OmniCorp

Sitting comfortably in her large black leather chair, Olivia Ortiz remains unmoved despite the intense need displayed on the lean face of the newspaper owner opposite her.

"Your nerve never fails to astonish me, Jem. Coming to me for help? As if the idea of Omni being interested in a foundering prospect such as the Record isn't ridiculous enough..." She shakes her head. "How could you think I'd agree to such a request?"

Jem Van Doren rubs his hands together. Despite his expensive suit and attempt to appear calm, he gives off an air of desperation. "Because the Record would be a great opportunity for you."

"Oh, I very much doubt that. We don't need an albatross around our necks."

A fleeting look of defiance brightens Jem's eyes before he blinks and looks away. "It wouldn't be an albatross with the right amount of money poured into it."

"Apparently the banks don't think so. That is, if I'm right in assuming you've gone to all the usual financial institutions before crawling here to me?"

He swallows as if choking back some kind of retort, then forces a laugh. "Crawling's not a very PC thing to say, what with my cane and all."

"My apologies. I didn't think you were the sensitive type." Olivia raises her silver pen, her slender fingers carelessly playing with it. "Well? Did you seek other financial avenues before coming to Omni?"

"Sure. But it was a mistake. Not 'cause they said no, but because the right answer was here all along. Staring me in the face every time I looked out my office window." Jem taps her desk with the palm of his hand. "This building. Omni's a natural match for the Record, especially considering your new interest in publishing."

"Our main interest is in profit, which is not likely to occur as a result of buying a relic masquerading as a newspaper."

"Who's asking you to buy us out? I never said that! The Record's not on the market."

She gives him an arch smile. "That's wise. No one would touch it."

"Oh yeah, you think so? If that was true, then I wouldn't have to--" Jem cuts himself off, taking a couple of seconds before adding somewhat darkly, "Trust me, there are people interested in buying the Record."

Olivia almost laughs at this dubious fact -- which she's certain is just an attempt to invoke her competitive spirit. "Then I recommend you strike up a deal with them."

"I don't want to. That's why I'm here. I'd rather deal with someone like you."

"I'm flattered. So, in lieu of a buyout, I gather then that you're looking for a partner?"

"Uh, yeah -- but, like, a silent partner. With a -- with a minority stake in the company."

"I see." Now Olivia does chuckle, amused by his presumption. "In other words, you want a partner to provide money while having no actual input in the running of the newspaper."

"Well ... " Jem shrugs, giving her a weak smile. "Guess that's one way to put it."

Though tempted to tell him where he can put his offer, Olivia simply pushes her chair back. "It's been more than ten minutes, and I have a meeting. I'm sorry, but your time's up."

"Tell me about it," Jem mutters to himself, staying in his seat and clasping the chair arms. He darts a look at her. "Look, just give me a few more minutes? I'm telling you, Olivia, this is an incredible opportunity. If -- if not for Omni, then for you personally."

With a tilt of her chin, Olivia chuckles. "How would investing in a newspaper benefit me personally?"

"Not just any newspaper. The Record. It's a hundred--"

Jem's words are cut off by the buzz of Olivia's telephone, and Olivia presses the speaker button. "Yes, Mark?"

"Mr. Granger and Mr. Brooke are here. Should I tell them it'll be a little while--"

"Give me a minute, then send them in." Olivia cuts off the call, standing up. "Finish your thought."

Jem pushes himself up from the chair with difficulty. "The paper's a hundred years old. It's one of the oldest businesses in this town, hell, in this county. It's a landmark, a recognized name, and that means a helluva lot around here. Being part of it can give you a lot of 'cred' that you don't have."

"I don't need any 'cred,' thank you very much. I'm the chairman of Schuyler Falls' largest company--"

"But that doesn't mean squat to the society types you're dealing with now. It's your background that counts -- reputation's everything. And even your CEO's got a better reputation than you. Everyone knows you're only in charge because Tristan's a screw-up and Philly messed up the handling of her own estate."

Lifting her lips in a one-cornered smile, Olivia nods. "All that matters is that I'm in charge now. And what I'm doing for this company will earn me respect."

"No offense, but you're fooling yourself. Face it, you're not a Campbell or a Van Doren. You're not even a Brooke."

"Thank God for small favors. Being a Van Doren certainly hasn't helped you any."

Jem brushes aside the dig. "That's not the point."

"Yes. In fact, it is. Those names may be appropriately WASPy and historic, but what's become of the people behind them? They're washed up, just dim memories of the families that made their names famous. But meanwhile, I've earned the right to be where I am. I've survived."

"All those old moneyed types you're hanging with don't care about that. Like it or not, they'll never forget that you're not one of them." Jem leans forward, lowering his voice as the words tumble through his lips. "How'd they make you feel at the opera, huh? Did they welcome you? Treat you like one of their own?" Jem waits for her response, which isn't forthcoming. He nods. "'Course they didn't. They wouldn't. 'Cause they'll always think of you as a jumped-up Spic."

Shocked, the blood pounding beneath her skin, Olivia clutches the edge of her desk. "You've got ten seconds to get the hell out of here."

Jem reaches for her wrist, refusing to go. "Don't you get the point, Olivia? I don't think of you that way! I couldn't give a rat's ass about old or new money, and the only color that matters to me is green. Like you said, I've got the right last name and it got me nothing, bupkes, the big fat zilcho! But with my name and your money--"

A soft knock on the door precedes its opening to reveal Bertram Brooke's elegant, lean frame. Omni's vice president of marketing keeps his hand on the silver door handle. "Excuse me, Olivia? Ronald's right behind me -- your assistant said we could come in--"

"Please do." Olivia snatches her wrist from beneath Jem's long fingers and steps around her desk. "We're very done here."

Jem fumbles for his cane but keeps his gaze on her -- she can almost feel his piercing stare. "Will you -- will you at least think about it? And call me later?"

"Good day, Mr. Van Doren."

"It's just that there's not much time--"

Olivia cuts him off with a look, and Jem finally shuts up. He takes a deep steadying breath before walking towards the office door, murmuring a "thanks" to her as he passes by.

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Dr. Arleen Starr's Office

Fourth Floor

The doctor's office is fairly large, with tall windows that reveal a broad expanse of sky above Hamilton Park. Beth Durand keeps her head turned away from the sunlight, wishing she could hide from both the light and the constant, intrusive scrutiny she's undergone for more than two hours.

Her brown curling hair, reddish in the sun, is pulled behind her in a loose ponytail, but she still has to push some stray haphazard tendrils away from her eyes. Beth then fiddles with her cardigan buttons, making sure for the fourth time in ten minutes that she's successfully refastened her sweater.

Finally the door opens and a tall, thin gray-haired woman breezes her way into the room. Beth has already met Arleen Starr, who spoke with her prior to sending her off for another set of tests, but the doctor is still a stranger who makes Beth shrink into herself with shyness.

"I'm sorry for the delay," Dr. Starr says, walking around to sit in the squat red chair next to Beth. This comes as a surprise, since Beth expected her to sit behind the desk; Dr. Starr seems to prefer a less distant approach. She tilts her head. "Are you doing all right? No discomfort?"

"No," Beth lies, still feeling pain alongside the sheer mental discomfort she's been in since stepping into the hospital. "I'm all right. Please, can we get this over with? I just want to get all this straightened out once and for all."

"I understand completely. But I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than that. My instincts seem to be right about the APS, but we'll need to do another round in eight weeks to make certain."

Beth clamps her teeth together to contain the wail rising within her. "Why? What is this APS thing you're talking about?"

Dr. Starr opens her hands. "It's called Antiphospholipid Antibody Syndrome -- probably easier to call it Hughes Syndrome. Basically, your body is producing too much of this certain type of antibody, which attacks the fat found in cell walls."

"I didn't think attacking fat would ever be a bad thing."

The doctor smiles gently. "This is a necessary type of fat. At any rate, this could be what's causing your anemia, not to mention the migraines and dizziness you've experienced. Unfortunately, it's standard procedure to wait another two months after an initial positive test result, running the tests again to be sure. APS is rather hard to diagnose. Luckily it's not as difficult to treat."

"So it's not -- " Beth cuts herself off, feeling both relief and vindication. "So it's something you can cure, and I'll be fine?"

"Well, this is something that doesn't actually go away, but yes, it's a fairly simple matter to keep the symptoms at bay. Nevertheless, we have to be extremely careful, because there are more serious complications that can result with APS."

"Like what?"

"Normally, other than migraine and anemia, the risks include stroke, venous thrombosis, leg ulcers, gangrene ..." Dr. Starr hesitates. "But in your condition there are other consequences to consider. That's why it's important that we address this early, because as I said, this is a highly treatable--"

"My condition?" Beth's mouth goes dry, and she holds up a hand as if warding off an attacking dog. "No, I thought we discussed that already. You're wrong about that."

"Ms. Durand, the tests--"

"I don't care about those tests, they have to be wrong! Run them again!"

The doctor shakes her head. "We have. The urinalysis and the second blood workup came back positive as well, and the internal exam confirmed it. You are definitely pregnant."

Moonlight Bay Nightclub

First Street and Mason

(Alley)

Although the sun has been shining all morning and early afternoon, clouds have started to gather overhead by the time Martina Rosenoff enters the alley between Moonlight Bay and its neighbor, a Laundromat.

The distracted attorney doesn't notice the weather at all. In fact, she hasn't even buttoned her wool coat since leaving the office in a rushed daze, too busy thinking about the possibility that her weeklong nightmare might really be over.

Walking past the police barrier, Martina doesn't need to explain her presence to Officer Bill Howard. The tall blond nods at her, then tilts his head in the direction of the dark-haired, muscular man standing near the back entrance of the Moonlight Bay pub.

As if sensing her presence, Mike Fiore turns when Martina is still a few of yards away. He murmurs something to a bald-headed man -- probably the nightclub's owner, who made the 911 call -- before swiveling to meet his fiancée.

"Didn't take you very long," Mike murmurs, reaching for her hand.

She clasps his fingers tightly. "I didn't want to wait. I wasn't sure how long you'd be leaving him here."

"Not much longer. There's no reason..." The detective shakes his head but keeps his gaze focused on her own. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know how I am. I need to see him first." Martina starts to move in the direction of the two EMS workers standing somewhat uselessly around an inert mass, but Mike's arm reaches out to block her path.

"Just hold it a sec'," he says hastily. "I don't think you need to get too close a look."

"Yes, I do. I told you on the phone, I want to make sure that it's really him."

"Trust me, it's really him. His driver's license makes it clear enough. Besides, Billy was able to identify him as the guy who attacked you and Clark -- he arrested him, remember. Please, honey," Mike adds in quiet concern. "I really don't think you should--"

"Mike. I can handle it." Martina's voice is steady. Truth is, despite not having much experience with dead bodies, she isn't nervous. In fact, she feels almost eerily serene as she repeats, "I need to see him."

Her fiancé's deep brown gaze holds hers for a moment, then he sighs. "I understand that," he says softly. "But it's not a pretty sight. You're absolutely sure?"

With a terse nod, Martina lets Mike lead her over to the corner of the alley. The EMS workers move aside after Mike mutters something to them -- Martina doesn't really pay attention to anything except the pair of feet sticking out from underneath the black plastic covering most of Rick Henderson's body.

One brown shoe is half-off, covering the toes of his left foot but leaving the bare heel exposed on the gravel in a little puddle of rainwater. Martina can't stop staring, imagining how cold the water would be if it were her own foot lying there...

"I want to see the face," she says suddenly, looking at the young uniformed woman nearby. "Can you lower the tarp, please?"

Glancing at Mike, the EMS worker bends down and pulls at the plastic covering to reveal Rick Henderson's upper body. His face is bloated, the skin on one side having turned a blue-black color from congealed blood where he must have been lying overnight. The color seems especially hideous in contrast to his shock of damp, silver-white hair. His half-closed gray eyes bulge from the sockets, and his mouth and shirt are stained with filth.

Martina steps backwards, inhaling sharply but otherwise making no sound, and bumps up against Mike -- he's been standing behind her, ready to support her as always. His hand finds hers and squeezes it tightly.

"How ... how did it happen," she croaks, unable to look away despite the horror. "Do you know yet?"

The female EMS worker responds. "Almost positive it's an OD. Track marks up and down his arm, got a crack pipe underneath his elbow. Looks like he had a bad reaction and choked on his own vomit."

Mike tries to draw Martina away from the body. "The manager noticed him in the club last night, exchanging money with someone -- probably a dealer."

"So he was a junkie," Martina says in a hollow voice. "That's why he attacked me and invaded our home? Drug money?"

"Most likely. We found some money on him and some pawn tickets. Looks like he hocked some of our stuff and used the money to buy himself a death sentence."

After another few seconds, Martina turns away, closing her eyes and leaning against Mike's shoulder. As Mike walks her out of the alley, she can hear the plastic tarp being pulled back over the thing that used to be Rick Henderson.

When they reach her car further down the street, Mike enfolds her in an embrace. "It's over now."

"It's over." Her voice is muffled against Mike's coat sleeve. "He's really gone."

"Yes, honey. We can stop being afraid."

Martina lifts her chin to stare up at Mike's wind-reddened face. "Oh, God, I'm glad. It may make me a horrible person, but I'm glad."

"A horrible person?" He strokes her hair. "The son of a bitch terrorized you. Far as I'm concerned, I'm ready to throw a party. How can you call yourself--"

"I know what he did to me and Clark, and maybe others too. But he was a human being. Whatever else he was, he must have had relatives. He -- someone must have cared about him --"

"I doubt it. Even if they did, that's not your concern. Henderson made his own grave by being a violent, drug-using piece of trash." Mike cradles her head in his large hands. "And now you're safe. I know it'll take some time for you to get past all this, but at least you know you're safe."

For the first time in what feels like ages -- although it's only been a matter of a few hellish days -- Martina's fears subside. With a sudden sob of relief, she leans forward to kiss Mike, feeling his strength and warmth radiate from his mouth to hers. Here, enfolded in his haven of his arms, Martina knows how right he is -- she is truly safe once more.

Cameron and Danielle Nichols' Residence

High Meadow

East Cornwall, NY

The large hallway echoes with Becca Nichols' footsteps, which seem louder thanks to the emptiness of the house itself. According to Randall, the family's butler, the only person home at the moment is Becca's grandmother -- a fact that surprises Becca more for Nana's presence than for anyone else's absence. In general, Becca's used to having the place to herself on the few afternoons when she comes straight home from school.

When she reaches the living room, the girl spies Adele Nichols at the other side of the room near the French doors leading to the gardens. Adele is in the process of hanging up the telephone, and wears a strange half frown on her perfectly made-up face.

Becca tosses her leather bookbag on the sideboard, announcing her arrival. "Hey, Nana. What's up?"

With a quick turn, Adele divests herself of her odd expression, offering her only granddaughter a welcoming smile. "Good afternoon my dear. How many times have I told you that 'hey' is for horses?"

The comment rates a smirk from Becca. She reaches Adele and gives her a quick kiss. "You've been telling me that since I was born, but it still makes no sense."

"Nevertheless, it's time you listened. You're more than old enough to behave in mature fashion suitable to your upbringing."

Still smiling, Becca reaches over to the crystal bowl sitting on a Federal era stand and picks up a handful of macadamia nuts. "Trust me," she says, tossing a nut into her mouth and catching it neatly with her tongue. "I'm plenty mature."

Her grandmother looks at her askance, although there's affection as well in her gold-brown eyes. "So I see," Adele murmurs. "Tell me, does Arleigh really allow its students to keep their shirts unbuttoned practically to the waist?"

Becca looks down, realizing that she's forgotten to rebutton her blouse in preparation for returning home. "Guess my bookbag strap pulled it open," she improvises, moving quickly to fasten her shirt and cover up her exposed cleavage. "Thanks for letting me know. That's embarrassing."

"I'm sure you're mortified." Adele caresses Becca's chin before walking over to the cream-colored sofa. "Sit down, Becca. Let's talk for a bit. We haven't had a moment together since I returned from Europe."

Uh oh. "Yeah, okay." She sits on the sofa arm, folding her arms over her chest in wary self-protection. Normally Becca's able to get out of talks like this with her parents, but Adele's requests aren't easily refused.

"Sit properly."

Becca slides down onto the cushion, primly smoothing her skirt over her knees and crossing her feet at the ankles. She clasps her hands on her lap and looks up at Adele expectantly. "Yes, grandmother dear?"

Chuckling, Adele shakes her head and sits beside her. "Mock me all you wish, but don't think you're getting away with anything. Now I'd like to know what's going on with you. How are things in school?"

"Same as usual, whatever." Not wanting to discuss her school life, Becca shrugs. "What was wrong when I came in?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were making a weird face when you were hanging up the phone. Like you were partly angry, partly happy."

Adele appears somewhat taken aback by Becca's perceptiveness. "I suppose that is a fair description of my mood. I've been expecting some news, but still haven't received it. I can't decide if no news is good news, or if I should be concerned --" She suddenly smiles. "Oh, no, Rebecca Nichols. You're not going to distract me that easily."

"I'm not trying to distract you. I'm interested, that's all."

"You're forgetting that I know you very, very well." Adele's eyelids are lowered in speculative amusement. "And while in many ways you resemble my side of the family, I'm afraid you do share some traits with your mother. Including Danielle's well-known lack of interest in things that don't directly affect her."

Becca can't argue with the description of her mother -- or even with the description of herself. Still, she shrugs, pretending to be hurt. "That's so not fair. You haven't even seen me in six months. How would you know what I'm like now? Mother couldn't tell you -- and Dad probably wouldn't."

"Why, I don't believe it. Are you actually feeling neglected?"

Shaking her head, Becca looks away. "I didn't say that." But she slumps slightly, just enough to imply that her grandmother has struck a chord within her. "Forget it, okay? Just forget I asked at all."

"You know, my dear, I honestly can't tell if you're playing a role, or if you're genuinely upset." Adele pats Becca's arm. "I suppose I should err on the side of sympathy. So I do apologize, Becca. At the very least, you show good instincts, getting upset at being compared to Danielle."

Becca rolls her eyes, unseen by Adele. The mutual hostility between her mother and Nana doesn't really bother her that much, since frankly she can see both points of view. Nana can be harsh and demanding, though rarely to any of her grandchildren. And there's no denying that her mother is distant and selfish ... though Becca figures it's better than having some lovey-dovey, in-your-face, nagging parent.

Still, the semi-veiled insults can be so boring and predictable. Becca would rather hear something really bad, really juicy, than all the back-and-forth sniping. But the only good gossip running through the family relates to Aunt Laurie's trashy redneck background. Everyone else is too damn good at keeping secrets.

Adele strokes her sleeve again. "You accept my apology, don't you?"

Turning back to her grandmother, Becca nods. "Course I do, Nana."

"Good. And to show you I'm sincere, I'll answer your questions -- as long as you promise to reciprocate and answer mine."

"Yeah. I mean, yes," Becca adds hastily before Adele can upbraid her. "I promise."

"Good. Besides, if you have any problems, I might just be useful to you. I know it seems impossible to believe, but I was your age once. And I may have had experiences similar to your own, back in the day. I'd be happy to share some of my ... well, my tricks of the trade. I think you'd find them useful."

Becca just smiles, pretending she doesn't find the idea ridiculous.

Stanford Residence

100 Lakeview

PROMUSICA: Hey. What R U up to?

He smiles a little. Julie Fiore had taken his email address in class this morning, but Jason never expected that she'd really write. Of course, they're both fugitives from Skyfalls High, stuck in the unfriendly territory of the Arleigh Academy. Probably she needs an ally almost as much as he does. Leaning over his keyboard, Jason types a quick casual response.

CICERO_7: Hey Julie. Nothing much. What are you doing?

PROMUSICA: Trying to get some info for my English paper. I’m not having much luck.

CICERO_7: Try Google search engine.

PROMUSICA: I have but thanks. I was assigned the suckiest topic. Renaissance lit, big thrill. Do you have to do a paper too?

CICERO_7: Yeah, but we get to choose our own topic. It’s not due yet though.

PROMUSICA: Doesn’t hurt to get a head start. How do u like Arleigh so far?

CICERO_7: I don’t.

PROMUSICA: Why not?

CICERO_7: The kids mostly. Rich snobs.

PROMUSICA: Thanks a lot. I’m not rich and I’m not a snob.

CICERO_7: I know that!! I’m not talking about you. We’re the same. You come from SFH too.

PROMUSICA: Yeah, I know what u mean, only teasing J. I don’t think it’s so bad, actually. Except for having some really bad chairs, LOL.

Grimacing at her reference to the incident in Social Studies this morning, Jason tries to think of a comeback. But all he can do is imagine for the fiftieth time today what a loser he must have looked like, falling right out of his chair in front of the whole class like the awkward geek that he is. Even Mr. Prasad had joked at his expense...

His hesitation gives Julie enough time to write again, apparently understanding how he must feel.

PROMUSICA: U shouldn't be embarrassed. I felt sorry for u but it was kind of funny. Could happen to anyone. Prasad shouldn't have made a big deal about it.

CICERO_7: I suppose.

PROMUSICA: What really happened with all that? 1 minute u were there, the next u were on the floor.

CICERO_7: It wasn't my fault. It was that girl who sits behind me. Becca Nichols.

PROMUSICA: LOL, what do u mean?

CICERO_7: She blew on my neck and I wasn't expecting it. I was leaning over anyway to see what you were writing, and when she did that I just fell over.

PROMUSICA: She blew on your neck???? OMG, gross!

Jason thinks back, remembering Becca's expression when he'd spun around to glare at her. He was all angry and annoyed, sure she was just trying to make fun of him and cause trouble. But then he saw her smile. It was teasing, but ... in a way that was very different from the mockery of the other kids.

He didn’t smile at her then, but he now wishes he had. Despite the embarrassment, despite the laughter of the other students around him, he should have been cooler about the whole thing.

When he closes his eyes, he can still feel of the wisp of air on the nape of his neck. He even remembers smelling the faintest hint of spearmint from Becca's gum.

No, he definitely wouldn’t describe what Becca did as gross.

CICERO_7: Her way of saying hi I guess.

PROMUSICA: Whatever works. I guess it was my fault also, writing notes 2 u like that. Sorry! I thought Mr. P was going to toss u out of class.

CICERO_7: Me too.

PROMUSICA: But anyway, I think Arleigh is a good school. I’m finally getting some space. Plus I want to audition for the orchestra. It's supposed to be gr8. So r u going out for some after school stuff?

CICERO_7: Nah, probably not. You’re the first SFH person I heard say they like it.

PROMUSICA: If it was the crummiest school, I’d still probably like it. I'm finally my own person. At SFH it was Tony this, Tony that. & I work with my family everyday in our family’s restaurant. We’re *always* together. At Arleigh, it’s just me, and I like it.

CICERO_7: Tony?

PROMUSICA: Sorry, Tony’s my brother. I introduced u guys at the opera, remember? There’s also Mike, Tom and Victor. I’m the youngest.

CICERO_7: Oh yeah sorry. But I didn’t know your brother went to SFH too.

PROMUSICA: Not anymore. Tony graduated 2 years back. But they all went there & I always heard about them from my teachers. & they're always in my face at home & at work. I love them but it gets really crowded, u know? No privacy or space what.ever. U must know what it's like, w/Chelsea and Tyler.

PROMUSICA: Hey. U still there?

CICERO_7: Yeah, I’m here.

PROMUSICA: Sorry if I went on 2 much. I'm probably boring u.

CICERO_7: No!! Sorry. I was just thinking how different we are, that’s all.

PROMUSICA: I don’t think so. How different can 2 geeks with latin screen names be?

Jason grins. Before he can respond, he hears his mother call from the bottom of the stairs.

"Jason honey, I’m on my way out to the Park Conservancy meeting. I shouldn’t be long. I left dinner for you -- please try to eat before it gets too cold."

"Okay Mom."

He stares at the keyboard, the smile fading from his face. His father's at the hospital, Tyler's probably somewhere with Daphne. And that leaves Jason all alone. "As usual," he mutters.

Suddenly Jason doesn’t feel like comparing families with Julie, or continuing their conversation. After writing a quick "gotta go" message, Jason closes the IM session before Julie can respond. Instead of going down to eat the solitary dinner Cynthia left for him, Jason moves over to lie on his bed, returning his attention to the dust particles dancing in the sun’s refractive rays.

OmniCorp

Bertram Brooke shuts the door to Olivia's office behind Jem's departing figure as Ronald Granger approaches Olivia. "Odd seeing Mr. Van Doren here," Ronald says, his deep voice inflected with curiosity. "I wasn't aware you were on good terms with him."

"I'm not." Olivia gives him a crooked smile. "Why should I be any different from anyone else in this town?"

Bertram moves to sit in the chair vacated by Jem. "Then what was that tabloid purveyor doing here? I know the paper is doing badly, but surely he doesn't need to sell subscriptions door-to-door yet."

"Frankly I don't know what he thought he was doing here. But I must say, I'm surprised you don't like him." Olivia absently rubs her wrist under the pretense of adjusting her watchband. "He seems right up your alley. All smarm and no charm."

"Livvy, please. I know you like to tease me, but lumping me in with someone of that ilk is really too much."

Ronald, never pleased by the tension between Olivia and Bertram, sighs quietly. "I must agree with Bertram. I'm sympathetic about the paper's current situation, but even before the fire, he'd ruined the Record. It used to be one of this city's finest institutions. Now ... it's a shadow of itself."

"And you can say the same of his family name. Van Doren used to be Schuyler Falls' most respected name."

Olivia leans against her desk and folds her arms across her chest. "Interestingly enough, we were just talking about something along those lines. But you're rather harsh on him, Bertram. He is something of a relative of yours."

"Oh, please. The man's no more related to me than you are." Bertram grins. "Although I'd rather have you associated with me than Jeremiah."

"Speaking of associations ... " Olivia directs her words to Ronald. "He thinks the newspaper would be a valuable investment property for Omni."

Ronald frowns, taking a seat beside Bertram. "That's ridiculous. I'd say just the opposite."

"Absolutely," Bertram agrees. "The Record would be a millstone around our necks."

Olivia ignores him, not pleased that he's echoing her own thoughts so closely. She maintains her focus on her longtime adviser. "Elaborate please, Ron. Why are you against the idea?"

"Because that newspaper's a money vacuum. Rumor has it that Van Doren done everything to earn money off the Record except hawking it on an infomercial -- and even that's probably not beyond the man. Unfortunately, it's all been to no avail."

Bertram smiles. "Rather sad, really. But Olivia, you can't seriously be considering taking him up on his offer, can you? I hardly think you'd want to waste time on a dying breed such as a weekly print newspaper, considering the torture it was to get you to agree on my Aventura project."

My Aventura project. The phrase makes Olivia blink irritably. "OmniCorp's project, you mean."

"Of course! I'm sorry, I do still think of it as my little baby, but you're right, I can't take all the credit."

Ronald looks askance at his protege, but then returns his gaze to Olivia. "Yes. Well, at any rate, maybe we should get started? We do need to come to a decision on a few of the FireSparks team's design ideas..."

As Olivia returns to her own chair, she tightens her lips in annoyance at Bertram's dismissive behavior and Ronald's dire warnings. Despite herself, she mulls over Jem's words. Setting aside the incredibly stupid way he brought the proposal to her, maybe there's some merit to be found in his idea after all.

Moonlight Bay Nightclub

First Street and Mason

(Alley)

Mike and Martina embrace for several moments, the warmth of their kisses shielding them from the cold raindrops and wind. Finally Martina speaks again.

"Mike ... " she whispers against his lips. "You know what I suddenly want to do most of all?"

He chuckles deep in his throat and casts a quick glance down the street in the direction of the alley and his fellow police officers. "Mmm, I'd love to hear it, but remember I'm still on duty."

"I want," she says, in between small teasing kisses. "...To go..." She lets her tongue brush his lower lip. "... And buy us a new sofa."

Laughing, Mike pushes her away. She grins crookedly at him, hooking her arms around his neck. "Why, what's wrong, sir? What did you think I was talking about?"

"Man, I should've known. When in doubt, you celebrate by going shopping."

"You had a better plan?"

"Oh, I can think of a few different ways." He raises his eyebrows in a poor Groucho imitation, making Martina laugh. "Actually," he adds suddenly, "there is something I wasn't gonna mention, but now that things have changed ..."

"What?"

"Well, there's this big law enforcement benefit dinner down in the City, and the DA's office really wants someone from the department to show up. Cahill's still on his vacation, and Frank's not gonna trek down there with his leg still healing ... so Mitchell and Granger have been on me to make the trip."

Martina tilts her head, curious. "So why didn't you say yes? You love New York."

"Sure, but there's no way I was going anywhere, not with that bastard on the loose. Now ... maybe you and I could go take Manhattan? Spend the night, do some touristy things?"

"I'd love to. It sounds amazing. When?"

"Tomorrow night."

Her face falling, Martina hesitates before responding. "I don't ... I don't think so. I'm not sure I'm up for something like that this soon... this whole thing's exhausted me. Plus, there's work--"

"Yeah, you're right. I'm sorry, it's not a big deal. I wouldn't have brought it up if Mitchell wasn't being such an ass about showing a united front." Mike shakes his head, dismissing the District Attorney's office for more pleasant thoughts. "How about, Plan B will be you and me, romping on our brand new mattress. Or our new sofa, if you insist on it."

"Well, we need a new sofa, don't we? I mean, we could get the old one reupholstered, but I'd really rather get rid of every sign that that man was ever in our house." Martina grimaces at the memory of seeing her favorite piece of furniture slashed by Henderson's knife. "And honestly, shopping does relax me."

"Fine. You go get whatever sofa you want. Just make sure it's something comfortable for Sunday football. And no flowers."

"Don't worry, I'm into Feng Shui these days. Clean lines, no fuss." Exhaling, Martina loses a little of her forced good humor. She looks back towards the alley. "I wonder if ... Do you think we'll be able to get some of our things back?"

Mike squeezes her shoulders. "Hopefully. Not some of the electronics -- they were probably fenced God only knows where. But for the things he pawned, we could get lucky."

Trying to recover her relief over the ending of this week-long ordeal, Martina kisses him goodbye and opens her car door. "Well, one thing I promise you, Detective. Tonight, rain or shine, we'll both be getting very lucky."

As she starts the engine, Martina enjoys Mike's expression of wicked delight. His handsome image stays with her while driving away, successfully crowding out the horrifying vision of Rick Henderson's swollen, blackened face. Time to forget it all, she promises herself.

Cameron and Danielle Nichols' Residence

High Meadow

East Cornwall, NY

Inside the large library, which Adele Nichols has always used as an office whenever she's in town, the fire in the stone hearth crackles invitingly, brightening up the dark wood paneling and the chairs' deep, jewel-toned upholstery.

It's all for naught, however, because Adele herself sees none of it. The gleam in her topaz colored eyes is directed solely at some papers in front of her on the desk. Only the buzz of the phone nearby interrupts her concentration.

"Yes?"

The voice of the Nichols' butler murmurs in her ear. "Mr. Pierce for you, Mrs. Nichols."

"Thank you, Randall." Adele replaces the cap of her gold fountain pen, screwing it in place carefully. "Put him through."

After a couple of seconds, Edward Pierce greets her in his low, unhurried tone. "How are you today, Mrs. Nichols?"

"Very good, at least so far. I'll know more once you report."

"Of course. After the successful exchange, the package was turned over as expected early this morning, and as of an hour ago our official friends were brought in."

Adele purses her lips irritably. She appreciates the man's natural discretion, but the tendency for him to play up the cloak and dagger aspects of his work only wastes time. "For heaven's sake, Edward, we're on a secure line. You may dispense with the obfuscation."

"Certainly, Mrs. Nichols." Edward's been her associate for six years now but has never dared call her by her first name. He pauses before continuing. "Henderson gave us what he had, and was paid accordingly before leaving the meeting place."

"Which was in Schuyler Falls, presumably."

"Yes, of course. I've made certain that Henderson has never been anywhere near Cornwall. At any rate, a couple of our men followed him into an alley and took care of finishing the job. The police were called in an hour ago, and will determine that his death was the result of a drug overdose. Heroin," Edward adds.

Smiling, Adele sets the pen down on the desk. "You needn't go into that much detail. But thank you for your thorough job in this matter. I like a man who cleans up after himself."

"Er ... yes, you're welcome, Mrs. Nichols. But we still have no idea where the necklace is."

"I know." Her smile disappears. "You don't need to remind me. I cannot fathom how it continues to elude us, despite your having searched that woman's pathetic little house from top to bottom--" She interrupts herself with a sigh. "Tell me, is there any chance that Henderson himself took it?"

"Our men were over him the minute he got out on bail, and his apartment too. No."

"Then perhaps one of your men? It does have a value of its own, and perhaps one of them slipped it into his pocket --"

"Mrs. Nichols, if I thought I'd hired men like that, I would quit your employment at once." Edward sounds as distressed as if she'd accused him of stealing the necklace himself. "They know how to behave. These are professionals."

"More professional than Henderson?"

"Of course."

"And the man who contracted the job to the late Mr. Henderson in the first place? I believe Bishop was his name." Adele waits a moment. "Well, Edward? "

"Yes, Mrs. Nichols ... It's just that Allen Bishop is an acquaintance of mine -- almost a friend, and he's married with--"

"Friends are sometimes a luxury one can't afford." She hardens her voice. "And his family is none of my affair. He made his choice when he accepted the job. And performed it so shabbily."

Edward doesn't skip a beat. "Yes. I understand. Do you have any further instructions regarding the necklace?"

"The wretched thing can't have vanished into thin air. Ms. Rosenoff must have been wearing it the day her house was searched." Adele flicks her gaze at the letter opener at the edge of her leather desk blotter. "We need to avoid such bad fortune in the future. I suggest a two-pronged approach -- one on her house, another on her."

"She's living with a policeman. It's not going to be easy ... but of course, it'll be taken care of."

"Excellent, I know it will." Adele smiles, but the expression is somehow wary. Something's disturbed her about Edward's tone throughout the phone call, and she now realizes there's more that her associate hasn't shared with her. "You haven't finished this report, have you."

"No, Mrs. Nichols."

"Then continue. Since you're delaying it, I suppose it's bad news."

"Yes, it could be." The younger man hesitates. "It puts a time constraint on us that previously didn't exist."

"Go on."

"Someone else is honing in on the necklace. Another interested party."

"I know that already. That's precisely why I've been trying to--"

"But I think they're closing in on the target."

A frown mars Adele's smooth brow. "What makes you say that?"

"Because they've sent someone to Schuyler Falls. I'm not sure who it is, but my sources tell me the person's not to be underestimated."

"Indeed." Adele brushes her perfectly manicured fingertips atop the cold, smooth metal of the letter opener. "Fortunately, neither are we."

Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Dr. Arleen Starr's Office

Fourth Floor

Beth can only stare at the older woman in front of her, lungs frozen in the act of taking a breath. She finally shakes her head, slowly at first and then more vigorously. "You're wrong," she says when able to collect her thoughts. "I can't be pregnant."

Dr. Starr returns her shocked look with sympathy. "Were you using contraceptives? Even the most effective contraceptives have a potential for failure--"

"No!" Beth pushes herself up from the chair, almost laughing with disbelief at the doctor's misunderstanding. "It has nothing to do with that!"

"Ms. Durand, please calm down."

"How can I? You don't get it, I cannot be pregnant."

With blue eyes peering at Beth, Dr. Starr leans forward, obviously trying to comprehend Beth's words. "You mean ... you don't wish to go through with the pregnancy? Because of course, there are options available to you, although I'd certainly recommend talking to--"

"Why aren't you listening to me?" Beth puts her hands against her temples, trying to cram down the growing pressure. "There's no pregnancy to go through with. It's not possible! It's just not physically possible!"

"Why do you say that? Have you been told before that you couldn't conceive? The examination didn't indicate--"

"What? No!"

"Then perhaps your partner...?"

"Partner?" Beth spins around, hands gripping the back of the chair. "There is no partner! That's what I'm telling you, I haven't -- " She feels her throat close up with embarrassment and anger, unable to continue. "Please," she says hoarsely. "Please, run the tests again."

Dr. Starr stands up. "I'm sorry, Ms. Durand, there's no need. I told you, the tests are conclusive. Now please, clearly this is difficult for you, but we have to discuss the real risks of APS on your pregnancy."

Throughout her life, Beth's gotten used to hearing alternate versions of reality. Hundreds, maybe thousands of times, people have tried to convince her of things she's done, things she's said, that she doesn't remember. She's found it easy to believe some of these claims, knowing that her memory has never been trustworthy. But even when she doesn't believe them -- when someone has tried to convince her of something she knows is a lie -- Beth hasn't fought back. Fighting only makes people angrier with her. And it could result in people realizing how scattered her own mind really is.

But now ... she can't do it any longer. She can't accept this. She's being manipulated by someone, by all these people, and she can't swallow it anymore.

Beth takes a step backwards, hugging herself. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I'm not doing anything to you. I'm just trying to help."

"You can't help me by lying. I know for a fact that you're lying!" Beth tries not to sob. "I'm going to get a second opinion. They'll prove that you're wrong."

"You can get any opinion you like, of course." Dr. Starr's voice is low, and she moves over to pacify Beth. "I assure you I am not lying, but you should do what you feel is necessary. I wish you'd sit down and stay calm. It's really not good for you--"

"Stop!" Beth jerks away from the doctor's outstretched hand. "Let me go! I'm leaving!"

"Ms. Durand, that would be a mistake, at least before hearing me out. You're putting yourself in danger. The combination of pregnancy and the APS puts you at increased risk for stroke and hypertension, and there's a very high possibility of miscarriage. Both you and your baby could die if this isn't treated early. Is that what you want?"

This freezes Beth's actions, and she stares at the floor. "There is no baby," she whispers. "This isn't true. It's just not true."

After a few seconds, Dr. Starr pulls the chair closer to Beth. "Please sit down again, just for a little while longer? I think -- I think perhaps it would be best to call in another doctor."

Beth closes her eyes, relief almost making her dizzy. She moves around and sinks heavily into the cushioned seat.

Dr. Starr, meanwhile, picks up her phone and looks through an office directory. Rifling through the pages, she makes a satisfied nod and dials the extension. "Yes, this is Dr. Starr, in Obstetrics? I have a patient down here whom I believe needs an examination... I think it's urgent, actually. She's right in my office, so I'd rather not -- yes, exactly. Room 415."

Barely hearing all this through the haze of confusion, Beth clutches her cold hands together. At last she hears the doctor hanging up the phone, and she returns her attention to the older woman.

"Doctor, I -- I'm sorry to cause trouble," she says weakly. "I really am. But I know this is a mistake. I haven't been with anyone for years, not since I've been in Schuyler Falls."

"I see." Dr. Starr clears her throat. "That would explain your certainty. Well, if you don't mind, could you sit in the exam area until my colleague arrives? I'll just write up my notes and then we'll be in to discuss things together. All right?"

"Yes. A-all right. Thank you for being so understanding, Doctor."

Taking her coat and purse, Beth follows Dr. Starr out to the examination room next to the doctor's office. Smiling reassuredly, Dr. Starr guides Beth over to a chair.

"Shouldn't be more than a few minutes, okay? Dr. Behar should be right down."

Beth nods, still nervous and foggy, and watches the doctor leave. But as the door shuts lightly behind her, the words she's just spoken suddenly crash in Beth's mind.

Chelsea's mentioned a Dr. Behar. She works with him, deals with him as a volunteer.

He's a psychiatrist. Not an obstetrician, not a gynecologist. A psychiatrist.

Horrified, Beth feels as if a trap door has fallen out from beneath her. Dr. Starr doesn't believe her after all. Another manipulative lie.

That bitch, a harsh voice in Beth's mind spits out. That rotten evil bitch! She thinks you're crazy!

The unleashed fury in the tone frightens her nearly as much as the prospect of being interrogated by a psychiatrist, and Beth remains paralyzed in shock. But the anger and desire to flee finally break loose, and Bitsy takes control at last.

Dragging herself up, Bitsy curses under her breath and heads out the secondary exit to the corridor. By the time Dr. Starr and her friend arrive, Bitsy plans on being long gone.

"Gotta get out," she chants inwardly, mulling over the situation as reported by Dr. Starr. Unlike Beth, she believes the old woman doctor. Bitsy knows exactly what Amanda and Samantha have been doing, and she knows that that's what causes babies.

"But I won't do it!" Bitsy shakes her head and stabs a finger at the elevator button. "I'm not getting fat and ugly and having all that pain!"

When the elevator arrives, the young girl in a woman's body pushes her way through the crowd and huddles in a corner, trying to think of a way she can fix things once and for all.