Jonnie Adair's Residence

Nichols Guest Cottage

East Cornwall, NY

Steam surrounds Jonnie Adair's compact, muscular body, a cloud of droplets that keeps him warm after stepping out of his shower. Puffs of colder air from beneath the bathroom door threaten to dissipate the steam soon, but Jonnie doesn't bother with a bathrobe. It's not as if he doesn't own one -- for Christmas a couple of days ago, Hannah Nichols gave him the thick black velour robe that's hanging on the door nearby.

But Jonnie's not the robe type. All he needs is a pair of towels: one rubbed through his spiky blond hair and then draped over his chest., the other wrapped around his tight, trim waist, and he's good to go.

While he finishes brushing his teeth, his cell phone chirps at him. Spitting into the sink, Jonnie opens the bathroom door and is assaulted by the cold. The three-room cottage has a better heating system than his old studio back on Fifth Street, but winter is winter, and it creeps through the window sills no matter who owns the building. Even the Nichols family can't fight Mother Nature.

Jonnie just reaches his phone on the nightstand when there's a sharp knock on his door. Grimacing, the young man grabs the phone, flips it open, mutters "yeah, hold on" to whoever it is, and then pads over to the front door.

Dean Nelson's tall, broad figure fills the doorframe, providing a little shelter from the icy wind rushing towards Jonnie. Dean looks him up and down by moving his eyes as little as possible, then brushes past Jonnie into the room.

"Get off the phone. We need to talk."

Shooting Dean a cold silver gaze, Jonnie shuts the door and lifts the phone to his ear. "Who is it? Make it fast."

"It's me, Adair. Roger."

Jonnie quickly turns to the door again, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Roger" is the alias used by ADA Ross Granger, whose timing is as perfect as usual.

"Not a good time now," Jonnie says, his hand curling around the knot in his towel. "Lemme call you back."

"We need to talk soon."

He glances at Dean, who waits with arms folded across his massive chest. "Yeah, everyone needs to talk to me. I'm Mister Popularity today."

"Is Mr. Nichols there with you?"

"Close enough. I'll call you back."

"The matter is very urgent, Adair. When will you--"

"When I call you is when I'll call you. Bye." Jonnie shuts the phone and casually tosses it onto the dresser. "Ever notice how some women can piss you off barely saying a word?"

"That a girlfriend or something?"

With a shrug, Jonnie pulls open the top drawer and grabs some shorts. He feels vulnerable enough in front of Dean Nelson when clothed -- lying to Nick's right-hand man while wearing only a towel is bad for his stomach.

"I got in bed with her once a couple months ago and I'm still regretting it," he mutters, realizing the truth isn't all that far off. Facing Dean, he gives the older man an impatient nod. "You didn't come here to talk about my sex life. What is it?"

Dean's large, pale face offers nothing, his lips a thin, expressionless line. "You hear about the fire last night?"

"Yeah, Nick and Hannah talked about it a little on the ride home. Didn't pay much attention though. Fires happen all the time, at least they did in my old neighborhood."

"In this case it happened 'cause someone tried to pull something cute. You know it was at the newspaper?"

"I told you I heard. So what?" Jonnie hesitates, clutching the Hanes more tightly. "Did we do this?"

"No. That's the point. Van Doren owes us money, he didn't have it, then his building blows up. Probably netting him a fat insurance check. You're not so stupid that you can't follow that trail, are you?"

Jonnie leans against the dresser, his back pushing the drawer shut. "Yeah, I follow," he says with a sneer. "What I don't follow is why it matters. As long as he gets Nick the money, who cares how? What, did he break some freakin' gambling code of honor?"

Dean's mouth twitches, as close to a smile as he gets. "I forgot you don't know the whole story. And if Nick hasn't told you, I'm not gonna be the one. All you gotta know is that we didn't want him to pay back yet."

"Didn't want him to pay?" Jonnie frowns. "Okay, now you lost me. That makes no goddamn sense. Unless you were trying to get more interest tacked on."

"Doesn't matter. The point is -- " Dean suddenly glances down at Jonnie's towel-clad body. "Are you gonna get dressed or what? You look like a goddamn fag underwear ad."

Jonnie stares flatly at him. "I'm waiting for you to get outta here."

"Gimme a freakin' break. Just get your ass dressed and hurry up about it. Me and Nicky have to get to the track."

"The racetrack?"

"What the hell else? A freakin' train track?"

"But in the middle of winter? In the morning? What for?"

Dean shakes his head. "Two things. One, it's not the middle of winter yet. Two, it's none of your goddamn business where or when we go anyplace. You drive us, you don't question. Got it?"

Jonnie clenches his jaw and moves back to the bathroom, grabbing his shirt and suit from the closet. "All right," he mutters, unwrapping his towel. "So get back to the point. Why are you telling me about the newspaper?"

"Because after you drop us off, Nicky wants you to see Van Doren. And find out if he really burned up his own building."

Jonnie looks at his reflection in the still-foggy mirror. "Thought you already figured that out. If you're so sure, why--"

"I swear to God, Adair, if you ask me one more question--"

"Yeah, I know, but the guy's gonna ask me why I give a damn. What am I supposed to tell him? Why would he tell me the truth unless I give him some reason?"

Dean's snorting laugh reaches Jonnie through the open door. "You been working for us for how long, and you still can't figure that one out?" Suddenly he looms in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Okay, I'll give you three reasons why he better talk. That fine blonde piece of tail he's screwing is one. The little redhead who put money in his bank is another. And his own worthless life is a third. Do I have to waste more time telling you this crap?"

Jonnie shakes his head, fighting the impulse to cover himself. Dean stands there, his gaze flickering down the path of Jonnie's naked body before returning to Jonnie's gray eyes. "Yeah," he says dryly. "That's about what I'd expect from a short guy like you. Y'know, you better call back that bitch who called earlier. Beggars can't be choosers."

With a snarl, Jonnie kicks the door shut in Dean's smirking face.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Chief of Staff's Office

When the young woman enters his office, Charles Stanford stands up and moves from his chair -- a gesture performed more out of restlessness than courtesy. "Maxine," he says, shaking her hand and showing her to the chair in front of his desk. "This is a surprise."

Maxine Granger lifts a hand, mutely declining his offer to remove her fur-trimmed leather jacket. "I figured it would be," she says while pulling off her wool scarf. "Sorry, but circumstances made it kind of important that I get this over with."

Charles circles his desk. "I take it you've heard about the fire," he says, putting a hand on the black chair that once belonged to the man who's currently lying near death upstairs. "I must say I'm feeling somewhat ambivalent about our ... our arrangement."

"Wouldn't be much of a detective if I couldn't figure that out myself," Maxine says, dimples flashing as she smiles. "You want me to back off investigating Greg White because his brother narrowly escaped being burned to a crisp?"

With a wince, Charles sits down again. "I wouldn't put it like that. I just -- wait a moment," he says, interrupting his own thoughts. "You came here of your own accord. Why? Have you already found something?"

Shaking her head, Maxine leans forward. "No. Well, I guess I have, in a way, but it's not what you think it is."

"Then what is it?"

"You mind if I stand up? I think better when I'm pacing." When she sees him nod, Maxine gets to her feet and walks across the office, her fingers hooked on the pockets of her jacket. "It's just this, Charles. I'm not the type of investigator who likes working with one hand tied behind her back. Or who can solve a puzzle without first seeing the big picture. Basically, I think I can best meet the needs of my clients when I can be totally honest with them ..." She pauses, turning her brown gaze towards Charles. "And when they're totally honest with me."

Charles has been watching her with detached, fatherly amusement -- she is the daughter of his closest friend, after all. But now he frowns, wariness hardening his silvery-blue eyes. "Are you suggesting I haven't been honest with you?"

"Not wholly, you haven't."

"I don't see that I need to reveal every last secret I possess, just to get some investigative work done."

Maxine grins, returning her attention to Charles's family photos. "Remember last time I was here?" she says, apparently changing the subject. "I mentioned that picture of your daughter. I didn't really take a long look at it then. She's really lovely. I see a bit of you in her eyes."

"Well, thank you, but I don't think she looks much like me at all. She's her mother, through and through." Charles clears his throat. "Please, can we get back to--"

"You mind if I get a better look?" She's gently pulls the frame off the wall, peering into the photograph as she strolls back to the desk. "It's a pretty good picture, but it doesn't do her justice. This was taken what, three or four years ago?"

"Maxine, I'm aware you're getting at something. I know you're not just admiring my picture-taking ability, so will you kindly enlighten me?"

She laughs, pleased. "Good for you. I like smart clients. Most people think too slowly for my taste. I like fast thinkers, fast talkers. People who don't waste my time." With a smooth motion, Maxine slips her hand into her portfolio and removes a 6x9 photograph. "But even smart clients can waste my time, if they don't tell me the real story. Like the story this picture tells."

When Charles takes the photograph, his eyes first recognize his daughter's beautiful face, her lips parted in a curving, teasing smile that immediately invokes the visage of Roberta Masterson -- at least, as she'd looked when he first met her.

He pushes the painful memory away. A split second later, his attention is drawn to the man holding Chelsea's hand close to his chest, covering them with his own in a proprietary gesture. Greg White smiles down at her, his smug, cocksure expression revealing volumes about what's going on in his lascivious mind.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor Nurse's Station

Someone is talking to Rena Carlson, but the voice grows dimmer and dimmer until it finally disappears.

"Yo, Carlson! Snap to it!"

Rena jerks her head up, her heart pounding. She's still standing by the supply closet, holding a pile of charts under one elbow and a tray in her right hand. To her embarrassment, she realizes that Gail Simms, the floor's charge nurse, is waiting for her to move -- and has apparently been waiting for some time.

"Sorry," Rena says, looking at the closet stupidly. She has no idea what she's here for. "Um ... you go ahead, Gail."

The older woman raises an eyebrow and pulls her aside. "That's the second time you've fallen asleep this morning, and you've only been on for two hours."

"I know, I'm sorry. I had a very late night--"

"Yeah, you and super-stud White at the opera. We all know." Gail pulls Rena's charts out from under her arm. "You're no good to me as a zombie, nurse. Take fifteen minutes to get some coffee and wake up."

Normally Rena would protest, but the truth is, Gail's right -- and besides, the break gives her a chance to see what's happening upstairs. With another red-faced apology, Rena shuffles over to the water fountain, splashes some cold water on her face, and makes her way to the stairwell.

When she arrives at the sixth floor, she spots Greg White down the hall, striding from the PACU area back to the waiting room. Greg sees her at the same time, his reddened eyes lighting up a little.

"Doug's just left PACU," he announces, a slight smile making him look more like the man Rena danced with last night. He's now wearing surgical scrubs, having changed from his tuxedo a few hours ago, and the blue perfectly matches his eyes. "They've moved him to a bed."

"Oh, that's such a relief--" Rena starts to say, but Greg sweeps her into his arms. He pulls her into a warm, electrifying kiss that wakes her up better than an espresso.

"He's still out of it," he murmurs, his lips parting from hers only just enough to make his speech audible. "And Avigad still doesn't know what the oxygen deprivation might've caused. But he made it through the surgery."

With reluctance, Rena pushes herself away slightly, aware of her colleagues staring over by the nurse's station. "Thank God," she murmurs, squeezing his arm. "That was the worst of it. If he made it this far--"

"Let's hope. I was just going to take Daphne to look at him." Greg glances over to the sofa where Daphne is dozing, a frown on her pale face. "Maybe I shouldn't let her. He looks terrible."

"She should know sooner rather than later. It'll be hard, but eventually she'll sleep better afterwards. And if something were to happen without her having seen him ..."

Greg cups her face with his hand, thumb caressing her cheek. "Why are you so damn smart?"

"I'm not, Greg. Believe me. These are just things I've learned over the years."

"Bullpucky. You're a woman in a million. That's why your patients hate to leave the hospital. They all love you as much as I --" Greg sees her stricken look, and cuts himself off. "Okay, okay, I know I promised not to joke about the 'L' word." He sighs ruefully. "Speaking of your patients. You never told me what happened with Van Doren last night."

Rena feels her stomach churn. "There wasn't much to tell. He was very upset, I calmed him down and made sure he fell asleep."

"Did he feel guilty? Did he even care that two people nearly died because of him?"

Inhaling sharply, Rena stares at Greg through widened eyes. "Why do you say that?"

"Oh -- I guess you weren't there for that part of the conversation." Greg's mouth tightens, a line forming at the bridge of his nose as he frowns. "Chelsea, Clark and I were talking about how the fire might have started due to negligence. Chelsea admitted the building was a fire trap, and that your pal Van Doren was too damn cheap to make necessary repairs. Clark thinks he may have been delaying inspections on the elevators, but that's pure conjecture. Not that I'd put it past him. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Rena turns away, wishing she wasn't so ridiculously transparent. "Like what? I'm just listening to you."

"Looks to me like you're not happy to hear me accusing Jem of anything. I don't understand your friendship with this guy, I really don't. You know he's the sleaziest, slickest bastard who ever let butter freeze in his mouth."

Unable to shake the mental image of Jem's anguished face resting against her bosom, Rena clears her tightening throat. "No, I don't know that. He -- he was very worried about Elaine. And Doug too."

"He's just worried about a wrongful death suit. I'm sorry, Rena, you're not going to 'Pollyanna' me on this one. If I find out he's responsible for this hell he's put us all through, I -- " Greg's voice turns hoarse, and he wipes a hand over his mouth, his blue gaze darkening. "Well, I'm not sure what I'd do. But suing is the least of it"

With a painful swallow, Rena just nods and casts her nervous gaze over to Daphne. "I have to get back to my shift. You should probably take Daphne in now."

Greg bends forward, kissing the crown of her head and gently tugging her earlobe. "Thank you, Rena. For being with me practically all night, and for thinking of Daphne so much. She was really grateful to get those clothes you brought her."

"They were just some extra things I had in my locker. It took me only five minutes to grab them."

"Doesn't matter. You had the presence of mind to think of it, even after you'd schlepped over to see Jem." He shakes his head affectionately. "God, you must be as exhausted as I am. At least I was able to take today off. Are you going to get some rest at all today?"

"I don't think so. I have a full shift, and I -- I have some errands to run at lunch."

Nodding sympathetically, Greg leaves her to check on his niece. Rena watches him kneel by Daphne's side, placing a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder; his unusual tenderness makes Rena's heart turn over. Finally she exhales and turns back to the fire stairs.

With every step she descends, Rena tries to fight back the haunting memory of the hours she spent with Jem. She's rarely felt so confused, so utterly at a loss to comprehend someone else's motives. She's always considered herself smart, understanding ... always able to discern a patient's needs. Indeed, when confronted with Jem's hysteria she wasn't at all surprised; it was natural and even expected, considering how much he might have lost in the fire. Even the spurts of violence, when for a second she thought he was going to strike her -- it wasn't the first time Rena's had to deal with a furious, drug-addled patient.

What staggered her was the horrifying implication of his words ... His insistence that he didn't know anyone was going to be working late, that he was free to do whatever he wanted with his own building ...

Oh God, maybe I misunderstood him, she thinks for the fiftieth time in the past six hours, her trembling hands clutching the banister. Maybe he just got mixed up. He was drunk and doped up ...

But no. She knows better. The unmistakable, overwhelming miasma of emotion that choked him and even threatened to stifle Rena too ... it was guilt. Not just the regret of someone who'd merely been negligent, as Greg and Clark seemed to think -- it was the wrenching guilt of someone who's done something very, very wrong.

Jonnie Adair's Residence

Nichols Guest Cottage

East Cornwall, NY

By the time Jonnie finishes dressing and leaves the bathroom, Dean has left the cottage. Jonnie exhales in relief, running a hand through his damp hair. More crap from Dean he does not need.

Aware that time's an issue, Jonnie moves quickly to his dresser and picks up his phone. Thirty seconds later he hears a familiar voice buzzing in his ear.

"It's me," Jonnie says after Ross Granger pronounces his name. "You better make it faster than you did before. Next time when I say I can't talk, listen to me."

"Yes, yes, I understand. I assume you're free to talk now?"

"For about five minutes."

Ross's irritated sigh grates on Jonnie's nerves. "That's not enough time. My boss wants a full report on everything you have."

"A full report wouldn't take more than five minutes. They don't tell me a thing you could use."

"Oddly enough I don't believe you."

"Yeah, I don't care what you believe. If I had proof of anything, I'd give it to you. You think I want to be a puppet with your hand up my ass for the rest of my life?"

"Frankly, I don't know whose puppet you are. Neither does my superior, and he's getting impatient. We need to speed things up."

Jonnie walks over to the closet and pulls out his coat. "Oh, we need to speed things up," he repeats. "Funny, I thought it was just me putting myself in front of a goddamned bullet every day. So how are we gonna speed things--"

"You don't have the personality for sarcasm, Jonnie. I wouldn't make it a habit." Ross's voice sounds sharp and harried. "It's time to put some plans into action. Meet me tonight at the usual place -- are you available at seven?"

"No. But I'm gonna be in Skyfalls alone this morning for a couple hours, so--"

"Why are you coming here alone?"

Jonnie pulls his arm through his coat sleeve. "Unfinished business."

"If Nichols has business in Schuyler Falls, I want to know about it now."

"I didn't say it was Nick's business," Jonnie covers smoothly. With a swipe of his hand, he grabs his wallet from the dresser and tucks it in his suit. "I got a life of my own too."

"That's gratifying. All right, I don't need to be at the court house until the afternoon anyway. Eleven at the Red Flame?"

"Fine." Jonnie hangs up, stuffs the phone in his pocket, and hurries out the door. His mouth is bone dry as he jogs down the already-shoveled driveway towards the garage. Christ. If I'm not killed by Nick or the cops, he thinks while clutching at his nervous stomach, my ulcer will do it for 'em.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Chief of Staff's Office

Charles's instinct is to crumple the picture in his fingers, but that would be absurdly melodramatic. Instead he simply returns it to Maxine, keeping his gaze steady.

"This isn't the behavior of a detective," he says mildly. "This seems more like blackmail."

Maxine frowns, examining the photograph as if seeing it for the first time. "Blackmail? That's nuts, no offense. First, why would I blackmail my own client? And second, this isn't exactly good blackmailing material. No whips or chains or anything like that."

"This isn't humorous."

"Sorry, you're right. It's just my nature." Maxine rests her elbows on the edge of his desk, shrugging. "I'm not even going to say I'm insulted by the accusation. I understand what's behind it, and even though you know my Dad, you don't really know me from Eve. For all you know, I could be working for the enemy -- whoever that is."

"I don't have any enemies."

"See? That's one of the many things I don't know about you." She flips a hand over. "Charles, the reason I'm showing you that picture is simple. I thought it'd help us cut through the bushwah and make it easier for me to help you."

"Help me? By showing me a picture that obviously would shock me?"

Maxine raises an already arched eyebrow. "Shock? You don't look shocked to me. Are you saying you didn't know White and your daughter are involved?"

Charles hesitates. "I suspected as much," he says quietly. "How involved, I do not know."

"I don't know either, but that's not the job you hired me for. Which is exactly what I'm getting at."

"I'm thrilled to know you're getting at something."

Taking no offense, Maxine sits back. "Let's recap, shall we?" she begins, with a mocking hauteur that could almost be an imitation of her father. "The job you hired me for, ostensibly, was to give you an excuse to fire Greg White. You want me to find something, anything, that'd make him so repugnant to your board of trustees that they'll kick him out on that attractive behind of his. Right?"

"Right, those are the basics -- paraphrased, of course," he adds dryly.

"Well, the thing is, when I started following Greg around and spotted him with your Chelsea, I started putting two and two together. And once or twice I even got four." Chuckling, Maxine stands up, carefully returning Chelsea's picture to its proper place on the wall. She then faces him. "I think what you really want ... the real reason you hired me ... is to get the big bad wolf away from your baby girl."

Charles doesn't respond, and Maxine leans against the chair, folding her arms over her chest. "I don't have a problem with that, by the way. I'm not judging at all. In fact I think it's kind of cute, in a Victorian paterfamilias kinda way."

Charles shakes his head, smiling briefly despite himself. "You certainly don't have the vocabulary of a detective."

"What were you expecting, knowing my parents? I'm not likely to be some kind of trenchcoat-wearing gumshoe with a fedora." Maxine grins, her eyes sparkling, but then gets back to business. "Look, my point in clarifying my mission, so to speak, is so that I'll be better equipped to fulfill it. I mean, if I know the real end result you're looking for, I can broaden the scope of my attack. Or limit it, as the case may be.

"So to sum up," she concludes with an exhale. "I can get you your evidence that White deserves to be kicked out of the hospital -- if any evidence exists, that is. But if what you really want is for me to find something that'll keep him away from Chelsea ... I'll focus on that."

Charles looks down at his hands for a moment, then uses them to push himself up from his chair. He turns to look out the window, at the thick gray clouds covering the city, and the river that's just beyond Hamilton Park across the street, its edges frosty with snow.

"You make it sound as if the two goals are incompatible," he murmurs, not inclined to look back at Maxine. "But I suspect they dovetail rather well."

"Okay, you're a better judge of that than I am. But why?"

He sighs to himself. "I suspect that if Greg White were not part of this hospital, my daughter would no longer be so infatuated."

There's a pause, and finally Charles glances back at the young woman to see her reaction. She looks dubious. "I don't follow that. I mean, have you taken a close look at this guy? It wouldn't matter if he was a ditchdigger, she'd still be hanging all over him."

"I'm not saying she wouldn't be attracted to him. But he would no longer fulfill the same ... purpose."

Maxine lets this sink in. "You think she's doing this to spite you? Because he's here at the hospital, and it bugs you?"

"Not exactly. I -- " Charles suddenly shakes his head, moving away from behind the desk. "This is turning into a therapy session, and I don't wish to continue. I understand your needing the 'big picture,' as you put it, and I've given it to you. But the why of the matter is not your business."

Nodding, Maxine stands again. "True. But a good investigator always asks questions that are just a little beyond the scope of her investigation." She gives him a devilish smile. "That's how you get the juicy stuff."

She flings her scarf around her neck again, wrapping it twice for good measure. "So to get this absolutely straight. Do you want me to hunt for proof that Greg White has done something illegal, immoral and/or unethical regarding the hospital? Or do you want me to get Chelsea turned off him?"

Charles meets her gaze with the full force of his own. "I want you to do both."

"Gotcha." Maxine shakes his hand, moving to the door. "It's a pleasure doing business with you, Charles."

As she closes the door, Charles nods. He turns back to the picture of Chelsea, he sees her younger face smiling back at him. Again he thinks of his first wife. And again he forcibly pushes Roberta's image away, his jaw clenched as he returns to his desk and the day's work.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Sixth Floor Surgery Waiting Room

Daphne White remembers her uncle putting his arm around her shoulders, and knows he's only inches away from her. But she feels very much alone as the pair approach the room where, according to Greg, her father will be lying with lots of monitor wires and tubes and other terrible things attached to his body.

When they reach room 603, Daphne shoves her fists into the pockets of the oversized cardigan sweater Rena lent her. "He's not gonna be awake, right?"

"Right."

"So he won't know I'm there?"

Greg runs his hand along the back of her head, smoothing her already sleek brown hair. "Probably not," he admits. "Are you saying you don't want to go in?"

"No, I'm not saying that," Daphne mutters, blinking at the floor. But she doesn't want to enter, afraid of what she'll see and feel. Afraid of feeling nothing at all for her own father.

With a deep breath, she slips through the partially open doorway, as if by not pushing the door further open she'll be making less of a commitment. And, lifting her head, she lets her gaze fall on the single bed.

The man lying there is unrecognizable. Great splotches of yellow-brown cover his face -- not blood, as Greg had told her when preparing her earlier, but some kind of sterilizing liquid she can't remember -- but the few visible patches of skin are ash-gray, almost white. The thick black lashes of his closed eyes stand out in stark contrast. For a few seconds Daphne stares at them, the only familiar remnants of her father.

"Oh my God," she mouths, the words barely passing through her lips.

His body is covered with machinery, tubes and bandages, just as Greg warned her. She was expecting the white gauze, and the IV bags and the wires attached to a plethora of monitors. What unsettles her -- what freezes her in mid-step and makes her own breath leave her body -- is the pale blue tube sticking out of her father's mouth and throat, attached to the respirator that noisily sends oxygen to his lungs with a relentless, almost robotic rhythm.

It's the most shocking proof of the direness of his injuries. Her father can't even draw air into his body -- the most basic, natural, unconscious activity there is. She stares at the respirator, watching the small pump move up and down, up and down. If this machine stops, he'll die, she thinks numbly. He'll choke and gasp and then he'll be dead.

Daphne feels the sweat break out on her forehead, and knows if she stands here any longer she'll lose the donut and coffee she had for breakfast. With a gurgled cry, she spins around and stumbles out the door.

She hears Greg calling her name, but she ignores him. When she reaches the elevator she slams her trembling hand into the DOWN button, punching it over and over in hopes that this will force the stupid thing to arrive.

When the door opens at last, she starts inside -- only to find Tyler Stanford standing there, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Daph," he says quietly, moving forward. "I just heard. I came as soon as I could."

Grateful and exhausted, Daphne falls into his open arms with a sob. "Take me out of here, Ty," she whispers into his shoulder, her fingers digging into his wool coat. "Please take me out of here!"