Knight's Rest Inn

Warren County, NY

The glittering snow covers the steeply slanted roof of the Victorian house, narrow icicles dripping from the eaves and sploshing some freezing droplets onto Martina Rosenoff's face as she climbs the wooden stairs. Laughing a little at the surprise shower, she wipes the water away from her cheek with a gloved hand and opens the door.

Mike Fiore is already inside, signing a guestbook over by a dark wooden table. He looks around when he hears the door opening and grins. "Did you find it?"

Lifting the camera, Martina nods. "I knew it was somewhere in that junkyard of a trunk. Do you really need all those ratty old sweaters and things?"

"I'm donating them to the St. Vincent shelter." Mike drops the pen on the book and turns to her, putting an arm around Martina's shoulders. "And they're old, but not ratty. Besides, what if the heat goes off in the inn tonight? We might need the extra clothing to keep us warm."

"Somehow I think we'd keep warm another way." Martina smiles and, ignoring his salacious grin, gestures towards the large fireplace in the parlor visible to their left. "I mean, there are enough logs over there to keep us warm through the next ice age. Did you register yet?"

"Yeah, I --" Mike's smile turns conspiratorial. "I signed us up as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Always wanted to do that."

"Mike."

"Aw, come on. I like the air of mystery. It makes us sound like we're illicit lovers, and there's nothing wrong with a little role-playing."

Martina pushes a hand into his chest with mock outrage. "Michael Guglielmo Fiore, I had no idea you were into that sort of thing. What's next? The French maid and the schoolmaster?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'd look damn silly in a maid's uniform."

With a glance behind her to make sure no one is around, Martina runs a hand inside his coat, surreptitiously patting his thigh. "With these legs?" she murmurs. "Some fishnets might be just the thing."

He chuckles and kisses her forehead before looking around the room, with its deep maroon wallpaper, oak wainscoting, and what looks like genuine 19th century furnishings. "So what do you think? Nice digs, huh?"

"It's gorgeous. I'll admit I'm no fan of Olivia Ortiz, but the gal's got good taste in country inns. Usually tourist places drive me nuts, they tend to be so kitschy. But I don't think I've ever seen such tasteful, authentic decor."

"Why thank you," a mellifluous voice says from behind Martina. "We've done what we can to avoid kitsch at all costs."

Turning, Martina finds a tall, elegant man approaching from another room, his feet barely making a sound over the intricately patterned Turkish carpets lining his path. His wavy hair sweeps behind his head and nearly reaches his shoulders in a ripple of gleaming silver, but his eyebrows are black, echoing and framing the inky depths of his eyes.

"Sebastian Knight," he says, holding out a hand. "The proprietor. And you must be, er, Mrs. Smith?"

Martina returns his amused smile and shakes his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Knight. So now I understand the name of the inn. I thought it was some kind of medieval pun."

"No indeed. It is a pun, alas, but not medieval." He shrugs self-effacingly. "May I show you to your room? I'll have our young man take up your bags."

Mike shakes his head, picking up the two suitcases -- which mostly contain Martina's things. "That's okay, we don't have that much."

The three walk up the curving staircase, with Martina admiring the carved banister even as her still-aching back protests with every step. Her muscles have stiffened up overnight, an unnecessary physical reminder of the mugging ordeal she went through yesterday afternoon, and sitting in the car for two hours didn't help much. Mike tosses her a worried look as if sensing that the climb might be difficult, but she shakes her head to assure him she's all right.

When they're shown into the room, Martina's appreciation for Olivia's recommendation increases even further. Creamy white walls are lit both by a crackling fireplace and an arrangement of amber mica-shaded lamps that glow with warm, copper light. At the center of the room is a massive four-poster bed, draped with nearly sheer white curtains lazily hanging from a black hook in the ceiling. Moss-green and deep red velvet pillows beckon for someone to rest their head against their luxurious softness. And best of all, the leaded glass windows look out past the snow-capped evergreen trees surrounding the inn to the acres of countryside beyond.

"Oh, wow," Martina says, sighing in pleasure. "It's perfect."

Sebastian thanks her, and moves to draw the window curtains further apart. Mike drops the bags on the ground and gently urges Martina to sit down. "I'll unpack, okay?"

"I'm fine," she insists, although glad to rest for a moment. Hoping to change the subject, she turns to Sebastian. "Is there any skiing here? Or skating?"

"Of course. There's a run and a cross-country trail not far from here. Then there's Shadow Lake nearby. It's been frozen--"

"You can't skate or ski," Mike interrupts quietly, frowning at Martina. "Not the way you're feeling."

"Hey, I couldn't ski no matter how I was feeling. But you love it, and I see no reason why you shouldn't enjoy yourself."

Mike brushes a hand tenderly through her hair. "Nice thought, but this was supposed to be a getaway for the two of us. We only have two days -- really, a day and a half."

"I'm aware of that, honey, but a couple of hours with you skiing won't kill us. I'll do something you don't enjoy." Martina glances up at Sebastian. "Any shopping nearby?"

Sebastian nods. "Down towards the highway. You'll find antiques, vintage jewelry, second-hand books, an Italian restaurant ... the usual suspects."

"See?" Martina tugs playfully at Mike's hand. "We can do that tomorrow. And maybe we can, um, unwind a little before dinner? Which is another point -- where do we eat? Is that restaurant the only place around here, Mr. Knight?"

"We do have a dinner service from six-thirty until eight, and our breakfast buffet is from seven to nine. The inn is full at the moment, so we've extended things a little." The owner heads towards the door, then turns and lets his wide mouth curve into a smile. "I'll leave you two to unwind. Don't hesitate to ring if you should need anything."

The door closes softly behind him. Mike sits beside Martina on the bed, his dark gaze practically caressing her face. "You look tired. But it's good that we came, don't you think? Maybe it'll get our minds off -- off everything. It's so incredibly quiet."

"Not for much longer, if you're in usual form." Martina grins and grabs the collar of his sweater, pulling him to her. "C'mon, Mr. Smith, it's unwinding time," she murmurs between kisses.

Mike laughs and leans forward, slowly pinning her to the bed. "Let's hope the walls are soundproofed."

Frank Gabriel's Residence

30 Cypress Street

Olivia Ortiz leans against the front door, watching the limping but purposeful strides of Frank Gabriel as he heads towards the living room.

Ever since he shoved her inside the house, Frank has ignored her demands to explain his out-of-character behavior this afternoon -- behavior that's ranged from coldness to brutality. Now he grabs the telephone, punches in a string of numbers and clasps the receiver to his ear, knuckles white with pressure.

"Dammit," he blurts after only a few seconds, dropping his hand in annoyance. Even from this distance, Olivia can hear some kind of voice mail greeting emanating from the receiver. Frank's dark face lowers to glare impatiently at the floor, but returns the phone to his ear when a tone gives him permission to leave a message. "Yeah, it's Frank. Call me back as soon as you get this, okay? It's important."

When he hangs up, Olivia pushes herself away from the door and walks slowly through the foyer to the living room. Frank doesn't meet her gaze, but at least he doesn't walk away.

"All right," Olivia says deliberately when she stands in front of him. "You've made your mysterious phone call. Now will you talk to me?"

Frank stretches the fingers of his right hand, which are already bruising and probably sore from the violent usage they'd been put to earlier. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You don't know--" Olivia cuts herself off with a harsh laugh. "You're a detective, Frank. Figure it out." She nods towards the front door. "How about just starting with Mister Badass out there and working backwards?"

"It doesn't concern you."

"Doesn't concern me? The way you threatened him if he just looked at me?" Olivia shakes her head in disbelief. "It was like some kind of caveman territorial fight. I don't need you to attack someone out of nowhere, just to 'protect' me!"

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, I'll grant you that -- so why don't you explain it to me?" She waits, hoping for some sign that Frank intends to respond, but when he doesn't she goes on. "Look, I was a witness to whatever just happened. What if he charges you with assault or something?"

A slight smile flickers on Frank's lips without betraying an ounce of warmth or amusement. "He won't."

"How do you know that? And if he does, you can't claim self-defense. He didn't do anything to deserve that kind of reaction."

Frank gives a pale echo of a laugh. "Trust me, he deserved a lot more."

The grim feeling invested in his words makes Olivia shudder, but she doesn't hesitate to press him further in an effort to understand. "It's obvious he's been in prison -- that's what he was implying, wasn't it? And you told me you arrested him, so I guess he holds you responsible. Do you think he's carrying a grudge? Is he out for revenge or something?"

Staring at her, Frank looks torn, as if he's about to open up to her. But then he shakes his head again. "Olivia," he says in a hoarse, almost defeated tone. "How many times do I have to ask you to drop this?"

"I'm not dropping anything. Not after the way you acted out there."

As she watches him, Frank walks away, moving to stand near the picture window that looks out to the driveway. Olivia follows, curious to see if the man's blue car is still there, but the driveway and street outside are empty. They stand in silence for a moment, and finally Olivia slips a hand around Frank's arm.

"You know," she begins quietly, "you must have told me, maybe a thousand times, that you want me to be honest with you. You already know a lot about my past -- a hell of a lot more than I'd prefer. But when it comes to your own--"

"Just a minute. You didn't willingly tell me anything. I had to drag it out of you, and that was only because I needed to know those things to save your life." Frank's voice lowers into a mutter. "I never forced you to tell me something just out of morbid curiosity."

Olivia releases him at once, the blood rushing to her face as if he slapped her -- which is exactly how she feels. "If you seriously believe I'm only asking all this out of morbid curiosity, you must think damn little of me."

"It's got nothing to do with how I think--"

"Bull!" Olivia grabs his arm again and twists him to face her. "If you really cared about me, if you trusted me, you'd answer my questions. You'd tell me what's got you so damned scared."

He takes hold of her shoulders. "This is not about my feelings for you. For God's sake, so what if I have things in my past that I don't like to talk about? Is that a crime? Is that so unusual? Don't you have secrets you're keeping from me?"

Pausing and meeting his gaze, Olivia can't deny his question. She simply lifts her chin and says distinctly: "None of my secrets just walked up to us on the street. Yours did."

Frank doesn't comment. After a long moment, Olivia prepares herself for the question she's most reluctant to ask.

"One more thing," she says finally, keeping her tone flat and unemotional. "Would you have told the truth to Camilla?"

Frank's eyes widen slightly, obviously not having expected this. He looks away, pain flashing across his face as it usually does when his late girlfriend's name is mentioned. But his silence is the last straw for Olivia, and she nods tightly. "I thought as much," she whispers, and turns to leave the room.

"No, Livvy, wait. The subject ... it never came up with her. But if it had, I wouldn't have--" His words are interrupted by the subdued ring of the telephone. As he automatically moves to answer it, Frank lifts a hand to point at Olivia. "Just stay right there, all right? Please don't go."

Olivia stands by the front door again, watching him pick up the phone. When he speaks, he lowers his voice and walks into the kitchen, obviously unwilling to let Olivia hear the conversation.

The dismissal tightens her throat. Finding it difficult to breathe, she retrieves her coat and slips outside.

Clark Durand's Residence

42 Adams Street

Inside the warm kitchen, Clark Durand opens his refrigerator and pulls out a plastic bottle of mineral water. His head still throbs dully, a remnant of getting whacked on the head with the butt of a gun during yesterday's mugging. The way he's feeling, he'd rather do almost anything than put his coat on and walk over to the hospital.

Sighing, he looks down at the aspirin in the palm of his hand, knowing he doesn't have much of a choice. His mother's expecting him, and Clark isn't going to disappoint or worry a woman who just barely escaped her own near-death experience. Besides, knowing his sister as he does, he doubts that Beth was much of a comfort during her own visit to their mother this morning.

Clark swallows the pills and washes them down with the refreshing water, sucking down nearly half the bottle before putting it back down on the counter. Probably won't help his headache that much, but it's better than nothing.

The doorbell rings, sounding loud in the otherwise quiet house. Clark frowns, not expecting anyone, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he slowly walks to answer the door -- first checking the front windows to see who it is.

His frown deepens further at the sight of his visitor. "The hell...?" he mutters as he releases the chain and bolt locks.

The door swings open to reveal Tristan Campbell's tall figure, the younger man's face shadowed under the porch roof. "Clark. Hello."

"Hello," Clark repeats warily, unable to hide his puzzlement at seeing Tristan on his front porch for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. "Long time no see."

Tristan doesn't smile at the sarcasm. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks. The pain's only excruciating now. But I can't really complain, I know we're lucky to be alive."

"Yes, I suppose -- who's 'we'? Someone else was with you when you were mugged?"

Clark raises an eyebrow. "You haven't heard? There was a time when you'd have been the first phone call. You've really let your friendships drift away over the past few years, haven't you?"

"I don't think my friendships are any of your -- " Tristan suddenly cuts himself off, looking uncomfortable for a fleeting second, but then shakes his head. "Who was the other person, Clark?"

"Marty. She was actually the one who was being attacked. I just walked in on the middle of it, which is how I got this lump."

Tristan's lips are parted, and it looks as if he hasn't taken a breath since hearing Martina's name. "How is she? What happened to her?"

"Mostly just was shaken up. The guy did knock her around a little, held a gun on her--"

"Oh my God!"

"Yeah, I know, but she's all right," Clark says, hurrying out of sympathy for Tristan's distress. He finds himself warming reluctantly towards the other man, appreciating the obvious concern in Tristan's eyes -- which have always seemed somewhat cold and remote to Clark. "You should give her a call."

Tristan nods slowly, clearly still shocked. As the silence grows, Clark clears his throat. "Um ... I don't mean to hit and run, so to speak, but I'm sort of in a hurry. Is there something I can do for you?"

"No, I -- I'll be fine, I just have to digest this. Thank you, though."

Clark almost smiles at the misunderstanding. "Well, you're welcome, but that's not what I was asking. I'm trying to find out what brings you here -- for the second time, no less."

Blinking in realization, Tristan seems guarded. "You don't know why I'm here?"

"No, or I wouldn't have asked. I'm funny that way." This time Clark does smile, but he feels a trace of annoyance again. "Well? What did you want to see me about?"

"I don't -- I was hoping to see Elizabeth."

Clark stares at him, unsure if his head injury is making him mishear things. "Excuse me? Why on earth ... oh, okay, you must have the wrong person."

"No, I don't. Elizabeth Durand. She's your sister, isn't she?"

"I have a sister Beth. No one calls her Elizabeth."

"Yes, well ..." Tristan shifts his balance, looking impatient. "Is she here?"

"Not right now. What do you want with her?"

"I'm sorry, it's ... I'd rather not go into it."

"Oh, really?" Clark leans back a little, eyeing him warily. "You haven't even met her, have you? She doesn't seem to know you."

Tristan's lips tighten into a crooked smile, an expression Clark senses is involuntary -- but still objectionable. "Doesn't she?" he asks quietly. "Why do you say that?"

"Because Beth had no idea who you were when I asked her this morning." Clark loses his patience. "Look, I told you I'm in a hurry, and frankly even if I had all the time in the world, I'm not interested in playing guessing games with you."

"Believe me, I'm through with guessing games with your family."

"What is that supposed to mean? Are you implying something about Beth?"

Tristan hesitates, then sighs in annoyance. "I'm sorry, I really didn't want to get into this--"

"Too late for that, isn't it?" Clark peers at him, trying to discern his motive. But despite the emotions Tristan was shocked into displaying when he heard about Martina, he's now retreated behind his shield, the remote Campbell facade Clark has always found so disagreeable. Clark presses on. "So get it over with. What's the story? What are you trying to pull?"

"I'm not the one trying to -- " Tristan cuts himself off, a hint of color on his otherwise pale cheeks. "Forget it. I just wanted to speak to her, alone this time. I want --"

"What you want, for some reason I can't fathom, is to convince me there's something's going on between you two. Isn't that right?" Clark has to chuckle. "My God, the idea is ludicrous."

Tilting his head, Tristan glares at Clark with a hint of defiance. "And why is that?"

"Because I know Beth. She's not your type, she's got nothing to do with the world you live in."

"Maybe you don't know your sister as well as you think you do."

Clark gives a tight nod. "Maybe. But I saw her face when I mentioned your name this morning. She'd never head it, didn't know who you were. And from the look of it, when I told her about your past, she didn't want to know you."

Tristan exhales as if kicked in the stomach, and clamps his mouth shut. Clark sees a glimmer of some emotion deep in his eyes, and the other man blinks quickly, perhaps wanting to hide it from view.

Clutching the doorknob, Clark takes advantage of Tristan's silence. "Okay, so -- so whatever you're trying to accomplish with this bizarre lie, it's not working. Just go, all right?" He hesitates. "And don't bother Beth with any of this, either. Leave her alone"

Tristan lifts his gaze. "Very well." Slowly he removes his leather-gloved hand from his pocket and extends it to Clark. Almost amused at the thought that Tristan would expect him to shake his hand after all this, Clark just stares at him in disbelief.

When Clark doesn't move, Tristan gives him the same crooked smile as before. "Go on, take it," he says coolly. "Give it to her with my compliments."

This time Clark looks down, and discovers that Tristan is actually holding something in his palm. Clark reluctantly takes the object, turning it over in his fingers. It's a black comb, studded with dozens of tiny diamonds that seem -- to Clark's inexpert eye -- pretty close to the real thing.

By the time Clark looks up again, Tristan has walked back down the shoveled path to his silver Lexus, parked in the driveway. Clark watches the car drive away, and then returns his attention to the comb.

It's undeniably expensive and well-made, a piece of art that's not for everyday wear. And suddenly Clark realizes that he's seen it before.

The night of the opera.

On Beth.

Along Route 58

Chelsea Stanford's Miata

Beth Durand plucks absently at the gray plastic door lock, lifting it up and down with her fingers as she stares out the car window.

Next to her, in the driver's seat, Chelsea Stanford changes lanes to get into the faster-moving left side of the highway. Her heart is still pounding at the thought of what she's about to do, and she tries to calm herself using her second favorite activity -- talking.

"Okay," she begins, pulling her sunglasses so that they sit a little further down her nose. "So now that we're almost outta Skyfalls, you wanna tell me what all that was about?"

"All what?"

Chelsea snorts. "C'mon, Beth, it's you and me on the road, Thelma and Louise, right? Let's talk us some girltalk. Why were you so freaked out when you saw Tris Campbell in the hospital?"

Beth's free hand pulls at her frizzled brown hair, spiraling it around her finger. "I wasn't."

"Not much you wasn't. You looked at him like he was Freddie Krueger. The guy's had problems, sure. Too intense for me, and obviously the guy's a walking magnet for bad luck, but there's no denying he's mighty nice to look at -- if you go for the uptight prepschool type." Chelsea shrugs dismissively. "So why'd he scare you? You have some bad run-in with him?"

"It had nothing to do with him! I just felt -- claustrophobic."

"Again? You seem to get that way a lot. Ever get treated for panic attacks?"

"By a -- by a psychiatrist?"

"No, by a hairdresser -- which by the way, you're gonna need if you yank all the hair from your head." Chelsea casts a wry glance at Beth, who blushes and shoves her hands down into her lap. "'Course I mean a shrink. You ever go?"

"No!"

Grimacing, Chelsea returns her attention to the road. "You say that like I'm insulting you. It's no big deal. Everyone goes to shrinks. Well, except those who need it most -- which is, like, everyone I know."

"I don't want someone asking questions and trying to trap me. It's no one's business what I think or feel! They have no right to know--"

"Whoa, get a grip. Someone's given you a really warped idea of therapy. No one wants to trap you. Who said that to you?"

Beth shakes her head, clearly embarrassed by her own outburst. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I just -- I just don't like talking about myself. To anyone. There's nothing to tell, anyway. I have a very boring life, it's -- it's full of nothing." She pauses for a moment, and then continues in an even quieter voice. "Maybe I do get panic attacks, like you say. But that doesn't mean I'm crazy."

Unable to respond for a moment, Chelsea stares out at the cars in front of her. How many times has she heard that phrase? 'That doesn't mean I'm crazy.' All through her childhood, and especially in her early teenage years, she must have heard it a thousand times, a million. And now look where she's headed on this glorious, sunny winter day.

"I didn't say you were crazy. But it's kind of ironic, us discussing this..." Tightening her hands on the steering wheel, Chelsea takes a preparatory breath. "You haven't asked me where we're going."

Beth looks at her. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me. I've just been so glad to get away from Schuyler Falls, I didn't even question -- I'm sorry," she repeats.

"You don't have to keep apologizing. So are you interested or not?"

"Of course I am. You said you had an errand...?"

"Uh huh. Well, here's the deal. Um ... I'm going to do something I haven't done in a long time. A really long time." Chelsea hesitates. "There's this place called Greenhaven, out in the countryside just past Cornwall. You ever hear of it?"

"Greenhaven? I don't think so."

"Yeah, not surprised. It's kind of private. Low key. So low key you can forget all about it if you want." After a few dark thoughts, Chelsea shakes her head. "My dad calls it a long-term care facility."

"You mean like a rest home? For seniors?"

"Oh, sure, they've got seniors there too. But it's not just for them. It's for anyone who's probably not gonna be coming out any time soon. Lost causes."

Beth's large brown eyes examine Chelsea carefully. "What kind of lost causes?"

"The mental kind." Chelsea gives her a grim smile. "Okay, it's basically a psychiatric institution, but not so much a hospital as a kind of -- of home. That's what they like to call it in the brochures, anyway. Last time I visited, it sure as hell didn't feel like any place I'd wanna come home to."

"But who -- who are you visiting there?"

"My mother."

The other woman seems to shrink into the seat, a reaction that doesn't surprise Chelsea. But after a moment Beth speaks up. "I'm sorry, Chelsea. I didn't know."

"Yeah. I don't advertise it. Actually ... you're almost the only person I ever told. Except my last boyfriend, but we were together for a while, and he was the snooping kind." She flicks a glance over to Beth, trying to gauge her reaction. "So what are you thinking," she asks a little harshly. "That you're in a car with Norman Bates or something?"

"I'm just ... I'm wondering why you told me. Why you asked me to come along."

Beth's voice is low and shaky, but there's no judgment there. She sounds almost full of wonder at having been invited.

Chelsea shrugs, mainly because she's not entirely sure. "You looked like you needed to get out, and I -- I kinda wanted company. And you're -- I dunno, you're pretty easy to talk to. Truth is, you're almost the only woman I know who doesn't piss me off. Some compliment, huh?" Chelsea says with another snort. "Don't go getting a swelled head on me."

A sidelong look reveals that Beth is smiling. "Thanks. I guess I'm glad you trust me. I just wish..." Her smile fades. "I'm not sure how much help I'll be for you. Hospitals like that -- they scare me."

"Why? No one's gonna go after you with a net." Unless you have one of those panic attacks, Chelsea adds to herself.

Beth remains silent for a moment, and finally exhales. "You were nice enough to tell me the truth, and I ... I should do the same. When I said I hadn't ever gone to a doctor -- a psychiatrist, I mean -- that wasn't true. I did go, a long, long time ago. When I was just a kid -- maybe seven or eight, I guess."

"That's pretty young to see a shrink."

"I think I was missing days of school, or something like that. It's very foggy -- you know how hard it is to remember the past." Beth starts playing with the door lock again. "I was out sick a lot, and my teacher sort of forced my mother to take me to this school counselor. I know he asked a lot of questions, and just kept after me and after me ... like the harder he pushed, the more he thought I was hiding. He was trying to get me to admit something, but I didn't know what. It was terrible." Beth falls into silence for a moment, and then sighs. "Anyway, he got angry with me and told my parents, and then everything pretty much blew up--"

"Wait a second. The shrink got angry with you? That's weird, they usually don't do that. Why?"

"He told my mother that I was lying to him -- at least that's what she told me, that he said I was wasting everyone's time. So I just promised not to cut classes anymore, and that was pretty much it." Beth gives a small shrug. "Thinking about it now, it wasn't that big a deal, I suppose. But ever since, I've been afraid of therapy like that."

Chelsea makes a face. "Can't say I blame you, it sounds like you got a real loser. I'm surprised Lainie would let that happen. She's so protective --"

"My mother isn't always as nice as she pretends to be," Beth blurts. She slips her hand back in her lap. "I shouldn't say that, but ... I'm so tired of people thinking all mothers are saints. Mine wasn't."

Raising an eyebrow, Chelsea smirks. "Yeah, it must suck to have people calling your mom a saint."

"Oh -- oh, Chelsea, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking about--"

"Forget it. It's just that you should hear some of the things my stepmother and her kids and even my dad have said ... Whatever. Anyway, I told you not to apologize all the time, didn't I?" She rubs her palm along the top of the steering wheel. "Look, getting back to the hospital thing. If you're weirded out by it, you don't have to go inside. I just need company getting there, but once I force myself out of the car, I'll be okay. Probably."

Beth nods, looking as if she believes Chelsea's assurances. Chelsea tightens her lips and looks straight ahead.

Glad one of us buys that.

Charles and Cynthia Stanford's Residence

100 Lakeview Drive

Jason Stanford tears the crust off his tuna salad sandwich, slipping it into his mouth and chewing contemplatively. In the large, sunlight-drenched kitchen, the small TV sitting on the marble counter provides the young teenager with some white noise in the form of music videos while he eats lunch.

His mother clicks it off as she enters the room, returning the cell phone to its regular spot near the table.

"Hey, I was watching that," Jason says, more out of habit than of any desire to watch MTV.

"Sorry, honey." Cynthia Stanford turns to him, brushing a hand through her red-brown hair. "I wanted to talk to you."

Frowning, Jason rubs his fingers with a paper napkin. The expression on his mother's face is one of concern, not anger, and he knows he's done nothing wrong -- but his wariness is automatic for any fifteen-year-old. "What's up? Who was on the phone?"

"That was Principal Fischer."

Now Jason really feels nervous. The high school principal wouldn't call his mother for no reason. "What did she want?"

"It's nothing serious, she only called me personally because of my position on the PTA." Cynthia folds her arms across her chest, leaning against the counter. "You know that your school suffered some smoke damage from the fire, right?"

"Um, sure."

"Well, this morning they had a building inspector investigate the extent of the problem. And apparently things are much worse than they thought. There's a lot of concern about possible health risks -- all the smoke, the toxins released in the fire, and even some structural damage that may have been aggravated because of the explosion." Cynthia shakes her head, a line forming above her nose due to her frown. "The long and the short of it is, the school board's decided that it's best for the students to move elsewhere for the remainder of the term. Most will be bussed to Tanner Falls or Cornwall High."

"Oh man! Those schools suck."

"Jason."

"But they do, Mom. They're so big." The young man stares at his plate, his stomach doing somersaults at the thought of having to meet a whole group of strangers ... of being the new kid yet again. He swallows nervously. "I seriously don't want to go to another school."

Cynthia sighs and rests her hand on his shoulders. "Believe me, honey, I'm no more pleased about it than you are. I don't like your year getting interrupted like this. And Tyler's already distracted enough, I hate to think what this will do ..." She shakes her head. "At any rate, there's another option. Some students with sufficient academic standing are being accepted at the Arleigh Academy. Thanks to your grades, you'll be able to go there instead."

Looking up in disbelief, Jason realizes his mother isn't joking. "No way, Mom. No way! I'd rather go to one of the other schools -- Arleigh is private, the kids there all have a bazillion dollars and they're the biggest snobs on the planet!"

"That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think? You know that your father and I always wanted you to go there."

"I know you wanted me to go. Dad didn't. He knew I'd be miserable. Mom, please, I --"

"He did not know you'd be miserable. At the time, he felt that you and Tyler were better off in a public school, meeting a wider variety of children." Cynthia sits down beside her son, gently combing his wavy blond hair away from his forehead. "I didn't entirely disagree, but I thought, and still think, that the narrower focus of a private school is much better for someone your age. Frankly I think my own opinion has been validated, at least where your brother's concerned. He wouldn't have met some of the bad influences--"

"Daphne's not a bad influence!"

About to respond, Cynthia's comments are interrupted by the arrival of Charles Stanford through the back door over by the laundry room. His solid, square face is red from the cold air outside, and when he bends down to kiss Cynthia she pulls back from his cold lips, laughing. He grins and turns to his youngest son. "You look like you've eaten something that didn't agree with you. Bad tuna?"

Jason's mouth tightens, and he doesn't respond. Cynthia quickly fills Charles in on the latest news. "Jason isn't looking forward to attending a new school," she finishes.

"That's only natural. I'm sorry to hear that, Jason."

"It's not just that. Dad, do I have to go to the Arleigh Academy? I really really don't want to."

Charles glances at Cynthia, who just raises her eyebrows at him. "Well, I don't know. If he really isn't happy--"

"Charles, I've already arranged things with the principal. This is an excellent opportunity for the boys, and I don't want to--"

"Both of them?" Removing his gloves, Charles stuffs them in the pocket of his gray woolen coat before walking away from the table. "If admittance is based on academic standing, I'm afraid Tyler's grades may not be up to the standard. Not these days," he adds gruffly.

Dropping her hand, Cynthia shrugs and absently brushes away some breadcrumbs from the table. "They aren't where they used to be. But I -- " She casts a quick glance at Jason, then returns her gaze to her husband. "I was able to get him enrolled nonetheless."

Jason watches his father turn, a suspicious look on the older man's face as he examines Cynthia. "Was a donation involved?"

Before yet another conversation devolves into an argument about Tyler -- or money -- Jason quickly jumps in. "So I don't have any say in this? You're gonna force me to go to Arleigh whether I like it or not?"

"Yes." Cynthia focuses her attention on Charles. "The teachers are excellent, and the facilities and resources available are twenty times better than what he had before. Not to mention the fact that it's much closer than the other options."

A look in his father's direction proves to Jason that there's no point in discussing it further. Resigned, the boy pushes himself out of his chair, dutifully putting his plate in the sink before heading off to his bedroom.

Knight's Rest Inn

Warren County, NY

Martina walks down the wide, curving staircase to the first floor of the inn. It's only five-thirty now, and already her stomach is growling in anticipation of dinner. Not surprising, considering the workout she and Mike put themselves through. She wouldn't have thought her body would be as limber as it turned out to be, considering the aching muscles from yesterday's attack.

But making love with Mike has always been restorative for her -- her limbs seem fluid and warm, and all in all she feels quite renewed.

Gotta love all this country air, Martina thinks, grinning as she reaches the ground floor.

Crossing towards the parlor, she finds Sebastian Knight arranging the logs in the fireplace with a long iron poker. The firelight gleams on his black silk shirt, a stark contrast to his pale complexion and hair. He straightens and dusts his hands. "If it isn't the radiant Mrs. Smith. Good evening, my dear."

"Good evening! And please, it's Martina."

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. "Martina Smith? Now there's an unusual combination."

Smiling, Martina walks over to the fireplace by his side. "To be honest, the Smith thing was just a little joke. I hope you don't mind."

"I confess, I suspected as much. And I certainly don't mind -- I like the air of mystery it lends you both."

Martina laughs. "That's exactly what Mike said."

"Did he?" His black eyes sparkle as he casts an admiring glance at Martina. "Clearly he and I share certain sensibilities. Where is your other half?"

"He had the shower after me. I thought I'd take a little tour down here before dinner."

"I'll be glad to show you around. Tell me, have you decided to dine here, or are you going to seek your fortune down at that restaurant I mentioned -- Marcello's?"

"Definitely here, if there's room. Mike's a bit hard to please when it comes to Italian restaurants."

"A connoisseur, is he? Another shared trait." Sebastian looks in the direction of the corridor. "The dining room is back down there, past the stairwell to the left. I'll be heading there directly myself, but I wanted to make sure the fire was ready. Many people enjoy having coffee in this room."

Looking around, Martina nods. "I'm not surprised. It's lovely. Those sofas and chairs look sinfully comfortable. And the art and antiques ..." She moves to an elaborately carved sideboard, which is lined with dozens of unusual artifacts. "I could spend all day here."

"Thank you. You'll enjoy the stores I mentioned earlier, then. They have many interesting objets d'art."

"Yes, I've been thinking about that. You mentioned there was a vintage jewelry shop, right?" He nods, and she continues: "Do you know if it does repairs?"

"I believe so. Did you break something here?"

"No, it happened yesterday. I was -- I broke the clasp of a necklace, and I'd like to get it fixed by someone who specializes in older pieces." A little nervous again at the thought of the attack, Martina refocuses her attention on the objects in front of her. She gingerly picks up a small, ivory-colored object shaped like a flattened clam shell, with finger holes all along its length. "What is this?"

Sebastian moves to her side. "It's called an ocarina, an ancient instrument. This one is from China. Would you like to hear it?"

She nods, handing him the instrument, and watches him lift it to his lips. As he plays, the notes resonating from the ancient instrument are mellow, unrushed, and sad ... almost hypnotic. When finished, Sebastian lowers his silk-clad arms and returns the ocarina to her.

"Thank you. That was beautiful." She runs her fingers across the sturdy, smooth instrument. "I suppose this is ivory?"

"Er, no ... it's someone's shin bone."

Martina gasps in shock. Sebastian chuckles at her dismay, and nimbly plucks the ocarina from her before she can drop it. "No one you know, of course. Unless your address book dates back to the fourth millennium B.C.E."

"Oh my God. I'd never have guessed it was human!" Martina laughs nervously, but recovers enough to realize what he's told her. "Is this really six thousand years old?"

"Yes. All of these are genuine. I'm a bit of a collector."

She stares at the items in front of her. "Amazing! So much for my shopping plans. When Mike goes skiing tomorrow, I'm coming down here and inspecting every one of these things. At least I can do that from the comfort of one of those chairs."

The older man tilts his head, clasping his hands behind his back. "I hope this isn't too presumptuous of me, but I couldn't help overhearing your friend earlier. He seemed concerned about your physical comfort as well. Is there something I might have my staff bring up to you? Some Epsom salts, a hot water bottle...?"

"No, I'm all right. It's nothing, it's almost all gone now." Martina smiles at his graciousness, and together they start walking to the foyer. "I do appreciate the offer, though. You've been very thoughtful, Sebastian. We weren't steered wrong when it comes to the inn's hospitality ... it's everything we were told it would be."

"You were recommended by one of our former guests?"

"Well, she didn't actually stay here. She and a friend were camping, and he was in an accident. They credit you with saving--"

"Olivia Ortiz and Mr. Gabriel!" Sebastian nods, delighted. "Of course I remember. I even received a charming Christmas card. Are they friends of yours?"

"Um ... yes. Mike and Frank work together, they're very close."

"But not you and the feisty Olivia?" He chuckles. "Yes, she seemed as if she might be what they call 'high maintenance' as a friend. But sometimes the toughest nut has the softest center."

Martina raises her eyebrows in amusement, but tactfully says nothing as they cross through the corridor.

Cypress Street

Olivia's high-heeled boots have some trouble with the ice sticking to the sidewalk, but her balance is more in jeopardy from the anger and frustration that quicken her stride. By the time she reaches the end of the block, she's nearly fallen three times.

When she reaches the corner of Cypress and Roosevelt, her keen black gaze falls upon the object she's been half-expecting to see the whole time: a blue Ford, parked on the far side of Roosevelt Place. Olivia stops short, then looks behind her to confirm her suspicions. Sure enough, despite the distance, anyone sitting in the car would have an unhindered view of Frank's front door.

Olivia sets her jaw, tosses her long black hair behind her back and moves directly to the car. At her approach, the driver rolls down his window.

The man's mouth is no longer bleeding, but there's a bruise just above his chin that turns his ebony skin a dull purple. He tilts his lips in a quarter-smile -- probably the best he can do considering the injury from Frank's punches -- and doesn't hide his appreciation of her black-clad figure as he examines her from head to toe.

"Well well," he murmurs, leaning his elbow on the open window. "So Frank allowed you out of his sight after all?"

Olivia stops a yard away from the car, standing in the empty street. "No one has to allow me to do anything."

"Mmm hmmm. But I bet he warned you to stay away from me."

"I'm not interested in talking to you about him." Olivia tries to slow her breathing, which is shallow and rapid. "Who are you?"

"Guess he must have his reasons for not telling you. He's always got reasons for what he does." The man's deep voice is steeped with irony. "I'll let him do the honors if he gets 'round to it."

Annoyed, Olivia stares down at him. "But why are you following him? Why are you watching his house?"

He doesn't answer her questions, merely patting the seat beside him. "You look cold. Want to come in here, sit by me?"

"Thank you, no," Olivia says dryly. "I asked you, why are you watching--"

"Let's just say I like the view."

"Were you waiting for him to leave?"

"Actually, I was waiting for you to leave. Took a chance that someone with those gypsy eyes would also have a backbone. And here you are. You came right to me."

When Olivia inhales sharply and takes a step backwards at his words, he chuckles. "Look at that, I went and scared you. I don't mean you any harm, I promise you that." He examines her. "Damn, you really do have gypsy eyes, you know that? All black and full of fire. Gotta say, close-up, you're less like her than I thought."

Olivia frowns, wary and reluctant to get sucked into a conversation of his choosing. "Less like whom?"

"Whom," the man says with a laugh, shaking his head. "Check it out, Franklin's got himself some class this time." He keeps smiling, but his gaze hardens, turns aggressive. " I'm talking about his wife. You must know about her, right? She looked a lot like you."

The surprising fact that he knows something about Frank's personal life is overshadowed by Olivia's discomfiting memory of the pictures she's of the late Natalie Gabriel -- one of which is still clipped to the sun visor of Frank's truck. The woman did bear a shocking resemblance to Olivia.

Despite that, Olivia dismisses his remark with a casual shrug. "Of course I know about her. There's a superficial resemblance in our coloring, but that's about it."

He smirks at her. "Got that right, coloring. Tell me, doesn't it bother you that you're just one in a long line of Frank's skinny white girls?"

Olivia hugs herself protectively, then realizes that she's doing it and flings her arms down to her sides. "I don't have to listen to this racist crap. Are you--"

"Racist? Man, you must live in some pretty little world, if you think that's racist. I'm just pointing out the --"

"Shut up!" She lowers her voice abruptly. "Are you able to answer a straight question, or are you just going to parse every word I say? Am I completely wasting my time in talking to you?"

"Maybe. Maybe I'm the one who's wasting time." He drums his strong-looking fingers on the steering wheel in front of him. "Go ahead, Gypsy. Ask your question."

"How exactly do you know Frank? And his wife, for that matter. What is this all about?"

The stranger chuckles again, sitting back in his seat. "That was three questions, not one." He looks at her for a long moment, then abruptly leans to his right, snapping open the glove compartment and reaching inside.

Olivia's mouth goes dry at the sudden vision of him pulling a gun out. But instead, his hand retrieves a single photograph, worn with age. He glances down, smiles mirthlessly, and switches the picture from his right hand to his left. "Show this to him," the man murmurs, offering the photo to her. "See if he gives you what you're looking for."

She takes the picture tentatively, but doesn't examine it until he starts the car and pulls away. The image she sees makes her lungs freeze in the act of inhaling. It's a long time before she releases a rush of air, almost lightheaded with confusion. At last she gathers her strength, whirls around, and resolutely heads back down the quiet street towards Frank's house.

Charles and Cynthia Stanford's Residence

100 Lakeview Drive

"If I wasn’t a celebrity, would you be so nice to me? If I didn’t have G’s like everyday, would you still wanna be with me?"

The title track from N’Sync’s Celebrity emanates from the speakers encased in the entertainment unit sprawling the expanse of one wall of Jason’s bedroom. The song’s bass-heavy hook bounces off the room’s three remaining dark blue walls, which fortunately are thick enough so that his parents aren't likely to complain.

Without warning, the door to his room opens. To Jason's surprise, his brother Tyler enters, the older boy's pale blue gaze falling on Jason and betraying a certain amusement.

"Knew you'd be by the computer," Tyler says, flopping his lithe, muscular frame down on the red, white and blue checked comforter covering Jason's bed. "What're you doing?"

"Burning some MP3s. Why?" When Tyler doesn't respond, Jason frowns warily. "What did you come in here for?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tyler pulls at a stray thread in the comforter. "I can't just come in here?"

"But you don't. Not unless you need money, or want me to switch chores so you can go out." Jason waits for Tyler to react defensively, but his brother doesn't seem to be paying much attention. He shifts tactics. "Um ... Ty ... did you hear about the school? That we have to go to the Arleigh Academy?"

"Yeah. What a pain."

"That's all you can say? That it's a pain?" Jason turns back to his computer, shaking his head. "This totally sucks."

"It's just a building. And there's only a half a year left, big deal."

Jason hesitates, not wanting to bring up a sore subject. "What about your friends?"

With a swift glance, Tyler makes it clear that he's aware of Jason's meaning. "Daphne's the only one I care about, and she's going to Arleigh too -- I just spoke with her."

"How? Her grades are worse than yours."

"Her guidance counselor and Principal Fischer arranged it. Because of everything that's going on with her Dad, they figured Arleigh's being so close to town was better for her." Tyler sighs, relief evident in his expression. Slowly the expression cools into grim satisfaction. "I bet Mom and Dad'll be surprised to hear that. I bet the whole reason they wanted me to go to Arleigh is that they figured I'd be leaving Daphne behind."

Jason sighs, gently picking up a CD from a nearby jewel box. "That's not true. Mom always wanted us to go to Arleigh."

"Yeah, but not Dad. But you should've heard him a little while ago, telling me how good Arleigh'd be for me. Funny how he's changed his tune, huh?"

Grimacing, Jason stares at the gleaming silver disc in his hand. The increasing tension between his father and brother has made Jason increasingly uncomfortable over the past few weeks. And then there's the secret he's been keeping to himself ...

But for now, he focuses on the family problems. "Ty ... what's up with you and Dad?"

"Everything and nothing." Tyler's mouth twists into a sarcastic smile. "He’s on my back about everything because he claims that I’m doing nothing."

"I don't get it. What's that mean?"

"It means that Dad's priorities are way screwed up. He and I got into it when I was at the hospital the other day -- when I was waiting with Daphne to hear about her Dad." Tyler pushes himself up into a seated position. "What happened was, I blew off those stupid mock SATs that my tutor wanted me to take. What else was I supposed to do? Daph needed me -- she's a wreck, you know? So Dad got pissed off and accused me of throwing away my future getting caught up in Daphne’s problems. He doesn’t understand that Daphne is my future." The emotion boiling just below the surface is evident in Tyler’s vehemence and his dilating pupils. "And nothing's more important to me than her!"

Jason nods slowly, all too aware of Tyler's feelings. "Um ... so how is she? And what about her Dad, is he doing any better?"

"Well he’s conscious, and I think he’s past the worst of it, but he still has a long way to go. I guess Daphne's holding up as well as can be expected, especially with everything else she’s been through."

Jason sees some unreadable expression flicker across Tyler’s face. "Is everything else all right, Ty? I mean ... considering?"

After a slight hesitation, Tyler gets off the bed and crosses the room to the entertainment center. His manner is elaborately casual as he ignores Jason's question. "You really do listen to lame music. N’Sync? Gimme a break – that’s eighth grade girl stuff, Jase." He looks through the CDs carelessly stacked next to the speaker. "Britney? Okay, she’s hot, but I’d never buy her music. Her calendar maybe…"

His voice trails off. Tyler seems to gird himself before turning to face Jason again. "The other night," he says at last, almost accusatorily. "You went to the opera with Chelsea, right?"

Sensing where this question is leading, Jason averts his eyes, swiveling in his chair so that his back is to Tyler. His long fingers fumble while attaching a label to a CD. "Yeah," he says eventually. "You know I did."

"Well, Chelsea was at the hospital too. She overheard some stuff Dad was saying about her mom, taking what we said the wrong way, as usual." Tyler forces a breath, and his next sentence comes out in a rush of air. "Anyway, she tried to get back at me. She told me she saw Daphne at the opera with some guy. An older guy. You know I don’t believe anything that lying bitch says, but--"

"Don't call her that. You know I like her."

Tyler shakes his head, clearly too tense to care. "Whatever. I need to know, Jase -- at the opera, did you see Daphne?"

Purposefully avoiding what he knows is the real question, Jason simply responds, "Dad was there. Did you ask him?"

"You think he's gonna tell me the truth? He practically jumped on what Chelsea said and backed her up, naturally. Anything to screw up my relationship." Tyler sighs. "But you're not like that. So will you answer me? Did you see her?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

Jason can practically feel Ty’s stare burning a hotspot into the back of his neck. "And what?"

"What the hell do you think? Was she there with a guy?"

"Ty, shouldn't you talk to Daphne about that?" Jason asks, sounding whiny even to his own ears. "You just called her. You could've asked if--"

"No I couldn't, because that'd mean I listened to something that came outta the mouth of that nutcase we've got the bad luck of being related to."

Trying not to wince at the insult to Chelsea, Jason stalls. "Obviously you did listen to her."

"Yeah, well, Daph doesn't need to know that." Tyler takes a step closer to him. "Come on, will you just answer me?"

Swallowing, Jason places a blank disk in the computer’s CD drive. He begins to pound furiously at the keyboard, hoping that Tyler will just go away, even though he knows better.

Tyler crosses to the computer desk and forcefully shoves the keyboard from beneath Jason’s poised fingertips. "I'm gonna ask this one more time," he says, enunciating every word clearly and forcefully, adding just enough edge to intimidate. "Was Daphne at the opera with someone else or not?"

Jason takes a deep breath and answers. "Yeah, Ty. I saw her there, and she was hanging out with some dark-haired guy. And it wasn't her uncle."

Tyler's face turns completely pale. Jason feels his stomach lurch with fear, unsure what his hot-headed brother will say or do next. But before he can plead with Tyler not to jump to any conclusions, Tyler takes three long strides to the door and storms from the room.

The Greenhaven Residential Facility

Warren County, NY

Chelsea walks down the corridor of the Greenhaven Residential Facility's second floor, barely noticing the cheerful butter-yellow color of the walls or the gleaming parquet floor beneath her feet. There's no real reason for her to pay much attention -- it's all vaguely familiar anyway, having changed little since her last visit, nine years ago.

She can hardly believe that it's been only a few hours since she made the impulsive decision to visit her mother. The funny thing is, Chelsea's not certain she would have followed through with her plans if Beth hadn't shown up. Chelsea's resolve and ambition always seem to increase when Beth's around -- almost as if compensating for the other woman's indecisiveness and lack of confidence.

Never thought Beth'd have the nerve to come inside, Chelsea thinks distractedly, having expected Beth to stay in the car waiting for her. Instead, Beth accompanied Chelsea through the gates, up the wooden stairs and into the high-ceilinged, surprisingly welcoming lobby of Greenhaven. And when someone finally arrived to lead Chelsea to her mother's room, Beth may have looked uneasy at being left alone, but she managed to give Chelsea an encouraging smile for good luck.

Chelsea is forced to return her attention to the short, heavyset woman guiding her to Suite #2G when the attendant stops in her tracks a few feet away from their destination.

"One more thing," the attendant says softly as she turns to face Chelsea. "I should reiterate that while you're fully entitled to spend some time with your mother, we're going to have to make it fairly brief. Dr. Thaler has agreed to fifteen minutes at the most."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time, but I still don't see why. What's the difference to him? Or to my mom, for that matter? It's not like I'm interrupting her social hour. She probably won't pay much attention to me at all, right?"

"She may be outwardly nonresponsive, Miss Stanford, but she's not a mere object. She can be caused stress by unexpected events, including visits from a stranger." The other woman's smooth brow wrinkles with a slight but sympathetic frown. "I don't mean that you are a stranger, of course. It's just that it's been such a long time that ... well, I'm afraid that's how she'll perceive you."

Chelsea flushes at the mild rebuke, though she knows it's only the truth. Even in the days when Chelsea visited Greenhaven every month, her mother never gave any outward sign of recognition. Now, after nine years ...

"All right, I won't stay long," she says bluntly, and gestures towards the room. "Can we get going?"

With a nod, the attendant knocks softly on the door before unlocking it and going inside. Chelsea's a little taken aback by the lock -- something she doesn't remember existing back when she was here last -- but realizes that it's probably just for her mother's protection. God only knows what psychotics are living here, Chelsea thinks. All those freaky horror stories about what patients do to each other...

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Beyond the doorway, the attendant's murmuring voice prepares the patient for a visitor. Finally Chelsea opens her eyes, thanks the attendant with a mutter, and steps inside the room that's been her mother's home for the past fourteen years.

Chelsea's gaze immediately falls on the chair by the window, and the outside light that streams through the reinforced glass and creates a diamond pattern on the carpet. Whenever she used to visit, this is where her mother could be found, sitting and staring at the sky. But the chair is empty, shoved under the barren desk as if it hasn't been used in years.

Instead, Chelsea finds her mother lying on the bed, her back supported by pillows to prop her up into a seated position. The older woman is dressed in a pale pink cardigan sweater and a long skirt, an outfit highly unlike anything she used to wear -- Chelsea's mother always preferred jeans and T-shirts.

But of course, Roberta Masterson doesn't dress herself anymore.

Chelsea steps closer, feeling shaky. Her mother's hair is quite long, falling past her shoulders, and is still mostly a pale gold despite the gray that was never there before. But it's her face that makes Chelsea take a sudden deep breath. Almost no wrinkles can be seen near Roberta's disconcertingly dark eyes or wide, straight mouth.

"God," Chelsea murmurs. "She hasn't aged a bit."

The words sound loud in the quiet room, but Roberta doesn't react in any way. Her eyelids are only half-open, and her breathing is deep and even.

Chelsea purses her lips as she stares at her mother. It's worse than before -- there's nothing there, not a spark of life evident in the older woman's eyes. In the past, Chelsea sensed that her mother's nonresponsive state was due to some fantasy world in the woman's head -- instead of reality, Roberta was paying attention to voices and events occurring solely within the electrical impulses of her brain.

Somehow the thought used to bring Chelsea a little comfort, since it meant that at least something was going on inside her mother. But now even that is gone.

Sighing, Chelsea pulls up a chair and sits beside the bed. Roberta's pretty profile looks just as it did nine years ago, and for a few moments Chelsea just stares at her mother. Now she understands the older woman's strangely youthful appearance. Without emotions or facial movements, nothing has cut lines into her smooth, ivory skin.

Finally Chelsea clears her throat.

"Hi, Mom," she says weakly. "It's -- it's Chelsea. It's me."

She peers into Roberta's eyes, seeing no understanding in their brown depths, and after a long hopeless silence, continues. "Not surprised you don't know me, Mom. I haven't been here in a long time, and maybe I look different. Better, I think," Chelsea adds with a brief smile, which fades quickly. "I'm ... I'm real sorry I haven't visited. There just didn't seem to be any reason ... you didn't care, and it only made me feel like crap. So I figured why bother?"

Again, Chelsea lapses into silence. She looks around the room, seeing the same old pictures by the dressing table: four dim photographs of herself, including one taken when she was only eight, sitting on her mother's lap. Chelsea stands and walks over to the dresser, picking up the photo.

"Oh man, I remember the day we took this! Right after Dad came back from Gary's Electronix, showing off that stupid camera with the timer." Chelsea smiles despite herself. "Took him forever to figure out how to set the damn thing -- he must've gotten a million blurry shots of his own thumb before finally catching all three of us together."

She absently rubs the photograph's ragged edge. "Funny, huh? If he only knew you were gonna rip it in half a few years later to remove his face..."

Chelsea returns the picture to the dresser and turns back to Roberta. "Um, speaking of photography ... I've got a job as a photographer at the Skyfalls Record. Or I did, until the place got closed down for a little while. I'm not really sure what's gonna happen now. Guess I'm gonna be sticking with my other dull job until things get back to normal."

Looking at her mother's blank face, Chelsea pauses, feeling overwhelmed at the burden of this one-sided conversation. "Now that I think about it, you don't know about that other job either. This is kinda funny too, Mom. I'm working at C&B's Department Store. Your old stomping grounds, y'know? I'm not a cashier like you were. I'm in Purchasing."

She smiles slightly. "Hey, do you remember when you were working down in the china department, and I came to visit you ... how old was I, about twelve, you think? You were on a break, and I was playing with that whatchamacallit, the -- the menagerie display? Dozens of little crystal animals costing some sick amount -- way too much, like everything in that department. And your manager saw me playing with 'em and shouted at me, and scared me so bad I dropped three of the dumb things. Oh God, and he called security and accused me of trying to shoplift!"

Chelsea chuckles despite the unpleasant memory. "Then you came back and saw what happened and I swear, Mom, the way you ripped into that jerk, he looked like he was gonna explode. You screamed and called him every name in the book, and then you took two more of the animals and threw 'em at the wall just for the hell of it. Must've cost you three weeks' pay!"

As Chelsea mulls this over, the smile disappears. "You know what?" she asks quietly. "The whole time you were defending me in front of that guy ... I was embarrassed. All I kept thinking was, why does she have to make such a big scene? Why can't we just pay him and leave?" She feels a heaviness in her lungs, and throat closes up. "I never even thanked you for fighting for me. I mean, you never thought for a second that I was trying to steal those animals. You didn't even yell at me for breaking stuff that cost so much money. All you did was defend your kid. Why didn't I ever see how cool that was?"

Her vision blurry with tears, Chelsea angrily rubs her eyes, unable to continue. For some time she just sits beside Roberta, mother and daughter nearly motionless together in the quiet room. Finally, Chelsea turns to her mother and touches her limp hand.

"You can't stay like this forever, Mom," she mutters. "Someone who had so much life can not end up like this!"

The door opens, and the attendant's round, capable face looks in on the two of them. "I'm sorry, Miss Stanford," she says apologetically. "Dr. Thaler's orders."

Chelsea lets go of her mother and stands up. "All right. I'm going."

With a final defiant look at Roberta's expressionless face, Chelsea grits her teeth and marches out of the room.

Frank Gabriel's Residence

30 Cypress Street

When Olivia reaches Frank's front door, she finds it open, and blocked by Frank's somewhat imposing figure waiting for her on the sill. His dark eyes are bright with anger.

"You couldn't listen to me," he says, glaring at her as she stops in front of him. "You just couldn't stay away from him, like I told you to do."

Olivia raises an eyebrow. "That's a risk you take when dealing with someone who can think for herself," she murmurs, keeping the photograph hidden in the palm of her hand. "Look, Frank, I need to--"

"Forget it. I'm not in the mood to spend every day worrying about you, or fighting for power with you."

"Fighting for power? What does that mean?"

"It means that everything with you is a control issue. God forbid you should accept that I know more about how to handle certain situations than you do."

About to blast him, Olivia somehow holds her tongue, counting backwards to calm down. "You're purposely trying to turn this around, make it about me," she says eventually. "Congratulations. I nearly bought into it."

Frank shakes his head. "I'm not asking you to buy anything. I just want--"

"--My body to be frostbitten, apparently. Or am I to be allowed into your house again?"

He backs away slowly, giving her just enough room to enter. Olivia passes by, stifling the sudden impulse to slip into his arms. She's surprised that she even feels the impulse -- when she's angry, usually her pride trumps any of her more tender emotions.

Once inside, she walks over to the living room, making a beeline for the bookshelf. She hears Frank closing the door, and then his startled question: "What are you doing?"

"Confirming something." Olivia reaches up to the second shelf for a framed photograph that she's seen from a distance many times before. Frank's intake of breath is audible even from several feet away, and in seconds he's by her side.

"Stop that -- Olivia--"

She looks down at the framed portrait in her hand. It depicts a sunny day outside a church, and a group of people arranged on the stairs leading up to a set of large stained glass windows. In the center is Frank, wearing a black tuxedo and looking much younger -- no beard then, and certainly no gray in his hair. His wide smile reveals naked, unabashed joy, something Olivia's never seen from him.

The bride, Natalie, stands by his side, wearing a gown Olivia wouldn't be caught dead in, but still looking lovely as her tanned skin contrasts with the ivory lace. Her arm is entwined with Frank's, and they seem to fit together, just as triumphant and radiant as one might expect on their wedding day.

But Olivia doesn't pay much attention to them. Instead, her gaze falls on Frank's sister, Ellie, who's standing on the other side of Natalie. Like Natalie, her arm is wrapped tightly around someone else's, a tuxedo-clad arm belonging to a man whose face seems to have been out of the camera's range.

Or maybe not. The closer Olivia looks, the more she guesses that the picture has been purposely bent behind the frame.

Frank pulls the picture from her grasp, protectively holding it to his side. "Why are you doing this," he says in a low, numb tone.

"Because you lied to me. You said he was just some guy you arrested. You acted as if he's a dangerous criminal who's been locked away--"

"He is!"

Olivia narrows her gaze, examining Frank's torn expression. Finally, with a shake of her head, she lifts the small photograph given to her by the stranger -- an exact copy of the framed version Frank holds now. Of course, in this small copy, the face of the man embracing Ellie is visible. And it's a thinner, younger version of the man Frank viciously punched only hours ago.

"Doesn't look like a criminal to me," she says, flipping the photo around to cast a quick glance at it. "Ellie certainly doesn't seem to think he's as dangerous as you do."

Darting his hand out, Frank rips the picture from her fingers and tears it in two, flinging the remains in the fireplace. He leans one hand on the mantelpiece, staring into the flames. "This is private business," he says at last, almost pleading. "Why can't you let it rest?"

Olivia slowly follows him, standing inches away. "I thought I was part of your private life. And besides, I don't like being lied to."

"Damn it, everything I said was true."

"You're telling me that you put Ellie's date, or boyfriend, or whatever, in prison?"

"He wasn't -- yes, I arrested him."

"What were you going to say?" Olivia tentatively touches Frank's elbow. "He wasn't what, Frank?"

Frank lets out a long, weary sigh. "He wasn't Ellie's date. He's her brother." He swallows, closing his eyes briefly against the obvious pain. "He's my youngest brother Del."

Shadow Lake

Warren County, NY

Moonlight bathes the entire expanse of the frozen lake, casting everything it touches in a blue-white hue. The night is quiet, clear and cloudless. It's also cold, but Martina is too entranced by her surroundings to pay attention to silly things like frozen fingers.

After dinner, against Mike's protests, Martina insisted on a skating excursion, convincing her protective boyfriend that her back could handle some slow turns around the ice. When he realized she wasn't taking no for an answer, he rented some skates and, with typical Mike-like forethought, arranged a basket containing a veritable feast for late-night cold weather snacking.

Food is far from Martina's mind now. She's never skated on a lake before, and there's something a little frightening at being one of only two people gliding around on a wide, empty landscape. But it's a delicious kind of fear, one that's easily dissipated the tighter she hugs Mike's muscular waist.

"You're sure you're all right?" Mike breathes, pulling away so that they're held together only by their fingertips. The breeze ruffles his thick brown hair, brushing it away from his forehead. "We can take a break if you want."

Laughing, Martina shakes her head. "Will you please stop worrying about me? It's endearing, but I'm not an invalid. If I want to take a break, honey, I'll take one, I promise."

Mike grins, glancing up at the starlit sky. "The lady doesn't know how to take a hint!" Looking back down, he sighs with mock exasperation. "I was trying to give you a way to save my masculine pride. Maybe I need a break, ever think of that?"

"Pardon me, sir. I thought cops were supposed to be in good shape. Can't you take a little exercise?"

"Yo, I think I proved how much exercise I could take this afternoon." Mike tugs at her hand, drawing Martina back towards him so that she's pressed tightly against his chest, and the pair turn together in a circle. "You wore me out, what can I say?"

"As long as you stipulate to my superior physical fitness, I'll grant your request."

"Sure, I'll stipulate to that. I've been drooling after your superior physical fitness since I first met you."

Rolling her eyes but giggling, Martina clutches Mike's hand, and together they skate back to the edge of the lake. They head for the bench where they've left their belongings, their gait wobbly thanks to the skates and the uneven ground.

Martina collapses on the bench beside Mike, who busies himself fetching some covered coffee mugs out of the oversized picnic basket. She watches him eagerly, and pulls off her gloves and rubs her tingling fingers. "Ooh, baby, gimme some of that."

"Here you go." Mike hands her one of the mugs and lifts his own for a sip. "That should warm you up."

Martina cups her hands around the mug, sighing contentedly. "Thanks. And Mike ..."

"Yep?"

She faces him. "Thanks for all this. I couldn't have asked for anything more perfect. After what happened, I wouldn't have expected I could be so relaxed and happy, just a day later. It's all because of you."

Mike stares down at his coffee. "'Perfect' would have been if I could have kept that bastard from getting at you."

"No, honey. We went through all of that yesterday. It's impossible to predict all the terrible things that can happen to people you love. All you can do is be there for them, through it all." She leans against his shoulder. "And you have been."

"I always will be there, Martina. Until God tells me otherwise, I'm here for you."

They kiss for a long moment, after which Martina straightens up to drink her coffee. When she tilts the mug to her lips, however, nothing comes out. "Um, honey, you forgot to put something in my coffee."

"What?"

"The coffee." Martina smiles and shakes the mug. "Did I really call you perfect?"

Frowning, Mike takes the cup from her and lifts the cap. "What are you, nuts? I didn't forget a thing."

"Give me that. You think I don't know the difference between an empty mug and a--" Martina looks inside the cup. The blood drains from her face, and even though she stares at the mug's contents her brain doesn't seem to accept what she sees.

Slowly she slips her hand inside and retrieves the small velvet box. "Mike," she whispers, trembling. "Mike..."

He gently takes the cup from her, setting it down. As he does, Martina opens the box, revealing a slim, white gold ring. The diamond twinkles at her, small but exquisite in its simple setting.

Martina's hand covers her mouth, ice-cold fingers pressing against her lips. "Oh, it's beautiful," she whispers at last, staring at Mike in disbelief. "It's just too beautiful."

"Nothing's too beautiful for you." Mike's deep, warm eyes search hers. "Do you really like it?"

"I love it." She swallows. "Will you put it on?"

He smiles nervously, joking: "Well, sure, but it'd look better on you."

Martina laughs through her tears, still not believing all this is real. "Okay, but you still owe me those fishnet stockings."

"It's a deal." Mike takes the box from her and removes the ring, his handsome, solid face sober as he reaches for her left hand. "Martina. I'm not a poetic man, you know that. You deserve a lot better than anything I could say to you. All I can do is tell you how much I love you. How much I want to spend my life by your side, doing my best to make you happy." His eyes are glassy, and he clasps her hand in his. "Please, Martina, will you marry me?"

Wordlessly, she nods, and reaches forward to let him slip the ring on her finger. "Oh Mike," she says eventually, kissing him. "Don't you realize that you've already made me happier than I've ever been? You're the most generous, thoughtful man I could ever hope for ... you make me laugh when I'm depressed and think I can barely smile. And I -- I'd be proud to call you my husband."

Mike takes both hands and cradles her face, looking at her tearful smile. With a whispered "I love you," he bends towards her, his lips grazing hers gently, then more with greater insistence.

They spend a long time in the silent starlight, their kisses a covenant of a shared future.