all the angels

August 22nd, 1971

A twelve-year-old Alicent Hightower stares at the grave of her mother. Alyrie Hightower (née Florent). May 26th, 1937 - August 10th, 1971. Beloved wife and mother. Alicent thought it was a rude thing to put on a headstone. Her mother had been more than that. More than four words. Alicent’s mother had loved to dance—she had a particular affinity for American country, which Alicent had always found silly. She liked Hank Williams and Johnny Cash the most. In the car, her mother would always tune the radio to the station that played American music, whooping and tapping her hands against the steering wheel when one of her favorite songs would play. Alicent wanted that on the headstone—the image of her mother hollering in their old Chevy, driving a reluctant Alicent to the grocery store. 

“It’s all right, dear,” her grandmother—her father’s mother, places a hand on her shoulder. Her mother’s mother had died when Alicent was still young, maybe five, but memory feels fuzzy now. 

The only memory she has of that day is her mother peering over the kitchen table, sniffling. Her memory blinks and her mother is wiping her eyes, forcing a smile onto her face as she realizes she’s being watched. It’s okay, Alicent, you know, just because your mother is gone, it doesn’t mean you stop being a daughter. I’ll always be her daughter, just like you’ll always be mine. Right now, Alicent doesn’t feel like she’ll always be her mother’s daughter. Right now, she feels like a girl who misses her mom. 

“She’s with God now,” her grandmother says this as if it is going to reassure her. Alicent wonders what God has done to deserve her mother. She knows this is meant to be a comfort to her, but a seed of doubt rests in the pit of Alicent’s stomach. A seed that will fester into something rotted within her, something she does not know how to fix. 

Alicent is twelve-years-old when her mother dies. Alicent is twelve-years-old when she first feels betrayed by the man she calls her God. 

December 2nd, 1992

“Special Agent Targaryen, this is my partner, Special Agent Hightower, we’d like to speak to you about your wife’s case,” Rhaenyra introduces at the door of Richard Gould, one hand shoved in the pocket of her FBI windbreaker and the other holding out her badge. Alicent would have been a bit nicer in her own introduction, but she’s standing a step behind Rhaenyra, looking at the house. 

The last time they had spoken to Richard, he had come down to the FBI headquarters in New Haven. This was the first time Alicent was meeting him on his turf. He was a suspect Alicent had not ruled out—regardless of his handwriting matching the notes left at the scene or not. Something Alicent had learned in her years as an agent was that handwriting was something that could be manipulated, something that could be changed, mocked, or replicated. Handwriting, though it helped, was never going to be the be-all, end-all in this case. It was simply another piece of the puzzle.

She looks up at the house—a faded green colonial that looked like it might have been full of life at one point, but now just looked aged and tired. Snow dusts the eaves, small icicles forming after last night’s storm. The walkway hasn’t been shoveled—Rhaenyra had almost slipped on the ice in her haste to get to the door and Alicent had stifled a laugh. The snow is built up around the tires of the old truck sitting in the driveway and there are no tracks as if no one has left in a few days. 

“I was already spoken to months ago, that one knows,” Richard sounds dejected as he raises a finger to point at Alicent, suddenly garnering her attention. She turns back to him, eyes wide. 

When she says nothing, Rhaenyra steps in once more. “We’re aware, but there’s been some new details in the case that we’d like to discuss with you. All of this will go towards finding the guy who murdered your wife, isn’t that something you want?”

He grunts, a non-answer, as he widens the door and allows them to step inside. Alicent ducks her head and follows Rhaenyra, hands shoved in the pockets of her windbreaker as she wipes the snow off her feet on the welcome mat. Bless this home, it reads. The words are so faded it kind of just looks like Bl ss this ho e. Alicent resists the urge to chuckle as she steps inside. The door slams behind them with a thud.

“Is it alright if we do this in my study? The girls are home,” he asks, looking cautiously up the stairs as if these aforementioned girls are peering over the bannister, listening. On the mantle, Alicent catches a family photo—the man in front of her is a stranger compared to the man in the photo. He’s smiling from ear-to-ear, wearing an ivory cashmere sweater that matches the one his wife is wearing. Leona wears a long black skirt and tights that cover every inch of skin. The girls—according to Alicent’s research into the family—are seventeen now, but in this photo they are much younger, likely around eleven or twelve, crammed into dresses that look reminiscent of what Alicent was often forced to wear to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Richard had neglected to mention his daughters in his first interview with David and her, but some digging had been quick to reveal the twins. Alicent was still curious as to why that was. Why he wrote them out of his statement. 

“Fine by me, Alicent?” Rhaenyra asks, turning to get Alicent’s attention. 

She perks up, looking away from the photos on the mantle, nodding. “Yup, fine.” 

They continue down the hallway on the first floor, entering a small study. It looks like exactly the sort of thing Alicent expects to find in the home of an upper middle-class family in New England. A pair of rifles sit on the wall behind the large oak desk, black and white photos of what must have been Richard's family when he was younger sitting around them. In one, they sit with a giant moose felled in front of them. A magnificent beast, now dead with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Alicent swallows down her thoughts of David. 

There’s only one seat behind the desk and Richard takes that one while Alicent leans against the wall behind the shut door. Rhaenyra settles for exploring the room, looking at the books on the shelves. There’s a layer of dust on both the books and the shelf—it would seem Richard only reads for show. 

“Big hunter?” Rhaenyra asks, nodding to the rifles. 

Richard turns around, looking at the rifles as if discovering them for the first time. “Yes, well—I used to be. I stopped going out as much when the girls were born. Adelaide hates that I hunt, she’s an animal lover. Sometimes I wonder how we’re related.”

Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows, crossing her arms and nodding over to Alicent, signalling for her to take the lead. They had planned how this would go a little bit prior to them knocking on Mr. Gould’s door—by planned, Alicent means five minutes sitting across the street in her DeVille arguing over who is going to be in charge. 

“Mr. Gould, is it alright with you if we record this interview? Primarily so we may transcribe it for our own notes on the case,” Alicent explains, pulling a small tape recorder out of her pocket.

“If you must,” he sighs, waving her off with a firm hand. Alicent places the tape recorder on the desk and hits the record button. The click and pull of it echoes against the walls of the room.  

“Please state your name and relation to the victim for our records,” Alicent’s voice is gentle, careful not to prod at him or agitate. Alicent has never been a fan of speaking to people at all. Most of the time, she allowed David to spearhead the interviews. People never seemed to respond well to Alicent—something about her unsettled them. Even so, she doesn’t trust Rhaenyra to go at this entirely. So, some sacrifices had to be made.

“Richard Gould. Husband to Leona Gould,” he says, his voice gruff. It’s not dissimilar to the first time he introduced himself for the record back at headquarters. 

Alicent stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed against her stomach. She wishes she had somewhere to sit, but this will have to do. “Your wife was very deeply integrated into the church and you are as well, assisting with the teen bible study programs. Did you get into this because of your daughters?”

He huffs. “My daughters don’t spend a lick of time in the church that they don’t have to. They let their mother drag them to Sunday service and that was it. They’ve never come to one of my bible studies. Adelaide just doesn’t care for it and Rochelle just seems to have… a disdain for it. I’m not sure where she got that from. Her mother and I always instilled in her the importance of a religious foundation to build one’s life around.”

“So, you consider yourself to be a religious man?” Alicent asks, even though the question seems obvious. Sometimes, the way someone reacts to something deemed obvious can say more about them than the answer itself does. 

“Of course,” he grunts, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. Richard Gould is a large, burly man. His face is unshaven, a once-well groomed mustache on his face and what could only be described as an overgrown five o’clock shadow. He looks nothing like the man on the mantle. Though, Alicent supposes the death of someone loved would change a man. Lord knows it changed her. “I’d be wasting my Sundays if I wasn’t.” 

“Were you aware your wife was having an affair with the priest?” Rhaenyra interjects, her voice blasé as she picks up one of the books resting atop his bookshelf, disturbing the steady layer of dust. Alicent watches the sunlight streaming in through the window catch the specks. Today is a rare break in the snowstorms they’ve been having all winter. It’s only a matter of time until the day falls dark yet again and more snow begins to build. 

Where Rhaenyra is casual, Alicent is hard—watching the man’s expression. His face hardens instantly, twisting into one of disgust. “It was something I wasn’t until a few months ago when she turned up dead and he seemed awfully distraught at that funeral. She’d been spending long nights at the church, helping him put together services, was what she said, managing the donations and whatnot. Nights started getting later and later. I had my suspicions, but no one wants to believe the worst thing could be happening—well, second worst. I guess getting murdered takes the cake for number one.” 

“You must be very adept at studying people to catch onto an affair based on a few late nights and extra tears shed at a funeral,” Alicent hums, her voice distant as her eyes dart to the window before resting on the rifles on the walls. A hunter knows many things—more than just how to aim and shoot. They know just where to cut, where to bleed, where to skin. A hunter is someone they should be looking at. He’s a big man, too—strong enough to overpower David in a pinch. Her eyes land back on him. “Plenty of people cry at funerals.”

“I don’t know how many funerals you been to, but the priest ain’t usually a blubbering idiot unless he was fucking my wife,” Richard grits through his teeth, a lilt slipping out to his words. He must not have grown up here, Alicent would recognize the tilt of a southern long moved on anywhere. “You ever been married?”

“No—” Rhaenyra starts answering, but Richard cuts her off.

“Not asking you, I can tell by lookin’ at ya. I’m asking her.”

Alicent’s eyes flit over to Rhaenyra, trying to discern what about her gives never been married. The men’s shirts, maybe, but someone like Richard wouldn’t notice that. Not with a blazer and a windbreaker thrown over her button-up, obscuring it. Maybe it’s the way she stands, casual, like she owns the room. That sort of confidence is not something found in most of the married women Alicent knows. Rhaenyra bristles at the comment, Alicent watches her shoulders rise and then fall, an annoyed look settling on her sharp features. Alicent turns back over to Richard.

“No, never,” Alicent answers, voice steady. “Why?”

“Well, when something like that happens, it’s one of those things you just know. I nearly leapt over my poor baby’s coffin when I put two and two together. It’s a different sort of feeling,” Richard explains, scratching his scruff as he avoids both of their eyes. “What does my wife’s affair have to do with her murder?”

“Something like that gives plenty of motive.”

“For a serial killer?” Richard asks, “You said there were more of them. That’s why they got you on the case instead of the police.” 

Alicent changes the subject. “Did your wife have any enemies at the church? You know how there’s a hierarchy to these sorts of things—plenty of women would like to have the sort of respect in the position your wife held, wouldn’t they?”

“As far as I know? All the church ladies loved her,” Richard answers, seemingly grateful for the change. “You keep asking me these things like this is some isolated incident, what aren’t you telling me?”

Alicent and Rhaenyra share a look. Rhaenyra takes the reins, “Well, Mr. Gould, the women that were killed before your wife, their deaths were… methodical, thought out, impersonal. Your wife’s was a bit more reckless, passionate. We are inclined to believe that, if these are the same killer—which we strongly believe it is, your wife may have been a more personal vendetta. She was the oldest killed so far and the only one killed not in her own home. If we can pin down a motive specifically for your wife’s murder, we may be able to put more pieces together in our larger case. Does that make sense?”

Richard’s eyes dart between the two of them, tensing up as Rhaenyra recounts the more grisly details of a case. Something Alicent has noticed when interrogating people—suspects or otherwise, is that if you get them talking about certain aspects enough, they almost seem to forget why they’re there. Bringing up the details surrounding the death tend to act as a bucket of ice water thrown over their heads. Alicent has seen it a hundred times—she recognizes it now. 

“And I bet an affair seems like a damn good reason to break a pattern?” Richard offers, catching Rhaenyra’s look of slight surprise. “I know what wolves like you look for. I’ll swear it on a bible if I need to, I didn’t know a damn thing about the two of them until she was already in the box.”

Alicent widens her eyes, thinking back to the photo on the mantle. “Would we be able to speak to your daughters? With you or a lawyer present, it’s up to you.”

Something in Richard’s expression changes, seeming like a shadow crosses his features. “They don’t have anything to do with this. They’re too busy mourning their mother. I think if you ladies don’t have any more questions, then perhaps you’ve overstayed your welcome. If you don’t mind.”

Alicent wants to press further. She wants to speak to the girls. Just because Richard didn’t know about the affair—allegedly—until Leona was dead, doesn’t mean they didn’t. Even so, there are rules to this sort of thing. If the girls are minors, they can’t be interviewed without an adult present. Outside, darkness falls. Another storm brewing. They should get out of here before the weather gets worse.

“Thank you for your time, sir, I think we’re alright to find the door,” Rhaenyra nods, accepting defeat. The two of them exit the study, leaving the door open so Richard can watch and ensure they leave. When Alicent turns, he’s standing in the doorway, watching the two of them. Alicent looks around the house once more—catching two identical faces staring at her through the gaps in the railing of the stairs. 

Alicent doesn’t acknowledge the twins, not wanting to anger their father, but she commits their faces to memory. For later. She turns and exits the house not far behind Rhaenyra. 

Neither of them speak until they’re back to the car, Alicent rushing to get it started and get the heat going. Rhaenyra breaks the silence first. “I think he’s telling the truth. About not knowing.”

“Me too,” Alicent agrees, staring straight ahead. “I think the girls know something. At least one of them does. There’s a reason he doesn’t want us speaking to them.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrows, an expression of skepticism. “You think?” 

“Kids tend to see a lot more than their parents think,” Alicent hums, finally putting the car into drive and taking off down the road. Through the window, just before they drive away, she can see one of the twins peering at them. Alicent focuses on the road. It’s a lengthy drive back to New Haven. “Could be one of them, or both, knew something was going on and told the father. Maybe after she was dead—but there has to be more to how he found out. We have to find a way to speak to the daughters.”

She’s curious about one of them in particular. The non-believer. Someone who questions God growing up in a family that doesn’t is something that fits the profile she and Rhaenyra have been building—the profile of someone trying to act like a believer. 

“Careful, Hightower, you know the rules,” Rhaenyra reminds her.

“I know,” Alicent muses, a steady silence falling over the car. She can feel Rhaenyra’s eyes boring a hole into the side of her head. She takes the opportunity as they pull onto the highway to ask the question that’s really been on her mind. “Why’d he make that snide comment about you not being married? How’d he know?”

Rhaenyra huffs out a bitter laugh. “You’re a detective. Figure it out, Hightower.”

Alicent allows herself a moment to look at Rhaenyra—at the sharp line of her jaw, the mess of her hair (once again, still too messy for her liking). Rhaenyra is… not bad looking. It’s not unbelievable to think some man would be at home waiting for her. She doesn’t like the idea of a man like Richard being able to figure out something she can’t—something Rhaenyra is clearly aware of. It’s a puzzle that makes her skin itch. Her grip around the steering wheel is white-knuckled, but neither of them say anything about it. 

“You know,” Rhaenyra breaks the silence once more after about twenty minutes of uninterrupted driving. Alicent’s eye twitches softly. “In all your reports, you never said why you went to the church that night. The night they found him.” 

July 1st, 1992

6:00pm.

Alicent’s skin itches. She’s too hot—it’s never supposed to get this hot in Connecticut, it’s why she likes it. It reminds her of home in that sense. She paces around her house, her living room decimated with details of the case strewn all about. Crime scene photos litter her walls, transcripts and profile descriptions on her maroon carpet, a bible is tossed open on the floor, verses circled in red pen. Alicent doesn’t know what any of them mean—none of them make sense. Maybe if she had gone to church, if she had been better, if she had been good, she would be able to make them make sense. 

Her shirt is half-unbuttoned, tucked into slacks that make her skin crawl. She can feel every brush of fabric against skin, uncomfortable sweat building on the back of her neck. Something is wrong—something needs to be done. She doesn’t know what it is, she just feels wrong. She should know this, she should be able to figure this out. Why can’t she figure this out? 

“Father,” she calls out to no one in particular, her voice hoarse with unuse, “Father, I haven’t been good. My prayers—fuck, I forgot my prayers and now look at me. Fuck. Fuck.”

She isn’t thinking straight when she heads for the door, grabbing her keys on the way out. 

December 2nd, 1992. 

“I was doing my due diligence,” Alicent answers, her voice tense, rehearsed. “David and I had only recently made the connection that they were all members of the same church. It was a tough thing to track since Margaret—victim number one—hadn’t been in a few years, some of the people we talked to didn’t know her. Once we pieced it together, though, I wanted to go check it out. It just happened to be that day.”

She can feel Rhaenyra staring at her. She resists the urge to glance over in her direction, keeping her eyes focused on the road. She can feel the bumps of snowy tracks beneath her tires, trying to follow the lines made by other drivers, but the texture remains the same. One wrong move would send them both flying into the guardrails. 

“And how often, in our line of work, do things just happen?” Rhaenyra pesters and suddenly, one wrong move is looking really good right now.

“I’m a religious woman, sometimes the church calls when you least expect it.”

“When was the last time the church called to you, Alicent?” The usage of her first name has her grip on the wheel tightening. Disturbing of Rhaenyra to think she knows Alicent like that. This is only the second day they’ve been working together, Rhaenyra needs to know she can’t just investigate Alicent alongside the case.

“I think you’re focusing on the wrong mystery here,” Alicent forces a chuckle, though it sounds strained, wrong. “We’re trying to catch a killer, not a bad Catholic.”

“Just trying to get to know my partner.” Rhaenyra shrugs, adjusting in her seat. Alicent can practically feel the way Rhaenyra’s eyes trace over her and she wishes she knew what Rhaenyra was looking for in her. “Maybe I’ll start with something easier—you have any siblings?”

“A brother. Back in England,” Alicent grits out, almost grateful for having to suffer through smalltalk. “We don’t talk very often, he was much older than me.”

“He married? Kids?”

“No,” Alicent keeps her voice terse. Gwayne had never seemed overly interested in settling down with a woman—she hardly saw him date at all and he was well over forty. She always found it odd, but he’s the only family she has left so she doesn’t press buttons. The last time she saw him was their father’s funeral—ten years ago. Alicent was twenty-three, a fresh faced applicant to the FBI Academy. Gwayne resented the decision, he hated having Alicent be so far away. He reminded her too much of her father in that sense. Alicent hadn’t been back to England since the funeral and she planned to keep it that way.

Rhaenyra hums thoughtfully, turning to face the road. Alicent tries to calculate the minutes back to the headquarters based on the street signs. She reckons she only has to suffer through seven more minutes of this. Six if she speeds. Tough to speed on snowy roads, but these are sacrifices Alicent is willing to make. “What about you? I know you’re not married, but you’re telling me you don’t have a boyfriend or anything?”

“Do I really seem like the type of woman men find interesting?” Alicent scoffs. She’s never focused much on the prospect of dating, not since college. University was spent going on occasional dates with boys who were much too dumb to like her and the ones she did like—well, the affection always used to fade much quicker than she liked. She never knew what to make of it. She thinks back to sitting alone on the floor in her room as a child, solving puzzles. She never cared much for the company of others. Not men, at the very least. They were distractions. Alicent never cared much for a distraction, not when there were things to be solved. If there were any other reasons as to why she never seemed to yearn to hold down a relationship, Alicent never bothered to dissect it. It was one of the few things about her she never cared to find out. “They usually see the badge and go running. They don’t often like when a woman has more power than them and I walk around with a gun strapped to my hip. Wouldn’t you know a thing like that?”

Rhaenyra laughs—a brief but full-bodied burst, “Yeah, I’m not really well versed in men either.” 

Alicent hums her disapproval, unsure what to make of a response like that. The six minutes back to the office are spent in silence.