• Ian at work, exhausted. Cameron visits, they talk a little about Boondoggles.
• Daphne and Chelsea share a moment. Greg arrives and overhears, is impressed.

A phone call confirms Jem's fears

Ross springs a plot on Jonnie

Chelsea exposes herself to Greg

Clark learns some surprising news about Elaine

1. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor

Daphne White can tell she's dreaming. She must be. True, the white hospital room looks perfectly typical, with the familiar scent of any hospital -- an astringent mixture of gauze and disinfectant. But the woman standing at the side of the bed wearing surgical scrubs should not be here. Nora White shouldn't be anywhere -- except for the Columbia County Women's Correctional Facility.

"Mommy?" Daphne blurts the childlike word automatically, unthinking, and she rushes forward. With a surprised gasp, Nora turns and holds out her right arm. Her saucer-like eyes are red-rimmed, but otherwise she looks in remarkably good shape. "Oh, my baby!"

Daphne embraces her, closing her eyes. It's been a long time since she's been this close to her mother. In fact, the last time they stood like this, Nora was nine months pregnant, and the gesture had been awkward at best. But now it seems so right and comforting. Except that Nora's only using one arm to hug her -- the other is stretched awkwardly behind her for some reason. Looking over her mother's shoulder, Daphne realizes that her hand is handcuffed to the metal bed rail.

"So you're still a prisoner," she says in disappointment. "Then how did you get here? Did they let you out because of the accident?"

"Yes. Even the police know families have to be together in times like this."

It doesn't make sense, but since it's all a dream Daphne doesn't stop to consider it. "But we're not all together. Hope is gone, and it's all my fault. I tried to take her, but I screwed up."

"That wasn't your fault, honey," Nora murmurs, her fingers brushing through Daphne's hair as she always used to do. "It's your daddy's fault she was taken away. And mine too, I can admit that. But that's all in the past, because she's with us now. See?"

Nora steps aside, smiling. And sure enough, the baby lies nestled against Doug's chest. She moves up and down with the same motion of the respirator, giggling a little at the movement.

With a cry of relief, Daphne moves forward to touch her sister. "Hope! Oh my God, Mom, how did you manage this?"

"I didn't do it. It's God's plan, you know I've always told you that He doesn't want families kept apart. And now we'll all be together forever."

Picking up the baby, Daphne closes her eyes, smelling the powdery sweetness of Hope's skin. "I can't believe this is real."

"It is, honey. Now, will you just help me a little bit, and we can get started?"

Daphne looks over Hope's curly hair. "Help you with what?" She watches Nora moving to stand closer to Doug, bending down and tenderly caressing his deathly pale face with her free hand. "Mom, what should I help you with?"

Nora turns back, smiling a blissful smile, and then takes a firm hold of Doug's breathing tube. With a single sure movement, she pulls her arm back, the plastic snaking out of his throat with a horrible sucking noise.

"Mommy, no!" Daphne jerks forward, but Nora puts a calming hand on her shoulder. "What are you doing? You'll kill him!"

"No, it's all right, this is what we're supposed to do. Otherwise he won't be able to breathe it all in with us."

Daphne stares without comprehension at her father, whose body shakes as his lungs fight for air. "Breathe what in?"

Nora turns to the window on the other side of the room, nodding. Stunned, Daphne follows the direction of her gaze. Through the window she sees a group of chairs, with people sitting and watching them -- like an audience. A pair of solemn-faced guards are on either side of the window, and when Nora nods, one of them leans over and pushes down a large lever.

Daphne hears the sound of something dropping into some water, followed by an insidious hissing sound. Looking under her father's bed, Daphne sees a large bucket of bubbling liquid, with smoke -- or gas -- billowing out to create a mist that covers the floor.

It looks familiar, like something she's seen on TV, but Daphne still can't understand what's going on. "W-what is that?"

"It's cyanide," Nora says softly, putting her arm around Daphne. "I just can't spend the rest of my life in prison, honey. I asked for an execution, and they granted it -- along with a last request." She kisses Daphne's cheek. "We'll all get to be together. You, me, your father, and Hope."

Daphne cries out and backs away from the bed, Hope clasped tightly in her arms. But as the poisonous cloud creeps upwards, Nora raises her hand to beckon Daphne closer. "Honey, please, won't you come here? Just take deep breaths and it'll be over soon. It's the only way we can all stay a family, don't you see?"

The only thing Daphne sees is her father's body, twitching with effort to breathe -- and at last going very still. Seconds later Nora slumps against the bed, collapsing in what seems like a slow, graceful motion across her husband's chest. And finally the white fog reaches Daphne's face.

2. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor Cafeteria

Her hands clutching at the arms cradling her, Daphne is wakened by her own moan of anguish. She feels Tyler Stanford hugging her, rocking her as if she's a baby. Just as she'd held Hope.

"Let me go," she gasps, pushing away from him and sitting up. "Please!"

They're still in the Third Floor cafeteria, where she and Tyler have been for the past two hours. Daphne remembers resting her head against Tyler's shoulder, then nodding off to sleep. It had felt so comfortable and sweet, lying in his arms. But now all she can think about is getting some air.

Tyler's blue-gray eyes narrow with concern. "Daph, it was just a nightmare," he says carefully. "You're safe here. Why don't you tell me--"

"I need to walk. If I don't get outside I'll suffocate!"

She shoves her way out from behind the table, standing up. A little wobbly on her feet, she takes a second to steady herself. Calm down. He's right, it was just a dream.

Tyler grabs his coat and slips it back on. "Okay, let's go."

"No, I want to walk by myself."

"Yeah, that's gonna happen," Tyler says, pulling out his gloves. "Forget it, White, you can barely stand up on your own two feet."

"You're not in charge of me, Stanford. If I want to walk on my own, I'm going to!"

With a twist of a grin, Tyler takes his scarf and flings it around her shoulders. "Good to see you acting like a bitch again. I was beginning to worry."

Daphne shoots him a glare, but she softens when she sees the affection plainly written on his face. "You're right, I am a bitch," she admits, thinking guiltily of Ian Nichols. "Ty, I have to -- I have to tell you about the opera last night."

"Oh man, please skip it. It's cool that your uncle asked you to go, but I have no desire to hear the gory details. Bad enough my mom and dad are always listening to that boring opera crap in the car." Tyler cocks his head, examining her. "Would've liked to see you in a formal dress, though. Guess I'll have to wait for the prom."

Nodding, Daphne accepts the reprieve far too easily. As they move to the elevator, she holds his cashmere scarf closer to her face, inhaling the faint remnants of his cologne. Suddenly she remembers crushing herself against Ian's chest, crying and letting him console her. His skin had a spicy, almost exotic scent. But Tyler's cologne is citrusy and tart -- it reminds her of when her father used to make gin and tonics with a spritz of fresh, cold lime.

For once the familiarity breeds comfort, not contempt, and she smiles despite her inner turmoil. Reaching out, she takes his hand with her own. He returns her squeeze with a grin.

The pleasant moment is broken when a blonde woman appears around the corner. "Finally," Chelsea Stanford says, rolling her eyes in irritation as she steps in front of them, blocking her path. "You know your uncle's been looking all over the place for you?"

Daphne inhales sharply. "Did something happen with my father?"

"No, nothing new there. But Greg's freaking out. Obviously, or he wouldn't have asked me to hunt you down." Chelsea seems to notice Tyler for the first time, and her right eyebrow arches. "Well, look who's here."

"Hi, Chelsea," Tyler says, not warmly.

Chelsea's gaze sharpens as she sees their clasped hands. "So you're still a couple, huh?"

"Yeah, you have a problem with that?"

Chelsea glances at Daphne before returning to her half-brother. "Nope, just curious. When I, uh, didn't see you with her last night--"

"I got here as soon as I heard," Tyler interrupts, misunderstanding her. "Give me a break, all right? Shouldn't you be off playing with a camera or something?"

Ignoring him, Chelsea folds her arms across her chest. "Daphne, Greg wants you upstairs. Are you coming?"

"No, I need some fresh air."

"You can get all the fresh air you want later, but you really should go upstairs first."

Daphne grimaces and strides away. Chelsea starts to follow, but Tyler pulls on her arm, scowling. "Who the hell are you to tell her what to do? She wants to go outside."

"Frankly, I don't care what Morticia wants. Greg's all I care about, and if he tells me to go get his niece, that's what I'm gonna do."

"Like that's gonna make him fall in love with you? Get over it, Chelsea, it's not gonna happen."

Chelsea's sneer fades away as his stinging words sink in. "W-what are you talking about?" She pushes more force into her voice. "What do you know about me and Greg?"

"Mom and Dad talk about it, and Jase told me you've got a thing for him too." Tyler lowers his voice. "All I'm saying is, if you think you're gonna use Daphne in your little campaign, forget it. I won't let you."

Taking a deep breath, Chelsea brushes some gold hair away from her face. "You won't let me," she repeats quietly. "Wow, you really do take after Dad. Mister Control-Freak, huh? Well, here's a newsflash for you, Ty. You don't control me -- and you don't control your little so-called girlfriend, either."

She brushes past him, her heart pounding with the effort it took to keep from blurting out something that would really cut him to the quick.

3. Jem Van Doren's Residence

Seven River Drive

Jem Van Doren looks up at the ceiling from his prone position on the sofabed. His temples throb, and his mouth is so dry it feels as if it's been stuffed with a whole sheep's worth of wool. For that matter, his memory is pretty woolly too -- although he can't forget the news reports he heard regarding the fire's victims. Those seem to run over and over in his mind, like a tickertape.

But besides having obsessively watched the news, Jem can't recall much else about last night. Rena Carlson showed up, he knows that. He can still see her pale little face, ghostly in the blue-white light from the TV. But for the life of him, he doesn't remember what she said. Or what he said, or did. Except...

He has a foggy memory of lying against her, wrapped in her surprisingly strong embrace. And of her small arms supporting him as she laid him down on the sofa, covering him with the blanket now twisted between his legs. She was comforting me, he acknowledges with some wonder. It's been a long time since anyone bothered comforting Jem.

Well, this is a good sign, he decides with a shaky sigh of relief. Someone as dependably uptight in the ethics department as Rena, no way she'd have been sympathetic to him if he'd opened his big fat mouth about the fire.

The fire ...

Turning over with difficulty, he fumbles for the remote control and turns on the TV, hoping to find out the latest news. Soap operas on the main channels, syndicated talk shows on the others. Life needs to be more like TV, he thinks with an annoyed grunt. If he were some TV show character, he'd have perfect timing, able to find a special bulletin about the newspaper the second he wanted it.

But no, this is real life, which sucks like a Hoover. Jem shuts the set off and flings the remote away. And that's when the phone rings angrily in his ear.

He jerks up into a seated position, not easily, and grabs the phone he dropped by his pillow at some point last night. A glance at his answering machine reveals that apparently his pain meds and booze kept him asleep through eight previous phone calls.

"Yeah?"

"Van Doren, that you?"

Jem flinches, tightening his grip on the receiver. Recognizing Luther Buck's voice isn't a challenge. The guy has a high tenor squeak that fits his short, skinny build. "Bucky," he says hoarsely. "You're not supposed to be calling me anymore."

"I'm calling 'cause things have gotten complicated since yesterday."

"I know. Everything's screwed up, it went wrong--"

"Not 'cause of me it didn't. On my end, things went well, smooth as silk." The other man sounds proud. "Everything was in control -- got the first three floors taken out, just like you wanted. And you should've seen the sky light up. Looked like goddamn Fourth of July."

Sighing, Jem shakes his head. "You stayed and watched?"

"Yeah, not close by. Part of the fun. Besides, a pro makes sure he does what he set out to do." Buck's tone hardens. "'Cept that I didn't do the job planning on killing no one."

"That wasn't what I -- no one died. Not unless you heard something."

"No, but they nearly did. I don't like sloppiness. You tell me the place is empty, that's what I expect. I don't do people, you got that? I got a clean record and now you screwed that up."

Jem glances out the window, distractedly watching a car pass by his house. "Clean record? Gimme a break, you've set more fires than a million Boy Scouts."

"I'm talking about manslaughter, asshole. Attempted murder. You know how this changes things?"

"If you did your job as well as you say you did, then we've got nothing to worry about."

"Nothing's gonna be traced back to me, that's for damn sure. Only thing they'll find there is paint and varnish cans. The starter I used'll be soot by now."

Relaxing slightly, Jem pushes himself off the sofa. "Thank God. So -- so we're okay."

"No. Not close, Van Doren. There's still the matter of you putting me at a bigger risk than I took on. Two people in the hospital--"

"I didn't do it on purpose. You think I'd do that? Jesus, the woman there ... I know her, I work with her. She's a -- a close friend."

"I don't give a rat's ass if she's your mother. Either way, I didn't get paid enough to risk a conviction for attempted murder."

"But it wasn't attempted murder, I never wanted..." Jem slowly trails his words off, and takes a deep breath. "You're asking for more money."

"Yeah. That's what I'm asking for."

"You've got real cajones, Bucky. With what I know about you, you're threatening me? You said yourself you're at a bigger risk now than before. Why would you threaten a guy who could put you in prison?"

"Because, you freakin' moron, I know how the legal system works better than you do. You're a better target for the DA than I am. To catch a high profile fish like you, they'd do a deal with me in two seconds. Once I tell them you planned all this, you'll be spending the rest of your recovery in Dannemora."

Jem puts a hand over his eyes. Great. Now I've gotta deal with blackmail. This is just great. Exhausted, he takes another look outside and realizes that the black limousine he saw before is now pulling in front of his house.

And, because things aren't bad enough, the driver gets out -- revealing that his visitor is Jonnie Adair.

4. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor, Room 320

When Clark Durand reaches the hallway leading to his mother's room, he's surprised to see a familiar face closing her door and heading in the other direction: Ryan O'Connor, Clark's director in Ten Little Indians. With a slight puzzled scowl, Clark puts his coat over his arm and enters Room 320.

Elaine Wagner, her head and neck held securely in traction, shifts her sleepy gaze over to her son. This is the third time he's seen her today, and the twisting sensation in his stomach at the sight of her broken body has yet to subside.

"Hey," Clark says softly, tossing his coat over the empty bed next to hers. He slides a chair over and, with a smile planted on his face, sits beside her. "Look who's dragged herself back to consciousness."

"Not for long." Elaine's voice is a croak, hardly audible even though she's less than a foot away from him. "Oh sweetie, you look terrible."

"I look terrible? You ain't exactly a sight for sore eyes yourself." His smile fades, and Clark reaches out a hand to clasp hers. "That's not true, Mama.. You have no idea how glad I am to see you awake. How are you feeling?"

"Numb. Must be the drugs..."

Clark makes an effort not to look worried. She could be right, after all. According to Dr. Avigad, loss of mobility is only a minor possibility. But Clark's not an optimist by nature, and the thought still nags at him. "That's probably a good thing, considering how much pain you could be in. Enjoy it while you can."

"I am. But I'm afraid ... I'll have to go through withdrawal again."

Blinking, Clark is taken aback by her words. "I didn't even think of that. I totally forgot--oh crap, do you need me to call anyone for you? Your sponsor?"

"He came as soon as he heard. Ryan says there's a special program for cases like this." She licks her dry lips. "Did you see him? He left right before you got here."

As he stands up to get Elaine some water, Clark exhales with the realization. So that's what Ryan O'Connor was doing here! "I did see him. But I didn't know he was your sponsor. You've mentioned a Ryan before, but I didn't put the two together. When we met at the play auditions, he never said a thing."

"He wouldn't. It's 'Anonymous', remember?"

Clark nods, returning and gently holding the cup to her mouth. After she sips, he sits back down and squeezes Elaine's limp hand. "You're going to be okay. We're all going to help you through this. And by 'we' I mean practically everyone in this town. You know how many people have called me to say they're praying for your recovery? You've made a lot of friends in this community. Everyone cares for you so much, and I --" His throat spasms, and he swallows harshly. "You know how I feel. I'll do anything you need. And Beth -- Mama, listen to this: Beth even gave blood."

Elaine's brown eyes glaze over, and when she closes them the tears spill down her face. "Bethy ... Bethy did that? For me?"

"Yes. And she wasn't feeling well, or I'm sure she'd be here now," Clark says, although he has no idea where his sister is. "See? We're all pulling for you."

After a pause, Elaine opens her eyes again. "Clark, what about Doug? I ... I didn't get a chance to ask Ryan. Please tell me Doug made it out of there!"

"Yes, he -- he made it out."

"Oh, thank God. Thank God for that. He was so brave, Clark. It was like being in a box trapped in Hell. Everything was smoke and heat and darkness and pain and --" She chokes on the words, but tries to force herself to continue. "And I--"

"Shhh, it's okay," Clark whispers, caressing her arm. "You're safe now."

"I -- I know. But I was so scared. And he got me through it. I know he told me he wasn't badly hurt, but he sounded so weak that I didn't believe him. Was he hurt? How is he?"

Uncertain how to respond, Clark hesitates. "He's recovering from surgery," he says at last. "I haven't checked on him lately."

"Surgery? So it was serious. I knew it. I knew he was just trying to keep me positive. And he always thought I was the strong one. I never realized..."

Even though Elaine seems to be fading, the intensity of her emotions regarding Doug White surprises Clark. He remembers Chelsea's insinuations last night about a relationship between his mother and Doug, a pairing that seemed ludicrous at the time. Now he's not so sure.

"Mama, there's something Doug's family has been wondering. Do you -- do you know what he was doing at the Record in the first place?"

"He came to talk to me. We were there for hours, talking, and after that I ... I don't remember where we were going."

Clark nods. "I didn't know you two were so close," he says slowly.

She remains silent, and for a moment Clark thinks she's drifted off to sleep. But then her eyes flicker open. "Clark, will you tell his family?"

"Tell them what?"

"How he helped me. How he saved both of us. They should know that he's more than they think he is." Elaine lets out a long, weary sigh, murmuring drowsily: "There's a lot they don't know about him.."

This time, Clark can tell by her deep breaths that she's fallen asleep again. Sitting in silence, Clark holds her hand in his -- and reflects on the fact that there's obviously a lot he doesn't know about his mother, either.

5. Cameron Nichols' Office

Criterion Holdings

Cornwall, NY

Entering the spacious wood-paneled office, Ian Nichols hesitates in the doorway. At the far end of the room, his father Cameron leans back in his thick, butter-soft brown leather chair, listening to someone on his speaker phone. But he notices Ian and lifts a hand, silently beckoning with his fingers. Ian closes the door behind him quietly and moves to sit in the chair opposite Cameron's massive mahogany desk.

Before too long, Cameron cuts off the call and swivels his chair to face his son. He examines Ian with interest. "You look surprisingly alert, considering your late night. What time did you finally return?"

"Around four. And its all a ruse, I'm not alert at all. If I could curl under your desk for a nap, I would."

Cameron smiles. He had a late night at the opera too, but there's no sign of it on his lean, smooth face. "And how is Daphne's father doing?"

"When I left, he was still in surgery. It doesn't look good for a complete recovery, but there could be a New Year's miracle I suppose."

"Let's hope so, for Daphne's sake. How was she? I'm sure she appreciated your being there so vigilantly."

Ian shrugs, glancing down at the Palm Pilot in his hand. "I couldn't do much else for her," he says lightly. "She and her father have a strange relationship. They aren't very close, to put it mildly."

"I see." Cameron puts his fingertips together, tilting his head. "Tell me ... is he related to the newspaper in some way?"

"No, he used to be the hospital's chief of staff. I suppose he could be on the board of directors, assuming it has one."

"It doesn't."

A little surprised at the quickness -- and certainty -- of his father's reply, Ian glances up. "Why do you ask?"

"I've taken an interest in the Record. You know I've been looking to expand our publishing ventures, and ... well, a newspaper has so many interesting uses." Cameron's lips curl with amusement. "Although I fear all the Record will be best remembered for its use as kindling."

Ian's eyes narrow, curious. "You seem happy about this. Were we involved in some way?"

"Not in its demise. Not directly," Cameron admits, his hazel eyes sparkling dangerously. "Actually, as I was telling your uncle last night, I'm far from happy about this development. The newspaper's taken on a great deal of debt with our family, and I thought this made it a ripe plum for the picking. I made my interest in the Record plain to its owner, and offered him a deal for its continued survival. Unfortunately, I suspect that rather than accept my terms, Mr. Van Doren took an alternate route. That doesn't please me at all."

"I can imagine it wouldn't." Ian shakes his head. "He must have a suicide complex. Only a fool would try to outmaneuver you."

"Spoken with true team spirit," Cameron says with an affectionate grin. He reaches a hand over to a leather binder near his flat panel computer monitor. "Let's get to our own business. Take a look at this, will you?"

Opening up the binder, Ian finds a thick proposal and outline, with a title that produces a smile on his lips. "The iCafe Development Project. Well, this is a pretty nice surprise, Dad. Is it my late Christmas present?"

"You could look at it that way, but I prefer to think that it's something you're giving me. It was your idea, after all, and you'll be the one in charge. And after speaking with Tristan Campbell last night, I decided the time has never been more propitious to move forward."

After skimming the first pages of the plan, Ian returns his gaze to his father. "I'm surprised to hear you say that, now that I've met him myself."

"Indeed? What was your impression of Tristan?"

Ian closes the binder, mulling over his words. "Distracted. Overly eager to please -- the way he was hanging over every word Danny said..."

"Well, be fair. Men tend to do that around her. She may be your stepmother, but surely you've noticed her power over the opposite sex."

Ian smiles, but his stomach muscles tighten instinctively. "I suppose that's true. But at least he could have made himself less obvious. That's what I don't understand -- he doesn't seem to have the great mental capacity or ambition that you gave him credit for. To be blunt, he seemed like a distracted airhead."

Laughing, Cameron runs a hand over his mouth. "I think that's the first time I've heard Tristan Campbell described as an airhead. No, Ian, you didn't get an accurate picture. I don't blame your antennae, you're usually a good judge of character. But Tristan wasn't up to par last night -- something was on his mind, I'm not sure what. Normally he's quite sharp. Don't get me wrong, he's not so sharp that he won't be useful to us ... but I wouldn't want you to underestimate the man."

"I'll take your word for it, then." Ian lifts the leather binder slightly. "So you expect him to accept this? To swallow the idea of turning Boondoggles into whatever we want it to be?"

Cameron's long fingers tap his own copy of the proposal. "Tristan is teetering on the edge, hungry for power but too unsure of himself to take the necessary leap. But I'm quite certain that f we feed his ambition, he'll swallow anything we want."

"Including stepping aside from his own club when we tell him to."

"Do you know the myth of Persephone?"

Ian frowns at the change of subject. "Um ... the woman kidnapped by Hades and dragged into the underworld, right?"

"Your education was worth the money, I see." Cameron grins. "Do you remember the young woman's fate?"

"Yes," Ian says slowly. "She had the chance to free herself as long as she stayed pure. But she ruined everything by eating some seeds of a pomegranate grown in Hell."

"Exactly." Still smiling, his father leans back again. "Keep that myth in mind, Ian. It will come in handy when dealing with Tristan ... or anyone else you wish to keep under your control."

6./ Jem Van Doren's Residence

Seven River Drive

Meeting the younger man's gaze, Jem tries to remember what it was like when he was his usual, cocky son-of-a-bitch self.

If he were the same man as he was back then -- back before he'd had the living crap beaten out of him -- Jem might have said something about the incongruous sight of Jonnie Adair, Grease Monkey Extraordinaire, wearing a suit that would pay one month of Jem's rent.

But the sad truth is that Jem has changed since then. More to the point, Jonnie Adair is the very same thug who did the aforementioned beating. And even though Jonnie's questions are quiet, and he seems calm enough, Jem can't forget the ferociousness of the snarl Jonnie wore that night many months ago. Or the sheer impotence of having Dean Nelson twist his arms behind his back as Jonnie aimed dozens of vicious punches at Jem's helpless body.

So Jem keeps his mouth shut, listening like a good docile boy as Jonnie asks his questions.

"You're saying life's just that lucky for you?" Jonnie concludes, silver-gray eyes peering at him. "You need $42,000 and outta nowhere, your building burns down."

"Not everyone would call that lucky," Jem mutters.

"Sure they would. It's practically the goddamned Irish sweepstakes. And it's kinda hard to believe, because your luck this year has been pretty bad."

Jem shrugs. He's not entirely sure why Jonnie Adair cares about how the fire started. They should be glad he can pay them back.

Then again, in all likelihood Jonnie Adair doesn't care how the fire started. He's just the messenger from Dean, or Cameron Nichols, or whoever else is involved in this syndicate. So why does Dean care about the origins of the fire? Maybe Dean plans on using the information to squeeze some more funds out of me. Just like Mister multi-hyphenate arsonist-blackmailer, Luther Buck.

Or maybe, Jem realizes as he continues to listen to Jonnie's quiet voice, Cameron Nichols is pissed off that Jem's found a way out from under his thumb.

Either way, Jem's not planning on sharing this information with anyone, least of all a punk like Adair.

"All you guys should care about is the fact that I'm gonna be able to pay you back. Once the insurance comes through, they'll be cutting a check in a couple of weeks. It's a sure thing, that oughtta make Dean and your other bosses happy."

"A sure thing? You think the insurance company's just gonna bend over for you? They're gonna be checking pretty carefully about all this. It's in their best interests to prove this was arson, right? Then they don't have to pay."

Jem grimaces, knowing Jonnie's right but not willing to think of the possibility. "Luckily for me, they won't be able to prove it was arson. 'Cause it wasn't," he adds hastily.

About to respond, Jonnie is interrupted by the doorbell, and then a quiet little rap on the door. Instinctively, the young man backs away behind the door. "Don't answer that."

"Real bright," Jem snaps. "Except you parked your stupid limo right out front. Whoever it is knows someone's here."

The doorbell rings again. Jem limps over to the window, peering outside. The small figure standing on his front stoop makes him sigh with exasperation. "Oh, Christ. I'm not gonna be able to tell this one to back off. She's kind of insistent. And if she mentions the limo--"

"Tell her you rented the car. Or someone parked it by mistake. I'm serious, Van Doren," Jonnie says forcefully. "I really don't want to have to do anything here."

Swallowing, Jem puts his hand on the doorknob, counting to five to steady his nerves. Finally he opens the door. "Nurse, now isn't a good--"

"Jem, I need to talk to you." Rena Carlson stares up at him, hazel eyes weary but somehow still determined. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Better than when you last saw me, anyway. How are Elaine and White?"

His brusque manner seems to disconcert her. "Elaine woke up this morning. She's recovering very well. Dr. White is still unconscious and in critical condition. Is someone here?"

Surprised by her quick question, Jem shakes his head. "No. I -- I'm glad to hear about them. Thanks for coming over last night, Rena. I don't remember exactly what happened, but--"

"I do. I remember everything." The emphasis of her words doesn't escape Jem, and he suddenly feels a thrill of nervousness. "And I really -- I need to talk, I just want to make sure ... Can I come inside?"

"No." Sensing that she's about to slip underneath his arm, Jem leans to one side to block her path into the house. "I said no, dammit!"

Rena stops short, astonished at his vehemence. "Are you angry with me?"

He contemplates using that as an excuse, but for some reason he doesn't want to hurt her feelings. "No. I just wanna be alone."

"Are you drinking again?"

"No."

She narrows her eyes. "I don't believe you. You're acting strange. It's as if last night didn't happen."

"I wish it didn't, but no, it happened all right."

Rena reaches out to touch his arm. "Jem, you said some things ... I need to get things straightened out. I need to understand what's going on."

"You're scaring me," he says lightly, covering up his discomfort. Jonnie's presence inches away from him isn't helping much. "We didn't sleep together, did we?"

"No!" She blushes, and then suddenly tries again to push past him. "Jem, this is ridiculous, let me come inside."

"Damn it, Nurse, I said I wanted to be alone!"

He struggles to keep her out, but before he knows it Rena's small body has slipped between him and the doorframe, and she's standing inside his foyer. She gives a small gasp when her gaze falls on the young man standing behind him.

Both Jem and Rena are frozen in place, which leaves Jonnie the only one available to push the door shut. He straightens up and, clearing his throat, slowly takes a step closer to Rena.

7' Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Lobby

Chelsea catches up with Daphne just as the teenager rushes out the hospital front entrance. The biting wintry air feels refreshing against Chelsea's still-flushed cheeks, and gives her enough energy to reach out and grab Daphne's arm.

"Let go of me!"

"Just come back upstairs, all right? Why are you being such a pain in the ass?"

Daphne stares at her, dark eyes flashing in disbelief. "Are you totally clueless? My Dad is up there, practically dying. What the hell do you think is wrong with me?"

"Oh, yeah, sing that tune to someone else, babe." Chelsea releases her but leans forward into her face. "If you're so worried about your dad, why aren't you up there with him?"

The younger girl hesitates, digging her hands into her coat pockets. "Because -- because he looked so -- " She shakes her head. "Forget it, I don't have to explain anything to you. I hardly even know you!"

Looking into Daphne's face, Chelsea gets a quick stab of recognition. The guilt, the anger, the shame ... it's all there, and all very familiar. "Maybe you don't," she says, her voice suddenly quiet. "But I know you. A lot better than you think I do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that I know what's going on here. You're not worried about him, you're worried about yourself."

"Go to hell!"

Chelsea pulls at Daphne's coat sleeve as the teenager starts to whirl around. "I know your family's screwed up, and your relationship with your dad sucks big time. You know what people are supposed to feel when someone's sick or hurt -- that they're supposed to be all concerned and sad and afraid for the other person. But instead, all you're feeling is guilty, because you don't feel all concerned and sad and afraid. Aren't I right?" She lets go of Daphne abruptly. "And what you're most afraid of is that someone'll find you out. That they'll realize you're a coldhearted, selfish little bitch."

Chelsea steps closer to her, softening her tone. "But here's a secret for you, Daphne. You're not any of those things."

Hugging herself, Daphne trembles hard enough for the tears to spill from her reddened eyes. "I am," she whispers. "I am. It's not natural. I never felt anything for either of my parents."

"Bullshit. I bet you did. I bet one time you loved them so hard you used to cry when they went out to dinner and stayed out late, 'cause you thought they'd never come back." Chelsea lowers her gaze to the salt-covered path in front of her. "But then things got hard. Your dad was probably a cold jerk and your mom sucked up your life. And you had to stay stronger than both of them or risk getting eaten up alive by their stupid problems."

She shakes her head, looking back up at Daphne. "You're protecting yourself, that's all," she says flatly. "That doesn't make you a bitch. That makes you a survivor -- you survived having a nutcase psycho-killer mom and a drugged-up, skirt-chasing dad."

Daphne stares straight ahead. "Maybe all that's true. Maybe everything you say is right. But all that does is explain why I've got no feelings. It doesn't help me feel like a normal person."

"Oh please, what the hell is normal? Nobody's normal. And lemme tell you, girlfriend, you do too have feelings." Chelsea smirks. "I saw them last night, when you were up-close-and-personal with that Ian guy. No, don't start in with the explanations, I don't really care what you're doing or who you're doing it with -- Ty, Ian, Justin Timberlake or whoever."

Chelsea waves her hand dismissively. "Anyway, I'm not talking about romantic feelings. I'm talking about your feelings for your father. You have feelings. You've just locked 'em up somewhere, 'cause you're pissed off at him. You're afraid showing how you feel is just gonna get you kicked in the ass. But you know what?"

"W-what?"

"You're the one who's got the power now. Your dad's in no shape to have anything over you, or to hurt your feelings. So you can go up there and tell him you love him. For yourself, not for him. If he's that big a schmuck -- and I dunno if he is or not -- you don't owe him a thing. But do it for yourself." Chelsea's words falter, and she clears her throat harshly in order to keep control. "Go for it, Daphne. Take back what your screwed-up parents took away from you."

Biting her lip, Daphne pauses before moving. Finally she turns -- and is surprised to find Greg White behind them, his statue-like body preventing the automatic door from closing.

"Tyler told me you went outside," he says to his niece. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah. I feel better." Daphne glances at Chelsea, then turns back to Greg. "I'm ... I'm sorry I ran out on you."

"That's all right. You think you might wanna try another visit?"

She gives him a tiny nod. He puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it, and then gestures with his chin towards the lobby. "Go on inside. I'll meet you at the elevator, okay?"

Daphne walks slowly past him, murmuring a quiet "thanks" to Chelsea on her way inside. Greg at last lets his crystalline blue gaze take in Chelsea.

She laughs weakly, not sure how much he heard. "Nice, huh? I froze my butt off for a wimpy 'thank you' like that?"

"Trust me, she meant it, a lot more than it sounded. But if you want a better 'thank you' ... " Greg steps forward, and to Chelsea's surprise he lifts his hands to her face. The solid warmth and strength of his fingers flows from her cheeks right down into her soul. Bending slightly, he kisses her forehead, then gently brushes his mouth against her lips. "Thank you," he murmurs, straightening but keeping his eyes locked on hers. "Everything you said ... that must've been pretty difficult."

Lost in the splendor of his proximity, Chelsea finds it a challenge to remain her casual self. "I -- I just said what I thought she needed to hear, no big deal."

"To quote a wise woman I once heard -- bullshit." He smiles down at her flushing face, but then his smile disappears. "What you said about Daphne -- that she's a survivor, having to get past Nora's murders and Doug's addictions -- it made a lot of sense. But I know you were talking about yourself too. Why, Chelsea? What did you survive, can you tell me?"

Chelsea is so surprised by the question she feels as if an electric shock has run through her. Never before has she been so tempted to speak the God's honest truth, to say the first thing that comes into her mind -- to let the cold, rock-hard lump of pain melt away at last.

But she knows that's not going to happen. It's too private, and too embarrassing -- if she tells him about her mother's situation, he'll ask her why she doesn't follow her own advice to Daphne. And that's something Chelsea has no answer for.

"I can't," she says simply. "And it's really freezing out here. Let's just go in, all right?"

Still shaken, she precedes him into the hospital lobby, feeling the weight of his gaze as he follows her.