1. Olivia Ortiz's Townhouse

One River Drive

Frank Gabriel rings the bell, standing clear of the dripping eaves of the small roof above the door. Feels like it's going to be a warmer than usual day for the time of year, with the sunlight strong as it pours through the trees to burn away the remaining puddles left from yesterday's rainfall. Even though Frank's only wearing a leather jacket, he isn't the slightest bit cold.

When the door opens, however, the chill from Olivia Ortiz's black stare changes that. "Well, well," she says, not stepping aside to let him enter. "I recognize the face, but the name's escaped me entirely."

He nods, accepting her anger. By now he knows what to expect -- as much as one can with a woman like Olivia. "Go on, let me have it."

"No, you're not getting anything from me. Anything," she adds with unnecessary emphasis. "So if you're here for an early morning booty call, you can just head on over to the police station and --"

"For God's sake, Olivia. I'm here to apologize. And to give you a peace offering." He lifts up a basket of freshly baked croissants and little jars of jam. "Straight from La Patisserie."

With a 'hmph' noise deep in her throat, Olivia skillfully pulls the basket handle from his grasp. "I'll take the basket. The apology, you'll have to sell a little harder."

She turns around, allowing him to follow her through the huge marble foyer and into the hall to the dining room. Frank can't help but admire the swing of her hips and determined set of her shoulders, visible beneath the red Chinese silk bathrobe.

"How come you're not dressed yet?" he asks when they're both standing by the black dining room table. "Aren't you going into the office?"

"Is my schedule really what you wanted to talk about?"

"No. I was just wondering. I kind of hoped I'd have a little time with you."

Olivia crosses her arms over her chest. "Why aren't you at work?"

"I've got a late shift today. Mike's leaving early for a fundraiser, so I have to stay late."

"Well, I don't have all day. I'm expecting company, in fact, so please make this brief."

"Company? Who?"

She tilts her chin. "I thought you believed in keeping our personal lives a secret from one another. You aren't willing to share, why should I?"

"Come on, Olivia, knock it off. I was just curious."

"I just bet. Maybe you think I've invited your brother for breakfast?"

Frank looks away, taking a deep breath. Her cutting words are almost painful, and Frank knows she intends them to be. One thing he's learned about Olivia during their brief relationship is that when she wants to wound, she aims straight for the gut with the practiced skill of a fencer. It's a purely defensive move -- he understands that much. But it doesn't make arguing with her any less difficult.

"Look," he mutters. "You don't have to use that tone with me. I apologized over the phone for blowing up at you, and I'll apologize now. I'll apologize a hundred times if you want. But you need to accept that there are things I don't like to talk about. You're a pretty private person yourself, and you've probably got your own stuff you won't want to share. And when that happens, I'll respect that."

"I wonder if you would." She turns away so he can't meet her gaze. "If there was something bothering me, the way you're bothered by Del and whatever happened between you two... I wonder if you'd just let it go."

"I'd try to. I wouldn't let it come between us."

Olivia swivels back to face him, curling her fingers around the basket handle as if drawing strength from it. "How can you say that? You're the one who's letting this Del thing hurt us! You're the one who yelled at me for so much as talking to the man. You're the one who's being silent and angry and actually 'forbidding' me to speak about a simple subject. That is inappropriate, Frank Gabriel, and that is what's coming between us. Not my behavior."

"I said I was sorry for that, didn't I? Why can't you understand how hard this is for me? Why can't you just let the subject go, if I don't want to get into it with you?"

She shoves the basket away from her. "Because I want you to trust me, damn it!"

2. Along Franklin Street

Chelsea Stanford's Car

Chelsea Stanford steers her red car out of the hospital parking lot and turns onto Franklin Street, noting that traffic is unusually heavy. "Great," she mutters. "Looks like we'll be crawling all the way to Roosevelt."

Beside her in the passenger's seat, Beth Durand clutches her hands together so hard that the fingers are white and bloodless. "I'm sorry. I could have walked--"

"I'm not blaming you. It's that dumbass construction they're doing up by the mall. Like we need another movie theater." Chelsea glances away from the road. "You okay over there?"

Nodding, Beth closes her eyes, and her lips tighten into a thin line. She seems to be contracting into herself, as if by doing so she'll eventually disappear. Like a star collapsing into a black hole until all that's left is an empty void and silence.

The silence has already begun. By Chelsea's calculations, Beth has probably said fewer than a dozen words since checking herself out of the hospital.

Chelsea takes a deep breath. "Y'know, Beth ... you don't have to be embarrassed or anything. I've seen people who acted out way worse than you did yesterday."

"Please ... don't."

"Don't what? Don't talk about it? C'mon, it's kinda hard to ignore what happened. We might as well get the conversation over with now, so it's not like some big thing hanging out there."

"I don't know what to say. Except--" Beth's voice is strangled and hoarse, and when she inhales it sounds like a moan. "Except I'm so ashamed."

A rare swelling of empathy turns Chelsea's normally expressive face sober. Mom was like this too, after one of her blowups... "Don't be."

"How can you say that? What kind of person acts like this, lives like this? I don't even know what I -- I don't know anything. Not anything!"

Frowning, Chelsea turns briefly back to Beth. "What do you mean?" When Beth just shakes her head, Chelsea presses on. "No, seriously, I wanna know. You never talk about yourself. God knows we talk plenty about me and my work and Greg and my Dad and all the other stuff that's going on in my life. Maybe if you let your own stuff out once in a while, you wouldn't be having nervous breakdowns."

Beth looks away, shaking her head again. "I can't. I don't have anything to tell you."

"Bull. You obviously have something happening in your life. Hello, you're pregnant."

Gasping, Beth leans back in her seat. "How -- how did you know that?"

"I was with Kalid when he got called down for the consult by your ob-gyn." Chelsea shrugs apologetically. "Sorry. I volunteer for him, remember. But anyway, my point is, you've been keeping an awful lot inside, and that's obviously wound you up pretty tight."

"Chelsea--"

"I mean, you've never even said anything about a guy."

"Please, I ... " Beth is almost inaudible. "I can't--"

"Sure you can. I'm the best person to tell in the world. I'm not gonna judge you, I'm not gonna tell your brother or Elaine. And like I've said, I'm used to some pretty weird things. Hell, you know my family."

They ride in silence for a few minutes. Assuming that the lack of an argument signifies agreement, Chelsea casts a quick glance at Beth. "It's sorta natural for you to be uptight, considering your condition and the stress and everything. The only thing that's kinda ... unusual, I guess ... is the story you told the ob-gyn."

"The story...?"

"Well, that you haven't been with a guy in three years. That makes it sound like some Virgin Birth story or something. You're not really saying that, are you?"

Beth shakes her head slowly, and doesn't stop shaking it. Chelsea goes on. "Okay, good. So last night, I was thinking about what you might've meant, and then I thought, maybe the doctor misunderstood. Maybe what you were really saying was that you haven't been in a real relationship for three years. Because that'd make sense."

There's still no response. Chelsea sighs. "You're not gonna tell me his name, are you?"

"I don't ... I can't tell you."

"Why not? I'm not gonna spill it to anyone. Haven't I told you lots of things about my love life? I've made mistakes, and done some pretty kinky things. I figure you know enough about me to fill a tell-all book. The least you could do is tell me this."

"You don't understand."

"What's not to understand?" Chelsea glances back at her. "C'mon, just tell me his name, get it over with."

"I can't tell you because I don't know." Beth covers her mouth with her hand, letting out a muffled sob. "I don't know."

3. Boondoggles

Inside the small makeshift office, muffled noise from the building's ongoing construction fills the silence as Tristan Campbell fills his guest's mug from a steel coffee pot. Lifting the spout, he turns back to the desk with a questioning expression on his lean, youthful face. "Milk? Sugar?"

Del Gabriel, his muscular form dwarfing the small folding chair on which he sits, shakes his head. "Black's fine."

Tristan hands Del the mug and carries his own back with him to the desk, where he takes his seat. He feels strangely jumpy around this stranger, more wired than usual. Maybe it's Del's unmoving gaze, which seems to judge and measure everything it sees -- not exactly the ingratiating expression one would expect of a prospective employee. Maybe it's the fact that Tristan's still not sure what he hopes to accomplish by hiring a relative of Frank Gabriel.

Or maybe, Tristan admits to himself while taking a stirrer from a Styrofoam cup, it's because deep down, he knows exactly what he's hoping to accomplish. And part of him finds it hard to believe that he's contemplating it.

"So tell me about yourself," he says, dismissing his doubts for now. "I suppose you don't have a resume, do you?"

Del lifts a corner of his lips -- either a smile or a sneer, Tristan's not quite sure. "No. Whatever I can do for you, won't be something I'd need a resume for."

"What do you mean?"

"You want muscle, I got it. You want something sold, I can sell it. You want someone to fix problems, I can do that." Del pauses, and then gives a small chuckle of secret amusement. "And I'm real good at convincing people of things."

"Really." Tristan tilts his head. "Well then, convince me to hire you. What's your background? What kind of work experience have you had?"

After taking a long sip of coffee, Del puts the half-finished mug down on the desk in front of him. "Been working since I was twelve. Bagged groceries at the Shop 'n' Go, made fries at McDonald's, washed cars, bussed tables ... y'know, the usual bullshit jobs that earned me next to nothing. Then I started dealing."

Tristan blinks at the other man's casual announcement. "Uh -- to clarify, by 'dealing' you mean--"

"Drugs." Del's smile turns crooked. "And that earned me a lot more money."

"I'd imagine it would," Tristan murmurs. "How long were you involved in that?"

"Three, four years. 'Til they put me in prison seven years ago. Now you probably thinking, 'did he sell while inside'?" Del leans forward to emphasize his words. "The answer's no. Not so much as a dime bag."

Tristan shakes his head slightly. "That's good to hear. But what I was thinking is that I'm impressed that you're so upfront about this."

"Ain't tellin' you nothing you couldn't get by doing a background check. Besides, you said you know Franklin. Figure you'd be getting the story from him either way."

It's almost possible to miss the change of tone when Frank Gabriel's name passes Del's lips. Though his voice remains smooth and silky, there's a slight edge on the word Franklin -- a hint of contempt, perhaps? But it's only very slight -- something you'd only catch if listening for it. As Tristan has been, of course.

But he sets that aside for now, saying only, "Actually, Sergeant Gabriel and I don't speak very often. So ... you're no longer dealing. Is that because you were caught, or did you see the light?"

"Guess you could say a bit of both. But I wasn't arrested for dealing. Not only, anyway." Del's fingers absently turn the mug. Then his gaze flicks over to pierce Tristan's, almost challenging him as he quietly adds: "Mostly it was for killing someone."

4. Olivia Ortiz's Townhouse

One River Drive

Frank stares at her, understanding flooding through him at last. "You think this is about how I feel about you? You think I don't trust you?"

In the silence that follows his question, Olivia leans against one of the tall-backed chairs and crosses her arms again. Frank can see the immobility in her jaw, the wall of pride in her eyes, and knows she won't respond. Slowly he walks over to her, sighing.

"Olivia," he murmurs. "This is something that I wouldn't talk about with anyone. It's a painful part of my life that's over with -- done -- and if Del hadn't walked up to us last week, I'd gladly have never thought about it again. Now that he's back, I have to. But it's still not something I can discuss. Not with you, or Mike, or anyone else. Not because I don't trust you, but because I --" He shakes his head grimly. "I just can't."

After a long moment, Olivia places a tentative hand on his chest. "I don't like this. I don't like people keeping things from me."

Looking at her embittered gaze, Frank can guess what she's thinking about now: the terrible secrets of her own inherited illness, her husband's double life, the faked death of her father, her sister's plot to kill her ...

Olivia's had the rug pulled out from underneath her too many times. Until now, Frank hasn't even realized that she's been waiting for him to do the same thing.

"Believe me," he says as he covers her hand with his, "I do understand. And I wish to Christ this had never come up at all."

Olivia nods tightly. "But it did. How are we going to deal with it now?"

"Slowly. One day at a time, I guess."

"No, that's not what I mean." She steps closer to him. He can smell the spicy scent of her damp, freshly shampooed hair. "Is this something you need to be alone to handle? Or are you willing to be with me? To let me be a part of your life?"

Frank tightens his grasp on her hand. "I very much want you to be a part of my life," he says quietly. "Just not part of this. Can you accept that?"

"I suppose I'll have to, Sergeant." She concentrates on their entwined fingers, a small frown on her smooth, tan brow. "Damn you for making me grow accustomed to you."

The undercurrent of emotion in her voice reveals there's much she's leaving unsaid. Realizing that he hasn't ruined things after all, Frank exhales, feeling a lessening of the tension that's been knotting his stomach muscles all week. He presses closer to Olivia and she lifts her head to his, their kiss gentle at first before nervousness is overcome by desire.

The doorbell rings. A muffled moan from Olivia precedes her pulling away from Frank, staring into his eyes with regret. "The person I was expecting."

Nodding, Frank brushes his fingers across Olivia's lips. "Who is it, anyway?"

"Oh, you'll like this." Olivia tightens her robe and smoothes her hair as she glances in the nearby silver framed mirror. "I know how fond you are of the press. It's a reporter."

"You're kidding me. From the Record?"

"No, some magazine that wants to do a profile on me, Women's Digest or something like that. They called last night..." Olivia's words are rushed as she heads off to open the door.

Frank zips up his jacket and prepares to leave, but soon the voices of Olivia and the reporter echo through the foyer and catch his interest. He tilts his head, frowning. The second voice sounds familiar to him.

When he turns around, the reason is instantly clear. Olivia and the other woman have entered the living room, and Olivia gestures towards Frank. "I'd like you to meet Frank Gabriel, a friend of mine. Frank, this is the journalist I was telling you about. Her name is --"

"No need to introduce us," Frank says dryly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion at the short, solid figure of Maxine Granger. "We've met."

5. Schuyler Falls Community Hospital

Greg White sips his coffee, eyeing the chart in his hands and shaking his head. According to the SICU floor chief's early morning report, Greg's patient's condition has worsened overnight. Looks like I'll have to go back inside this afternoon. Goddamnit, he's not strong enough for another surgery, but there's not much choice...

His phone rings before he has a chance to leave the office. "Dr. White."

"Hello there, Gregory White. Long time no hear."

Knitting his brow, Greg takes a few seconds to recognize the voice. "Kaitlin? That you?"

"I'm gratified you remember me, after all this time." Kaitlin Richards -- no, it must be Alvarez by now, Greg thinks -- sounds friendly and amused. Quite different from the last time they spoke. "I thought all us women blended in with one another."

"Lots of 'em do. But you're not exactly easy to forget, as you probably know. How are you and Joe doing?"

"Just got back from our honeymoon. Thanks very much for the silver candlesticks. I was surprised that you sent a gift at all."

"Well, we had a really good thing for a while, and I hope you know I always cared about you. And I figured sending a gift would be appropriately mature." Greg smiles crookedly. "...You know, since it was my immaturity that made you break off with me."

"True. Are you still polishing your bad little boy image? Word is, a certain redheaded nurse may have tamed you."

Greg looks down at his desk, his eyebrows raised. "Not sure I like how that sounds, but ... " He hesitates and toys with the Styrofoam of his coffee cup. He's used to being the subject of hospital gossip, but having Rena be part of the speculation makes him feel very protective. She'd be mortified. "I'd rather not talk about that, to be honest."

"Really? Since when don't you kiss and tell about your latest conquests? In fact, you used to tell me about a lot more than just kissing."

Yeah, well, so far there is nothing more than just kissing, Greg thinks automatically. But obviously the extent of his and Rena's sexual activity -- or lack of it -- is not something he'd reveal to someone like Kaitlin. Truth is, his immediate bitter reaction troubles him. Especially after seeing Rena with Jem yesterday.

He shakes his head. "I'd just rather not discuss it, okay, Kait?"

"Wow, you just might have matured after all. Rena's to be congratulated for doing what none of the rest of us could accomplish."

"Look, don't you have some petri dish to analyze? Or is my love life really that fascinating to you?"

Kaitlin chuckles, a throaty sound that takes Greg back to late nights at her place, her mouth close to his ear as she whispered some incredible things to him. "Not just your love life that's fascinating, honey. Which brings me to why I'm calling."

"Good to know there's a reason, other than just the usual Greg-baiting."

"There is. The Greg-baiting is just a fun sideline." Her voice turns sober. "Actually, I wanted to give you a heads-up. You know that Administration hired a management consultant to fine-tune the way we run things?"

Greg's throat tightens. It was only yesterday that he heard about this for the first time, when he noticed his files missing thanks to this so-called consultant. "Sure, I know about her. Not her name, though."

"Maxine Grady. She was down here yesterday asking questions about how the lab staff's time is utilized. You know, spouting off about efficiency and flowcharts and all that junk. Thing is, she seemed to focus on research requests by certain doctors in particular. Including you."

"I see. Supposedly they're looking into the whole staff--"

"That may be, but if she plans on spending as much time on every single staff member as she spent on you, this management report isn't gonna be finished until the Second Coming."

"Maybe she needs her own efficiency expert," Greg says lightly, his mind busy as he contemplates what this stranger might find so interesting within the research lab. "Uh -- what did you tell her?"

"Just that you didn't put any undue burden on our staff, at least, no more than everyone else. It's not like you're sending down samples every five minutes. You've even run tests yourself, now that's a rarity."

"You told her that?"

"She seemed to know about it already, thanks to the files. And she acted like she approved -- which she should, considering that the hospital got some good publicity thanks to you a couple of years ago. Well, thanks to you and Rena, I should say."

The coffee sours in Greg's stomach, and his mouth suddenly feels as dry as sand. "Was she asking about that? About the Ortiz case?"

"Yes. I'd forgotten the name, but she had the file, and she seemed to know--"

"Wait a second. You mentioned Rena. Was she asking about her too?"

"No, Rena's name didn't come up at all. Ms. Grady wasn't interested in anyone else but you -- y'know, like most women at the hospital," Kaitlin says, clearly trying to add some levity. But she quickly reverts to her more serious tone. "So what's going on, Greg? I got the feeling she was checking up on you. And now you're jumping out of your skin. Did I do the right thing in telling you?"

"Yes, of course."

"You sure? You sound--"

"I'm fine, Kaitlin. Sorry if I sound tense, I'm just concerned about a patient in SICU." He tries to recover his bravado. "As far as this Ms. Grady is concerned, I don't care what she's looking for. I've certainly got nothing to hide from her."

He ends the conversation casually, but the minute he replaces the receiver, his face falls into a worried expression. After mulling over his possible recourses, Greg takes a deep, steadying breath and picks up the phone again.

6. Red Flame Diner

The diner is still crowded with the morning rush, but there's one less customer at the table near the kitchen. Rena Carlson has left for her early shift, first giving Clark Durand a friendly squeeze on his arm for good luck before taking off.

He knows he needs that luck as he stares across the table at Tom Fiore. Sunlight turns Tom's wavy hair a golden brown and glints off his gold watchband -- a present Clark gave him, in fact. Nothing else is bright or shining about Tom, not to Clark. Not anymore.

"All right," Clark says, cupping his coffee mug with both hands. "So now that I've allowed you to sit down, are you going to say anything, or just stare me to death?"

Tom smiles coolly. "You don't waste that bitterness on every ex-boyfriend of yours. You must still be angry about what I told Mike."

"Gee, you think? Getting me on your brother's top ten list for Most Likely Murder Suspects isn't something I should be angry about?"

"If you didn't do anything, you have no reason to be upset."

"Oh, for -- you sound like a cop." Clark shoves the coffee away, not caring that it splashes over onto the table. "Here's a newsflash for you, Tom. Innocent people don't like being accused of things they didn't do. It's a little quirk we have, you know?"

"Don't blame me. You're the one who put yourself into the spotlight."

"How?"

Taking a napkin, Tom swipes at the spilled coffee. "By making an ass of yourself with that David kid, throwing yourself at him in public. And then hanging out by his house the night he was killed. Not to mention lying about your relationship. Sounds pretty suspicious to me."

Clark can't help laughing harshly. "You're too much. The irony is so thick I can hardly believe you don't see it."

"What irony?"

"After everything you put me through when we were together ... all the affairs, all the excuses ... now you're acting this way. It's incredibly ironic."

Tom's jaw hardens. "How am I acting, exactly?"

"Jealous. Petty. Possessive." Clark smiles coldly at the younger man. "Obviously your little fling in Scotland changed you more than I thought it did. Sure wish I could shake the hand of the guy who taught you the lesson you so richly deserved."

Without a hesitation, Tom snaps his arm out and grabs Clark's wrist, jerking it towards him and twisting. "How's this, Clark? How's this for a handshake?"

Clark grunts slightly, more in surprise than from the pain. He's used to pain and can handle a lot. But the embarrassment at the thought of people watching this display makes him wince. "Let go," he mutters, feeling the familiar flood of adrenaline rushing through him. "You're the one making an ass of yourself now. Let me go!"

Tom holds on for a second or two longer, probably just for spite, and then releases him. Clark pulls back, breathing heavily and holding his hand close to his chest.

"Some ways, you haven't changed at all," he spits out. "Not at all."

"You hit a nerve, and you did it deliberately." Tom's words are quiet and measured, with some regret in his tone but not evident on his face. "How did you expect me to react?"

Rubbing his wrist, Clark shakes his head over and over again as weariness overtakes him. "What exactly do you want from me, Tom?" he asks with a sigh. "Just tell me, what?"

Tom blinks, as if not having expected such a straightforward request. "I want us to try again. I suppose that sounds strange, considering how you've been behaving towards me, but I still think--"

"How I've been behaving? Are you saying that your behavior is normal for a guy who claims to care about me?"

"I do care. I've never stopped caring." Tom leans forward, his eyes almost beseeching. "It's just ... you make me angry sometimes, Clark. I admit I've got a temper, I always have, but you provoke the hell out of me."

Clark stares at him for some time. "Jesus Christ," he whispers at last, looking away. "I can't believe I never saw it before. I can't believe I ended up loving someone I spent my entire childhood trying to escape."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

With a final shake of his head, Clark pushes himself up and grabs his coat. I'm not going through this again, he thinks as he mutters a quick goodbye to Tom and heads out the door. You've haunted me for the last time, Dad.

7. Boondoggles

When Tristan can't avoid widening his eyes in shock, Del continues, "The actual charge was involuntary manslaughter. It was an accident. Things got outta hand during a deal -- more self-defense than anything."

"I -- I see."

"Yeah, I bet. I've seen that look before." Though outwardly Del remains impassive, his eyes glitter. "Lemme tell you something. I got my ass back on track in prison. Built myself up, learned some skills in the tool workshop, even got my G.E.D. If I hadn't showed I was clean, they wouldn't'a let me out after only seven years of a twenty-five year sentence. Trust me, the system wasn't lookin' to do me no favors."

After a few seconds, Tristan nods again. "Yes, I can believe you," he says carefully, pushing back the all-too-easily accessed bitter memories of his own struggles at the hands of the legal system. "Besides, I suppose your record in prison is easy enough to confirm."

"Yeah. I'll give you the number of my probation if you wanna call him."

Believe me, I will. "Do you have any other references? Some of your earlier bosses?"

"Doubt they'd remember me. Ancient history."

Tristan pauses, then asks casually, "What about Sergeant Gabriel?"

"Talk to him if you want. I already know he ain't gonna have anything good to say. But he don't know a thing about me, who I am now. My brother and I ain't exactly on speaking terms."

"Yes, you said you weren't close. Though I didn't realize you and he were brothers."

"Accident of birth." Del's gaze remains steady, but lets his lips betray a tight, unpleasant smile. "Blood's about the only thing we got in common."

"I see. Well, it's not essential for me to speak with him. We're not friends either -- little more than acquaintances, really." Tristan doesn't elaborate, having no intention of sharing his feelings towards Frank at the present time. Sitting back in his chair, he sizes the other man up. "I have to say I admire your honesty. Even if it's a calculated move," he adds with a crooked smile of his own, "and you were trying to win my admiration. It was still a gamble you were brave enough to take."

Del lifts an eyebrow, the muscles of his broad face relaxing to reveal amusement. "Yeah, I gambled. Did I win?"

"You haven't lost. Not yet, at any rate." Tristan stands up, raising a hand towards the door. "Let me show you around the place as we talk some more. With a gift shop, coffee bar, and a nightclub after dark, there'll be plenty of jobs all around. If we find something to be a good fit, maybe we can start you on a trial basis. How would that sound?"

In a smooth motion surprising for a man of his size, Del gets to his feet. "Sounds like a good deal to me."

8. Along Franklin Street

Chelsea Stanford's Car

Tearing her gaze reluctantly from the distraught Beth back to the road, Chelsea purses her lips together with understanding. Now the other woman's shame makes even more sense.

"Ouch," she says quietly. "I didn't think about that possibility. So you don't know who the father is. Wait, do you mean it could be a couple of different guys, and you're not sure which one?"

Beth flinches. "Oh God ... no."

"Um ... so ... was this some kinda one-night-stand? You picked some guy up in a bar, and you didn't know who he--"

"No!"

"If it was, you can tell me. The sex police aren't gonna arrest you."

"I said no!"

"Okay, okay, sorry. There's gotta be some reason you're so freaked out about--" Chelsea suddenly clutches the steering wheel, a horrible realization hitting her. "Beth ... Were you ... Did someone hurt you?"

When Beth doesn't answer, staring straight ahead with tear-glazed eyes, Chelsea swallows nervously. "Look, if something like that happened, you can tell me. There's nothing to be ashamed about. You have to tell somebody, Beth. Some son-of-a-bitch can't hurt you and get away with it!"

With a cry, Beth covers her face with her hands, slumping forward slightly and trembling. At first, Chelsea's certain that she's sobbing, but after a few seconds Beth lifts her chin and turns to glare at her with dry, furious eyes.

"I don't have to tell you," she mutters. "I don't have to tell you anything."

"But you shouldn't keep this to yourself. If you were attacked, you need to--"

"Shut up. Shut up. I don't need to do anything. I'll do whatever I want!"

The rising rage in Beth's voice sends a jolt of alarm through Chelsea. "Calm down. I'm just trying to help."

"Don't tell me to calm down! And I don't need your help! I know what I can do, all on my own!"

Without warning, Beth unhooks her safety belt and starts to pull at the door handle. Chelsea lets out a short shriek and immediately slams her foot on the brake, stopping the car only seconds before Beth manages to open the door and stumbles out into the traffic.

"Oh my God," Chelsea cries, scrabbling at her own seat belt and jerking the gear shift into park. "She's gonna get herself killed!"

All around her, horns blare and drivers shout as she opens her own door and stands up to stare at her friend. "Damn it, Beth! You get your ass back here right now! You're gonna get run over!"

Cars screech to a halt to avoid Beth, whose rigid, determined body is propelling itself towards the other side of the street. Chelsea's heart lurches painfully when an oncoming car misses Beth by a hair's breadth, its driver screaming curses as he swerves to the right around her. The left fender is close enough to brush Beth's coat open as it passes by.

Despite paying no apparent attention to the chaos surrounding her, Beth somehow reaches the sidewalk safely. Relieved beyond measure, Chelsea ducks back into her car, much to the approval of the cars backed up behind her. She closes the door and starts driving again, only to park haphazardly in the nearest available spot. Though her intention is to hunt for Beth, when Chelsea gets out onto the street, she realizes that the mission is hopeless.

Beth is nowhere to be seen.

9. Olivia Ortiz's Townhouse

One River Drive

Olivia stands in the middle of her living room, caught in mid-introduction and taken aback at Frank's pronouncement. She turns to the other woman beside her. "You know each other?"

Maxine is staring pointedly at Frank, with a half-smile on her round, dimpled face. "Sure. We've run into each other once or twice. Nice to see you again, Sergeant." She glances at Olivia, putting her notebook back in the pocket of her leather jacket. "Um, it looks like I've interrupted you guys -- maybe I'll do this another time?"

"No, don't let me stop you," Frank says, holding a hand up in mock surrender. "Wouldn't want to get in the way of a free press. Go right ahead, I'm fascinated to see a real reporter in action."

Olivia scowls at his sarcastic tone. "Uh, Frank," she mutters, pulling at his sleeve. "I think you should go."

"Actually I think I should stay. Someone should re-introduce this woman to you."

"Sergeant Gabriel," Maxine says quickly, "can we talk privately for a second?"

"Won't make a difference." Frank shakes his head. "Not going to help you pull one over on Ms. Ortiz here, sorry."

Switching her gaze from one to the other, Olivia practically stamps her foot in frustration. "All right, what are you two talking about? What's going on?"

Frank smiles innocently at Maxine. "You want to tell her, or should I?"

"Fine." Inhaling, Maxine shrugs her broad shoulders and faces Olivia. "Ms. Ortiz, I'm sorry, but the truth is, I'm not a reporter. I'm a private investigator, and I need to ask you a few questions. The magazine story was the easiest way to get an interview with you."

Olivia just stares at her as anger -- and not a little embarrassment -- tightens her chest. "You'd better go," she says at last, moving away to the corridor. "Now."

"Wait, please!" Maxine's voice follows her, and Olivia finds her hand tugging at Olivia's arm. "Please, this is very important. The case I'm working on, it's--"

"Let go of me!" Olivia jerks herself away, glaring at the shorter woman. "How dare you sneak your way in here, lying to me like that! Who are you working for? What are you trying to dig up?"

Frank has moved quickly to join them. "You all right, Livvy?"

"Yes, Frank, thank you for telling me the truth. But you don't need to hang out here. I can handle myself with this person."

He nods, glancing at Maxine. "This isn't about the matter we were working on yesterday, is it?"

"No, as a matter of fact, it's something else entirely," Maxine says, adding dryly, "And yeah, like she said, thanks for sharing the truth. Good to see professional courtesy's alive and well."

"Sorry, Maxine, but I've got my priorities." Frank kisses Olivia's cheek, murmuring, "You sure you want me to go?"

Olivia closes her eyes briefly, pleased to have Frank close again -- but wishing he hadn't seen this little liar make a fool of her. "Yes. Thank you. See you later?"

"Definitely."

When Frank leaves, Olivia keeps her hand on the opened door. "I'm waiting for answers, Ms. Grady. Or is that even your name?"

Maxine crosses to her. "No, it's not. Listen, I'm sorry about the cover. It's been my experience that people don't usually let me in without--"

"I want to know who hired you to snoop into my life!" Olivia's mind quickly considers the possibilities, starting with the most obvious choice. "Was it Tristan Campbell?"

"No. It wasn't anyone -- this has nothing to do with you, not directly."

Cold from the morning air, Olivia slowly closes the door. "Then what exactly is it about?"

"Sorry, I'm not sure I can go into specifics."

"No?" Olivia twists the doorknob again. "Then you can specifically get the hell out of here."

Darting forward, Maxine blocks the door from opening with her palm. "No, wait a second, okay? Will you at least hear me out a little? I mean, what's the harm? You can always refuse to answer the questions if you don't like 'em."

Pressing her lips together tightly, Olivia contemplates the private detective. "All right. What is your real name?"

"Maxine Granger." As Olivia's eyes widen, Maxine nods and gives her a little smile. "Yeah, I think you know my father pretty well."

The family resemblance now hits home, and Olivia can't believe she didn't see it before. "And your mother too. So you're Frances and Ronald's daughter. Oh, I bet they must be proud."

"They are, actually, thanks." Maxine seems not to have realized that Olivia was being sarcastic -- or, perhaps more likely, she's willfully ignoring it. She doesn't seem dim enough not to catch Olivia's meaning. "Anyway, the thing is, Ms. Ortiz, this case is really important. It's kind of a life or death situation."

"Spare me the drama and get to the point."

Nodding again, Maxine turns her head. "You mind if we sit down? I like to take notes while I ask questions, and it's easier if I have something to lean on..."

"Fine."

They return to the living room, where Maxine takes a seat on the black leather couch. She crosses her denim-clad legs and flips out her notebook. "Okay. I'm doing some research into the inner workings of Schuyler Falls Community Hospital. I think you have some information that could be useful to me."

Olivia leans against the mantelpiece, crossing her arms over her chest. "I wasn't expecting that," she murmurs, staring at Maxine. "The hospital? What on earth do I have to do with that? I don't even donate anything there."

"You did stay there for some time awhile back, though. And you've had follow-up visits that tapered off oh, about six months or so. That right?"

"How the hell did you get that information? I thought patients' records are confidential!"

"They are. Trust me, your health information is gonna stay totally confidential, Ms. Ortiz. This isn't about your health status. Although from what I understand, you're in great shape now ... which is amazing, considering how dire your situation was. You must be pretty happy with your treatment."

Moistening her lips, Olivia nods. "I have no complaints about my treatment."

"I understand that your case was pretty unusual. That the medical personnel were basically baffled by your disease, and had to look to some unconventional methods to find a cure."

"And what if they did? They'd never seen someone with my symptoms. No one understood this syndrome at all, no one except -- " The still-painful words my father die unspoken on Olivia's lips, and she closes her mouth quickly. After a few seconds, she shakes her head. "At least they finally came up with something before it was too late."

Maxine meets her gaze, her brown eyes large and -- apparently -- honest. "I know you've got to be grateful to your doctors. But here's the thing, Ms. Ortiz. There's a possibility that someone on staff has been a little sloppy with medical procedures. Dispensing medications improperly is part of this person's pattern of suspicious behavior. You were cured, so luckily that didn't happen with you--"

"Luckily." Olivia smiles without humor. "Especially if the hospital wants to avoid my considering a malpractice suit."

"The hospital is concerned about losing lives, not money."

"Oh, please. Your father's a lawyer, you can't seriously expect me to think you're that naive."

Maxine shakes her head dismissively. "All I'm saying is that in your case, obviously no harm was done. But someone else might not be that lucky in the future. You understand what I'm saying?"

"Of course I do." Olivia takes a deep breath, hesitating before asking the obvious question -- who are you talking about? During the silence, the ring of her cell phone makes her start.

She excuses herself and moves through the open glass doors to the kitchen, where she left the phone last night. Closing the doors behind her, she flips the phone open and answers, "Hello?"

"Hi, is this Olivia?"

"Yes, who is this?"

The man on the other end sighs as if relieved . "Glad I caught you in. It's Greg White, from the hospital. Am I calling at a good time?"

Raising an eyebrow, Olivia glances through the French windows to the dining room beyond, where she can see Maxine idly tapping her pen on her notebook.

"Yes, doctor," she murmurs. "Your timing is impeccable."

10. Hudson Street

Ignoring the people passing by -- people who are casting tactful sidelong glances in her direction -- Bitsy continues stomping along on Hudson Street. With both hands she grasps a sheet of yellow paper torn from a phone book she found in a deli. Molly wouldn't approve of the vandalism, but Bitsy hardly cares at this point. She's beyond listening to Molly.

Coming to an intersection, she stops short and grimaces up at the street names. They're no help, since neither matches the address written in the ad, and Bitsy grinds her teeth in annoyance.

When someone bumps past her, she grabs her coat sleeve. "'Scuse me," she says bluntly when the older woman turns around in surprise. Bitsy thrusts the piece of paper towards the stranger. "Can you tell me where this is?"

"Fifty-five Second Street ... Well, we're on First now, so you want the next block over. Then turn right -- oh, wait, excuse me, I think number Fifty-five would be on the left."

"Make up your mind. Do you think or do you know?"

The stranger frowns, pulling back slightly. "There's no need to be rude. I'm just trying to help."

"God, the way everyone says that makes me totally vomit." Bitsy snatches back the paper and starts walking, paying no attention to whatever the old woman has to say.

After she turns onto 2nd Street, however, Bitsy is pleased that as unsure as the woman was, she seems to have been right on the money when it comes to directions. Sure enough, she finds #55, a brown brick building, square and squat with no architectural embellishments other than a gold stenciled name on the thick glass doors. The words match the ad on the yellow phone book page, which is all that Bitsy needs to know.

The only thing that gives her pause is the sight of a uniformed man waiting by the side of the building. At first she assumes he's a cop, but the closer she gets, she realizes that his outfit is different from the usual policeman uniforms in Schuyler Falls. And when she reaches the door she can plainly see the sewn-on patch on his left arm: Gold Shield Security Co.

"Just a minute, miss," he says when she starts up the stairs. "Mind if I check that purse?"

Bitsy clutches it closely, frowning at him. "Why?"

"Standard procedure these days. You never know what kinda kooks are around."

Swallowing, Bitsy hesitates. "You'll give it back?"

He looks at her strangely. "Uh, sure. You can hold it, if you want. I just need to check the inside."

"Um. Okay." Bitsy watches him with a suspicious glare, not trusting him one bit. But after a quick rummage through the brown leather bag, he snaps it shut and gestures to the door. With a relieved exhale she pushes her way inside.

The front desk is only a few yards away from the entrance, and Bitsy leans up against it expectantly. A tall, thin woman with pretty blonde hair the exact shade that Bitsy's always wanted smiles at her. "Hi there. Can I help you?"

"Yeah." Bitsy bites her lip, suddenly nervous, but forces the embarrassing emotion away by shoving the yellow paper onto the desk. "I saw this ad. I know what you do in here, and I want you to do it for me."

The blonde takes the paper automatically, looking down at the Second Street Clinic ad. "Well ... we do many things here. What exactly do you mean?"

"There's a baby," Bitsy says, pressing her stomach with her fist. "There's a baby and I want to get rid of it. Now."