The last month and a half or so, Beverly has felt like she's been going nonstop. With a week left until Christmas, that isn't about to let up anytime soon. It's a sort of busy that she likes, or at least is more than willing to throw herself into, most of her assistant work for Bill having migrated, entirely understandably, to helping out around the townhouse with Neil still wheelchair bound; really, it seems like the least she can do. That doesn't make it any less exhausting, though, all the more so with everything else she's given herself to do. Decorating around the house with Hopper and El isn't too difficult, at least, but planning a dinner for a dozen or so people definitely is, as is buying gifts for all of them and more, everyone she's come to think of as hers. Stressful as it may be, it's a good feeling, being so distinctly reminded that she has such an extensive family here, connections chosen and forged rather than dictated by blood.

Given all the preparation she has ahead of her, she and Eponine had planned a while back to meet up before Christmas to exchange presents and have a girls' night in, a brief respite from all the holiday craziness. The night before, she'd texted to reconfirm, and with their plans on, she drives out toward Eponine's in the afternoon, the sun just beginning to set. When she calls to let her know that she's on her way, she gets an automated message, the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service, which is weird, but she tries to ignore the building feeling of dread in her gut.

That's her first mistake, really. After what happened a few weeks ago, she should know better than to doubt those instincts.

By the time she reaches Eponine's place, she knows but doesn't want to let herself believe what she's going to find there, which is nothing. The texts she sends, though she got answers just last night, start bouncing back as undelivered now. Trying to call again yields the same message as before. For the next half an hour or so, she does what she can do try to see if there's any other feasible explanation — contacting mutual friends, going over to Barton to see if maybe a class ran late.

All of it yields nothing, and she's been here long enough to know what that means. Bringing the unopened gift with her, she heads home, and rather than going inside, sits on the front steps to light a cigarette, her eyes red.

The apartment is empty when Beverly gets home, a fact for which she's more than a little relieved. As safe as she feels here and as grateful as she is for that, she isn't sure how much she'd be able to talk about yet. For one fleeting moment, she'd felt nearly invincible, knowing that what used to happen to her isn't anything she'll let happen to her again, or to anyone else if she can help it. She'd walked away with the upper hand. It's only since then that panic has started to set in, a residual effect that makes her feel like she's coming out of her own skin. By the time she locks the door behind her, then double- and triple-checks it, she can barely breathe for how tight her chest is, lightheaded and queasy and unable to shake the feeling that she'll never be clean again. She wouldn't be able to explain it if she tried. She doesn't want to have to try, at least not until she's pulled herself together a little. Hopper should probably know that there's someone at the Home who makes the girls uncomfortable enough to have earned the moniker Creepy Tim, but it isn't like anything happened. There's nothing so weird or wrong about touching her shoulder and her hair. He didn't look at her in a way she she hasn't been looked at before.

Maybe that's part of what's so unsettling. If it was nothing, as she feels fairly certain it was, then there's no reason she should be this upset about it.

Taking full advantage of being home alone, she grabs a towel and locks herself in the bathroom to shower. She doesn't know, then, how much time passes, only that she turns up the water almost as hot as it will go and stands under the spray, scrubbing her skin and hair, until it runs too cold to stand. It still doesn't feel like enough, doesn't erase the memory of Creepy Tim's fingertips against her ear as he pushed her hair back or her father's face hovering over her. She can't stay in the shower forever, though, as nice as the idea seems in the moment. Her skin is flushed and raw when she emerges, and she still feels sick, but she dresses in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants and curls up on the couch, her knees held to her chest, until the front door opens. Her hair is still damp.

"Hey," she says, trying not to seem too obviously like something is wrong. "Do any exciting policework today?"

It's more than a little strange, how everything seems increasingly far away. Perhaps stranger still is that she doesn't seem to be the only one for whom that's the case. Having Eddie here helps on that front, as well as many others — with the two of them here, maybe they can't forget, not entirely — but try as she might to hold onto it, what happened in Derry feels more and more like a dream than anything she actually lived.

A few things, though, stand out as real, and Beverly refuses to let herself lose sight of them. The blood that spurted out from her sink and coated her bathroom. The crack when she'd hit her father in the head, knowing that he would never try to touch her again. Bill's cheek under her hand, sticky from the cut he'd put there. There's a scar now, a jagged little sliver across her palm. She hopes it doesn't fade. If anything could serve as a reminder of that summer and the promise they made to each other, it's that.

Cold as the weather is — a far cry from the summer she remembers leaving behind — she peels off her gloves and sticks them in her jacket pocket, tracing a fingertip across that line on her palm and drawing in a breath before she bends down, picking up a rock by her feet. The park is all but empty at this time of year, apparently, and she's glad for it. Living in a goddamn Children's Home has afforded her next to nothing in the way of privacy, and while it's still several steps up from living at home before here, most of the kids at least a shade nicer than the ones she went to school with, it's nice, relieving, just to have a few moments to herself. At least they let her wander a little, as long as she's back by curfew, which in itself brings with it a few hazy reminders of Derry and missing children.

People still don't seem to give much of a damn when someone up and disappears, but at least there's that.

The surface of the lake is nearly — close, but not quite — frozen, chunks of ice floating, but she gives the rock a hurl anyway, sending it skimming across the surface as best as the weather will allow, smiling a little to herself when she actually gets some distance on it. Then she bends down for another to try again, not yet noticing someone else on the path nearby.