1. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Fifth Floor Waiting Room

Charles Stanford almost flinches at the sight of his daughter, who stands a few feet away with the angry, wounded expression of someone who's been slapped.

Unsure how much of his discussion with Tyler she may have heard, Charles takes a deep breath. "Chelsea. I didn't realize--"

"'Misery and failure'," Chelsea says slowly, repeating his last heated words to Tyler as she steps closer to them. "So that's it, huh? That's all Mom and me meant to you?"

The barely controlled fire in her blue eyes when she's upset has always reminded Charles uneasily of Roberta, and of the constant scenes of hysteria and rage that comprised the final years of his first marriage. Of course, he's never mentioned this similarity to Chelsea -- no matter how angry they've ever gotten with each other. And the last seventeen years have left almost nothing between father and daughter but anger.

"That isn't what I meant," Charles says, shaking his head free of the phantoms of his past. "You didn't hear all of what I was saying."

"No, Dad, I heard more than enough. You think we kept you from leading the happy-go-lucky life you've got now, with your perfect stick of a wife and honor-roll kiddies."

"This wasn't about you at all, Chelsea. I never even mentioned your name."

"Oh, so you were just talking about mom? That's supposed to make it all okay, your feeling that way about her? About the woman you abandoned when things got a little hard?"

"A little hard?" Charles doesn't know whether to laugh or be furious at the understatement, but quickly deflects the conversation from the treacherous detour it's taking. "Look, Chelsea, I'm sorry you've misunderstood me so completely, but this conversation involves me and Tyler."

Chelsea's eyes narrow with contempt. "Yeah. I know exactly what it involves. You want Tyler to dump little Morticia."

Tyler almost growls at her insult of Daphne White. "Stop talking about her like that, you bitch!"

"Tyler!" Charles snaps his head around to face his son. "I've told you to watch your mouth."

"I don't care, Dad. I'm not gonna listen to a loser like Chelsea putting Daphne down."

"Ooh, a loser," Chelsea mocks, raising an eyebrow. "Wow, I'm really insulted, Ty. That really put me down."

"Be quiet, the both of you!" Charles lowers his own voice with difficulty. "Are you two at all aware that this is a hospital? This is entirely inappropriate behavior."

Chelsea suddenly grabs his arm. "No! You wanna know what's inappropriate? Using Mom's condition to hide the real reason why you don't want Tyler hanging around Daphne. That's not just inappropriate, that's sick."

"What do you mean, the real reason?" Tyler darts a suspicious look at his father. "Dad, what does she--"

"It's his ridiculous hatred of the White family. He's got a vendetta or something against them, I don't know if he's jealous or what, but that's what it's really all about."

Charles shakes his head, feeling vaguely nauseous at the contempt his own daughter shows to him. "I do not have a vendetta against the White family. And I'm certainly not jealous of them."

"I bet you don't even know why you hate 'em all so much. And so you justify everything by making it all about saving Ty from ending up like you and Mom -- like that's a fate worse than death," Chelsea adds hoarsely.

Tyler seems confused and somehow younger than usual, but he's unable to let Chelsea attack his father. "Why don't you just get lost? Whatever Dad's problem is, it's got nothing to do with you."

"Sure it does. Because he's such a goddamned hypocrite, he'd rather blame my mother and everything she went through rather than just say, flat out, 'Ty, you can't be with Daphne 'cause she's got the wrong last name.'"

'My mother and everything she went through'. Charles barely hears the rest of Chelsea's speech, struck by the selective nature of her memory -- and her one-sided sympathy. As if only Robbie went through anything. As if only Robbie suffered...

He shakes his head slightly, swallowing the indignation and anger in order to maintain some semblance of control. "Chelsea," he says, his voice almost shaking with the effort it takes for him to keep it quiet. "I'll ask you one more time to get off this subject."

"You're not in charge of me, Dad. And besides," Chelsea says with a sneering smile at Tyler. "I'm just trying to help you and Ty here, so you can be honest with each other."

Tyler shakes his head. "I don't want any help from you, and I doubt Dad does, either. How many times do we have to tell you to leave us the hell alone?"

A fleeting look of exposed vulnerability passes over Chelsea's face, her eyes widening slightly. Just as quickly, she hardens and sends a cold, sidelong look at her father.

"Fine, I'll go. But first, Daddy, I'll make life a lot easier for you. If you wanna break up your golden boy's romance, why don't you just tell him the truth?" She flicks her icy gaze back to Tyler. "Hate to break the news to you, but Morticia's going behind your back with an older guy."

After blinking in surprise, Tyler recovers with a snort of disbelief. "You're pathetic, you know that, Chelsea?"

"Don't believe me? Ask Dad. Hell, ask Jason. They both saw 'em together at the opera."

Charles keeps his eyes focused on his daughter, avoiding Tyler's questioning stare. "Chelsea, this is completely--"

"Hey, I'm just doing what you've been trying to do for months." Chelsea smiles without pleasure. "Let's see, what else can I tell you, Ty? His name's Ian, and he was here at the hospital with his arms around her all night. And he's a tall, rich hottie you couldn't possibly measure up to."

Tyler's lips part, but he can't seem to respond. Charles inhales at the shock and hurt on his son's face. And Chelsea, after casting a bitter look of triumph in Charles's direction, spins around to re-enter the elevator.

2. Jem Van Doren's Residence
Seven River Drive

From his stance by the window, Jem Van Doren can see the several emotions running across Rena Carlson's small round face. There's shock, fear, disbelief -- and a little bit of vindication. Obviously Rena has, at least at some point over the past twelve hours, guessed that Jem was behind the fire at the Record.

He turns away from her, walking with difficulty over to the sofa. "Yeah, you heard right," he says with forced casualness. "It's my fault. So now that you know the truth, does that make you feel better?"

Rena's deep breath is audible even from a few feet away. "But -- but why, Jem?" she asks, her voice taut with disappointment. "Why would you want to destroy your own building?"

Jem glances into the mirror above his nonworking fireplace, meeting her gaze without having to face her again. "I didn't want to destroy it. I just wanted to damage it a bit. Besides, you're not stupid -- I bet you can figure it out yourself."

"The insurance money."

"Bingo. Lots and lots of insurance money." He sits heavily down again, unable to stand for too long without feeling a shooting pain in his upper thigh, where the edge of his leg cast pinches a nerve. "So that's it. That's the truth you've been nagging me about. Glad you asked, huh?"

After a moment, Rena follows Jem, standing in front of the sofa to stare down at him through wide hazel eyes. "No," she says with her customary honesty. "But you left me with no choice. And I still don't understand. Why did you need so much money? How could you let things get so -- so terrible -- that you had to do something this stupid?"

He lifts an eyebrow at her. "My, we're awfully judgmental."

"What do you expect? Jem, you nearly killed two people!"

"I know that!" Jem snaps, his narrowed eyes sharp and deadly. "You think I need to be reminded of that?"

"I really don't know. I don't know you at all, Jem. Someone who could do something like this..."

Jem laughs, shaking his head. He leans back against the sofa cushions, running a hand over his mouth as he tries to put his thoughts into words. "It must be nice," he says eventually. "So very nice to sit on a cloud in your fantasy world, where no one has to do anything bad in order to survive. I bet things are just full of blue skies and rainbows for you, huh? Well, you'll have to send me a postcard from there, Nurse, 'cause the view down here in the real world is a lot uglier."

"Don't talk to me like that!" Rena's voice is harsher than he's ever heard it. "Don't you dare talk to me like I'm some innocent dreamer, just 'cause I think burning down a building is a stupid thing to do! I'm trying to help you, but I -- I've never --" She breaks off, red-faced and obviously about to burst into tears.

Watching the exhausted young woman's attempt to control herself, Jem feels a shudder of remorse. "Look, why don't you lie down or something? You're gonna drop if you don't get off your feet."

"If I lie down," she says hoarsely, "I won't be able to get back up. And I have to get back to work at the hospital."

"What are you, a masochist? The way you look, you should be a patient there. At least have some coffee."

Rena shakes her head, but she seems to have composed herself. "Jem. Why did you need the money so badly?"

About to make a flippant comment, Jem abruptly changes his mind. He realizes there's no point in obfuscating any more ... she knows the worst part already.

Sighing, Jem shifts his attention over to one of the few pieces of artwork in the house -- an old print of some red-coated hunters riding in search of a fox. As always, he gets a small feeling of satisfaction at the painter's depiction of the horses' shining coats, the power of their muscles as they leap towards a hedge.

"Yeah," he mutters at last. "It all started with them."

Rena follows the direction of his gaze. Her nose wrinkles slightly with her frown. "Horses?"

He nods. "Not hunters, though. Thoroughbreds. Standardbreds too, though not as much. The sulkies are kinda distracting."

"I -- I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"The sport of kings, Nurse Carlson. Racing."

Rena's mouth opens as comprehension dawns on her face. "You're a gambler. You lost money gambling on horses."

"Well, it started out that way. Things've pretty much escalated since then. Horses, football, basketball ... and even newspaper publishing." He twists his lips into a smile. "That was probably my biggest bet, and the stupidest one."

"So you owe money to whoever you bet with? Jonnie Adair?"

"Oh gimme a break. That little Napoleon is just a goon in a monkey suit. I don't owe him a damn thing, except the bill for this cast I'm wearing."

Inhaling sharply, Rena glances at his leg. "Oh my God," she whispers. "You mean you weren't mugged? Jonnie did all this to you?"

3. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Fifth Floor Intensive Care Unit

Greg White holds his breath, and hears nothing but the ceaseless rhythm of the respirator and the various monitors' faint electrical humming. He turns to stare at the dark-haired man lying on the bed, a battered and gray-faced ghost barely resembling the brother Greg remembers.

Only seconds ago, Greg felt Doug White squeezing his hand -- perhaps, Greg hoped, a reaction to the unusually emotion-filled words Greg had just murmured to him. But now, peering into Doug's face, Greg can't see any change in his seemingly unconscious state.

"Doug," he whispers, and then strengthens his voice. "Doug? Can you hear me?"

The older man opens his eyes, blinking slowly as he appears to take in his surroundings. His head is too weak to move, most likely, and his gaze focuses only on the immediate area beside him. Panic and confusion are evident in his twitching facial muscles.

At once, Greg straightens so that he's in Doug's line of vision. "Hey, I'm right here."

Doug's dark blue eyes widen at the sound of Greg's voice, and finally his fearful gaze falls on Greg. He's clearly alarmed by his inability to move, not to mention the tube shoved down his throat. His body trembles with effort and pain.

Greg quickly places a pacifying hand on his brother's shoulder. "Shh, Doug, everything's all right," he says, knowing he's lying but unable to think of anything else that will calm Doug. "You're in the hospital, the ICU. You were in an accident last night -- I don't know if you remember -- and you were badly hurt. But you're doing okay now, everyone's taking good care of you."

Despite Greg's words, Doug instinctively makes a grab at the breathing tube covering his mouth, probably wanting to pull out the painful, intrusive apparatus. Greg keeps Doug's hand away.

"No, you need the tube to breathe, don't fight it. Once you're strong enough for another operation, they'll put in a trache and a valve so you can talk a little." Greg exhales, realizing that he should start from the beginning. "Okay, let me tell you what's been going on. You that you already had an operation. Sarnoff was in charge -- I know you don't like him, but he's an excellent surgeon. Anyway, they did a splenectomy and some repair of your lungs -- your right lung collapsed thanks to some broken ribs."

Doug's eyes question him, and Greg wishes he knew what his brother was thinking. Belatedly he remembers the oxygen deprivation Doug suffered, and wonders if Doug can even understand anything he's saying. He curls his fingers around Doug's hand. "Jesus, Doug, I'm sorry. I don't know if I'm making sense to you. If I am, squeeze my hand again, okay?"

There's no immediate response, and Greg's stomach tightens. Maybe there is brain damage... "Doug, just a little squeeze? Can you do that for me?"

The pressure on his fingers makes Greg sigh raggedly. "Thank God," he says in a rush, looking up at the ceiling for a second. "At least I know -- at least I know we're communicating. Hey, that's kind of a first for us, huh?" he adds with a weak smile, which fades quickly. "Okay, I'm going to get your doctor. She needs to know you're--"

Doug squeezes his hand with surprising strength, and Greg moves closer, bending down. "What, Doug? What is it? Are you in pain?"

Though he makes a slight shaking movement with his head, Doug's intense gaze seems to be asking Greg a question about this very issue. Greg swallows nervously and glances at the IV bag nearby. "Um ... Doug, I have to tell you, they -- they are giving you meds. It's a meperedine drip for now, but they'll probably switch to oxycodone when you're able to swallow."

Doug's eyes widen again in dismay. Greg sighs. " I know you didn't want any painkillers, and that was very brave of you, but -- it was the only thing that could be done, considering your injuries. You've got broken ribs and a pierced lung, and if you don't get help, every breath you take is gonna be torture. Even with the meds, it's going to be rough. Do you understand? They didn't think -- We didn't think you were in any condition to make the judgment call, considering the severity of your injuries."

This news is met with a flash of indignance in Doug's gaze -- and undoubtedly, fear at having been involuntarily reintroduced to the very drugs that addicted him in the first place. Greg shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Doug. But you're going to have to deal with it. Somehow you'll have to --"

Doug's hand releases Greg's, and he beats it on the bed in mute impotence before his fingers form a shaking fist. At first Greg interprets the gesture as one of anger, but gradually he realizes that Doug is trying to mime the act of writing.

"You want something to write with? Is that it?" Greg looks around, finding a pen near the chart by Doug's bed. He hurries to bring it back to Doug, who holds it loosely within his weak grip. Greg flips the chart over so that Doug has some space to write his message.

Doug's shaky letters spell: elaine?

"Oh! I should've told you that. Yes, she's okay, Doug. She -- I think she's actually doing pretty well. Her son told me she has a fractured clavicle, but all in all she was very lucky."

Greg watches while Doug closes his eyes briefly before writing another word. Frowning, Greg shakes his head. "John? Who's John? There wasn't anyone else brought in with you."

Doug's weakening state makes it difficult for him to press the pen hard enough, but he manages to scrawl: my sponsr call him

Greg stares down at the paper in disbelief. "Doug, you need to be worrying about recovering, and I mean recovering from this accident. Just relax, all right? I think you've got other people who could--"

With frustrated emphasis, Doug underlines the last two words: call him

"Okay, okay, calm down. I'll call him, all right? Now will you let me get Dr. Tsai?"

After Greg leaves his brother alone, shaking his head to himself, Doug writes a final, barely legible word before he falls asleep, the pen dropping from his fingers:

4. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Fifth Floor Waiting Room

In the ladies restroom, Daphne White stares at her reflection above the sink, her dark eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She's spent the last fifteen minutes crouched in a stall, sobbing into a handful of bunched-up toilet paper, and at last Daphne's preparing herself to face her uncle and Tyler.

Turning the faucet, she cups her hands beneath the stream and splashes herself with icy water. When she closes her eyes, she can still see Greg's expression as he stared at her in confusion. He didn't understand what she was so upset about, after learning her father might be able to hear her.

"Why am I such a freak," she whispers into her hands as she rubs her face. "Why couldn't I just tell him I love him, like any normal person?"

Greg wouldn't understand her inability to say the right thing. He's spent his life being able to charm almost everyone, even people he doesn't like. And as sympathetic as Ian Nichols had been with her last night, he would probably judge her harshly if he knew what she'd said. In his imperious way, he'd scold her like a little girl.

Even Chelsea Stanford, who everyone knew had some big mad-on with her father ... even Chelsea had thought Daphne would be able to have a big emotional scene with Doug White.

Daphne straightens up, slowly reaching for some paper towels to dry her face. She suddenly realizes there's only one person who'd give her unconditional support. A little sob escapes from her lips, but it's one of relief. At least she knows she can be honest with someone.

Turning around, she heads out the door to find Tyler.

5. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Third Floor

Martina Rosenoff closes the door to Elaine Wagner's room, pressing the palm of her hand against the laminated wood so that the door shuts softly behind her. She fingers her jeweled necklace absently in thought, wishing there was something she could do for her friend's mother. Then, turning on her heel, she starts down the corridor -- nearly colliding into the tall man in front of her.

"Clark!" She takes a second to look at him, and then embraces her friend warmly. "Oh Clark, I'm so sorry about all this."

With a nod, Clark Durand returns her hug, letting his chin rest on her head for a second. "Thanks, Marty. Were you just inside? I didn't think the nurses were letting anyone--"

"Actually I was just leaving after visiting a client, but I knew Elaine was here, and I wanted to poke my head in. She's sleeping. She looks -- " Martina hesitates, feeling the tension in Clark's arm muscles as he holds her. "She looks better than I was expecting."

He laughs quietly. "Liar. Mama looks terrible. But I guess considering the alternative..." Pulling away, Clark rubs his eyes. "If I force myself to be optimistic, I'll admit that all things considered, we're lucky."

"But you're not feeling that way, obviously." Martina examines him, brown eyes darkened with concern. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

"Funnily enough, I haven't. This whole week has been a bloody nightmare."

She tilts her head. "Why? Has something else happened?"

Clark laughs again, this time bitter -- but then seems to realize she's genuinely confused. "I guess there's no reason you'd know. A colleague ... a friend of mine was killed."

"Oh, no ... oh honey!" Martina reaches out to grasp his hand. "That's terrible, I had no idea."

He just nods, running a hand through his thick dark hair. Martina realizes that he's wearing a coat, and is dressed for the outdoors. "Are you leaving already?"

"Yeah. I was told to leave, since I was practically falling asleep on top of a cadaver. Never a good thing. I thought I'd stop in to see Mama before I took off, but if she's already sleeping..." Clark opens Elaine's door, peeking inside, then shuts it again. "Yeah, she's out like a light. Guess I might as well follow suit for a few hours."

Martina raises an eyebrow. "Only a few hours? You look like you could happily sleep through the Second Coming."

"Most likely. But I want to come back here later. I don't want to leave her by herself overnight." Clark pauses, then looks down at Martina. "Actually ... you mind if I walk you to your car? I'd kind of like to ask your advice."

Slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow, Martina nods. "I'm always happy for an escort. And no easy jokes about warning my boyfriend, please," she adds with a wicked smile.

"Don't worry. I'm not currently interested in joking about your boyfriend."

His dry words put a frown on Martina's face as they reach the elevator. "I don't get it. Is something wrong with you and Mike?"

Clark pushes the down button, pursing his lips. His lack of a response only deepens Martina's frown. "Clark?"

"Let me keep it hypothetical for a bit, okay?"

"Lawyers live for hypotheticals. What is it, honey?"

They enter the empty elevator together. Martina presses the button for the lower garage level, but keeps her gaze on the man at her side. Finally he returns her look. "I've never been involved in something like this ... not on this side of it, anyway. I mean -- " He inhales, starting over. "Let's say someone was the friend of a murder victim. And the police kept asking him questions, and there were things that this man wanted to keep to himself -- things that might not have anything to do with the crime."

Martina nods. "You've just described ninety-nine witnesses out of a hundred. Clark, even totally innocent people have secrets."

"Yes." He exhales, as if her words have given him permission to continue. "But what the police find out? If they find out, they might focus on the man as some kind of suspect, just because he wasn't completely forthcoming with them."

"I'm afraid that often happens. Far too often, in fact. It's the nature of policemen and district attorneys to believe themselves the sole arbiters of what secrets a person may keep to oneself. And to believe that everyone's guilty before proven innocent."

"Well, then what would you recommend?"

Martina looks at her briefcase for a few seconds. "Normally, I'd recommend to this person that he or she should tell the truth to its fullest possible extent. Sometimes secrets are far less damaging than you might--"

"The thing is, it's not just his secret. And there are lives that -- there are people whom he wants to protect." Clark's strong face looks very pale and tired. "What should he do? If he has no choice but to keep quiet, and then the police think he's guilty?"

"Clark--"

"I guess what I'm really asking you, Marty, is ... at what point should someone hire a defense attorney?"

Looking at him with sympathy, Martina takes his hand. "To be honest," she says softly, "two days before he's forced to ask that question."

The elevator door opens at the garage level, but Martina and Clark remain where they are. He sighs again, this time wearily. "You're the only lawyer I know. And I know this'd put you in a strange position, but--"

"Yes, Clark." She squeezes his fingers. "I'll be glad to represent you."

6. Jem Van Doren's Residence
Seven River Drive

Rena waits for Jem's response, which isn't forthcoming. "I'm right, aren't I? Jonnie's the one who attacked you?"

"Well, not him alone." Jem doesn't want to give Jonnie the full credit for beating him to a pulp. "Someone else had to hold my arms back."

"Oh my God," Rena repeats, her words muffled through the fingertips covering her mouth. "That's why you wouldn't tell the police anything. And why your credit cards were all still in your wallet. How could I be such an idiot not to realize--"

"Don't feel bad. The cops are the idiots, they're the ones being paid to figure things like this out. But I'm glad they were as thickheaded as usual, 'cause they'd only have made things worse. They'd probably arrest me, or try to make a deal and have me testify against -- uh, against the people I deal with. Like I'd be that suicidal."

Rena keeps shaking her head. "But where does the paper fit in?"

"Christ, do you really want the whole sordid story? It'll take too long, and you said you've gotta get back to the hosp--"

"Jem, I want to know everything. Everything. I want to understand. This is so out of my scope of knowledge, and I -- I feel so dumb and naive. And now I'm mixed up in--" Rena cuts herself off, suddenly closing her eyes. "The check I gave you. Jonnie knows about it somehow, doesn't he? Is that why he thinks I'm involved?" She opens her eyes, staring at him with a look of betrayal. "Jem, why did you tell him about that?"

"No. No, I didn't." Jem shoves himself up awkwardly. "I swear, Rena, that big a schmuck I'm not. I didn't bring you into this. Honestly, I have no goddamned idea how they knew, but when Nichols came over here yesterday he mentioned you, so that means--"

"Nichols?"

Jem hesitates, aghast. "I take it back. I am that big a schmuck," he mutters to himself, furious. "Look. Forget that name. Just put it out of your mind, all right? My point is, there's a couple of ways they could've known about your money. Either they're keeping an eye out on my place, or somehow they've got a line into my bank activities ... I don't know. Maybe both. Probably both, since they know about Chelsea..."

As he lapses into thought, trying to figure all this out, Rena steps closer to him. "What about her? Did she lend you money too?"

"Huh? No, she's got no money. She's just--" He flips a hand over, clearing his throat. "A friend."

Rena examines him as his meaning sinks in, and then her gaze drops. "I see."

Despite everything -- his physical pain, his fear, and his guilt -- Jem has to grin a little at her disappointment. "Well, well. Jealous, Nurse?"

The look she sends him is so obviously surprised that the truth is crystal clear: her annoyance at Chelsea has nothing to do with him. And for a second, Jem's surprised at his own disappointment.

Of course, Rena doesn't notice his sudden disturbing reaction, responding to his question with one of her own. "Does she know about all this?"

"Jesus, no, not at all. She's got no clue whatsoever, and trust me, that's how I wanna keep--"

The doorbell rings. Both Jem and Rena jump slightly, startled, and Rena is the first one to whisper: "Do you think it's Jonnie?"

Jem's glance out the window reveals a small red car across the street, one he recognizes instantly. "Well. Speak of the little devil herself..."

He moves slowly to the door, but turns back to Rena before opening it. "You won't say anything to her, right? You promised."

"I know I did. No, I won't say anything. And I have to leave."

With a satisfied nod, Jem takes a deep preparatory breath and opens the door.

Chelsea stands there, letting the cold wind blow its way inside the foyer. "So you're still alive."

Jem lifts a corner of his mouth. "I'm surprised you care. Took you long enough to remember me."

"I've been at the hospital. And I tried to call, but your phone's been busy all morning."

"I bet it has been. But I haven't checked my messages."

"What, did you just wake up? Your building practically burns down and you sleep the whole day away? Unbelievable. I knew you wouldn't be that upset. I sent whatsername over here to play Florence Nightingale, but I should've guessed you wouldn't give a damn that -- stop it, why are you waving your hand around at me?"

Jem turns his head to the left, gazing into the living room. When Chelsea finally realizes he's trying to get her attention, she turns and sees Rena staring back at her.

"Oh. Um ... hi."

Ignoring her, Rena buttons her coat and walks up to the front door. She looks up at Jem. "I want to finish this discussion, okay?"

"I get the feeling I don't have a choice anymore." But he gives her a wan smile, the best he can manage under the circumstances. "Thanks. And ... sorry."

Rena nods and slips out the door, saying nothing to Chelsea. The younger woman rolls her eyes and walks further into the apartment, but Jem clasps the edge of the door, watching Rena's small figure making her way down the icy path.

"Nurse." When she looks back at him, he shrugs slightly in mute apology. "Just, you know ... be careful, okay?"

She stares, her cheeks reddened by the cold -- and probably by fear as well. Then, turning, she starts to leave once more.

7. Criterion Holdings
Cameron Nichols' Office

"I'm glad to hear that, Mother," Cameron says into his phone receiver, raising an eyebrow to himself as he makes a note on his calendar. "I look forward to hearing this plan of yours."

On the other end of the line, Adele Nichols sounds as if she's smiling. "It's in play even as we speak."

"Good. Frankly, this whole issue has been shrouded in far too much mystery for my own liking."

"You have your projects, I have mine."

"Just so. And speaking of which, I have a meeting with one of my own pet projects. I'll speak to you--"

"Which one?"

Cameron laughs, shaking his head. "My daily agenda is not awaiting your approval, despite what you may think."

"It was a civil question, Cameron."

"Perhaps. I'm feeling decidedly uncivil today." He pauses, then adds with a wry smile, "Now, may I please be excused?"

Adele makes an appropriate reply and hangs up. Cameron swivels in his chair and stands up, his long legs striding to the doorway.

He pulls the door open and, after smiling at his executive assistant sitting at her desk, extends a hand to the man waiting nearby. "Tristan. Thank you for coming."

Tristan Campbell rises, looking tired around his blue eyes but accepting Cameron's handshake with a firm, energetic grip. The two men walk back into the office, settling down in the two leather chairs away from Cameron's desk.

"Thanks again for last night," Tristan begins, crossing his legs and leaning back with confidence. "I've sent a more tangible thank you to Danielle -- I hope she likes orchids."

"She's a hothouse orchid herself," Cameron says, grinning. "As such, she can hardly complain. Seriously, you're very welcome, Tristan, but it wasn't necessary to send anything. The pleasure of your company --"

"We both know that was minimal at best." Tristan raises a hand, warding off Cameron's reassurance. "I'm very sorry for my behavior last night. I spent the evening in a kind of fog, and it was very gracious of you both to pretend not to notice."

Cameron tilts his head. He can tell that the younger man has practiced the apology, but the acknowledgement still impresses him. "I presume the fog has dissipated?"

"The fog was swept away almost the minute I got out into the cold night air. I started to see things very clearly after that."

"Good. I like partners who can see clearly," Cameron says without a hint of insincerity. "May I ask the cause of your original ... fogginess, for lack of a better word?"

"Well ... you may, but I'd rather not get into it. Besides, to be honest, seeking the root cause would require a trip back in time several years, and no one wants that." He laughs dryly at the thought. "But as I said, it's gone now, hopefully for good."

"Congratulations. Well, at least now you'll be able to read the proposal I discussed with renewed clarity. Here," he adds, reaching over to the marble-topped table besides his chair. He picks up the black leather-bound portfolio and hands it to Tristan. "Of course you'll need some time to examine it, but I can sum it up for you."

Flipping the portfolio open, Tristan rests his hand on the first page. His keen eyes scan the title and summary paragraph in seconds, and he frowns.

"You're suggesting turning my nightclub into an Internet cafe."

"Not just an Internet cafe. I think we'll agree that most of those are mere mushrooms that pop up overnight, taking advantage of a quick rainfall."

"...And dying within days."

Cameron smiles. "Oh, I have no intention of seeing this project die. No, this isn't your usual glorified coffeehouse, retrofitted to appeal to the cappuccino-and-computer set. We are targeting--"

"Let me guess? A group with liquid assets, and knowledgeable enough about the Web to fully utilize its social aspect. In other words, suburban, middle-class teenagers."

Though a little irritated at Tristan's quickness, Cameron hides it. "To some extent, yes."

"To a great extent, if I'm understanding this correctly." Tristan closes the portfolio, tapping it with his fingers. "As interesting and potentially profitable as a teenage hangout might be, it's very far removed from the notion of a nightclub -- from Boondoggles."

"Not so very far removed as you might think. And as you've seen with The Lighthouse, a club can successfully target several different audiences. A Saturday night tango dancer is very different from our Wednesday afternoon charity luncheon guest, not to mention the affluent gay men who visit on Sundays."

"So you're suggesting that this iCafe would target teens during the day, and at night, an older crowd?"

"Not much older." Cameron smiles slightly. "Just old enough to make your liquor license worthwhile."

Tristan looks down at the leather binding in his hands, not quickly enough to keep Cameron from seeing the flash of concern. "There are a lot of legal risks in walking such a thin line--"

"Any venture has risks. Avoiding risk means avoiding success."

"I'm aware of that," Tristan says, his voice sharpening just slightly. "But with kids--"

"Believe me, I have no more desire than you to swim against the rough waters of concerned parents, or politicians seeking re-election on a 'family values' platform. Legal problems will be dealt with."

Nodding slowly, Tristan leans forward in his chair. "I'm just used to catering to a more mature and ... well, sophisticated crowd."

"Today's teenagers and young adults are more mature and sophisticated than I believe you're giving them credit for. Besides, too sophisticated can also mean subdued -- or worse, somnolent."

This raises Tristan's gaze, and the sparkle in his blue eyes reveals defiance. "Boondoggles may not have been in same league as The Lighthouse," he says evenly. "But it was never somnolent."

"But Boondoggles is gone now," Cameron murmurs, lifting an apologetic hand. "And I was under the impression you wanted to keep it that way."

Tristan thinks his words over. "Of course. Yes, I do. I'll ... I'll certainly look the proposal over carefully, Cameron." His lips suddenly curl with a boyishly apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I hope you don't think my raising objections is a sign that I'm unwilling or uninterested."

"I wouldn't trust a partner who had no objections to a proposal. Such a creature would be nothing more than a sycophant -- or a fool. And I'm well aware that you are neither."

"Actually, I think anyone can be a fool, depending on the situation. It's recognizing that fact that makes us wise."

Cameron grins, nodding. "That sounds like a koan. Do you study Zen?"

"No. Honestly, I've just learned that from studying myself ... and some others I know."

"Is your new lack of fogginess the result of recognizing some past foolish behavior?"

Tristan nods as well. "Yes. Let's call it a New Year's resolution."

"Are there any others that might be of interest?"

"To you? I'm not sure. Although, I suppose ..." Looking as if he's trying to make some decision, Tristan thoughtfully rubs the cool leather portfolio with the palm of his hand.

Cameron is an observant man, and he recognizes someone who needs a tip in the right direction. "If there's anything I can do to help you in your resolutions, Tristan, by all means let me know."

Tightening his jaw, Tristan returns his gaze to Cameron. "I guess it does involve you. At least -- you could be tremendously helpful, but it depends on your own plans."

"Really? Now you've definitely piqued my interest. What plans in particular?"

"Your plans for expansion into Schuyler Falls. You've said that's why you're interested in Boon -- in my nightclub. But I'm wondering if there isn't a juicier plum out there for Criterion Holdings."

"I'm sure there are many juicy plums. But do you know of one ripe enough to fall into my hand?"

"Yes, I think it's ready to drop -- with a hard enough shove."

"And that would be...?"

Tristan's smile hardens, looking anything but boyish. "OmniCorp."

8. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Pulling nervously at one of her long, curling locks of hair, Beth Durand stands by the doorway and watches her mother's sleeping face. Elaine is being heavily medicated, and seems in a deeply unconscious state. Beth envies her dearly.

This has been the longest day Beth can remember in months ... years, perhaps. Not just because of everything that's happened, from being accosted by a stranger to the endless, frozen walk home in the snow, to learning that her mother lay near death in the hospital.

But it's mostly because -- apart from the half-hour or so in which she'd been unconscious, fainting after donating blood -- Beth can remember every terrible, aching moment.

Time's always been so flexible for her. Usually days fly by without her realizing it, and Beth manages to escape many uncomfortable aspects of life by thinking about Molly, wishing for relief and somehow having the burden lifted from her. Memories, too, mean nothing to Beth: they're ephemeral and always open to different interpretations. After all, no one she knows -- not Clark, or Chelsea, or Mama or Danielle -- no one seems to share what she remembers. And she can't share their memories either. Many, many times, her brother's mentioned something that he claims happened, despite the fact that Beth knows it didn't. Clearly, his memory is as faulty as her own. It's all part of the elusive nature of time, and the fact that the past .. at least, the way people remember it ... can't be trusted.

All that seems to have ended today. Beth is exhausted, drained, because no matter how hard she tries, she can't hear Molly's reassuring voice. She's closed her eyes, wishing for release, but none comes -- instead, it's just Beth, completely alone and utterly empty.

Turning listlessly away from Elaine, who hasn't yet opened her eyes, Beth opens the door and slips out. She's incredibly hungry, but the thought of eating nauseates her. Ever since giving blood, she's felt dizzy and weak. And very cold, too.

Beth wraps her scarf more tightly around her throat and heads to the elevator. She might as well go home to sleep. If nothing else, sleeping will make time pass more quickly...

While waiting, Beth vaguely notices that she's standing next to a tall red-headed blur. The blur moves aside and, to Beth's surprise, addresses her.

"Well, well. It's the lost lamb who fled the flock."

Beth blinks and turns around. At once she cringes, stepping back against the wall. "Danielle! What are you doing here?"

Danielle Nichols nods, a cold smile on her curving lips. "I had a meeting with the hospital's head of fundraising. They're sending a proposal to our family foundation. The real question is, Beth, what are you doing here?"

Beth doesn't respond right away, and Danielle continues dryly. "At least it's good to know you weren't merely a figment of my imagination. After your disappearing act last night, I was beginning to wonder."

"Oh -- oh God, I'm very sorry. I really am."

"It was extraordinarily embarrassing, Beth. Leaving me with an empty gala seat like that, without a single word of explanation. I can't even fathom--"

"Please, I know you must be furious. I don't blame you. I just --" Beth wishes she could offer something, anything, that would make this woman stop staring at her with such disdain. The elevator doors open, and both women walk inside. Finally Beth blurts: "I've been in the hospital all night."

Danielle hesitates, peering at her. "You mean you were ill? What happened?"

"No, not me. My mother. My mother was in an elevator accident and a fire. She was in surgery for hours."

"She wasn't one of the victims from the newspaper fire, was she?"

Beth's eyes widen in gratitude at Danielle's understanding. "Yes! That was her!"

"My, my. I'm very sorry. I didn't see the name Durand in the news--"

"Her last name's Wagner."

"I see. Is she all right, then?"

"Serious but -- but stable, the doctors say."

"And how are you? If you'll pardon my saying so, you look like death warmed over yourself."

Beth nods weakly. "It's been a rough night."

"I imagine it has. But --" Danielle suddenly frowns, a faint wrinkle on her usually smooth alabaster brow. "All this doesn't explain why you ran out of the gala."

Unfortunately, Beth realizes that it doesn't. And for the life of her she can't think why she ran out, either.

The elevator doors open on the second floor, and someone nearly gets on -- but seeing that the elevator is going in the wrong direction, he apologizes and lets the doors close without him.

Beth pays no attention to him, except to smell his cologne, but the distraction gives her time to think until the elevator starts moving downwards again.

Beth is so shocked by the sudden voice in her mind that she doesn't stop to think before repeating them: "I was sick. I was gonna throw up."

Danielle makes a small grimace of distaste. "Really, Beth. That much detail I do not need. Why didn't you simply tell me at the time?"

Clutching at the support rail behind her, Beth tries to calm down. There's something strange occurring, a swelling anger and frustration that she hasn't felt in a long time. "I didn't think you cared," she says bluntly. "There were lots of others around."

"That may well be, but you were my guest." Danielle leaves the elevator when it opens on the lobby floor, and Beth trails behind as the older woman continues chastising her. "It was completely inappropriate. And to be honest, the incident gives me pause about some of the plans I had for your future."

Many bitter, venomous words leap to Beth's tongue, but somehow she manages to say only, "Like what?"

"Such as recommending you for a spectacular new opportunity, something that would be perfect for a rising young designer. You would have been wonderful for it, but if your social skills are lacking--"

"I'll be fine, don't you worry."

Danielle, clearly surprised by the strength in Beth's tone, turns back to glance at her. "Will you? Can you guarantee me that you won't have any further strange behavior such as you displayed last night? No more drama?"

"Everything'll be fine! It's not my fault she got hurt, you know."

"I understand that. But unless you have some form of ESP, I hardly think your mother's accident is the reason you fled into the night like that."

Beth feels flushed, and brusquely unwraps the scarf that feels as if it's stifling her. "I told you why I did that. Don't you believe me?"

Nodding, Danielle eyes her warily. "I think you need to sleep," she says in a cautious, low tone. "You're acting very odd."

"Well, she almost died. You'd act weird too if that happened."

"Of course. You're right, I suppose I'm being thoughtless. I'll take you home in my car, and you should get something to eat--"

"I want to walk home," Beth says sullenly, except it's not Beth any more, Beth has finally been pushed aside after a long battle. She lifts her chin in defiance. "I like it outside in the cold."

After a long look, the older woman says something else in her phony, annoying voice and at last leaves her alone.

"No more drama," Bitsy mimics to herself, spitting out the words with all the disgust she can muster, and stomps out of the hospital, free for the first time in ages and chanting no more drama to herself all the way home.

9. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Elaine Wagner's Room

Somewhere in the recesses of Elaine Wagner's sleeping mind, a nebulous dream, or perhaps a memory, tugs at her consciousness.

She sees herself, a middle-aged woman of average height and a soft, rounded face, sitting by herself in what looks like the Record's editorial offices. There's almost no light, except for a single desk lamp near her right shoulder. Another late night at the paper -- nothing unusual here.

A shadow falls across her desk blotter, and when she turns in surprise, Doug White's solid frame stands at her side. He holds out his hand, inviting her to join him.

"C'mon, Lainie," he murmurs, smiling. His face is incredibly attractive, full and square, with nothing of the weary mask of failure that's haunted Doug since she first met him. His fingers beckon her, and at last she grins, slipping her hand on his palm.

Humming something, Doug pulls her into an embrace, and despite the blandness of the surroundings -- still the darkened sixth floor of the Record -- Elaine feels perfectly justified in dancing joyously with him.

Doug's husky baritone conveys the music well, and she closes her eyes, enjoying the surprising strength of his hand on her waist, and the lips brushing her forehead in a gentle kiss as he continues to hum.

They stop near the elevator and fire stairs, both of which have some kind of yellow tape prohibiting their use. It's not really important, though, because Elaine is far too aware of Doug's sudden silence, and of her growing desire for the feel of his lips on hers.

When finally they kiss, Elaine closes her eyes, inhaling the scent of his skin and aftershave. She frowns a little, not having noticed the aftershave before. It's a little stronger than she likes, and somehow vaguely familiar. Not in the way an old song is familiar -- to Elaine, it seems more like the painful reminder of an old bruise, which only recalls itself when you hit yourself in exactly the same place.

Just as she starts to pull away, because the scent is distracting her, Doug makes a surprised noise in his throat. Elaine has no time to turn around before someone grabs her arm and yanks her aside, slamming her body against one of the pillars holding up the ceiling. Crying out, Elaine can only dizzily see flashes of light, what some call stars, but she can hear noises of a fight nearby. Men are shouting at one another, ugly, terrible things. Still blind, Elaine tries to back away from the melee.

The noise stops when one of them men strikes a forceful blow on the other's jaw. From the shadows in front of her, she can see the victor dragging the other man's limp body forward, towards the elevator. She screams when the silhouetted figure casually tosses the unconscious victim into the now open elevator shaft.

Though she tries to crouch behind a file cabinet, Elaine knows the man -- is it Doug, gone mad? -- is now looking for her. At last his large body dwarfs her, and with a snarl he clamps a hand around her throat, dragging her forward towards him without expending the slightest effort.

To avoid being choked to death, Elaine has to push herself along with her captor, her own hands clutching his wrist in a hopeless effort to loosen his grip. When they reach the gaping chasm of the elevator shaft, Elaine nearly crumples in horror. "No!" she croaks almost inaudibly. "Please, no! Who are you, what do you want?"

He lifts her up like a ragdoll, one hand still around her throat, the other curling around her waist. The closer he brings her to him, the more powerful the scent is -- she can even taste it as she gulps what little air she can through her mouth.

"Long time no see, Lainie," he murmurs, his handsome but brutish face leering at her as he pushes her closer to the elevator entrance. "Say goodbye now."

"No, please -- I'll do anything you want!"

But he just laughs, and without a hesitation he flings her into the black mouth of hell.

Elaine's eyes dart open, and even though her vision is foggy, she can tell that she's still in the hospital room, with the fluorescent lights overhead, the hum of the monitors, and the neckbrace that keeps her safely still.

She sobs with the relief of being awake again, even though she's still so medicated and sleepy that she knows it won't be for very long. Closing her eyes, Elaine takes as deep a breath as she can, thankful to have escaped the nightmare.

And then freezes. Because the strong, too-familiar scent is in the room with her.

"Is -- is someone here," she whispers, opening her eyes and wishing her medicated haze would clear. "Is someone in here?"

Something in the corner of her vision moves -- a large black blur, shifting just slightly by the doorway. The shape looks like a man, a tall man. He moves a little closer to the bed.

"Just me," he says softly. "Don't be afraid."

At the sound of his voice, Elaine feels her body shudder. The cologne's familiarity suddenly makes sense. She introduced it to him -- at least, a much younger version of herself did, many years ago, as a present for their first anniversary.

"Jack," she exhales in horror, the name almost painful on her lips. The man's blurred, approaching form is the last thing she sees before blissfully losing consciousness.

10. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital
Lower Level Parking Garage

Heading towards her car, Martina raises a hand in farewell to Clark, who's decided to leave his car at the hospital for now and walk the few blocks to his home. She looks at his departing figure for a moment, sighing in compassion for all the things he's going through right now. It might be awkward, sitting in a room with him as a client and Mike as an interrogator -- but it's her job. Schuyler Falls is too small a city to expect her and her boyfriend's jobs not to cross paths.

Turning back to her parked black Saturn, Martina presses the button on her car keys to unlock the doors. It's a new car, purchased when she joined Blake, Geary, Wallace and Ashton, and it's her first with automated car locks. Just hearing the happy chirp makes her grin as she reaches for the door handle.

"Hold it."

The flat, low words immediately send a jolt of alarm through her. Martina doesn't recognize the voice, but the tone and intent are all too clear. And her mouth immediately feels as dry as the cement floor beneath her when something cold and metallic presses against her neck.

She didn't see him approach, so she has no idea if he's large or small, black or white. From the sound of his voice, he seems taller than her -- but she's barely average herself, so that means nothing. And his size means nothing either, if the item shoving itself painfully into her skin is what she thinks it is.

"I'm not moving," she whispers. "Take whatever you want."

"I will. Give me the keys. Slowly."

Martina feels a flush of anger at the realization that her new car is about to disappear. But without a word, she slowly lifts her gloved right hand. The man reaches out with his left -- okay, he's holding the gun with his right hand, Martina thinks, already trying to remember as much as possible for identification purposes -- and grabs the keyring from her.

She prepares to give up her handbag too, but to her surprise he orders her to open the door. "Get in," he adds, jabbing the gun sharply.

Her lips fall open in shock. Martina has long since memorized the tips to staying alive in case of an attack -- the primary one being: never let yourself be taken to a second location.

The fact that this seems to be his intention terrifies her.

"Please," she stammers. "Just take the car. My wallet -- I have credit cards, and--"

"I said open the door and get in. What, are you deaf, bitch?" His hand roughly pulls her hair away from her temple, and she feels the ice-cold gun barrel shoving itself against her ear canal. "Can you hear me now?"

Closing her eyes and praying, Martina somehow manages to nod her head.

"Yeah, you're not so stupid. Now we're not gonna do this out here. Let's get comfy in the car and if you're good you'll get out of this okay, all right?"

A new fear makes Martina's stomach roll with nausea. I will not let him, she whispers silently, although another part of her she knows she'll do whatever's necessary to stay alive. But still she hears an internal voice insist: I will not let him.

Her trembling hand reaches again for the door handle -- but her movement is stopped by a familiar voice echoing in the garage from a few yards away.

"Hey, is that still you, Marty? I forgot to ask you something!"

With a smoothness she wouldn't have expected from a street criminal, her attacker swings her around so that she's in front of him, facing Clark's approaching figure.

"Tell him to go away," the man whispers in her ear, ramming the gun against her back. "Or I'll do you both."

Martina stares out at Clark, barely seeing him. He seems as if he's moving in slow motion, and whatever he's saying, it sounds distorted and loud. "What do you want?" she stammers, but then feels the gun moving viciously into her side. "Look -- I'll call you later, all right? I really have to get going!"

Though she tries to hide her panic, Clark is far too perceptive to be fooled. When he approaches despite her words, his gaze takes in the man behind her, and at once his own eyes widen in alarm.

"No, Clark!" she cries, afraid he's about to try something foolish. "Get away!"

The man holding her curses, and without warning shoves Martina brutally into Clark. Clark instinctively grabs hold of her, giving the attacker time to slip around them. Martina clutches Clark in relief, hoping that this means the man is about to escape, before either of the friends can straighten up, a thud sound stops them. The attacker lifts his hand again, and this time Martina can see him slam the butt of his gun into Clark's head. Clark's mouth opens in surprise, and he makes a grunting noise just before his dead weight slumps away from her, falling against the hood of the car.

At first paralyzed with fear, Martina watches the attacker -- a stocky man with dark skin and strangely white hair -- step over Clark's lolling body to get to her again. Dead certain now that if he gets her into the car, she'll never leave it again alive, Martina kicks the door closed before recklessly darting forward.

The man reaches for her, and Martina knows getting past someone twice her width is a hopeless task. Instead, she focuses her attention at the keys still grasped loosely in his hand. With the rapid lunge of an attacking snake, she snatches the keys, presses the button to make sure the doors are locked, and flings the keys with all her strength across the garage. As she does, she lets out a harsh scream for help -- but the garage seems deserted.

The attacker curses and easily grabs the gasping Martina before she can do anything else. Slamming her up against the car, he shoves the gun under her throat, breathing heavily.

"What did that get you, bitch?" he whispers. "Not a goddamned thing, except it got your friend hurt and me royally pissed off. Now the next time you open that mouth of yours, I'm gonna shove this gun into it and blow your fucking brains out."

Martina blinks away tears, hardly able to catch her breath with her lips tightly clamped shut. The man backs away slightly. He pulls her over near the wall of the garage, where the light barely reaches, and with one swift movement jerks her scarf away from her neck. Then, holding her against the wall, he lifts the gun again.

"All right," he says quietly, jerking her coat by the collar. "Take this off. Now."

With no options left, and eyes stinging with tears, Martina lifts her trembling fingers to obey his command.