Jem Van Doren's Residence

Seven River Drive

The living room is quieter now that Jem Van Doren's next door neighbor has stopped shoveling the sidewalk. Nibbling on her pencil eraser, Maxine Granger sits on the comfortable armchair with her notebook perched on one jean-clad knee, waiting patiently for an answer to her latest question.

When none seems forthcoming, she makes a waving gesture with her hand. "Um, Mr. Van Doren? Do you need me to repeat the question?"

Jem peers at her from the sofa, no longer as friendly as he was when she first arrived. "No, I heard you the first time. I just don't know what you're getting at."

Mmm, I'll bet, Maxine thinks, but keeps the cynicism from her facial expression. "It's straightforward enough. You said yourself that you've expanded the newspaper over the past couple of years. 'Raising it up from the ashes', I think you called it ... maybe not the best choice of words, considering what happened the other day." Her full lips pull sideways in an apologetic smile. "Anyway, I'm just asking you to quantify things. Throw some figures at me."

"Better get a bigger pencil, 'cause they're big figures." Jem's words are light, but the grim expression on his face doesn't match his tone. "Over the past year or so, I've put about $150,000 into the Record. But you should know all this, I put it on my claim form."

"Sure, but things confused me a little -- not necessarily your fault, it could be that Glenford's records need updating. And then there's my own addled head." Maxine chuckles disarmingly, flipping through the pages of her notebook. "You wouldn't believe how crazy this time of year is for me, so I might have copied things down wrong."

"Glenford Insurance damn well better keep records straight, considering the premiums they charge." He measures her for a moment with his gaze. "And you don't seem the addled type."

Maxine finds the page she's been looking for. "You'd be surprised. Sometimes things just fly out of my brain ... oh, okay, here it is. I see you secured a $50,000 loan from People First Bank last April, right? Then another one on top of that for $25,000, two months later. I take it this was part of the $150,000 you say you invested?"

Jem's tired blue eyes seem to sharpen. "Yeah."

"Okay, so that's $75,000. Where did you get the rest of the money?"

"I had some in the bank. And there are other loans, and a small bequest from my cousin. Put some things on my credit cards when I needed to ... but I don't know why all this matters." He shifts uncomfortably. "How long is this gonna continue? You've been grilling me for an hour already."

Maxine nods, writing all this information down. "Yeah, it's a pain, isn't it? Believe me, I know it all seems extraneous. But we like to see an accounting of the money, some kind of proof as far as where it came from and where it went. Everything gets tossed in the pot and stirred up like a big ol' gumbo so they can judge your claim fairly."

"They?" He frowns warily. "Won't you be making the decision?"

"No, not personally. I'm more of a fact-finder than a decision-maker." Maxine shrugs, brushing past the whole truth. "So, you mentioned a bequest from a cousin before. I know the Record was a family business -- "

"Not was. We're still in business, just -- just closed up for repairs, so to speak. The building's not totally ruined, you know." Jem seems to realize that he shouldn't be downplaying the damage, and suddenly switches gears. "I mean, uh, don't get me wrong, it's bad, and it'll take a lot to get going again, but once you guys push through my claim, we'll be able to get back on track."

"I like a guy who doesn't quit. Never say die, huh?"

Jem relaxes against the sofa again, grinning. "Damn straight. Hey, I've never walked away from a table when I still had a couple of good cards in my hand."

"Not even after something like this?"

"Nope. No way, no how."

"What about back in Seattle?"

"Well, Seattle was a whole different--" The words die in his throat, and Jem gets very still. "How'd you know I was in Seattle?"

Maxine slowly twirls her pencil between her strong but nimble fingers. "Mr. Van Doren," she says contemplatively. "Since you're a newspaperman, I'm sure you know it's not that difficult to track someone's movements these days, thanks to various databases and financial records." She tilts her head. "It's no big secret, is it?"

"No, but it's also none of your damn business." Jem pushes himself up with some difficulty thanks to his wounded leg. "Why are you looking into my past? What the hell is this?"

Closing her notebook, Maxine gets to her feet and meets his gaze. "I'm just doing my job."

"Bull. Your job as an insurance agent is to come through with the insurance that I've been paying you people for!"

"That's not quite accurate. And anyway, you don't seem to understand why I'm here. I'm not an insurance agent, I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by Glenford to rule out the possibility that your claim is -- for lack of a better word -- fraudulent."

Jem just looks at her, his expression frozen. Maxine nods sympathetically before continuing. "Now, I can just continue to dig around on my own, or you can be a helpful guy and answer my questions."

"Helpful," Jem repeats in a mutter. "Like it'll make a difference if I help you. You'll dig around no matter what I say."

"Of course. As I said, I've been hired to find facts. But here's the thing, Mr. Van Doren. Facts can have so many different interpretations, you know? Wouldn't it be smart to cooperate, stay on my good side?"

Jem stares down at the floor for a moment, then lifts his head. "You better go. I've got things to do. Calls to make."

"I really think--"

"I don't give a rat's ass what you really think. You came in here uninvited and lied right to my face. I've suffered a major loss, my colleague's in the hospital, and you basically accuse me --" Jem cuts himself off in righteous indignation and limps to the doorway. After fumbling with the lock, he pulls the door open. "Get out."

Shoving the notebook into her back pocket, Maxine retrieves her coat and exits into the bright sunshine. As she leaves the house she gives Jem a good-natured "bye," but he just slams the door on her.

Maxine squints at the glittering snow surrounding her, inhaling the cold, bracing air. "Okay, Van Doren," she murmurs with an anticipatory grin. "So much for playing nice."

Tea Falls Cafe

Olivia Ortiz wipes the moist crumbs of croissant from her fingers using one of the cafe's peach colored napkins, which she then sets back down on her lap. The Tea Falls Cafe is crowded on this sunny winter's day, full of shoppers taking advantage of the weekend's good weather. Across from Olivia, Ronald Granger and Frank Gabriel are debating the upcoming football playoffs, a subject that could not possibly bore Olivia more. The other woman at the table doesn't seem to share her dislike of sports, however; Frances Granger spent a good ten minutes impressing Frank with her knowledge of basketball trivia.

Olivia doesn't mind Frank's discussion with the others. At least they're getting along, something Frank had been concerned about before they arrived. Still, her own inability to think of anything to add to the conversation makes her feel annoyingly out of place.

Fortunately, Frances appears to remember that Olivia exists, and now turns to her with an apologetic grin.

"This is all quite dull to you, I imagine. Is there no sport you enjoy?"

"I like watching tennis, at least during Wimbledon or the U.S. Open. But I've never been into things like baseball or hockey or whatever." She raises a cynical eyebrow. "I guess it's because I'm not a team player in real life."

"I'm not so certain of that." Frances turns her serene smile in Frank's direction, but keeps her low voice directed at Olivia -- an unnecessary precaution, since he's still enrapt in his talk with Ronald. "You and he appear to make a good team."

If Olivia were the blushing type, she'd blush now. Instead, she just shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. "Don't teams have to have something in common? You and Ronald make such a perfect couple. Next to you two, Frank and I are like a pair of mismatched socks."

Frances's keen gaze seems to notice the depth of emotion in her eyes, but she continues playfully. "Even if you don't share every interest, you can still meet somewhere in the middle."

"Oh, certainly. Maybe I can take up construction and cooking, and Frank can learn how to negotiate a merger and judge fine art."

"Your sarcasm notwithstanding, that may indeed be what you both need."

Olivia sighs. "But it shouldn't be necessary, should it?"

"Why not? My dear, partnerships take work. Do you honestly think I knew what a pick-and-roll was before I met Ronald?"

"I really couldn't say, since I have no idea what a pick-and-roll is."

"A play in basketball. And the answer to my question is no, I didn't know what it was. I couldn't have told you how many points a player earns for a three-point shot." Frances tears a piece from her chocolate croissant and enjoys a bite. "But now -- well, you heard me earlier. I'm quite addicted to the game."

"So you forced yourself to watch it for him. You compromised your own tastes--"

"Compromised? Livvy, my dear, this wasn't a grievous sacrifice. And it was an even-handed gesture -- look at Ronald. Before he met me, do you think he could distinguish between a Federal-era secretary and a Louis Quatorze armoire?"

"Assuming that you're trying to prove your point, I'd guess he couldn't." Olivia smiles, softening her dry words. "Can he now?"

Chuckling, Frances lowers her voice even further. "Well ... he thinks he can." Olivia joins her laughter, and Frances goes on. "But yes, this does prove my point. Eventually we learned about each other's interests. Not only that, in time we discovered new things that we could both enjoy. Soon it will be the same with you two. That's how it is with relationships."

Olivia glances at Frank, admiring the way the sun sparkles in his black eyes and turns his face a rich golden brown. Despite the delight at his appearance, she can't help but feel a little stifled by Frances's words. It's been a long, long time since Olivia had anything resembling a relationship. And they've all ended in tragedy ... every single one of them.

"Perhaps you're right." Hoping to change the subject, she puts her cup down and shrugs. "Before I forget, didn't you have something you wanted to ask me?"

Frances's molasses-colored eyes are warm with understanding, and she gracefully lets the matter drop. "It's related to our conversation the night of the opera. You mentioned that you wanted to increase your exposure in the community...?"

"High Meadow"

Cameron and Danielle Nichols' Estate

East Cornwall, NY

In the silent hallway, the young man and his stepmother remain inches apart, with Ian Nichols standing up against the wall of the stairwell, and Danielle bent towards him. She lets her breath tickle Ian's skin as she brushes her mouth across his throat, kissing him and murmuring his name.

When she feels her stepson's hand slide from her ribcage towards her breast, she nearly purrs in satisfaction. No, more than that -- vindication. Months of goading him have gone nowhere. How many times has Ian claimed that he's moved past their time together? How many times has he pretended that Danielle means nothing more to him than his father's wife?

Of course, despite those teasing flirtations over the past few months, Danielle never seriously intended to start up with the boy again. Their relationship served its purpose at the time, and then it finished. She didn't like that Ian was the one to finish it, but -- well, pride goeth before destruction and all that. In fact, if anything, she's been somewhat impressed by Ian's resolve to keep away from her.

But that was before circumstances changed. She's been forced to take certain protective measures, thanks to that eavesdropping bitch from the night of the opera. And so she's renewed her efforts with Ian, with a definite purpose in mind.

For this reason -- as well as some vestiges of wounded pride at his past brush-offs -- Danielle can't help but take pleasure at the ease with which she's rekindled Ian's affections. After only two or three kisses, here he is, reaching out to recapture what Danielle knows he wants more than anything in the world.

"Yes, Ian," she whispers when his fingers cup her bosom tentatively. She takes a step closer to increase the pressure of his touch. "Please, we've waited too long..."

His dark eyes stare down at her, their boyish stubbornness gone, and finally a slight groan of defeat emanates from deep in his throat. Ian bends to kiss her, apparently giving up the fight within himself.

But just as Danielle feels his lips upon hers, the sound of a footstep on the foyer's gray marble floor echoes towards her. Thinking fast, she clutches at her stepson and loses her balance, falling against Ian's lean but muscular chest. Ian automatically grabs her arms, and Danielle lets out a little embarrassed laugh. "Good catch," she says, smiling at him. She then turns her head, noticing the new arrival for the first time. "My! Back already?"

Cameron Nichols stands by the doorway, his tall frame blocking the light from the door's small stained glass window. His hazel gaze sweeps across Danielle and Ian's faces. "What are you two doing?"

Since Ian's dismayed expression indicates that he's too aghast to say anything, Danielle takes over the situation with another laugh. "Your son is trying to kill me," she says lightly, smoothing her silk shirt and walking down the remaining two stairs to the hall. "I nearly topped down the steps thanks to him."

Swallowing, Ian seems to recover himself. "That's gratitude for you," he says in a hoarse voice. "If I hadn't caught you, you'd have broken your neck."

"Indeed." Cameron's long, solid face is red, but from the dancing look in his eyes, Danielle guesses that the high color comes from the cold wind outside, not from anger. He glances over her to Ian. "I'm glad you were here to protect her."

"Don't you dare thank him," Danielle says with mocking indignance. "If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have been at risk at all. Just look where he placed that silly sports bag of his."

Ian glances down, noticing the bag of his hockey equipment, and grabs the handle at once. "Sorry, I guess I wasn't thinking."

"Clearly not. You should be more careful." Cameron frowns a little, taking a look around the corridor. "Where's Randall, anyway? He should be making certain the stairway and hall are clear -- "

"I gave him the afternoon off." Danielle notices Ian's expression flicker from surprise to suspicion. "Why not? Butlers deserve a day off now and then. Besides, I wasn't expecting any company." She glances back to Cameron. "Speaking of unexpected arrivals, what are you doing here? I thought you'd be in Atlantic City by now."

"The meeting was postponed. I'm glad it was, now that I see we'll have the afternoon to ourselves." Cameron tilts his head, examining his son's attire. "Assuming you're off to play hockey?"

Ian nods, looking grateful for the reminder, and pulls the gym bag's thick black strap over his shoulder. "Yes. In fact, I'm already late. See you later."

Watching his long strides towards the door, Danielle lets herself smile with maternal affection. "Will you be home for dinner?"

Ian pauses as his hand closes around the doorknob, but he doesn't turn back to her. "No, I -- I think I'll visit Daphne and see how her father's doing."

"That's very conscientious of you," Danielle says softly.

When the door closes behind him, Cameron removes his heavy brown wool coat and tosses it over one of the two Chippendale chairs against the foyer wall. "He's always conscientious," he agrees, grinning at Danielle and putting his arms around her tiny waist. "Except when he's sloppily leaving bags around for you to tumble across."

"You mock me, but it is terrible," she murmurs. "As he said, I could have broken my neck. I don't know how the boy learned to be so reckless."

"Not from me, certainly." Cameron's mouth captures hers in a hungry kiss, and his hands lift to cradle first her head, then her throat. "Of course," he adds in a low, playful tone in between kisses, "you should probably do a better job in watching your step." His fingers tighten around her throat just slightly. "The human body is such a fragile, lovely thing.. I'd hate to think of you putting yourself in peril."

Danielle opens her eyes, but there's no threat in his darkened gaze -- only desire. Nevertheless, she starts to return his kisses as if she's enjoying herself. It doesn't take much to change her mindset from seducing one Nichols man to submitting to another.

Franklin Street

After lunch, the Grangers, Olivia and Frank separate into pairs, and Olivia slows her pace to match Frank's limping journey to his truck.

"You and Ronald seemed to get along," she says, a triumphant lilt in her voice. "I told you you'd have a lot in common."

Frank sighs with mock exasperation, and shifts his shoulders in his warmly insulated leather jacket. "You can't bear to let a victory slide, can you?"

"What's the point of the victory if you can't gloat?"

He smiles. "So, what were you and Frances muttering about together?"

"Oh ... nothing." Olivia pauses for a moment, then adds: "She thought of a way for me to take my rightful position as a leader in the community."

"A leader?"

"Yes. I damn well should be a leader. It's only natural for the chairman of the town's biggest company to--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Frank shifts his eyes towards her, raising an eyebrow. "Thank God I hitched my wagon to a star. So what was Frances's idea?"

"Volunteering at the Hudson Museum. You know, at the Arts Center?"

Frank chuckles. "I've been a cop in Skyfalls for a long time, Livvy. I think I know where the Hudson Museum is."

Hiding her embarrassment at again underestimating him, Olivia busies herself by unlocking the truck's passenger side door. "They're doing a big exhibit this spring, Reclaiming the Past. Ironic, isn't it? There's certainly nothing in my past I'd want to reclaim."

As Frank starts to enter the truck, Olivia looks past him to a figure leaning against a car further down the block. He's a dark-skinned man, of medium height but a powerful, muscular build. And he meets Olivia's double-take with a disconcerting, knowing half smile.

She frowns in mild surprise. "Sometimes this town seems freakishly small."

"Why now?"

Olivia nods down the street. "Remember I told you about a man scraping his windshield near your house this morning? He's right over there."

Turning to look over his shoulder, Frank follows the direction of her gaze. She hears his quick intake of breath, and an accompanying mutter that's too low for her to understand. "What is it, Frank? Do you know him?"

"Forget it. Get in the car."

Naturally, Olivia just looks again at the stranger. "He must live on your block. Is he a next-door neighbor? What's wrong, did he complain about Baxter or some--"

"Just get in the damn car, will you please?"

Startled at the coldness in his voice, Olivia stares down at him. "Who is he?"

"Olivia, I swear--"

"All right, fine." She walks around the front of the car, hearing Frank slam the door shut with a brutal bang, and gets into the driver's seat. Once she's inside, she turns the ignition and shoots Frank a wary look before driving away.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor

Chelsea Stanford flips her golden hair behind her shoulders, frustrated. The agitated young woman drums her nails on the nurse's desk and waits for the clerk to finish whatever-it-is he's doing with a batch of folders.

"Hello," she says at last, almost snarling the word. "Are you doing this on purpose? I just asked a simple question. Are you gonna answer me or not?"

Straightening, the short older man casts an unimpressed glance in her direction. "Sorry, miss. I'm a bit swamped at the moment."

"If you can't handle your workload, maybe you should go back behind the counter at McDonalds, or whatever you used to do before someone gave you this job."

The clerk narrows his eyes. "There's no call for that kind of attitude."

Chelsea takes a deep steadying breath, or at least she hopes it's steadying. For the past twenty-four hours, it seems that everything in her life has been completely unsteady. Her father and brother's dismissiveness was bad enough, and then for Jem Van Doren to dump her? Out of absolutely nowhere?

Well, screw them all. she thinks. All she wants now is to see Greg White, just one glimpse of him, because that's usually more than enough to cheer her up.

Unfortunately, she learned up on the Sixth Floor that he's not scheduled today. A call to his apartment went unanswered, and Chelsea then decided that he might well be visiting his brother. Now here she is, a half-hour later, still unable to locate either Greg or Doug White -- because apparently Doug's been moved out of Intensive Care.

"Look," Chelsea says in a barely controlled mutter. "I just wanna know if they moved Doug White down here or not. I've been trying to find this guy for the past, like, hour. He's not in the ICU anymore, he's not on the fourth floor, now he's probably not here -- Jesus, he's moving around a helluva lot for a guy who was in a coma a couple days ago!"

The clerk seems to realize that it's easier to give in to Chelsea's demands than to listen to her. "What was the name again?"

"Douglas Goddamned White."

"I see." The man glances down at a computer monitor. "Is the 'goddamned' a middle name, or is it a hyphenated last name?"

About to scream, Chelsea realizes that he's smirking at her. Instead of tearing his head off, she just glares and waits for him to respond.

"Okay, yes, your friend was moved down here earlier this morning. Room 398, down to the left. But I'm sorry, you'll have to wait your turn -- he's only allowed one visitor at a time."

"You mean someone's in with him?" Chelsea feels a flutter of triumph in her breast. "Is it his brother? Dr. Greg White?"

"That's his brother? Well, I know Dr. White, he hasn't been around during my shift."

The bad mood returns with a hard slam, and Chelsea spins around to storm down the corridor. God, men suck, Chelsea thinks, furious. Can't count on any of 'em.

Heading to the elevators again, she slows down as she passes a slightly open door to one private room. The familiar voices make her pause -- Elaine Wagner and Beth Durand.

"Bethy, do you have to go?" Elaine sounds so scratchy and weak, Chelsea can hardly hear her. "Can't you stay...?"

"It's -- it's just that you look so tired, Mama. You should get some rest. You're practically falling asleep now."

"But I feel better seeing you. I didn't think you'd -- I wasn't expecting you. It means so much to me, honey, you have no idea--"

"Yes, I know, Mama." Beth's voice is quiet, weary.

"All right, sweetie. Maybe you should get some sleep too? You look so pale."

"Please, don't worry about me, just -- just get better."

"But of course I worry, I love you. I want you to take care of yourself." Elaine's words are almost mumbled. "And to ... to be careful."

There's a slight pause before Beth speaks again, her tone guarded. "Be careful? Of what? Mama?"

After a few seconds, Chelsea hears slow footsteps moving towards the door. She backs away in time before Beth exits the room, closing the door softly behind her. The other woman starts when she turns to see Chelsea only a few feet away.

"Chelsea! Are you here to visit my mother?"

Chelsea glances down the hall, wiping her suddenly glassy eyes. Her anger has turned into sadness, and ... and something more. Longing -- longing for something she knows she can't have.

"Um ... yeah," she says after clearing her throat. "I thought I should."

Beth's hands dig into the pockets of her moss-colored coat. "That was nice of you. But she fell asleep while I was talking to her. I don't think she'll be up for any more visitors for a couple of hours."

Turning to face Beth, Chelsea swallows. "How's she doing?"

"All right, I guess. It's -- it's going to be a long time before she's better."

Chelsea notices that Elaine's comments were right: Beth does look like a train wreck. Of course, it's not surprising. "Seeing her this way, it's gotta be pretty hard."

"Yes, it's been a long time since -- I mean, she was in the hospital once, when I was really young ..." Beth's voice trails off for a second or two, and then she shakes her head. "But this is much worse."

"I bet she was glad you were there."

"She said she was." Beth swallows. "I suppose she was glad."

Beth's words seem to resonate in Chelsea's mind. Maybe it's a crazy idea, maybe she's just reacting to all the disappointments from the men in her life, but Chelsea suddenly makes a reckless decision.

Just as she's about to tell Beth that she's leaving, she realizes that Beth's gaze is transfixed on something past her a few doors down the corridor. "What's wrong?"

Beth backs away, turning even whiter than before. "Oh my God!"

Curious, Chelsea follows the direction of her stare and sees a tall man emerging from one of the rooms -- looks like Doug White's room, in fact. When she sees his profile, she recognizes him at once.

"Tristan Campbell visiting Doug White? What's that about?" Chelsea hesitates, then puts two and two together. "Oh, yeah, Doug was his mother's love toy. Guess they're almost related, in a bizarre -- Beth, what in God's name is wrong?"

"I have to go," Beth stammers, reaching her hand out to Chelsea in a virtual plea for help. "I have to get out of this place!"

Frowning, Chelsea starts to question Beth, but the other woman stumbles in the opposite direction from the elevators, where Tristan Campbell is now waiting alone. Chelsea follows Beth and meets up with her at a fire door, where Beth is pulling furiously at the door handle.

"You gotta push it." Chelsea leans on the handle with her hip, and the two are almost propelled into the stairwell. Before Beth can start down the steps, Chelsea grabs her shoulder. "What is the deal?"

Beth's perspiring face begs at her. "I have to get out of here, please! I need some fresh air -- I need to get out of this building, out of this city!"

"Yeah. I hear you." Chelsea pauses, then tilts her head. "Um ... y'know, I've actually got an errand I just decided to do. You -- you wouldn't wanna take a drive with me, would you?"

Beth nods gratefully. She starts down the stairs and Chelsea follows, wondering if after all these years, she'll really have the courage to go through with her rash decision.

Frank Gabriel's House
30 Cypress Street

Olivia pulls the Blazer into the driveway, and when the engine cuts out the silence in the truck seems to bear down on her. She turns to the man beside her, his rounded face looking tight and hard.

"Well, Frank? Are you going to apologize?"

This gets him to face her, at least. "Apologize? For what?"

"For ordering me around. You don't even treat your precious dog like that, so how dare you--"

"Livvy." He takes a deep breath. "I wasn't trying to order you around. I wanted you to pay attention, which you weren't. Even though I wanted to leave, you were still looking at that--"

"I don't care if I was strumming a banjo and dancing a jig. If you want me to do something, than you bloody well had better ask me -- and explain to me why. I'm not going to jump in the car and keep my mouth shut because you demand it." Olivia pulls the keys out of the ignition and grabs her purse. "Do you have an explanation for me?"

Frank rolls up the window and opens the door. "No," he says quietly. "Let's just get inside. I have to make a phone call."

Staring at him, Olivia watches Frank maneuver himself out of the truck. God knows she's seen him angry before, and she's certainly seen him stressed before too. But ... this is different. It's almost as if he's afraid.

She gets out of the car, slamming the door shut and walking to his side. "Who is this man? He's obviously someone you don't like. Someone you didn't expect to see."

Frank shakes his head and moves as fast as his cane-supported leg will take him. "I really don't want to get into this with you."

"Fine. Maybe I should go back to the Cafe and ask him, then?"

He stops in his tracks, slowly facing her. Frank's eyes have never appeared so inky black and opaque. When he speaks, his voice is nearly a whisper. "Stay away from him, Olivia."

A ripple of fear runs down her spine, but she can't help but ask, "Why? Just tell me why?"

"Because I said --" Frank cuts himself off and wipes a hand across his mouth, clearly realizing that this isn't going to be enough for Olivia. "Because he's dangerous. All right?"

Olivia watches him unlock his door, trying to understand what he's not telling her. Suddenly it hits her. "He's someone you arrested once, isn't he?"

"Jesus Christ, can't you--"

"Am I right? Did you arrest him?"

Frank shoves the door open. "Yeah. I did. Now that's all I'm gonna say on the subject, so drop it once and for all!"

Though Olivia nods, she has no intention of dropping the subject. However, she doesn't have the opportunity to continue, because before she can cross the threshold to Frank's house, the crunch of wheels on snowy ground announces that a car has pulled up to the driveway. Both she and Frank turn towards the sound.

Sure enough, the blue car's front door opens to reveal the muscular figure and dark complexion of the stranger Olivia first saw two hours ago, only yards away from the house.

From behind her, she hears the low growl in Frank's throat, and his hand curls around her elbow. "Get inside," he hisses. "Get inside and shut the door."

The man walks slowly towards them. His face is relaxed, a small smile on his full lips. Olivia would consider him handsome in other circumstances, with his onyx-colored eyes, chiseled cheekbones and broad, powerful frame. He wears a long leather coat, with a thick maroon scarf wound around his throat, one end flapping behind him like a cape.

As he approaches, Olivia backs away but doesn't leave Frank alone. Frank's hand curls around his cane so hard Olivia wonders that it doesn't crush into splinters beneath his grip; he takes a cautious step forward.

"Franklin," the stranger says in a voice like melted chocolate. He stops about five feet away. "Been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Not nearly long enough." Frank sounds deceptively calm. "What are you doing here?"

The man doesn't respond to his question. "I guess it felt a lot longer, where I was. Man, you got old on me. Didn't have that gray in your hair back when we last saw each other, did you?"

"I want you to leave."

"Well now, that's not very friendly. 'Bout what I'd expect, but still, I thought you'd be a little nostalgic, after all these years." Still smiling, the stranger glances down at Frank's wounded leg. "Injured in the line of duty? Once a hero, always a hero, I guess."

Frank swallows but doesn't respond. The stranger continues: "Speaking of you being brave and all, I heard they made you a Sergeant. Was that on my back, Frank?"

Olivia can almost feel Frank's body stiffening at his words. "I'm giving you ten seconds to get yourself back into your car."

"Or?"

After a pause, Olivia touches Frank's back with her fingertips. "Should I call for help?" she whispers.

"I told you to get inside!"

The stranger chuckles, turning his attention to Olivia. "Glad you didn't listen to him. I wanted a closer look at you the minute I saw you jogging down the street this morning. Thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, but now I see--"

"Shut your goddamned mouth." Frank pushes himself forward. "Shut it now. You don't talk to her, you don't even look at her. You understand that?"

"Damn, that's cold. But I guess it's the Franklin I remembered. Always--"

"I told you you've got ten seconds to get your worthless ass off my property. Now it's five."

"But you never answered my question -- Or what?" The man smiles crookedly and lowers his voice to a murmur. "Not gonna shoot at me, are you?"

Without warning, Frank hauls back and slams a punch into the stranger's jaw. The man falls backward from the power of the blow, and without a hesitation, Frank -- with a viciousness Olivia has never seen in him before -- follows through with a second punch.

Olivia grabs Frank's arm before he can continue. Frank wrenches himself away and nearly shoves Olivia into the house before following her, shutting the door behind them, and leaving the stranger --whose lip bleeds thanks to getting cut by Frank's ring -- alone on the snowy path.