1.

Jem Van Doren's Apartment

Seven River Drive

Rena shudders beneath her coat, stamping her feet as she waits for Jem to answer the doorbell. Fortunately there's a small roof above her head, which means not too much snow has gathered itself on the stairs leading up to Jem's front door. But she still has to hold one hand carefully around the iron railing, since her shoes have almost no traction against the ice that's accumulated over the past few days.

After five minutes pass, Rena peeks in the side window, her hand trying to block out the moonlight so she can see the darkened apartment within. It's not entirely dark -- there's a television on, at any rate. But through this window it's impossible to see if Jem is inside.

She turns around, carefully making her way down the cement steps, and tramps through the thick snowfall to the side of the building. The windows here are obscured by evergreen bushes, but Rena's small enough to slip through without too much trouble. Clutching at the wall, she stands on a small ledge to look inside.

He is there. He's sitting on a chair, at an awkward angle due to his leg cast. But he's upright and obviously awake.

Relief sweeps through Rena, and she realizes that until now, she's been secretly afraid of finding him unconscious -- or worse.

She wipes the window pane with one hand, clearing it of the frost from her own breath, and uses the other gloved hand to rap on the glass.

"Jem!" she calls, trying to be loud enough for him to hear, but not so loud that the neighbors end up calling the police. "Jem, can you hear me? It's Rena!"

A few seconds pass, and eventually the noise gets through to him. He turns towards the window, and though she can't see his eyes thanks to the shadows from the TV set, it appears that he's seen her. She waves at him and points at the door.

It takes him a long time to make his decision, but finally he lurches forward to grab his crutch. His balance is off, but Rena's not surprised considering his injuries and, undoubtedly, his shaken state of mind.

Rena hops down from the small ledge and treks over to the front stoop. The bottom of her expensive dress is water-logged, probably damaged with salt stains, but after everything that's happened tonight, the wasted money isn't all that important to her.

She waits patiently as Jem unlocks the door, at last swinging it open. For a moment Rena shivers in silence, expecting him to speak first. When it's clear that isn't going to happen, she enters the apartment.

"Oh, Jem," she says. "Jem, I'm so sorry."

Jem turns around, leaving her to shut the door herself. "You're not the only one," he mutters, limping away from her. "Hell, you don't even know what sorry is."

Rena moves to follow him, and is automatically assaulted by the unmistakable scent of alcohol. She freezes in place. "Are you drinking?"

"Give the girl a medal. She figured out my dark secret." Jem lowers himself into his chair, his hand clutching absently for a whisky bottle that's a few inches out of his reach.

Without hesitating, Rena leans down to grab the bottle, clutching it to her chest. "Are you insane? You're on pain medication, you're not supposed to have any alcohol! You could kill yourself!"

His narrow eyes peer at her, their already pale blue color turning almost white in the light of the muted television. "And lemme guess, that's supposed to be a bad thing?"

"Yes. It's the worst thing." She swallows, taking in the pain that practically radiates from him. "Can you tell me what's going on? I've been at the hospital, I haven't heard anything about the building itself."

"The building. Oh yeah, that'd be the newspaper building. My newspaper building." Jem pauses, letting his fingertips meet together under his chin. "Well, le'ssee. The bottom three floors are basically charcoal, but the rest isn't all that bad, from what pretty Peggy whassername on the news tells me." He suddenly clutches the arms of his chair, leaning forward. "You've been to the hospital?"

"I went with Greg when we heard--"

"Do you know about Lainie? Is she -- " Jem's breathing quickens, and he stands up to move towards Rena, grabbing her arm. "How is she?"

At over six feet tall, Jem towers over Rena by nine full inches. But Rena stands firm, knowing he needs to learn on her for strength. "When I left she was in surgery. Her neck is broken, but--"

"Oh Jesus Christ!" His hands dig into her shoulders as he moans. "You can't survive a broken neck! You die from that, don't you?"

"No! Not always. I promise you, Jem, I don't think her life is at great risk. I mean, there's always a risk in surgery, but--"

"Is she paralyzed? Is her spine broken?"

"Her spine isn't broken."

"But is she gonna be crippled?"

Rena hesitates. "She was still in surgery when I left. I don't know if -- if her ability to move is compromised."

Jem keeps breathing heavily, turning his face away from her. "And White," he mutters. "What about him? They didn't say anything about him on the news."

"I won't lie to you, Jem. It's -- he's in very serious condition. But they're doing everything they can to make sure he comes out of this."

"I don't believe this. This is a goddamned nightmare. If he dies..."

He doesn't continue, and Rena hesitates before responding, wanting to change the subject from the victims. "Have you heard anything from the fire department yet? Do they know how it started?"

Shaking his head, Jem makes a guttural noise and suddenly grabs at the bottle that Rena's still clasping close to her. She hugs it tightly, not letting him near. "No, I told you, you shouldn't--"

"Shouldn't? Screw what I shouldn't!" He shoves his crutch away, and with the other hand slams across the top of the television set to send the VCR and cable box crashing to the ground. "Screw that! I've already done everything I shouldn't, there's nothing left!"

Rena backs away from his wild desperation. For the first time she's frightened -- for Jem and for herself.

2.

Hudson Arts Center

Grand Ballroom

Laurie Nichols feels her fiancé's hand caressing her back as he guides her from the ballroom towards the exit. She smiles at Victor Fiore's touch, lifting her chin so she can glance over her shoulder to him.

"I think we put it off as long as possible, sugar," she murmurs, feeling his lips brush the back of her neck after he moves away the curtain of her gleaming red hair. "But we've gotta go over to your family before we leave."

Victor groans, and rests his forehead against her head. "Are you sure?"

"You know the answer to that. They already think of me as some kinda succubus. If you don't even say 'hi' to 'em once when they're only twenty feet away, I can just imagine what voodoo they'll think I've hexed you with."

He hesitates, his mouth suddenly lifting in a wicked grin. "Yeah, and they won't know the half of it. Succubus, huh? I like the sound of that."

She smirks. "I bet you do. C'mon ..." Taking his hand, she glances over to her own family's matriarch. "And while we're at it, let's take Madame X over there with us."

"Are you nuts? Take Adele Nichols to meet my family?"

"Why not? Didn't you say she was asking about 'em all night?"

"But my father -- and Mike, for pete's sake--"

"Oh, relax. When she wants to, ol' Addie can charm the pants off Lucifer himself. Hell," Laurie adds with a low chuckle, "that's how Cam got himself born. Now will you stop bein' such a wimp?"

"Okay, baby, you win." Victor's fingers curl around her shoulder. "But will you take off the pin first?"

Laurie's hand reflexively reaches up to cover the Fiore family heirloom pinned to her breast. But after a few seconds she flushes, moving her hand away. "They're gonna know you took it sometime. Might as well show 'em now, in public, where they won't make a fuss."

"You don't know my family. We're not the cool, collected type like you guys. Being in public won't make a difference."

She turns to face him, measuring him carefully, from his dark wavy hair to his intense clear gaze to the full lips that usually wear a crooked smile. Her attitude turns serious. "If you're ashamed of giving this to me, you might as well take it back. 'Cause it means you wanna hide what I am to you. Just like the rest of your family."

"That's crazy. I'm not ashamed, I just know they'll be pissed off that I snuck it out without asking--"

"Look, didn't your mama want her things given out to your wives?"

"And Julie, yeah, but--"

"Well, am I, or am I not, your soon-to-be-wife?"

He sighs. "Laurie..."

"There you go. Hell, by rights, I should be wearin' the necklace that your brother's little live-in girlfriend is showin' off." She tosses a contemptuous look at Martina Rosenoff across the ballroom. "It's obviously the main piece of the jewelry set. An' your mama wanted her things to go to her sons' wives -- not their roommates."

"I know that," Victor mutters darkly. "You don't have to remind me."

"But just 'cause your daddy hates my guts--"

"Pop doesn't hate you!"

Laurie doesn't skip a beat. "Mike does, he hates me an' my family an' you know it. He'd rather ruin the whole point of your mama's legacy than accept the fact that we're gonna be married."

Victor sighs again, obviously not understanding the whole issue -- he couldn't, Laurie knows, since he's unaware of the significance of that necklace to Adele Nichols. Which puts him only a little behind Laurie, since she has no idea why the old witch is so intent on the damn thing either.

But Laurie knows her fiancé recognizes the truth in her words: his mother's intentions were ignored. And that's the part that grates on him the most.

"Okay, you win," he exhales. "Let 'em know I took the pin, I don't care."

Poppy-colored lips twisting into a satisfied smile, Laurie kisses him, pats him on the cheek, and then goes to get Adele.

3.

Hudson Concert Hall

Grand Ballroom

Table #12

Mike Fiore places the bronze satin wrap over Martina's bare shoulders, and then holds out her chair for her. "I've been wondering how you've avoided getting pneumonia all night," he murmurs, grinning into her olive-toned face. "Weren't you cold?"

Martina laughs. "It's amazing what I'm willing to sacrifice anything for fashion. I'm more worried about dropping from sheer exhaustion. This has been a long day."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Can't wait to get into that bed."

"Keep your shirt on, loverboy," his brother Anthony jokes with a slap on his back. "You'll get there soon enough."

"Man, Tony, does that one track mind of yours ever think of anything else?"

Anthony just grins, and Tom -- Mike's closest brother in age -- shrugs in resignation as he stands up. "He's nineteen, Mikey. That's pretty much what he's supposed to be thinking about."

"Got a point there. Guess that's what your immature teen years are for."

"Oh really, Detective?" Martina raises an eyebrow, amused. "You're in your thirties, and I don't see your mind retiring its interest in that particular subject."

Mike's eyes twinkle at her. "Blame yourself," he says, and then sings a line from a favorite Sinatra song: "You make me feel so young..."

Rising from his chair, Carlo wraps his arm around his youngest child, Julie, and grins wearily at Mike. "I wish you'd pass some of that feeling over to me. I'm exhausted myself, and I wasn't even working tonight."

"That's 'cause you get your energy from working. But one night away from the restaurant isn't going to--"

Mike cuts off, his gaze falling on the threesome approaching them. Noting the direction of his stare, the rest of the Fiores and Martina unconsciously move closer together.

Victor Fiore has one arm curled around Laurie's trim waist, and the other linked through the elbow of a tall woman whose lovely, high-cheekboned face is framed by soft waves of white-gold hair. Though she's the only one that Mike doesn't recognize, he immediately is mesmerized by her intense, almost electric topaz gaze.

"Hi, Pop," Victor says quietly, but with a friendly enough smile. "You guys have a good time?"

"Yes, we did, Vittorio." Carlo's tired voice is naturally hoarse, but he tries to force some politeness into it. "Good evening, Laurie,"

"Evenin', Mr. Fiore." Mike can see the excitement in her green eyes, half-hidden as usual by sleepy, lowered lids. "I wanted y'all to meet someone. Victor, you do the introducin'."

Victor glances at her before speaking. "Adele," he says, turning to the older woman. "This is my father, Carlo Fiore."

Adele looks at Carlo with a delighted curl to her red lips. "I'm Adele Nichols, Mr. Fiore. And I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to meeting you," she says, her cultured voice low and musical.

The Nichols' matriarch has the demeanor of a queen holding court, and Mike's frankly surprised she didn't use the royal "we." When she lifts her arm gracefully, like a swan lifting its neck, Carlo shakes her hand ... but Mike can't help but wonder if she expected him to kiss it.

His father's obviously a little taken aback by the warmth of her greeting. "Thank you, Mrs. Nichols. That's very kind. If you don't mind my asking -- are you Laurie's mother?"

Laurie smiles mischievously, betraying some secret pleasure at the comment, but Adele simply shakes her head. "No. We have an oddly shaped family tree, I'm afraid, and our relationships can be a bit confusing."

"She's my daddy's second wife," Laurie explains, then turns to Adele with another amused smile. "Not actually all that confusing, once you think about it, huh?"

"Let me see if I can guess who the rest of you are," Adele says to the Fiores, ignoring the comment. "Laurie's told me so much about you, and Victor's done a good job in describing you himself. Obviously this lovely young woman is Julie, and the charming Anthony is beside her. You must be Tom," she adds with a warm smile at the appropriate Fiore. "Which of course leaves oldest brother Mike."

Mike hesitates before accepting her handshake. "Mrs. Nichols. Your reputation precedes you."

"Really? How very flattering to know." Slowly Adele's brown-gold gaze shifts to Martina. "I'm afraid I'm at a loss, my dear. Are you a relative too?"

"I'm with Mike," Martina says, taking her hand lightly. "Martina Rosenoff. Pleasure to meet you."

Mike knows almost every modulation of Martina's voice by now, and senses a slight reserve in her usually friendly demeanor. It surprises him, since until now she's claimed neutrality in Mike's crusade against the Nichols family. He wonders why she's changed her mind now.

Adele doesn't appear to notice -- no reason why she should, of course. "What an exquisite face you have, if you don't mind such brazen flattery. Like an exotic china doll."

"That's -- that's very nice of you to say. Thank you."

The older woman's gaze seems to memorize Martina, and then moves on to return to Victor. "You have a handsome family, Victor. Thank you for indulging my curiosity. Laurie, I think you've made a splendid match."

Despite the compliment, Laurie's smile doesn't seem to reach her eyes. "Couldn't have picked him better yourself, huh?"

As attention turns to Laurie again, Carlo makes a little noise in his throat, which only Mike notices. He looks swiftly at his father, concerned, and then follows the direction of Carlo's stare.

His own eyes widen in shock at the sight of Laurie's all-too-familiar piece of jewelry. Matching the necklace adorning Martina's slender throat, the marcasite and silver pin sparkles as if alive where it rests against Laurie's white dress.

It's Mike's mother's brooch. And it should be locked away in Carlo Fiore's safety deposit box at the bank.

How the hell did she get it?

4.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Fifth Floor Surgery

On his way back to the waiting room, Clark Durand digs the heel of his palm into his left eye, which has been twitching with exhaustion and stress for more than an hour. God help me, will this day ever end?

He'd call today a roller coaster ride, but there have been no "ups" to it -- only chaotic, sometimes frightening "downs." First Mike Fiore's insinuating questions about David Reilly's death. Then Tom's outright accusations that Clark's a murderer, and Noah Morgan's intimidating threats after breaking into his house. Finally, the frightening phone call from Jane Yi, the ER nurse who had recognized the battered body of Clark's mother.

And now, because God forbid his sister should just fade into the background during a time of crisis, he has to worry about Beth too. She's lying unconscious in the room where she'd foolishly given a pint of blood -- 'foolishly,' because right before fainting, Beth hoarsely admitted to the nurse that she hadn't eaten anything all day.

Unbelievable. Didn't he explain that she wouldn't be able to donate blood if she was at risk of her blood pressure plummeting? Didn't he ask if she'd eaten dinner at the gala? And didn't she say "yes," in a defensive tone that implied his question was insulting?

So it was a lie. Big surprise, Clark thinks, turning the corner and sighing. Big fat surprise. With Beth, lying is the most natural thing in the world. Just like their father, in fact.

But Clark can't help but wonder why she'd lie about something so simple. For that matter, why didn't she eat? And what was with those bruises on her arm? It was hard to buy that they'd been self-inflicted because she hated her body, as she'd ridiculously claimed. Even granting her warped view of her curvy body as fat, the truth is, no one pinching themself would be likely to cause such an ugly bruise. People just don't bruise that easily -- unless they're seriously ill, or anemic, or seriously malnourished...

He suddenly exhales heavily, putting all these facts together. Oh Jesus, it's like high school all over again. Another damn eating disorder.

With a quick shake of his head at having to deal with yet another problem, Clark forces Beth out of his mind. He looks around the room, hoping and expecting to find Rena, but ends up disappointed.

So instead of getting comfort from his friend, he decides to see if there's any new information about Doug White.

Greg White is deep in conversation with a teenager who's probably his niece, which leaves Clark with two choices: the tall young man sitting nearby, or Chelsea Stanford -- who's seated by the front desk, looking absently at her nails.

Since he has no idea who the stranger is, Clark slowly walks over to Chelsea. She looks up briefly at him, at first not recognizing him, but after a double-take she seems to remember who he is.

"You're Elaine's son," she says. "Uh, Blake."

He sits heavily beside her. "Clark. We've met a couple of times now, Chelsea."

"Yeah, well, my memory sucks when I'm this zonked. So how is she doing?"

"Still in surgery. It's going well, supposedly, but it'll be a while before I hear anything definite."

"Man. This is all so screwed up."

"That's an understatement." Clark rests his coat on the chair next to him, rubbing his eyes again. "Has Greg gotten any word on Dr. White?"

"No. I think it's gonna be hours. Haven't heard anything in a while now."

"Well, that's good." He sees Chelsea's confused expression, and he adds, "In this case, no news is good news. With injuries as severe as he has, Doug should be in surgery for hours. The only reason they'd stop working on him..." He shrugs, not wanting to finish the thought.

But Chelsea understands his meaning, and quickly glances over to Greg. Clark can see the genuine concern in her wide blue eyes, and the naked emotion surprises him. And then he starts to wonder just why she's the one waiting with Greg.

"Um, have you seen Rena anywhere?"

Chelsea keeps her focus on Greg and Daphne. "She left."

"She left?" Clark can't hide his astonishment. "Where did she go? Is she sick?"

This gets Chelsea's attention, and she frowns at him. "Why would you think she's sick?"

"Because there's no way she'd leave Greg, or me, for that matter. Especially not without telling me. She's the most dogged, loyal person in the world."

Rolling her eyes, Chelsea folds her hands across her chest and leans back in her chair. "Yeah, well, she's being doggy and loyal with someone else. She went to see how Jem's doing."

"Jem? What are you talking about? Since when does she--"

"Since she saved his life. They're like bonded, I guess."

Clark shakes his head. "That is really bizarre. From all my mother's told me about Jem, it's hard to picture Rena being able to be in the same room with him."

Greg White has moved away from his niece, and overhears Clark's last remark. "That's for sure," he says, nodding at Clark in greeting. "I don't get it either. How is your mother doing?"

Standing, Clark shakes Greg's hand, and quickly catches the other man up on Elaine's situation. "You know," he adds, "I'm curious ... do you know why Doug was at the newspaper in the first place?"

Greg looks down at Chelsea, then back to Clark. "Apparently he and your mother are ... friends."

"My mother? Friends with someone like Doug?" Clark realizes what a stupid thing he's just said, and hastily adds, "No offense, I'm sorry. I just -- I don't see how they could even know each other, much less be friends."

Chelsea shrugs. "Jem says they're buddy-buddy. He says they've had lunch together a few times, and I've seen them together once. Jem thinks they're dating."

Clark almost snorts his disbelief. His mom wouldn't get involved with another addict... "I wouldn't trust anything Jem Van Doren says, if he's as accurate as the crap he loves publishing in his newspaper." He suddenly turns to Greg again. "Have you heard any details about what happened at that damn building, anyway? First I heard it was a fire, then I find out they were in a collapsed elevator..."

"I spoke to a police officer who was around earlier. They haven't figured everything out, but he thinks the oil burner exploded. Exactly how the elevator crashed, I have no idea. I guess it's an old building, so..."

"It's a fire trap, always has been," Chelsea pronounces. "And those elevators suck. They always gave me the creeps, so small and slow, and they rattled like they were being held up by a bicycle chain. God only knows when they were inspected. Jem was always afraid he'd have to get 'em totally redone..." Her voice falters awkwardly, and then she clamps her mouth together.

But Clark turns from staring at her to look at Greg, anger bubbling in his chest. The other man seems to share his thoughts. "If all this happened because he was too cheap to take care of his building," Greg mutters, "I swear I'll sue that bastard for everything he's worth."

Clark shakes his head grimly. "To hell with money. It'd be criminal negligence. He could be thrown in prison."

"Whoa, just -- just wait a minute, guys!" Chelsea pushes herself to her feet, holding Greg's arm for support. Her eyes look wildly from Greg to Clark and back again. "Don't blame Jem. Don't you think it's kinda early to be talking like this? You said yourselves they don't know what happened."

"And you said yourself that the elevators--"

"Oh, don't listen to me. What the hell do I know?" She hugs Greg's arm tightly, trying to get him to look at her. "Just think about Doug, don't worry about why or how or anything like that. You know? The important thing is how Doug's doing, right?"

Swallowing, Greg hugs her. "Of course. It's just ... I want to understand."

Clark nods and looks down the corridor towards the operating rooms. "So do I."

5.

Hudson Concert Hall

Grand Ballroom

Table #12

The entire Fiore family seems hypnotized by the sight of Anna Fiore's jewelled pin, which somehow now adorns the low-cut dress of Laurie Nichols.

Mike stares at Victor, who wears no shame whatsoever on his face as he looks at their father. "Something wrong, Pop?" Victor asks callously.

"Where did she get that?"

"You know where. Let's not get into this now."

"I will go into it now. That pin is supposed to be in your mother's jewelry box."

Adele Nichols laughs lightly. "But jewelry should be displayed for all the world to see, not hidden away. I'm sure your wife would agree with that."

"That's exactly what Mama would think," Victor murmurs. "Thank you, Adele."

Carlo seems at a loss, his face red with dismay, and Mike steps in protectively. "The point is, that pin is supposed to be in Pop's safety deposit box. And frankly, I'm curious to know how it got out of the bank without his signature."

Victor's eyes are as hard as the gems in question. "Don't play cop with me, Mikey. It's Mama's jewelry, and you know what she wanted done with it."

"As a mother, I can empathize with her." Adele brushes her hand across the back of Laurie's head, idly playing with her hair. "Surely she'd be pleased to see that Victor gave the gift out of love."

Carlo finds his voice at last. "Forgive me, Mrs. Nichols, but you do not understand."

"But of course I do. The jewelry is obviously important to you. A family heirloom, I expect? Well, what better display for it than someone who's going to be part of your family?"

Victor nods. "You're right again, Adele. My mother wanted the pieces of this jewelry set to go to Julie and the women we marry."

"Yes, that's a natural maternal instinct. Her daughter and her future daughters-in-law." Adele bestows a cool smile on Martina. "So, my dear, when is the happy day for you and Mike?"

An awkward silence follows, after which Adele glances down at Martina's ringless hand. "Oh, my goodness," she murmurs apologetically. "I didn't mean ... It's just that since you're wearing a necklace that's clearly part of this set, I just assumed ..."

Laurie's lips curl with catlike delight, but she just glances towards the exit. "Vic, honey, the rest of the family's on their way out the door. I think we'd better break this up."

Adele makes her smooth apologies and leaves, accompanied by Laurie, but Victor hesitates before moving off. "Guys -- Pop -- don't let's make this a big thing."

"This discussion isn't over," Carlo vows, holding onto his son's arm. "We're gonna have to talk about this. There are rules to how our family--"

"What we need to talk about is why family rules apply to me, but not to Mikey here."

Carlo shakes his head. "That isn't true."

"No? Apparently he can toss these all-important family rules out the window the minute he shacks up with someone." Victor looks quickly at Martina. "No offense."

"None taken," she replies dryly, but Mike is far less forgiving. He starts towards his younger brother, his advance cut off only by Julie's quick intervention. His sister slips between them, her hands shoved against Mike's chest.

"Stop it, guys! This is crazy, the whole bunch of you are acting like -- like Neanderthals!" Julie turns to plead at Victor, then at Mike and her father. "Seriously, this was such a nice night. Why do you have to ruin it?"

Setting his jaw, Mike steps back. He exhales and runs a tender hand across Julie's cheek. "I'm not ruining anything. You're right, Jules, it was a nice night."

Victor turns back to Carlo, as if to say something -- but then just shakes his head, and without another word, he leaves them to join his fiancée. Mike stares dolefully across the increasing distance between him and his brother.

The rest of the Fiores start towards the door, but Martina and Mike linger behind. She slips a hand around his elbow, squeezing gently. "Are you all right, honey?"

"Not really. I don't like what just happened."

She smiles ruefully. "I wasn't thrilled with it either. I don't think anyone had fun."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"What are you saying?"

Mike shakes his head, and keeps his voice very low. "That was staged, Martina. As staged as that opera was tonight. And for the life of me I don't know which of 'em staged it -- or why."

6.

Schuyler Falls Arts Center

Outside Hudson Concert Hall

At last the snow has stopped, after five inches have fallen to blanket the city in glittering white. Actually, in the moonlight the snow appears a pale blue, and it matches the glimmer on Hannah Nichols' hair. Tristan watches her husband Nick walk at her side, letting Hannah manipulate her chair with experienced ease down the salt-covered path.

Tristan's thankfully able to abandon his restless anger for long enough to offer his sincere goodbye to Cameron's older brother and his wife. "It was a pleasure meeting you both," he says quietly, shaking their hands.

Hannah nods. Like Tristan, she too has been distracted all evening -- particularly after her nephew and Daphne left the table following word of Doug White's accident. Sensing her mood at the time, Tristan had quietly asked if she knew Dr. White, but she just explained away the change as the result of a growing headache.

Now he bends a little, lowering his voice. "I hope you feel better."

"Thanks, Tristan. Sorry I was a lousy neighbor at dinner."

"Don't apologize. I can't say I was much better."

She smiles up at him, the warm empathy of her gaze almost able to cut through the cloud of bitterness surrounding Tristan. "Guess we both had an off night. Maybe we'll meet again when we're in better shape, huh? I'd like that."

"So would I," Tristan agrees, and realizes he means it. Straightening, he watches Nick moving off to the waiting limousine, where the driver is in the process of opening the trunk, presumably in preparation for Hannah's chair.

The driver turns expectantly toward Hannah. And when the light from the tall, amber-hued street lamps falls on his face, his identity makes Tristan take a sharp breath in shocked recognition.

"Adair?"

Jonnie Adair's pale eyes shift to take in Tristan, and the dismay written there is almost palpable. He's no more pleased than Tristan is at this unexpected reunion.

"That's right," Hannah says, no surprise whatsoever in her voice. "You know Jonnie."

"He was -- he used to work for my restaurant."

"That's tactful. But I know about your history with him."

Tristan stares warily at her. "How do you know about that?"

"He was very honest and upfront about his background." Hannah's tone is not apologetic, but she's obviously sympathetic to Tristan's astonishment. She reaches out to brush his coat sleeve. "I know he was part of all those rotten things that happened to you a couple years ago. But he's trying to start a new life. And we've found him to be very loyal."

"Loyal," Tristan echoes, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Hannah, he doesn't know the meaning of the word."

"Time passes, Tristan. People change. All I can judge is how he's been with me and my family, you know?"

Swallowing, unsure how to respond to yet another surprise, Tristan just nods and bids her a good night. He walks through the crowd towards the darkened parking lot.

Tonight has been one endless parade of people who have stabbed Tristan in the back. Not the complete parade, which would be far too long a progression to have taken place even during the length of the opera -- and would have to include dead people such as Vanessa DiCenzo, Roald Ortiz, and his own mother. But those he's seen and remembered tonight are more than enough to make Tristan feel sick to his stomach.

The reappearance of Jonnie Adair is a perfect cap to the evening. This is a man Tristan hired and trusted to be his bartender at Boondoggles, who'd proceded to sleep with his wife, work with her to hide her death and, eventually, frame Tristan for the brutal death of Camilla O'Brien. The conspiracy worked almost perfectly, too. He came very close to believing he was guilty himself, driven nearly insane by the belief that he'd killed the woman he loved in a drunken rage. And the whole thing ended with Tristan lying near death in Italy after following the trail to find Camilla's true killer.

But after all this, Jonnie's not jail. No, he's out and about, thanks to some bizarre deal that Tristan's own attorney, Martina, had some hand in. Tristan still can't fathom how Jonnie escaped spending more than a single night in prison, but as Marty told him some time ago, it was all very complicated and a natural part of the legal system. And my best friend helped it happen.

He tries not to think about Martina. Instead he remembers the ugly encounter with his cousin, Bertram Brooke, who somehow had returned to OmniCorp, the company Tristan should be running now. The thought is mind-boggling. Here's a man who embezzled from OmniCorp, and who was tossed out by Tristan himself with the full approval of the board. So how could Bertie possibly have been rehired? What were Olivia Ortiz and Ronald Granger thinking?

Livvy and Ronald, now there's a pair of backstabbers. Tristan didn't notice Livvy at the dinner, but he'd caught a glimpse of Ronald's successful, self-satisfied face. They'd tossed him out of OmniCorp, claiming he was unbalanced and a liability thanks to his imprisonment. And now they've hired Bertram? Then again, Olivia herself is a blackmailer with a disease that once caused her to drink human blood, for God's sake, but apparently that's not a problem for the Omni board.

No, only Tristan, whose main failing was being unjustly accused of a murder he didn't commit ... only he was considered a liability.

Tristan brushes past some snow-covered cars to reach his Lexus, his gloved hand grabbing a fistful of snow and crushing it into a rock-hard ball of ice. His gaze is set in front of him, trying to ignore the most recent, painful, intimate betrayal of all. "Christ, don't," he mutters, pulling open his car door and leaning against it. "Don't think about her."

But he can't avoid it -- her luminous, softly rounded face appears like a ghost, brown eyes dancing, plump lips parted in a beckoning smile.

Elizabeth Durand, whom he still thinks of as Danielle. Undoubtedly laughing now at her clever facade, taking him for a ride that ended in shame, hurt, and a fiery ball of fury burning in his gut. And now she's disappeared into the night, escaping him. Getting away...

He breathes heavily, watching his frosty breath disappear just as his lover had. And that's when the penny finally drops, as he realizes at last why he has never gotten closure, not since the whole terrible mess of Camilla's death.

Everyone gets away with everything.

Tristan has spent a lifetime paying for mistakes, many of which weren't even his own to claim. He's hated himself, his insecurities, his failures, his knack for picking the wrong person to trust. Everything. And he keeps suffering for it all.

But no one else ever seems to pay for what they've done. Olivia, Ronald, Bertram, Jonnie, now Elizabeth ... none of them.

Suddenly he realizes how sick and tired he is of turning his anger on himself. It's time for someone else to become accountable. For him to make someone accountable.

The thought is strangely calming.

Tristan looks up at the cloud-covered moon, inhaling sharply enough for little prickles of ice to form in his nostrils and throat. The frigid, clean air empowers him, and he holds it in, trying to lock the feeling away for as long as his lungs will allow.

Yes, he thinks, closing his eyes when at last he lets himself exhale. I want some payback.

7.

Jem Van Doren's Apartment

Seven River Drive

Still standing with her arms cradling Jem's bottle of whisky, Rena stares at Jem, her eyes wide with alarm. "Please calm down. You'll hurt yourself!"

He breathes heavily after his exertion. But his gaze seems genuinely curious. "Why the hell do you care?"

"Because, Jem. You're my patient." And then, remembering her conversation with Chelsea earlier, she adds: "And my friend."

Exhausted, he leans against the mantelpiece, forehead resting on his good arm. Except for his ragged breathing, silence envelops the room, and finally Rena risks stepping forward again.

"I know you're worried about the money," she begins tentatively. "I know how much you've put into the paper. But -- you have insurance, right? Fire insurance?"

With a laugh, he rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair. "Oh yeah," he says. "You're damn right I have insurance."

"Thank God," Rena mutters, afraid that his money problems had resulted in his having cashed in his insurance policy. "Well -- I know it won't make up for everything, but at least you're covered. You'll be able to start again, maybe even improve things."

"Starting again," he repeats hollowly, and then jerks away from the fireplace with such violence that he nearly topples over onto the floor. He grabs the back of the armchair just in time. "Starting again? Sister, there ain't no such thing. You know how many times I've tried that? That's why I went to Seattle, and then had to come here with my tail between my goddamn legs, and then the newspaper -- oh, Christ, I need another drink, I don't wanna remember any of this."

Rena quickly shakes her head. "No."

"Don't tell me no, damn it!"

"That's exactly what I'm doing. You're my patient, and it's my job to tell you--"

"'You're my patient, you're my patient,'" Jem mimics, lumbering nearer. "What is that, your theme song? I make the decisions in my life, Nursie." He pauses, leering at her. "Yeah, they all suck, but they're still mine."

Again he takes hold of her shoulders, reaching for the bottle that she holds behind her back. Rena tries in vain to shrug him off. "Jem, stop it."

Supporting himself by leaning his full weight on her, Jem keeps trying to turn her around. "That's my last bit of whisky you've got there. So why not just lemme finish it? And then I'll go to sleep, I'll call the cops, I'll do whatever you want."

"No." She pushes herself against the wall, keeping her arm behind her. "Now please back off!"

He contemplates her for a few seconds before grinning, looking a little more like his old self. "Le's be reasonable, kiddo," he murmurs as he runs a finger across her cheek. "I've got like two feet of height on you, and God only knows how many extra pounds. Do you really think you're gonna stop me from getting at that damn bottle?"

"Yes. And you can bully me all you want," Rena says calmly, and pulls her hand out to reveal the empty bottle. "But I just poured the stupid thing out into your plant."

The grin disappears, and he grabs at the bottle, his eyes wide with disbelief. Rena continues and reaches out to touch his arm. "I'm sorry, Jem. I'm not going to let you get sick because you're feeling sorry for yourself. I care about you."

The words bring him up short, and for a second Rena thinks she's gotten through to him. But then he nearly growls in anger, putting every last ounce of strength into flinging the bottle aside. It crashes against a wall, sending a tremor through Rena -- and she barely has time to react before Jem lunges for her again.

"I don't need you to care. What the hell do you think you're playing at, huh?"

Rena feels his fingers sinking into her flesh, despite the layers of her coat. "Let me go, Jem," she insists. "You're hurting me!"

"Of course I am! You know who you're dealing with? A freakin' doom machine, that's me. Everything I touch falls to pieces." He looks down briefly, as if trying to remember something. "What did Nichols call me before? A walking vicious circle? Yeah, that's about right."

His face is inches from hers, and he's wrapped his hands so tightly around her arms she can't budge them from her side. "P-please," she whispers. "I don't understand. Please let me go!"

But instead he pushes her forward, causing her to cry out as the motion ends with her back slamming against the wall. She squeezes her eyes shut against the pain and fear.

And suddenly, just as suddenly as his violence appeared, the storm ends.

"Oh Jesus," she hears him mutter, finally releasing his grip on her arms. "Oh Jesus, Rena, I'm sorry."

She opens her eyes, taking deep breaths. Jem's still standing close to her, but his arms are now crossed over his chest, hugging himself as if cold. He shakes his head, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry," he slurs again quietly.

Moistening her lips, Rena feels herself calm down. "I'm all right. It's okay."

"I didn't mean to hurt you." He looks up at her painfully. "I swear I didn't mean to."

She nods. "I know that. I really do."

After a moment of standing in mutual silence, Rena risks approaching him, gently touching his arm. When he doesn't move away, she gathers strength from her medical training, and pulls him with some difficulty over to the armchair. The combination of painkillers and alcohol is obviously making him drowsy.

When he's seated, she works to make him physically comfortable. At last she stands in front of him, meeting his gaze with what she hopes is a comforting stare.

But he still seems worried. "You think they'll know I didn't want to hurt anyone?"

Rena feels an unexplainable wariness tightening her stomach muscles. "Jem, no one could possibly blame you for this."

A shaky laugh bubbles past his lips, and dizzy words start tumbling out of him. "Elaine can sure as hell blame me. But she wasn't supposed to be there. That was the whole point. I don't know what she was doing there. The building's supposed to be empty on Thursday nights, and she said she was going home early. Why was she there?"

"I don't know."

He reaches towards her, this time so gently that Rena doesn't feel afraid, and clutches at her coat lapel as if pleading with her. "If they both get better, and the money comes through, it'll all be okay. It's not like I wanted this to happen."

"Of course, I know--"

"It'd be different if I knew they were gonna be there, but it's my building, I have a right to do what I want. You understand that, right? You understand me, I think sometimes you get me even better than Chelsea does. She's just like me, she only thinks about herself. But you..."

He falls into silence at last, letting Rena absorb his words with growing queasiness. "Jem," she says quietly, hardly daring to breathe. "What do you mean, it'd be different if you knew they were going to be there? What are you saying to me?"

He gets still, so still that she almost thinks he's died in her arms. But then he pulls away to look up at her. "Confidentially? Is this confidential, Rena?"

Her throat is so dry she can hardly swallow. "You're my patient," she repeats for the third time tonight, all too aware of the irony. "You're under my care."

An aching moment passes, and finally he shakes his head. "No," he mutters, closing his eyes. "I just need to sleep."

As his eyes close, he slumps forward against her. Reflexively, Rena puts her arm around him, drawing his head against her chest. As her hand rubs his back in a comforting, circular motion, she can feel the tremors of exhaustion and fear reach her fingers through his silk bathrobe. Oh, God, she thinks, shuddering herself. What has he done?

Despite her efforts to relax him, it takes nearly an hour for Jem to fall asleep at last. And Rena stays with him, embracing him in the silent apartment, praying against all reason that her terrible suspicion is wrong.