copies were filed at the department and he wasn't losing anything except his research from the past few weeks, and he held a match for nearly long enough to burn his fingertips before he tossed it in and watched the pages curl and turn to ash. He sat on the floor of the living room, the bottle of whiskey unopened in his lap, and it was morning before he forced himself to his feet once more.

*****

Stiles kept his distance for the next week or so, the house quiet and uneasy, and the handful of meals they shared were filled with forced bits and pieces of conversation surrounded by long gaps of silence. The first time he saw Scott and Stiles sitting in the living room, the coffee table covered in scraps of paper with lacrosse play diagrams and homework pushed to the edge, he relaxed just a little. Nothing had changed, even if everything had changed. Stiles and Scott were still Stiles and Scott, even when he caught Scott watching him for long moments, concern and something he couldn't name filling Scott's eyes.

It took him that week to get himself together and decide what needed to be done. Camden Lahey and Lahey senior were both dead, there was nothing he could do about them directly, but there were the children who had survived the abuse and their families. That was something he could do something about.

He tracked down Matt's parents first. They had separated following the death of their son and both had left Beacon Hills in opposite directions. He found Miranda Daehler first, living on the edge of Roseville with a sibling. When he explained about what had happened to Matt, she had covered her mouth with her hand for a long time before she said that she'd known something was off with Matt for years. He had thought back to Stiles, trying to see where that change might have taken place, but all those memories were saturated in his wife's sickness and death. Matt's father had been more difficult to find and the conversation even more difficult and terse when he finally found him. "Why are you telling me this?" was the only thing Eli Daehler asked, and then added, "I've already lost my son." The Sheriff drove back to Beacon Hills that evening deeply unsettled and he didn't wonder quite so much why Matt had thought his parents might not believe him if he'd told.

Two days later he met with Melissa McCall, aware that Scott had already told her about the abuse but he still wanted to touch base. In a lot of ways, after the death of his wife and Melissa's divorce, they'd been co-parents to both Stiles and Scott. He knew Stiles saw Melissa as the only mother figure he had left, and when Scott and Stiles were having trouble with being bullied in middle school Scott had gone to the Sheriff. Now that the boys were older he and Melissa had drifted a little, both busy with unrelenting work schedules, and he wondered if that had been a mistake. He arrived at Melissa's house during school hours and they both stood on the front porch for a long moment, and he wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders as soon as she stepped into his embrace.

They wound up at the kitchen table, coffee mugs clutched in their hands, and he listened while Melissa shakily recounted what Scott had told her. He added a few things, mostly what Stiles had told him regarding the swim team party where Matt had been drowned, and they sat in the quiet for a while. "I don't know what to do," Melissa finally said. "Between this and everything that's happened over the last year, it's like I don't even know my own son anymore. I asked him if there was anything else he hadn't told me, and the way he looked at me," she trailed off and shook her head.

A few weeks ago his advice would have been simple; be there for him, let him know you're willing to listen, trust your instincts. Now all he could do was reach across the table and set his hand over Melissa's. "I don't know," he admitted. He had never assumed that Stiles told him everything about his life, he was a teenager after all, but he had always thought that Stiles would come to him if he really needed help. With that illusion shattered he thought back to the early spring and how Stiles had grown cagey and distant, even before the the first murders Matt committed. "I don't know," he said again. He left with a joint promise that they would keep in touch and both keep an eye on their boys.

He didn't have to seek out Jackson's parents because that afternoon, while he was working on paperwork in his office at the Sheriff's Department, Mr. Whittemore stopped by to see him. The Sheriff stood and they shook hands, and he couldn't help but remember that the last time they had been standing here it was because Stiles and Scott had abducted Jackson.

"I just wanted to thank you for whatever you did that encouraged Jackson to tell us about what happened, regarding the situation with the Lahey's," Mr. Whittemore said, the tightness around his lips and the lines at the corners of his eyes the only outward indication that he wasn't talking about something else entirely.

"I didn't do anything," he said honestly. "I've only seen Jackson in passing these past few weeks. It was my understanding that the boys made a collective decision to disclose the abuse."

"Regardless," Mr. Whittemore said, his jaw visibly clenching and relaxing again. "It explains a lot of Jackson's behavior these past few years, and we're grateful to finally understand why."

If he was being honest he thought that Jackson had more issues than just the ones stemming from the abuse, but he brushed the thought from his mind and shook hands with Mr. Whittemore again. "If there's anything I can do here, please let me know."

There was a small amount of guilt that had been festering ever since he'd first felt relieved that there would never be a trial - he knew the conviction rates for sexual abuse far too well. Perhaps it was an opportunity for missed closure, but there were few things more final than a coffin buried in the ground. Then again, he strongly doubted Stiles and the others would have said anything at all if Camden Lahey had still been alive.

"Thank you," Mr. Whittemore said again, his eyes tired and sad when he met the Sheriff's gaze. He turned and left, the room echoing with his footsteps on the tile long after he was gone.

A few phone calls later he reached the voicemail of Isaac's case worker. The Sheriff had doubts that Isaac had disclosed anything of what had happened recently to whoever he was staying with, though he hadn't realized until then that he wasn't even sure if Isaac had been placed with a foster family or in a group home. He left a message and realized that he hadn't even seen Isaac once since the afternoon he'd asked him about what had happened at the party. It was right before he went off shift when Isaac's case worker called him back with the information that Derek Hale was Isaac's temporary guardian, and that Derek was currently seeking permanent custody.

He wasn't quite sure what to do with that information, not when his strongest memories of Derek Hale were of the night the Hale house had burned down and the day he'd arrested Derek on suspicion of killing Laura Hale. He didn't think that Derek was a bad guy, despite twice being falsely IDed as a murderer and then being a fugitive for a short period of time, but from the evening he spent questioning him, he would say that Derek wasn't necessarily equipped for parenting a traumatized teenager. Then again, Derek had once been a traumatized teenager himself, so maybe it wasn't as bad of a match as it originally seemed. He decided to reserve judgement and wait to seek out Derek until he had a chance to check in with Isaac regarding his living situation. He hadn't been able to help before, not when he hadn't known what was happening, but he wouldn't hesitate to step in now if he thought it was necessary.

His plan to wait and see was derailed early on Sunday morning. He had been spending more time at the Beacon Hills Cemetery lately, partially because the ache from missing his wife had resurged with a vengeance, but mostly because he found himself circling the six month old graves repeatedly. He always stopped by his wife first, tiding her headstone and occasionally placing flowers, and then he made the loop he now knew by heart. He started with the five swim team members, each buried near family members, pausing at each to read their names and the dates of birth and death. Beloved Daughter, Beautiful Child, In Loving Memory, and more were inscribed on the headstones, and he thought there had been far too many funerals of late. Next was his deputies, the four men and women who had given their lives in the line of duty. The station felt unbalanced without them, the new recruits still learning and trying to fill the places left behind. The Lahey plot came next, three graves; mother, father, and son. He didn't linger there, still not able to see the names without being flooded with helpless fury.

Last was Matt's grave, buried without any family members surrounding him, and he knelt down at the empty space. The epitaph on the headstone simply read 'At Rest', and he found himself hoping that was the case. When he finally stood he caught sight of a figure across the cemetery, a figure that had clearly already seen him but was hesitant about coming closer. The Sheriff walked across the distance and when he reached the figure he looked down to see whose grave they were visiting. Laura Hale, with the inscription 'Dearly Missed'.

"Derek," he said, noticing the deep sadness in Derek's eyes that went far beyond the tight frown of his mouth.

"Sheriff Stilinski," Derek said, nodding once and then stepping away from Laura's grave.

He fell into step with Derek and they walked slowly across the cemetery toward the exit. "I heard that you have temporary guardianship of Isaac. How is that going?" he asked, not missing the way Derek's shoulders stiffened.

"As well as can be expected, under the circumstances," Derek said, coming to a stop and staring across the cemetery at the tree line. "I should have realized sooner. It would have helped."

"We all would have liked to have been told sooner," he agreed grimly. "Can I ask what led you to apply for guardianship of Isaac?" he asked, still a little shocked that it had been granted in the first place. Derek didn't have any charges on his record, but there still should have been some red flags raised with the entire situation.

Derek's mouth tightened. "Isaac needed someone. It made sense for him to stay with me."

It didn't really answer his question, but he thought he saw something there that reassured him that the situation wasn't as strange as it seemed from the outside. He waited until Derek looked back his direction and nodded. "If you and Isaac need anything, I'd be happy to do what I can. Isaac's become pretty good friends with Scott and Stiles, and I think that's good for all of them."

Surprise softened Derek's face, his features suddenly a reflection of the man in his mid-twenties that he actually was. "Thank you," he said, bobbing his head once and then hesitating for a few seconds before he walked away with quick strides.

The Sheriff shook his head and left the cemetery, still left wondering why Derek had sought guardianship of Isaac, and why Isaac had agreed.

*****

A series of double shifts, trying to cover while half of his department was out with bouts of stomach flu and strep throat, left him waking groggily late one afternoon and he lay sprawled on his bed for long minutes while he tried to figure out what day it was and when he'd come home and gone to bed. He was getting too old for this. After reorienting himself, showering, and dressing, he went downstairs intending to first call Stiles since his cellphone had no missed calls or text messages, and then to call in something greasy for delivery. He stopped when he reached the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister when he heard Scott and Stiles talking in the living room.

"She keeps looking at me weird, like she did before she figured she was fine with everything," Scott said as the Sheriff stepped closer. He stood at the entryway, resting against the doorframe, and watched the tuft of hair that was Scott slump down further on the couch. "She keeps crying," Scott added.

"Dude, my dad cried," Stiles said both of his feet dangling over the arm of the couch while he was otherwise unseen.

Scott made a low noise in response. "My mom keeps talking about therapy. Jackson's parents are making him go, which, you know, would have been helpful like eight months ago before the whole lizard thing."

'Lizard thing?' the Sheriff mouthed to himself with arched eyebrows.

"Ha, I know. Why do you think Derek is making us all do the anger management stuff?" Stiles asked, his feet wiggling back and forth restlessly.

"I thought that was just Derek working out his issues on us?" Scott asked.

Stiles snorted. "That too, but mostly it's so he doesn't have to deal with a mauled therapist in the near future." Stiles paused, his feet slowing. "My dad hinted at it, though any day now when he has me off-guard he's just going to come out and say that he thinks I should be in therapy. After Ms. Morell though, I don't think so. I still can't believe she let us do all that and she knew the whole time. I mean, what the hell, right?"

"Right," Scott agreed.

He frowned; Stiles was right about him preparing to suggest that Stiles consider starting therapy, though he'd been waiting for Stiles to arrive at the conclusion himself. They'd both gone into therapy for a period of time, trying to deal with Stiles' panic attacks, and he'd already checked to make sure the therapist was still in practice in Beacon Hills. He recognized Ms. Morell as the former high school guidance counselor, but he hadn't been aware there had been an issue there as well. He had known that she'd left the high school at the end of last school year and it seemed there was more to that story that he hadn't heard. This was why he was reduced to eavesdropping, he thought grimly to himself.

"Hey, have you talked to Isaac lately? He's been avoiding me after school, even when I just wanted to get a ride to Derek's," Scott said, moving around on the couch so that he was directly facing Stiles.

Stiles sat up, the back of his head appearing above the back of the couch. "Nah, he's been avoiding me too. I think he thinks our parents are going to blame him for all of this, now that they know."

The Sheriff exhaled silently, hating that Isaac even had reason to think that at all. In the near future he wanted to sit down with Isaac and make sure Isaac understood that none of this was his fault. Maybe he needed to call Derek and make sure that message was being delivered across the board.

"They wouldn't!" Scott exclaimed.

"I know," Stiles said quickly. "I tried to get him to come over yesterday so I could look over his lab report for chemistry, but he said he had to patrol with Derek and then took off, even though I know for a fact that's a lie because I helped Derek and Peter put together the patrol schedule. If Isaac doesn't start talking to us by next week I'm going to drag him over here for dinner and get it over with."

"How are you planning on doing that?" Scott asked, suddenly amused.

A small scuffle on the couch meant Stiles had probably kicked at Scott. "You, of course. You should stay for dinner too. Your mom is working tonight, right?"

"Yeah," Scott said, sitting up straight and very obviously catching a glimpse of where the Sheriff was standing.

He took a step closer, just in time for Stiles to say: "Well, it could have been worse. My dad could have found about all the werewolf stuff."

The Sheriff's eyes opened wide as he watched Scott's face contort with horror. "Dude!" Scott shouted, making frantic motions.

"What?" Stiles yelled back, jolting at Scott's sudden reaction.

"Werewolf stuff?" the Sheriff repeated, unsurprised when Stiles fell off the couch in response.

Stiles stared up at him and pasted on a smile. "Yeah, you know, werewolf movies and all of that. Werewolves are big right now, dad. Really big. Like vampires, but better."

He looked from Stiles' fake-bright smile to Scott's nervous shuffling and the way Scott ducked his head instead of meeting his eyes. "Werewolf stuff," he said again and stepped over Stiles to get to the armchair. He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, and watched and waited.

Stiles picked himself up from the floor with a helping hand from Scott and they both looked at each other for a long time. "Your call," Stiles said, his eyebrows quirking up at Scott.

Scott shrugged. "If you want, but you get to tell Derek later."

Stiles tipped his head back and forth as he considered it. "Deal. But you're Exhibit A."

They turned in unison and Stiles gave him a smile that wasn't quite as fake as the first one. "So, werewolves. Dad, you might want to brace yourself. Scott, you're up."

A half hour later he stopped them with a wave of his hand and shakily got to his feet. "Let's continue this after dinner," he said, blinking his eyes at Scott and still only seeing normal-human Scott sitting on the living room couch when before the Scott sitting there hadn't been normal-human at all. He turned to Stiles and gave him as serious a look as he could muster. "Unless there is anything else important I should know. Anything else."

Stiles shrugged and looked a little abashed. "I think my jeep needs a new battery."

"Great," he said and walked from the room. He made it into his home office and sat with the phone in his hands as he tried to process the task of calling for delivery and the fact that werewolves were very real and there was one sitting in the living room and it just happened to be Stiles' best friend. Given the revelations he'd faced in the past two weeks, somehow werewolves didn't seem so bad.