2016-11-06 - 1000 Days Ago

The bones are quiet, as they have been most of these long years. Sometimes, in a clear moment, I can feel them hungering for a proper burial, to be returned to the earth so they can finally sleep again. Tonight, with a chilly November drizzle slipping in beneath the overhang of my umbrella, I take a walk down Elm Street, feeling them through the cold pavement beneath me. I stand beneath a stoplight near the entrance to the trailer park, and I'm almost certain that I can hear them rattling around down there, moving, clattering to their fleshless feet.

From the depths of my pocket, I liberate a flask and pull a sip. It burns down my throat. It burns away the feeling of the bones. They're not rattling around down there. They're not moving. They're not clattering to their fleshless feet. They're just bones. They're dead. But I will still check in with them every so often, as I have done for so many years now. They're down there somewhere. Quiescent. Sleeping. Lost.

Waiting.

that feeling of pressure was getting to be overwhelming and duncan wasn't sure how much more of it he would be able to take before he cracked or maybe he had already cracked because he was definitely feeling a little bit cracked right now and it was cold here and that was just making it worse!!!!

okay take a breath calm down it's not that bad

he was definitely lost, though

like, definitely

all the trees looked the same and now it was way too late but he finally figured out what all the plastic ribbons leading from the road and into the forest were about but he hadn't realized how easy it was going to be to get turned around in here and fuck!!! he was so lost!!!!!

they needed to be fed or they were going to start in on him again and he couldn't take that so he better find someone but he just keeps getting turned around and around and he's almost positive he's going in circles and

"You look a little lost."

and they needed to be fed so he laughed uncertainly and scratched his beard and answered, "I feel a little lost," and drifted toward this stranger in this strange forest.

they needed to be fed.

Graham turned the ignition over and sat behind the steering wheel, listening to that engine. He just barely lowered his foot on the gas pedal, and the kid in him delighted to the rumble. It had cost him pretty much everything. But what the fuck was the point of making all this money if he wasn't gonna spend it on anything worth having?

Like a '72 Chevy Malibu.

For the next couple years, he would be pretty sure he was gonna die in this car in a flaming wreck. Eventually, that certain-death would change to "two to the temple." But. For now. Graham was definitely gonna wind up dying in a flaming wreck in this car.

And it was so gonna be worth it.

The box thumps hard onto the old, oiled hardwood floor. Magnolia surveys the upstairs apartment-- a cheap rental because she's also leasing a downstairs office that sits between a Korean nail salon and a family accounting office. Their meager amount of boxes have been unloaded from the Honda downstairs. Lark-- almost three years old-- is already in what will be her bedroom, playing with Duplos.

For Magnolia? She just observes the space with a deep heartache. It's so much smaller than their house had been. It looks like it had once been an office all on its own. It has tiny kitchen that is more for microwaving lunches and putting passive-aggressive sticky notes on a container of tofu teriyaki that no one wants to eat anyway, Karen. There's a front room that probably was a receptionist area, and it is flanked by two additional rooms. The bathroom is tiny and must have been the only room that was renovated, as it has a standalone shower that's been shoved a corner.

Tears well up in her eyes, that she is quick to dash away with a rub of her wrist. The bruise shadowing her eye and split lip have nearly healed. After Edgar found them at her brother's house, Magnolia decided it was time to find a safer place to wait out the rest of the divorce proceedings. She frets slightly at her lower lip as she thinks about how close that encounter had been, how he had come to get Lark, how Magnolia had to get between her soon to be ex-husband and her brother. Her heart still pounds with the anxiety of it all.

"Mommy?"

Magnolia turns slightly to take in her tiny, but serious daughter in her new bedroom's doorway.

"Yeah?" Her voice is choked as she wipes away tears on her sleeve.

"Want to p'way with me?"

"Of course, baby."

"Can I get my phone call please?" Her inner voice is already asking who she thinks she's gonna call. No family. No friends. She briefly wonders how pissed off the police would get if she got a pizza delivered. Chicago deep dish might be worth it.

Being in what amounts to a cage doesn't seem to be bothering her all that much. Zoiya sits on the bench, four other women in the holding cell with her. One is so high on meth that she probably is smelling colors. Another one is asleep, and has obviously pissed herself. She doesn't look disgusted to be in the midst of all of this, just tired. The other two women seem pretty normal at least, not that she's looking to make friends.

"I didn't know that guy was a cop, if I knew he was a cop, I wouldn't have punched him. Swear! Haven't you ever heard of a friendly bar fight?

All that gains her is a look from the desk clerk. She can spot a 'are you shitting me' look at one hundred yards. She inhales a deep breath through her nose and then lets it out. Ugh, bad idea.

She slouches on the bench, rolling her neck until it cracks. Might as well get comfortable, it's gonna be a long fucking night.
Don't get arrested in Chicago folks, they don't have time for your shit.

Joey stands in line waiting to be processed out. Seriously if you want to ever see anything more grey than a cement block look no further than a correctional facility.

Seriously.
So much fucking grey,
It's like they're crushing dissonance with boredom.

The cut that's taped shut on his cheek itches and he tries to ignore is and being annoyed standing there in cuffs waiting for this fucking line to move. Fingers flexed still bruised from the fight two days ago in the yard. What can he say, he didn't start it. That guy who talked about Felix's shit happened to slip and fall on his fist repeatedly. What?
You know, an accident.

As nice as it was to be in good favor he just wanted to get out and go sleep in his own fucking bed. Sleeping on one's own shitty furniture is highly underrated.

Finally the asshole who can't even spell his own fucking name moves.

"13K514, Joseph Kelly? Step up to the line."

Joey sighs and moves forward. Finally! He can get processed and get the fuck on with his day and his brother waiting with his beat to hell truck outside. Then waffles and a nap and-

The lights flicker and... the power goes down.

"Christ, are you fucking shitting me!??" Aaaaaaand we wait...

August surveys his latest prospect with a critical eye. It used to be a consignment shop; now it's an empty building zoned for business on a sizable plot of land ruined for housing development by the greenbelt out back. Gray Harbor's not Seattle, the demand isn't high enough for a construction group to go to the effort required to satisfy state regulations so close to a protected area. So this large business lot has a modest sized structure good for just about anything but a restaurant. A shame about it being so on the edge of town, it won't get much foot traffic or casual business. Good thing casual business isn't what August has in mind.

"Not bad," Cy says. He's August's only employee at the moment, a retired Forestry guy like August himself. "This far out, plants'll be happier, more space for less money." He looks around them. "No HOAs to complain about the trucks."

August makes a low sound of agreement. Cy looks down at the flyer the real estate agent gave them. "Says the greenbelt has a good twenty feet of exclusion, so you basically can't extend the structure at all."

"Shouldn't need to. Can park trucks," August gestures on one side, "there, other side can be the outdoor collection. Smaller greenhouse for my own stuff out back."

Cy raises an eyebrow. "Ambitious."

August shrugs back, gives Cy a wry, sidelong smile. "Like we have anything better to do," he says, moves to head around the back of the building.

Cy groans. "We are hiring more employees, right?" he calls. "I am not unloading bulk fertilizer, Gus!"

Cy checks out the building interior (taking photos to show his brother, who manages construction down in La Jolla) while August inspects the greenbelt. A small creek branching off the Wishkah River dips into the property, around which aspen, fir, balsam poplar, and even some spruce have sprung up. The ground out back is mostly rock and gravel, evidencing use as a parking area in years past. An abrupt shift to wild, rangey grass marks edge of the greenbelt's zone.

August wades into the grass, running one hand over it as he goes. It was a hot, dry summer, leaving the grass gold, but Autumn rain has softened it as well. He stops at the edge of the trees.

Here at the edge of town he doesn't hear mortar shells under the city's ambient white noise. There's just the wind in the trees and the creek murmuring somewhere in the shadows and a few birds chiding one another. This is about as close as he can get, he figures.

Close enough.

He thinks, for a minute, he sees something out of the corner of his eye. Something watching from a tangle of ferns and osoberry and wild currant. Yellow eyes in a long, dark face. Silent, unmoving, surveying. Wary and curious. He feels his skin prickle, because how many times has he wondered when he'd have a close encounter while out hunting? It'd be a funny commentary on his life if it happened when he was out looking at business property instead of tracking elk.

He looks directly at the spot and there's nothing there except the undergrowth. He can still feel it, though; a sense of observation. Indirect, now. In passing.

Not the first time it's happened in this town, won't be the last.

He turns to head back inside and inspect the structure with Cy, but in reality, he's already made up his mind.

He hated auditioning. Had to be done. So he's standing on the stage in front of the judging eyes of a nascent pop-metal band, tuning, taking his time. No rushing. Rushing is how you fuck it up.

"So how fast are you?" asks the lead guitarist. Guy's at least ten years younger than he is. Smirky, stupid haircut.

"How fast?" Itzhak repeats, looking up blankly. The band all trade glances and snicker. Smooth, Rosencrantz.

"Yeah. How fast. Like can you play Flight of the Bumblebee in under a minute like that one guy?"

Cripes not this again. "Okay, first off, that guy's an idiot. He's not even playing the song. He's just," Itzhak gesticulates with his bow, "facerolling on the goddamn violin."

"Well, he won the world record," says the lead singer. She might be even younger. When did they start getting so young? "I'd say that's pretty good."

"Listen," Itzhak says. "Obviously that record has nothing to do with the quality of his playing, right? It's just a fucking stunt. I don't know how that guy got--"

"So you can't," the lead guitarist says.

A rush of heat floods Itzhak's chest. "It doesn't fucking matter that I can't! It's not--"

"I think we're looking for someone flashier," says their asshole agent.

"Don't you even wanna hear me?" Itzhak says, in disbelief.

"Thank you," says the asshole. "Next please!"

Next is a woman with an electric violin that's studded in magenta Swarovski crystals. It has five strings for some Godforsaken reason. She's wearing a matching magenta fake fur coat that goes down to her knees.

"Better luck next time," she whispers to him as they pass. The band perks right up as they see her stride onstage in her leopard-skin Docs.

"Gai kaken ofn yahm." Itzhak brushes past her, his face burning.

Snow was already starting to fall, which was not making this foot race easy. Battered, bruised, tired and hungry - tattered sneakers pounding pavement as Isolde zipped through the streets of New York City. Running from...someone? Something? She didn't even remember. Maybe it was the cops? There had been fighting. But was she trying to get away or was she trying to do the hurting?

Her breathing was labored and she could hear shouting. Sirens. Pushing past people on the streets, dodging between alleyways. Isolde tripped over something - oh no, someone! Oops. She stumbled, falling to her knees and scrambled up into a sitting position. It was a homeless person. There were so many of them here - even with the weather getting colder. Hell, she was one of them. They stirred and grumbled and turned over. Well, at least they didn't wake up.

Isolde sat there for a long moment, ragged breathing - trying to catch her breath again. Her head tilted back, resting against the brick building - eyes closed. One frog. Two frogs. Three frogs. Four... Counting frogs to remember the good things. Remember her mother singing lullabies. Remember the nice people she'd met in her travels. The people who didn't look at her like she was completely insane. Oh. Isolde remembered now. The pills. She'd been down to her last few pills and some asshole tried to take them from her.

Pills. The pills. The voices were starting to creep back in. The visions, the noise. The terrible dreams. She needed a refill. Pulling herself to her feet, Isolde winced. She was freezing. No idea where she would sleep tonight, but that wasn't the first priority. First priority was finding someone with what she needed and making a deal.

Alexander had nothing approaching an office, but it was a nice day, and the small cafe had some tables that weren't currently being rained on. So he sat on one side, and the Hudsons sat across from him, chairs pulled back slightly from the table as if he might be contagious. They were an attractive couple, dressed in middle class chic - although he remembered Brian Hudson's unfortunate grunge period from high school, and couldn't help but try and stick his image of the boy's scraggly hair on top of the current business cut. Karyn Hudson (nee Zwiller) looked more like her teenage self, aside from the reddened eyes. They'd married straight after high school, never left Gray Harbor. Never really seen it, either.

He placed the file on the table between them. They stared at it. He waited. They stared at him. Eventually, he realized that he was going to be expected to talk to them, and frowned. "I have your information." It was the first time he'd spoken in a few days, and it came out harsher than he intended. They both flinched, distaste and unease slipping free of the polite masks.

Brian hastily picked up the file, flipped through it. "She's in Seattle? How did she get to Seattle?"

Since the information was in the file, Alexander didn't bother to answer. "Is Tara okay?" That was Karyn, trying to peer over Brian's shoulder. "Is she safe?"

"Safer there than here," Alexander said.

Brian's jaw set. "The hell she is. She's our daughter. And she's, what, is this a homeless shelter? She is not safer on the streets than she is in our home!"

"She was being hunted," Alexander replied, remembering the journal, the feel of the memories locked in the dark, scribbled pages. "She's not safe in Gray Harbor. Don't bring her back."

"Hunted? By what?"

"She described it as a man in a red hat, with no eyes. He wants her to kill herself." He'd felt the barest echoes of that voice from her memories, poisonously seductive.

Karyn's expression flattened. "God. I knew she was struggling, but I didn't - was it the drugs? We should have caught the drugs sooner."

Brian reached out for her hand, squeezed. "It's okay, Kary. We'll bring her home and get her some help."

Irritation flared. "If you want to help your daughter, arrange for a safe place in Seattle. If you bring her back here--"

The slam of Brian's hand on the table cut the words from his throat. "Don't tell me about my daughter, Alexander. This isn't one of your fantasies."

I tried. It was all he had the energy for. He dropped his gaze, let his shoulders round, expression go slack. Toneless, he said, "The bill is on the last page. Cash preferred."

Brian glared for a moment, and another, before passing the file to Karyn and reaching into his pocket. The bills were crisp, new, fresh from an ATM, but he slid them over like he was ashamed of it. Alexander waited until his hand was well clear before scooping it up. Counted it as they walked away, pace brisk to put distance between themselves and him.

Or maybe they were just eager to get home, make their phone calls, and start killing their daughter with kindness.

It isn't my problem. He stood up, left money for his coffee and tip, and walked away.

1000 Days Ago For Irvriya.

There were stacks of books spread over her living room. The Doctoral classes were causing her not to sleep for stretches of time, but she needed to finish. She needed to do this for herself. Her brother always told her that missing eye was going to make people think less of her.

Sadly, he was right about most people.

But Abel had been the exception. He loved Irvriya like she was a whole person. Not something that was too fragile to be handled.

The added stress of trying to plan a wedding was also added to her Doctoral Classes. She was about one more cake sampling from going nuts. And Abel had been in Boston for work. Two different coasts were adding to the stress. But he called every day when he was off of work and it alleviated the stress a bit more. He’d want to see how the boys were doing. So she’d send them pictures of their spiders and he’d smile.

1000 Days Ago he didn’t call.

1001 Days Ago the phone rang, the number was that of her future mother-in-law. Or who would have been her future mother-in-law had Abel not been shot to death in Boston...

Home from college for the weekend means waffles made by Mom, shopping in the city and maybe time out with some friends. It's too cool to go to the beach, but maybe she can take a walk and look for shells. She has bags of them, never figured out any good use for any of them. Maybe when she's an old cat lady, she can make some fancy lamps or something.

She had managed to sleep in, turning over on her stomach when the sound of commotion downstairs drifts up to her room. Raised voices, angry words. Ugh, not this again.

She pulls the pillow over her head and tries to go back to sleep. School tomorrow. Back to the grind for a degree she probably will never use.

Penelope Faust was having a regular day at work. The Coroner was just waiting on a body to be dropped off. She didn’t think that it was going to be anything other than a routine autopsy.

She was wrong.

The two people that wheel the body in just give her looks of uncertainty and there’s a bit of a tension, was she going to be able to do this? “Thanks guys. I’ll be fine.” she gives a bit of a smile to them. It wasn’t reassuring. Not in the least.

Once they are cleared out she looks to the body on her table, a blonde girl that’s just reached 18. She had so many dreams ahead of her. Now her life was extinguished and her dreams would never come to be a reality.

Penny’s dark eyes take in the hundreds of bruises, the scars, the track marks from the needle, “Oh my sweet girl.” she whispers as she places her hand on the dead girls forehead softly. “We’ll get the sonuvabitch that did this. And when we get him I’ll make him burn.” she whispers.

“Hey Doug! What’s the special tonight?” Mariah’s angelic locks glint in the light of the bar as she tries to get a box from the bottom shelf of the cooler.

There’s no answer from Doug though. Which makes her curiously peek out of the walk in. “Doug?” she murmurs as she heads over to the door that leads back out to the bar. What greets her is a sight that no one wants to see. Her boss is getting pressured by some thugs.

The blonde does what anyone would do.

She grabs her baseball bat from the corner and kicks the door open, “I want to know if I need to crack anyones skull open or if they are going to get the fuck out and quit digging at my boss?” she states as she points the bat at the closest person.

There’s a laugh that explodes from the group of men, “Come on slugger.” one man states. Mariah takes the swing and the resounding crack from the bones of the jaw and the spitting out of teeth soon follow.

“I was our star hitting for softball asshole. Not to mention I beat the shit out of scum like you regularly.” she growls. The laughing stops as their man staggers back, “Oh you crazy bitch!” is said as he keeps scooting back, back until he’s out the door.

“We’re having wings for the special. Get some or get the fuck out.” Mariah smiles at the rest.

Hyacinth scrolls a sparkly nail through her phone. is her makeup done yet? Uhhh yes, this is Hyacinth Addington. "No. I'm mad at you." She flicks the phone to her dresser and pauses putting it to her earpiece. With a sigh and a less abrasive tone she answers, "Hi, Daddy. If this is about that utterly useless woman you sent to help me? Stop helping."

She slides the stocking on and then pulls her leg on to socket the prosthetic below the knee and secure it int o place after fidgeting to get it to fit familiar. She listens and arches an eyebrow at the response on the phone, "You want me to find a present from you for Mum for your anniversary?"

God blessed, Dad.... She loves her father, sure, but really these are things one should just know

"Weeeeelll i you didn't send me such a useless assistant it'd be handled already.... hmm? What do you mean you didn't send me one? ...Cleaning woman?!" She pauses and looks around, "Well that would explain why she was terrible with coffee and dictation." With a sigh she finishes lacing her leg on and flips her wool skirt down. "Yes, I'll be at the dinner. I'll help you but you owe me. I don't know who I'm bringing. I will have to see if Justin's in town and I broke up with Alyssa but... I can see if she'd rather to go. I'll just tell her she has to come back from moving to Phoenix. Super important. Mmmhmm. Love you too, Daddy."

Sparkle nail taps her ear and a world weary sigh fills her lungs. "I'm doomed never to find good help..."

The chill November drizzle spattered the window as she looked out it. There was nothing else of note to look at in the bleak waiting room. All the faces were sad or anxious. All the artwork on the sickly green walls was faded to the point of no longer being recognizable as more than pale pastel suggestions of recollections. The furniture was uncomfortable, as if to discourage anyone from visiting again.

She didn’t want to be here. It had been eight years since she’d last seen the face of the woman she had come to visit. She wasn’t expecting a hug, or even a kind word or look. She wasn’t expecting anything good from it at all. But she had things to tell her, to show her, to say, “Look. I’m doing great. I have a good life. Fuck you.” It was probably a bad idea, but she needed to do this, as ugly as it could get.

Or did she? Maybe her absence was better than ever letting that woman lay eyes on her again. She stood, reconciled to leave, when the door to the deeper labyrinth of the place swung open and a nurse walked out and smiled cheerfully, in antithesis to everything around her.

“Finch Celaeno? Your mother is ready to see you now. Remember, not to get too close to the glass. The Institution has your safety in mind with our rules!”

The cancer ward of the Seattle Children's Hospital was the kind of place that could break your heart a thousand times over in a single day. But it was also the place that could make you feel most fulfilled as a person. Elise never wanted to be a nurse, not really, but at least here she felt like she made something of a difference. In this glorified closet that's considered the RN's break room, Elise stares up at nearly three dozen photographs spread across the wall. She's in almost half of them, often captured drawing pictures for kids that are smiling even if they are so very sick.

On the phone, her mother is blabbing away. Elise has her on speaker, rapid-fire Thai filling this small space. "Mom. Mom! I can't.. wait, a date?" Elise is speaking entirely in English, because it pisses her mother off. But she jerks her dark eyes to the phone that's on the arm of the chair, frowning at it. ".. You can't just set me up with some random guy you met at church, you can't just invite some stranger to Thanksgiving! Dad's not going to.."

Her mother overtakes the conversation, and Elise slumps into her seat. She doesn't argue the plans that get made, she rolls her eyes at Random Suitor #57 that her mother has opted to invite to Thanksgiving dinner. Outside, the window washers pass by - they are dressed in costume. Batman looks kind of hot. She flashes him a smile, wiggles her fingers, and then groans at her mother on the phone.

"Fine. Fine. I'll be there, okay? I promise. But Mom.. let me just.. Okay." Elise swallows, hovers her finger over the 'end call' button. "Yes, mom. Tell dad I love him," this time, she speaks in Thai, and her mother knows that she's won. Elise disconnects, and stares at the phone for a long while.

Thanksgiving in Gray Harbor. Four days of hell. But maybe there could be a silver lining. She cradles the phone in her hand and scrolls through her contacts, choosing one in particular before she sends out a quick text.

(TXT to Graham) Elise: hey G. Looks like I'm coming home for Thanksgiving. You wanna meet up for dinner?

1000 days ago Ignacio's ass is sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair arranged in a circle in Queens, NY. He's tired and aggravated and pretty damn medicated on nothing of his choosing.

His arms loop through the frame of his crutches at the elbow hanging there in his seat .His hand rubs at the hospital bracelet around his wrist. His head hangs wondering how long he has to be here and how long until he can leave. Is it illegal to be admitted for two things at the same time? I feel like this should be illegal. he mused to himself.

"Ignacio?....Ignacio!" comes a voice in the room.

Picking his head up he looks around like the teacher caught him naping and is waiting for the answer to the math question. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, uhhhh, hola. Me llamo Ignacio, and I don't wanna be here either."

"Mr. deSantos..." The woman sighs looking at him patiently.

"Whaaaat?" Always with the rebuttal. Always with a smart comment. Always with a distraction to hide every truth. Gesturing he tells the group lead, "What they don't!"

"Mr. deSantos, You can't rebuild unless you start with the foundation."

He snorts and shakes his head, "Ain't nothin to rebuild."

Whatever is said he catches something about hiding... something about the truth... something about running- and something snaps and he snarls "Yeah well that ain't likely to ever fucking happen again. No one's coming back, and no amount of fucking kumbaya is going to undo the shit that happened. You want to live in this fantasy fine. I won't fucking stop you, but lemme out of it."

And that's when it catches. The clue? No.
The curtains yes. There's an alarm and pointing and someone rushing over with a glass of water to throw on it.

Long fingers rub his face. Not so smooth, deSantos. He taps his crutches against his forehead and pulls himself to a stand to just hobble back to the door. He murmurs, "Nurse, I'd like to go back to my room now." Third surgery is tomorrow. He might even wake up with all of his toes. He doesn't even care. It means Dilaudid and a day long fucking nap. It takes a lot to make him rather get carved up like a spiral ham again...again... than talk about his fuck ups and fucking problems.

Fuck that.

Maddie sits alone in her camper, all the lights off. There's not even the glow of the television tonight. She uses a baby-wipe to remove the rest of her make-up, costume and wig thrown over the chair. Far off in the distance, the sounds of the festival continue, but Maddie feels nothing at all.

If this was last year, the Halloween decorations would still be up. Maddie didn't have the heart to bring them out this year. Because after all, if this was last year, her mother would still be alive.

There's a knock on the door, but she doesn't have the chance to answer before it's thrown open. Unlike Dracula, whom he played this evening, Keene doesn't need an invitation to enter. "Madeline," he intones, and though his voice is quiet, it seems to fill the small camper entirely. So too does his glow, though there is nothing bright about him - his is the glimmer of moonlight reflecting upon a blackened lake. It was a direct contrast with her own, which still held such a spark, though there was the faintest beginnings of darkness that threads through her glow.

They run lines for hours, practice for tomorrow. When it's over, he smiles at her, pats her hand in a patronizing sort of fashion. "You need to smile more," he instructs her before he leaves. "Remember. You're a little light in the darkness. You shine to show them the way." And then he is gone.

And Maddie feels nothing but numb.

It wasn't even that they had played poorly. It was just that Chicago's goaltender had been playing fantastic all night long. Still, with a room full of ambitious athletes, losing hurts, no matter how it comes to be. And not even the coach telling them there would be no practice on the day after would help. So, after a few of them went out for dinner, Jonathan headed back home for a quiet evening. But that was yesterday, not today.

Not having set an alarm, he sleeps until closer to noon, before he gets up to get hold of some breakfast. While eating, last night's game plays back in his mind. As very often, it's the mistakes he had made during the game that keeps on going through his mind first. Frowning as he considers how he should have done better in those situations, considering the options he should have taken. If he ever wanted his shot in the big league, the needs to improve. Otherwise, he might just have to do like one of the captains from when he played in college has done. It would seem that guy headed overseas, playing for some team in Norway now.. Do they even have any good teams in Norway? There's not many Norwegians that reach the pro level on this side of the pond, after all.

Pushing those thoughts away, he finishes his meal, before packing a bag. Even though they don't have a practice today doesn't mean he can't do some working out on his own, right? Maybe just spending some time on the ice to stretch and relax, then some time spent doing off-ice training. Yes, that sounds like a good idea for now. Then he can go somewhere to have a nice dinner when the work is done.

"Hey! Carlson!"

He doesn't turn when he hears that voice, although he comes to a stop. He knows who it is, how couldn't he? Especially since, in addition to her voice, he can hear the sound of wheels moving towards him on the sidewalk.

"Turn around and look at me..." The words sounds a bit less like a command now, more pleading. Is there some worry in that voice as well? Rick can't really tell. But he turns around.

"It's good to see you as well, Tessa," he replies as his gaze goes to the woman in the wheelchair. She's tall, dark haired, and looks like she's someone who works out quite a bit, "Recovering well, I can see. I hope..."

"They told me you've quit," Tessa cuts him off. "Why, Rick? You were cleared of having done anything wrong, you know. Why would you throw all that away?"

Shaking his head, he lets out a bit of a breath. "We both know what happened, if I hadn't..." He grimaces, looking around for now. Anywhere but at her. "You wouldn't be stuck in that chair."

Tessa shakes her head, frowning as she hears that. "Bullshit! You can't go around thinking like that. You should go back, ask them to have your job back. What else could you do?"

He sighs. "I've sold the flat, and most of my things. I'll just take my motorcycle and drive off, to see where I end up. It's not just what happened to you, there's just too many memories..."

"So, you're running away like a chicken? What would your mother say about that?" Tessa replies, a bit angrily.

Those words hit him like a hammer, and Rick grimaces. Looking a bit like he considers what to do, before he turns to head off again. "See you around..." Even though he knows this probably is goodbye forever. Starting to move a bit faster now.

"Coward!" he hears her call out after him, but he doesn't stop. Time to head off to that motorcycle, and just leave this city behind. Time to take the first road to nowhere,

Miami, FL -- Oceanside Mansion -- 7pm

A brunette woman takes stock of the mansion alone, walking through at casual saunter in a pair of very tall black stiletto heels with satin lacing that winds the ankle and rides her calves in elaborate crisscross ties. Her body is encased in a very short, bustier minidress of satin to match, enhancing feminine lines and curves, pushing flattering swell of décolletage to highlight. Cosmetics play up doll-like features to an edginess and her hair is a riot of loose silken curls.

This isn't Lilith, see. Tonight, she's Dominique. Tomorrow she'll be someone else.

There's a crystal wine glass filled with deep red cabernet that's as rich as blood in one hand, a repeatedly knotted length of weighted loop rope in the other. She plays it over the surfaces she passes, she lashes it to knock down a picture of wife and kids. Tsk. She likes it better when they call her to the vacation condos or the hotels, it's rare for her to be brought into an actual family home. Immediately, she loses interest in seeing the rest of the place and ascends the stairs.

When the woman steps into the master suite, one hand goes to her hip and she surveys the man strategically leashed to the foot of the bed between two tall posts, arms out and straining from the tight pull of bindings and anticipation alike. He's a silver fox in boxer briefs with a blindfold on, silk tie noose-looped around his neck with slack dangling down his bare chest for her to pull and tighten at will.

She's impassive before it all begins. She knows she'll still feel empty when she's done feeding the urges to break and ruin. There's fifteen hundred dollars cash laid out on the dresser. He knows she's back in the room. The man smells her perfume, says one single word, displays his anticipation in other telltale ways. He had to pay double last time because he broke the rules. If he loses control again, he's off the list. She's not here for that.

Please.

The brunette steps forward and pulls the tie slack to cut off the pleading with a choke of masculine struggle noise before the tie naturally slips enough to leave him at partial airflow when she releases. After gritting her teeth and kneeing into his boxer briefs with sharp reminder of the rules, she steps back in those tall, heels and lashes out with the weighted, knotted loop rope at his ribs. Methodically, she beats, she bruises, she punishes, and everything hurts more than it should as she unwittingly forces mental will behind each strike, the man's nerve endings flaring with hyperactivity to enhance pain.

She doesn't have powers in this place. Those were Lilith's and that life is far away now. But she has echoes that make her quite good at her job. Miami is very close to the Bermuda Triangle. Later that night, she tries to fill the hollow that remains when all is said and done. She meets Grant Turner. One day, she'll wish she never had.

Atlanta, Georgia ~ Outside Mountainside Apartments

The night was eerily silent. More than enough to get the notice of Bianca and April. Both young women barely 18 had found themselves on the wrong side of a crime syndicate. They were paying their debt to the man. With interest. Both had their weapons within reach and were seated inside the sedan with the tinted windows. No one had come or gone to the apartment in the last 18 hours. They'd been watching it, they knew for a fact. Even the bugs they'd planted earlier were silent. Not even the television was on. Cell phone not chirping out any sounds or alerts. Even the god damned grandfather clock hadn't chimed the time in what seemed like hours.

"I'm not feeling good about this, April. Something's wrong. Someone's on to us. We've blown cover somehow." Bianca, who isn't usually paranoid is ready to start the mission over after some replanning.

"Fuckin' hell, Bianca, we have a thousand man hours in on this. We've done our homework and when we're at the finish line you're ready to chicken the fuck out? I'm doing this, with or without you and the boss will be told about you backing out." April says vehemently. "I'm going on the count of three.

"One.."

"Two.."

"Three.."
A hand closes over Aprils wrist as Bianca prevents her from going in, a firm shake of her head and a narrow eyed look. "I said no."

The silence is suddenly broken as the apartment explodes in a burst of flame that engulfs the entire building and sends flaming debris littering all over the car and the surrounding area. April screams as Bianca turns the key and peels out of there as of the hounds of hell were on their heels. Right when she's turning a corner that will take them further away, a severed hand lands on the windshield, a lot of the skin gone and peeling with bone sticking out. April screams again as Bianca steels herself against the sight. "You bitch, you almost got us killed. Next time I'm letting you go."

The silence encompasses them again with nothing but the distant sound of sirens heading towards the apartment building, the sounds of the car engine and April sobbing like a baby in the seat next to her.

"Clean up before we see the boss. He despises weakness." Is all Bianca has to say to it all.

She lost it.

It was the beginning of the end.

Andi blamed herself, of course she did. Who else was to blame? Faulty wiring, for lack of a better way to put it. She needed to be angry, To have someone to blame. Someone other than herself.
At the end of the day though, there was only her and her own shortcomings.

So she closed herself off. She shut him out and she refused to talk about it. With him. With her mother. Her priest. Even Krissy. But especially him. The one man who would be able to understand more than anyone else how she felt. Jack.

At first it was heated arguments from her.. then it was ice cold silence.

Somehow, the silence was worse. It pushed him away and sealed her off from him so effectively.

Then there was the divorce. It about broke her and she became so focused on her job and tuned everyone else out. Everyone except Krissy. Krissy never judged her, just loved so unconditionally.

While everyone else asked her why, what happened to cause the divorce, or what was wrong. Every question she couldn't answer.. Krissy loved her through it.

It seems.. Jack had too. In his own stoic way.
Yet it would take her three long years to let him back in.
Three long, agonizing years.

San Salvador, El Salvador

“Eighteen of my people are dead, Mr. Carver.”

The three of them sat at the coffee bar table, Carver's tie and collar loose, his shirtsleeves rolled up. It was a feeble attempt to stave off the heat he still hadn't even remotely acclimatized to in the two months of being in country. Melissa, sat beside him, wore an over-sized pair of touristy sunglasses, as well as a shirt depicting the Monument to the Divine Savior of the World, something they could actually see in person from where they sat.

The third was a man in full suit, features tan, hair slicked, slowly stirring sugar into a cup of coffee as he watched the two of them. He was the one talking now, accent local, demeanour clipped, and the other two knew their place by listening without interruption. “I asked a simple thing, did I not? My Father's book. His legacy. All in trade for this... what did you call it?”

“Omnium Gatherum.” Melissa replied, jerking her head forward to let those really, really dumb looking glasses fall to her nose. She looked bored. The man didn't seem to notice. She'd looked bored since the first time they'd met.

“The Script Of Many Things.” Carver replied in unison. He did not jerk his head forward. His sunglasses stayed firmly atop his head, nestled somewhere in a tangle of hair that ran a little too long.

“Yes, yes, well.” The man's hand removed the spoon from his cup, placing it down on the table. “You informed me that you required this book for academic study. I would have my men pull it from Avenida Norte, and you would receive both it and a sizeable sum in return for the ledger.”

“And so you did. And so we did.” Carver has his own cup of coffee. It's gone absolutely untouched. He fiddles with his tie as he talks, pulling it even looser, undoing a couple more buttons on that shirt. “And we bloody told you what would happen, mate. We told you what your dear ol' pa was into. I get it, I really do. Listening to a white guy that shows up out of nowhere has typically gone real fuckin' bad for your country. But every once in a blue moon, they can have a point.”

“YOU HAD US OBTAIN IT ONLY TO BURN IT.” The man's hand slams down on to the metal table, sending the spoon skittering, coffee spilling from the top of the two cups. His face, reddening, flicks spittle with the words.

“Not true.” Carver holds up a finger, glancing down to watch a few drops of spilled coffee coalesce on the table before moving to slide himself out of the chair. Melissa does the same, almost a mirror image of the man. Almost. There's far more jaunty kicking out of the legs when she does it. “I read it, first. And now I know where I'm going next.”

“Tell me how to stop it, Mr. Carver. They keep... I don't...” The man falters, his hand reaching out for either of them, both of them as they move. “Why would he put this upon me? Why should I suffer for his choices? What is it he did, Mr. Carver?” The hand drops. Weakened. Limp. It can take a while for resignation to set in, but when it does, no matter your net worth, it's a real kick in the pills.

“Your men will keep melting, Ocaso. You will, too. Pa kept that ol' ledger sealed up for a reason, I figure. He realized how shitty the deal was, tried to keep the payment plan limited to himself.” Carver's head tilted to one side, considering the twisted act of fatherly love for a moment or two. It only gets that, though. Any further thought on the topic could be mistaken for him actually caring, after all. “Guilt's a powerful energy, mate. I'd normally say it beats all. But...” He brushes off his pants, tucks the chair back in against the table, and flicks a departing hand towards the man.

The man who is staring at a thumbnail. A thumbnail that seems to be ever-so-slowly sloughing from the thumb it was so recently a firm fixture of.

“Curiosity and Greed? That's an unbeatable hand."

"You don't understand Banks, I'm going out of my damn mind! I don't give a shit about this promotion. I did not join the marines to type up more fucking reports!"

Easton dressed only in a pair of silkies continues to sweat in an outdoor gym area at Camp LeJeune in North Carolina. Surrounded by other officers they grouse freely about their various assignments and make vague overtures about their commanding officers and marines.

"Oh shut your whiny rich ass bitching tiny Tim" Tom "Banks" Richmond doesn't break his rhythm of pullups in replying. "You made First Lieutenant already, you're being fast tracked for intelligence because of your fancy ass ivy-"

Easton doesn't let him finish that thought. "Shut your broke ass trailer trash sister fucki-" A warning look from the other man cuts him off, or at least causes "Whatever. You've seen combat. I haven't, so don't tell me to quit bitchin'."

The argument is one they've had countless times since being re-united back state side. It's been years since they've been stationed together and their argumentative conversations picked up right where they left off. Many people at first wrongly assume that the two hate each others guts, at least during the day. Any free time at nights though quickly dispels those notions though as the two are inseparable and prone to drunken confessions of how close they are on both sides.

"What are you even complaining about? You wanted a career, you have it. You have a hot ass girlfriend dying for you to propose so you two can finally join Jenny and I in the old married people's club. And you have the funds to do it. So what if you don't see combat? It sucks. People die and I don't feel like any more of a Marine now than I did before." Tom rightfully tries to shut down Easton's latest round of grumble-caking.

"I'm not going to propose to Katherine just because you and Jenny like her." The ring back at his apartment in his nightstand drawer would very much beg to differ with Easton on that statement. In fact later that very night he would do just that, but at least for the moment Easton protests, "We just got back together. She just moved down here. What's the rush? Besides she's just going to want me to pick the safe desk riding job. I accepted the commission to lead men into combat, to test myself in every God damn way possible."

"And what if you aren't good enough and people die?" Tom rejoinders bitterly, the weight of one combat stint and many days spent questioning every decision and it's outcome after it lacing every word. It's enough to shut Easton up, for once. The silence that descends on the group lasts through the rest of the workout.

Twenty-two years. For twenty-two years she’s been coming here, on this day, rain or shine. And today it is rain. An umbrella keeps most of it off her, though the hem of her pants become sodden from the brush of the wet grass as she follows the path she knows far too well. The stones to the left and right are newer, many of them the inset rectangles that have become the norm, because they are more affordable. She continues on past them, watching the dates on the other side of the “-“ roll backwards. Ten years, twenty years. There it is. The right row.

She moves past several family sets of stones, and stops at last in front of a group labelled “Larson”. The largest of them has a statue of an angel, holding the hand of a child. The name on the headstone is “Adelaide Larson”, b. 1984 – d. 1997. Thirteen years old. She never really got to live her life. Part of her thinks Addie is still on the other side. Part of her at least. The part of her that was replaced with the black ichor poured into her by the thing that dragged them through the mirror. What came back wasn’t really Addie at all. It was a dark doppelganger, ridden with disease that doctors could only explain as a sudden rapid onset of stage 4 lymphoma. She knew better. It was the evil that was vomited into Addie’s mouth. It ate away her human soul.

Eleanor dips down to set the flowers on her childhood friend’s grave. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry you couldn’t save yourself. I’m still fighting, from this side. I promise.” She says a silent prayer, then rises, shifting her umbrella to the other hand, and heading back down the path towards the exit. The Gardens of Eternal Rest at St. Mary’s Church do not reply to her today.

Once you're 18 the world stops caring. Completely.

At twenty, everything should be figured out.
Twenty years old and nothing to show for it except a backpack full of her favorite things and little else. Leaving foster care at the required age of 18 had prepared her for nothing and she was aware of it. With no money and no job, they'd had her apply for low income housing and foodstamps. But without a real address, she couldn't get any charity.

It was her lot in life.

Now here she was at twenty and the little run down camper in the RV park on the edge of town wasn't much. But the rent was cheap. All she had to do was clean the bathrooms and empty the trash bags out of the cans, then refill the cans with new bags along RV park. So, she did it and she had a place to stay. No power or anything, but there was a bed.

The bed wasn't much. A futon cushion on the floor of the stripped trailer. But damnit it was a bed!

Now and again she even got a meal, when the landlord's wife fixed extra and he brought her some. Oh she knew why he brought it. She wasn't stupid. He wanted to get lucky. He never said so and he never forced it, but she could see the way he looked at her. And the looks were getting longer.

It pissed Lizzy off.

"You have to find a real job, Lyric. We need a real home. Wouldn't it be cool to live in the same area we grew up? I mean before your mom was killed." Lizzy was blunt.

"I guess so. But it's in town and we're all the way out here. Do you think we should just leave?" Lyric was more hesitant but Lizzy had agreed that yes they should leave and they should do it now. Just pack up and leave.

So they did.

A job at the car wash and one at the taco hut served to meet her needs for everything but somewhere to sleep. She could wash up at the car wash, shower there and then sneak a little food at the taco hut The only thing missing was a home. While she saved her money she found herself sneaking into a trailer house that was empty in the park. It would eventually become her home but she slept in there well before she rented it.

Finally, a little at a time, she made money, she saved it and she learned what all she had to do to secure herself a home with electricity and gas. All the comforts of a real home.

Lizzy was proud of her, she told her so. No one else knew the struggles. No one else ever would. It was her story to tell and she wasn't telling it. Lyric was another person now, she wasn't dependent on anyone and she never would be if she could help it.

Arriving to the restaurant, Cherish takes a moment to look about, to even check herself out in the window before going inside. Blonde hair pulled up, her favorite dress on with heels that match. A faint hint of makeup on to hide those circles. She doesn't look as tired as she certainly feels. Too many long hours recently, but they were worth every second.

Stepping inside, the hostess smiles to her, though Cherish is quick to say that she is meeting a couple already here. Her mother had texted her and let her know her parents where there, and already seated at a table. It doesn't take her long to find Margaret and Matthew Renolds either. Even here in Massachusetts, they could garner attention from those about them with just their looks. Shaking her head, she continues on towards them, smiling when they both notice her and rise to give her hugs, the one from her mother tighter and held longer, "Cherish, darling!" As her mother draws back to look her over, she tsks, "You look tired. Well, you will be able to get a little extra sleep after tomorrow, hmm?"

Chuckling, Cherish hmms, "Not really, for I start Monday morning with my shift at the hospital." Settling into her seat, she reaches for the glass of wine waiting for her, lifting it for a sip.

There comes a sigh from her mother, "I still do not understand why you are staying here and not returning to Gray Harbor. You know the hospital there would be glad to have you on board!" While her mother brings up this topic yet again, her father keeps quiet. He might argue cases like a bulldog back home before the judges of the city, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut when his wife is talking!

"Mom, you know I enjoy my work here..."

The banter would go back and forth between mother and daughter throughout the meal, though other topics are broached as well, including her graduation the next day. "Your father and I will be there. We /are/ proud of you, Cherish." Her mother says with a hand on her daughter's arm as they leave the restaurant, "You have made us very proud." Words echoed by her father who leans in to kiss his daughter's cheek. "We'll see you tomorrow." The Renolds then each head off, Cherish back to her apartment, and her parents to the hotel they were staying in.

Entering her apartment, Cherish wanders through, leaving her heels on the floor, and moving to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine from the bottle in the fridge. From there, she heads to her room, to the bathroom to begin running water in the tub. In her room, she looks at the gown that waits her, hanging there. Robes of black, a red stole, honor cords. Tomorrow, she would walk down an aisle and receive her diploma. After that, she'd go to work at the hospital, a full doctor and not just a medical student or resident. Finally.

The alarm rang, the call went out. In less than a minute, Fawn was suited up and in place in the truck. With sirens blaring, the firetruck pulled away from the station, headed towards the address for the call. They could all see the smoke before they turned on the street. With flames flickering out windows, they could all tell this one wasn't going to be easy.

Jumping out of the truck as soon as it rolled to a stop, Fawn joined in, listening to the chief issue orders. "Underwood, Marks, take the front, clear it out." With a quick affirmative, she and the other turned towards the front of the warehouse where employees were already stumbling out, coughing. Other firefighters are called for, the mattress warehouse already going good.

With other firefighters trailing Fawn and Marks, they head left, "Fire department, call out!" Sewing stations are checked, half finished mattress tops laying around, the fire climbing the walls. A coughing yell is heard from ahead, the two hurrying forwards to a woman who is crawling across the floor. The two get her out, then return inside to continue searching for other employees while other firefighters begin to bring in hoses.

As they reach the back, another employee is found, this one unconscious. Marks begins to pull the man towards the front, and it's then that Fawn hears a sound that no one wishes to hear - the creaking crack of a support beam overhead starting to give. Yelling for her partner to hurry, she reaches out with her Glimmer to try and hold the beam overhead in place, long enough that they can get out safely. It's a trick she's done several times, keeping both herself, and her firefighting team safe over the years.

But this time? This time it would not work. Not that she couldn't hold up that beam. It was another one that breaks, a piece thrown towards her that hits her in the head, that she should have been worried about. Before others could reach her, she was knocked out, burned.

When she would finally wake up later that night, it would be in the hospital, with bandages down her left arm from shoulder to wrist, and others along her ribs as well. There'd be a doctor ready to explain to her the treatment she would be looking forwards to - skin grafts and physical therapy with hopes that she might return to duty sometime in the future.

<<I don't like being back here>> The sky above Violet's head was darkened with the oncoming storm; already, a few fat drops of rain fall from the cloud cover, splashing onto her head. She ducks under the awning of the nearest store, tightening her cardigan around her. Across the street, a young girl in pigtails smiles Violet's way. Her mother snatches her by the wrist and drags her out of view. Violet doesn't need to hear the harsh whispers of conversation to know what's being said - "We don't talk to Whitehouses, especially not that Whitehouse."

<<It's better there. I can hear you clearly. You don't need to worry about them, Violet. I'm here for you. Nothing else matters.>> Alice's voice is soothing in a way, even if she wasn't actually here. It lessens the tension in Violet's shoulders regardless, as she looks across the street, to where the mother once was. That side of the street was empty now, but she still feels the eyes, peering at her from behind darkened windows. Staring. Criticising. Violet Whitehouse wasn't supposed to come back home, she wasn't supposed to be here anymore. Her father said she ran off to go spread her legs for the Devil, but everyone knew Mister Whitehouse was a drunk. Everyone else knew Violet should be locked up with her crazy sister. <<It's good that you're here. Where we have each other again. All we need is each other. You can't trust anyone else, Violet. Remember that. You can't trust anyone, you never know who They might be using.>>

Violet's blue eyes well up with tears. She left her dreams behind to come back to this horrible little town with its gray skies and eyes that always stare. <<I know, Alice. All we need is each other. I love you.>> On the other end of this mental connection, Alice goes quiet, and Violet feels unsettled. She waits for the WALK symbol to appear on the stoplight, and hurries across the street to the storefront where the mother and her pigtailed daughter had been standing. It's an unassuming little shop, and there's a sign in the door - FOR SALE.

When she opens the door, Violet finds herself stepping inside an antique store. It smells like history in here, old books and vintage art. On the tall counter in the very back of the store is a Tiffany lamp - a real Tiffany lamp, she can tell the difference. There's an old man with a fancy mustache putting a book on the shelf, but he smiles when Violet comes in. His eyes are kind. She doesn't trust him.

"Welcome to Memento Mori," he says to her. "I don't suppose you're in the market for something old?"

And for the first time since coming back to Gray Harbor, Violet finds herself in a place that feels like home.

It was the best present ever. The cherry red Porsche her grandmother had given her for her birthday. Erin had every intention of showing it off. Why else have a hot car if not for the looks you get from driving it around? Every party invite that weekend had been accepted, and there were plenty of them. It was her birthday weekend after all and all her friends invited her out.

There was plenty of party to be had by everyone. The drinks flowed freely, the dancing was more bawdy and wild with every bar hop, from one to the next. Finally, they'd ended up the next town over.

"God, Erin you're dressed to kill in that."

Later, that phrase/compliment would haunt her.

For now though, the party was full on. So many drinks it's a miracle none of them got alcohol poisoning. Feeling no pain, flying high, she'd accepted yet another glass and stumbled out with her friends to the parking lot. Everyone was dancing, tailgating, and there was her beautiful car. Oh people noticed it. Everyone noticed it. Erin made sure. Eyes glazed over. bright from too much alcohol, she'd offered to give someone a ride in it.

Someone.

Lisa Simmons.

"I dare ya," Erin winked at the other girl who was usually smarter than getting in the car with a drunk. Erin didn't fool herself, she certainly was a drunk. A party girl. Every inch the spoiled princess everyone called her behind her back.

Someone tried to take her keys. Unaware who, the two had gotten in the car and Erin had sped off. They were laughing. Laughing. Lisa and Erin. A song was playing on the radio and Erin was driving too fast. Turning at a curve, she turned too sharp then overcorrected. Everything was in slow motion. Her hands slid off the wheel, but she was buckled. Lisa wasn't buckled. The car flipped and Erin looked over in time to see Lisa being launched out as the car continued to tumble over and over to land in a crumpled mess.

Erin was passed out either from the crash or the drink. Even the smell of gas didn't wake her.

Someone had followed her and Lisa that night. Someone had pulled her free of the car and left her, calling the ambulance then leaving the scene, taking Lisa with them. Lisa was damaged. Taken to the hospital. Eventually, Lisa would get better, but their friendship would never be the same.

Lisa never told anyone she was in the car with Erin.

Erin only told her grandmother. Her grandmother told her to shut up and never mention it to anyone again. Erin suspected Lisa and her family were paid off.

Erin got a DUI and no jail time. A small slap on the wrist for what could have been. Much of the details are secret to pretty much everyone. But those in the know aren't talking. Including Erin. Her grandmother had laid down the law on that one and Erin knew when to listen.

It was the first time Tyler had visited his father after the fire.

It took nearly an hour to get through the process of background checks and being cleared for visitation. Tyler had spent the entire time in silence, fidgeting a bit by wringing his hands and running his fingers through his hair far too often. He was led to the visitation room, instructed to sit in forth chair of the row. Doing as he was told, he grit his teeth a little as he stared at the empty seat on the other side of the thick glass, trying to decide what to say to the man.

Tyler had practiced the speech in his head all day. He was going to tell him he graduated high school. He was going to tell him had just become a probie with the department. He was going to tell him he was a success, that he was happy and that he did it all without him. He was going to tell him that he hoped he rotted in here.

Finally, John Wellington, or 9123546 as he was known here, was escorted into the room and sat down at the chair across from Tyler, the glass separating them. John's brow furrowed just a little, something between surprised and worried at seeing his son. The older man hesitantly reached up to lift the receiver off the phone mounted on his side of the glass and placed it against his ear.

Tyler inhaled deeply, holding his breath for a moment. He swallows, a loud sound, almost a gulp. He looks at the phone on his side of the glass and stares at it. Maybe this was a bad idea. He looked at the prisoner again and was met with an annoyed look from John.

Slowly, Tyler reached up and picked up his own phone, moving it to the side of his face. He could hear John's breathing through the receiver but now, found himself unable to speak or look at the man. He stared at the small ledge beneath the glass, trying to decide what to say. His mind went blank.

And then John broke the silence. His voice was rough and his tone curt. "What," he asked, flatly.

Tyler finally looked up, meeting John's eyes. He inhaled and opened his mouth to speak, "Dad--"

Halfway through the word, the room went black and the phone went out. A half-second later, dim emergency lights clicked on. Tyler looked around, trying to figure out what was happening as guards rushed into the room on the other side of the glass and began quickly collecting all the prisoners, escorting them away from the visiting room. The heavy steel door on Tyler's side of the room opened and another guard stepped in. He announced the power was out and they would all be escorted back to the waiting room and when the power comes back on, they would be allowed to resume their visit. Tyler didn't wait wait, instead, simply heading home.

It was the last time Tyler visited John after the fire.

November 6,2016. When Dahlia was still struggling as a waitress in LA, just turned down an offer to do porn, and still had stars in her eyes for the cute cop old enough to be her dad. She wasn't really sure how it became more than a one night stand but her heart fluttered every time he texted or called. When they got together he set her on fire in ways no one had before. Dahlia was pretty sure she was in love with him. But hadn't said as much. It was too soon. Too early. She didn't want to scare him off.

Dahlia had just gotten off work and decided to give Javier a call. If his schedule was still predictable, he shouldn't be heading into work just yet. Waiting patiently for the phone to pick up as she pulled out some pajamas. A grin on her lips when she heard his voice on the other end.

"Hola Javier." She'd been picking up a little Spanish with his help. "I'm not interrupting anything am I?" The phone was on speaker as she changed.

Dahlia curled up on her bed as they chatted. "I miss you. Do you think you'll be back around for Christmas? There's a parade and stuff. It might be fun." A beat of pause. "Or we could just stay in. I just want to see you. You're the best Christmas present I could ask for I think." She was teasing just a bit, but it was true too. She didn't really talk to her family and while Justin was in LA too their schedules rarely ever lined up. She didn't have anyone else close.

"Okay. I'll let you go. Be safe okay? Call me when you get done? Or text me." Just so she knew he was in fact safe. Those three little words on the tip of her tongue but she swallowed them down. "Good night Javier. Talk soon ." And then she was hanging up. A wistful sigh as she relaxed on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. She had it bad. He was perfect. Maybe if things kept going well she'd move up to Seattle to be with him.

Without the knowledge of all the pain, anger, and heartbreak that would ensue in the not too distant future, Dahlia chuckled as she got off the bed. Chiding herself for how head over heels she was as she moved into the kitchen to eat her waiting dinner.

SEATTLE, WA : 11:59PM, 6 November, 2016:

~ shhhhhhwooooo schhhhhhwoooooo shhhhshhshhh ~

So says an old school can of Barbasol in the dark, as a 5’4” blonde huddles over the bed of a tall, dark haired (sleeping) Elias Sutton. Elias wears a Seattle PD tee and boxers, sheets tangled around his waist, and a tall, muscular redhead covered in body glitter (and not much else) is halfway draped over him. Both men in the bed are athletic, both have the build of cops before stress, and years of patrol donuts, set in.

Neither of the sleeping figures moves despite the extreme schwoo of the dispenser dispensing fluffy air-puffed gobs of stinky shave cream. She gives the can a shake, shake, shake, and mutters, “The fuck did you start taking Ambien or what?” Must be losing game of quarters earlier, she thinks. Much beer. All the swigs. And gleefully dispenses more:

~ shhhhhhwooooo schhhhwoo ssssshhhh shhh shh ~

She fills one of Eli's upturned hands with a truly impressive tower of precariously balanced foam. The redhead moves, and she's caught standing there with the can in one hand, looming over both men. Only one thing to do when you're busted: "Hi." Act casual, man.

Doyle gruffs, "What the fuck."

Sutton shrugs. "Go back to sleep."

"I hate you both," the redhead mutters, rolling over to shove a pillow under his head and ignore the twins as much as possible. Which is what most sane people do.

"You love one of us vigorously," comes her softly murmured reply before Sutton leans over the bed again.

She’s just reaching down to tickle Elias’ nose when his cell phone, which rests on the bedside table beside his service pistol, and Doyle's pistol, shrills at top volume. Sutton drops the can of shaving cream into a pile of dirty laundry, and takes the one, two, three leaping strides for the open window she crawled through earlier. The thing is the phone flashing on and her glance at it destroyed her night vision, so when she slides through the window, she overshoots the small handhold, and skids halfway down the incline of the first floor roof, her heel smacking into the gutter and bending it. She sucks in a breath and goes spread eagle on the shingles, white knuckling a grip on a piece of decorative woodwork. From here, she can see the safety of her window just a pair of yards from Eli's childhood bedroom. Her left foot slips off the gutter and one leg dangles in the air. Sutton sucks in a breath. Shit.

About that time, from inside the bedroom, there’s a, “Auugh what the FUCK.” And a pause of perhaps three seconds before, “GODDAMN IT, SUTTON.”

Doyle's sleep-roughened voice calls, "Shut the fuck up. We're sleeping now. Hang up your phone."

Sutton’s grip slips, she’s laughing so hard. She rolls right off the roof and thumps down her father’s prize-winning rose bushes.

That hurts. Quite a lot.

Doyle says, above, "I think your sister fell off the roof." He sounds largely unconcerned.

But he does put on some pants to help her brother extract her from the thorny vines, and the next morning, they all sneak out before a certain marine discovers what's been wrought upon his garden.

Kevin Walters sits in a crappy apartment in Vancouver, Washington, his laptop balanced on his knees. There's a story there, as wild as anything he wrote up for the Gray Harbor Adventurer's Guild, but a true story nonetheless. He's spent a year and a half researching it, months writing it, and now it's done, already attached to an email to his editor. This is the kind of story that could make his career, bring it back up out of the shambles it turned into in Seattle -- or it could break it, shatter it into a million pieces that could he could never recover from. The question is, does he hit 'Send?'

If he sends the story, then it's out there, for anyone to see -- anyone who reads The Columbian, at least. And who knows, maybe it gets picked up by Seattle-area news despite his byline, maybe it even goes national before it gets squashed by the corporate powerhouses it exposes. Or maybe it gets him laughed out of The Columbian before anyone actually bothers to check the sources he's checked so fiercely, so carefully. If he loses the job at The Columbian, that's it, he'll have been run out of Seattle, be done in Vancouver, he'll have to move home.

If he doesn't send the story, it's over. He'll have given up, done what they want. His finger hovers, the light of the screen reflecting off his glasses as he looks between Backspace and Enter.

Fuck it.

He hits Enter.

Honalulu, Hawai’i, the waters off Waikiki

Love floats on a wide surfboard, loosely arranged in a circle with at least two hundred other surfers, all in various states of dress, each carrying flowers on their boards, primarily delicate, fragrant leis of tuberose and orchid, with a few ti leaf leis thrown in.

She wears a black and blue shorty-wetsuit unzipped most of the way over a blue bikini top, tattoos covering her from jaw all the way down to her toes. She's slathered in suncreen, her tan long since faded away. On Love’s board, wrapped once around her wrist, is a lei of white orchids.

While the master of ceremony gives a short tribute, she paddles slowly out to an empty board in the middle of the circle, drapes the flowers and runs her fingers over the curve of that empty board bobbing gently in the water. The sun is warm on her back, the water in the mid-70s, clear to the ocean floor, like glass.

She paddles slowly back to her spot, doing her best not to check the water below her for shadows… doing her best not to check the water below her for shadows more than once a minute or so. It’s a struggle not to look down. She drags her feet up and sits with her legs on her board, rejoining the circle for the last words of the tribute, just before a box of ashes is tipped into the sea.

Cheering ensues, splashing from every one of those boards in a circle. Drum music pipes out from a boat nearby. Slowly, slowly, the gathered surfers disperse to less calm waters closer to shore, all of them surfing their way in to the beach.

“Love!”

The tattooed woman turns her attention from pulling her ankle strap on her surf leash to a twelve year old standing nearby on the beach, his skin a deep tan, a mop of thick black hair atop his head, and a grin on his lips.

“Kai?” She hasn’t seen him in a few years, and the last time she did, it was half a world away in hospital, arguing over the last packet of vending machine Sun Chips she was too tired to eat, and he wasn’t even hungry for. The last day she spent before discharge, playing hookie from her own floor to hang with the kids in the pediatric oncology. “Holy fuck.”

“Mum says that’s a word nobody should say,” he says, cheerful as ever with his cheeky Aussie accent. He gives her a little once over. “See your leg’s stlll on.”

A bit taken aback, she just manages a snappy, “See your hair grew back, you little shit.” Remission.

“Alright, don’t cry now.” Kai grins wider.

“Shut up and I’ll buy you a shave ice. Where are your parents? Unleashing you on the world like this… irresponsible in the extreme.”

“Missed you too, Love.”

She grabs his shoulder and pulls him in for a one-armed hug, which turns swiftly into a headlock, a play-fighting match, and it ends when both of them have to take off down the beach together after accidentally falling over a little girl’s sand castle and destroying it. Mainly because her Dad, a six and a half foot behemoth, gets up from his chair and puts down his beer.

Dashing boots sounded on a wet, broken slabs of concrete.  Multiple running pairs, along with the metallic jingle of chains, the rustle of leather.  Four pairs of heavy boots ran between warehouses, through the open chain-link fence and back to the service road for the buildings.  A splash, the remnants of Hurricane Matthew the month prior, sounded before four evenly timed opening and slamming of a car door.

It was only after the black 1965 Chevrolet Corvair roar to life and the rear tires squealed against the wet road before the fishtailing vehicle caught the road and took off like a greyhound over the kitchen linoleum did one of them in the back dare to look behind them, bespeckled with blood as they all were.  His smaller partner, clutching his stomach, was to busy looking down. While the driver was concentrating on intently driving, his passenger looked back, an older man with a long graying beard and a beer gut which took years of dedication to perfect. At first, he looked down, still breathing heavily from their jog, then up at the man holding his abdomen then asked with concern, "How bad is it?"

"Bad," said the weaselly man, with a whiny tone, looking up from his wound, wincing with pain.  When the car shook over the speed bump and the suggestion of a speed limit that had been breached long ago, he yelped then reached forward to cuff the driver and spit angrily, "Watch the fuck where you're going!  I'm bleeding here!"

The driver replied with a colorful explanation of his own, a suggestion about what the other man and his mother could do if it were even a physical possibility, but kept his eyes on the wet road.

"It doesn't look like we're being followed," the other passenger said, with a low-tone and turned back into his seat, his knees pressing against the driver's seat.  But his eyes, too, were looking at the wounds of his friend next to him. "I think you're going to need a hospital, cry baby." And finally, to the older man, he added, "I got the Mongol that shanked him."

"What do you want?  A pat on the head and a fucking cookie?  You should have made sure he wasn't stabbed in the first place.  That's why you were there," the older man replied. An attention getting smack to the driver's shoulder is delivered first before nodding in his direction.  "You better get this knife magnet to the hospital." He turns around and reaches for the glove compartment while catching his breath. The sound of pills in bags, in bottles, and papers gets louder the more he rummages until he pulls out a bag and starts to open and take out two, "Here, hold out your hand.  This'll help for the pain."

In the back seat, accepting his medicine with one hand, he looks down at them and then at the man everyone is showing deference to.  "Dry?" whines the stab victim, his upper lip pulling back with distaste to expose his buck teeth.

There's cold silence for a few seconds; the bag of pills closed and thrown back into the glove compartment before the old man puts his left arm up, clad in his leather jacket sleeve, on the back of the bench front seat.  It's a look the tall man with the deep voice never forgot, still practices, and inherited. "I could piss in your mouth?" the elder offers helpfully, after the delivery of the Death Glare. "Ya think that'll help?"

While two pairs of chuckles ring from the right side of the car, the bleeding man blanches and shakes his head swiftly.  Though he acts subdued, is cowed, it's a slight the rat-faced man will never forget. "Nope! No. I'm good." He shovels both pills into his mouth at once, and while the older man turns around to watch the scenery scroll past, a murmur from the back seat is only also heard in the back seat.

"I'll kill you fer that, you fuck face."

Martha's just mopping the place up, getting ready to open the till and count out cash. She's got the radio playing to Hotel California and no customers, so she starts dancing with her mop and humming along. Pretty soon she's belting out the words.

"Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice
And she said, 'we are all just prisoners here, of our own device'
And in the master's chambers,
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can't kill the beast."

The bell above the door jangles, and some guy walks in. Leather jacket, dark hair, Mexican. Not so hard on the eyes, if you like older men. Which Martha does.

"You can sit anywhere you like, honey. I'm closing up in thirty. Fryer's off, but I'm sure I can manage anything else on the menu for you."

He nods, smiles a little. It crinkles up the corners of his eyes, and makes him look a little less worn out. Martha doesn't feel comfortable singing in front of him, but she does hum the tune under her breath as she hands him a menu and thinks about squeezing his shoulder. Then changes her mind and gets back to her mopping.

The guy pushes his menu to the edge of the table and gets his phone out. "What can I getcha, honey?" comes out a little more suggestive than she intended, and Martha immediately wishes she could take it back.

"Couple of milkshakes. Strawberry for mine. And chocolate for him."

"Chocolate for who, darlin'?" Martha's confused, and it shows.

"Can you make me a couple of milkshakes, or not?"

She pauses, then scribbles down the order and sort of eyes him up and down for a moment. The hot ones are always crazy. "Sure, honey. Be a couple minutes."

She whips them up and sets them down, and watches the guy push one across the table, and start in on his own. By the time she's finished mopping and counting out money, he's done, and she hears the sluuuuurp of the straw pulling empty, and sees him sitting there looking a little lost.

When she comes back over, he pushes some money toward her to pay for the drinks. It's a substantial tip, and she starts to say something when he interrupts her.
"Could you take a picture of us?"

"Could I-"

"It's my son's birthday. He'd be turning twenty-one today. I'd really like a picture."

She watches him, and he watches his hands in front of him on the table. And yes, of course I'll take a picture, honey. And she snaps one for him with his phone, and he thanks her and he leaves.
She listens to his truck pulling out of the lot, and wonders if his kid would mind sharing a milkshake with her.

You know what Alex hates? Daylight saving time. It throws off his whole day. "Fall back in the fall." Ridiculous. He spends the whole day having miniature temper tantrums because his internal clock is all out of sync with the actual clock.

Harper is seated with her behind on the top of the picnic table, her feet on the bench as she watches the wild Pacific surf roll in and hiss back over sand and craggy rocks, arms folded atop her knees as the sun makes its heavy drop toward the horizon. The November wind chills her cheeks, plays in her hair, and tries to carve its way into her ears. The familiar, susurrant choir of voices seems to be borne by the sea this time, and clarifies to her father’s like it does more often than any other voice.

<<Harper, baby. Y-Y-You can’t keep looking for us-usss. All you’ll find are bloody memories-memories.>>

“I know,” the young Librarian replies, and if anyone were to walk by right now they’d look at her funny for sitting out on the cold day and talking to herself in the wind by the beach. Harper’s accustomed to funny looks. “But it gets lonely every now and then. And it would be so easy." Pause. "Don’t you miss me?” Every now and then she considers joining them. A bathtub, some dull cuts to skin, plenty of blood. It wouldn’t be so bad to just go to sleep.

<<W-We’re wi-with you, honey. Honeyhoneyhoney. You just have to keep-keep moving.>>

A seagull kites the wind low and just off to Harper’s right, screaming out a request for food.

“Daddy, some days it’s harder than others.” Harper closes her eyes, the wind bringing tears to them more than her emotional state. Would that it were so easy. Behind the red of her eyes she sees the interior of a car splattered heavily with blood, the corner roof over the driver’s side punched in, the dash crumpled into the seat and down, the steering wheel opened up by the jaws-of-life. Click. A shower runs with no one in it, flecks of hair and brain matter are still affixed to the tub’s faucet, a side-splatter of more blood and viscera on the shower wall. Click. Shattered glass covers the ground surrounding a little girl’s bike. Familiar images, they run on repeat through a slide-show of horror. But what makes it worse, so much worse is seeing familiar faces. People she knows, people she talks to, people she laughs with superimposed into similarly bloody scenes. Scenes almost as old as she is, creative and chaotic, endlessly brutal, paint prospective ends for people she knows, superimposing themselves on her psyche like flash-bulb after-images lingering on the retina.

It’s hard to tell the difference. Where does the wind let off and her father begin? <<Harper.>> An atonal choir of voices repeats her name in a call-and-response like in a church after her father’s voice addresses her. <<You’re sliding again, sweetheart. Pick yourself up-up-up-up.” More pulses of waves crash over rocks and foam white, only to recede. <<Put on that ssss-smile, and think of happy-happy things.>>

The woman known by most for her relentless cheer lifts one hand to rub it over her face to push back through her hair. “I’m so tired, Daddy. It feels like running in wet cement. You know where they found Jenny last night. I had just talked with her this weekend, it’s sucking me in. They are sucking me in.” The words hardly escape her lips before the blustery wind snatches them and swirls them away.

<<Harper!>> The voice tumbles on the crash and hiss of a larger wave surging against the rocks, almost angry. <<Stay away from the dark-dark-dark thoughts. Don’t le-let them catch you! Keep running, baby. Your Papa is counting on you.>> A dozen different voices agree. Counting on you.

Harper looks up and smiles a delighted smile, the bright light of the library enfolding her as she hands over a book she’s just scanned to check out to a high school-aged girl. “You picked ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’? That’s an excellent choice. Themes of ‘revenge’ and ‘time’ are waiting to crawl out of the pages and transform your world. They’ll probably give you an A+ in on that term paper, too. Don’t start it too late at night, though. You’ll want to keep reading. I guarantee it.” A beat. “Have a marvelous evening.” Just keep moving. And don’t look down.

November 6, 2016 - Elma, Washington

"Well, that's the last of them," Abby says, lowering her rifle to survey the carnage. They look pretty, strewn across the ground, glistening as they catch the sunlight from low in the sky. "No more bottles," she says with a small smile to the person at her side, nose crinkling up as she shifts into a wide apologetic smile. "And I'm sorry about all the bullets! 22s are cheap, at least?"

"I thought you said you could shoot." They laugh.

Abby swats their shoulder. Hard. "I can! This rifle is terrible. Look, the sights are way off! And it must be 100 years old, at least!"

"104, actually."

"104?"

"104."

Abby flails wildly with one hand. "No wonder, it's a relic! God, why did you let me shoot this? This piece of crap could have exploded in my face!" Abby's mock horror and indignation convinces no one. It's not meant to. "If you want to have my things, you could just kill me the regular way. These Wile E. Coyote plots are getting kind of desperate. It's sad, really."

"Listen here, sugar tits-"

"Oh God, you didn't!"

"That's a historical family heirloom!"

"Sugar tits? I am, literally, holding a rifle right now." Abby's indignation is just barely feigned this time.

"With no rounds left."

"I could club you with it!" Abby shifts her grip on the rifle.

"With my priceless family heirloom."

"Yes! Like a baby seal." That gets a gasp. "Also," Abby says. "We probably shouldn't be drinkin' and shootin'. It's a leading cause of..."

"You didn't even have two beers!"

"I know, I'm just saying," Abby says and takes a seat on the steps to the porch overlooking the yard. She lays the rifle down by her side, fingers tracing the grain on the wood before she looks over and leans in against her partner, head to shoulder. "I'm sorry I insulted your heirloom crap rifle. And I guess we'll need targets for next time," she says, picking up her half-empty bottle for another sip.

The sun is sinking lower on the horizon, and the house casts a long shadow across the grass, almost to the tree line. She fidgets with the hem of her shirt as they sit in silence for a while. It's cold, and Abby shivers, eventually feeling an arm wrap around her shoulder.

"I should go with you to Seattle," Abby breaks the silence, and snuggles in.

"But you won't."

"But I won't."

UC Berkley. It’s just a few months into Kelly Carr’s second year, studying pre-law and acing her classes. As always, it’s a beautiful autumn day in SoCal. Rebecca is in jeans and a fashionable boots, with a blue sweater and sunglasses on top of her head. She raps on her little sister’s dorm room door, and grins over her shoulder at her brother. Andrew is laden with a care package from their parents, full of homemade cookies and birthday presents. She carries a large gift bag with the same from her and Andrew. Their visit was a secret, and one they conspired with Kelly’s roommate. It’s a Sunday and they know she’s in.

Kelly opens the door, in sweats and a school tee, and looks shocked at her siblings. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” the pair holler and there are hugs all around. There is a whole day planned. They’re taking her to San Francisco, shopping in Ghirardelli Square, lunch in the tea house of the Japanese Tea Garden, a visit to Fisherman’s wharf to go to the Aquarium and some of the cool museums, then fried chicken (her favorite) for dinner at Finn Town. Kelly is overwhelmed, and her siblings are overjoyed. It will be one of the best days she remembers, and the day she remembers clearest, 1000 days from now, as she lies bleeding to death on her sister’s couch in Gray Harbor, Washington.

One thousand days ago, Julia was a Taylor Swift song.

One thousand days ago, she graduated from the Chef's Apprentice School of the Arts.

One thousand days ago, Julia was hired to work at Pine, a Michelin Star restaurant in the heart of San Francisco.

One thousand days ago, Julia was living her own life, and if she heard whispers or saw dark things, she knew to keep it to herself.

One thousand days ago, she was free of a family who had abandoned her, and could find her own worth in what she could do, having learned the harsh lesson that you can't find it in others.

Today, she stands sweating in front of fryer, to help a family who abandoned her. Today she can call herself chef, and so do other people, and she doesn't feel like an imposter.

Today, the things she sees, she hears, and she can do can be spoken of, at least to the right people.

Today, she realizes it is not enough to just survive. She has to live.

CASABLANCA, MOROCCO
NOVEMBER 6, 2016

"Why is it," Randall Waites, Junior Research Assistant, began with a quiet sigh. "That whenever I have to go somewhere with you, a gun gets pointed at my face?"

He wasn't exaggerating. There were guns, and they were pointed, but if Isabella Reede, Senior Research Assistant, had anything to say about it, the rough-looking men wielding them weren't just pointing them at his face, but also at her face, and at any other parts of their bodies that happened to be convenient.

"The last three didn't count," she said instead, green-gold eyes sliding towards her companion sidelong. "One was a border dispute, in which we were accidental tourists. The other one after that was a Somali pirate episode, which we had absolutely nothing to do with. And the third one was..." She paused. "Wait, is this the third one?"

"Gun. At my. Face."

Outside the windows of the cramped quarters of one of the Marche Central's cafes, the old-world charm of Casablanca unfurled in all of its battered, multi-colored and unappreciated glory; perpetually ignored by tourists, it didn't boast the outsider traffic that Marrekesh and Fez harbored in the peak seasons, but that was just one of the reasons why it was one of her favorite cities in the country, second only to Tangiers. Not that she could appreciate much of the fact at the moment when her attention was forced to focus on the short, but well-dressed man striding towards them, with his armed escort giving him a wide berth. Tahir Shah, from what she understood, was born in Casablanca, but his family had been wealthy and well-connected enough to afford him an overseas education. He embarked on the entire tour, boarding school at Eaton, and then Cambridge, a post-graduate stint in Wharton and then, after making his legitimate fortune on Wall Street, decided to return to the land of his birth. It was through his prior educational legs that made his name familiar to her in the first place, but she had never met the man in person.

Until today, when he proved himself to be the most sharply attired thief she had ever seen.

"Mister Waites," he greeted; his background lent him an exotic accent, but one that was difficult to place. His teeth flashed brilliant and white when he turned to look at her, fingers touching the brim of his hat - his only respite from the glaring heat. "Miss Reede."

"Mister Shah," she murmured, returning his smile with one of her own.

"Far be it for me to be so accusatory, considering we've only just met," the man began. "But I believe you have something that belongs to me. I would like for you to return it, if you please."

Randall paused. He must have felt Isabella's stare at the side of his face, and when he turned to meet her eyes, he recognized the look upon it.

"Don't do it," he whispered.

"I have to," his colleague whispered back. "I can't not. I'll never get another opportunity like this ever again. Live a little, Randy."

"If I do any of your kind of living, I'm definitely not going to live for much longer!"

Isabella ignored him. Apprehension and mischief warred for dominance on her sun-touched expression as she lifted her eyes to lock into Tahir's. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Mister Shah."

"Isabella--"

She lifted her chin in that infuriating angle, triumph - and some manner of misplaced glee - glittering in her eyes. She took a deep breath, reached out with both hands and grabbed the moment by the throat.

"It belongs in a museum."

A long, tense silence descended between the two parties, broken only by Randall's resigned, helpless groan.

"I hate you so much."

Boston, MA - Emerson Majestic Theatre

The stage lights are bright, obscuring the audience from view, and the music is so close that he can feel it in his bones. He knows that Jace is in the audience tonight, along with his parents, Cole's parents, the parents' of the entire troupe. No time to think on that too long. He's on next, and once he hears those familiar notes, they lift him up into the air and carry him across the well-scuffed boards. The height on his leaps are perfect, the snap of his head, the length of his limbs, the synchronization with the other dancers, mesmerizing, heady. He loses himself in the piece he's been practicing for months. And too soon, is swallowed once more into the curtains in the wings. There, Cole catches his breath, and tries to peer out into the audience from behind the curtain, but he can't see them. It doesn't matter. He knows they're there. They'll ways be there. Won't they?

“Hey, Eli. It’s Kevin.” The message plays over the speaker of his cell phone while Eli opensthe fridge in his small kitchen, taking out a couple containers of leftovers from earlier in the week.

“I know you said you were happy with staying on contract and working on the novels, but I’ve got a couple fantastic offers you should really look at. Talking pretty good money and they’d cover moving expenses and put you up in a place if you came out to New York.”

Eli dumps the food onto a plate and pushes in into the microwave. All the lights are on in the apartment, but it seems too dark. November might be the worst of the months.

“Look, I dropped in your name. So they might get in touch with you and I think you should really talk to them. This isn’t the kind of thing you’d usually get a look at without a college degree, but the kind of jobs that would make everyone going forward ignore that, you know? Anyway, call me back when you get time.”

Eli taps the button to delete the message just as the microwave beeps. He opens it up to take out his dinner, walking with it to the table and settling amongst the ever present shadows. He’d never be able to explain to Kevin that he needed to be here. It was hard to make others understand when he didn’t really understand himself.

"C'mon," she'd said, leaning into the open back door of Aidan's van, where he'd parked it overlooking the sea. "I've got something to show you."

There'd been a picnic basket -- well, tote bag -- and now he was lying on his back on the blanket, biting into an almost perfectly sweet and crunchy apple and staring up into the branches of the tree above them. "See?" she said, settling her head against his shoulder as though it were a pillow and lifting a hand to point upward. "Look."

It was weird, the way it resolved, like a Magic Eye picture suddenly coming into focus. One moment he was staring at masses of leaves, green shading through to the sort of orangey-browns you'd kind of expect for early November. And the next, with the barest fluttering movement, it was masses of mostly green leaves as the dying, dangling ones revealed themselves to instead be monarch butterflies. Hundreds of them, thousands of them, clustering among the canopies of this eucalyptus and the others that surrounded them. Aidan blinked, shoulders lifting and jostling her a bit as he tried to twist for a better look around. "Whoa. How-- why are they--?"

She laughed. "They're here every year. Migration. But you picked a good time." She gently pushed him back down, pulling his arm around her so that she could settle in again. "This is just about the peak."

Aidan crunched into the apple again, watching as a few more butterflies wafted in on the wind and found their spots to hang among the others.

All in all, it was a pretty good day.

“We agreed on ten. My bank shows six.” Lucinda says into her phone.

“Six is good for my employer,” is the only reply she gets.

This phone call isn’t going how Luce expected. You do a favor for some Russians one time, and don’t require payment up front, and this is what happens.

“Ten is what we agreed to.”

From the phone, a heavily accented voice says, “Perhaps you do it for five.”

“You want the locket or you don’t. We entered into a contract. I don’t do negotiations after the fact.”

“Already have locket. Negotiations are over.” Smug Russians are infuriating.

“Jewelry disappears all the time, Luka.” Luce says.

“What does that mean.” Less smug is better.

“It means the price is eleven now.”

“I think five. Perhaps a refund for your mouth running so much.”

The sound of footsteps outside the room she’s in are barely audible through the door, but it does give Lucinda the time she needs to slide under a huge, heavy wooden table.

“Perhaps you can kiss my flawless, milky—“

A heavy door swings open, and into the dark room, a pair of shiny, thousand-dollar dress shoes scrape across a flawless marble floor. It's annoying when people in footwear that expensive refuse to honor a verbal contract.

At least the blonde has mastered the art of prime time to shut your mouth.

Luce crouches lower under a heavily gilded table, in one hand a a gold locket dangling from a long, thin chain. In the other, her mobile phone at her ear. She has the presence of mind to click mute and then tuck the glowing phone against her chest so the light doesn’t give her away.

From the phone, and the room, the accent again, “Your milky what?” The accent Russian and strong enough to be distracting. Luce clicks the volume down on her phone, resisting the urge to move. Moving now would be more likely to alert him to her location.

Luka steps heavily across the room, to a gilded box where the tiny little locket once rested in a bed of black velvet.

“Lucinda…” He opens the box, then slams it shut again almost immediately. “What have you done?” No reply from her, of course. “Ms. Reine.” It's pretty hard not to snort when he uses that particular alias for her. She never should have chosen it.

Time to leave St. Petersburg for a while, go back to Paris. Too bad. Was really starting to dig the museums here. Luce clicks off her phone, slides it into her pocket, slides the locket over her head and onto her neck, letting the rose gold oval drop down under her shirt. She’ll need both hands free to get out of this mess. Note to self: more humble alias next time.

Petty thievery isn’t usually her thing.

Falsehoods, forgery, and false identities? Definitely her thing.

Time to get back to it.

Sparrow looked the part as best she could: long black skirt hitched up on one side to reveal rainbow-striped tights below, tightly laced aquamarine bodice over her grey tank top to shove her tits up and put 'em on appropriate display, plastic cutlass at her hip and way too red hair loose and wild. There were just details that stuck out, like the shimmery teal on her lips or her rainbow-laced sneakers. Maybe the absence of a proper pirate hat, but she'd have one by the end of the day, rightfully won from a middle-aged buccaneer-for-a-day who might've enjoyed getting swindled by a cute girl of barely legal age a bit too much.

No one believed her when she said her name was Sparrow, like she was playing a part for the day, but wasn't everyone? That's what Ren Fest is all about, make-believing another place and time, another self. She was queen of the seas, or would be someday, with her first mate--Robin, for the day, as is only appropriate for a sidekick--at her side.

The teen girls giggled riotously as they were lead away from fair grounds by security for underage drinking: how many people had shared their booze with them thinking, oh, one drink won't be so bad? It was a long ride home, back to the New Orleans apartment they were renting for the winter. First holidays away from home. It was easier to look forward to New Years Eve than to admit the homesickness at the thought of Christmas so far from everyone else they loved. But it was exciting. All of this was exciting. Already, they were planning the return trip, all the amusement parks and kitschy pit-stops they still needed to hit before returning to Washington. Months yet, but the restlessness was already setting in. Maybe they could escape early, put more miles down and keep to the south until the threat of snow was over.

For now, tonight, it was all dreams and drunkenness, happiness before the hangovers set in. It was enough.

The house was quiet, as it often was. The holidays would be right around the corner. Holidays were always the hardest for Tobin. Ever since his mother disappeared and most of his friends had left Gray Harbor, holidays had become a time of silence, and getting lost in his own head. There were rarely any tours that late in the season. Too much rain. Too chilly all the time. He'd find himself at loose ends, and sometimes that would lead him down dark paths within his own mind. He stood at the back door, staring out toward his mother's garden, the garden that he tried to maintain in her memory, but wasn't very good at. Illusions formed, at first in his head, and then there among the flowers. She walked there, lifted her head, looked at him and smiled. He smiled back, for a moment, knowing full well that it was his own mind that had summoned up that memory, brought her back for that one flickering moment. The kettle whistles, and he turns away.

Elias rocked back in the chair behind the counter at Likely Stories, feet up on its surface, early in the morning before the part-timer who was supposed to help out that day arrived. He stared at the ceiling as Celeste talked about marketing, cover design, and other details that he was only partially interested in. He had a new book coming out soon. It was in the final stages of proofing and soon would be gracing the shelves of stores everywhere. He wrote under a pseudonym and didn't tell anyone in Gray Harbor about his writing. It was something that was just his, and well, okay, so Harper had figured it out as well, but the librarian was snoopy, particularly when it came to anything book-related. And of course Frankie knew. Frankie knew everything about him. The air was cooler, not that the temperatures in Gray Harbor have vast variation, but it felt colder than usual inside. That, coupled with an odd sense of forboding, sent a slight shiver along his spine. Celeste cleared her throat, to see if he was still listening.

"Yes," he says into the receiver. "I liked the Jameson cover the best, too. Go with that one. And no, I'm still not doing any signings, no tours, no readings, nothing. You know I'm going to keep it private for as long as I can."

She tried every time, with every new release, and every time it was the same answer. He liked his anonymity. He clung to it, like his precious. Just then, the bells over the door chimed as his help arrived.

"Okay, Celeste. Lee's here. I gotta go. Shoot me an email if you need anything else from me."

Lee smiled and waved in greeting, setting down a cardboard coffee carrier and taking out a cup and push one in his direction. "Supplier call again?"

"Mhmn," Elias said, and pulled out a notebook full of sketches, doodles, and random ideas. He already had an idea for the next story in his head. He was just having a hard time un-knotting the giant ball of yarn.

1000 Days Ago in Lex Land

What’s in a day? What’s in a year? Unfortunately, this kind of story doesn’t burst into Rent lyrics. Not in the underbelly of Seattle, anyway.

Lex relaxes back into the worn-out couch, blood-shot eyes narrowed a bit in an effort to see through the haze of smoke. Tobacco, marijuana, and… other? God only knows, considering the assortment of ‘friends’ gathered tonight.

“The fuck did you say?” She’s finally opting to question, a tattooed hand pulling the cigarette from her lips long enough to make the words intelligible. Sort of.

“Lex, just… don’t. Not tonight, aight?” A woman’s voice pleads, her tone decidedly put-upon as she looks between the tattooist and the young newcomer. A woman. Girl? Probably older than Lex herself, but certainly not as… acclimated to the environment. Hell, she could probably still donate an organ or two, if truly put upon. The rest of them…? Well, put them on the other list. “She don’t know what she’s even talking about, and you’re…” Strung out? High? Drunk? Pick one, or all.

Lex turns a jade-green glare on her ‘keeper’, regarding the nameless source of wisdom with a look that suggests that she doesn’t appreciate the advice. What’s the fun of swimming with the sharks when you can’t eat your young? Er... new? (Worry not, potential Guests. This is past Lex.)

“Get the fuck out’ve here,” Lex suggests instead, offering a too-sweet smile in the newcomer’s direction. She doesn’t wait to see if the other woman actually takes her advice, already reaching toward one of the side tables for a make-shift tourniquet. “Mia?” She’s voicing almost needlessly, lifting an inked hand to accept the already-full needle from a meek looking blue-haired girl. A dexterous hand pulls the band into place on her upper arm, while the opposite hand feels for the veins and scars that have been long-since invisible under tattoos.

And then it didn’t matter. 1000 days ago? Fuck you, too, bitches.

"Yes, darling. Thanks so much for coming," says Dante as he hands over a copy of The Boiling Mound - the last book in his Merrymeet Trilogy of horror novels - to one of his readers.

The line has waned in the last half hour, but the Waterstones Covent Garden book signing was hopping a short time ago. Sales have been brisk. There were lots of smiling faces, and a few fans expressing disappointment that the deal for the BBC miniseries looks to be a non-starter.

At the end of it, Dante checks his phone. The missed call log says Bethany. He unconsciously fingers his plain gold wedding band.

"Hey babe," says the woman's voice on the other end. "I hope your signing's going well. You know how much I'd like to be there, but some of us have nine-to-five jobs and can't globetrot like you. I miss you. I'll see you next week when you get home. Send me a message if your flight changes."

Dante smiles to himself, deletes the voicemail and exchanges a few words with his publicist and the bookstore manager before exiting and heading back to his hotel.

There's someone else in his hotel room - sprawled out on the king bed.

"How did it go?" says the young man with blond hair in sweats who looks quite at home.

"Fine, fine. Adoring fans. Regret over no TV series. Why is the mark of a great book whether it gets adapted these days anyway, ay?" grunts Dante. He shrugs off his suit jacket, then clambers into the bed to lie his head on the other man's chest. He leans up to kiss him, then drops back down. "Put something funny on, will you?"

Jaime rumbled along on his way to the correctional facility to pick up his twin. It would be the first time that the two of them would be able to talk without a pane of glass between them in a long time. The old clunker was still managing to hold itself together, but the radio was shot, so he was alone with his thoughts.

The first thing that he was going to do, was give Joey a hug. The second, waffles.

This was the longest he'd been separated from his twin in their entire lives. Neither had ever left Gray Harbor. Sure, he had taken plenty of overnight routes, and the occasional week-long haul that took him away, but those were few and far between. Not having Joey around never really stopped being strange. To be missing a twin was like missing an arm, or a lung. He'd been looking forward to this day for a while.

He pulled up outside the prison, to the designated area where those picking up the recently released could wait and there he settled in, letting the seat drop back and letting his head rest back against the head-rest. And he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It'd be hours before the gates finally opened, and his mirror-image came walking toward the old beat-up truck and climbed in.

Jaime looked over at Joey, leaned over and wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hugged his head. "C'mon. Let's go get some waffles."

November 6, 2016.

A year and 4 days before the worst night of Kelsey's life.

She's having a girl's night out with her friends. Making eyes at cute guys and talking about how they're all going to miss each other so much, what with Kelsey moving to North Dakota for work and Angie moving to Hong Kong of all places. Bethany trying her hand in Vegas. They would definitely need to meet up again sometime soon. But for now, they were enjoying the night and the drinks, and the eye candy.

The alarm rang at too-early-o'clock, though that wasn't unusual in and of itself. Vyv reached over and turned it off nearly as soon as it sounded, sitting up and stretching.

"Mnn?" rose blearily from the other side of the bed.

"Go back to sleep, minou," Vyv murmured, swinging his legs over the side and rising. The French flowed off his tongue as fluidly as English these days, even half-awake. Mme Moreau would be proud of her star student. A stretch, a moment rubbing sleep from his eyes, and he padded into the bathroom to shower.

It was still dark out the windows when he emerged again, a towel about his hips and hair tousled mostly-dry as he headed toward the wardrobe. That was expected.

"Vivien." That was not. Philippe always said his name as if it were the French version; Vyv found it rather charming, most of the time. But there was no reason he should be awake now. It was too early yet for conversation. And there'd been neither coffee nor tea.

"You're not asleep," Vyv observed, gathering socks and underthings from their drawers.

"Neither are you." Well, it was true. Philippe stepped in behind him, arms sliding around his waist, and kissed the back of his shoulder. "It's Sunday. Come back to bed, mon chéri."

"You know I can't."

"Won't."

"All right, then. Won't."

Philippe released him with a frustrated noise, stepping away; Vyv tossed the towel onto the bed and began to dress. "You go before dawn and stay until late. And now Sunday, as well? I never see you anymore."

Vyv looked up. "Philippe, the Salon du Chocolat is in three days, and the last of those is at least half transport," he said, in the most reasonable tone he could muster, and returned to the wardrobe to collect the rest of his outfit. Simple clothes today; he'd be spending most of it in his whites, after all. Dark grey trousers, the black cashmere roll-neck. Black boots. "I have approximately five hundred chocolate peacock feathers still to form and paint for the dress, let alone arranging and attaching them."

"Let someone else do it this time!"

"They won't do it right. They won't get it done. It's me or Monsieur Dumont if we're to have any chance." Vyv chose a watch -- simple and silver, on a black leather strap -- and buckled it in place as he returned to the bathroom to hang up the towel and see to his hair. Quick today, at least.

Philippe followed, leaning up against the jamb of the open door. "Fine. Let Monsieur Dumont do it, then."

Vyv's patience, fragile at the best of times, began to fray. "He has everything else to coordinate, Philippe," he said, the irritation beginning to seep into the tone, "And this piece is mine. I will not send some girl down a runway half-naked or half-assed!" He stalked past the Frenchman, out of the bedroom and through the rest of the apartment, grabbing and pulling on his coat. "Go back to bed. I will see you tonight." A touch more gently, he added, "...and next week this will all be over."

"Until the next," Philippe retorted. "There's always a next. And how long until you decide you've learnt all you can here, and move on?"

Scarf thrown around his neck, a pair of gloves pulled from his pocket as he started for the door, the other man still trailing. "You knew who I was when this began."

"If you go, Vivien, I will not be here when you return."

Vyv turned, studying the other man for a silent moment. The mess sleep had made of his hair, the planes of his body, the dark challenging eyes and inviting lips. He stepped closer, sliding a hand through the hair to comb it down, fingers ending at the back of Philippe's neck, and drew him in for a kiss. It was a good one -- lingering, full of feeling and passion -- and was returned.

Drawing back, Vyv sighed. "Oh, minou." He searched the man's features for the space of a breath. "I will miss you."

He turned again, and took the few steps out. As the door closed behind him, he heard something crash and shatter against it, and winced faintly. A plate? A vase? He'd find out later, he supposed.

It wasn't the first time he'd lost a lover to his art.

It wouldn't be the last.

No body, no crime.

Sorry Bennie, our hands are tied.

Even though John T. Oakes disappeared during the summer two years ago, he can't even be legally declared dead for another eight. There are still proceedings that can be done , at least, to give her control over the family finances and at least start cashing the checks again for Judd's death benefits. Not that she'll see a dime of it.

The least she can do for closure is to tape up another box and move it out of the master bedroom. This time it's some of her mother's clothes that can go to the girls down at the motel, still smelling faintly of her perfume. The one Betty got at Christmas from the kids when they were in grade school and she squirreled away for 'special occasions'. Probably because it burned when you put it on. A lesson that Bennie learned while playing dress up, and one that had her spilling the contents of the bottle in the dresser drawer. It forever became known a 'Betty's Scent.'

The room looks much sadder in its muted tones of brown now that it's been stripped of all personal effects, and Bennie sits on the edge of the bare mattress with a sigh and a sting of tears in her eyes. Before they can flood over, she gets back to her task, yanking open the bedside drawer to empty it out of the refuse that tends to collect there, and the bottle of pills rattles to the front.

A thumb runs over the label.

A glance is given at the mattress.

A nap couldn't hurt.

Maybe she won't wake up.

In theory, it was supposed to have been a night of celebration, but Justin found himself alone on the balcony staring at the lights of the city and the traffic below. His eyes stung, but all he felt was exhausted. Behind him, inside, he could hear the sound of voices, of laughter, the clinking of glasses and the music, but it all seemed far away, distant. He pulled out his phone for the third time in as many minutes and re-read the text. The sound of footsteps behind him had him shoving the phone back into his pocket even before the voice reached him.

"Justin, honey, are you sure you don't want to just stay here tonight? You know we're happy to have you," his mother said, her tone concerned, her hand on his shoulder gentle.

"I'm okay," Justin lied, and pushed a smile onto his features, turning around to give his mother's hand a reassuring squeeze. "This is your night. Stop worrying about me. Don't you have a date you should be introducing to everyone?"

Stella smiled and nodded in the direction of the room inside and said, "Your father's busy showing him off at the moment. And I'm always going to worry about you. That's my job. I know how much Christopher meant to you. I'm sorry that it didn't work out."

Christopher was an extremely private person. They'd been seeing one another for almost six months before the first photos of them had leaked onto the internet. Justin was used to having no privacy. He'd never had it growing up with his parents being famous, and thus him being famous by proxy. But Christopher couldn't take the constant attention, the photographers snapping pictures of them whenever they went out, the judgments, the comments. He tried. For several months, he told Justin that it was fine, that it didn't matter, as long as they were happy. And they were, for a while, until things gradually unraveled. "So am I," Justin said, and pulled away from the railing.

"You need a distraction. You should do another film with me. I have a couple of scripts my agent sent over, and I think you might like ..." Stella was cut off mid-sentence.

"You know that I'm in the middle of the pre-release of Lucidwave's biggest project to date. I can't drop everything to go do a film right now," Justin reminded her, gently, but firmly. This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation.

Stella sighed and said, "I miss doing these things together. I know that you need something of your own, but surely there's time for both. It's your company. Don't you have people who can do these things for you?"

"I like doing the work, mom. I built the company. I need to stay involved, keep working on the projects. Are your children no longer yours when they grow up?" Justin asked her, pointedly.

Stella smiled and shook her head, "No, I suppose not. Which is why I will never stop asking. Either way, stay the night. There's no reason to go back to that empty loft tonight. We can have breakfast in the morning, and you can tell me about your MMA."

"MMO," Justin corrected, and then nodded. He didn't want to go back to what was truly going to be an empty loft. The text on his phone that he'd read three times over simply said "Left the keys at the front desk. My flight is in an hour. I love you." He lifted a hand and rubbed at his face. "Sure, I'll stay. Why don't you go back in there and rescue Oscar from dad. I'll be right in."

Stella gave his hand a little squeeze and then headed back into the room filled with people celebrating her recent Oscar win. He watched as she and his father embraced, and she teasingly stole the statue back from him. He watched the way that they looked at each other, the way that they made one another laugh.

He pulled out his phone and looked down at the message for the fourth time, and tapped out a response. "I love you, too." Unfortunately, it wasn't enough.

Classic black cap-toed dress boots make their way over a rainwashed sidewalk. The last time that he walked this very path, he was wearing well-worn sneakers. That was around ten years ago. How times have changed.

It's been close to a month since Byron Thorne's return home. His move into the new digs at his newly acquired Bayside Apartments was underway. He paid a hefty sum of money to buy out the previous owner, taking over the penthouse apartment in Building A in their stead. He left Gray Harbor as a struggling small town boy with big dreams and returned home a made man. His transformation made him unrecognizable to some, the way he adapted to expensive big city style and flare. Gone was the tall, lanky kid with the scruffy hair and flannel shirts and Tees who worked any and every job he could get, even starting some small businesses of his own at an early age. Perhaps, that's the secret to his success: Big ideas and the willingness to do anything to succeed.

Dressed in a business suit and a heavy coat suited for the chilly late fall temperature, Byron stands beneath a black umbrella, listening to the sounds of raindrops tapping against the canopy above. Though he was born and raised in Gray Harbor, at the moment, he longed for the warmer (and drier) weather of California.

A recent phone call brings him back to his childhood home. The Thorne House, an old Victorian on Oak Avenue, was in the family's possession for generations. It was built when the Thornes were still a prominent family within the Gray Harbor community. Now, only he and his mother carry the Thorne name in town and only he carries the blood. The house, itself, as historic as it is, was sold off shortly after Byron left for college. Stephen Thorne spent all of his earnings on alcohol which led to him making several poor investment decisions in his life, leaving the family in debt after his passing.

Waiting for him beneath an umbrella of her own is Mary Thorne, wearing an old dress from yesteryear with a shawl thrown over it. She doesn't look on Byron when he arrives, though she knows that he's there. Both stand in silence, their eyes on that house.

There was a darkness that enveloped the Thorne House. Byron remembered seeing it as a child, but everywhere was dark to him. Even in his absence, or the absence of his father, those shadows remained. A taint to the property. Ghosts from his past appear before Byron's eyes; haunting images that he'd escaped the town to forget. Memories that he'd pretended never happened. Thus, when his mother called him to meet with her here in the hopes that he'd buy back their family home, Byron was livid.

"I don't know why you insist on living in this place again. Is the apartment not enough for you?" The annoyance is clear in his voice.

His mother had never reached out to him when he was away. Byron had only learned that she was living at the trailer park through Tobin. She never asked how he was doing or what he did to make enough money to buy the luxury apartments on Bayside on his return home. And yet, she had the audacity to ask him for this one favor.

"This was home, Byron. It will always be home." It's Byron who turns to look upon her first.

"Home? Really? Did you enjoy your time living here?"

A wistful silence greets her son. Despite everything the family went through, all that turmoil, though she's always done well to mask her emotions, Mary eyes mist over with forlorn and bittersweet tears. Her nose wrinkles, nostrils flare in her attempt to keep it together.

"There was warmth and love to be found here, despite the difficult times." She looks as if she may add more to that. A lot more. So much more that she wished she could get off her chest. Only then does she turn to her son, wearing that neutral and blank expression on her features that Byron is used to seeing. "We may not have been rich," That almost sounds like a jab at her son's success, "But we didn't need to be."

Confusion on Byron's part quickly turns into a growing agitation. His mother was the most worthless person in his life, but even he doesn't understand what she's getting at. "Warmth and love?" He scoffs. "And where was I when the house was filled with this warmth and love?"

For a moment, Mary simply stares at her son, so tall and all grown up. Then, she turns her away, eyes cast back upon the old Victorian. "The current owner is waiting for us inside. She was kind enough to allow us to tour the place." A pause, "And was willing to sell... for the right price. She knows how important the house is for our family."

"Let's get this over with then." Byron snaps out in displeasure, a hand reaching to open the front gate for her. "But don't get your hopes up."