1. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Fifth Floor

Greg White pushes the file cabinet drawer shut, shaking his head irritably. "I don't believe this," he mutters with a vaguely betrayed glare at the label at the front of the cabinet. "What the hell's going on?"

The busy staffers on the hospital's fifth floor generally ignore him, except for one of the nurses passing by. "Is there a problem, doctor?"

"Yes, there's a problem." Frustration kills Greg's friendly demeanor, which is usually at the forefront whenever he speaks to a member of the opposite sex. The tall, dark-haired man puts his hands on his hips and glares at the floor. "Not a single file is where it should be. Apparently there's been some kind of purge of just about every case I've ever touched."

"I doubt it's a conspiracy against you. Don't take it so personally."

Frowning, Greg looks at the nurse for the first time. He softens his expression when he realizes this is a relatively new colleague, which means that she's just teasing him -- not holding a grudge for some past bad behavior on his part. "Hard not to believe in a conspiracy, when the whole world's plotting against me."

The young woman smiles at his mild joke, stepping a little closer to him. "That may be, but in this case, you're just a side effect of that big reorganization that's going on."

"What reorganization?"

"Didn't you hear? Some management consultant's been sniffing around, looking to cut expenses and probably fire half the staff." She pushes a hand into his shoulder. "You wouldn't have anything to worry about. It's only us menials who need to start brushing up our resumes."

He raises an eyebrow, amused. Apparently this newcomer knows his reputation -- Greg doubts she'd be this touchy-feely with every doctor. But though he grins automatically at the playful contact, he can't help but be a little concerned by her words. "I didn't hear anything about a management consultant. Strange that he's pulled all my case files, isn't it?"

"There's that paranoia again. I'm sure they're looking at everyone's caseload. And it's a she, by the way."

"Huh?"

"The consultant. She's a woman."

"Well, whatever, it doesn't really matter. I'm still curious about--"

"Doesn't really matter?" The nurse winks at him. "I've heard about you, Dr. White. I'm sure you can charm the socks off of her. Maybe she'll even raise your, uh, salary."

For once the innuendo doesn't make Greg smile, and he gives the nurse a brief excuse before leaving her side and shoving open the door to the stairwell.

While heading down two flights to see his brother, Greg knows he should be focusing on the procedure Doug's about to undergo. But he can't help mulling over the information he's just received. What exactly is this management consultant after? Are only his files missing?

Nervousness starts to twist in his stomach. Greg can think of several incidents that would be of great interest to someone snooping around in his past ... if they were misconstrued, of course. And if the chief of staff himself were to hear about them, the incidents almost certainly would be misconstrued...

As he walks down the hallway, Greg's thoughts are halted abruptly at the sight of Chelsea Stanford, her body shoved against the wall near the elevator banks as Jem Van Doren descends upon her with a forceful kiss.

Before he has time to understand his own dismay at this pairing, Greg feels some relief when Chelsea pushes Jem away and slams her hand across the older man's face.

"Get off me!" she cries hoarsely. "Get out of here before I call security!"

Greg's anxiety merges with his already simmering anger towards Jem -- the man he suspects is responsible for the accident that nearly caused his brother's death. The combined emotions create a rush of righteous indignation that's almost overwhelming, and he launches himself forward at once. In four long strides he reaches his target.

Grabbing Jem's coat, Greg jerks him away from Chelsea and into the wall. "All right, Van Doren -- just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

2. Boondoggles

Franklin Avenue and Mason Street

Tristan Campbell inhales the scent of newly cut wood, planks of which are piled near the fireplace in stacks that reach nearly to his waist. He absently taps the wood with his fingers, taking a moment near the end of the day to examine the fruits of other men's hard labor.

The restaurant formerly known as Boondoggles is unrecognizable as the cozy jazz club where customers once relaxed amid dark wooden paneling that gleamed in the warmth of candle- and firelight. For Tristan, this is not a bad thing. Boondoggles ended years ago when Camilla O'Brien breathed her last on the floor nearby. So he's thrilled to leave it all behind, and to see the brand new look rising from the ashes of his former business.

The design is an intriguing combination of art deco and techno; everything is sleek, smooth platinum and curving walls. Best of all, it's extremely flexible, appropriate for the business plan that includes both a daytime Web-enabled cafe and a nightclub. Flipping a few switches on the just-installed lighting board can change the atmosphere from a bright, sparkling hangout to a dance club bathed in darkness but shimmering with hints of silver light.

Having just displayed this bit of technology to the older woman standing in front of him, Tristan waits for her to finish admiring the surroundings. Finally she turns around, her short, neat blonde hair reflecting some of the overhead worklights, and he continues to smile at her. "Well? What do you think?"

Susan Morris, his former executive assistant from OmniCorp, returns his pleased expression. "You've done wonders with the place. Not that I disliked Boondoggles before, mind you. But the difference between the two is like night and day. I think that's exactly what you wanted, isn't it? To make a statement?"

"You know me pretty well." Tristan gestures towards the upstairs area. "Want to see the rest?"

She makes a regretful face. "I'd love to, and it's been nice catching up with you, but I have to get going. Dinner won't cook itself, and God forbid my kids should turn on a microwave by themselves."

"Wait, I thought your husband was the chef in your family?"

"Andy just doesn't have time these days. He's been working extra shifts at the plant ever since...well, everything."

Tristan sighs. "I'm sorry, Susan. This should never have happened. I really hate to think that my leaving Omni led to your losing your job."

Nodding, Susan readjusts the strap of her pocketbook. "It was inevitable, Tris. Once you were gone, Olivia probably looked on me as part of the old regime. The whole time, I knew my days there were numbered, but I just ... I didn't think it would be quite so soon."

Tristan shakes his head in annoyance, although part of him is glad for the opportunity to segue into the purpose of today's little tour. "So she rewarded your years of loyalty to OmniCorp by using up your knowledge and handing you your walking papers. I suppose she gave you no real notice? And that she had security escort you out?"

"That was almost the worst part. Leaving in front of everyone with a guard at my side, as if I'd done something wrong--"

"This had nothing to do with what you did or didn't do. It's just standard procedure when someone's let go."

"It wasn't standard procedure, not when you were there," Susan says sharply. Then she exhales, continuing with less stress in her voice. "Well, at least she gave me the severance I was due. That'll provide a buffer for a little while."

Tristan can see the concern flickering in her gaze. "You'll find something. With your experience? My God, you outlasted three CEOs at Omni."

"Four, if you include Ronald's tenure during your trial."

"Right." Tristan gives her a tight smile. "But you see my point. Any smart company would leap at the chance--"

"Oh, sure. Hiring a woman in her fifties? Tristan, you're a sweet man but you've never had to look for a job in your life." Susan's words are matter-of-fact, not unkind. "You know who Olivia hired in my place? A kid half my age with an MBA from Wharton."

Tristan doesn't respond, waiting for the right time to make his suggestion. Susan continues, jerking her hands into a pair of brown gloves. "Not that an MBA will help him handle eighty phone calls an hour, make sure Olivia's schedule is appropriately juggled, or do the thousands of other things a professional assistant needs to do. But degrees and pedigrees are all that matters these days. Frankly I was lucky to get a job even fifteen years ago. I had next to no experience, practically just walked in off the street--"

"It wasn't luck. Abraham knew exactly what he was doing. I'm sure he hired you because he could see that you were smart, good with numbers, excellent with people and had a sense of humor."

"Thanks. But Abraham, God bless him, was a man from a different era. People don't hire like that any more."

She turns away, intending to leave, but Tristan touches her coat sleeve. "You're wrong," he says quietly. "I hire like that. I need an assistant here, and I'd be thrilled to work with you again ... if you're interested."

3. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Doug White's Room

Daphne White clutches the curved edge of the bed rail, the metal making her fingers even colder than they already are. The young woman stares not at her father, but at Dr. Dalit Avigad standing on the other side of the bed.

"You're sure this is really okay," she asks for the third time. "It's not gonna cause any... any damage or anything?"

"There might be some, Daphne. I've told you there's always a risk with injuries as extensive as your father's. But nevertheless, this is the right thing to do. We'll be watching very carefully to make sure this goes as smoothly as possible, under the circumstances."

As the doctor patiently explains the procedure yet again, Doug White's eyes glance over to Daphne. Despite their redness and the glaze of exhaustion that covers them, his expression is one of amusement. Of course, he can't tell her what he's feeling -- not yet, not with the tube down his throat. But Daphne can guess why he seems to find her question funny. In a way, it is pretty ironic. Until his accident, she'd never have expressed concern like this about him. She never felt any concern about him.

Rena Carlson, who's there both as Greg's friend and as an assistant to Dr. Avigad, squeezes Daphne's hand as she passes by. "We have to wean him off the respirator, Daph," she says reassuringly. "His lungs have to get stronger on their own. And now you'll get to hear him talk for himself at last. Won't that be great? I'm sure he'll be relieved."

"Yeah, he's not used to keeping his mouth shut this long," Daphne mutters before realizing she's said the words aloud. Embarrassed, she looks at her father's face, but Doug doesn't seem to take offense. Which is another sign that things have changed in their small family. So now bad things bring us together, Daphne thinks, confused and bitter despite her worries. Too bad we didn't learn that lesson before. Losing Mom and Hope wasn't enough?

Her thoughts die away as the doctor starts slowly removing the surgical tape binding the tube to Doug's mouth. "All right, Doug," Dr. Avigad murmurs, taking hold of the head of the tube. "You know how this works. I need you to--"

"Wait!" Daphne leans forward. "Greg -- my uncle isn't here yet."

Dr. Avigad shakes her head. "I'm sorry, my schedule is very tight, and I can't wait for him any longer."

Daphne's anxious gaze meets Rena's, and the nurse gives her a fleeting understanding smile. "He'd be here if he could, Daphne," she says firmly. "He must be with a patient. I know he wanted to be here with you guys."

Sighing, Daphne remains silent as the doctor starts her work once more. "Okay, Doug, please take as deep a breath as you can -- don't strain too much, though. And on my mark, I want you to exhale. This is going to hurt, and you may gag a bit, but it'll only be for a couple of seconds. Are you ready?"

Doug nods slightly, and Daphne braces herself. Though she knows it's better for her dad to be breathing on his own, she's gotten used to the mechanical efficiency and reliability of the respirator. She just doesn't trust his smoke-damaged, rib-pierced lungs to do their job.

Before she realizes it, the doctor gives the command, and with a horrible sucking sound the tube is pulled from Doug's throat. Her grip on the bedframe tightens as the doctor and Rena work with Doug to make sure everything is all right, that he can actually use his lungs. At last, they back away, and for the first time in what feels like ages, Daphne looks at her father's face without any medical equipment blocking her view.

Their eyes meet, and Doug makes a weak attempt at a smile. As if sensing his intentions, both Rena and Dr. Avigad simultaneously order Doug not to say anything. But he ignores them, croaking out a barely audible, "Hey, sweetheart."

"Hey," Daphne echoes, her vision cloudy with unshed tears. She reaches out to him, cradling his hand in her own. "Hey, Dad."

Dr. Avigad again warns Doug not to speak, explaining that it'll take some time for the swelling in his throat to go down. Daphne pays no attention to the flurry of activity surrounding them, instead looking at Doug as if memorizing his features.

"You're gonna be okay now," she says after a moment, realizing at last that she should probably say something encouraging. "Isn't -- isn't that right, Rena? Now that the tube's out, and he's breathing without any help?"

"It's certainly a good sign. Listen to her, Doug." Rena gently touches her patient's arm. "You're very strong. You've done an amazing job in fighting to get better."

Rena's tone seems genuine, which makes Daphne blink with surprise -- it's the first time she's heard anyone other than her mom express sincere admiration for him.

The surprise is compounded when another voice, this one deep and male, chimes in. "Doug's more of a fighter than anyone's given him credit for."

Daphne turns, seeing the vaguely familiar face of an older man, with curly graying hair, a rocklike jaw and a square, weathered face. He smiles down at her briefly. "You probably don't remember me, but we met the night of the opera. I'm John. A friend of your dad's."

"You're his sponsor," she says, suddenly remembering. Then she flushes, wondering if she's supposed to reveal something like that.

But he just nods, looking down at Doug with friendly concern. "Sorry I'm late, Doug. Didn't mean to miss the big unveiling. Well, you still look like crap, but a damn sight better than you did even just a day ago."

"Still look better than you," Doug whispers with a tired grin.

Daphne feels as if she's in the hospital room of a stranger. She watches the men clasp hands, again taken aback by a display of obvious affection for her father. And though saddened by the thought that she's lived seventeen years without ever seeing anyone actually care about her dad -- she's also filled with a new unaccustomed pride.

For the first time, optimism for the future of her family suddenly flickers in Daphne's breast. Maybe he really has changed. Maybe they can work things out, and maybe ... just maybe, they'll be able to get back the tiny lost piece of the White family -- her baby sister Hope.

4. Nick and Hannah Nichols' Residence

East Cornwall, NY

After passing through the warm, wood-paneled corridor of his uncle and aunt's home, Ian Nichols enters the den, leaning over automatically to kiss the woman waiting for him before sitting in the sofa nearby and removing his leather gloves. "Hi, Aunt Hannah. How are you doing?"

"I'm all right, thanks." With a nod, Hannah Nichols moves her chair so that she faces Ian more directly. Her complexion seems paler than usual above her dark gray sweater, a funereal shade that Ian realizes he's never seen her wear before. Somehow this only adds to his impression that the conversation isn't going to be a pleasant one.

Not that this comes as a surprise. He's been filled with dread since receiving her unusual phone call requesting a visit.

Hannah continues. "I'm glad you could come on such short notice, Ian. I didn't mean to interrupt your work."

"No problem. I was heading out of the office anyway." Ian reaches over to the sleeping figure of Hope, who's nestled in a bassinet on the overstuffed chair nearby. He greets her by touching her soft pudgy cheek before adding, "I have some things to take care of in Schuyler Falls."

Hannah's green eyes sharpen. "Schuyler Falls? Does it have to do with your girlfriend? She lives there, doesn't she?"

"Yes, but this was a work thing. A new nightclub..." Ian doesn't elaborate, knowing that she's not really interested. Her question was pregnant with meaning that he wishes he didn't understand.

He looks down and distractedly slaps his gloves against the palm of his hand. "So, Aunt Hannah, why did you want to see me?"

She seems nervous as well. Her fingers pluck at the material of her gray wool slacks. "I need to talk to you. I've been putting it off for a while, but I can't anymore. It's driving me nuts, worrying and obsessing... " Hannah suddenly changes direction, surprising him. "You know I love you, don't you honey?"

"Uh ... of course I do."

"I mean, I haven't been part of the family forever, but after eight years I feel very close to you. I feel that way towards your brother and sister too, but with you especially. I guess it's because you're older." Shaking her head in mute apology for the rambling, Hannah starts over. "I'm just trying to tell you that I wouldn't want to hurt you for anything."

Ian feels like dirt. "I know that. You don't have it in you to hurt anyone."

"Anyone can hurt anyone, Ian. Don't put me on a pedestal. I'll only get black and blue when I fall off." She smiles crookedly, but only for a second. Then her face returns to its sober expression. "I'm sorry, Ian, but I -- I need to talk to you about Daphne."

He swallows before replying. "I thought that might be it," he says softly. "The way you were asking about her last week, about her background, how much I care about her... you've never given me the third degree about my girlfriends before." That's right, coward, Ian thinks angrily once the words escape his lips. Drag it out of her slowly. Christ, I'm as big a sadist as Danny.

Hannah sighs. "I wimped out that day. I'm sorry for doing it. I should have either kept my mouth shut or gone through with it. But when you said how deep your feelings were for her, I couldn't ... I guess I just wanted to put off the whole conversation, I'm sorry."

"Please don't apologize. Just ... what did you want to tell me?"

With another tight nod, his aunt glances towards the baby beside her. "It has to do with Hope."

The words hang in the air for a moment as Ian digests them. Still hoping to postpone the inevitable, he frowns with false confusion. "I thought you said it was about Daphne."

"I did. Please, let me just go on before I wimp out again!" Hannah gnaws at her lower lip before continuing. "Okay. Ian, the night of the opera, when I met her ... well, even then I wasn't sure, because she looked so different, but the more I think about it ... God, I wish I could think of a better way to put this. " Poor Hannah looks embarrassed, and finally she takes a deep breath. "I think -- I'm almost sure -- that Daphne was the girl who kidnapped Hope."

So there it is, at last. It's out. He's anticipated this conversation ever since he made his hasty decision to help Daphne escape capture by his uncle's men. Choosing to betray his family for the second time in his life. Just as with his first betrayal, Ian's told so many lies to hide his involvement -- well, the same lie, but over and over again -- that it would seem there's only one path to take now. Continue the sham for as long as possible.

But as he stares into Hannah's distressed face, her gaze full of sorrow at having to share this news with him, Ian realizes he can't do it anymore.

"You're right," he says, breathing out heavily as he releases the secret at last. "She did."

5. Schuyler Falls Police Department

Sergeant Frank Gabriel leans against his desk, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone while examining the flimsy piece of fax paper in his hand. "I'm not trying to argue with you, Inspector," he mutters, finally dropping the document onto his desk. "You're the expert, not me. All I know is that fires don't start themselves. And this one ... "

After a moment he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I read your fax. And I -- yeah, I know what 'of indeterminate origin' means, thanks," Frank says dryly. "But a pro arsonist would know how to make things look like -- okay. Fine. If you have a problem with questions like this, Inspector, I -- yeah, same to you."

He hangs up the phone, barely managing from slamming it down. "Lazy son of a bitch."

Across from him at the adjoining desk, Detective Mike Fiore is still on the phone, and having just as bad a conversation. Frank can hear Mike's annoyed tone as he speaks with the district attorney's office, and it sounds like he's not getting anywhere in his argument.

"Yo, Gabe," Bill Howard's voice echoes across the office. The young officer jogs up from the stairwell, heading straight for the coffee machine. "Smitty told me to let you know you've got a visitor. That Granger woman. You available?"

"Great. The cap on my day." Frank runs his hand over his eyes. "Yeah, could you ask him to send her up? Give me a minute though, okay?"

Bill nods and pours some stale coffee before heading back downstairs. Meanwhile, Frank closes his file folder, glancing over at Mike as his friend replaces the receiver. "Well?"

Mike shrugs, displaying admirable calm under the circumstances. "Guess I'm taking a trip downstate tomorrow after all," he says resignedly. "The chief apparently gave Mitchell permission to smack me down on this. Can you believe it? All for a stupid gala?"

"Yeah, I can believe it. PR is everything to them, and you know this Law Enforcement Workers gig is one photo op after another. I'm sorry, Mike. I know you wanted to stay home with Marty this weekend. Wish I could go instead--"

"Liar." Mike grins, shaking his head. "You hate this PR crap even more than I do. I just wish Martina was able to go with me. I've got dreams of going on the town with her..."

"Ask her again when you get home tonight. Maybe she'll change her mind."

Mike glances at the phone, but his dark eyes flicker with doubt. "No," he murmurs. "You didn't see her today. She got through seeing Henderson's body okay, but she's still totally wrung out. I wouldn't want to drag her for a hundred mile car trip just 'cause Norman Mitchell is an ass." He stands up, pulling his leather coat off the back of his chair. "Besides, can you imagine what it'd be like for her down there? A lone defense attorney in a sea of cops and prosecutors patting each other on the back?"

"Point taken. Gotta admit, I almost wish I was in a shape to go myself. I owe Olivia for ditching the opera, not to mention ..." Hesitating, he contemplates the awkward, tense days he and Olivia Ortiz have gone through recently due to his brother's arrival. He lets the sentence die unfinished. "Anyway I bet she'd love to go down to Manhattan."

"Yeah, well, feel free to take my place if it means that much to--"

"Not on your life," Frank says quickly, offering Mike a brief wicked smile. Looking across the office floor, he spies Maxine Granger's short, compact figure. "Ms. Granger."

She approaches him, a friendly expression on her dimpled face. "Evening, Sergeant."

Frank can't help express surprise at her appearance. Instead of the red curls, jeans and aviator jacket he's gotten used to when seeing the private detective, she has an entirely different look today: hair smoothed away from her face, expensive black wool coat, and a pale yellow jacket and skirt. "Looking pretty fancy there. Did you spend the day in court or something?"

Maxine looks down at herself. "Oh, these old things?" she asks jokingly, then lifts a dismissive hand. "Just some work duds for an undercover job. Sergeant, you have a few minutes? I want to talk to you."

"Only a few, but yeah. I was about to clock out, so you're lucky you caught me at all. Uh -- you've met Detective Fiore here?"

Mike, now wearing his coat and on his way out the door, leans over to shake her hand. "I'm Mike."

"Maxine Granger -- everyone calls me Max."

"Good to meet you. Anyone ever tell you how much you look like--"

"All the time, Detective. All the time. I'm lucky my brother's a good lookin' guy, other wise I'd have one helluva complex."

Once Mike leaves, Frank gestures with some impatience towards the chair near his desk. "Take a seat, Ms. Granger. What can I do for you now?"

Lifting an eyebrow, Maxine sits down, but chooses to do so on his desk. "I wasn't aware you'd done anything for me before," she murmurs. "Actually, I think I can do more for you than vice versa."

"Oh really? How's that?"

She smiles. "The lowdown I've heard from the fire inspector is that he's giving the newspaper building the 'all clear' sign. No proof of foul play or anything."

Frank tries not to show his annoyance, but he can't help but frown at Maxine's rapid discovery of the same information he received only a half hour ago. "Yeah. And so?"

"So, I think that he's closing the file a little too early. From the background I've done, I don't think this was the case of an innocent oil burner malfunction." Maxine folds her hands across her chest. "What would you say to some info about a possible motive for torching the place?"

6. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor

Chelsea Stanford steps backwards, dazed from the kiss and now this new remarkable development. The sight of Greg pulling Jem away from her, like a knight riding on a white horse to her rescue, fills the young woman with an overwhelming sense of excitement. If she were the swooning type, she'd probably be crumpled up against the wall in ecstasy.

Jem's cane clatters to the ground as his body is held up against the wall, much as he'd forced Chelsea moments ago. "J-Jesus," he splutters. "Overreact much, Doc? Get off me!"

"Shut up." Greg holds onto Jem's coat lapel but throws a glance of concern at Chelsea. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

"Did I hurt her?" Jem looks insulted. "What do you call the bruise she just gave--"

"I said shut your mouth! Chelsea, are you all right?"

"I -- I'm fine," Chelsea says weakly, her hand fluttering to her tingling lips. "It's just that he grabbed me, and I didn't want him to-- I couldn't push him away, and then he was all over me --"

"Oh please," Jem grunts with exasperation as he jerks his coat out of Greg's grasp. "You know damn well it was just a kiss! One hell of a kiss," he adds, his voice lowering slightly in a tone that makes Chelsea's throat tighten.

Hello, Greg is right here, she reminds herself, and shakes her head. "I didn't ask for it," she insists in a hoarse but defiant voice. "I don't want you to touch me again."

Jem darts a wounded gaze at Chelsea, but she ignores it. He reaches out to clutch at her sleeve. "Just tell me one thing. Are you gonna give me what I asked for or not?"

"My God, Van Doren, you are some piece of work!" Greg shoves Jem away from Chelsea. "Ever hear the phrase 'no means no'? Keep it up and you're looking at a sexual assault charge."

"From who, you? Christ, I wasn't even talking about sex. I was--"

"I don't care what you're asking for," Chelsea says softly, tears easily coming to her eyes as she plays up her role as damsel in distress. "The answer's no. I told you that already. Can't you just leave me alone?"

Greg turns to her, obviously affected by her heartfelt words. "Why don't you go sit down, Chelse," he murmurs. "Get some coffee or something?"

Unwilling to leave the two men together, because God only knows what Jem will say, Chelsea shakes her head. "I want to stay with you. Just to make sure he leaves."

"For God's sake, Chelsea, please." Jem's ice blue eyes are narrowed as he looks at Chelsea. "You don't know what you're doing to me."

She turns away from the intensity of his need. All he wants is money, she reminds herself, still furious at his request for her to borrow money from her father.

Greg leans closer to Jem. "What is your problem? You think because she works for you, you're owed something?"

"Give me a break, Doc. Just go back to playing around with your harem of nurses, okay? You don't have a freakin' idea what I'm talking about. This is way more important than your need to be big stud on campus--Ow!"

Greg yanks Jem away from the elevator, taking no notice of the other man's pained expression. To Chelsea's surprise, the doctor almost drags Jem down the corridor until they reach one of the private rooms. She follows behind them in hurried confusion.

"You want to talk important, Van Doren?" Greg's handsome face is tight with contempt, and he pushes Jem nearer to the room's shaded window. "You know who's in here? Elaine Wagner. Remember her? Remember that she's in a neck brace and can't walk, thanks to your piece-of-crap elevators and your neglect? Have you visited her? Have you even sent her a goddamned card?"

Jem stares at the blinds preventing him from seeing inside Elaine's room. "That -- that's none of your business," he mutters hoarsely.

"None of my business?" Greg grabs Jem's shoulders and whirls him around. "Want to take a look at my brother's banged up body and tell me it's none of my business?"

Silence greets his words -- for once, the newspaper editor has nothing to say.

7. Nick and Hannah Nichols' Residence

East Cornwall, NY

Except for the distant laughter and shouts from the twins' playroom, quiet seems to blanket the still figures of the young man and his aunt. Finally Hannah breaks the frozen, shocked silence by repeating Ian's revelation almost to herself.

"Daphne kidnapped Hope," she whispers. Her gaze is filled with doubt, but as she continues the naked emotion is slowly replaced with hurt. "You knew this. You've known all along."

Ian wishes he were brave enough to tell the whole truth. In the long run, despite the initial discomfort of revealing his lies to Hannah, it would be much better for him to end the whole ruse now. But there's more than just his own comfort at stake here...

"No, not all along. She only told me recently, after the opera. The thing is, you have to understand, she didn't mean any harm--"

"How can you say that to me?" Hannah stares at him, her face white. "After what Nick and I went through?"

"Aunt Hannah, I understand how afraid you must have been--"

"You don't understand, you can't!" Hannah gives a single, choking sob. "I wasn't just afraid, I was guilty, angry, helpless -- you don't know the hell I was in that day! And you're trying to make excuses for her?"

"No! I'm not! It's just ... all I meant was that she'd never hurt Hope, and it wasn't about money or anything --"

"Then why? Why would she steal a child like that?"

After a quick hesitation, Ian shakes his head reluctantly. "It's not my secret to tell. You need to hear it from Daphne."

"From Daphne!" Hannah looks ill, and she backs her chair away from him. "Why would I believe anything she'd tell me? What kind of a crazy person would do something like this? My God, Ian, you're telling me that she's been lying to you, all this time! How can you stay with her? You told me she's been seeing you for a few months. That means she must have been planning the kidnapping even while you were getting close to her --"

"No! No, that's not true!" Ian reaches out to take her hand and invents a quick explanation. "It's all just a horrible coincidence -- our relationship, Hope becoming your foster child... It's like a sick joke."

"Sick is right. I don't understand it, I don't know what you mean by a coincidence."

He stares at her, furious with himself. Christ, I've messed this up. "I know you don't. Look, let me -- let me bring her here. She's been afraid to come clean, but I think she'll be able to talk to you alone, without Uncle Nick. Let her explain it to you."

Visibly trembling, Hannah moves to Hope's bassinet, staring into the child's sweet round face as if searching for peace -- or an answer. Ian's throat is dry as he watches her and waits for a decision. To his surprise, his aunt's expression slowly changes from taut anger to understanding.

She turns to him, her eyes glassy with tears. "The agency never told me who Hope's mother is. But now I can see it. I don't know how I missed it before ... they have the same exact eyes. Daphne is Hope's mother, isn't she?"

Ian clamps his teeth together. "I -- I really think she should be the one to explain," he says at last. Kneeling next to her, he tightens his grip on her hand. "Please, just don't tell Uncle Nick about all this yet. Will you do that for me? Will you trust me just a little bit longer?"

"I trust you. But I don't see how you can possibly trust her? She's lied to you, she manipulated me ... How can you honestly believe what she says, when she's capable of doing something like this?"

"Well ..." Ian clears his throat before playing his trump card. "Uncle Nick's capable of a lot too. And you still trust him, don't you?"

Hannah lifts her chin, obviously taken aback by the comparison. But he knows she'll agree with him. Hannah's too honest to deny the truth of his words.

Finally she sighs, and her soft brown eyelashes flutter as she gazes down at their entwined fingers. "Yes, Ian," she mutters. "I love and trust my husband. Are you saying that you really love Daphne that much? To believe in her the way I trust Nick?"

Unable to tell the truth, but afraid to lie, Ian isn't sure how to respond. But again he remembers that his feelings aren't the only issue here. And if there's one thing he's certain of right now, it's that Daphne is much safer if she's considered a close part of his life.

So he nods and responds fervently, "Yes, Aunt Hannah. I love Daphne that much. And I believe in her more than any girl I've ever known."

Hannah lifts her gaze to meet his. Whatever she's about to say, however, is cut off by the sound of slow clapping coming from somewhere behind Ian. He turns at once.

"That's the most touching speech I've ever heard," Danielle Nichols says, continuing her mocking applause as she leans against the doorway. "Daphne's a very lucky young girl."

At the sight of his stepmother, Ian makes a noise deep in his throat, almost a growl. "What are you doing here?"

"Your father and I are having dinner with Hannah and Nick. A better question is, what are you doing here?"

He ignores her, somehow able to keep his attention focused on one thing at a time. Standing up, he turns to look at Hannah. "So -- so will you let me bring her by?"

Pulling the sleeves of her sweater down over her wrists as if cold, Hannah waits before responding. "Tomorrow right," she says hoarsely. "Nick is going out. Bring her after dinner."

Relieved, Ian bends down to give her a quick hug. "Thanks, Aunt Hannah. I love you."

He straightens and retrieves his gloves, not needing to put his coat on since he never bothered taking it off. Ian can almost feel Danielle's curious gaze burning into his flesh, but he pays her no heed.

That is, until she speaks again when he reaches the doorway to leave. "My," she says, brushing her fingers along his arm. "You certainly are throwing the word 'love' around a lot today. Have you no similar sweet words for me?"

He glares at her, knowing his cold expression can't be seen by Hannah behind him. "I love you too," he mutters. "Just like a mother. Do you mind moving so I can leave?"

"Anything for my dear boy. But first, tell me what prompted this strange visit? Why on earth are you bringing the beloved Daphne to see Hannah? You haven't even brought her to dinner at our place yet."

"They -- they have interests in common. It's no big deal, Danny. Now if you don't mind, I have to get going to the iCafe."

Danielle raises a hand, dismissing him. "Oh, yes, your little project. Go right ahead. I'll just catch up with Hannah on my own. Maybe she'll be a bit more forthcoming."

Nervous, Ian leaves, but for a few moments he lingers in the corridor out of view, listening to the two women talk in private. He hears Danielle question Hannah about Ian, but his aunt skillfully deflects the conversation to talk about Danielle -- his stepmother's favorite subject.

Mentally he thanks Hannah again. Then he heads out, hoping like hell that he can find Daphne and drag her back here tonight.

8. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor

Standing outside Elaine Wagner's room, Greg breathes heavily at his exertion, and finally releases Jem with an expression of disgust. "You came to this hospital to harass Chelsea. You didn't even think of seeing how Doug and Elaine were doing, did you? Did you?"

It's clear Jem has no intention of responding to Greg's accusations -- which are probably right on the money, as far as Chelsea's concerned.

"What's wrong, Van Doren?" Greg continues relentlessly. "Did your lawyers tell you not to say anything to them? Not even to Elaine, someone who worked for you?" He drops his voice into a whisper. "Or do you just feel too guilty to look her in the face?"

Chelsea inhales in admiration of Greg's fervor. Jem seems just as impressed, but not pleasantly so. Setting his jaw, he backs away a few paces. "I'm outta here," he says, avoiding Greg's gaze altogether to stare at Chelsea. "I hope you're happy, Princess. You did a real good job at ruining my last chance."

Chelsea can hardly look at him, an unfamiliar flush of guilt burning her face. But why should she feel guilty? He asked her to do something she could never do. Begging her father for a loan ... that's just so out of the realm of possibility. Even if she wanted to help Jem. Even if she didn't resent the hell out of him for dumping her so unceremoniously the other day for the Last American Virgin.

The thought of Rena firms her resolve, and she moves closer to Greg as if afraid of what Jem might do or say next. Automatically Greg takes her hand, like the good gallant man he is, and draws her nearer as Jem walks stiffly away.

------------------------------------

Rena leaves Daphne, Doug and John alone in the room, sensing that the three need some time to reconnect. She rubs her hands together, fingers cold as usual at this time of year. Her hazel eyes reflect pleasure at Doug's recovery so far, but she can't help refocusing her thoughts on Greg. He should have been here. He wasn't scheduled for surgery. What could have been so important that he forgot...

The speculation flies out of her mind when she spies Jem at the elevators, bending down awkwardly to retrieve his cane from the floor. Without hesitating, she hurries to his side and scoops up the cane herself.

"Here you go," she says, returning it to Jem's hands. "Don't twist like that, you'll strain your muscles again."

Jem doesn't seem surprised to see her. He barely reacts to seeing her at all, in fact. "Straining my muscles, that'd be a real shame," he murmurs distractedly. "Gotta have them all in good shape, don't I? Live fast, die young and leave a properly working corpse."

The rapid speech is almost incoherent, and Rena peers intently at him. "Jem, are you all right? What are you doing here?"

"Had someone to visit. Didn't go very well, but that's no big surprise. What the hell is going well in my life these days?"

"What do you mean? Were you visiting Elaine?"

Wincing, Jem backs away from her. "Why don't you all just get off my damn case about that? She doesn't want to see me anyway. She hates my guts, I bet. Well, I probably won't have any guts for long, so she'll have to find some other--"

"Jem. Stop it. What are you talking about?" Rena takes hold of his arm firmly, trying to force him to look at her. "What's going on with you?"

Jem finally meets her gaze. She can see the stress etched into the small wrinkles near his eyes. "I've finally run out of options, Nurse."

Rena feels a cold hand of dread clutching at her stomach. "Is this about Jonnie Adair? Is he ... are those people threatening you again?"

Jem doesn't respond. There's no need -- his expression is response enough. "Oh God," Rena mutters. "Please, Jem. Please go to the police. They might be able to--"

"No. They can't do a goddamned thing."

She stares up at him. Despite his terrible mistakes, Rena can't help but feel sympathy for a man this desperate ... this afraid. Without thinking she lifts her hand to his face. "I wish I could help you. I wish there was something I could do..."

Surprisingly, he smiles. It's a grim, weary smile, but behind the worry in his cool blue eyes is genuine affection.

"Y'know, that's the nicest thing I've heard outta anyone's mouth in a long time," he says quietly. Bending down, he kisses her forehead and murmurs into her hair: "Thanks, Rena."

Before Rena can react to his unusually tender gesture, he slips between the closing doors of the nearby elevator and disappears.

------------------------------------

The second Jem leaves her side, Chelsea stares up at Greg, then tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Thanks for all that," she murmurs, inhaling the delicious combination of his skin and shaving lotion. "Jem was really freaking me out."

Nodding, Greg brushes a hand through her golden hair to smooth it away from her face. "Glad to do it. I've been aching for a chance to let off some steam at him anyway. What did he want from you?"

"I ... I don't know." Chelsea hesitates before sighing. "Maybe he'll get what he wants from Rena. She seems much more in tune with him these days."

Greg blinks, and a corner of his luscious mouth lifts in a wry smile. "Rena? I doubt that."

"That's what I thought, but he told me -- well, it doesn't matter."

"No, what do you mean? What in God's name could he say about her?" Greg seems upset, but then he shakes his head impatiently. "Not that it matters. He's a pathological liar, you can see that in his newspaper. Besides, Rena may have helped him as a nurse, but if he thinks she'd ever consider anything more, he's even crazier than I thought."

"Maybe." Chelsea shrugs, glancing down the corridor. Hiding a smile, she gestures down to the elevator banks. "But look for yourself."

Greg turns to follow the direction of her stare. Jem and Rena are deep in an intense conversation by an open elevator door, with the small nurse clutching at his arm as if needing it to support herself. Suddenly Jem bends down and -- Chelsea can hardly believe it -- kisses Rena's forehead. Kisses her forehead! My God, the day he'd ever be that mushy-sweet with me!

The little scene nauseates Chelsea. The only comfort is the knowledge that beside her, Greg is probably even more sickened at the sight.

Bingo, she thinks, and tightens her grip on his hand.

9. Schuyler Falls Police Station

The bull pen is quiet, with only Frank and Maxine left in the rabbit warren full of desks and file cabinets.

After a moment contemplating Maxine's insinuations regarding some motive for arson, Frank shakes his head. "I'd say without physical proof, a motive won't get me anywhere. The inspector was pretty damn convinced that there's nothing he found that--"

"C'mon, Sergeant," Maxine says, a playful smile on her full red lips. "Surely you're not trying to tell me that you've never formed a case without solid physical evidence?"

Not appreciating her tone, Frank doesn't return the smile. "I've worked from a hypothesis before, yeah. But eventually we were able to get physical evidence. In this case, none exists. If there was anything, it burned up. And like I said, the inspector doesn't think there was anything in the first place."

Maxine snorts. "Your inspector acts like someone who's about to get his pension and doesn't want to work too hard. Sometimes you have to force the puzzle pieces together. All that matters is that they fit together in the end."

"Uh huh." Frank looks at her closely. "Cut to the chase, Ms. Granger. Is one of those puzzle pieces named Jem Van Doren?"

Smirking, Maxine plays idly with the snowglobe paperweight on Frank's desk. "Well now, I'd kinda like to make sure you're willing to act on what I've got before giving some of my treasure away."

Pretty cocky, this one, Frank thinks as he watches the tiny sparkling snowflakes within the globe float down upon the miniature log cabin inside. "Look, Ms. Granger. I'm not gonna go after a guy who just lost his business without something solid. Do you have something solid, or are you just going fishing?"

"Not completely solid, no. I'd say it's in the gelling stage."

"Then come back when it's firmed up."

She examines him, amused. "What's the matter, Sergeant? You gun shy or something?"

"No. Just cautious."

"Mmm hmm. Sure doesn't sound like the cop who solved a pair of homicides by tracking a so-called dead man all the way to Italy. You solved that case by pure instinct, didn't you?"

Frank looks at her steadily. "Maybe. But I also nearly screwed it up by pure instinct. Looking at motive without physical evidence is what put an innocent guy on trial for his life."

"Oh, please. From what my brother says, Tristan Campbell had more against him than just motive. Don't you think you're being a little too hard on yourself there, Sergeant?"

Frank shakes his head. "Maybe you should ask Campbell that same question," he mutters. After a slight pause, he sighs. "All right. Let me hear what you've got."

10. Boondoggles

Pleased with the results of his long meeting with Susan, Tristan continues to smile after he escorts her to the door. As he watches her leave, he's surprised to hear loud voices shouting over by the trailer parked at the far end of the lot. The surprise isn't that there's shouting -- the men working construction on the building are a pretty noisy crew; but it's nearly six now, and with the sky completely dark, work is supposed to have ended for the night.

With a curious frown, Tristan grabs his coat where it's draped over a nearby chair and heads outside in the cold rain. When he reaches the long, tan trailer, he swings around to find the foreman, Dan Abrons, deep in argument with a muscular stranger clad in a long leather coat.

"-- don't give a rat's ass what kind of skills you think you have," Dan snaps. He's standing at the top of the small set of stairs leading to the trailer door. "We've got all the men we need on this job."

Beneath him, the other man's dark face seems passive, but his voice reveals barely controlled contempt. "I'm better than them. You got eyes in your head, you saw me up there."

"Yeah, and that's another thing, you shouldn't have even picked up a goddamned hammer. What the hell kind of scam do you think you're pulling, working when you don't even belong ?"

"Wanted to show you what I can do. Like an audition."

"This isn't a fucking play, and you can't do a damn thing if you don't have a job here! Now for the last time, get the hell--" Dan cuts himself off when he notices Tristan's figure standing in the shadows. "Mr. Campbell. You want something?"

Tristan walks closer to the tension-filled pair, which puts him beneath the shelter of a small awning overhead. "No. I heard yelling, so I thought I'd check it out. Everything all right?"

Dan nods. "Just trying to explain to this idiot that we're not hiring."

"No reason to insult a man who just wants a job," Tristan says without rancor, and then turns to the stranger. "Did I hear correctly? You worked on the site today even though you're not part of the crew?"

The stranger's gaze shifts to examine Tristan, although with his lowered lids it's hard to tell how much he can really see. "Yeah. Maybe you think I wasted my time, but I figured it'd be worth it either way."

"Even though you wouldn't be paid for it?"

The man shrugs. "Been a while since I worked. It felt good to be out there again."

Nodding slowly, impressed by the simple dignity of the statement, Tristan turns back to the foreman. "Was he as skilled as he says he is?"

"Mr. Campbell, it doesn't matter if he's the best goddamned construction worker the world's ever seen. One, we don't need him, and two, this is strictly a union site."

"Union," the stranger says in a low, contemptuous murmur. "Don't get all righteous with me about the union. I've done time with gang members that're cleaner."

Tristan hides his surprise at the man's honest admission of having been in prison; Dan, meanwhile, blows up at the insult. "Go fuck yourself and take your attitude elsewhere, Gabriel. I don't need someone like you telling me--"

"Gabriel?" Tristan blurts the name despite himself. He stares more closely at the large man. "Is that your first name or last?"

"Last. First name's Del. Why?"

Tristan's not a big believer in coincidences, not in a small city like this. And the possibility seems too interesting to pass up... He keeps his tone neutral as he asks, "You're not related to Frank Gabriel by any chance, are you?"

The man smiles coolly. "Depends if it'll get me the job or not."

Dan bristles in annoyance, putting his meaty arms across his chest. "What the hell difference does it make who he's related to? All due respect, Mr. Campbell, but I don't care if this guy's someone you know. We can't take on a non-union--"

"Maybe you can't. But I have other positions to fill around here." Tristan looks back at the man in the black leather coat, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "So ... are you related to Sergeant Gabriel?"

Sizing Tristan up, as if unwilling to respond without knowing the consequences, Del finally nods. "Yeah. We're not that close though."

An ex-con and holier-than-thou Frank Gabriel? Yes, I can just bet you wouldn't be. Tristan mulls over this surprising bit of information, a little frission of satisfaction running through him, and then nods. "It's good to meet you, Mr. Gabriel. I'm sorry that there's nothing for you at the construction site."

"Uh huh." Del Gabriel's broad, bearded face seems almost pleased to have his suspicions justified. "Guess I shouldn't've told the truth just now, huh?"

"Not at all. In fact, I think you should come back tomorrow morning, if you're interested. Maybe we can see if the iCafe is a good match for you." Tristan leans forward to shake the other man's hand. "My name's Tristan Campbell, by the way. Is nine o'clock all right with you?"

Del agrees, and after a solid handshake Tristan nods a goodbye to both men. He starts back to his restaurant, a small smile haunting his lips.

11. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Doug White's Room

Now that Dr. Avigad and Rena have left, Daphne has perched herself somewhat awkwardly on a tall wheeled chair beside the bed -- the only seat high enough so that she can continue to look into her father's face.

She rubs her hands on her jeans, waiting impatiently for Doug and John to finish their conversation. Actually, it's mostly John who's doing most of the talking as he tries to assure Doug that having returned to pain medication isn't going to have a bad effect on his recovery.

"You beat it back before, you'll do it again," John says, leaning over the bed with his large, muscular arms resting on the bedrail. "Don't you get hopeless on me, Doug."

Doug closes his eyes. "Not strong enough. Barely made it last time, and now..."

"Bullshit. Sorry," John adds with an apologetic look at Daphne before continuing. "I told you, you're stronger than you think. Besides, things are different now than they were when you first entered the program. You know what it's like to be clean. You've got friends to help you stay that way."

Daphne looks up at the broad, curly-haired man, then clears her throat. "And family too," she murmurs.

Her father turns his head to stare in her direction. Within his dark blue eyes is a question, and Daphne feels her throat thicken painfully. "We'll be here for you this time, Dad. Greg and me." She hesitates before mentioning the possibility that's plagued her for weeks. "And ... and maybe soon, the social worker will let us get Hope back."

Doug's expression reveals his doubt at this thought. "Never happen."

"It could too. You just have to get better. Ms. Vasquez said that this was just temporary, if you prove that you're all cured and not involved in drugs or anything."

"Daphne," John mutters, shaking his head. "I think you're asking too much right now."

"Excuse me, I'm talking about my sister. His daughter. This is a family thing, it doesn't have anything to do with--"

"I know it's not my family, but I'm telling you, kid, this isn't the time for you to put pressure on your father."

Daphne pushes herself off the chair, flushing. She ignores John and concentrates the force of her anger on Doug. "Dad, if you want this enough, you can do it. Do you want us to be a family or not?"

"It's ... " Doug's voice is husky and dry, but he forces the words out. "It's too soon."

"I'm not asking you to jump outta the bed and run over to the foster home! But you're acting like you don't even want Hope. She's your baby, and someone else is raising her! These people who aren't even normal, they're dangerous -- is that what you want?"

"What do you mean ... dangerous?"

Daphne freezes, seeing the sudden fear on her father's ashen face. Even the heart and blood pressure monitors beside the bed reveal his agitation at her rash statement. Swallowing, she shakes her head. "I -- I didn't mean dangerous like that. I meant ... I meant, they're not good for her. Because they're not her real family," she finishes lamely.

Breathing faster, Doug looks from her to John, then back again. Slowly his head sinks back down into the pillow. "Tomorrow," he whispers at last, sounding as if he's just about exhausted his last ounce of energy. "Talk about this tomorrow."

"Yeah, that's a good idea, Doug," John agrees. He pats Doug's arm, then walks over to stand expectantly by Daphne. "I think your dad has had enough activity for the night, don't you?"

Annoyed at the chastisement, Daphne's about to make a sharp retort to him when Greg enters the room. He seems just as irritated by something, but Daphne is glad for the distraction.

"Sorry I missed everything, but I heard from Avigad that things went great," Greg says, aiming a brief smile at his brother. "And now you can speak, huh? C'mon, let me hear those dulcet tones I've been missing."

Daphne doesn't wait for Doug to respond. "I was just going, Greg. I'll see you back at the hotel," she says bluntly. Giving her father a quick kiss on the cheek, she hurries out of the room.

She's only a few steps into the corridor before John's thick fingers gently curl around her elbow. Stopping short, she turns and mutters at him without even meeting his gaze. "Let go of me."

"Fine. Can you stop being pissed off long enough to have a decent conversation? Or is being pissy your only mode of communication?"

This gets Daphne's attention, and she aims her black eyes at him. "You don't know anything about me!"

John smiles. He's not unattractive, despite having a weathered, leathery face that has obviously seen difficult years behind it. "I know that your attitude has gone through one hell of a sea change. Up until about a week ago, you didn't want to have anything to do with your father. Now you're pushing him to get better so the whole family can have a big reunion? Is this about him, or about your own guilt feelings?"

Daphne inhales sharply. "You don't have any right to talk to me like that."

"Yeah, I do, because I'm looking out for Doug. And believe it or not, I want to look out for you, too. You're going about this way too fast. You can't push him, you can't force things before they're ready."

Feeling trapped, Daphne turns away and pulls up the zipper of her jacket. "You don't understand," she whispers. "I don't have anyone left."

A few seconds pass by as John looks at her in silence. "I do understand, Daphne. I'm in N.A. for a reason, you know. I had a family and I lost 'em. Thing is, I kept trying and trying, but it was always the wrong way, and in the end things got so screwed up there was no going back. It doesn't have to be that way for you and Doug -- but you've gotta give it time."

Time. Daphne nods, pretending to consider his advice, but inside her nerves are screaming with impatience. Time's gonna pass and Hope'll be in high school, still living with those people, if I don't do something soon!

She starts down the hallway again, ignoring John beside her as she thinks: I'll convince Dad. I have to.

12. Nick and Hannah Nichols' Residence

East Cornwall, NY

Cameron Nichols enters his brother's office, waiting for Nick to pour him a scotch before sitting down in the chair opposite the large, messy desk. Taking a sip of the amber liquid, he raises an eyebrow in surprise.

"Well, well," he murmurs, watching the older man lean against the desk and lift his own glass. "I'm rather impressed. This is excellent quality. To what do I owe the honor?"

"What were you expecting, a Shirley Temple?"

Smiling, Cameron tilts his glass, swirling the ice and liquor together. "With respect, you're not usually a particularly fussy drinker. Twelve-year-old scotch isn't usually part of your repertoire. Are we celebrating something?"

Nick's pale eyes twinkle down at him. "Things are moving along better than I thought as far as the Vaughans go. They're falling for the plan hook, line and sinker. Dean oughtta be getting an Academy Award, he's got so much acting talent."

"I'd never have guessed that. But he's a man of many talents." Cameron sips again, then puts the drink down on the small black table beside the leather chair. "Speaking of which, I don't want to make the same mistake I did before, getting in touch with him for a job without running it past you. So before we go in to dinner, may I have your permission to utilize Mr. Nelson talents once more?"

Not surprisingly, Nick doesn't look flattered by the request. His brother folds his arms across his large chest and cocks his head warily to one side. "Why is it that when you ask permission, it still sounds like an order?"

"Paranoia? Insecurity? I'm sure a talented therapist would be able to identify your particular issue, when it comes to dealing with me and our business arrangements." Cameron chuckles at the hardening expression on Nick's face. "Calm down, I was only joking. I thought you were in a good mood, why spoil it by taking offense?"

"Fine," Nick says tightly. "What is it you want Dean for? You've got plenty of muscle on your own payroll."

"Mr. Nelson has the advantage of having worked with me before on this particular problem. I like continuity within individual projects."

Nick's eyes narrow. "Is this about Van Doren and the newspaper?"

"Yes."

"Considering I'm the one he owes money to, at least directly, don't you think you should let me in on what you're planning?"

Cameron shrugs, taking hold of the glass again. "If you like. I'm interested in ending the games once and for all. Mr. Van Doren thought he was pulling off something of a coup by torching his own building--"

"You know that for a fact?"

"Please." Shaking his head, Cameron smiles ruefully. "I don't believe in coincidence. At any rate, I don't think he's going to get his insurance money quite as easily as he anticipated. Which, of course, is fine with me -- but only if he gives me what I want."

"Yeah. Frankly, I'm still not clear why you've got such a hard-on for the Record. You could just start your own damn newspaper, can't you?"

"Let's just say I'd rather not start something from the ground up, when the newspaper that's already in Schuyler Falls has such a embedded history with the citizens of that fine community."

Nick nods. "Well, whatever. I think he knows he's got no choices left. We've already given him week after week of grace. And we made it pretty damn clear what would happen to the people around him, those two women he hangs out with, if he continued to screw around with us. Without that insurance money coming through, he's a dead duck. He's gotta realize that."

"I suspect I'll grow old waiting for Jeremiah Van Doren to 'realize' anything," Cameron says with a dry laugh. "The only thing that will work with someone like him is to demonstrate exactly how high the stakes are. With Mr. Nelson's help, we'll do so tomorrow."

He stands up, draining the last drops of smooth aged scotch from the glass. He smiles politely and gestures towards the office door. "Come, let's join our lovely wives in the dining room. I've suddenly got quite an appetite."

13. Boondoggles

Franklin Avenue and Mason Street

As Tristan packs up his briefcase and prepares to leave the empty club for the night, he's surprised to hear the sound of a car door slamming outside. Curious, he looks out through the large windows overlooking the parking lot. Thanks to the lights from the streetlamps lining the sidewalk, Tristan can easily recognize the figure of Ian Nichols, who's talking on a cell phone as he walks towards the entrance.

With his waving dark hair and graceful stride, Ian reminds Tristan a great deal of his late brother Philip. The two have gotten along pretty well over the last several days, although at first, Tristan was reluctant to have someone so young taking such a large role in the club's development -- even though it was Ian's idea to create an internet cafe in the first place. In fact, if Ian had been anyone but Cameron Nichols's son, Tristan would have balked.

And that would have been a mistake, Tristan acknowledges now. Ian's extremely smart, albeit still inexperienced, but time will soon take care of that. Tristan himself was only a few years older at the time he and Philip opened up Boondoggles all those years ago.

Apparently finished with his conversation, Ian enters the restaurant, walking up to Tristan and clasping his hand firmly. After some initial greetings, he glances around the main room. "Just thought I'd stop by to see how things are going."

"Not interested in a head-to-toe inspection?"

The younger man seems distracted, and it takes him a shade too long before responding. "I can't stay long, I have to get in touch with someone as soon as possible."

"I hear that's why they invented telephones."

"Yes, of course, I've tried that. She's not at home..." Ian shakes his head, as if shaking away the pensive mood. "Well, anyway. It really looks great. And it's pretty close to being finished, isn't it? At this rate, the place should be ready in a matter of weeks."

"Absolutely. We'll have to start hiring pretty soon -- in fact, I've just hired our first staffer already."

"Really? Who?"

"My assistant -- her name is Susan Morris." Tristan doesn't mention her OmniCorp background, simply adding: "You know, I can't believe how quickly this all came together once Criterion got involved."

Ian nods with obvious pride. "We have a knack for getting the best work out of the best workers. Our hotels and restaurants go up in half the usual time. Tends to drive the competition crazy."

Tristan raises an eyebrow at the satisfied gleam in the younger man's eyes. "I'm glad I'm no longer among them."

"You should be," Ian says with a crooked grin. "No, actually, we're the lucky ones. My father is crowing about having you on board with us."

"I find that hard to believe. Cameron doesn't seem the type to go overboard like that."

"He can crow with the best of them ... in his way." Ian turns to face Tristan. "I hear you might be working with him on another project. An acquisition...?"

Tristan tries not to show surprise at the reference to OmniCorp. "The plans are pretty nebulous at the moment," he says carefully, before murmuring: "Your father keeps you well informed, I see."

Ian shrugs. "He has to, he's grooming me for leadership at Criterion. Besides, we don't have many secrets from each other..." As if losing his train of thought, he sends his gaze flickering away towards the windows overlooking the river. The hesitation lasts only a second or two. "Well, you know what it's like. You were handed the reins of your father's company too."

"Yes, but I never had a chance to work with him. He died when I was a boy, long before I took over."

"Oh." Embarrassment makes Ian look his youthful age. "I'm sorry."

"That's all right. It was a long time ago."

Tristan's assurance doesn't seem to cheer Ian up. He seems surprisingly sympathetic to the pain of losing a parent, considering that as far as Tristan knows, the young man hasn't gone through a similar loss. "Well, maybe you'll get to share this with your own kids in a few years."

This makes Tristan laugh. "Uh, possibly. In a few very long years."

"You don't have any children? I know you were married--"

"Yes." He smiles crookedly. "But you could say that the time wasn't ripe."

"I see. I'm sorry, I seem to be sticking my foot in my mouth a lot tonight."

Shaking his head, Tristan starts walking slowly towards the front area of the club. "Don't worry about it. Trust me, the fact that there are no children from that marriage is far from a matter of regret. My wife wasn't exactly the maternal type." He hesitates, then adds under his breath. "Frankly I doubt I'd be a candidate for father of the year myself."

14. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Third Floor

Alone again, now that Greg has hurried off to visit his brother -- in the process, carefully avoiding running into Rena -- Chelsea heads to the elevator to leave the hospital. She has the nagging feeling that she's forgotten something, but she ignores it as she presses the elevator button. When the door opens, all thoughts are pushed aside when someone shoves their way into her with the force of a cannonball.

Barely able to keep from staggering backwards, Chelsea lets out a pained exclamation. "Damn it! Watch where you're going! This is a hospital, not a -- " Her angry words cut off when she recognizes the frazzled russet hair and pale face in front of her. "Beth?"

Not even looking at Chelsea, Beth Durand bends down to the floor, grabbing at the items scattered from her fallen pocketbook with unusually brusque, sure movements. "Stupid idiot," she mutters. "You were in my way. You blocked me."

The angry words are so unlike Beth that Chelsea just gapes at her for a few seconds before finding her own voice. "Excuse me? Jeez, what's with the attitude?"

"I'm in a hurry!"

"No kidding." Watching her friend, Chelsea hesitates before kneeling down to help retrieve some of the pens, paper clips, and coins from the floor. "Are you all right?"

"Don't touch me!"

"I wasn't, I'm just--"

"Get back! I have to go!" Beth's tone is harsh and shrill, but she sounds younger, scared -- nothing like the soft-voiced, shy woman Chelsea knows. She stands up in a jerky motion and tries to push her way past Chelsea. "I have to go!"

"Fine." Unnerved, Chelsea backs away. "I don't know what your problem is today, Beth, but you seriously need to chill!"

"Stop calling me that!"

"What the hell else should I call you? Miss Durand? Your highness?"

Beth flinches. Chelsea's attention is captured by the tall, curly-haired figure of Kalid Behar, who appears at her side after he emerges from the fire stairwell. She abruptly remembers that he has an appointment with Doug White -- a fact that, in turn, reminds her of the forgotten task that had nagged at her earlier. Before she got distracted by Jem in the elevator, she'd been on her way to give Doug the booklet on post-traumatic stress disorder that's still shoved inside her coat pocket.

"Uh ... Kalid, listen," Chelsea says, embarrassed. "About that booklet thing? I sorta got waylaid by -- by a patient, and I didn't have a chance to--"

"That's all right, I understand." Kalid's voice is even lower and more soothing than usual. "I'm glad you were able to find her."

"Huh? Find who?"

"This young woman." He gives Beth a gentle friendly smile. "I beg your pardon, but are you Beth Durand?"

Beth's expression is one of alarm, her brown eyes wide and fixed on a target off in the distance. Chelsea turns automatically to follow the direction of her gaze, but when she looks down the hallway she can only see Daphne, Greg and some old guy talking with each other. There's no one else around, except for Chelsea herself and Kalid -- who seems oddly interested in Beth.

Why is he so interested in her? And how did he know her name, anyway?

Suddenly she remembers Kalid's description of the patient he'd been sent down to see earlier, the one who'd refused to believe the diagnosis and fled in paranoid fear. The realization slams Chelsea's thoughts away with the impact of a Mack truck. "Oh my God," she blurts. "Beth? Beth is the pregnant psych patient you were talking about?"

Her words seem to shake Beth from her frozen pose. Her body trembles all over, and she backs away with a hand held out in front of her. "No," she whispers. "Leave me alone! I won't go with him, I won't!"

Kalid shakes his head, moving towards her very slowly and carefully. "No one's going to hurt you, I promise. We just want to help you. There's no need to--"

"Stop it!" Beth screeches, then lifts her hands to her mouth to muffle her words as she stares at Chelsea. "He's so mean! I never should'a come, I don't wanna see him! Bitsy lied to me -- please keep him away!"

Horrified, Chelsea can't believe the change. Her mind is sent back years, to her mother's fearful tantrums, and instinctively she reacts the same way she did as a young teenager.

"It's okay, it's okay," she murmurs, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm here. Trust me, Kal's a nice guy, he's a friend. No one can hurt you with me right here, I promise."

"You don't understand. Lemme go. Please lemme go," Beth cries, and strikes out with a flailing hand to smack Chelsea weakly in the face. "I don't belong here!"

Though Chelsea isn't really hurt, Kalid orders her away and instantly takes gentle but firm hold of Beth's arms. "Please, Beth, try to take deep breaths. We're just want you to keep calm and safe. There's nothing to be afraid of, I promise."

Beth closes her eyes and clutches at Kalid's sleeves, sinking down to the floor with broken, choking sobs. She buries her head against his knees as if hiding. "Please don't let him hurt me, I wanna go home! Oh please help me go home!"

Chelsea can hardly bear to watch the psychiatrist calling for help to restrain Beth's shaking form. In shocked stillness, she remains behind as Kalid and two nurses carefully lead her hysterical friend off to the sixth floor.

How can this be happening, she thinks, hugging herself. How can this be happening again?