Greg White's Suite

Cliffside Caverns Hotel

The young man reaches his destination after walking only a few feet from the bank of elevators, his brown Ferragamos sinking into the thick nap of the hallway's fawn-colored carpet. Ian Nichols has been to the Cliffside Caverns Hotel once before, and back then he could take notice of his surroundings out of idle curiosity. But his mission today is far more critical than merely issuing an invitation to an opera to spite his stepmother. For all the notice Ian is now taking of the tasteful, art deco-inspired silver and cream wallpaper that surrounds him, the hallway might as well be decorated with dancing bears.

He presses the doorbell, expecting a brief wait before Daphne White opens the door. Instead he gets an immediate "it's open!" call from inside the suite. Tilting his head in curiosity at Daphne's playful tone, Ian turns the brass knob to enter. When she's not standing in front of him as expected, his gaze moves instantly to the figure lying on the sofa about two yards away. And his breath catches in his throat.

She's draped herself along the sofa, her bare legs bent slightly at the knees, one arm resting on the cushion beside her and the other hand pulling absently at a damp strand of her gleaming brown hair. Her eyes are closed, their soft sooty lashes contrasting with her pearl-like skin, and her glossy lips quiver with a sweet, tilted smile that looks ready to erupt with giggles.

Ian swallows. Of course, he's thought Daphne attractive before. On the night of the opera, she looked like a porcelain doll in her pink satin gown, with her wide brown eyes, full lips and slim, sylph-like figure that trembled against him when overwhelmed by the intimidating crowd. But the feelings she inspired at the time were protective -- he'd felt like someone escorting his innocent younger cousin to a dance.

Like her opera gown, Daphne's current outfit is also a shade of pink ... but that's where the similarity ends. The lingerie is clearly designed for an older, much more sophisticated woman. What little material does exist has been fabricated from nearly transparent lace, with silk straps that practically disappear next to her skin. The neckline plunges dangerously low, threatening to expose the entirety of her small but round breasts with one false move. And the material is so sheer and short it's obvious she's wearing nothing beneath the teddy.

Staring down in enrapt silence, Ian cannot believe how achingly lovely she is -- not just due to the trappings of lace and silk, but for her obvious delight at having put herself on display in this bold attempt at seduction.

A seduction, he reminds himself while taking a long, deep breath, that is definitely not aimed at him.

Suddenly annoyed at both himself and Daphne, Ian shatters the moment.

"Wow, this is ... quite a greeting," he says, the words softer and far less sarcastic than intended.

Daphne's eyes fly open. Her smile turns to a gape-mouthed "O" of horror as he approaches her and continues: "I presume you were expecting someone else. The mailman? A pair of Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"Oh my God," she croaks, jerking herself into a seated position. Her arms wrap themselves around her almost completely exposed chest, and she hurriedly pulls her knees more tightly together. "What are you doing here? Get out!"

Ian tries to smile reassuringly. "Sorry to startle you, Daphne. You did invite me in. I just wasn't expecting--"

"Neither was I!" Her face beet-red, she reaches out a hand and grabs wildly to cover herself with a bulky but too-short cushion.

Though amused by this ineffectual effort, Ian feels a little flushed himself, and quickly leans over to pick up a cashmere blanket draped over an armchair. "Here," he says, tossing it to her. "But you're closing the barn door after the horses have fled. Not much more left that I haven't seen."

"Oh my God," Daphne repeats in misery while wrapping herself in the soft purple material. She shakes her head and pushes herself off the couch with some difficulty thanks to the cocoon-like blanket. "I hope you enjoyed getting a cheap thrill. You could've told me you were you a lot sooner!"

"What can I say? The first thing I saw when I came in was ... " Ian gestures towards the sofa, and then at Daphne's form in front of him. "I mean, I'm only human. Give me a few seconds to recover."

Grimacing, Daphne pushes her hair away from her face. Ian notices that her thick brown mane has already grown quite a bit since Christmas, its soft, straight ends now brushing the top of her shoulders. The length makes her face look leaner, older -- even more like the adult she'll soon become.

"You still haven't told me what you're doing here," she mutters, interrupting his thoughts. "I mean, don't you have work or something?"

"Yes, and I'll be heading there after I finish with you. Don't you have school?"

"I'm taking today off. And that's another thing, how did you even know I was here?"

"I took a chance. According to Arleigh, you've been out sick for a week." Ian can't help a sidelong glance at her still-covered figure. "A cold due to exposure, presumably."

She flushes but ignores the insinuation. "I haven't been in the mood for school, okay? Is that such a strange --" Daphne cuts her words off, her eyes opening wide. "Wait a minute, are you saying you called them? You called my school?"

"I'm sorry, but I wouldn't have had to if you'd returned any of my calls. I tried to reach you here once yesterday, and I must have left four or five messages on your cell phone since then."

Daphne looks embarrassed and toys with the edge of the blanket. "Well ... my cell service was turned off. I'm kind of having money issues..." She glances down at her hands. "And now I do remember getting your message here yesterday, but things were weird at the hospital, and I guess I spaced out." She exhales wearily. "I'm sorry, Ian."

The protective impulse rises up in him again, and he has a sudden desire to take her by the shoulders and draw her nearer. Instead he asks, "What do you mean, weird? Is your father all right?"

"He's much better. Physically, anyway. Sometimes I don't know if he'll ever be ready..." She gives a weak shake of her head. "Forget it. You don't need to hear about this, and I'm sick of bad news myself."

Turning away from her, Ian tightens his lips before speaking. "Well, I'm sorry, Daphne, but I'm going to be the bearer of more bad tidings. I need you to come with me to my uncle's house tonight."

He hears her small gasp. "What? Why?"

There's no point in delaying it any longer, and Ian girds himself for her reaction by staring at her with a steel-like gaze. "Because Aunt Hannah knows you were the one to kidnap Hope," he says bluntly. "She knows because I told her."

Nick and Hannah Nichols' Estate

East Cornwall

The cluttered library belonging to Nick and Hannah Nichols seems smaller the moment that Laurie Nichols enters, with the wide skirt of her potential wedding dress flowing behind her like a river of foamy chiffon.

Jonnie Adair nearly gawks at her, hiding his reaction only by glancing down at his watch with apparent impatience. But he can still feel the impact of seeing the sunlight turning her hair into coppery fire, a stunning contrast to the smooth paleness of her faintly freckled skin. ... Which is plenty on display thanks to her sleeveless, low-cut gown.

Right now she's saying something to Hannah that seems to trouble the older woman, and Jonnie blinks away his pensive, almost hypnotized mood in order to listen. "Yeah, I do think lookin' out for yourself's the most important thing, no matter what," Laurie says, releasing her grip on the hem of her gown so it falls to the floor. "In the end, that's all we've got in life."

Hannah, who's holding Hope in her arms, looks up at her sister-in-law with an unusually solemn expression. "Wait until you have children. Your priorities will change, trust me, and you'll see that you have to take other people into consideration --"

"Oh please. Kids are just little add-ons to yourself. Hell, I think parents are more self-absorbed than the rest of us."

"How can you say that?"

"Look at you -- you're pretty single-minded these days, first with the twins and now that one. You'd do anything if it meant helpin' your kids in some way, wouldn't you? Wouldn't think twice about someone else's feelin's if Hope needed somethin' and they got in your way. You don't think that's selfish?" When Hannah doesn't respond, Laurie nods in satisfaction. "See? An' Hope isn't even your own."

Jonnie can see the flicker of pain in Hannah's eyes, and he steps forward slightly. "You're wrong, Ms. Nichols," he mutters. "She is Hannah's. Taking care of her and making sure she's safe ... that stuff's the only thing that counts. Doesn't matter who her other parents are."

Both women turn to Jonnie. Hannah sends him a look of gratitude and understanding. "I'd better go get ready," she says softly. "Then we can head out together, okay, Jonnie?"

He nods and watches her leave the room, feeling the weight of Laurie's stare.

"Well well," Laurie murmurs once they're alone together, sounding half surprised, half amused. "Limo driver, mechanic, bodyguard, right-hand man ... an' now a baby expert too. You just keep comin' up with new talents, don't you?"

"I'm not an expert on babies, Ms. Nichols. Don't know anything about 'em. But I was a foster kid too, back in the day. So was Hannah. A good foster parent's worth ten crappy real parents."

Laurie tilts her head, a kind of effortless shrug. "So ... I guess you think I owe Hannah an apology."

"Not for me to say."

"Wasn't supposed to be an insult. Truth is truth, an' sooner or later that baby's gonna be leavin' here."

Jonnie glances out in the direction Hannah took through the corridor, troubled by the thought of Hannah having to give Hope up. "She and Nick could adopt her. You never know."

"Sure, if the poor kid's parents are even more screwed up than before. That's somethin' to wish for, huh?" Laurie smiles crookedly and dismisses the topic with a look into the mirror. "Trust Hannah to leave without tellin' me her opinion," she murmurs at her reflection, brushing a hand down the front of her gown. She then speaks more loudly to him. "What are you even doin' here? Shouldn't you be runnin' around with Dean when Nick's not here?"

"I came by to see him, I thought he had work for me. But Hannah says he's off somewhere." Jonnie shrugs. "Happens. He has his own projects he doesn't use me for."

Laurie doesn't seem to be listening, still examining herself critically. "So where's she takin' Hope, anyway?"

"To the doctor's for a checkup." After a slight pause, Jonnie clears his throat. "It looks good."

"Good? That kid oughtta be as healthy as a horse, the way Hannah--"

"No, I mean -- " He gestures awkwardly towards her. "That. The dress looks good on you."

Laurie turns to him slowly, the rustle of the satin and chiffon the only sound in the room. "You a fashion expert too?"

"No, I just know what I like."

She smiles, her eyes looking sleepier than usual. "My, my, you're not flirtin' with me, are you?"

"You know I'm not." Jonnie refuses to get drawn into a trap. "I'm just saying any guy'd be happy seeing you walk down the aisle in that."

She meets his gaze for some time before breaking the connection. "Yeah, well, that's what I live for, " she says eventually, looking back at her twin in the mirror. "Makin' others happy."

West Schuyler Road

Schuyler Falls

The unmarked police car drives along Schuyler Road for nearly fifteen miles of farmland. Mike Fiore adjusts the rear view mirror, which is reflecting the bright sun from the east behind him, and glances at the man next to him. "You finished yet?"

Bill Howard hands him the rest of the box of donut dots -- what few are left after he's scarfed his way through them. The young man wipes a trace of powdered sugar from his chin and retrieves his cup of coffee. "Nice of you to bring 'em in. What's the occasion?"

"Nothing. I knew we had to take a little trip, and I figured if your mouth was stuffed with donuts, you wouldn't be nagging me the whole time."

Chuckling, Bill takes a sip from his mug. "You're still pissed about the other day, huh? I don't get it. The double-wedding thing was a joke."

Mike grimaces. "I don't find the idea that funny. Martina deserves her own ceremony."

"Well, okay, yeah, I'm not saying she doesn't. But I was just talking about the coincidence, you and Marty getting engaged right now, right before Vic gets married. Takes you thirty-four years to do it, and your brother's sat on his hands for two years, and now suddenly it's every Fiore running down the aisle practically at the same time. At this rate, your kid sister--"

"Don't even go there."

Bill shrugs. "Sorry. The only reason I brought it up was that I saw Vic at the tailor's getting his tux. We got to talking about our college times and stuff, and he was surprised I didn't know he was getting married so soon, since you and me work together. Can't say I blame him--"

"I didn't realize you wanted all the gossip in my life. Now will you please drop it?" Mike glares at him for a few seconds to make sure Bill gets the point, and then returns his attention to the road. "There it is," he mutters after spying the large, friendly blue sign up ahead. "Did this guy say where we're supposed to go?"

"Nope. Just pitched a fit because we didn't rush over there the second he complained. Like an abandoned old car is a life-or-death situation."

"Great. Sounds like we'll have a fun time with him." Mike swings the car to the left, pulling into a wide, gravelly driveway before stopping by a large unfinished fence. Through the open window he can smell the damp grass as it dries in the sun, along with the less pleasant odor of manure. "Perils of country life," he remarks when he notices the expression on Bill's face. "Always thought you were a farmboy."

"Yeah, that's what everyone thinks. City boy, born and bred. Don't let the healthy complexion fool you -- just comes from clean living."

Grinning, Mike is about to comment when his cell phone rings. As Bill opens the door and steps out, Mike flips the phone to his ear. "Detective Fiore."

"It's me." Frank Gabriel's voice is as familiar as any family member. "You get to the farm yet?"

"Just arrived. What's up?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to let you know that Griswold just called from the hospital. He's got the results of Rick Henderson's autopsy."

Mike's mouth turns into a hard line for a few seconds before he nods to himself. He still can't hear the name of Martina's attacker without feeling a dull pain in his stomach. "Uh huh. So what's the story?"

"Straightforward, as far as your average violent junkie goes. Technically he died of a pulmonary edema, but it was brought on by an OD. Night before he died, he took a sick amount of heroin and crack, plus some morphine just for the hell of it --"

"Jesus."

"Yeah, must've had a nice binge for himself after tearing your place up." Frank hesitates, probably to read his notes. "Uh, there were some recent bruises that were healing at the time of death, which I'll bet are from getting his ass handed to him by your pal Noah Morgan. And then one big head wound that fits in with the blood we saw on the wall behind him. Griswold says he probably fell back against it at some point in the night."

"But this wasn't what killed him."

"No, it was just a dent. I told you, he died from an overdose like we thought."

Mike takes a deep breath, then exhales. "All right. I suppose that ends that, then."

"You sound disappointed. The guy can't get any deader, what more do you want?"

"Nothing. I'm not disappointed, really, forget it. Just wish I could've ... I don't know, done something in this case. I didn't find him, I didn't arrest him, nothing. The whole case is wrapped up with a nice little bow and I didn't do a damn thing."

Frank makes an exasperated noise. "You're getting your role mixed up, Mike. You were a victim here, remember?"

"Right. You think you'd feel any different in my shoes?"

"I couldn't fit into your shoes with a crowbar. Just be happy this dirtbag got the punishment he deserved, okay?"

Unable to argue that point, Mike just thanks him for the information and joins Bill on the long walk across the pasture.

Greg White's Suite

Cliffside Caverns Hotel

Daphne nearly loses her hold on the blanket wrapped around her body. She gawks up at Ian, unable for a few seconds to comprehend what he's just revealed.

"You didn't," she says when her ability to speak returns. "I don't believe you. You've got to be joking."

Ian's lean face seems hard and grim. "I'm sorry, it's the truth. I told Hannah--"

"But you promised. You promised you wouldn't tell!"

"Not precisely. I promised I'd do my best to keep you safe. I'm still going to keep that promise."

She shakes her head, a tremor running through her. "And you're doing that, how, exactly? By letting them know what I did? Aren't you constantly saying that your family's not the forgiving type?"

"Yes, and I--"

"All along I wanted to admit what happened," Daphne says hoarsely, stepping towards him until she's only inches away. "All along I thought it was better to come clean. But you made me keep the secret because you said I'd be in serious trouble if they found out. Now without even asking me, you go and spill everything to--"

"I had no other option, Daphne. Aunt Hannah knew. She'd figured it out on her own."

"Great, so you filled in the blanks for her? Real big of you. How did she figure it out?"

He sighs. "She must have put two and two together after seeing you at the opera. I suppose it was inevitable. My family does not consist of fools."

"Except for you," she snaps. "You brought me to the opera. You said she wouldn't recognize me!"

Ian looks away from her. "I made a mistake. A very stupid mistake for a very stupid reason."

The acknowledgement doesn't appease her anger. "What was the reason? Why did you invite me in the first place?" When he doesn't answer, she grabs hold of his sleeve, forcing him to turn his gaze back to her direction "You're playing games with my life! Not only my life ... my sister's, too!"

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend for things to end up this way. If you just listen to me, we might be able to--"

"Forget it, Ian Nichols! I think I've listened to you enough!"

"Just calm down, will you? Getting hysterical won't solve anything."

His air of superiority has always grated on her, but now Daphne can barely keep from slapping him. "Then what will? Why did you come over here, anyway? Just to give me the good news that the police are on their way over here to arrest me?"

"Not quite," he says dryly. "I told you, I want you to come with me to Uncle Nick's house tonight. We need to talk to Aunt Hannah, to make her understand why you did what you did."

"W-why?" Daphne shudders again at the thought of having to confront the older woman. "I thought you already told her everything."

"No, not everything. I didn't tell her that you're Hope's sister, and I didn't tell her the truth about you and me."

"There is no you and me."

Ian smiles crookedly. "That's what I didn't tell her. She still thinks we're involved, and have been since before the kidnapping."

"Why did you let her keep thinking--"

"Because I don't want her to know I've been lying to her, all right? Besides, I think -- I know -- you'll be safer if everyone thinks you're important to me."

...Even though I'm not, Daphne finishes the thought, somewhat alarmed by the disappointment that wells up within her. Nervously pushing the emotion aside, she takes a deep breath. "Will -- will your uncle be there?"

"No. That's precisely why we have to do this tonight. We need to deal with Aunt Hannah on her own, first. We don't want her telling Uncle Nick about this, especially not if she's still angry. He --" Ian hesitates, looking as if he's trying to find the right words. "He holds grudges."

"Yeah. You've told me." Daphne suddenly feels weak and tired, the energy from earlier this morning depleted all at once. She turns away from Ian. "I can't take this any more," she blurts, knowing that she's sounding like a baby but unable to stop herself. "I don't want to go."

"You have to. It's the only way, believe me."

Sitting back down on the sofa, Daphne covers her eyes, no longer caring about the blanket. "I'm so tired of this. All of it ... everything. My life's been one thing after another, for the past two years. I don't think I can take any more. I just want to go back to the way things were."

"You can't." His voice sounds quiet but firm. "No one can. Trust me, there are things I wish I could do over again. But all we can do is go on. In a weird way, things like this can actually make you a better person. A stronger person."

"Oh my God, that is such utter bullshit!" Enraged, she stands up and advances on him. "How the hell do I get strong by seeing my mother get thrown in prison? Or my sister getting taken away from me?" She slaps at his chest with impassioned emphasis. "Or a father losing his job and being an addict and nearly dying in an accident?"

Ian takes hold of her to keep her from hitting him again, his slim but powerful fingers curling around her bare arms. "By surviving it all," he hisses, staring down at her with piercing dark eyes. "You get strong by surviving and realizing that you have survived. You didn't crawl into a hole and wither away, did you? You're still here, fighting."

Shaken by his proximity and the truth of his words, Daphne feels goosebumps rising on her skin. She barely hears his gentle question as he continues, "So will you keep fighting, Daphne? Will you go tonight?"

"All right," she whispers. "But I'm afraid."

"Fear isn't always a bad thing. It's healthy, sometimes." He smiles unexpectedly, the curve of his lips affectionate and warm. "But as far as tonight goes, you don't have to be afraid. I'll be there with you."

Daphne nods, and almost unconsciously lifts her face slightly towards him, closing her eyes. She wants him to kiss her -- it's a natural moment for a kiss, even just a small, encouraging gesture between friends.

But after a slight pause, Ian releases her, backing away. When she opens her eyes, she finds him heading quickly to the door. "I'll pick you up after work. Seven all right?"

Hugging herself, again feeling naked and embarrassed, Daphne nods silently. Ian casts a final wry glance in her direction as he leans forward to pull the door handle. "I recommend wearing something a little more formal."

As the door swings open, Daphne gasps when Ian nearly bumps into the waiting figure of Tyler Stanford.

Chelsea Stanford's Office

C&B Department Store

Sitting at her desk, Chelsea Stanford shoves one of her never-ending supply of pencils into the mass of long golden hair she's twisted into a knot on top of her head. Once that job's done, she presses the REDIAL button on her phone, listening for the third time to the sequence of tones she's now memorized.

But again the answering machine picks up, the same damn outgoing message causing her to clench her teeth. With a weary sigh, she finally decides to wait for the "beep" instead of hanging up. "Hi, this message is for Beth," she says while trying to keep the irritation and worry from her voice -- just in case Beth's brother checks their answering machine first. "It's Chelsea calling again. I'm sorry we, uh, lost track of each other this morning."

A sudden flash of memory makes Chelsea close her eyes, reliving the fear and helplessness she'd felt earlier when Beth practically leapt from her car and dashed out into oncoming traffic. She swallows and shakes her head. "I tried to -- to catch up with you, but I -- I wasn't able to. Then I had to get into the office, but I've been --" Chelsea just barely stops herself from finishing with scared shitless. "-- Um, I've been trying to get in touch with you. So can you just please call me back when you get this? I really need to talk, okay?"

She hangs up with a harsh exhale. This is all too familiar. Chelsea can hardly believe she's gotten sucked back into the same pattern of her childhood, and yet here she is: the dread, the unpredictability, the half-truths leading to outright lies, and even the weight of responsibility. Shouldn't have pushed her, she thinks, wishing she could take back the escalating argument that led to Beth's latest freakout. When the hell am I gonna learn?

Beth's situation isn't only worrisome because it's happening to a friend. Chelsea's own future is at stake here: she's hitched her wagon to Beth's star, which is ascending thanks to Danielle Nichols being willing to anoint her as designer for that chi-chi Brazilian clothing store. At the time, Beth wasn't certain she was ready, and now Chelsea has to agree with her. In spades.

Trouble is, Chelsea suspects that the marketing position at the store that Danielle offered her is a package deal: she'll have a job only if she gets Beth on board. A risky proposition, considering Beth's latest breakdown, not to mention the boatload of insecurities the chick has even on a good day. And with no more money coming in from the newspaper, Chelsea can't risk losing this opportunity: she needs to find another job ASAP.

Which means either hoping that Beth gets better fast, or sucking up to Danny Nichols some more so she'll want me on my own.

Grabbing a pencil, she nibbles on the eraser tip for a moment before picking up the phone again. Sucking up's a safer bet.

A quick look in her Rolodex later, Chelsea punches in Danielle Nichols' cell phone number. When the phone picks up, Danielle's voice sounds a little out of breath. "Hello?"

"Hi, Danielle, this is Chelsea Stanford. Sorry, did I get you at a bad time?"

"Somewhat, yes. What is it I can do for you?"

"I didn't mean to bother you, I just -- uh, I just wanted to thank you for the job offer again. In fact, I was hoping that maybe we could meet for lunch to talk about --"

"That would be lovely, but I'm extremely busy this week."

Chelsea winces at the dismissiveness in the older woman's voice, but forces herself to remain confident. "Of course, I figured there'd be a waiting list," she jokes. "Actually I'm swamped too. Um, you can pick the date, maybe that'd be better?"

"I don't have access to my calendar just now." Danielle sounds almost amused. "Let's decide another time."

"Sure. Sure, that's fine. Oh, wait, before I forget --" Chelsea twists the phone wire around her nervous fingers. "Thanks for the recommendation to your sister, I really appreciate that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The wedding gig. Your sister called me earlier today, said you'd recommended me as a photographer--"

"Oh, you mean my sister-in-law. Yes, considering the loss of the newspaper, I thought you might appreciate some freelance opportunities. I've mentioned your name here and there."

Chelsea flushes, unable to keep the broad grin from her face. "That's -- wow, that's really nice of you. Means a lot to me for someone like you--"

"Not at all, your work at the Record was certainly stellar. I hope--"

Danielle's voice drops out, and Chelsea blinks in surprise. After saying "hello" a few times, she realizes that the connection must have been lost. Even rich folks can't get good cell service, she thinks with a smirk as she carefully replaces the receiver. Well, better not call her back, don't wanna piss her off.

About to return to some paperwork, Chelsea is startled -- but pleased -- by the shrill ring of her phone. If Danny bothers to call me back, she must think I'm worth the time! She keeps her tone casual. "Hello, Chelsea Stanford speaking."

"Miss Stanford?" It's not Danielle after all, but a low, almost monotonic male voice. "My name's Ed Sherwood. I hear you're a photographer, is that right?"

Chelsea almost laughs. Man, when it rains, it pours! Relieved that her day is finally taking a turn for the better, she responds in the affirmative. "Did Danny Nichols tell you about me?"

"Who? Uh, no, I got your name from a friend. Look, I've got kind of an emergency. The guy I hired to take some pictures of my kid's party cut out on me and I need a substitute. You free to meet this afternoon, 'bout noon or so? The party's after school, but my wife wants to make sure you get a feel for the location."

"Well, hold on a sec. I don't do this full time, and I kind of have another j--"

"There's six hundred bucks in it for you."

Her eyes widen. The figure represents most of her rent, or three payments on her car ... "I'll have to reschedule another appointment," she lies, trying to conceal her excitement. "But okay. Tell me where I have to go."

Listening, Chelsea scribbles down the address even as she silently offers up a prayer of thanksgiving. For the first time in a while, things are definitely looking up.

Alex Eckhert's Suite

Cliffside Caverns Hotel

In the otherwise silent bedroom, Danielle Nichols lets out a soft moan, surprising the man on top of her into stopping his activity.

"I don't believe it," Alex Eckhert mutters as he stares down into Danielle's wide green eyes. His thin lips curl into a smile of triumph. "You're actually enjoying yourself. And what's more, you're letting me know that you're enjoying yourself."

She moves impatiently beneath him. "So naturally you stop," she whispers. "Always the sadist."

Alex kisses her, letting his fingers resume their teasing movements as he continues to thrust himself into her. "You deserve it," he says in a soft shuddering groan, "That's what you get for making me wait while you take a phone call."

"You didn't have to grab it from me and throw it into the wall. You're an animal."

"As if you have a problem with that." He bends down and bites her on the shoulder, not gently. "Next time you'd better not answer the damn phone."

"I was -- " She inhales sharply as he starts moving faster. "I was afraid it might be Cameron."

Alex gives a gasping laugh, lifting his body slightly before pushing forward again. "Afraid like hell. You were hoping it was him. You'd love to have him on the phone right now, wouldn't you?" He sees her eyes close at the thought, and he pushes harder. "Wouldn't you, Danny?"

"Yes," she breathes. "Yes I would."

"You want your husband in Atlantic City, listening to you, not realizing I'm here giving you what he can't ..."

"Yes."

"And you call me a sadist," he murmurs, and for some time they continue without speaking.

When Alex finally rolls over onto his side of the bed, they breathe heavily for a while before Danielle raises her head to look at him. "So who would you want to listen?"

His eyes closed, Alex frowns. "Excuse me?"

"Who would you want on the other end of a phone, listening to us?" She pauses, then adds with a slight chuckle. "Martina Rosenoff, I suppose?"

Alex's eyes dart open. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you say you hate her, but I suspect this means you still have feelings for her. It's natural enough. You were once engaged, after all."

"That was a long time ago. I told you I broke things off with her. She means nothing to me, except as a nuisance who knows too much about my affairs." He lowers his voice, which has grown agitated. "I don't even know why you'd bring her up in the first place."

Danielle turns onto her side, facing him. "Now, really. Don't you think we need to discuss her? There isn't much time."

He looks up at the ceiling, pretending the tiles are of remarkable interest to him. "Is that why you arranged this morning get-together, out of the blue?"

"I thought we could use the opportunity to make sure things go smoothly--"

"Danny, I know what I'm doing. You don't need to worry about it. It doesn't involve you."

"That's a remarkably idiotic thing to say," Danielle says, lifting a finger to trace a path along his arm. "Her knowledge puts me at risk."

"I'm at risk from this too -- more so than you are, as you've said repeatedly. You can rest assured that I will keep her quiet."

"Oh, but I am not assured, not by a long shot. Not unless you let me in on your plans."

Taking a deep breath, Alex shakes his head. "I don't have time. I have to get to court in a half-hour. Besides, it's not something--"

"I said I want to know what you are planning." Her voice turns from a caress into a stranglehold. "I've warned you before. Either you solve this problem to my satisfaction, or I'll have your ex-fiancée taken care of myself. Is that what you want?"

He feels the perspiration turn cold on his naked body. "No."

"Then tell me, Alex. How do you plan to keep her silent?"

Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, Alex pushes himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed for some time before finally turning to glance at Danielle's pale, perfect face.

"There's a tape," he begins quietly.

MacElroy Dairy Farm

Schuyler Road

When Mike and Bill reach the dairy's large central building, they're met by a tall, muscular man in his late fifties, looking less like a farmer than a country doctor in his gray trousers, blue suspenders and neat white shirt. Atop all this he wears a blue raincoat, and right now he has both hands buried deeply in the pockets -- avoiding shaking Mike and Bill's hands as he greets them.

"Oliver MacElroy?" When the man confirms this, Mike continues, quickly introducing himself and Bill. "I believe you spoke with Officer Howard on the phone--"

"Yeah, yeah, let's get this over with. I don't have all day, I've got an appointment over in Blandings." MacElroy starts walking briskly around the side of the main building, leading them through an open fence into a wooded area. "You boys took your sweet time getting over here."

"There were other things to take care of, sir. An abandoned car may be a nuisance for you, but it's not exactly an emergency--"

"I call it an emergency when I can't get my work done. That thing's been wasting space on my land for three weeks now, maybe more. I'd'a drove it on outta here if the keys were still in it."

Three weeks. Mike darts a glance at Bill, wondering if his current partner just got the same jolt of adrenaline. Just after Christmas...

Bill's placid youthful face reveals nothing. "Should've called us sooner then," he says mildly while stepping over a large pile of rotting wood, "'stead of going to the AAA and towing companies--"

"Oh, that was my son, he don't know any better. Penny and me were out of town seeing our other boy in Miami -- here you go, right through here." MacElroy has led them to a small red barn, surrounded by the remnants of a wooden picket fence that seems to have been torn down at some point. "It's in there."

Mike walks into the open barn to examine the car. Before taking a good look, he turns his head to the farmer. "This area borders Appleton Road, doesn't it? Should be just beyond those trees, if I'm right."

"Yeah. Whoever left this damn thing drove it off the road straight into the barn, looks like. Tracks lead right through the forest. Got no idea why someone'd do that, maybe some drunk." MacElroy sighs and adds in a low mutter, "This goddamn barn, I should just tear it down already. Like it hasn't given me enough problems..."

Mike suddenly realizes why this place and the farmer himself look so familiar to him. Six years ago, a tormented young man leapt off the roof of this barn, dying on the sharp picket fence that now lies rotting in the mud. Only two years ago, Mike witnessed Oliver MacElroy testify to this unpleasant fact in the trial of Tristan Campbell, the dead man's brother.

That explains the attitude, Mike thinks, remembering how MacElroy had hated the negative publicity that the suicide and trial had brought to his small dairy business. Sorry buddy, but if I'm right, you just might be in for some more bad PR.

Ignoring the older man for now, Mike directs his attention back to the car. It's about five years old, a nondescript blue Ford. It's in pretty good shape, and looks like it's been cleaned relatively recently. While Bill immediately goes to check the inside, Mike pays more attention to the bottom of the car, in particular the tires and undercarriage. After several minutes he kneels down beside the front left wheel, something finally catching his eye.

Bill grunts a bit while leaning over in the front seat to open the glove compartment, then steps around to address Mike. "No registration or any ID whatsoever. Both plates are gone, and there's nothing personal at all --not even a magazine or coffee cup." He pauses for a few seconds. "What're you doing down there, Mike?"

"Right now, nothing. I'm gonna have to get some evidence bags first." Mike turns to stare up at him. "You see that piece of material stuck under the hubcap?"

Kneeling beside him, Bill peers at the wheel. "That brown thing? Yeah. Looks like someone cleaned up with a rag and some of it tore off."

"I don't think it's a rag, and I don't think it started out brown. Looks like dried blood to me." Mike lowers his voice. "I could be wrong here, Billy, but my gut tells me we just found the car that ran over David Reilly."

Cliffside Caverns Hotel

Greg White's Suite

In the awkward few seconds since Ian opened the door to find Tyler, Daphne can't think of a thing to say. Her boyfriend's hurt gaze moves from her nearly naked form to Ian and back again, and she can only imagine what he must be thinking.

"Tyler," she stammers. "Don't -- this isn't what it looks like."

Ian steps back, opening the door wider so Tyler can move past him into the suite. "Yes, please, go on," he says, tilting his head back in Daphne's direction. "I was just leaving, I'm done."

"You son of a bitch!" Tyler nearly explodes and starts pressing towards Ian, who quickly wards him off.

"Sorry, I guess that did come out wrong." Ian gives him a small unapologetic smile. "I just meant that we're done talking."

"What are you doing here, Nichols?"

Ian tilts his head. "You know who I am?"

"I saw you once before." Tyler pushes past him to stand before Daphne. "What the hell kind of game is this, Daphne? You invite me over here just to find you and him--"

"Don't blame her, it's my fault. I dropped by unexpectedly--"

"I didn't ask you," Tyler snaps, investing as much venom into the last word as possible. He keeps his blue eyes locked on Daphne's. "What is going on here?"

Lifting her chin, Daphne stares without guilt at her boyfriend. "Nothing is going on. Ian had to talk to me about the Hope thing. It was an emergency."

"So you greet him like that?"

"Don't be an idiot. I was waiting for you, and I -- I thought he was you when I asked him inside. Trust me, I did not know he was coming when I dressed like this."

"Uh huh." Tyler shakes his head. "What happened after you asked him inside?"

Daphne purses her lips. "Hello, he just said we were only talking, didn't you hear him?"

"Yeah, but I don't believe a word out of his mouth." Tyler swivels to glare at Ian, who watches them without comment. "What story did you invent this time?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Daphne may buy into this whole Sopranos wannabe-thug crap that you're trying to sell her, but I don't. You're manipulating her. You're faking this whole stupid situation so that she'll do whatever you say."

Ian raises an eyebrow and smirks. "Right. That's what I do. I invent stories so I can sneak a peek at little girls playing dress-up for their teen jock boyfriends." He turns to Daphne, raising a hand in salute. "You must be the envy of Skyfalls High with this genius at your side. I'll pick you up later so we can visit my aunt ... you know, Aunt Annamaria Magdelena, the mafioso's wife."

"Wait, Ian--" Daphne watches the door close behind him, and then she turns on Tyler with an exasperated sigh. "Why did you say all that to him?"

"Because you're naive, Daph. He's been playing you all this time. I can't believe you let him in, dressed like --"

"I thought he was you! I put this on for you, Tyler. And here you come in, acting like some big dumb jealous--"

"I'm not jealous! I'm ..." Tyler hesitates, then sighs and allows a hint of a rueful smile on his lips. "Okay, I guess I am jealous. But wouldn't you be? You look so ... so incredible, amazingly beautiful, and I'm not even the one to see you first." His smile fades. "It's him. It's always him these days!"

"That's not true."

"It is. This guy's like everywhere. Every time you turn around, there he is." He takes a deep breath. "And I don't like what he's turning you into."

Taken aback, Daphne gapes at him. "What's that supposed to mean? I haven't turned into anything!"

Tyler rakes his hand through his golden hair. "Come on, Daphne. Because of him you're scared all the time. And you're lying to everyone, including me. You used to tell me everything, and now--"

"But I still do! I just--"

"How can you say that? You admitted that you lied about going to the opera with your uncle!" He quickly raises a hand, cutting off her objection. "I told you I'm over that, fine. But the point is, because of him you're turning into this ... this whole different person. He's made it so that you're relying on him for your safety, or at least that's what he's telling you. Didn't you say you suspected he might be pulling something like that?"

She nods slowly, turning away. "Yeah, but I don't think so anymore. He's ending all this tonight. He told his aunt about the kidnapping, and now I have to go down there to see her and -- and explain everything."

Tyler takes her arm and moves her to face him again. "Are you serious? You think all this is finally gonna be over?"

The expression on his face annoys her. "For God's sake, Ty, it's not something to be happy about! This is serious, didn't you hear me? His aunt knows I kidnapped Hope. She might call the police on me. She might do anything!" Daphne slips into his arms, closing her eyes. "I'm really scared, Tyler."

After only a slight hesitation, Tyler embraces her, smoothing her hair. "It'll be all right," he says quietly. "Do you want me to go with you?"

The thought of Ian and Tyler in a car together doesn't fill Daphne with confidence. Besides, no matter what Tyler says, there's still the possibility of real danger. If the Nichols family is as much of a threat as Ian claims, how can she possibly allow Tyler to get involved?

"No, whatever happens I -- you shouldn't be there. Please just ... just be with me, now."

This time when she lifts her face, she's not disappointed. Tyler kisses her gently, holding her closely to him as her arms raise to curl around his neck.

Cliffside Caverns Hotel

Lobby

The elevator doors open onto the lobby. Ian buttons his coat in preparation for heading outside and lets his mind mull over today's schedule. A lunch meeting with Tristan Campbell to discuss details about the ICafe is next on his agenda, and then he should be back to Criterion by two-thirty. Plenty of work to keep his mind occupied, and far away from his new disturbing thoughts about a girl who's too young, too sheltered and too damn irritating. Not to mention too involved with someone else, he reminds himself with a quick shake of his head. Can't go through that again, not after--

He loses his train of thought the second his gaze falls on the figure of a woman walking ahead of him. She's wearing a dark cashmere coat and black sunglasses, and a silk scarf covers most of her head. But her quick, light step seems very familiar to him, as does the deep red hair visible beneath the edge of her scarf.

Christ, I don't believe it. I invoked her.

She's nearly at the exit now, so Ian hurriedly slips past a slow-moving older couple to catch up with her. Just as she puts one leather-gloved hand on the brass door handle, he touches her sleeve.

"Hello, Danny," he murmurs when she quickly turns to face him. "Fancy meeting you here."

Danielle smiles, not appearing alarmed -- or even surprised. Exactly what Ian would have to do to surprise or alarm his stepmother, he has no idea. "It is rather a coincidence, isn't it? What on earth are you doing at a hotel in the middle of the day?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"Only if you really want to hear the answer." Danielle brushes some lint from Ian's coat. "I have a friend who lives here, actually. One does have social obligations one must fulfill, after all."

Ian stares down at her through narrowed eyes. "I just bet one does. Especially when one's husband is conveniently away leaving one alone."

"What a suspicious mind you have, imagining the things I might be doing with Cameron out of town." She takes a small step closer to him. "Or maybe you're enjoying thinking about them? Maybe you've been contemplating the possibilities..."

He backs away, but pulls her along with him to a more private area, a grouping of chairs surrounding a small fountain. "For God's sake, Danny," he mutters, releasing her as soon as possible. "This has got to stop. How many times do I have to say no to you?"

"Just once -- when you actually mean it." Her fingertips lower the sunglasses slightly, letting him see her almost hypnotic gaze. "You certainly didn't mean it last week, did you?"

Somehow Ian keeps the embarrassment from his face. "Yes, I did. Nothing happened, did it?"

"Only thanks to Cam's impeccable timing. If he hadn't strolled in, you and I both know exactly where we'd have ended up. You were ready to take me right on that stairwell."

"I would have stopped. I was about to."

Danielle laughs, her green eyes dancing with teasing mockery. "You're adept at lying, I'll admit that, it's a family trait. But you can't lie about that kiss. That kiss brought everything back the way it used to be."

Ian swallows and looks away. "No, it didn't. It couldn't. Things are too different, totally different from a year ago."

"Not really. We have the same connection we've always had. We'll always have it, that special bond. Not exactly mother-son," she adds with a low chuckle, "but I certainly know you better than any other woman could."

Turning away from her, Ian looks out at the parking lot through the wall-to-ceiling windows. "You're twisted," he says eventually, his voice tight and controlled. "You know that, Danny? Seriously twisted. You're a throwback to a character in some Greek drama, using your husband's son to betray him."

"My God, listen to you. Such indignation and self-righteousness! I guess you've forgotten how easily you betrayed him yourself -- and how often, I might add." She laughs again. "Yes, if it's a drama, my lovely boy, you played your part with gusto."

He closes his eyes, unable to refute her words. In the silence he feels her hand touch his arm, slowly stroking it. "Why are you here, Ian? It is a strange coincidence. You didn't follow me, did you? Is that why you happen to be waiting for me?"

"No, Danny," he says quietly. "I didn't follow you."

"Mmm. Well ... there's no sense in wasting serendipity like this, is there?"

Ian turns to her. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning..." She glances back at the concierge's desk, then shifts her gaze sharply to meet his. "Tourist season is over. I wouldn't be surprised if they had a room available."

Her implication is obvious, and Ian knows he shouldn't be surprised that she'd make the suggestion. He should be insulted, in fact -- not only is she ignoring his insistence that he's over her, but she's clearly just been with some other man.

But Ian finds himself unable to muster the outrage.

Route 58

Chelsea Stanford's Miata

The piece of paper in Chelsea's hand flutters in the draft caused by the open car window, which she has rolled down a bit to counteract the Miata's overactive heater. The thing seems to have two temperature settings: nonexistent and hellfire. Still, it's her car, and she loves it. It was the first thing she bought after getting the job at C&B, and even though she's still paying off the loan she doesn't regret the purchase. Though it's possible to get around in Schuyler Falls without a car, it's not nearly as freeing.

She hums a bit, glancing at the directions once more to confirm her next move, and takes Exit 16 to an area full of industrial warehouses, old factories, and finally the PlayCity complex.

Chelsea went to PlayCity once as a kid, practically dragged there by her mother for her birthday. Her father didn't want to go, saying that Chelsea -- thirteen at the time -- was too old to be taken to an amusement park. He was right, and Chelsea had tried to change her mom's mind in vain. But the real reason he'd balked was that by that time he had his other family. And spending a day with his ex-wife and first child would probably have caused more trouble with his new wife than it was worth.

After pulling into the parking lot, she shuts the ignition, grimacing at the memories, and gets out of the car. The place looks closed to her. Through the fence that surrounds the main amusement area, she can see the Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round, and a few other rides she can't remember the name of, and they're all as silent and still as tombstones in a cemetery. Gaudily colored tombstones, but tombstones nevertheless.

Duh, it's January, Chelsea realizes belatedly. Must be closed in the wintertime. She guesses that the Crenshaws -- the rich parents of the lucky birthday boy in question -- rented out the place for the afternoon, and will only be using the inside arcade area for the party.

Annoyingly, it doesn't seem like Mrs. Crenshaw has arrived yet to meet her. There are a couple of parked vans and cars in the vicinity, but they sure don't look like they belong to a woman who can throw $600 at a photographer for a kiddie party.

Sighing, Chelsea walks around, looking for an opening in the fence. When she reaches the only available gate, she's surprised to discover that it's locked and reinforced with a rusting chain that looks as if it hasn't been used in ages. "Well, this is screwed up," she mutters, running her fingertips on the chainlink fence. What is she supposed to do, climb over the stupid thing?

There must be another opening around the other side of the building, although it wasn't mentioned in the directions Mr. Crenshaw gave her this morning. With a scowl, Chelsea pulls the now-crumpled piece of paper out of her coat pocket and re-reads what she scrawled down during the phone call.

"Miss Stanford?"

The flat male voice from behind her comes a surprise, since she was expecting his wife, but she just plants a smile on her lips and turns around to meet her client.

She doesn't see him -- only the blur of soft white material crushed against her face. Adrenaline rushing through her, she tries to pull away, but he grabs the back of her head and forces her into the cloth. Chelsea continues to struggle in vain as a sickly sweet odor assaults her nostrils.

Before long the white fades to gray, and then to black; finally it dwindles into nothing at all.