2019-10-24 - Alexander's Adventure in the Old Thorne House

It was nearly half past noon on a dark and dreary day. The drizzling had just stopped briefly, but knowing Gray Harbor, it will eventually pick up once again in an hour or so. Having recently recovered from a bout of the flu among other more treacherous ordeals, Mary Thorne is using these few days of freedom to return back to her old home and play catch up with the new home owner there. Her son, Byron, was out of town, something which he hadn't told her, but word gets around. Thus, in Mary's mind, this was the best time to make this trip, when her son was gone.

Her once youthful beauty has faded with the passing of time, but also with the darkness which she believes destroyed her family. She in her early 50's and modestly dressed in a blouse and pants set with a cardigan draped over to ward against cold. It's only once she nears the old Thorne Family home that she lowers her umbrella, tapping it out a few times as she allows her eyes to take in the beauty of that place. There's a mixture of fondness in her eyes before her jaw tenses at some very turbulent memories.

For once, Alexander is actually having a pretty good day. No looming murder-ghosts, he's been paid for a few jobs, just picked up another, so he's humming to himself as he comes out of The Lonely Goose bed and breakfast and makes his way down the street. No umbrella, which is a shame since he's wearing a sharp black suit with a black and silver tie - which he's reaching up to loosen as he walks. It's going to get damp, but at this moment it still looks as respectable as Alexander ever gets, although that defensive air and intensity around him makes it more sinister than professional.

He glances over at the old Thorne House as he ambles past - he doesn't think much of the place, although there's a flicker of recognition in him for it. But then he sees the older woman from the back. He likely wouldn't have stopped, if not for the recent dream with Byron, a trip to another's nightmare that he still thinks about from time to time. The woman, although older, is familiar. And so he stops, and stares at her for a long moment as the rain dampens her hair. Eventually, he says, "Mrs. Thorne?"

Alexander with his hair cut and those fancy clothes is perhaps what keeps Mary Thorne from more easily recognizing him at first. For a long time local of Gray Harbor, Clayton's familiar visage is easy enough to pick out of a crowd. The black suit in itself reminds Mary of her own son as he is now, perhaps this is what startles her at first when she spots the suited figure nearby. Did Byron return from Seattle already? And if so, why would he come here?

That said, very much like Byron, she's used to hiding her emotions, so if there was a moment where she felt this need to flee, she tried her best to conceal that alarm. Then she gets a better look at him, a look of recognition flashes within her eyes. "Why isn't it Alexander Clayton?" Crazy Clayton. That Damn Kid. A long string of curse words. Mary had heard it all from her husband in regards to the kid who once plagued Stephen Thorne. There's an obvious look given his suit, her face warming up at the sight, "It looks like you've done well for yourself. It's been a while since I spoke to your parents. I hope that they are doing just as well."

"Yes," Alexander says, the answer entirely unnecessary to the not-a-question of who he is, but he answers anyway. At the warming of her face, he crosses the street and approaches, although he stops just inside conversational range rather than approaching to any more intimate distance. His expression is blank, studying the woman with that creepy intensity. Although the mention of his parents causes a twitch, a flash of human emotion. "I'm doing okay. And they're well; they just returned from visiting family in Seattle for a while. I'll let them know that you asked about them. How are you?" He makes the question not just a perfunctory response in the small talk dance, but like he has actual interest in it, even as he turns his head to study the house. "You used to live here."

By now, Mary is used to some of Alexander's oddities, having seen flashes of them when he was still young and growing up to when he moved back to Gray Harbor. This means that she's not completely unnerved by his antics and for some reason, seems to take this tiniest hint of comfort because of it. "You never hid who you truly were." This statement could mean many things. Nevertheless, the smile still lingering on her lips. Once she's got a good enough look at the familiar face, she turns to look back at the house.

"I just got over the flu. It hit the town hard, crushing it in this unforgiving grip. I'm doing well now, thank you. But yes, we used to live here." She could very well be talking about her family, but what she means is Stephen and herself. "I'm hoping that Byron would purchase it back and keep it in the family. It's been part of the Thorne family for generations. It belongs to Olivia Marchand now." This should be a name that Alexander is familiar with, the woman being so close in age to him, both having grown up in Gray Harbor. "I'd heard that she recently had a stroke, so I'm here to pay her and her family a visit."

Alexander's head tilts slightly to one side. "No," he agrees. "I've never been very good at it." Still, the smile on Mary's mouth teases one from his own, although it's a flickering and uncertain thing, fighting against his native, twitchy nervousness and the rather complicated emotions he has for the elder Thornes. The mention of the flu gets a genuine wince of sympathy, though. "I had it, too. It was a miserable experience. I'm glad that you've managed to come through it." He moves a little closer so that he can study her and the house at the same time. "I remember her. Young, for a stroke." But it's Gray Harbor, so all sorts of things fall outside the usual realm of statistical certainty. There's a thoughtful noise. "I should say hello, as well." And then another pause before he adds, "Has he been open to that idea?" It's curious, but also has a hint of skepticism. More than a hint, to be honest - in Alexander's limited experience of the man, if Byron wanted something like this, he'd already have made moves to have it.

"Yes, very young." Mary has to agree with the man. "She's a very lovely woman too, worked so hard to renovate the house and rebuild it back to its former glory." Possibly in an even better condition than when Stephen's generation of Thornes had lived in it. "It happened right before that bizarre funeral held for William Gohl of all people." She quickly shakes his head, "The man was a serial killer. One of the most notorious murderers in the Pacific North West and definitely here in Gray Harbor. I'd heard that the Addingtons were there, which was intriguing." She looks to Alexander, casting those bright aquamarine eyes over at Alexander, "Now that's a family with quite the history."

She then sighs, looking on the house with those now forlorn eyes. "No. He refuses to entertain the idea, but the house has history and should be passed along to future Thornes." There's this tone of impatience in her voice, "I don't know what he has against the idea. But after he'd snapped at me for even asking, I stopped prodding him about it." The look she now wears is one of determination, "I might have to go back to work, just so that I can save enough to buy the place back." A pause, "For him."

"It's a beautiful house," Alexander allows, studying the structure of it with a restless sort of eye. "And to put that much work into it, she probably likes it quite well." His lips twitch upwards at the mention of Gohl and the funeral. "He was. Over a hundred and forty victims, they eventually determined. Not all the bodies could be found, of course, and forensics in the twenties isn't exactly up to modern standards, but based on what I know of the man, I'd say the estimate is in line with what his capabilities and desires were. But it had to be done, and so it was." He shrugs. "And yes. I imagine the Addingtons have quite the history. Most of the old families do. The Thornes, too, I gather."

He studies her expression as she studies the house, and his lips thin a bit as she takes on that tone of impatience. At the last two words, one eyebrow quirks upwards. "For him." It's a flat sort of echo, and he gives her a look that seems - genuinely curious, and probing. And he's actually probing at her, with the touch of his mind on hers, as he says, "You don't know what he has against the idea, Mrs. Thorne? No idea at all?" Because Alexander has a couple.

Listening to Alexander give her the rundown of details regarding William Gohl's murder and body count is a sight to behold. Mary Thorne is taken by surprise for a moment, simply blinking when she's informed of just how many victims and so forth. Then after a moment of silence, once she's told that the old families, including the Thornes, probably had quite a history, she cannot help herself but to come out with a light laugh. "My husband used to tell me all about you, Mr. Clayton. I used to think he was exaggerating, but I can see, that in some cases, he was not."

She's always had some thoughts regarding the Clayton kid, knowing full well just how Alexander Clayton used to drive her husband cra-- The laughter stops though there is a point where her smile slowly begins to fade.

"Yes, for Byron. This home is his legacy. The legacy of the Thorne family." The adamant tone in her voice is clear. "It's not just some random address on Oak Street."

People are complex. It's one of the truths that Alexander has had to internalize before other people's minds could drive him utterly and truly mad. Contradictory emotions can exist within the same person, at the same time. Love and hate twist around each other, and a person can torment what they love and protect what they hate, all because of the infinite complexity of human existence. He's even come to appreciate it, as distressing as it is to him to feel and try to sort through. So he doesn't recoil from the turbulent mix of emotions in Mary's mind. He's only paying cursory attention to her words, much of his attention on her mind as he stares at the house. He keeps his tone even, as he says, "I imagine the Detective had a lot to say about me, yes. I was very enthusiastic." A quick flash of a grin, one that says he knows exactly how irritating he was, and is okay with that.

But talk of the house as a legacy sobers him. "I think that Byron is more concerned with making his own legacy. And he's doing a pretty good job of it, so far. He's worked hard to make his place in the world. I don't think he has many happy memories here. You might. But...you don't seriously think he'd ever want to raise any of his children in this place, do you?"

He inhales a bit as eyes appear in the dark windows. "Ah. Seems we've been discovered, Mrs. Thorne." He stares at the eyes without shame for being discovered lingering outside this grand old house in a suspicious sort of manner. It's not exactly the first time.

What Mary says next is something that she and Stephen, at the time, had come to regret. It brings back those sorrowful feelings of loss, being reminded of her husband during that last month that he'd been alive. "Yes, of course. There was a point when Stephen realized that he should have listened to you. At least once." Detective Thorne may never had uttered those words aloud, especially in the presence of that damn Clayton kid were their paths to cross before his death, but his wife isn't afraid to bring this up now. "That's neither here nor there, though isn't it?"

She doesn't exactly frown when Clayton speaks of Byron's own legacy, her smile fades though. Then she's told that her son wouldn't want to raise children here. In this wonderful home. "Why wouldn't he, Mr. Clayton? Look, it has a wonderful yard and more space in the back. It's the perfect home to raise your children in." She then says with some exasperation and a roll of her eyes, "Was he expecting them to run around in the apartment building?" She openly scoffs at this. "Do you know how dangerous it is to raise children in an environment like that? Why, one of them could fall off and over the balcony and then what would happen?"

His word of warning is an odd thing to hear and once more Mary Thorne is left a little bewildered. One set of eyes fade from view. That's when front door to the Thorne House swings open and standing there is a young woman, perhaps around 27 with wide blue eyes and thick dark hair. "Mrs. Thorne, come on in. I just boiled some water for tea." The face at the door may or may not be recognizable to Alexander. The woman was sent upstate when she was twelve. Still, she flashes a pretty smile over at Clayton. "I didn't realize you had company." She seems interested in Alexander, her eyes rarely leaving him. "Would you care to join us?"

The eyes in the upstairs window fade into the darkness as well now.

Mary looks to Alexander curiously, "I wouldn't want to bother you, Mr. Clayton, if you had things to do. Miss Birchwood and I had something that we needed to discuss." Whatever it is, that didn't stop Amelia Birchwood from putting forth the invitation.

"Did he realize that? Good." Although beset by anxieties and self-doubt, even self-loathing, there are a few things that Alexander is confident about to the point of arrogance, and his investigative skills are one of those things. There's no humility in his casual response. "And it's nice to hear. Thank you, Mrs. Thorne."

But whatever gratitude he might have for hearing those words said, it doesn't stop him from outright staring at Mary when she seems confused as to why Byron wouldn't. His face is expressive and the surprise, and then the anger when she talks about the dangers of the environment, are easy to read. His voice is low, but dark, as he replies, "I suspect Thorne sees it differently, Mrs. Thorne. And somehow, I don't remember him being very safe in this house at all."

The door opens, and his attention turns back to the woman. He knows when he's being politely dismissed, and under other circumstances, he'd probably accept it and slink away. But now he's irritated, and curious as well. So he offers the woman a tight little smile. "I'm Alexander Clayton. I remember Olivia from when I was younger," he tells the woman, "And Mrs. Thorne was kind enough to remind me I hadn't checked on her since her illness. I don't supposed you'd mind if I intruded for just a moment or two, Ms...?"

Because what's the use of being crazy if you can't interrupt social occasions that have nothing to do with you, every once in a while?

"A little too late," Mary says, her tone quiet, "But yes. Stephen came to realize this."

Mrs. Thorne is far more expressive when she's not in Byron's presence. Quick to joke and smile. Yet, she's lived in that household for years and just as Byron has done well at keeping their family business private, she's always done the same, but for different reasons. So sensing Alexander's anger and having no idea why he would be so affected by this, she turns a curious eye to him. "Why? What did he tell you?" She knows Byron enough, having lived with him even after her husband's death, and what happened within this home was not something that he tended to bring up.

Her question was more or less rhetorical, having a feeling that her son probably didn't say a damn thing and instead she's prepared to enter the home, until Clayton decides to turn into 'That Damn Kid' again and try to interfere in her affairs.

The woman at the door responds first, "Alexander Clayton." She tests that name on her tongue, "I'm Amelia, here taking care of Liv until she's all better." She then blinks quickly, "She's resting right now, but it might not hurt if you took a peek, I guess." There's this look that she gives Mary before shrugging her shoulders. "How do you like your tea?"

Whatever kindness that Mary Thorne had displayed towards Alexander, well, her demeanor becomes far colder, finding the man, very much the way her husband had earlier, to be a nuisance. "Maybe you can convince Mr. Clayton just how wonderful the house is for raising a family." Not that Amelia's been here for all that long. Without a way to shake Clayton off, Mary will start up those porch stairs where Amelia smiles brilliantly at her. She does the same when Alexander passes through the threshold, her eyes never leaving him until it's time to shut the door behind them all.

"Nothing," Alexander mutters, because he's never met a rhetorical question that he didn't think deserved an actual answer. He drifts up behind her, shoulders hunched, very well aware of being the third wheel, but not yet willing to relinquish the field. Curiosity is his greatest weakness, and for all his nocturnal lurking long ago? He's never actually been inside the Thorne house.

So he offers a faint smile to Amelia, and says, "How is she doing? Olivia? I heard it was a stroke." He returns the brilliant smile with a more wary one of his own, and he matches the younger woman stare for stare until the door is closed behind them. Even then, he turns, checking out the surroundings with an interest that borders on outright paranoia. "It's a lovely house," he's willing to concede, but whether it's an attempt to extend a sort of olive branch to Mary, or just because going in an insulting a house you've just been invited inside is a little classless even for Alexander, it's hard to say.

The Thorne House has all the elegance and charm one would expect from an old Victorian, especially a home belonging to a family of good standing. The layout may not always be as convenient as say something more modern, but it has its appeal. They are greeted by a hallway with some stairs leading to the second floor. On the left hand side is the kitchen, then over to the right, is the living room. It's been tastefully decorated, though for personal reasons, rather than filling the place up with true antiques to match the home's age, the furnishings chosen doesn't date back that far. To Mary Thorne, this place was home, and was being slowly decorated to resemble the house that she'd lived in when she was happiest.

Amelia was already heading towards the kitchen to fetch them their tea. "Olivia is doing much better. She had collapsed in one of the rooms and hurt her head really badly when she fell against a display case. One of the neighbors took notice, thank god." Giving Clayton a thoughtful look, she asks, "Did you want to see her right away? I mean, come and relax. Get warmed up. It's pretty cold out at this time of year."

All the while Mary lingers behind, her own eyes staring up the staircase before looking to eagerly join Amelia and Alexander in the kitchen, if the latter were so inclined.

Alexander pivots in a slow circle. He's seen the downstairs before, from various windows and long ago. His expression closes down a little as he examines the interior, unable to resist comparing it to his own memories. Being seventeen, an outcast, and pushed to the edges of his sanity wasn't really a great time for him to recall, either, and he's starting to regret his impulsive indulgence of his curiosity. Still, his eyes are drawn up the stairs. When Amelia speaks, though, he trails her into the kitchen. "I'm glad to hear that they did. Had she caught the flu? So many people have, and it has some rather severe side effects." For all he knows, she got sucked into a Dream.

He doesn't sit in the kitchen, at least not immediately. He sort of prowls around, stopping to look out one of the windows that he used to look into, before turning back to the women. "It is. Cold, I mean. And the rain." He reaches up and touches his damp hair with a brief, wry smile. "Thank you for the offer of warming up." He stares at Mary for a moment, before his attention shifts back to Amelia. "Olivia's lucky to have someone who can stay with her as she recovers. Are you...local?"

"The flu? Thank God, no." Amelia says with a wrinkle of her nose. "I wouldn't be here if she did. Or, I don't think she did." She then corrects herself, "I mean. If I'd know she had the flu, I might not have come even if that sounds terrible of me." With the tea in the pot already steeped, she fills a couple of tea cups with the warm beverage, before asking, "Do you take milk and sugar with your tea? Honey, perhaps?"

It's been a while since Mary's been here and seeing how the place is looking more like home with each visit, she can't help but admire the added touches given it. Why, those curtains at the window, they look very much like the ones she had hung. The floor runner down the hall, as well, had changed to something comfortable and familiar. "I love what you and Olivia did to this place." She then graciously accepts the offered tea, but lets it cool down some before taking a sip. "Has Byron been by? When he asked me for," She shrugs with a shake of her head, "I'm not exactly sure what he was asking me for, but it seemed like he needed a personal item for some reason. I told him to check here. I know that we didn't keep too many keepsakes in this place, but I thought that there must have been something that he could use."

Amelia stirs her own tea when she responds, "He did stop by briefly. He said that he arranged to meet with Olivia the day prior, but she wasn't answering the door nor her phone." When she speaks, she's oddly observing Alexander, the stranger in the home. "To your question, Mr. Clayton. Yeah. I was born here, grew up here. Until I was 12. I'm back now!" There's this chipper tone to her voice when she says this. "I heard that Olivia was in need of assistance, so I returned."

"Just plain is fine," Alexander says, quietly. He's staring at the curtains. And then turning to look at a few other pieces of interior decoration, and there's a furrow in his brow. It's been years. Decades. Since he's looked inside the Thorne house, but it does feel like after two decades and new owners that more things should be...different. And the way Mary says 'what you and Olivia did' draws his attention, too. He drifts over to the table and sits down, taking the tea cup. He brings it to his mouth, but doesn't actually drink. Just inhales the warm fragrance of it and smiles. "It's lovely."

He returns the observation with some of his own. "That's very kind of you, Amelia. To uproot everything and come to help Olivia recover. I'm sorry I don't remember you well," he adds, with a little shrug. "I was out of town when you were growing up, for a good part of it, I think." A glance towards Mary. "Was the house sold furnished?" Because that's polite to ask a woman who is clearly regretting having lost it in the first place.

When Alexander is handed his tea, the young brunette with the bright blue eyes continues to observe him with his pleasant smile. At the compliment, she nods, "Yes, it's very delicious." He could be talking about the interior of the house, but her thoughts are on that tea. There's something familiar about this woman. Then again, she did grow up here for a time.

"Oh, it was no problem. Whatever happened to Olivia sounded frightening. She was here alone. She's not alone anymore and don't be sorry! I was only here til I was twelve. Then I moved upstate." A pause as she sips from her cup, "I knew the Thorne family enough. Byron's not much older than I am." Those large eyes flicker to Mary, "How is Byron anyway?"

Mary seems to be silently admiring the vase in the middle of the kitchen table. It was simple and white with an image of an orchid with a blue bow tied around it. Stephen had given this to her, so she was more than pleased to be reacquainted with it again. "He's on vacation in Seattle, but he should be back shortly." To this Amelia nods.

"The home was sold mostly as is, to be truthful." Mary says with a sign, "I couldn't take much with me as I would be moving into the trailer park. So I left it all here for Olivia to do as she pleased. At one point, I remembered, she had switched most everything out. The home only looked like what I remembered based on its bones alone, as well as some furniture that proved fitting for the aesthetics Marchand was looking for." She looks up, to view the kitchen interior once more, "This is really bringing back memories and I thank you both for that."

Standing beside where Mary is now seated, Amelia asks, her eyes still focused on Alexander, "Did you wish to see Olivia now?"

"Upstate," Alexander says, tasting the word instead of the tea. He glances to Mary when Amelia says she knew the Thorne family. It's not uncommon, or even unusual, especially if she was from this neighborhood. Hell, his parents knew the Thornes in a 'nod your head and say hello' sort of way, and thanks to his father being a teacher at the high school, Alexander's parents knew a lot of people. And they weren't alone in that. There's nothing weird about it, really.

It's still creeping him out. Looking back to Amelia. "You seem about Th--Byron's age. Were you friends? I seem to recall he was friends with about all the kids around his age, from what I've heard."

Mary's elaboration has him blink. Once. Twice. "I see." He looks towards Amelia, meets her gaze with his own, dark one. "Yeah. I think I do. I can show myself up; don't want to interrupt you two." He puts the tea down, stands. And reaches out with his mind to touch hers, curiously.

"He remembered me, sort of, when he showed up at our door." Amelia speaks of Byron fondly enough. "I wasn't part of his close network of friends, but I was around." She looks rather pleased when Alexander confirms his desire to meet with Olivia now, though there's very little that she can do to stop him from venturing forward and up those stairs on his own. Not that she was seated and had to get up, but she was already in mid-sip when he rises to stand.

Right. The house and the woman have some fucked up symbiosis going on, and it's choosing to root itself in scenes of Byron Thorne's horrific abuse at the hands of his father as the woman recreates Byron's childhood home. Weirdly, this is almost reassuring for Alexander Clayton, although some of those images are going to do their own rotation through his nightmares, and it takes everything he has not to glare at Mary Thorne. Or worse, although it's been years since a reading has caused him to physically attack someone, it's suddenly very tempting to give into the urge. But it's just so fucking weird that he's able to chuck it into 'Gray Harbor shit' and deal with it, rather than be paralyzed by anxiety.

For once, very little of this shows on his face. A polite sort-of-smile makes its way to his face, and he says, "I won't tire her," before turning and walking up the stairs, heading for the room where he saw the eyes before. Although, because he's a nosy man, it won't stop him from peeking into any open rooms he sees along the way, either.

If only the house knew what Alexander had sensed dwelling within Amelia's mind. What could a house really do? Then again, maybe it doesn't need to know that little fact, it already knows where the man is headed.

The steps creak beneath his weight, clearly alerting the resting patient that she has a visitor. Just like on other days which Byron visited this place, three of the four doors are closed and only the one nearest the steps, Byron's old bedroom, was wide open. The lights weren't on and somehow, the interior looked darker than it should for even a gloomy autumn afternoon. Perhaps the curtains were drawn, keeping the room in complete and total darkness? It's quiet.

This is fine. Everything is fine. Alexander stops at the door to the room. "Ms. Marchand?" he says, quietly. "My name is Alexander Clayton. You might not remember me - it's been a long time. We attended school together for a bit. I heard you had been ill, and thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing. May I come in?" Not that he really wants to go in. The more sane parts of his brain are definitely raising some warning flags.

The only way out is through. It's always been the case for him. And even with the sense that this isn't his own nightmare, it's the idea that keeps him going, to take a step into those shadows and reach out for the light switch. If he can find it, he'll turn on the lights. It's rude, in a room that isn't his and with a patient convalescing, but the shadows are too dark, too deep for him to be overly concerned about manners.

"Of course I know who you are, but yes, please do." Calls the voice from within the room just as Alexander turns on the lights. Olivia Marchand isn't laying in bed, in fact, she's sitting within an armchair besides the window. She's dressed in a long flowing white night gown, so she may have been asleep at some point, yet her dark brunette hair looks perfect and she looks well rested with bright blue eyes. For a woman who's suffered a stroke, she's doing quite well with this recovery.

"They called you many unflattering names back in the day, but I know that you meant well." There's this wary look on her face now, when she asks, "It's strange to get a visit from a classmate from the past out of the blue like this. "So tell me, Alexander, what ever did I do to deserve your attention today?"

Alexander's not good at lying, so he rarely tries. He is, however, better at cutting apart bits of the truth until it takes a shape more pleasing for his intentions. So when he enters, studying the surroundings of the room with thoughtful intensity before zeroing in on Olivia, he's able to say, "It's something of a coincidence, I admit. I happened to run into Mrs. Thorne outside, and she reminded me that I'd heard about your stroke. And that it was rude for not at least offering my well-wishes." He tilts his head to one side, something familiar in her features nagging at him. "How are you doing, Olivia?"

"Mrs. Thorne is there?" Olivia's voice is filled with excitement, before she's cautious with her next question, "Is Byron Thorne here too? Did he come to visit me?" There's this wistful hope that can be seen in those big blue eyes. Slowly, she begins to rise to her feet, leaning to the side so that she can hold onto part of the armchair for support. She's unsteady in her movement. "I'm doing better." She looks over at the suit which the man wears, "You remind me a little of him, you know. Byron." She then lets out a heavy sigh, sounding distraught, "He was supposed to visit me that night and then I don't know what happened. Everything was ruined."

Alexander shakes his head. "No, I believe he's out of town for a couple of days. I'm sorry." When she starts to rise, he moves forward by instinct, and - after a quick breath to steady himself - he offers his arm to her for support wherever it is she wants to move to. There's a moment of surprise, then amusement, as she says that. "It's just the suit," he tells her. "But it's kind of you to say." He considers the wistful hope for a moment. "Did Byron come to visit fairly often?"

When Alexander offers his assistance, he might feel Olivia's claw-like fingers digging painfully into his arm when she reaches to brace himself against him. Her chin is lifted and she's staring right up into his face with these saucer-like blue eyes. "It's more than just the suit." She smiles this wide smile. "We dated at one point. Then while we no longer saw each other regularly, we'd go out for drinks." As she speaks, her face hovers so very close to Clayton. "I miss him, which is why... which is why I'm kicking myself for missing out on our scheduled arrangement." It doesn't look like she's planning on going anywhere, simply standing in the middle of the room, clutching on tightly to the man's arm. "Tell him, I'm sorry. That I'm feeling better now." Suddenly, her grip loosens.

There's a brief sound from Alexander as the nails dig in, although he doesn't twitch away. It takes an effort, though. More, even as Olivia stares up at him with those wide eyes. This just got about five times more awkward, and Alexander's just sort of frozen in place, staring back down at her, warily. The silence stretches for way longer than is comfortable before he says, tentatively, "I'll tell him. I'm sure he'll be concerned. About your well-being. Would you like to go to bed?" A horrified pause. "To the bed. I mean. Are you wanting to lay down? To rest." He clears his throat. "But you have nothing to be sorry about," he mutters, throwing the words out so that hopefully she forgets the several sentences before that. "As I understand it, Thorne wasn't able to make his appointment with you. If you want to be precise, the apology shouldn't probably be his."

With this offer to take her to bed, Olivia smiles almost too hungrily and while light within the room doesn't flicker, there's shadows creeping out from the dark corners of the room. It all could be a trick of the mind with the light passing from outside now. "Yes, take me to bed." She murmurs. "Oh but he did come. Or that's what he told Amelia the following day. He was here." Her voice comes out as a whisper when she says this, being led to her bed where she settles down upon it. Drawing herself beneath the covers now, she begins to murmur almost absently, "You're a bit sharp, aren't you? Just a bit." She's just babbling on now, repeating something she had heard at one point a very long time ago.

It's at that moment that both Amelia and Mary reach the room with the former stepping inside first, "Is everything okay? Olivia?" Though there's no real look of worry or concern on the younger woman's face as she continues to smile on Alexander Clayton.

Mary Thorne, on the other hand, looked as if she were going to be ill. The room that she had emptied out once her son left for college, looked very much like the room he'd resided in for those 18 years of his life. Moving inside, her eyes look to the display case, which she had heard, Olivia Marchand crashed into. There were random knick-knacks to be found, but among these items, there was something of Byron's. An award of sorts that he and his team won for a GHPD softball game one afternoon. It sickened her, yet she looked impressed at how far the girls went to to make the entire house look... complete.

"Mr. Clayton." Mary starts, sounding distracted at first, before she turns towards him, "It looks like Ms. Marchand needs her rest. Perhaps you'd like to come back another time?"

"Oh, fuck this with a rusty screwdriver," Alexander mutters in what he probably means to be under his breath, and he immediately stumbles back from Olivia as he hears his own words, once barely remembered but ones he's thought on a bit more often since the dream with Byron, echoed back to him by someone who was not there. Could not have been there. He almost runs into Amelia and Mary as they reach the doorway, and he flinches back from them.

The room isn't something that he recognizes, so it never struck him. But seeing Mary's face, he can tell something is even more wrong here than he was recognizing. He turns a wide-eyed face on Mary. "Yes. She needs to nap, I think. Recovery. Mrs. Thorne, let me walk you out. It's only polite." He reaches out as if he'd like to grab her by the arm and drag her out of the house, but his hand falters. He doesn't want to touch her. Not really. So his hand just hovers there uselessly, instead.

By then, Olivia's eyes had already closed when her head touches the pillow just as Alexander looks about to flee. Amelia quickly blinks, looking somewhat alarmed by the man's sudden need of escape, "What's wrong?" It's obvious that someone had upset the man.

Mary also seems alarmed by Alexander's outburst and in this stern motherly way, states, "I'm not even finished with... /Alexander Clayton./" If Crazy Clayton wanted to leave and wanted /her/ to leave, she'll follow, but he can easily tell that Mrs. Thorne is not happy about it. She'll walk out of Byron's old room, which is something that she'd be relieved to do, and down those stairs. And even out that front door if he's leading her there. Eventually, she'll take pause to demand an answer, "What's gotten into you? Miss Marchand was resting and then you get all histrionic in there."

Alexander is definitely leading her there. With a complete minimum of politeness and a maximum of speed other than actually running. Under other circumstances, an older woman using Mom Voice and Full Name at him would probably completely stop him in his tracks, but not right now. His hand remains at Mary's back, not quite touching but definitely encouraging movement. He doesn't start to breathe again until they're out the front door and to the sidewalk. And preferably a house or two down the street.

"Is that damned house on fire? No? Then I'm not histrionic. You need to stay away from it, Mrs. Thorne, until we've dealt with it. Something's wrong. There." He looks back at the house, and then at her. "Don't tell me you don't feel it. I saw your face."

If Alexander dared to look back as they made their escape from the house, he would've noticed Amelia following behind them at a very slow, leisurely pace. By the time they rush out the door, the younger of the two women now residing in the house is watching them from at the top of the stairwell to see the front door shut closed.

"I don't need to stay away from that place. That place is /my/ home." Her voice starts to raise now, standing outside of someone else's house arguing with Crazy Clayton. Then he mentions that she feels it too. "Feel what? I... don't like being in that room." She doesn't say who's room it is, but it's not hard to guess. "They've both done..." It's been so long since she's been there that she can't help herself. It starts with a sniffle, her eyes glassy with tears, "such a wonderful job with the place. It reminds me of when I was still living there." This is followed by a quiet sob an she lowers her chin, a hand lifted to wipe away her newly spilled tears. "I just wish Byron could see it the way I do."

Oh god. She's crying. Alexander freezes in place like a rabbit with a car bearing down on it. He reaches for his pocket square. It's not meant to be a handkerchief at all, but he still tries to hand it to her. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't cry, Mrs. Thorne." He casts his mind for a way to stop the crying, and maybe to stop her from going back and being...eaten. Or something. God only knows what. "I'll talk to Byron. Um. About the house. But just stay clear of it for a couple of weeks. You know he likes, um, feeling in charge of things. Right? Right. I'll talk to him."

Mary Thorne was crying, they were tears of nostalgia and regret mixed with more than a dash of bitterness and rage. After what she'd done to Byron's room, it looked almost... too perfect. But it had to be done right? It had to be perfect. All of it. Between sobs and dabbing at her eyes, she struggles to breathe before murmuring out, "I can never get to him... so if you could..." Though, she can be the most hopeful person in the entire world and yet, she doesn't see how ALEXANDER CLAYTON of all people can do what she couldn't. Surely, her son despised her. Tried to kill her once. But this was Crazy Clayton. After some sniffling, she comes out and asks, "And how were you planning on doing just that? Have you and my son become friends all of a sudden?" She knows that Clayton's been around the building, but she also knows that Byron was mixed up in weird stuff and that's Alexander's department. "You have, haven't you? " She can't help but look a little amused by this. "Stephen was right about you."

Oh look, it's started to drizzle and guess who forgot her umbrella inside of the old house. She sighs and rather than head back in that direction, she looks to be wandering off to hail down a cab or something. "Talk to him, Alexander. That's all I ask." She looks towards Alexander for this briefest of moment, before simply moving on.

Alexander gives Mary Thorne a look. "Your son has better taste in friends than me. But I'll talk to him." He stops, almost asking what exactly Stephen said about him, a part of him - that needy seventeen year old part of him - still curious, still a little wistful for an acceptance that he never got. But most of him has a rather cynical, or maybe realistic, idea of what the detective thought of teenage him, so he doesn't try to stop her, or to ask, or to follow her.

Instead, he turns towards Elm and begins walking briskly back home, never even minding the rain. His suit minds it. It minds it a lot, but he doesn't know that, yet! Yay! In the meantime, he pulls out his phone and shoots off a text to Byron Thorne: When you get back to Seattle, we need to talk.