Chapter Text
It feels brand new.
It shouldn’t feel brand new.
This thought runs an endless loop in Karen’s head as she rubs the keychain between her thumb and index finger. As slick as the day she bought it, forest green, shaped like a basketball, the University of Vermont logo in tiny white letters across the middle, just enough chain to latch on to a key.
She remembers the look in Kevin’s eyes when she handed it to him. How he gazed at their mom’s silver 1980 Dodge Ram with longing.
It’s yours as soon as you turn sixteen. Mom would have wanted you to have it. Besides, I won’t need a car when I’m at Georgetown.
She wishes she hadn’t pressed her luck.
This truck should be Kevin’s. The back windows should be plastered with forest green stickers and the seats covered in dog hair; instead, there’s a crack running across the windshield and dust blanketing the entire cab. Proof her father’s barely kept the engine running properly since the day fifteen years ago when Al’s Towing dumped it in the front yard. The same day Kevin was put to rest in the cold, dark, damp earth.
Karen stops; she knows the thoughts are toxic even as she thinks them. Sighing, she fights the stream of tears threatening to erupt. Just keeps turning that key chain over and over in her fingers. Just keeps inhaling and exhaling. What had that nice guy at her weekly grief group – Curtis…Navy corps…corpsman…I think – said about emotion and expectation?
The only person’s reactions you can control are your own. You’re gonna feel whatever you need to feel, but you get to choose how you use that feeling.
If a combat veteran with a prosthetic leg can adopt such a mantra (and believe it enough to share with a bunch of strangers in a Brooklyn coffee shop), so can Karen. She can’t control the fact her father won’t answer the calls she’s left in response to his brittle message. Can’t control that he’d reached out on Tuesday at 3pm, knowing full well she was at work.
Karen. It’s me. You’re probably too involved with your fancy New York life to talk, so I’ll just say it: Take the piece of junk off my land. You have until Saturday morning or it goes to the scrap yard. I can’t look at it any more.
No, she can’t control the fact he reached out to her, yet won’t bother to return her calls… But she can control how she uses the anger his ultimatum ignites: As emotional fuel.
Fuel she needs to drive the five and a half hours across state lines with one mission – and only one mission – in mind: Get. Kevin’s. Truck.
Karen sighs, listening to the key chain softly tap the dashboard as she turns the key in the ignition.
It jams.
She turns it again. A sputtering, squealing sound cuts the quite of the cab.
“Goddamnit!”
The curse – and all intentions of choosing how to react – escape Karen’s mouth in a loud scream. She inhales through her nose and out her mouth; another Curtis Holl…er…Hoyle trick. It works, because she feels her body and mind calming down.
“Goddamnit,” she says again, laughing this time. She can’t help but picture how Matt would react if he knew she was taking the Lord’s name in vain. His high moral standard – that somehow doesn’t apply to sleeping with his long lost college girlfriend - is one of the many reasons they broke up.
That and the fact he thinks I’ll get myself killed as an investigative journalist.
Funny how nine months and the unearthing of a family tragedy can put a breakup into perspective.
Not that they’d had much of a romance for Karen to unpack. Takeout for one when your hotshot-lawyer-sort-of-boyfriend is working late at the office doesn’t really supply a strong foundation for a relationship.
Karen shakes her head and turns the key again. Same sputtering sound. She silently wills herself not to freak out. Her father probably hasn’t started the truck in months. Worst case scenario, she can walk back up the dirt drive and ask him to jump it.
I don’t want you here, Karen.
Picturing the look of scorn on her father’s face, Karen turns the key again. And again. And again. Finally, there’s a low rumble. The truck starts.
Karen shifts into drive and heads towards the highway. She doesn’t dare look back until Fagan Corners is just a speck in the windshield. She knows not to look any sooner; otherwise, she’ll see the guardrail with fresh peace lilies. The one by the off ramp at Holly Road. Proof her father’s love for one of his children remains unchanged.
***
Karen’s not accustomed to long drives anymore, but she makes due. The first two hundred miles she plays Springsteen on repeat. Her mom’s favorite cassette. As a spoiled teenager she used to beg to listen to Brittany Spears. Now, she lets Down by the River run at least fifty times. Imagining her mom’s sky blue eyes alight with joy as she sings the words to Kevin.
Around mile three hundred and fifty, there’s a break in traffic. Karen tells Siri to play her voice messages. Sure enough, her mailbox is full. She put her phone on silent the minute she and Foggy were headed north on I-87 and hasn’t dared to look at her notifications in the last day and a half. Her emotional bandwidth is frayed at this point, and she knows her proposal for the story on Union Allied has riled the hornet’s nest.
The messages play a steady stream of people voicing their displeasure at a story against the renowned Wilson Fisk. Andrea Manning, head of the Bulletin’s digital marketing campaign, sounds breathless as she states “any blurbs about Union Allied that I post on the website ticker will look like click bait.” A few of the paper’s shareholders send clipped responses telling Karen it’s best not to look for news where there is none. (She wonders how many of them are on Fisk’s payroll.) Union Allied’s Chief Financial Officer, James Wesley, leaves a brusque message declining Karen’s request for an interview.
Thankfully, not all the messages are a let down. Ben Urich, lead for the Bulletin’s investigative reporting, reminds Karen not to “bite off more than she can chew,” but he admits he likes the idea. He’s willing to be her beta reader if the story gets approved. Peter Parker - the goofy, sweet, photography intern from Midtown High – floods her phone with a stream of excitement. Offers to take a few pictures of Union Allied’s new construction site on his way home from school.
(Kid’s got a knack for capturing amazing photos. He’s been able to get pictures of The Avengers on their off days; caught the fabled Daredevil of Hell’s Kitchen in full moonlight; even one or two of the amazing Spiderman. How he has the time to be out at all hours of the night and still go to school is beyond Karen. She was never that great a student. Peter’s more like Kevin. Earnest to a fault.)
These messages bring a smile to her face. Karen’s been working her way up the ranks at the Bulletin for a year and a half now. Having both the support of a seasoned journalist like Ben and the admiration of the next generation is a comfort. She’s told herself not to seek external validation, but…knowing her circle of support is growing to encompass more than just Foggy and Matt is comforting. (Not that she will ever forget them. The two lawyers that helped her fight false allegations of vehicular manslaughter in 2016 will always be family even if she and Matt are no longer dating.)
The next recording is from the Editor in Chief himself, Mitchell Ellison. He’s “cautiously interested” in the idea of shining a light on the rumors around Wilson Fisk, but he has to keep his shareholders’ opinions in mind. Coming from anyone else – well - Karen would be certain she was talking to another one of Fisk’s pawns; Ellison is different. The gruff, Brooklyn-born-and-bred journalist has treated Karen with respect since she mailed her first freelance article in to the Bulletin. Challenged her, told her to step it up, but always respected her. If he says he needs time to get the paper’s board of directors on board, Karen believes him. She’s also – shamelessly – excited by the olive branch he holds out to placate her.
“I may have a human interest piece for you while we wait for the board to come around. Castle’s Auto Shop. It’s in Hell’s Kitchen; though why anyone in that area needs a car is beyond me. Anyway, owner’s a Marine Corps veteran. Practically fixing cars for free, but there’s more to the story. Stop by my office Thursday and we’ll talk about it.”
Karen bites back a smile. The fact Ellison has kept her as a regular – if rotating – reporter even after Betty Bryant returned from maternity leave means something. It means he believes her. Maybe she even believes in herself.
The final voicemail to make the cut before her mailbox is deemed too full is from Foggy.
“Hey Karen! Just wanted to let you know I got your boss’s Volvo back to Brooklyn in once piece. Sorry I couldn’t caravan with you back home. How’s your dad? Did you two get a chance to catch up? Any issues with the truck? Hopefully you aren’t dragging it on the back of a U-Haul right now….Oh. Ok. Matt and I are about to walk into court. He says hi. Text him back sometime. And – uh – promise you’ll stop for a bathroom break at the Sunco outside of New Haven. It’s the only gas station with a blueberry slushy in the whole Tri-State area! Really got to go now. Bye!”
Foggy’s voice tugs at the emotions Karen’s kept buried the last seventy-two hours. She feels both happy to hear her best friend’s voice and incredibly sad. Neither he nor Matt know the real reason she left Vermont.
(Nor do they know why she will be eternally grateful they helped her fight against the allegations she faced after waking up in an overturned white BMW that rainy spring afternoon. Drugged; bloody; and screaming Kevin’s name.)
Karen’s put that all behind her. She can’t tell Foggy she never set foot in her father’s house or that she slept in a motel. That would mean reliving not one but two car wrecks.
Karen’s inhales and exhales, pushing the thoughts away. She turns the radio up and continues her drive towards Foggy’s beloved Sunco.
***
Seventy miles later, Karen exits the freeway. The truck bumps and squeals in protest – its traction probably worn out – but somehow she makes it to the off-ramp and down the winding drive towards the Sunco station – lonely-looking in the pale evening light. Pulling up to the nearest pump, she takes a second to look around and her face flushes with embarrassment. A tired-looking mother of three is ushering her children back inside the maroon sedan parked in front of Karen; all the while looking at the truck through narrow eyes. Karen can’t blame her. The left front bumper cover has been torn clean off, rust spots dotting the jagged edges. The windshield has a nice crack running down the middle. The right-side passenger window is gone; cardboard and duct tape now keep out the elements. Kevin’s truck is a little “worse-for-the-wear” and that’s putting it lightly.
Karen keeps her eyes down as she fills up tank up with gas. Afterwards, she moves the car to one of the parking spots by the Sunco’s air pump; a white van to her right. Locking the truck, she walks slowly across the lot towards the doors of the Sunco. Her knees ache and her back is tight from sitting too long. She make a mental note to thank Foggy for suggesting this brea –
“SHIT!”
The stress of the past seventy-two hours escapes her yell. Karen steps back as a black Miata almost runs her over; its driver solely focused on getting to the gas pump. She stares angrily at the car, watching as a tall, thin, older man with oily blonde hair tumbles out of the driver’s side. He sways from side to side as if drunk.
Karen turns away, unease building in her stomach, and heads into the gas station. The Sunco is quiet except for an old woman attempting to break a hundred dollar bill at the register. Heading towards the restrooms, she notices a broad-shouldered man staring at the rows of magazines beside the window that points out towards her truck. His face is obscured by a black baseball cap and he’s wearing a black leather jacket; very odd given the fact that these May evenings are cool but not chilly. Then again, Karen can’t judge. She’s still wearing the blue flowered blouse and grey pencil skirt she’d put on Tuesday morning for work. (Foggy had raised his eyebrows when she hopped in Ellison’s car with a large purse that only held a t-shirt for pajamas and an extra pair of underwear. She’d simply said she wasn’t staying in Fagan Corners that long. He’d assumed that meant she had spare clothes at her father’s.)
After splashing cold water on her face in the restroom, Karen makes her way to the slushy machine. Lemon, cola, and – sure enough – blueberry. Blueberry Freeze to be exact. The neon fluid looks icy and sugary and may be just the boost Karen needs to make it from I-91 to I-87 and back into the city. She pulls out a medium sized cup, eyes locked on her prize, when she feels the presence of someone standing behind her.
“H-how about iiiitttt…gorgeous? Kisss for good luck?”
Karen whips around to see the driver of the Miata leering at her. His words tumble out in a drunken slur, but his eyes are as clear as a sober man’s. She does a double take, wondering if she’s seen him before. He looks vaguely familiar; like someone she’s seen during one of the many times she sat in court taking notes for Matt.
“No.” Her voice is soft but sharp. Sharp enough that the man with the black baseball cap turns his head slightly.
“Commmmeee on ba…baby,” the man grins. “Relax.”
Karen doesn’t dignify him with an answer. She marches out the door of the gas station; her slushy a forgotten souvenir. Unfortunately, her unexpected admirer doesn’t take the hint. He’s following her now. Waving his keys at Kevin’s truck as if he’s offering to drive.
“Come on baby. You look tired. Why don’t you let me drive?”
Karen continues to ignore him, making a beeline for the truck. She eyes the license plate of the Miata in passing. Once she’s safe in the truck she’ll call 9-1-1. Ask them to dispatch local police to the gas station. The man may be too drunk to drive or he may be a predator; either way, the police should be notified.
“Baabbby.” The man whines, picking up his pace. Karen’s heart races as her hand reaches for the door handle of the truck.
Don’t make me pull out my .380, you bastard. Don’t come any clo –
“STOP.”
A deep voice – rough like gravel - cuts through the night air. “Don’t you dare get in that truck,” it snarls.
Karen and her assailant both turn. Standing a few feet away is the other man from the gas station. The one dressed in all black. His face is turned directly at Karen now, dark brown eyes piercing her like hot coals.
“Excuse me,” she begins, but the figure in black cuts her off.
“I don’t know what you two have been high on, but it doesn’t matter. Give me your keys.”
Heat rushes across Karen’s face. “Like hell I’m going to give you my keys. Who do y -”
The man shakes his head. “Listen lady: Doesn’t matter how good the man’s coke is. Driving Elliot Grote around is a death sentence.”
Elliot Grote…Grote…Gro…Grotto.
The name flashes before Karen’s eyes. The driver of the Miata is familiar because she has seen him in court two years ago. Matt and Foggy represented an older woman named Maria Cardenas who was getting evicted by Grotto. He was accused of raising rent over twenty percent for older tenants at the Belleview Apartment on the east side of Hell’s Kitchen…and letting members of the Irish mafia stay there rent-free. Her friends had won the case, and Elliot Grote had been required to pay their client for the financial damages. She hasn’t heard anything of the man since; except when Ben Urich mentioned Grote’s arrest for possible wire fraud. That had been six months ago. Why was he here now?
These thoughts flow through Karen’s mind in a brief second, and she’s not the only one who’s affected by man’s words. Grotto’s entire demeanor changes; he lunges at the other man – no longer three sheets to the wind. The figure in black blocks Grotto’s attack with the skill of a boxer, but lets out a roar. That’s when Karen sees a silver flash in Grotto’s hand: A switchblade knife.
Shit.
She leaps towards the truck, fumbling with the keys. Inhaling and exhaling, Karen calms down long enough to grab her .380 out of the glove compartment. Keeping her weapon on safe, Karen turns in time to see the figure in black pin Grotto down to the ground with his left hand and knees, the knife a discarded relic on the asphalt. The man’s right hand – bloody though it may be – is raining a series of punches to Grotto’s face.
“You bastard!” The man is snarling.
Grotto’s whimpering. “Y-you shoulda stayed out of this!”
Karen clicks the safety off and aims her .380. “STOP!”
The man in black, her gas station vigilante, looks up in surprise. His brown eyes widen. “Shhh…Shhh…It wasn’t me. I’m not the reason this guy is…look ma’am…he’s bad news.”
“Put your hands in the air,” she commands. “Do it.”
The man opens his right palm, left still placed firmly on Grotto’s chest. “Okay,” he whispers quietly. “Okay.”
Locking eyes with him, Karen falters – unsure of how to proceed. At that moment, three police cars pull up. The teenage clerk at the Sunco counter must have made a phone call to 9-1-1.
***
The following hour and a half is a whirlwind. Karen spends what feels like forever in handcuffs.
She tries not to make eye contact with her gas station vigilante, standing a few feet away as he undergoes his own interrogation. Instead, she focuses on the millions of questions law enforcement throw at her.
No, she has no connection to Elliot Grote.
Yes, she has a “conceal and carry” permit for her handgun. See: The paperwork is in her purse.
Yes, that’s her truck.
Yes, the registration on the truck is valid.
No, she’s not a local. She lives in New York. She’s coming back from visiting her father in Fagan Corners, Vermont.
Karen fears her heart might stop as a police officer mulls over her ID and registration. The middle aged man stares at it for a solid ten minutes after he questions her. She keeps reminding herself she’s in Connecticut; her current driver’s license is from the State of New York; and any rumors of a mysterious accident causing a teen fatality are only rumors in Vermont. When the officer finally hands her back her gun and ID, Karen lets out a sigh of relief.
“Thank you for your cooperation Miss Page,” the officer tips his hat. “You’ll be free to go soon.”
She’s about to ask what that means when the officer does an about face and heads towards his patrol car. Hugging herself – because the chill of the May evening has finally set in – Karen has nothing to do, but listen to her gas station vigilante make his own report to police. He’s standing a few feet away, hand wrapped in an ace bandage thanks to EMT’s on the scene. Karen wants to be furious at him or fearful of him, but the brusque way he describes his part in the altercation to police makes her soften a bit.
No, I don’t have any connection to Miss Page or Eliot Grote.
Yes, Eliot Grote appeared drunk when he walked into the gas station.
Yes, I was incorrect about the association. I saw Grote follow Miss Page to her truck and assumed they were in the same vehicle. I was concerned about one of them driving high or drunk.
The officer questioning the man in black speaks loudly enough that Karen doesn’t even have to pretend she’s listening. Everyone can hear him.
“Pete Castiglione, huh… No record. Just a Good Samaritan? We appreciate the help, but you’re not Captain America. You don’t need to bring the fight to the bad guy…though by the looks of it you’re used to that.”
Karen’s eyes dart over to see Pete Castiglione staring at the police officer with a hundred-yard-stare she’s only seen in movies like GI Jane. There’s a long scar running down his cheek and bruises under his eyes. Her natural reporter’s curiosity gets the better of her as she stares. He’s been in a couple of fights…
…and is still very handsome.
“Excuse me? Are you Miss Page?”
Karen jumps a bit, face turning red as if everyone can hear that very last thought.
She turns to find a beautiful dark-haired woman hovering beside her. The woman’s dressed in a navy jacket with the words Homeland Security running across it and the badge above her left breast reads D. Madani.
“Yes, yes I am.”
The woman doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften a bit. “I’m Agent Madani with Homeland Security. I have a few questions to ask you regarding Eliot Grote.”
Karen nods, mentally preparing herself to go through the same answers she’d shared with Connecticut PD.
“Do you know Eliot Grote is breaking probation by crossing state lines?”
“No ma’am.”
“Do you know he’s being charged with money laundering and wire fraud in connection to the Cookson Park construction project?”
Karen’s blood runs cold. The Cookson Park project was being funded by Union Allied. The discrepancies in financial backing for the project are at the heart of her proposed article to Mitchell Ellison.
“N-no. No, ma’am.” She hopes the federal agent doesn’t notice the slight hitch in her voice.
Agent Madani pauses, studying Karen for a moment. “Do you realize he’s stone cold sober?”
Karen gapes at her, willing her beating heart to stop pounding so loud. The agent just sighs, pulling a card out of her pocket. “Here’s my contact information. If you think of anything else, please call me.” She steps back, eyeing Kevin’s truck. “And be careful driving back to New York.”
Karen leans back against the hood of the truck, watching Agent Madani stalk towards Pete Castiglione. There’s an odd sense of familiarity between the two of them. Madani is whispering sternly to the man, almost as if he’s in trouble. Karen has that weird feeling in her gut again – what does Peter Parker call it…her “spider sense” – and it’s telling her that something’s off. She’s just not sure if it’s the fact that Eliot Grote seemed to be targeting her, or that her vigilante in all black seems to be on a fist name basis with a federal agent. She wonders –by
Fuck!
A jagged piece of metal digs into Karen’s calf, causing her to step back from the truck. She turns to survey the vehicle and a lump catches in her throat.
Kevin was alive the last time I pulled a gun out of this glove box.
Blinking back tears, Karen opens the door to the truck. She needs to get back to New York and make good on her promise.
“Ma’am! Wait. Please.”
Karen turns slowly. Pete Castiglione is standing a few feet away with his baseball cap in his hands, looking sheepish. His face is illuminated by the light from the gas station, showcasing a myriad of bruises. Still, with the five o’clock shadow peppering his face and dark brown eyes, Karen is once again reminded that he’s handsome.
Handsome. Probably knows it too..
It irritates her, seeing another “handsome man” who thinks he can play knight in shining armor. She’s read that story before. Lived it even. After Matt Murdock sat down in her jail cell.
She stuffs the attraction, the loss, the uncertainty – all of those messy feelings - down, latching to an emotion that’s more readily available: Anger. “What do you want,” she hisses.
Pete Castiglione takes a step back, his coffee-colored eyes widening with indignation.
“Well?”
“Well? Well – goddamnit lady. Did that federal agent not tell you who your little admirer was?”
Karen huffs, not wanting to be reminded of Eliot Grote. “Yeah. She did.”
“Well then? I said he was bad news. Now do you believe me?”
“Do I - ” Karen chokes on the words. “Why the hell did you think I was with him?” She blinks indignantly.
The man laughs softly, shaking his head. “I keep an eye on my surroundings ma’am. It’s helped me stay alive. Let me ask you something: What was I supposed to think? I see a well-known hit man waltz into the gas station like he’s three sheets to the wind. I also see a pretty girl stepping out of truck that looks like it’s been to hell and back. How - ” he paused, gesturing to the silver Dodge. “How the hell do you even drive that thing? The engine’s practically exposed. Transmission is probably shot. It’s a death trap.”
The blood rushes to Karen’s face. She can take an aggressive but well-meaning Good Samaritan, but someone judging Kevin’s truck…It’s just too much.
“You are such an asshole!” She yells loudly enough that the crowd of police officers looks over.
The man doesn’t seemed phased by her anger. His eyes flash as though he appreciates the challenge. “Yeah. You got that right. I - ”
His demeanor changes from cocky to genuine concern as Karen opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat.
“Ma’am! You can’t drive that truck. It’s not – it’s not safe! At least let me take a look at it. Plea…Ma’am. MA’AM!”
Karen doesn’t answer. She just puts the truck in drive and steers sharply away from the Sunco, nodding to the cluster of police as she passes by. All she wants to do is get back to New York. Get Kevin’s truck fixed.
And hopefully forget her run-in with a gas station vigilante.