Tony Ephram was sitting in a bar. An honest to god bar, somewhere he never foresaw himself being in again since he owned the nicest casinos with the nicest bars possible. Why would he spend his time in some dingy dive such as this one? But the call he'd gotten, the one about needing to talk, asked if they could meet here, perhaps for the sake of further anonymity? He wasn't sure. He lifted his drink and took a long sip of his drink before looking at the large ruby ring on his index finger, something he'd bought for himself when he made his first million. Rubies had always been his favorite stones, and he figured he deserved something nice for all his hard work. His mind wandered back to the last few months. A heist. A murder. The hell had happened to his business.

"Tony," a voice said, a voice he recognized instantly. Tony turned to see someone sitting in a wheelchair, in the shadows, a large hat covering their face, wearing a large trenchcoat.

"...why are you dressed like a noire detective?" Tony asked, almost suppressing a smile.

"You won't be laughing when I tell you what I'm about to tell you," the man said, wheeling himself closer, tipping his hat up to reveal his face, not that Tony needed the visual to know his converser; they added, "because I'm about to help you. A few months back, I was involved in an accident. Lost use of my legs permanently. All because of a girl."

"I've had women break my heart, never my legs. Not that some haven't made the threat," Tony said.

"I don't know her name, but I know her face," the man continued, "and I know from grainy video footage that caught her outside your casino the night of the heist that she's friends with someone you employ."

That got Tony's attention. He now turned fully on his barstool and looked at him sternly.

"...the hell are you talking about?" Tony asked.

"You need to keep an eye on Allie Meers," the man said, lighting a cigarette, the light illuminating his face. He inhaled, then exhaled, his face covered in stubble but not the kind of carefully curated stubble that a man gives himself in such a way to be appealing, more the kind that comes from a man too depressed to shave. Of all the things that had been dealt with throughout this ordeal, all the loose ends that had somehow been taken care of one way or another, all the people caught in the crossfire, this was the one who would be a problem.

Jackson fucking Strange.

                                                        ***

The sound of the coffee machine stirred Molly from her stupor.

She groaned, leaned on her cane and started filling two mugs. She then carried these carefully by the handles back to her living room, where Benny was laying on the couch. She carefully, quietly, set one down beside him and then seated herself in the loveseat next to the couch, sipping her own. The last few months had been a special kind of hell, and Molly had so much she wanted to say to Allie, but was unsure of how to do so. Benny rolled over in his sleep onto his side, now facing Molly, and grimaced. He opened one eye and put his hand to his side, exhaling.

"Hurting?" Molly asked quietly.

"I need...something," Benny mumbled.

Molly got up and headed to the bathroom to retrieve some painkillers they'd both been prescribed. They'd both taken pretty bad, but survivable, hits and now were taking turns taking care of one another. Truth be told, it wasn't ideal, but this was how things had shaken out. Sometimes Allie came over, helped out, but generally they were either on their own or with Olivia when she had the time. Molly got two pills and then shut the medicine cabinet, catching sight of her face in it and surprising herself. She didn't even look the way she remembered, even just a year ago. Had dealing with Allie and all her bullshit really aged her this much? She shook her head and returned to the living room, giving Benny his pills, which he quickly took with his coffee.

"I'm so mad at her," Molly whispered.

"You have every right to be," Benny muttered, grimacing more but this time from the heat of the coffee moreso than the pain' he set his mug back down and continued, "whether anyone wants to admit it or not, what happened, everything, has been her fault, all the way back to the beginning."

"I mean, is it though? It's not her fault her boss is involved in shady dealings with the governor, and she just happened to stumble into that. Hell, the more I think about it, the more I realize what she's been trying to do this whole time has been noble, but-"

"You can be noble and still be a fuck up," Benny said, "just that nobody wants to be the one to villainize nobility. It's like finding moral shades of grey in heroism. We want these things to be pure as driven snow but things are far often more complicated than that. You of all people should recognize that. That's like saying what Claire did had a shred of good natured to them, despite her monstrous actions."

"I'd never make that claim," Molly said, chuckling, "but I suppose you're right."

A somber hush fell over the room as they each didn't know how to continue the conversation. After a few minutes, Benny sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"You know this can't continue, right? We have to cut her off," he said, and Molly nodded; he added, "she almost got us killed."

"I know."

And she did know. And she did agree. How much longer could she realistically entertain Allie's wild ambitions of grandeur? Of revenge? The two locked eyes, but didn't speak again. They didn't really need to. The silence said enough as it was.

                                                         ***

"Every single day I see people brought in in need of burial preparation," Rachel St. Sebastian said, "and every single day I do my job. I don't question it. I just do it. I can't let things like mortality or whatever get to me, I just can't. I have to internalize all my feelings about death, because otherwise the work is simply too morbid. But what that does is it leaves me with a gaping maw, a void, in my ethics, because if I'm capable of ignoring the brutalities of the world, what else am I capable of ignoring for the sake of my own well being?"

A pause. She pulled a cigarette case from her purse, along with a lighter, then paused as she glanced up at her therapist.

"Is it okay to smoke in here?" she asked.

"We are in Vegas, so," her therapist remarked, making her smirk as she lit it up and took a few long drags.

"I'm conflicted. I love the work that I do. Giving a face to the faceless. Preserving the memory of someone who might otherwise be misremembered. But then sometimes...a young woman came through my morgue recently. A single gunshot right between the eyes. Execution style killing, as it's known. A lawyer. Worked for the governor."

"Wow, your clientele is rather elite," her therapist said.

"Elite and cold hearted. Her family requested a closed casket, quick burial, but he wanted an open casket. Said he wanted to see who would come to see her," Rachel St. Sebastian said, "for what fucking reason god knows why but he did. Maybe to see if her killer would turn up, a sort of 'reliving the crime' situation as the police like to say on procedurals. Thankfully, regardless of your political standing, blood takes precedent and her family won out, but still."

"They...don't know who the killer is? No bullet in the head to turn over to forensics turned up in your preparation of her body?" her therapist asked, a tad confused, as she shook her head in response.

"No," Rachel St. Sebastian replied, blowing smoke, "no, no bullet, must've gone clean through. Was never found."

A lie. Everything was a lie. Her stomach churned. More turning up her nose at morality for the sake of her continued freedom. She had the bullet. She simply hadn't turned it in, because she knew exactly who it belonged to, and she wasn't about to risk having the woman she loved carted off yet again, especially if it meant her continued existence in this world hinged on Claire's freedom. Despite this act of devotion, loyalty, Claire hadn't been seen in weeks. Hadn't even contacted her. Course, this was just more proof positive she'd been the one to pull the trigger.

"What do we do with the dead?" Rachel St. Sebastian asked, "we clean them, we mourn them, we bury them. And along with them any secrets they may have held. I know I sound cryptic, but it's the truth. So many people go to the grave holding onto truths that only they will ever know. Murders not admitted to, secret families never known, hidden lovers and tucked away abuse for the sake of the family. How many fathers died not being outed as the monsters they were simply so the family could enjoy a good wake? Far too many if you ask me."

"You sound as though you're speaking from experience," her therapist said, causing Rachel St. Sebastian to shrug.

"Whether I am or not doesn't matter, cause it's still the reality of the world," she said, "you know, when I was younger, I was never spiritual exactly but I was interested in Wicca, and in Wicca there's this thing called the Threefold Law. In essence, it's a religious tenet stating that any energy or intent, good or negative, a person puts out into the world will be returned to them three times over. The energy returns with three times the force or strength."

"And you...don't believe in this anymore?" her therapist asked as she ashed her cigarette onto her skirt.

"Look at the world. Look at what people manage to get away with on a daily basis, people in power, people not in power. How can I believe in such a concept when people keep getting off scott free," she said softly, watching the rain drip off the leaves outside his office window.

Claire. Her thoughts were consumed by Claire.

Eventually, she knew, she had to pay for her sins.

                                                      ***

Zoe was sitting at Effie's kitchen table, going over various spreads featuring flower arrangements and table settings when Effie entered the room, eating a sandwich she'd just finished making in the kitchen. Zoe exhaled and ran her hands over her face, leaning back into the couch. Effie chuckled.

"A little overwhelming isn't it?" she asked.

"There's SO many things to consider," Zoe said, "I guess I never thought I'd actually get married, so I never really thought about all the aspects that go into it. We have to curate an entire menu for god sakes, right down to the sensitivity of peoples food allergies!"

"Well we don't want someone dying at our wedding, it's bad luck," Effie said while chewing, causing Zoe to slowly glance at her as she quietly added, "...also, you know, sad, cause they'd be dead."

The two girls laughed as Effie finished her sandwich and plopped herself down onto the couch, rubbing Zoe's shoulder.

"Listen," Effie continued, "if it's too much, we can hire someone to do all of this for us. I mean, the personal touch is nice and all, but if you start feeling you're getting overwhelmed or anything, you know-"

"No, I...I wanna do this," Zoe said, "it's taking my mind off a million other things, and besides, as you said, the personal touch is nice."

"Have you been looking at dresses yet?" Effie asked, and Zoe blushed.

"I'm honestly a little intimidated and a tad, uh...hesitant, as I've never really liked the way I look in dresses, so I don't know what will look good," Zoe said.

"Anything you pick will be beautiful just cause it's on you," Effie remarked, leaning in and kissing Zoe on the cheek before patting her on the back and saying she had to run off to a network meeting. As she exited, tugging her coat on, Zoe went back to thumbing through catalogues and various brochures, pamphlets, leaflets, you name it, all the while her mind doing its best to focus on this and not the fact that she hadn't heard from Allie in over a week. Allie hadn't been at the penthouse, she hadn't called, texted or e-mailed. Zoe had no idea where she was. And, in a way, she felt a sense of relief as a result. Her life was simple without her. Drama free. And she felt guilty about that. Allie was her best friend, and her business partner, and yet here she was basking in the glory of her absence, her self imposed exile. But it was a well known fact between the both of them that before they'd met, Zoe's life had been, well...not great, but at least not what it was now in terms of legal issues.

She figured Allie was hiding out somewhere, keeping a low profile. After all, she'd broken - in the weakest sense of the word considering she'd been let in with a key - into the hidden vault of a casino and been partially responsible for the shooting of two friends and the death of another person. Made sense to lay low. Maybe even doing so at the agents request until they could gather more information. No. Zoe couldn't theorize. She couldn't let her brain lead her down an endless path of questions. She had a wedding to plan.

And no Astounding Allie was going to make that disappear.

                                                        ***

"The hell are you talking about?" Tony asked.

He and Jackson had since gotten a booth in the back of the bar, hidden away from everyone.

"The woman who put me in this wheelchair, she's friends, or at least accquaintances, with Allie Meers, your resident magician. I don't know the womans name, but I could just make out enough of her facial features to know that it's her on the tape, and Allie, well, she's recognizable everywhere. S'what happens when you wind with a million billboards plastered with your likeness."

"I don't understand, you talk about grainy video footage, but...but they blacked out all the cameras on the way in, and none of the ones outside caught 'em either. How do you have footage?"

"Because I set the camera up," Jackson said, taking Tony by surprise; Jackson smiled, "please, you're not worth that much to me. It was from when I was first starting out, really, and I was trying to capture footage of my work so I could analyze it, see what I was doing wrong. I did a million impromptu street shows, often in parking lots, adjacent to big casinos so that people would think I was working at them. They didn't see this one."

Tony couldn't believe his ears. Someone actually had footage of the situation? Well, no. His mind slowed back to logic. Someone had footage of a woman who had hurt this man, talking to Allie, on the night of the heist. It didn't really prove anything. Besides, he'd known Allie for years, he was the one who discovered her, she'd been to his house, interacted with his family, she was like a daughter to him in many ways. Hell, she got sober for the sake of her career and his business. She wouldn't hurt him.

"...You say you know her face but you don't know her name, you never once thought to just...ask?" Tony asked, causing Jackson to laugh.

"I admit some oversight on my part in that regard, yeah, but when a woman as goddamn attractive as she was approaches you, your brain kinda goes stupid," Jackson replied, "we went to dinner, we met multiple times, I talked to her in depth about my magic, my career, and yet the idea of simply asking her name escaped me completely. Pretty girls can make men do stupid things."

"You ain't wrong there," Tony said, shaking his head as he sipped his drink, before exhaling and asking, "so what is it you want from me exactly?"

"That's the great thing, I don't want anything," Jackson said, "I can't really do the kind of magic I once did, I was an escape artist, what am I gonna escape from, this chair? The restrictions of an able bodied society? Please. No, I don't want anything."

"Then why offer up such potentially important information?" Tony asked.

"Because I lost everything," Jackson said, almost growling now, sneering, "and I want the same to happen to Allie Meers."