1. C&B Department Store

Meeting Room #3

The young woman hesitates before opening the door to Meeting Room #3. Chelsea Stanford takes a moment to smooth her silk blouse and tight-fitting black pants, sighing irritably. "Get your ass in the game," she mutters to her distracted self, running her fingers through her shining gold hair to add some bounce. "Think later. Work now."

Finally she pulls open the door and flashes a smile at the two women already inside the oval-shaped room. "I know, I know," Chelsea says quickly, lifting an apologetic hand. "I'm sorry I'm late. You would not believe what a total disaster area this place is today. A truckload of lingerie just disappeared. I dunno what happened, maybe it was beamed up by cross-dressing aliens with a bra fetish --"

"That's all right," Danielle Nichols says from the far side of the black table. Her copper hair is twisted up and away from her perfectly made up face, and to Chelsea's relief she doesn't seem annoyed at the delay. "We've started already. I was just about to fill Beth in on my proposal."

Sitting near Danielle, Beth Durand casts her dark gaze toward Chelsea and smiles briefly. She looks pale, and is dwarfed by the large black vinyl seatback behind her. In fact, Chelsea's struck with the sudden awareness that Beth has lost weight -- something she didn't notice when they took the trip to Greenhaven a couple of days ago. Of course, Chelsea's always thought that Beth should take off about fifteen pounds, maybe even twenty if she wants to fit in with the wealthy women who buy her designs. But for some reason, the thinner version of Beth isn't an improvement at all. She just looks drawn and unhealthy.

Probably on some liquid diet or something, Chelsea thinks as she walks over to join them, and promptly dismisses the subject once she takes her seat. "Okay, so what'd I miss?"

With the unhurried ease of a woman naturally in charge of every situation, Danielle reaches over the table to slide a folder out from beneath Beth's fingertips. "I was showing Beth a catalog of this small design shop, Ornamento. I doubt you've heard of it ..."

Chelsea hasn't but tries to bluff. "Sure. They have a shop in East Cornwall, right?"

"Oh, no," Danielle says with a laugh. "They're out of Brazil. Sao Paulo, to be specific. It used to be run by this wonderful young man, quite talented -- and gorgeous, by the way. But unfortunately he's no longer able to be involved with things."

Chelsea examines the glossy pages, impressed by some of the colorful, sexy outfits but hiding her distaste for the others. "Mmm hmm. Nice work. Kinda out there, but I suppose they're good for a South American climate."

"That's true, but they sell many things here in the U.S. to people who are a little on the, shall we say, adventurous side." Danielle's lips twitch with a self-amused smile. "Beth, what do you think of the line?"

"I think they're exciting," Beth says softly. "Daring. The epitome of style-as-personality statement. I can see why you admire them so much."

Trying not to look relieved at Beth's smooth response, Chelsea keeps her attention on Danielle. "My question is, is it just admiration, or are you financially involved with them?"

"Admire, invest, for me it's all the same thing. I'm somewhat of an impulse investor, Chelsea. If I fancy something, I like to own a piece of it." Her green eyes gleam a little.

"You seem to 'fancy' Beth's designs too. Are you gonna invest in her?" Chelsea flips a hand over. "I mean, not just buying her clothes like you've been doing?"

With a low chuckle, Danielle rests in her chair. "There's no beating about the bush with you, is there? Are you asking as her friend or as C&B's purchasing director?"

"Both. It's just that, y'know, Beth's kind of a C&B in-house designer, at least that's how we're grooming her. So if you're planning on stealing her away--"

"Would I have arranged a meeting like this if I planned on stealing her like a thief in the night?"

"Wait a minute, please," Beth interrupts suddenly, her gaze darting from Danielle to Chelsea. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. What are you two talking about? Danielle hasn't said anything to--"

"Not yet." Chelsea lifts the catalog, waving it lazily. "You're too modest to figure out where Danielle's headed, so let me catch you up. Unless I'm mistaken, she's about to offer you a job in Sao Paulo, working with this Ornamento shop."

2. Schuyler Falls Police Station

At his desk, Detective Mike Fiore absently glances through the morning's mail. "Give me a break," he murmurs to himself, then glances up at his friend sitting at the desk across from him. "Did you get this?"

Frank Gabriel doesn't look away from his computer monitor, where he seems to be viewing some bad news. "Uh huh." After a few seconds he finally looks up. "Get what?"

"This." Mike lifts up a square card made of thick, cream-colored paper. "Invitation for Thursday's benefit for Law Enforcement Workers of New Yo--"

"Yeah, I tossed it. Not in the mood for another gala. Especially when it's a glorified photo op for some politicians."

Mike nods. "Yeah, I'm not sure I want to travel two hours just to have Norman Mitchell or Senator Eckhert putting their arms around me and mugging for the cameras. But with Cahill on vacation I might be forced to sub. At least you have that cast to use as an excuse." He drops the envelope on his desk blotter and concentrates on his partner's tense face. "Uh, you okay, Frank?"

"'m fine."

"You seem wired. And ready to punch in your screen."

Frank's dark eyes look over the top of his monitor. "I'm fine. Just busy working."

"Working on what?"

Smiling tightly, Frank shakes his head. "What's the deal here, Mike -- you bored or something? Two murders aren't enough for you?"

"Matter of fact, I'm waiting on my interview with Noah Morgan." Mike takes another look at his watch. "He postponed his morning appointment, and now he's late. I'm giving him another ten minutes before heading out to drag his ass over here myself."

"You should've done that already. He's your victim's boyfriend, that makes him suspect number one."

"Thanks for the reminder," Mike says dryly. "Guess I bumped my head when I got up this morning and forgot everything I ever learned about being a cop since my first day at the Police Academy."

Grimacing, Frank shakes his head again. "Sorry."

"What's eating at you already? You haven't said word one since I got in."

"Nothing. Old business ... personal business. Forget it, I said I'm sorry." Frank takes a deep breath, then exhales heavily. "So what happened this weekend? How's Martina doing?"

Unable to keep his lips from curving into a broad smile, Mike doesn't bother trying. "She's doing okay. Actually ... she's doing better than okay."

Frank raises an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"I wasn't gonna say anything until talking to my family, but what the hell." Mike suddenly laughs. "God, I still can't believe I had the guts to do it. I asked her to marry me. We're engaged."

After a stunned silence, Frank lets a slow, wide grin show his approval. He stands up and grabs Mike's arm, joining him in laughter. "Good for you, Mikey. That's really good news. I can't believe you were gonna keep this from me!"

"We wanted to spring it on people together, but -- well, you're the one who helped me pick the right location. You and Olivia."

"So the inn was good?"

Mike remembers the activity that kept him and Martina inside their bed most of yesterday, ranging from languorous teasing to frenzied passion. "Yeah," he says with a sideways grin. "The inn was damn good."

Frank chuckles in understanding. "You dog. So did you set a date?"

"Not exactly. We're looking at about four or five months -- late spring, early summer. It'll depend on where we want to have the ceremony. Can you believe I'm talking about things like 'ceremonies'? It's like something out of science fiction here."

"Your father's gonna want it at the restaurant. You know that, right?"

"I know, but the restaurant can't fit the whole Fiore family and our eighty billion cousins."

"What about Marty's side? Y'know, I just realized I don't know a thing about her family. Does she have a lot of relatives?"

"No. She has a couple of distant cousins, but nothing closer." Mike looks at him askance. "You'd better start learning up on these things, if you're gonna be my best man."

Blinking in surprise, Frank smiles and clutches his hand. "You sure, Mike? Not one of your brothers?"

Mike nods. "You are one of my brothers."

Frank pauses in the act of shaking his hand, clearly touched by the comment, then continues even more warmly. Finally, clapping Mike on the shoulder, he lets go and returns to his desk.

Instead of sitting back down, Mike starts to pick up the phone to call Noah Morgan, but it rings even as his fingers graze the receiver. He answers the call. "Skyfalls P.D. Detective Fiore speaking."

"Hi, honey."

Pleased to hear Martina's voice, Mike leans against the desk. "Well, speak of the angel. How are you doing, Counselor Rosenoff, aka Mrs. Fiore-to-be?"

"First, I thought we weren't telling people yet. A breach of agreement this early on is a pretty serious affair. And second, we'll discuss the name change issue later."

"Okay, okay, I surrender. I don't care if you call yourself Mrs. Fiore or Mrs. Butterworth, as long as I get you forever, nice and legal."

"You will." She softens her tone, which until now has been her 'office voice'. "Mike ... actually, I need to tell you something serious, all right? But I don't want you to get upset or worried."

Mike feels a tightening in his stomach. "What is it?"

"Okay, I'm only telling you this because you'll only get angry with me if I don't. As far as I'm concerned, it's not that big a deal. I've already had time to panic, but then I got a hold of myself and realized it's silly to think my safety is at risk --"

"Your safety?" Mike realizes he's nearly shouting, and he sits down abruptly in his chair, trying to stay calm. "What's going on, Martina?"

As she tells him about the bail hearing, Mike finds his fingers resting atop the invitation to the Law Enforcement benefit. Slowly he crushes the envelope into a hard, compact ball.

Because there's no way in hell he's going anywhere as long as the man who attacked Martina is on the streets.

3. C&B Department Store

Meeting Room #3

Beth's eyes widen, and she turns back to the older woman sitting next to her. "Is she right? But my style isn't at all similar, and I -- I couldn't possibly be right for this. Or ready."

Nodding, Danielle just keeps smiling at Chelsea. "Not yet," she says, in a perfect echo of Chelsea's tone. "However, I'm afraid Chelsea's guess -- while a good one -- isn't correct."

"Hey, I'm glad to be proven wrong on that one." Chelsea grins, dropping the catalog on the table and leaning back in her chair. "So okay, what is this meeting about?"

"Ornamento is looking for a stronger foothold within the U.S. On advice of a media consulting firm -- owned by my husband, of course -- they're making a few changes in how they do business. And they also came to me for some recommendations."

"Which were?"

"To make a stronger appeal to American sensibilities, especially in the current 'closed borders' climate. They need American team members with a flair for PR, and they need an additional designer to add a less outrageous touch to their line." Danielle gestures towards Chelsea, then Beth. "Which is where both of you come in."

Chelsea feels a tingle down her spine. "You're offering me a job too? As their publicist or something?"

"It's a little more broad than that. I've seen your photographs in the newspaper, Chelsea, and you have a talent for finding dramatic ways of presenting what would normally be pretty dull, repetitive images -- society events, the inevitable 'Mr. and Mrs. John Smith entering the ballroom' sort of thing."

"Thanks. But those are the kinda things Jem -- uh, the editor -- wanted me to shoot."

"I know. It's a waste of your artistic eye. I'd like you to use that eye to help shape the look of the advertisements and catalog images -- basically, the public face of Ornamento."

Hidden by the table top, Chelsea's hands squeeze her knees in excited pleasure. "That's -- wow. What can I say? It's very, uh, tempting." She laughs suddenly, looking around the room. "And I love your choice of locations. Offering me a job in my own employer's conference room ... Talk about nervy."

Danielle shrugs, obviously not minding the description. "I take advantage of conveniences. Beth, what do you think?"

Beth's fingertips are pressed against the edge of the table, turning white. "It's very flattering," she stammers.

"You should be flattered. This would be very lucrative -- and very high profile, I might add. Ornamento's launch will coincide with another project from this media team, and whoever's helming the new line will be getting a lot of press."

Chelsea can see the mixture of emotions flickering in Beth's eyes: she's half-delighted, half-frightened, and knowing her, the fear is probably stronger. Oh crap, all we need is another of Beth's freak-outs, Chelsea thinks. With an instinctive rush of wariness, she stands up. "Um, Beth, why don't you go get a drink of water or something? You probably need to think about the offer, right?"

Nodding gratefully, Beth gets to her feet. She seems a little dizzy, but manages to follow Chelsea's directions over to the private restroom. As the door closes, Chelsea turns to Danielle with a smile. "Artists, huh? Gotta love 'em."

Danielle raises an eyebrow. "Tell me about it. My husband and I seem destined to coddle eccentric individuals. You should have seen the pair of us on the night of the opera gala. Beth's behavior was bad enough--"

"What behavior?"

"She ran out before the dinner started with hardly a word to me. Extremely embarrassing, it left me with an empty table seat. But considering what happened with her mother, I've decided to overlook it." The older woman shrugs magnanimously. "And then, if you can believe it, the same thing happened with Cameron's guest. Although at least he returned before long, and such behavior from him is probably to be expected. The man does have a reputation for being notoriously ... well, high strung."

Chelsea tilts her head in interest. "Oh yeah? Who was it?"

"Tristan Campbell."

Surprised, Chelsea frowns at the memory of Beth's panicky reaction to seeing Tristan in the hospital. "Um ... he and Beth didn't leave together, did they?"

Danielle shakes her head. "No, she left first. I don't think they knew each other. I'm certain he didn't know who Beth was, not even her name." She hesitates. "Although, now that you mention it, he asked several questions about her. I suppose it was natural, considering that we were discussing her absence, but Tristan seemed particularly curious--"

A loud noise from the other side of the room interrupts Danielle's words, and Chelsea stands up in alarm. When she turns, her breath catches in her throat.

The door to the bathroom has swung open, propelled by Beth's limp, unconscious body -- now lying in a heap on the floor.

4. Metropolitan Country Club

The atmosphere in the Metropolitan Club's most private lounge is subdued, bearing the weight of a century's worth of history, tradition and an extremely elite membership. So elite that only twenty years have passed since the Met Club removed its restrictions on color and religion -- and gender.

While the first two restrictions would have been no problem for the person sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, the third would have resulted in Adele Nichols having to find a less attractive place for her late afternoon meeting. And in addition to losing her membership fee, Met Club would have lost out on the lamp hanging above her head now, with the inscribed initials LCT almost hidden in its dark green glass shade. Adele purchased and donated it to the Club a few years ago, which is why she doesn't need to see the initials to know the lamp is authentic Tiffany.

Taking a sip of coffee, Adele looks over the china cup's rim as someone approaches her table. She sets the cup down slowly. "Yes?"

"Excuse me, Mrs. Nichols. I believe we have a mutual friend, Daniel Purcell...?"

At the code name, Adele lets herself smile. "Ah, yes. Mr. Bishop, I presume."

The short, thin man nods his head, which Adele estimates in a few years will be utterly bald. In his mid-forties, he wears an adequate three piece suit that probably cost him a good five hundred dollars less than the average man sitting in the club right now. But at least it's neat and well-pressed. And, most importantly as far as Adele is concerned, his gray eyes aptly fit his name, and they meet her gaze intently and with obvious intelligence.

"Please let me apologize for my lateness. I hate to keep you waiting, I know you must be very busy. May I sit down?"

"Of course." Adele watches his tight, careful movements as he sits in the rich leather chair opposite her own. She respects cautious men. "You're not so very late. Was traffic on Franklin Avenue a problem?"

"No," he says with blunt honesty. Adele approves of that as well. "The lateness is due entirely to my own nature. I wanted to make certain that everything went smoothly down at the courthouse."

"And did it?"

Bishop rests his hands around the stem of a crystal water glass. "Yes, I'm pleased to say. Mr. Lee -- oh, I'm sorry, perhaps I shouldn't use names..."

"I think we don't need to be quite that discreet. We won't be overheard, I assure you." Adele sends her topaz gaze over to a man standing two yards away, his own expensive suit covering the bulk of his sidearm. "You must have noticed Erik when you were walking over here."

"One could hardly help it. He's nearly twice my size. I'm surprised I made it over here in one piece."

Adele chuckles. "Perhaps you wouldn't have, if you hadn't met the description I was given of you, which of course I passed along to Erik. At any rate, his purpose is to keep my body safe and my conversations private."

Nodding again, Bishop takes a swallow of cold San Pellegrino before continuing. "As I was saying, Mr. Lee did a splendid job in arguing for bail. I'm happy to say that justice has been served. I hope you're happy as well."

"I am. It almost makes up for the disappointment of the botched effort on Friday."

"Uh ... yes." Bishop looks pained. "Yes, I know. That was unfortunate in the extreme. But we couldn't have expected the attempt to be interrupted the way it was."

Her lips tightening slightly, Adele folds the silk napkin in her lap. "And the inability to obtain bail for Mr. Henderson that same day?"

"I know, I know, Mrs. Nichols, it was a shame. But you must understand, there was no time. First, Mr. Henderson took longer than anticipated, which probably caused the failure of the attempt. Then the police took their time in booking him, and then there was no judge available for a hearing that late in the day. Of course, the police delayed things for that very reason -- you know how they are. Especially considering the victim's relationship with one of their own."

"Indeed. But the problems all started because of your error in picking Mr. Henderson for the job. As you said yourself in your message to me, it was a shoddy endeavor all around." Adele's voice turns smooth and quiet, a deceptive change that's actually a sign of her growing anger. "And worse, it was an utter waste of an opportunity. As it turned out, Mr. Bishop, that young couple was out of town for two days. Two whole days! If your man had been freed on Friday--" She pauses, then inclines her head. "Well, there's no use lamenting over what went wrong in the past."

Bishop relaxes his thin body against the back of his chair, but the tension in his face reveals his lingering doubts. "Thank you, Mrs. Nichols. The good news is, our program for the next few days is perfectly on schedule. I fully expect to make delivery to you by tonight, and get rid of -- um, remove the evidence -- by tomorrow. Barring unforeseen difficulties, the case will be wrapped up by Wednesday with no trail leading to me, and certainly not to you."

"I never expected such a trail would exist." Adele lifts her coffee cup again. "And Mr. Bishop, regarding those unforeseen difficulties..."

He blinks at her. "Yes?"

"I would foresee them, if I were you." She sips and replaces the cup, smiling coolly. "Or you'll join Mr. Henderson in his inevitable destination."

5. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Emergency Room

Dr. Greg White leaves the curtained area and the patient on whose behalf he was called down for a neurology consult. Nodding with a smile to the ER staffers he recognizes while passing by, Greg catches a glimpse of a familiar blonde tapping her foot impatiently near the admit desk. Curious, he doubles back and leans against a pillar only inches away from her, trying to catch her attention.

"Hey, Flo," he murmurs, touching a finger to Chelsea Stanford's sleeve. "You're here awfully early, aren't you?"

Chelsea turns to him, and he's surprised at the tension in her usually emotive face. "Flo?"

"Nightingale. You know, 'cause you're volunteering ..." Greg notices that she's not smiling. "Okay, it wasn't one of my better jokes, but why the long face? Behar's not being too rough on you, is he?"

"I'm not here as a volunteer now. I came with a friend. She collapsed at work and I haven't heard what's wrong yet."

Straightening, Greg nods. "I see. What's your friend's name?"

"Beth Durand."

Greg hesitates. "As in Clark Durand? His sister?"

"Yeah. And that moron clerk over there isn't willing to tell me what's going on."

Frowning, Greg walks over to the object of Chelsea's contempt, greeting the desk clerk and murmuring, "What's the deal, Marco?"

"There's no deal because there's no answers yet."

"How long could a basic run of tests take?"

"Doc, you know the answer to that. Between you and me, everyone's labwork is taking forever today. There's some kind of slowup, and I haven't gotten a straight answer from the 2nd floor. Anyway, I've told Miss Impatience over there that running a CBC takes time, not to mention balancing out her friend's lytes, which were apparently way out of--"

"Miss Impatience over there is the daughter of our chief of staff, so you might try to be a little more polite," Greg mutters under his breath. "And the patient herself is related to one of our doctors, I might add. Where is she?"

Marco glances up at the assignment board. "Curtain 3. She was ambulatory, Dr. White. They're loading her up with fluid, but other than rehydration I don't think it's that serious a case as all that."

"Thanks for the diagnosis," Greg says dryly, and returns to Chelsea to give her a quick update. "I can nag them if you want," he finishes, "but if they're running tests on her, they'll just need a little time. What happened, exactly?"

Chelsea squeezes the strap of her pocketbook. "All I know is, she fainted. I called an ambulance but she woke up before it got there, and then she made a big fuss 'cause she didn't want to go to the hospital. I kind of bullied her into going. I mean, she looked like crap and who the hell knows what might be wrong with her?"

Greg puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You did the right thing. But there are all sorts of non-life-threatening reasons why people might lose consciousness. Maybe she was overheated, maybe she just didn't eat breakfast --"

"Yeah, you know, that might be it. I was just noticing that she looks like she's been skipping meals or something."

"She's been losing weight?"

"I think so. But not in a good way," Chelsea adds seriously. "She just looks ... all white and trembly, and she gets dizzy a lot."

Greg nods, trying not to look alerted by the description despite the uh oh, heart problem warning alarm that just went off in his mind. "Did you give all this information to the EMTs?"

"Sure. Actually, Beth got pissed off at me, she's pretty private. But I didn't really care. I mean, this is her health here, right?" Chelsea purses her lips in thought. "What do you think it could be?"

"As I said, it could be any number of things, and I'm sure the staff's looking into all of them. Trust me, Chelsea, she's in good hands."

"She's in good hands," Chelsea echoes. The young woman heaves a sigh, glancing back over to the desk clerk and muttering: "That's what everyone always tells me."

The frown on her usually smooth brow bothers Greg, who feels obliged to help remove it. She's not often pensive -- one of the reasons he feels comfortable with her, since it's a personality trait he shares -- and seeing her this way intrigues him. "Always? What do you mean?"

Chelsea slowly returns her attention to him. He can sense the struggle going on in her mind as she seems to come to a decision. "Greg," she says after a moment, "do you have a couple of minutes to help me with something?"

"A couple, sure." Greg swiftly looks at his watch. "About ten, in fact. Help you with what?"

"A case. A -- a hypothetical case," she adds awkwardly.

Greg lets himself smile. "I didn't know you were such an advanced volunteer that Dr. Behar is letting you deal with cases ... hypothetical or not."

"Yeah, well ... this is kinda special."

Nodding, Greg leads Chelsea into an empty observation room. "All right, shoot," he says once he shuts the door on the busy department floor outside. "What's up?"

Chelsea paces over to the vacant bed, sitting down. For a second, Greg suddenly wonders if this is another of Chelsea's seduction games, but when he sees the nervous look on her face he's shamed into dismissing the thought.

Conscious of the support she lent him when Doug was in the ICU, he walks over to the bed and sits down beside her. "C'mon, Chelsea," he murmurs, rubbing her shoulder. "I'd like to help you, but I can't do it if you don't fill me in."

A moment passes, and then Chelsea abruptly swivels to face him. "I need to know what could make someone catatonic," she says in a blunt, stressed tone. "And how to make them recover."

6. Cameron and Danielle Nichols' Residence

Becca Nichols' Room

Twisting her arms behind her back, Becca Nichols unhooks her black bra and shrugs it onto the floor. Her bedroom is large and bright, with the polished hardwood floor covered by a lush pale gray area rug. The thick pile gives her bare, silver-polished toes something to dig into as she walks half-naked over to the mirror.

Humming, the blonde admires her reflection, arching her upper body to enjoy the sight of her full breasts and lean, taut abdomen. The black thong underwear practically disappears between her thighs and buttocks, covering only the absolute essentials.

Pleased with her appearance, Becca hooks her fingers in the underwear to remove that as well, but a familiar, peremptory knock on her bedroom door interrupts her. She grabs for a silk bathrobe just as Simon enters the room.

"Could you possibly wait a half-second longer before barging in?" she asks dryly, pulling the robe on without undue haste. "Or are you so warped you're hoping to grab a peek at your own sister?"

Smirking, Simon looks her up and down. "Trust me, Bec, you don't have anything I haven't already seen on most of your not-so-little friends."

"No wonder they're all seeing shrinks." Becca swivels, tying her belt loosely and leaning against her dresser. "I need to finish changing. What do you want?"

"You're going out tonight?"

"Obviously."

"Not at all obvious. I wasn't aware this was 'conjugal visit night' at whatever prison is housing your latest Hell's Angel stud."

Becca smiles coldly. "As a matter of fact, it's Dylan."

"Dylan?" Simon lifts an eyebrow. "You surprise me. He's not exactly the gangsta type you enjoy trashing around with."

"What can I say? I felt like a change."

"You're not mellowing in your old age, are you?"

"Don't bet on it." Becca grabs a comb and sweeps it through her shining shoulder-length hair. "In all likelihood it's just a one-night thing. I'm just doing it because Gaia pissed me off last week."

"And so you mess with her boyfriend. Okay, now it makes sense." Sitting on the edge of her bed, Simon looks at her speculatively. "Well, speaking of betting ... you've had six hours to change your mind about that little wager. Are you still willing?"

Shrugging, Becca tosses the comb back on her dresser. "Yeah. But you were supposed to come up with a new plan. Did you? Or have you been too busy working on tomorrow's gig?"

"That's what I'm doing here. I came up with an arrangement I think you'll find suitably challenging." Simon picks up her bra from the floor, swinging it around his finger by a strap. "In fact, you might need more than just a WonderBra to accomplish this one."

Becca grabs at the bra and hits him over the head with it. "All right, smartass, what is it?"

"Well, I did a little research on Stanford. He's apparently--"

"Who the hell is Stanford?"

"Jason Stanford. Bill Gates Jr., remember?"

"Oh, right. I didn't remember his last name. 'Kay, go ahead."

"He's even more of a geek than I thought. According to my sources -- which by the way include the only attractive sophomores in Skyfalls High -- Stanford's got almost no friends, he's in the AV club, the Latin club, astronomy ... I mean, he's like a poster kid for Losers Anonymous."

Becca makes a face. "Except he's not in recovery. God, did I peg him right or what? Total pushover. The only trick'll be getting him to stay primed long enough for me to get his jeans off and get the job done."

Simon chuckles. "Thanks for the visual, but I don't think so. My instincts were right about him. He's got a rep for being such a prude that you couldn't drag a needle out of his ass with a pair of pliers. He's also involved with Kids against Drunk Driving and the Ethics Club, and he's a churchgoer--"

"Oh, gross. Is he running for Pope or something?"

"Gee, Bec, sounds like you're getting worried." Standing up, Simon strolls over to his sister with a knowing smile. "Here's the story. I agree that there's a slim possibility that you might be able to fumble him out of those jeans. But I think it's a little more of a challenge if you go a little deeper than a mere loser-seduction."

Becca examines Simon's handsome face, still slightly round and boyish. "What do you have in mind?"

Simon pauses dramatically, letting her wait for his response. "You can't just get him in bed. I dare you to take this lame churchgoing geek, and turn him into someone he wouldn't recognize. Make him part of our Crew. Make him fit in at places like the Garage or the Lighthouse." He grins. "Five thousand says you can't even make him fit in at the Gap."

Becca mulls this over, then starts to smile. "Weak, Simon. You really have seen Cruel Intentions too often." She hesitates, then jabs him in the chest with a finger. "I'll even do you one better. How about I do the same thing to his mind that I do to his body. I'll make this model citizen with straight As do things that his little Ethics Club would bounce his ass out for."

"Intriguing, but overambitious. I'm telling you, from everything I hear, he makes Snow White look like a used-up tramp."

"Doesn't matter." Turning around to the mirror, Becca picks up a small bottle of perfume from her dresser, looking at the golden liquid inside. "And five thousand? That's pathetic. Nana's giving each of us a savings bond for our birthday, right? I'll put that up for the bet. You willing to do the same?"

For once, Simon is shaken out of his long-practiced casual demeanor. His dark green eyes widen slightly as he digests her words. "Are you serious? Twenty-five thousand dollars?"

"You got it. Are you chickening out?"

"Like hell I am. I seriously don't think you have a chance." He hesitates, then grins at her. "But one of us won't be having a very sweet sixteen. And for the big 2-5 g's, you'll have to do more than convince him to shoplift some CDs."

Becca lifts her chin so that she can spritz a cloud of delicate perfume onto her bare throat. "I'll come up with something appropriate."

"We'll come up with something." Simon waves the perfume away, annoyed. "So it's a bet?"

She reaches out to shake his hand, her tilting smile revealing utter assurance. "It's a bet."

7. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Observation Room #2

Inside the quiet room, Chelsea waits for a response. Normally, being on a bed with Greg White would mean only one thing as far as she's concerned ... and probably him, too. And the warm strength of Greg's arm next to hers is an undeniably delightful sensation. But for once her primary interest in him has nothing to do with physical or emotional desire.

Greg considers her question, his blue eyes sober. "What could make someone catatonic," he repeats slowly. "Well, I can't really give you a definite answer on that without knowing more information. For example, do you mean it in the clinical sense, or are you using the layman's definition?" He seems to recognize her confusion. "I mean, are you talking about a patient who's been officially diagnosed by a psychiatrist as catatonic, or do you mean someone who's undiagnosed but exhibiting the signs that people associate with the term ... you know, generally nonresponsive, motionless --"

"She's been diagnosed. But I'm trying to find other answers. Other causes for why someone would behave that way."

Greg nods. "Is this patient someone who was brought into the hospital?"

Chelsea remains silent, chomping on her tongue, and Greg continues. "The thing is, you volunteer for Kal Behar and the psychiatry department. If you're questioning some decision made by one of my colleagues--"

"No! No, it's got nothing to do with him. It's -- it's not even someone who's here. I said it was hypothetical, didn't I?"

"Okay. But then why are you coming to me with this? Wouldn't Behar be the best person to go to--"

"Yeah, you'd think so." Scowling, Chelsea pushes herself away from him. "But I didn't go to him, I came to you. I've already heard the answers from a psychiatrist, or at least people who work with one. I figured maybe you could give me something different. You're a brain surgeon, for God's sake. Couldn't there be a physical reason behind it?"

She can almost feel Greg watching her as she paces over to the other side of the room. "Yes," he says quietly. "There are neurological conditions that would mimic catatonia. Late stage Huntington's or Parkinson's, multiple sclerosis, an injury to the brain stem, just to name a few."

"I know there wasn't any injury. But the other things ... could you have something like that for years and years without anyone figuring it out? With someone thinking it's a mental issue?"

"How many years?"

"At least nine. Really more than that, almost a dozen."

"A dozen years? Someone who's already so nonresponsive that someone would confuse the signs for catatonic schizophrenia?" Greg's tone is dubious. "No, I don't think so. First, a doctor would have to be utterly incompetent to rule out possible neurological causes for that long. Second, someone with such a late stage illness wouldn't last without treatment without major physical deterioration, organ failure, then death."

The words stab at her. Closing her eyes, Chelsea shakes her head. "Then that's not it. I guess I'm just -- I just thought if it was something physical it'd be easier to find..."

"But I can't tell you for sure either way, Chelsea. Not without an exam or tests." Behind her, she hears Greg standing up. "This isn't hypothetical," he mutters. "It's personal, isn't it?"

Chelsea turns around. Telling Beth about her mother's condition was one thing. Revealing this to Greg ... someone she looks up to, someone she's wanted so desperately to like her ... to want her ...

She can't do it. She can't risk it. Greg's not a guy who'd judge her, and it's not that she's embarrassed about her mom. But she's always tried to be lighthearted and playful with him. Except for Mike Fiore, guys have always lost interest with her when she's stopped being the fun, single-minded sex partner. Even her father couldn't care less about her problems. But that's no surprise, of course: Charles Stanford dumped her mother when Roberta's issues became too much to handle. No matter what, Chelsea has no intention of repeating that pattern.

And so she starts to deny Greg's question when suddenly he steps closer to her and takes gentle hold of her elbows.

"It's okay," he says, giving her a small, understanding smile. "It wasn't fair of me to ask, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Still ..."

Chelsea swallows. "Still what?"

"I'd like to return the favor you've done for me over the past few days. You were there when I was miserable about Doug, and ... well, I don't mean to brag or nothin', but I've got a reputation for having a nice comfy shoulder."

His voice is so kind, his strength of presence so encouraging, that Chelsea can't hold herself back. Stepping into his arms, she rests her head against his chest and relaxes within Greg's comforting embrace.

"It's my mom," she whispers into the white smoothness of his shirt. "She's been sick for a long time, and I need to help her. But I don't know what to do. Maybe there's nothing I can do, but I've gotta try."

Greg strokes her hair soothingly. "Chelsea," he murmurs. For the first time she realizes how much she loves hearing him pronounce her name. "If you want, I can --"

His beeper shrills at them, and Greg pulls away from her. "Damn it. Look, my ten minutes are up, I've got to get back upstairs. But let's talk later, okay? Maybe I can help with your mother, at least to rule out any neurological issues."

"You mean it? You'd do that for me?"

"Of course." He bends down to brush her forehead with a kiss. Before he can straighten, Chelsea reaches up and pulls him back down, pressing her lips against his sensual mouth and forcing a much sweeter, much deeper kiss. Though clearly surprised, Greg responds after a few seconds. Then, far too soon, he backs away. "Chelsea," he says regretfully. "You know Rena and I--"

"I'm just thanking you," she says, her voice hoarse. "Nothing wrong with that, right?"

Greg's knowing, sideways smile and the understanding twinkle of his warm blue eyes make her want to drag him back down to her. Instead she just watches as he turns, gesturing with his head towards the exit. "C'mon with me. I'll get you in to see Beth, okay?"

Nodding, Chelsea follows as he opens the door. The noise outside floods the room, but all she can think about is Greg and her mother ... and the possibility of a future with both of them in her life.

8. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Curtain Area #3

Beth Durand sits on the edge of the bed, feeling shaky and frightened and violated. She didn't want any of the attention those doctors and nurses and PAs forced on her, and now they expect her to wait while they go talk about her amongst themselves. Another case for their records, another freak they can ogle and prod like a piece of meat in a butcher's shop.

She pulls the plastic bag of her personal effects closer, grabbing her pocketbook and coat and clutching them in her lap. Just as she's decided to leave on her own, the thin figure of Nurse Jane Yi re-enters the room.

"How are we doing, Miss Durand," the middle-aged woman says as she checks the IV attached to Beth's arm by a thin snaking tube. "Should be feeling a little better now that we've rehydrated you."

"I'll feel better when I leave. In fact, I really need to leave now."

"I'm sorry, I know the lab delays have been frustrating, but it's been an incredibly busy day."

"Then can't you call me at home? I can't stand it here anymore. I'm cold and I'm tired--"

"You're cold and tired because your blood pressure is low and you've been unable to keep any food down."

"That's normal for me, honest. I've always had low blood pressure. And sometimes when I'm nervous I can't eat. It's not a big deal." Beth hugs her coat more tightly. "I wouldn't have come here at all if it weren't for my friend getting so worried."

Nurse Yi pats the bed in an effort to encourage Beth to lie back down. "Then you have a friend who's more sensible than you are. According to our records, this is the second time you've lost consciousness in less than a week. That is not normal."

"But the other time, I was giving blood. I hadn't eaten--"

"Yes, that seems to be a pattern with you." The nurse gives her a disapproving glance. "Are you on some kind of unhealthy diet?"

Beth shakes her head, looking at her pale, almost blue-tinged fingers. "I just don't feel like eating."

The older woman walks up to the bed, one hand on her hip. "Look. I know the signs, Miss Durand. If you--"

"Hey!" The curtain slides open several inches, and to Beth's relief the intruder is not yet another ER staffer. "There you are," Chelsea says, peeking in. "Okay if I come in?"

Grateful, Beth nods. "I thought you left already."

"Me? Nah. So what's the deal? How are you feeling?" Chelsea turns to the nurse. "How's she feeling?"

Nurse Yi regards Chelsea without much interest. "I'm sorry, who are you? Are you a family member?"

"She's my friend." Beth lifts her wrist impatiently. "Could you take this tube out please? I'm leaving."

"I told you, that's not advisable. We've ruled out cardiac problems, but the results from the CBC--"

"And I told you I'm feeling much better and I can leave. You can't keep me here, can you?" Beth stares at the other woman, almost pleading. "There's nothing wrong. I just need some sleep."

Nurse Yi raises her voice slightly. "Miss Durand, I can't stress this enough. You're leaving against medical advice."

"My brother's a doctor. He'll take care of me, all right?"

"You sure this is a good idea?" Chelsea keeps her voice low, displaying unusual tact. "You're not looking much better than you did before."

"I'm fine. What do I have to do to convince you people I'm fine?" Beth tries not to sound too shrill, but her patience is nearly at the breaking point. "Clark will be there if I need anything!"

Nurse Yi raises her eyebrows. "You're the one who told me not to contact Dr. Durand before."

Beth looks away, gathers her strength, and finally returns to give the nurse an apologetic smile. "I know I did. I didn't want to worry him, on top of everything that's happened with our mother. But when I get home, I'll tell Clark. I promise."

Sighing, Nurse Yi shakes her head. "Very well. I'll need you to sign a release--"

"I'll sign whatever you want. Just take this thing out of me, please."

As Nurse Yi moves away, muttering under her breath, Beth refuses to meet Chelsea's lingering gaze.

9. Blake, Geary, Ashton and Wallace

Parking Lot

Martina Rosenoff waves goodbye to the security guard and heads out through the wide glass door. Surrounding the building are a few parked cars, illuminated by circles of purple-white light from the street lamps above. Martina inhales the cold evening air and remains near the entrance for a moment.

She can see her car roughly halfway across the lot, and it's in a well-lit area -- something she made certain of when she parked it this morning. Still, she can't help but stare at it, suddenly reliving last Friday all over again. Clark's body falling to the ground. The cold metal digging into her ear, followed by the mugger's flat, demanding voice threatening to shove the gun in her mouth if she made a noise. His hands rifling through her pocketbook and wallet. Her back and head slamming into the cement wall. The man's fingers grabbing at her through her silk blouse.

And especially his final words to her: At least I've got your home address now. We can catch up later...

"Hey Marty," a soft voice says. Martina gasps and turns around, for a split second so lost in the growing cloud of panic that she can hardly remember where she is.

Rena Carlson walks up to her, most of her red hair hidden by her white woolen hat and scarf. She smiles and shoves her gloved hands inside her coat pockets. "Sorry to startle you. I thought you might want someone to ride home with?"

Touched, Martina turns her near-sob of relief into a laugh. "Oh, hon. You have no idea how happy I am to see you!"

The women embrace, Rena's arms stronger than one would think from her small stature. "I'll be honest," Rena says, hooking her elbow around Martina's and squeezing. "Mike would've been here instead, except he had some major interview to deal with. He gave me a call and wondered if I could drop by."

Martina smiles tremulously. "I'm glad he did. I don't know if he told you, but the man who attacked me and Clark was released on bail. I mean, I'm sure there's no real danger to me personally -- muggers don't turn into stalkers. But still, I can't help feeling ... I don't know."

"You have every right to be jumpy. Anyone else in your shoes would feel the same way!" Rena rubs Martina's back reassuringly. "C'mon, I'm freezing. You don't mind if I camp out at your place, do you?"

"Of course not!"

"Great. I'll just stay until Mike comes -- he promised he'd drive me home later."

"You don't have to leave right away. And see, girlfriend, this is why you need a car of your own."

Rolling her eyes heavenward, Rena leads the way through the lot. "Not this argument again! We're not all high powered attorneys," she says with mock jealousy. "We lower class types use the bus or our feet. Besides, would you deprive me a peek inside the happy home life of my favorite couple?"

Martina casts an affectionate look at Rena, and suddenly makes a decision. "Mike already broke our pact," she murmurs. "I guess I can too."

"What pact?"

"Of silence. But I can't keep this from you." Martina stops in her tracks, forcing Rena -- who's still arm in arm with her -- to a halt as well. "You didn't ask about the weekend."

"Oh! Of course. How was it? Was the place everything you thought it would be?"

"It was more than I could have possibly imagined."

Rena grins, though she seems a little wistful. "I bet it was so romantic. A snowy mountaintop inn, a view that must've been amazing ... and knowing you, lots of antique shopping."

Laughing, Martina shakes her head. "Actually, no. But I didn't come home completely empty-handed."

"Ha! I knew it." Rena raises her eyebrows encouragingly. "Go on. What did you get?"

Putting her briefcase down on her car trunk, Martina lifts her left hand and tugs the brown leather glove from her fingers. Rena's eyes widen at the sight of the glittering diamond ring, and Martina can hear her sharp intake of breath. "Oh. My. God!" The younger woman reaches out and draws Martina's hand closer to her. "Marty -- oh, Marty, I can't believe it!"

"You can't believe it? Every time I see this thing I do a double-take. Somehow it doesn't look like my hand, does it?"

"Yes it does. It looks like the prettiest hand wearing the most wonderful ring ever." Rena impulsively kisses Martina's fingers, then wraps her into a hug. "I am so, so happy for you! And Mike! Why didn't he tell me when he called?"

Martina quickly explains their original plan to tell his family first. "Apparently that idea fell by the wayside about five minutes after Mike went in to work. I'm telling you, don't let anyone ever claim that women blab more than men, because this is proof positive that the boys love their gossip too."

Letting go of her, Rena pulls back for another look at the ring. "He also knows how to pick jewelry. It's really lovely. This isn't more of his mother's stuff, is it? Like the necklace?"

"No, he got this at that new estate jewelry store over on -- oh my gosh!" Martina stares at Rena for a moment, aghast. "I'm such an idiot."

"What? What is it?"

"The necklace. I left it upstate!"

"At the inn?"

"No, no. The lock was broken when I was mugged, and on Saturday evening I brought it to a repair shop that was recommended to me. I was supposed to pick it up the next day, but on Sunday Mike and I were -- um, we spent most of the day in the room." Martina smiles ruefully. "Guess I'll have to drive back there, or maybe get them to send it forward."

"I'm sure they'll do that for you."

"True. And if not, there are worse things than a drive to the country. Maybe this time you and I could go off and make a day of it. Just you and me on the open road, singing with my Supremes CDs."

"I'd love that." Rena looks at her. "I ... I hope we won't stop doing things like that once you're hitched."

Martina unlocks and opens her car door, chuckling. "What do you think of me? I'm getting married, not fused to Mike's arm. Get inside, will you?"

As Rena walks around to the other side of the car, Martina settles into the driver's seat The panic of ten minutes ago is long gone, and she can't wait to show Mike her appreciation for his thoughtfulness in calling Rena. Thank God for both of them, she thinks as she turns the ignition key.

11. Clark Durand's Residence

Kitchen

Beth enters the kitchen, feeling the blast of warmth from the oven as Clark Durand pulls out a platter of warmed-up Chinese takeout. Her brother turns towards her in surprise. "Where have you been? I was about to call out a posse."

Still weak, she's in no mood to argue with Clark tonight, and he's been behaving in a surly manner towards her for the past two days. "I'm sorry," she says, moving to the sink to get a glass of water. "I had a late meeting at C&B's."

"Right," he says dubiously. "Look, you don't have to tell me everywhere you're going. Clearly you don't. But you could at least let me know when you're skipping out on dinner plans."

"Yes, I know and I'm sorry."

"You said that."

Beth watches the rush of water from the faucet. "How are you feeling," she asks, hoping to change the subject. "Was it all right, going back to work today?"

"My headache is still driving me nuts, so I left early. I spent a couple of hours in Mama's room trying to keep her from going stir crazy, although I don't know how much longer we can stave that off. At least her worrying keeps her preoccupied."

"Worrying about what?"

"About hospital bills, about the newspaper that's in limbo along with her job, about when she'll be able to walk again ..." Clark's tone is acidic. "You know, the little things. Fortunately, she's not currently worried about you. That's my province."

Turning around, Beth wraps her hand around the cool glass on the counter. "Why -- why are you worried about me? You don't have to. I'm doing fine. In fact I have a job offer, an incredible opportunity ... that's what that meeting was about. Oh God," she says harshly, "I wish people would just leave me alone!"

Clark's long, handsome face stares at her with suspicion. "You know I would, if I thought for one moment that you could handle your own life without disaster."

Beth backs up against the counter, stung and shameful. "That's a terrible thing to say. I haven't done anything to deserve that."

"No?" He moves closer to her, brown eyes deep and concerned -- and angry. "There's something I have to ask you, then. I didn't want to bring it up, because I've been trying to come up with an explanation on my own. But I can't, and I think it's time --"

The phone rings, interrupting him, and Beth gladly picks up the phone, hoping for a decent distraction from whatever Clark is about to accuse her of now. "Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak to Elizabeth Durand, please?"

Beth frowns, not recognizing the female voice. "This is she."

"Good evening, Ms. Durand. This is Dr. Starr, from Community Hospital? I'm just following up with your lab results."

Clutching the receiver more tightly, Beth avoids looking at Clark. "I -- this isn't a very good time right now."

"I'm sorry, and I'll be as brief as possible, but it is important that you come back to the hospital for a follow-up visit. I'd like a chance to discuss these results in person. Perhaps you could make an appointment with--"

"What are you saying?" Beth can practically feel the blood draining from her face. "Is something wrong?"

"Ms. Durand, I don't wish to alarm you unduly. In all likelihood this is a treatable situation with medication, monitoring, changes in diet and lifestyle... but it's really better to go through all this with you while you're up here, in the office, and we'll need a further physical examination... Can I help you make an appointment now?"

The thought of a more in-depth examination sends a shudder through Beth. She tries to keep her voice light. "Well, I -- I suppose I could come over there ... on Wednesday? Afternoon?"

The doctor doesn't seem thrilled, but gives her a two o'clock appointment. "Very well. However, please, I'd like you to take extra care with your fluids and nutrition, and certainly no strenuous activity... in fact, complete bed rest might be in order for the next few months, but I'll know more about that after the next round of tests."

After listening to some more instructions and details, Beth hears a word that stuns her into silence. Finally she exhales quickly. "No. Please stop. I really think this must be a mistake. You have the wrong person, or the wrong file."

There's a pause on the other end. "I don't think so, Ms. Durand. I'm very sorry, I'd no idea that you hadn't been told."

"But there's nothing to tell. You don't understand, it's not possible." Laughing a little, Beth glances back at Clark, who also seems relieved now that she's no longer tense. "This is a mix-up. I was told that you've been having problems all day, so I guess somehow things were switched around. What you're saying has nothing to do with me."

"Well ... you're entitled to a second opinion, of course. And perhaps there was a lab error of some kind," Dr. Starr says evenly. "However, I'd like you to keep that appointment for Wednesday. We can straighten this out then, all right? I'm on the fourth floor, room 417."

Swallowing, Beth agrees and hangs up the phone. Clark stares expectantly at her. "What was all that about?"

"Nothing. Work stuff." Beth's throat goes dry, and after remembering the glass of water still in her hand, she gratefully takes a drink. "Clark, whatever you were going to talk to me about ... please, can it wait? I'm exhausted, and I -- I think I'll go to bed early."

Clark seems to realize that she's not bluffing. He nods, but gestures to the still-sizzling chicken and vegetable dish in the platter. "Have some dinner before you go up."

Beth looks at the food, but the sauce and the grease and the smell make her feel ill. "No thank you," she murmurs. "Maybe just some rice?"

Scooping out some rice from the center of the plate, Clark eyes her closely. Beth can feel him watching her, but she ignores him.

And tries to forget about the doctor's mistaken diagnosis.

12. Martina Rosenoff and Mike Fiore's Residence

Driveway

Martina pulls her car into the short driveway, smiling at Rena's myriad questions regarding every possible detail of the night Mike proposed. She turns off the engine and leans back in her seat with an exaggerated weary sigh. "If I'd have known you'd wanted such detail, I'd have brought along a transcriber. Might have dampened some of the romance, I suppose."

"I'm sorry." Rena unbuckles her seat belt. "I don't mean to be a pain. I just want to live vicariously, that's all. It's so nice to hear good things once in a while. This past week..."

"I know," Martina murmurs, squeezing Rena's hand. "I know it's been horrible for you too, dealing with everything that's going on with the people around you. Me, Greg, Clark, Elaine, your patients ... and no one's asking you how you're doing. We're all just leaning on you as always." She lifts the corner of her mouth in a wistful smile. "It's your own fault for being so damn supportive. You should really tell us all to back off."

"I would never do that! If people need me, how can I not be there for them?"

Looking at her friend, Martina has to shake her head at Rena's sincerity. It's true: Rena doesn't know how to let someone down. "But you shouldn't do it at your own expense. Look at what you're doing now. After a long day at the hospital, you're schlepping home to baby-sit me, instead of going straight to your own house and hopping into a nice warm bath. Or scarfing down a bag of nachos while watching some old Bette Davis movie."

Rena smiles briefly. "You know me too well. But honestly, no, Marty. I'm glad I'm with you. Not just because I love hanging out with you. But the idea of walking to my apartment alone tonight..."

Martina can't miss the undercurrent of nervousness in Rena's quiet voice. "Because of the mugging?"
"Partly." She doesn't elaborate, and Martina frowns at her sudden reticence. As if realizing that she's not satisfying Martina's curiosity, Rena shrugs a little too casually. "It's nothing. I'm just feeling vulnerable these days. More aware of how fragile we all are, and how many ... criminals are out there. Even in a small place like Schuyler Falls."

They remain in the silent car for a moment, and then Rena shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I'm doing a lousy job of keeping you company. There are better things to talk about, starting with your wedding and ending with how many kids you think you and Mike are gonna have."

Laughing, Martina unbuckles her own seatbelt and opens the car door. "Uh, please let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Rena exits the car and walks over to Martina's side. "You're gonna have to face up to it. Mike comes from a big family. I bet he'll want dozens of little Rosenoff-Fiores, half of 'em running around playing cops and robbers, the others protesting any unjustified arrests."

With a giggle, Martina unlocks the front door, swinging it open to let Rena in. "If my kids show any signs of wanting to be lawyers, I'm sending them into therapy. All I need is someone following in my--" She stops when she sees Rena's shocked expression, and swivels to face the living room.

The wreckage of what used to be her cozy, neat little house sends a jolt of nausea through her. Her bookshelves turned over, glass artifacts shattered on the floor, vicious knife slashes in her sofa cushion through which clouds of white stuffing spill out ... it's almost too much to take in at once.

Gape-mouthed, she turns her face towards the open door leading to her and Mike's room. Even from this distance, she can see that the damage is just as bad in there. Her clothes are everywhere. Her jewelry box has been dumped out on the floor and apparently emptied of anything remotely valuable. Even a framed picture of her and Mike lies smashed, looking as if someone had stamped his heel right on their joy-filled faces.

Frozen, Martina feels Rena pulling her arm. "We need to get out of here," Rena whispers.

"I -- " Her voice cracks, and she tries to clear her strangled throat. "I have to call the police."

"Then do it from your cell phone. Or we can just drive there. Marty, whoever did this could still be here!"

Rena's words create a rolling wave of fear that nearly overwhelms her, and finally Martina propels herself forward. She follows Rena out of the house, trembling with fury and indignation. He was in my house, she thinks, fingers scrabbling on the car door handle. He was in my house.

Safely inside the car with the locks bolted shut, she lets out a sob of outrage. He was in my bedroom.

With wheels spinning in the melted snow of the driveway, the car rushes backward. As Rena searches through Martina's bag for her cell phone, Martina clutches the steering wheel and stares straight ahead, putting distance between herself and a horror that, until tonight, was her home.