Michelle was panting, leaning against the wall, across the room from her mother who was knelt over, trying to catch her breath. The living room was, to put it politely, demolished; their respective hair was a fright, both sweating to death from physical activity. Michelle glared at her mother, who backed up against the nearby couch and grabbed the top of it, in an attempt to steady herself. Neither one spoke, barely brave enough to breath, their eyes locked.

"How could you do this to me," Michelle whispered, "my whole life, all I ever wanted...and you knew this whole time, and you just...didn't say anything."

"What good would it have done?" Celia asked, "made us hate eachother a little less? Made you trust me a little more?"

"...I never hated you," Michelle whispered, her eyes wet with tears.

"Yeah, well...I hate you," Celia replied, causing Michelle's eyes to widen, her lip trembling. Celia finally stood up straight and ran her hands through her hair, exhaling as she added, "you took away all my chances at the life I wanted to have. Everything I could've been...could've done...and having you killed all of that."

Michelle wanted to feel pain. She wanted to feel hurt by these words. But...for the first time in her life, she actually felt nothing by her mothers cruel admissions. A lifetime of disappointment and deceit had finally decayed her heart enough to where she couldn't be harmed any further. A super power, or a fatal flaw? Who knew. She just knew that it was nice to finally not relinquish emotional control to someone like her.

"...you're a terrible mother," Michelle said, making Celia laugh anxiously.

"You think I don't know that? You think telling me I put in the bare minimum is some kinda 'gotcha' and will make me feel bad? I've acknowledge it myself," Celia said.

"...but, maybe worse, is that you're a terrible artist," Michelle said, and that got her mothers attention; Michelle started to laugh, "like, you made two things in life, me and your art, and both turned out awful. That's a reflection on the failure that is yourself, considering both are an extension of you. The only reason you're even remotely successful is because you've been entrenched in that world for so long that you've become impossible to ignore, but guess what, success doesn't equate to quality."

The two stared at one another, and Michelle knew she'd finally hit her mother right where it really hurt.

"I've achieved more by sheer accident in the same industry than you ever did through countless years of effort," Michelle continued, "you're not just a bad artist, you're a worse artist than your own daughter, who you didn't want who had no formal training or interest in the field. I want you to think about that."

With that, Michelle turned and walked out the front door.

***

"Michelle?" a voice asked, and Michelle snapped back to the moment; sitting here, in the diner, Lexi across from them.

"Right, I'm-I'm sorry, uh, I'm still thinking about the other day at the studio," she said, "uh, what...what did you ask me? I'm sorry."

"I told you that I have a business proposal," Lexi said, "and it all starts with that girl at the counter."

Michelle followed Lexi's gaze towards the counter where a teenage girl with baggy clothes and long black hair stood ordering something.

"Anndddd....who is she, exactly?" Michelle asked.

"That is Amanda Briar Peterson, she's fifteen years old...and she's a fucking genius," Lexi said, "this girl has an imagination unlike anything you could possibly fathom, and she's using it right now to keep herself tethered to her empathy. Creating characters who are all about kindness, all about understanding. She...is what Bea thinks she is...wants to be."

"How does this turn into a business proposal exactly?" Michelle asked.

"Because I'm thinking we do what Bea did, but on a modern scale," Lexi said, "you and I, Michelle, we've lost a lot. My father being killed....made me think about how you grew up without a dad, and it...it made me really understand how awful that must've felt. You look around you and you see all these other girls with their dads and you just want that same thing but you can't have it. But what if we used our loss as a way to move forward instead of stagnating? You know what I mean?"

"I'm listening," Michelle said.

"We have Justine, who literally makes childrens books. We have Amanda, who literally creates characters. We have you and Keagan, showrunners with experience. We have Eliza, who's an expert at design work. We have everything we need to make stuff on our own. With my fathers inheritance, we have funding. Michelle, we don't need Bea. We can be Bea," Lexi said, "we can do the job she should've done this whole time, in the way it should've been done."

Michelle sighed and looked down at the table. When had it all come to this? When had things fallen so far from grace that this split had begun? Was it really just Liam who had kept them all together all along? Had he truly been the glue? She shut her eyes and shook her head.

"I...need to speak with Bea before we decide anything," Michelle said, "we really need to talk. We haven't talked the entire time and that's been half the problem. I dropped all this stuff on her, her daughter and then the sabotage, and we just really need to see if we can at least reach some sort of understanding first and foremost at least."

"I understand, and the offer isn't going anywhere, I'd never do anything like this without you and Keagan anyway," Lexi said, making Michelle smile weakly. Her heart hurt so much. She knew she'd have to see Bea, but she certainly didn't relish the idea, after all that had gone down. But she knew she had to, regardless. They'd been through so much together, changed eachothers lives for the better in a multitude of ways, and Michelle literally had a part of Bea inside of herself. She owed her that much, at least.

Michelle, without saying a word, stood up from the table, and left the diner.

***

Claire was asleep, and Leslie had gone into town for the day to do errands, leaving Bea all by herself. She was currently in the kitchen, making a late breakfast, the radio on her counter tuned to an old jazz soft jazz station, the sound of sizzling bacon and frying eggs the only other noise filling the space besides smooth saxophones and timpani drums. Production had come to a halt after the sabotage, and Bea was surprisingly okay with that. If anything, she felt responsible for it, and decided maybe right now work wasn't the best use of her time, considering her daughter was here. She began to plate herself some food as she heard the front door open.

"I didn't expect you to be back so soon," she said, as she turned to face whom she assumed to be Leslie, instead finding Michelle standing there; "...oh. Hello."

"You really shouldn't leave your door unlocked," Michelle said, "any kind of weirdo could just walk in."

"I know, wouldn't that be awful," Bea replied, the both of them smiling weakly at this sad attempt at a humorous exchange. Bea continued, "I just made breakfast, if you want any."

"I just ate," Michelle said, "but maybe I'll have some bacon. Can never say no to bacon."

Michelle sat down as Bea brought her own plate plus another plate with bacon to the table and then sat down herself across from Michelle. The two started to eat, neither one saying a word. The quiet hum of the centralized heating kicking on and off, keeping the room a constantly mildly warm temperature as they chewed, both averting their eyes from the other. After a bit, Michelle sat back in her seat and exhaled.

"I'm not entirely sure what to say, but I think it's important that we lay bare what's happened recently, cause it-"

"Michelle I'm sorry," Bea said, interrupting, surprising her; she continued, "I am...no apology will ever be enough to express my feelings about how sorry I genuinely am about how I reacted to everything. Between losing Liam and then having Claire come back into my life in such a short amount of time, it's been....it's been a harrowing few months and I just...I'm sorry. You got caught at the brunt of it all, and that doesn't excuse my behavior, nor justify it, but I'm sorry. You deserved better. Deserved more. Especially from me."

"It felt like you threw me away. After so long, telling me how protective you felt towards me, almost as if I were a surrogate for your own child, she then shows up and you just throw me away," Michelle said, choking, holding back tears, "you and my mother, you're both artists, but you're so real, and she's such a fraud, and to give myself entirely to you and what you make only to have you in the end treat me the same way she did...I think it broke me. I don't...I don't know if we can keep being friends."

Bea bit her lip, trying not to cry herself. She had brought this on herself. The stress, the tension, it had all just finally built up to a boiling plot and overflowed onto Michelle, and now she'd maybe lost her forever as a result of how she'd handled, or rather mishandled, everything.

"I understand that," Bea said quietly.

A long pause held between them and neither one looked at eachother again. Finally, Bea sighed.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"I don't know," Michelle replied.

"I was really hoping you would," Bea said quietly, almost whispering, her face stained with tears.

It was clear, even if neither wanted to say it, that it was over. That whatever partnership they had had was done for. Michelle briefly entertained the idea of asking to stay on the show, merely as a consultant, but at the same time, hadn't she given enough of her life to this woman at this point? Lexi was offering her something more concrete now. Michelle exhaled and stood up.

"Bea," she said, her hands balled into fists, nails digging into her palms solely to keep her from breaking down, but the only thing left to say was, "...I'm gonna go now."

And with that she exited. Bea stayed there, seated at the table, all the while her thoughts turning to Claire asleep in the bedroom. Bea slowly looked around the apartment at all the things that had become real thanks to Michelle's efforts. The doll. Photos of the parade balloon. The show existing again as a whole. And that's when she realized what she had to do. Michelle was waiting at the end of the hall when the elevator doors opened, and she stepped inside. But just as they started to shut, an arm reached in, stopping them, and there Bea was again.

"What? Did I forget something?" Michelle asked.

"...I always thought," Bea said, "...I always thought that...losing Beatrice would hurt the most. Then I thought that losing Claire would be something I couldn't come back from. Then I thought my mother dying would break me. Then I thought that losing Liam was the worst thing imagineable. Turns out it was none of those things. I already didn't chase after one young woman, and look where she ended up. I know you wouldn't do the same, but I'm...I'm not going to let you leave too. I'm not going to let you become, become disenchanted with everything and recede into nothingness the way that I did. I won't. lose. you. too."

Michelle smiled weakly and finally put her arms around Bea, who happily hugged her back as the elevator doors shut, the both of them inside now, heading to the ground floor.

"I'm sorry," Bea said.

"I know," Michelle said, "and I don't forgive you."

"I know, and you shouldn't," Bea said.

And that was all that had to be said between them to at least return to semi normalcy. Bea was right. Of everyone she'd lost, losing Michelle would be the one she couldn't come back from. Claire had at least returned to her. But Michelle couldn't return if she didn't feel the need to leave in the first place. They needed eachother. After all, it's a dog eat dog world out there.

***

Celia was loading up the dishwasher.

She was tired, it had been a long day. She'd spent the first part of the morning sculpting before moving to painting. After that she went out and ran errands, then went to get groceries before stopping by the gallery for a chat about her upcoming exhibit. So when she saw Michelle's car pull up at the curb outside the house through the kitchen window as she closed the dishwasher door, she couldn't help but feel a little annoyed. After all, she'd already done so much, and now she was expected to be social just a little while longer?

"Mom?" Michelle asked as she entered through the front door, the sound of it thudding closed behind her echoing throughout the foyer.

"I'm in the kitchen dear," Celia said.

Celia wiped her hands onto a dish rag and turned to see Michelle stop in the doorway.

"You look exhausted," Celia said, actually sounding somewhat genuinely concerned, "are you okay?"

"I've had a rough few weeks," Michelle said.

"Surprised you're here, you almost never come to see me voluntarily. I'm often the one who has to reach out."

Celia tossed the dish rag back onto the counter and walked past Michelle towards the living room, Michelle hot on her heels.

"My friends daughter came back into her life," Michelle said, "she'd given her up when she was a little girl because it wasn't right for her career. She regretted it every single minute since. And now her daughter is back, and it's got me thinking about you and me, and our relationship."

"Woman did what she had to to secure her place in the world," Celia said, "nothing wrong with that."

"...there's nothing wrong with that?" Michelle asked, arms crossed, brows raised, "I literally just told you how much she regretted it."

"People have trouble separating their emotions from their needs," Celia said, "This woman wanted a career, and giving up her child was the sacrifice she had to endure to do so. There's no shame in putting yourself first sometimes. It takes a strong person to do that, and she sounds like a strong person."

"She's an artist, like you," Michelle said softly.

"Well then she's definitely a strong person," Celia said, chuckling.

A long pause, and Michelle bit her lip.

"You know that being an artist doesn't inherently entitle you to greatness right? Greatness is earned, like anything else. Respect is earned, not automatically given. The whole 'treat others the way you want to be treated' schtick? Just because you make art doesn't mean you're smarter, or stronger, or anything. All you're doing is stepping down on those around you while claiming to create things that promise them beauty but instead show disrespect to their personhood because oh, you made this, so you're clearly better than them, smarter than them, can see the world more clearly or whatever pseudo intellectual bullshit artists like to spout off to make themselves feel less inferior. So you can paint a landscape? You can't run a cash register, Art is a skill like anything else. You aren't given a gift from god, you simply chose to dump all your efforts into one category as opposed to spreading them across multiple things to be more well rounded. You're not an artist, mom. You're a narcissist. The two are often interchangable, but in your case, one reigns supreme over the other. She hated herself for that decision for the rest of her life without her daughter. But you-"

"Yes, I'd gladly have done it myself," Celia said, taking Michelle by surprise; Celia chuckled, "oh, come on, don't be so shocked, that had to be where you were going right? Listen, Michelle, sweetheart, children are difficult, and especially so when they're as sick as you were, requiring constant attention and medical needs. Strained my career, my marriage - not that that was ever in a good place but still - and so much more. So yes, I'd have given you up if he'd let me, but he wouldn't."

Michelle couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"You...you would've...given me away? Without any remorse?"

"I never said there'd be no remorse. I'm sure I would've felt a slight pang of motherly guilt, but that's the thing, Michelle, I can easily compartmentalize those things and move on. I don't let things like guilt or sadness consume me. I could've moved to France, you know I always wanted to live in Paris."

"Dad wouldn't let you do that? So you talked about it?"

"Of course we did," Celia replied, "he was very firm on that. And then of course he goes and walks out on us, so apparently not as firm as he thought he was. It was okay for him to leave, but not for me to give you away. Hypocrite."

"You're a monster," Michelle whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"You're not just a bad mom, you're a monster," Michelle repeated, "You...you have no compassion for anyone else in the world, even your own child. I came from you. I'm a part of you. And all you've ever done is tell me what a burden I was, and how much harder your life has been simply because I exist. Well you know what, it's a two way street. My life hasn't been a fucking picnic either, mostly because of you. You're not a mother. You're not even an artist. You're just...a person."

Celia snapped. She felt her heart begin to race and her eyes narrowed as she glared at her daughter.

"He left because of you, you know," Celia said.

"...did you even love him?" Michelle asked, "are you even capable of loving someone other than yourself?"

"I did so much for you. I gave up my career-"

"Yeah, and constantly reminded me of it. Do you have any idea what it's like to be told that as a child? What that does to a person?" Michelle asked, tearing up, choking back tears, "no wonder I looked to a kids show for comfort and guidance, because I sure as shit wasn't gettin' it at home!"

"Well," Celia said, "maybe if you had deserved it..."

That broke her. Michelle ran at her mother and slammed her against the wall, taking Celia completely by surprise. Celia tried to push back, but Michelle had her pinned, screaming loudly as she dug her nails into her mothers arms, just pulling her off and then pushing her back against the wall. Celia finally looked to her side and grabbed a nearby flower vase, smashing it against Michelle's head. Michelle screamed and backed off as Celia approached her, now holding an umbrella she'd snatched from a metal holder nearby. Michelle, in response, quickly grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and held it up in front of her as Celia swung.

"You ruined my life!" Celia screamed.

"You ruined your own fucking life, I didn't ask to be born! You never should've procreated!" Michelle retorted. When the umbrella slammed into the pillow for the third time, Michelle reached out and grabbed it, then, using her knees, pushed her mother towards the couch where she tumbled over the back of it and rolled off into the coffee table. Michelle dropped both items and backed away as her mother slowly rose from the ground.

"You ruined his life too," Celia said, and that stung Michelle deep; she continued, "if he cared about you, wouldn't he have come back? Wouldn't he have talked to you in some manner? Everyone you come into contact with you hurt, because you're broken. Your father didn't want you, and I didn't want you, but unlike him I at least have the decency to respect societal expectations and stay. I stayed goddammit."

A pause as they both tried to catch their respective breaths.

"You expect, what? Pity?" Michelle asked.

"He did try to come back," Celia said, and this caught Michelle completely off guard.

"Wh-what?" she asked, her lip trembling.

"He tried to come back. I wouldn't let him. He wanted to see you, but I wouldn't let him. I figured he'd just leave and hurt us all over again anyway so why give him that power. And after that, he never returned, never even tried to get into contact with us. But I was still here, and yet I'm who you hate."

Michelle was panting, leaning against the wall, across the room from her mother who was knelt over, trying to catch her breath. The living room was, to put it politely, demolished; their respective hair was a fright, both sweating to death from physical activity. Michelle glared at her mother, who backed up against the nearby couch and grabbed the top of it, in an attempt to steady herself. Neither one spoke, barely brave enough to breath, their eyes locked.

"How could you do this to me," Michelle whispered, "my whole life, all I ever wanted...and you knew this whole time, and you just...didn't say anything."

"What good would it have done?" Celia asked, "made us hate eachother a little less? Made you trust me a little more?"

"...I never hated you," Michelle whispered, her eyes wet with tears.

"Yeah, well...I hate you," Celia replied, causing Michelle's eyes to widen, her lip trembling. Celia finally stood up straight and ran her hands through her hair, exhaling as she added, "you took away all my chances at the life I wanted to have. Everything I could've been...could've done...and having you killed all of that."

Michelle wanted to feel pain. She wanted to feel hurt by these words. But...for the first time in her life, she actually felt nothing by her mothers cruel admissions. A lifetime of disappointment and deceit had finally decayed her heart enough to where she couldn't be harmed any further. A super power, or a fatal flaw? Who knew. She just knew that it was nice to finally not relinquish emotional control to someone like her.

"...you're a terrible mother," Michelle said, making Celia laugh anxiously.

"You think I don't know that? You think telling me I put in the bare minimum is some kinda 'gotcha' and will make me feel bad? I've acknowledge it myself," Celia said.

"...but, maybe worse, is that you're a terrible artist," Michelle said, and that got her mothers attention; Michelle started to laugh, "like, you made two things in life, me and your art, and both turned out awful. That's a reflection on the failure that is yourself, considering both are an extension of you. The only reason you're even remotely successful is because you've been entrenched in that world for so long that you've become impossible to ignore, but guess what, success doesn't equate to quality."

The two stared at one another, and Michelle knew she'd finally hit her mother right where it really hurt.

"I've achieved more by sheer accident in the same industry than you ever did through countless years of effort," Michelle continued, "you're not just a bad artist, you're a worse artist than your own daughter, who you didn't want who had no formal training or interest in the field. I want you to think about that."

With that, Michelle turned and walked out the front door.

***

Keagan was in the studio, shutting things down for the evening, ready to head home and have dinner. She stretched, yawned and stood up. She pulled her headphones off and set them down on the console, then gathered her things and exited, locking the door behind her. Keagan headed out to the parking lot, happy with herself for yet another productive day. She reached her car, pulled her keys out and slid the car key into the hole and tugged the door open before she heard the sound of someone sniffling. Keagan stopped and turned, looking at the car parked beside her, where a battered Michelle stood.

"Michelle?" Keagan asked.

"I...I can't get into the building, so I couldn't...find you," Michelle said weakly, her voice heavy, cracking.

"What happened to you?" Keagan asked.

"You're my friend right, you're not gonna leave me?"

"Of course not, you're my friend, yeah, why, what-"

"Keagan, I...why do all the people I want to love me not love me?" Michelle asked.

"I love you," Keagan said, "I mean, not romantically, obviously, but...we wouldn't be here without eachother."

Michelle approached Keagan and hugged her, taking her by surprise but she happily hugged her back.

"It's gonna be okay Michelle," Keagan said, "you're safe. I've got you."

"I need your help," Michelle said, "only you can help me."

"Okay, what do you need?" Keagan asked.

A pause.

"I need you to find my dad," Michelle said.

Michelle stood by the door in The Hole.

She had been let onto the lot by Eliza, while she and Keagan delivered puppets and props to the stage for that afternoons production shoot. Justine was supposed to be there already, to help Michelle, but she was running late. Michelle sighed and checked her watch, then shook her head again. Filming was set to start in an hour, which gave her and Justine only a bit of time to get everything they'd written transferred onto the large cue cards and get them into the hands of someone they trusted. Honestly though...she kind of couldn't believe she was doing this. Sabotaging the very thing she'd worked on and defended so ferociously for so long? It felt surreal. But Bea had put her in an awful position, and she needed to claw back whatever shred of control she could, regardless of how she did so.

The door opened.

Michelle turned to finally see Justine entering. Michelle rolled her eyes as Justine walked in, looking like she at least made the attempt to be well dressed, even if nothing really matched and her hair and makeup were still slipshod. She tossed the cue cards down onto a nearby table and Michelle raised an eyebrow.

"You managed to grab 'em?" she asked.

"That's mostly why I was late, cause walking across this entire lot is a trek. I had to go all the way to Keagan's studio in order to pick them up, she'd left them for us in there," Justine said.

"Well, that's nice at least," Michelle said.

"Got markers?" Justine asked.

"Yeah, I took some from Eliza's workstation in here," Michelle said. Justine took her coat off and tossed it onto a nearby chair as Michelle handed her a marker and, together, they walked to the table to start transcribing the script onto the cue cards. Justine pulled the marker cap off with her teeth, her other hand gripping an iced coffee in a glass bottle, and then spat it onto the table. Michelle glanced her way and asked quietly, "are you sure this is gonna work?"

"It'll work, don't worry," Justine said.

"Who are we even giving them too?" Michelle asked, but Justine didn't answer.

***

"I'm exhausted," Bea said.

She was sitting in Stephanie's office, while Stephanie sipped from a small, crystal, squircle shaped glass with whiskey. Bea was in costume, but the head was sitting on the table by the chair she was currently plopped down into.

"Not sleeping well?" Steph asked.

"The last little while has been so hectic and strange," Beatrice replied, "my daughter showing up, and now Leslie being weird about it all and I...I just don't get how having my child back in my life could be such a detriment to those I love when it's such a boon to myself. Wouldn't they want me to be happy?"

"Are you happy?" Stephanie asked, causing Bea to stop and think; Steph took another sip, scooped up some nuts from the bowl on her desk and dropped them in her mouth before adding, "cause you sure don't seem happy, Bea. You're in my office, commiserating, and when you're not being verbal about it all you're just sort of floating around the lot like someone in mourning."

"I'm happy, yes, just...not about the reception," Bea said.

"Listen, I'm not here to mitigate your emotions," Stephanie said, finally sitting upright and finishing her drink, clunking the glass down on the desktop before adding, "all I'm saying is that while you certainly deserve to celebrate the return of someone you thought you'd never see again, someone you birthed into this world, that joy doesn't evaporate others upset. Put aside Leslie, put aside Justine, put aside Eliza...let's talk about Michelle."

"I don't want to talk about Michelle," Bea said flatly.

"And why is that?"

"Michelle was never my daughter."

"So now that the real thing has come home the stand in can move on? Is that it?" Stephanie asked, and this caused Bea to visibly grimace and shake. Steph was clearly getting under her skin. She stood up and sat on her desk, refilling her glass, asking as she sipped and smacked her lips, "come on Bea, out with it, why would you fire the girl you gave so much to? The girl you gave an organ to, a future to, a partner to, a career to? You two are about as close as you and Liam had been, so why, now, would you-"

"I should've found her," Bea said, her voice so quiet Stephanie had trouble believing she'd even said anything at first. A moment passed as Bea buried her head in her hands, eyes cast to the floor; she went on, voice ever quieter, "...I should've found her, and I didn't. Wouldn't have been hard. Knew enough information to keep mildly up-to-date tabs. But I didn't do it. Figured she either wouldn't remember me, or had such a nice life she wouldn't need me, or that my presence would only complicate things or upset her."

Stephanie crossed her legs as she sat on the desk and continued drinking, Bea's breathing shaky and fractured.

"I just didn't want to interrupt her the way she interrupted us," Bea whispered, and she didn't even have to elaborate. Stephanie understood full well what she meant by this. She swirled her remaining drink in its glass and exhaled through her nose.

"Sounds to me like you're mad at yourself for not doing the thing the girls did for you," Steph said.

"I'm not even mad at them," Bea said, "I'm mad at Claire. She's the one who came looking. All the girls were doing was putting two and two together. But you can't be mad at your own child for wanting a relationship with you, for seeking you out after you gave them up. Last thing I want to do is make her feel as though she's unwelcome - because she isn't - and run away. But no, even that's an excuse I guess. I'm really mad at Liam. He left me here to deal with this all alone."

"Yeah, he was a good right hand man," Steph replied, smirking.

"No, not because he was good help," Bea said, wiping her nose on the costume arm, "because he was her father."

Stephanie almost couldn't even breath upon hearing this sentence. This goddamned year, she swore.

***

Only four or five cue cards remained, and Michelle and Justine were working tirelessly to complete them. Michelle knew they'd have to be handed off any minute now, considering the shoot was coming up, so she was trying to work as fast as possible while still maintaining their readability. She finished one, slid it to the side with the others and wiped her forehead with her arm.

"Did I ever tell you about the day of the crash?" Justine asked, and Michelle shrugged.

"Kinda, I mean, you talked about the crash, the aftermath, distancing yourself from your mom, that kind of stuff," Michelle said.

"No, not the crash proper, just the day of it, leading up to it," Justine said, "Peter and I, we got up five hours early so we could have a nice breakfast at home, make sure we were prepared. Airport wasn't a far drive, and yeah, it was a busy time of year to travel, but we figured we'd be fine. So we arrive, we check our luggage, and then we go through security and everything before we go sit in the waiting area, you know?"

"Not really, never been on a plane," Michelle said, and this caused Justine to pause and look up.

"WHAT?" she asked loudly, grinning, "oh, it's...there's nothing else like it, honestly. It's such a freeing feeling being so far away from everything else, in a place you aren't supposed to be. You don't even feel like an intruder, it's just...it's the closest thing to being in a dreamspace that we can possibly achieve while being awake. Well, and being sober."

The two laughed as they moved onto the last three cards. Justine cleared her throat and continued.

"Anyway," she went on, "we're sitting there, we're reading, we're chatting, we get some food. And then, we get called up to the gate, and the woman there tells us that somehow they messed up our tickets and that they'd booked us on a flight tomorrow, same seats, same plane, just a day later. But then she goes on to clarify that, hey, the seats you booked are technically empty on todays flight, we can bump you up."

"Didn't know they could do that," Michelle said.

"I think they can't, she was just trying to make up for it, cause it would make the airline look good," Justine said, shrugging, "either way, we talked it over for a minute, and ultimately I decided we should just take that option, get bumped up, and still get out today. After all our luggage was already checked in, so. So we boarded the plane, sat in our seats, and crashed."

Michelle stopped what she was doing and looked up, Justine hyped focused on finishing her final cue card.

"...so...if you'd just waited one day..." Michelle said, and Justine nodded, tears rolling down her face.

"Yeah," she said, "if we'd just waited one day. But he let me make the decision, and that decision got him killed. I miss Peter so much, every single day, and it is my fault that we were on there. We had the option not to be but I made the choice to do so. He is dead because of me. And every day I wake up and I expect him to be in bed or getting out of the shower. I expect him to come home from work. I expect the front door to open and he walks in and he tells me about his day and we go out to dinner. But that isn't reality anymore. The reality is Peter is dead, and I killed him, and I have to live with that guilt forever. Bea did the same thing to Casey. And she needs to remember she has to live with it, Claire isn't the first little girl she abandoned, and Casey won't be the last, if someone doesn't show her that her actions have consequences."

Michelle nodded slowly as she watched Justine finish the card then wipe her eyes on her arm. Michelle finished hers and they gathered them all together. Michelle didn't know who would be holding these, but she knew one thing, that was that what they'd written got their message across loud and clear. And Justine was right. For someone so pious in their belief about caring for the disadvantaged, Beatrice had openly practiced the opposite time and time again. It was time for the woman, not the dog, to be reminded of her power.

"Let's take these to the stage," Justine said, checking her watch, "they should be starting soon."

***

Beatrice was standing by the service table, snacking, as everyone set up around her. Stephanie was standing beside her, leaning against the table, arms crossed. Bea picked up another cheese cracker and bit into it the way a chipmunk nibbles on an acord. Steph glanced over and shook her head as Bea finished, then turned around to face the stage, the crew, the cast.

"I remember bringing Claire to a shoot," Bea said, "she probably doesn't remember it, she was barely 3, but we brought her. I held her on my hip and I told her 'look, look what mommy does for a living' and she babbled excitedly. I made Beatrice for me. But really Beatrice is for her. It's for every little girl whose parents didn't love them enough."

"Bold of you to actually include yourself in that statement given your recent actions," Steph said, scoffing.

"I'm not an idiot, Stephanie, I can recognize my faults and my failings and my fuckups," Bea said.

"Well worded trifecta," Steph replied, the both of them smirking.

"-it just hurts," Bea continued, "to know that, in reality, I'm actually as bad as some of the parents I criticize. I guess I sort of thought that Michelle was a way to redeem myself of those regrets. Here was another girl, a girl who'd loved what I made with such burning intensity as a child that it helped her get better, who adored me. I could give to her the things I couldn't give to Claire, because Claire had been there at the wrong time. In actuality, we never should've had a child. That sounds harsh, like I don't love my daughter, and that isn't the case, but..."

She paused, Stephanie tapping her foot, one eyebrow arched as she awaited the rest of this thought.

"...I just don't think the world needs more of me," Bea finally said, her voice weak, shaky, "I've done enough damage as it is, the last thing I need to do is create another version of me to keep that going. So I created art, instead. But Liam, and myself...we didn't know who we were when we were doing what we did, that was why we did it. Society made us feel as though we couldn't be anything else other than what they expect men and women to be, so we tried. Claire isn't the output of love, she's the output of trying to be anyone other than ourselves."

"...that's really fucking sad, Bea," Stephanie said, shaking her head, "I won't even stand here and pretend like it ain't, cause it is. But I don't think I agree. You and Liam may not have loved one another in the way a heterosexual couple would, but...you obviously loved one another on some strange, cosmic level. You two were more devoted to eachother as queer people than any straight married couple I've ever met. That has to count for something. So maybe, instead of seeing your own daughter as an extension of your worst self, borne out of trying to escape, see her as a person, just...a singular person, who exists, who loves you, because you brought her into the world. She came looking for you, Bea. Remember that."

With that, Stephanie turned and left. Bea thought on her words for a bit before turning herself and starting to head to the stage, bumping into Michelle, her eyes widening.

"What are you doing here? Who let you in?" Bea asked firmly.

"...I really thought you might be happy to see me," Michelle said, "I've lived in your shadow for so long that I forgot to cast my own. I was going to try and talk to you, but clearly your biggest interest is simply being annoyed at my presence."

"Michelle, I did what I did out of anger in the moment, and then I let that anger not subside, and I am sorry, but-"

"You would have none of this without me," Michelle said sternly through gritted teeth, her blood beginning to boil, "without Keagan. We built you this goddamn empire and it still wasn't enough. I don't think you're capable of being happy or satisfied, and not because you couldn't be, but because you don't want to be. You want to be this tortured artist trapped in the dwellings of her own pain and internalized grief, but you're just not that fucking interesting, Bea. You're really not. I tracked you down. I brought you out. I showed you what I built in your name. I helped you bring all of this to fruition. My anger isn't with Claire. She's like me, she just wanted her fucking mom."

Michelle and Bea stared at one another, each of them feeling their hearts breaking but unable to stop the split that was happening.

"I'm sorry," Bea whispered, "I...I'm sorry. You're right. I've preached for so long about being there, and helping, and being loved by those you trust to love you, and then I turned around and did the exact opposite. You're right. I should always do what Beatrice believes because-"

"You're not Beatrice Beagle," Michelle said, glaring at Bea, until her eyes softened and, with an exhausted sigh she added, "...you just play Beatrice Beagle."

"And you're not my daughter," Bea said, taking Michelle by surprise, "...but that didn't stop us from pretending you were. I have to get on stage."

Bea walked past Michelle, heading to the shoot. Michelle couldn't hear anything around her. All of this. All of it. Everything. It had come to this? THIS? This was the outcome of all their hard work and passion and partnership? She knew there were people talking around her, but their voices were blurred like images through wet glass. She couldn't come out of this stupor. At least not until Justine walked up and shook her arm.

"I found someone," Justine said, "I'm gonna pay her, she doesn't want this job anyway, and so I'm gonna give her the cards and she's gonna-"

"No," Michelle said, grabbing the cue cards from Justine and turning to her.

"Michelle, what are you-"

"I do this," Michelle said under her breath, "give me a pen."

Bea was on stage, the lights were set, the camera was rolling. She walked out from behind the doghouse, in full costume, and she yawned and stretched in character before turning to face the camera.

"These are the best mornings, aren't they? The mornings where the sun is bright, and you just know it's going to be a good day!" Bea said warmly towards the camera, "and what's a good day without good friends? Why, after all, it's friends who get you through the worst days, and only brighten the best, but sometimes friends can make you angry, can't they?"

Bea then realized who was holding the cards. Her eyes scanned upwards and met Michelle's, realizing she was trapped here, forced to read these if she didn't want to make a scene.

"Sometimes...friends can do downright awful things to one another, and sometimes they do it on accident but sometimes they do it on purpose. That's why it's important to forgive them, even if they do it on purpose, because...you still want them to be your friend. Like my friend, Michelle. She's just had a birthday, she's nine years old now, and she wrote in to say that it would mean the world to her if I would visit her for her birthday, but seeing as I cannot do that, I figure the best I can do is say Happy Birthday, Michelle. You are a beautiful, intelligent young lady and I am happy you exist. I hope you have the best birthday you can have, and realize that every day you're here is a special day."

Bea and Michelle stared at one another again, and the entire set was silent, knowing full well this was not the intended script to be followed. Michelle then dropped the cue cards on the floor and walked away.

Rachel sat on the stage of her schools auditorium, doing her paint work on the cardboard props scattered around her. She'd been coming here after school so she could work by herself, as opposed to coming here during the schoolday and being around her peers. She liked the solitude, but moreso she liked not being judged. Footsteps echoed in the room, and Rachel glanced up to see a boy entering and then looking back out through the small window on the doors, as if he were hiding from someone. Rachel perked up, and dunked her brush back into her water can.

"You know, for someone trying not to be noticed, you're acting pretty conspicuous," she said, making him jump in surprise and turn to face her, hand on his chest as she chuckled.

"Holy hell you scared the crap out of me," the boy said. He started to cautiously approach the stage, as Rachel smirked and continued to paint. He stopped at its edge, looking up, hands on his hips and asked, "what are you doing in here?"

"Painting. For a school play, but still," Rachel said, "what are you doing in here?"

"I, uh...I'm hiding," the boy said, hopping up onto the stage and sitting on it, his legs dangling off the edge.

"Hiding from what?" Rachel asked.

"...I have to break up with my girlfriend, and I don't want to," the boy said, exhaling, "I'm just kind of...avoiding her right now."

"I once again reiterate my previous statement of for someone trying not to be noticed, you're acting pretty conspicuous," Rachel said, the both of them laughing; she put her paintbrush down and held her hand out, "I'm Rachel."

He took it and shook, smiling as he said, "Wyatt. I think we've met, maybe."

"Probably. Being in the same school together you're often social with people even if you aren't friends with them" Rachel said, "It's a weird adolescent ecosystem, in a way. So why do you have to break up with her? You say have to like it's not your choice."

"It isn't," he replied, "it's my fathers choice. It isn't fair. To either of us, honestly. I love her, she's amazing, and I don't want ton break up, but he will make life impossible if I don't do it, and she...she doesn't deserve to have to deal with my family, or change for them, and I don't think she'd have the resolve to put up with it either way. It sucks. Everything always sucks."

"There's that can don't teenage attitude!" Rachel said, the both of them chuckling; she tossed her hair from her eyes and added, "well, for what it's worth, we both can't be with the girls we love, so don't feel too bad."

Wyatt nodded in response, exhaling. He'd do it tonight. He'd invite her over and they'd have a discussion in the backyard. That would maybe be a bit better, but, still...he just wanted to be with Amelia. If only he could see that, in the near future, not only would he be happy with a girl who wasn't her, but she would be happy too, with the very girl he was currently talking with. It's funny how life turns out like that sometimes.

***

"Nice place," Rachel said, looking out the window.

She and Ricky have driven to the neighborhood Grudin had lived in and were currently parked across the street from his house, watching it casually from the car. Ricky was preparing his notes, his tools, and gathering his nerves. Rachel looked from his window, taking her eyes off the home, and instead now looked at him.

"Dude, you're sweating," Rachel said, sounding concerned.

"I'm allowed to sweat, it's a free country," Ricky said. Rachel put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. He finally fixed his sight on her and sighed, adding, "I'm nervous as all get out. Haven't seen this woman since before getting trapped in that shed."

"You didn't even tell her you quit?"

"I resigned over the phone, said nothing was found, that she should seek therapy if she felt this paranoid," Ricky said, "which...now...saying it back to myself...that's pretty fucked up to say to a grieving woman who was actually right about her husbands murder."

"I'm sure she'll understand, especially once we lay it all bare," Rachel said.

She opened her car door and stepped out of the car, Ricky doing the same on his side, and together - all his evidence tucked under his arm - they headed across the street towards the house. Ricky was so nervous he felt like he was about to pass out, everything was spinning a bit and he was dizzy, his breathing labored. Rachel took his free hand and squeezed, smiling at him.

"You got this, partner," she said, and he laughed weakly, nodding. He really did appreciate having her along for the ride. They reached the home, walked up the porch steps and stopped at the front door, Ricky reaching out and knocking politely. Rachel glanced around at the front yard and saw evidence of the child, the little girl who lived here, Grudin's disabled daughter. How much it must hurt, she thought, to actually have a father who wanted you, loved you, and to have him ripped from you the way he had been. The door opened and a woman was standing there, well-dressed and soft-spoken.

"Hello, Miss Grudin," Ricky said, "I'm sorry to bother you on such sudden notice, but I have some things to show you, if you don't mind."

She nodded and stepped aside, allowing them entrance. Ricky and Rachel entered and Rachel was...surprised, to say the least. For the wife, and home, of a supposedly popular politician, the place was so very ordinary and reserved. She didn't expect overwhelming opulence by any means, but still. This just looked like a normal upper middle class suburban home, the kind of which she might have spent time at during high school, like it belonged to a friends parents. The woman walked past them after closing the door and locking it - 3 separate locks, Rachel noticed, which made her and Ricky look at one another - and then they followed her to the living room.

"You can sit anywhere," she said, her voice meek and reserved, following that up with the statement, "excuse the mess" which confused Rachel because the place was immaculate, but perhaps the statement was more in reference to herself, and not the house. Rachel and Ricky sat on a dark blue polka-dotted couch across from her. She didn't look at them. Instead, her eyes were fixed solely on the photographs that hugged the fireplace mantel, photos of her family, her husband and daughter. She smiled weakly. She finally said, still without making eye contact, "...I didn't think I'd hear from you again."

"To be fair, I didn't really expect to speak to you again," Ricky said, "but...things have changed. Ma'am, we're here to tell you about your husbands death. You were right in your suspicions. But...maybe not in the way you expected, and I say this with the upmost respect to his memory, but his death actually has blown open an entirely new case as a result. Your husband was-"

"It was Klepper wasn't it," she said, taking them both by surprise. Rachel's breath caught in her chest. The woman nodded slowly, sniffling, as she said, "I always knew if anything happened, it would be that man, and it would be justified. What happened was terrible, what he did...I couldn't believe it."

"What your husband did?" Ricky asked, and she shook her head.

"No," she said, "the officer."

Rachel and Ricky exchanged a nervous look.

"Chief Augustine?" Ricky asked, nervous, and she nodded.

"Yes," she said, "he's the only reason it was handled the way that it was. Rob never would've agreed to behavior like that. Frankly, I never really forgave him for caving the way that he did."

"You said it'd be justified," Rachel said, "why do you say that?"

"He lost his wife. His daughter. I look at my little girls face every single day and think how easily it could be her in that situation, if things were just somewhat different. And then we expect a man who endured that level of loss, at the hands of an avoidable mistake no less, to not want vengeance? He had every right to want vengeance. I pitied him so deeply. Where is he now?"

Ricky exhaled and loosened his tie.

"Calvin Klepper is dead. He...killed himself," Ricky said, and Rachel was surprised at Ricky hiding the truth, but...it was probably for the best. A long silence filled the room, and Leslie looked at them both, rolling her eyes.

"If you're expecting an expression of joy at the death of someone who already lost everything, then you're wasting your time. If anything, after Rob died, I only felt more akin to Klepper. I thought about seeking him out firsthand, speaking with him, but...I couldn't go down that path myself, hence why I hired you to begin with, was to maybe see if you could find who did it, if it was actually him."

"What would you have done if I'd come back with that evidence?" Ricky asked.

"...I wouldn't have gone to the police," she replied, "not with Augustine still in charge. Clearly the department is corrupt. Who knows what else he's involved in."

"Well, that's the thing, actually," Ricky said, plopping the folder down in his lap, "I know exactly what he's involved in, and you're right to be skeptical. The man who was said to be blamed for your husbands death initially, Oliver Brighton, killed himself and his entire family. The morning his body was found, a man in another city, a former teacher here named Leonard Wattson, received a phone call about Brightons death, a call that was placed by John Augustine. Augstine was instructing Wattson to come back and clean up Brightons life, because the three of them had been producing illicit material involving children together as part of a larger network. Brighton, in fact, had been using his own daughters for content, even participating in it with them himself."

"Your husband died," Rachel said, now chiming in, "but his death actually allowed the dominoes to fall to uncover all of this. Now we're involved with an FBI agent to try and bring Augustine down very soon."

"Well," Leslie said, "I suppose one has to be happy about that at least. His death will save countless kids from similar fates then."

The phone rang, and Leslie excused herself. She went to the kitchen to answer the landline, leaving Rachel and Ricky alone.

"You're doing great, man," Rachel said, whispering, patting him on the back.

"This is insane, this whole case is just...insane," Ricky said, "like, when actually said out loud, it just-"

The front door opened and a woman entered with a little girl wearing a backpack. The two stopped upon noticing Rachel and Ricky sitting on the couch and the woman laughed nervously.

"Hello," she said brightly, "I...I didn't realize Leslie would have guests. I was just bringing her daughter home."

With that, she walked the little girl to the hall and down to her room. Rachel felt such a pain in her chest, as Ricky slowly looked around the room, then looked back at Rachel, who met his gaze with a confused expression on her face.

"What?" she asked, "what is it?"

"...isn't it weird that Leslie said John is the reason things went down the way that they did? Which insinuates Robert didn't want to not take responsibility. But why? For what reason? For what reason would having Grudin in office benefit Augustine? It only just now occurred to me...what if...what if Augustine wanted Grudin in office so he could get close to the family, gain their trust? After all, you help a guy not get arrested for vehicular manslaughter, get him elected into office, they'd bound to trust you. Trust you around their family."

Ricky looked back towards the hallway, his voice low, cracking.

"Trust you with their daughter."

Rachel audibly gasped as the reality of what Ricky was suggesting started to sink in.

"You mean..."

"Yeah. I think he wanted to use Grudin's daughter in his work," Ricky said, "which is even sicker considering her mental disabilities making her ten times more vulnerable than your average child."

"Jesus."

"Rachel," Ricky said, "this man needs to go down for what he's done and what he planned to do. I can't...I can't let him get away with this. What he did...what he could still do...to children if he isn't stopped. Whatever happens, no matter what, we need to make sure he pays."

"I'm with you to the end," Rachel said, "We'll get him, no matter what."

Leslie returned and looked at Rachel and Ricky.

"If you don't mind, my daughter is home now, and I'd like to spend some time with her. But I'd really like to thank you both for your hard work, and for coming back to me for this. Maybe we could meet again," Leslie said, "I'm not my husband, but I do hold a significant amount of power even in his absence, since I knew a lot of the people he knew. Perhaps I could be of some further assistance."

"I'm going to leave you with a copy of this file," Ricky said, standing up and pushing it into her hands, "it explains everything in much deeper detail than I could. I hope you'll understand we only want the right people to pay for the crimes committed here, in the end."

Leslie nodded. Rachel and Ricky thanked Leslie for her hospitality, and after all the pleasant goodbyes were had, they found themselves outside once again. They began to walk down the pathway back to the curb, but Ricky stopped and looked at the plastic home sitting on the lawn, the one big enough for a child to be inside and pretend to be their own. Rachel came back and tugged at his sleeved arm.

"Come on, I'm hungry," she said, "all this crime fighting really builds up an appetite."

He didn't budge.

"Ricky?"

"We wanted a baby so bad," Ricky said, his voice quiet and low, weak, "we wanted a baby so badly. Kept trying, but miscarriage after miscarriage just made us more and more disillusioned, so I started doing my own research into what we could do, or what the cause might be. I started...doing my own detective work, to figure out how to right these wrongs. We finally found a doctor who listened to me, to us, to what we'd learned, and with his help, we managed to concieve."

"...ricky," Rachel whispered, hugging his arm.

"And then, 5 months in, another miscarriage. But this one...she was so far along, it..."

Rachel knew what the next sentence was, she didn't want him to have to say it, but he did anyway.

"...it took her with it," Ricky said, tears rolling down his face, Rachel fighting back tears of her own as he added, "it was my fault. It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't kept wanting to try, if we'd just given up like she wanted to after so many failures. I killed my wife, and my unborn child. So yeah, maybe this case hits a little too close to home. But I have to do it. I have to see it through to completion. We have to make sure John Augustine pays for his crimes, no matter what."

"We will, together, I promise," Rachel said, "we'll get him hook line and sinker."

With that they turned and walked to the car, deciding to go get lunch. They both needed a meal, and then...then they'd plan their next move.

***

"I think the best thing you can do," Rachel said, now sitting beside Wyatt on the edge of the stage, "is just be honest with her. Not in that cruel way either, where they disguise their cruelty as honesty then get mad at you for 'keeping it real' or whatever, but, like, ya know...actual honest. Just tell her exactly what's going on. She deserves that."

"I just wish we could all be with the people we want to be with," Wyatt said and Rachel nodded in agreement, kicking her legs.

"Yeah, me too," she said, her thoughts turning to Sun Rai.

"If honesty is the best policy, then that's what I'll do," Wyatt said, "she deserves nothing less. I hate this though, this isn't fair. Sometimes I really wanna kill my dad."

"Hey, who knows, sometimes dreams come true," Rachel said, hitting him in the arm, the both of them laughing.

Eliza was seated in her bedroom, sewing sewing sewing. Nonstop sewing. The machine never ending, the puppet taking form and shape. Emotions surged through Eliza in ways she'd never felt, and never wanted to feel again. So she sewed. She sewed each stitch, each seam, each tassle and button and bit of clothe. And when it was finally done, she stood up, and she laid down in bed with what she'd created, this soft, almost identical puppet, and she clung it to her chest as she shut her eyes, and she whispered

"I missed you."

Because that was what Eliza did. She recreated the loss in a physical form. What had been taken from her she'd clawed back to reality, and though it made her father uncomfortable, and though she knew it wasn't exactly the right thing to do, the best way to handle stuff or go about processing things...it made her happy in the interim, and that was what truly mattered. It may have been a facsimile, but it was her mother nonetheless. Long after she'd been buried, Eliza had brought her back, and she could tell her she was sorry. She was sorry the last thing they'd ever done together was argue. She was sorry she had died.

But now, sitting here in The Hole with the Liam puppet, she didn't have anything to say to it. She didn't have any real reason for him to be here. They'd been friends, associates really, but they had no unfinished business. Still, it was nice to have his familiar face. She checked her watch. Almost 3pm. She needed to go. She gathered her backpack and she grabbed Liam off the table and she put her arm in him before lifting him to her face, making him speak.

"Where exactly are we headed?" she made him ask.

"Somewhere safe," she replied, "Somewhere...that can't take you away again."

And then she headed out.

***

"Do you not have anything going on today?" Keagan asked as she grabbed her car keys from the table, "and if not, you wanna come with me to work?"

Lexi shook her head, nary a word passing her lips. Keagan sighed and sat on the arm of the couch, reaching out and touching Lexi's bare leg. She was wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of gym shorts. This once well put together, ambitious, fashion forward girl she'd fallen for had devolved into somebody who didn't care about anything, much less her appearance. It hurt Keagan to watch her dwindle away like this.

"I'd like it if you came," Keagan said, "you can sit with me in the studio all day, just hang out."

"I won't be any fun," Lexi said flatly, her voice dry as desert air.

"Alright, well...I won't be home late, and we can order in okay? Whatever you want," Keagan said. Lexi shrugged, and Keagan left the house. Lexi rolled onto her side and stared at the fabric of the couch back, just breathing, existing, being. Her thoughts, once more, turned to her father. She didn't want to think about him, but he dominated her consciousness. Or, moreso, his absence did, because it was something that felt so impossible. So she did the only sensible thing she could think of....she took a nap.

When Lexi woke a few hours later, now on her back and staring upright at the overhead ceiling fan, she realized she was thirsty. Her mouth was dry. She smacked her tongue against her lips and then pulled herself up by the head of the couch, groaning as she did. To expend any kind of energy seemed to exhaust her these days, which she realized was likely a sign of severe clinical depression, but she chose to ignore it. Lemon lime soda was far more preferable right now than antidepressant treatments. Lexi walked to the kitchen and grabbed a cold can from the fridge, popped the top and guzzled it in almost one go before her doorbell started to ring. She glanced, confusingly, towards the front room, wondering who could possibly be bothering her right now. She walked, nearly empty can still in hand, to the front door and tugged it open, only to find a young woman standing there, looking disheveled, staring straight down at the porch. She appeared to be in her mid teens, wearing baggy clothes, long jet black shimmering hair covering her face.

"Uh..." Lexi started, "can I...help you, at all, or?"

"Hi," the young girl said, "my name is Amanda Briar Peterson, I'm 15 years old and I live on Northeast 81st Street, and I go to Richmond High, where I am a freshman."

Lexi continued staring, now all the more confused by this bizarre turn of events. She shook her head, finished her can and placed the empty aluminum container on the nearby table before turning her attention back to the girl.

"Okay, well, I appreciate the life story, but what can I do for-"

"I think my dad killed your dad," the girl suddenly blurted out. She still wasn't looking up, but Lexi couldn't take her eyes off the girl now. After a few moments, letting the gravity of what she'd just been told settle in, Lexi stepped aside and offered the girl entrance into the house. Amanda nodded without looking up, simply giving visual acknowledgement to Lexi's welcome, and walked past her as Lexi shut the front door.

***

Keagan opened the door to the studio and then shut it behind her, sighing as she dumped her bag onto the floor by her chair before heading to the small coffee cart Stephanie had set up for them. She made herself a coffee, then settled into the chair in front of the board to get to work preparing for radio show that evening. She raised the mug to her lips and took a long sip, closing her eyes and smiling as she did. Suddenly the door opened and Justine entered. Keagan turned in her chair and stared at her, confused as to what she was even doing here.

"How do you have access?" Keagan blurted out, "wait, that...that sounded accusatory, like I don't want to see you, and that's not the case, I'm more just curious cause-"

"Bea gave me a key card a bit ago because we're working on a book together, but that's beside the point," Justine said, approaching, dragging behind her a nearby metal chair and sitting down on it in front of Keagan, asking, "I'm actually here to talk to you specifically."

"Well that's a first," Keagan said, "what can I do for you?"

"You can help me piss of Beatrice," Justine said, "unless you like what she did to Michelle."

Keagan slowly nodded, listening. She hadn't been vocal about it, especially not outwardly so, but internally she had been fuming. After all both she and Michelle had done for Bea, she had had the gall to fire Michelle? None of this would even exist without their combined efforts, and she thought that line of action was okay? Yeah. Needless to say it didn't sit right with her. But what could she do? Endanger her own career? She cared for Michelle deeply, they were a team, but they needed the job.

"And how do you propose I do that?" Keagan asked.

"You have access to the communications stuff," Justine said, "I have a keycard so we can get on the soundstage, but we need you to be the final piece of this puzzle. All you need to do...is feed a different script into the teleprompter during the next production shoot. Think you can do that?"

Keagan crossed her legs, feeling anxious but also happy to be asked to be part of a push back. She'd always believed strongly and firmly in the concept of protesting. She ran a hand up into her bushy hair and nodded slowly, thinking about it, taking in Justine's request.

"If I can help get Michelle reinstated, show Beatrice how absolutely out of line she was, especially considering what we brought to her...yeah, I'd say that's worth doing. Why'd you come to me though?" Keagan asked.

"Well, I admit that first went to The Hole to see Eliza cause she's working with me on the book too, but she wasn't there. Left a note saying she'd be getting a slice. Not sure what the hell that meant though. Guess she went for pizza for lunch."

Keagan bit her lip.

"I need to make a phone call," she said.

Keagan took her cell and stood up, then stepped out into the hallway outside the studio, shutting the door behind her. The phone rang twice before Michelle picked up, and when Keagan told her what Justine had just told her, about Eliza not being at The Hole, or at work at all, Michelle was out the door, car keys in hand, in seconds. She'd known Eliza had been struggling, but to straight up skip out on work, that simply wasn't like her. After the call ended, Keagan stepped back inside the studio to find Justine admiring the switchboard.

"So," Keagan asked, "how do we rebel?"

***

"He was angry," Amanda said.

Amanda and Lexi were seated in the kitchen at the table, the lighting low. Lexi had gotten them each a piece of cake that she'd baked the other day, during one of her manic fits, and then made some cocoa to boot. Amanda, however, didn't really seem all that interested in the baked goods or the comfort drink.

"He kept talking about how he'd lost money and how we were going to struggle now and that the business had never seemed to be in trouble and he couldn't understand how greedy someone could be, and he blamed it all on your dad," Amanda continued, her run on sentences almost exhausting Lexi, seeing as she never once seemed to stop to take a breath.

"Well, for what it's worth, it wasn't my fathers fault," Lexi said, "he was framed."

"I know that's why it sucks so much that my dad did it, or helped do it, cause your dad wasn't even the reason, wasn't even responsible. My dad turned himself in and now we don't have him anyway and I wanted to apologize because he can't and I don't know if he would and you didn't deserve to lose your dad and I'm sorry."

Lexi bit her lip, thinking about it all. She'd had so much pain inside her since her father had been killed that she'd never really once considered what might have happened to the families of the men who'd taken his life. Now, here was that very proof. This weird, terrified teenage girl, who had sought her out as some sort of emotional payment for her soul, and the forgiveness of her fathers actions. Lexi sighed and scratched her forehead.

"You know, you don't have to apologize, you didn't do anything," Lexi said.

"But he was my dad and-"

"Yeah, and? You're not responsible for his actions," Lexi said, "you're just a kid, Amanda. I'm sorry you were put into this position."

And as the words left her lips, she realized how much she herself had needed to hear them. Lexi had, after all, been a kid technically when her father had been taken in for his supposed embezzlement charges. She had been in college. But nobody, not a single person, had ever stopped to tell her that she too hadn't been responsible for any of it nor should she have had to pick up the slack thereof as a result of the outcome. Nor had she been told she should never have been put in that position herself. It was at that moment that she felt lighter, she felt like she shouldn't be so hard on herself. What had happened had happened. It had been her fathers life, not hers, and he wouldn't want her to drag herself down as a result of what had occurred to him. She couldn't let Amanda go down the same path she was going down. She finally understood Beatrice in that split second, and why she felt so strongly about protecting, and guiding, kids. Lexi grinned, an idea popping into her head.

"Do you like puppets?" she asked.

***

She knew she'd find her here, and find her here she did.

Eliza was sitting in a booth in the dark, the Liam puppet on the table in front of her. The only lights on in the place were the ones illuminating the arcade games that littered the space, and a half empty pizza box was on the table as well. When Michelle first approached, she did so with the kind of caution one takes when going up to a wild, feral animal. Michelle then softly scooted herself into the opposite side of the booth from Eliza without saying a word. Eliza never even looked up. Michelle took a piece of pizza and started eating, occasionally glancing around as she chewed.

"I wonder who owns these places," she said, "it's amazing they're still open. Wonder how many there are."

"9."

"...you know?" Michelle asked, and Eliza nodded, causing Michelle to smile as she added, "well, guess I shouldn't be surprised, girl as beautiful and smart as you would know everything there is to know."

Her eyes moved from Eliza to the puppet.

"Looks just like him," she said softly.

"I can't let go of anyone," Eliza said.

"...who says you have to?"

"Can't be healthy to cling, right?" Eliza asked, and Michelle took a long breath through her nose.

"Eliza, look at how I clung to Bea, to the show, after all those years. I'm not one to dissuade someone from clinging to things that matter to us. You miss him. We all fucking miss him so much. Do what is necessary for you to get better. You know, when I was in the hospital, when I was a little girl and very sick, I saw this episode of Beatrice and in it she was talking to this Sunflower. I guess, I don't know, Liam wasn't available that day or something so they needed a stand in plant. Probably grabbed some woman from production. Anyway, Beatrice wasn't feeling good on the show, she was sick, and the Sunflower, of course, being the bright and cheerful entity that it was, told Bea that she just needed to take care of herself, be patient and she would get better. Told her that it was worth it to be strong and get healthy. That always stuck with me, cause I was sick, so if this Sunflower was telling Bea she too, who was sick then, could get better, and that it was worthwhile to do so...I don't know, felt kind of like it was talking directly at me. I mean, here I was, this terrified, sick little girl, and my own mother just complained endlessly about the prediciment, and not because she cared but because of what it cost her both in emotional weight as well as in her career, meanwhile my father was getting ready to take off, and it just...it felt nice. It felt nice having someone tell me it was okay to be sick, but that it would also get better."

Michelle finished her pizza slice as she shrugged and put the crust back in the box before wiping her mouth on her shirt sleeve and looked back at Eliza, who was finally making direct eye contact with her. Michelle giggled nervously.

"What?" she asked, "was that weird? I guess I do still relate too much of my life to-"

"That was me," Eliza said.

A stillness surrounded the table. Michelle felt like her brain had just been emptied.

"...what?" she whispered.

"The Sunflower, that was me," Eliza said, "they pulled me on stage. I was the Sunflower."

The women sat across from eachother, simply staring into one anothers eyes. Michelle couldn't believe what she'd been hearing. All her life...she'd gotten better because Beatrice - the dog anyway - had made her feel safe and seen, and this Sunflower had told her it was okay to be the way she was, and now...now that very Sunflower was the woman sitting across from her, the woman she'd fallen in love with, lived with? No. Had to be a mistake of some kind.

"I made that puppet, well, it was one of the first I'd made, and you're right, Liam wasn't available that day, so they needed me," Eliza said, "so they dragged me on stage and ensured I couldn't be seen and...and I...that was me. I'm the one who said that."

"It's you," Michelle whispered.

After a few moments of silence, Michelle got up from her side of the booth slowly and slid into the opposite site beside Eliza, who looked back down at the Liam puppet on the table.

"He would want me to heed my own advice, wouldn't he?" she asked, and Michelle put a hand on hers in her lap, gently rubbing it, not saying a word and instead allowing Eliza to suss out the situation for herself; she sniffled, continuing with, "I'm scared of losing you too. First Casey, then him, back to back...what if you're next. It's scary to love because it means loss is what follows eventually. I can't lose you."

"You're not gonna lose me," Michelle said softly, smiling sweetly, "I'm here, I'm healthy, healthier than I've ever been, and-"

"I can't lose you because you made me better. I made you better and you make me better and we saved eachother, and the accident made me...different, and my brain doesn't work the way it should anymore, and...and I feel so out of place around everyone, even Bea, but...not with you," Eliza continued, interrupting, catching Michelle off guard with her sincerity and the hurt in her voice; they locked eyes now, as Eliza added, "when I'm with you, I'm not out of place, I'm just...in the right place. You make it okay to be me. I don't wanna lose that. I don't wanna go back."

Michelle put her free hand gently behind Eliza's neck and leaned in, kissing her, Eliza happily kissing her back.

"Don't worry baby," Michelle whispered, resting their foreheads together, "you'll never have to."

Michelle couldn't help but remember what Delores had said to her the other day. How much of her identity was entangled with Beatrice, the show, and how she basically didn't know who she was outside of that. But she did know one thing...and that was that whoever she wound up discovering who she was, whatever it was she wound up realizing she wanted to do, Eliza would be there with her through it all. Maybe in an ironic twist, she was realizing, being fired was the greatest gift Bea could've given her after all.

Bodies lay strewn across the courtyard, the compound frozen and lifeless.

Wyatt Bloom was laying up against a car, breathing hard, unable to focus his eyes. It had all happened so fast, so very fast, and he didn't have time to process any of it. He was waiting to hear something, anything, and he glanced towards her body. Motionless. A streak of blood shot out from her head, staining the ground beside her like it was a smattering of paint from a brush. He closed his eyes tight, grimaced, and tried not to cry. He felt a tongue lapping at his hand and he looked to his side to see Clark standing there licking him. Wyatt smiled weakly, and reached up, petting the dog gently. In the back, a few buildings away, he could see them laying on the ground together, both unmoving. Her hand was in his. Once again, blood everywhere. Wyatt slid down the car further and laid on his back, eyes cast up towards the clouds and the sun, a cool wind starting to blow in. Clark laid down beside him, and he rested his hand gently atop his head, and then closed his eyes. A siren in the distance.

And that was all he heard as the darkness enveloped him.

4 WEEKS EARLIER

Amelia pressed her lips against Rachel's forehead, making her blush and giggle. Rachel sighed and kept her eyes shut, letting Amelia's kisses cover her face, her hands exploring her body. It had been...just...so long since she'd felt this wanted by someone. With Sun Rai, everything had felt so...performative, almost as though Sun Rai were not only settling for Rachel because she knew Rachel adored her, but also choosing her as a way to actively defy her parents culture and beliefs. Rachel was a weapon. Not a person. But to Amelia, oh she was so much more. Rachel finally opened her eyes and saw Amelia just hovering over her, looking down. She made Rachel grin, as she lowered her face down again and their lips met. It was heaven. Perfection. And yet, Rachel knew...so tentatively fragile. Because, Rachel knew, at any given moment, the end would be upon them, and once Amelia discovered it all, once she learned of Rachel's hand in her own beloved brothers demise, well, that would be it.

"You are so beautiful," Amelia whispered, bringing Rachel out of her stupor and back to reality.

"What?" Rachel asked.

"You...are so...beautiful," Amelia whispered again, "like, just...wow. An angel, honestly. I never..."

Amelia pulled away and sat crosslegged on the bed now, in front of Rachel, who leaned herself up by her elbows, tossing her hair from her face. Amelia exhaled and shook her head.

"I never thought that I deserved love like this," Amelia said, "but then again, my perception of love has always been a little warped and under realized, because it mostly came from a single relationship as a teenager, so. Either way, I just always fantasized about being deeply in love and having it be reciprocated at the same level, but it still...it just always seemed like it'd always be just that...a fantasy."

"For what it's worth, I always kinda felt the same," Rachel said, "especially being so rejected by my family. I just sort of gave into the belief that, you know, this is what girls like me get...isolation, rejection, endless yearning. Guess we each proved the other one wrong, huh?"

Amelia blushed and nodded. Being with Amelia had fulfilled Rachel in ways that being with Sun Rai never had. With Sun Rai, everything had been so surface level. Sure, Rachel's feelings were genuine, she'd harbored that love for Sun Rai since high school, but Sun Rai's love had always felt less like love and more like cautious experimentation. But for Amelia...this entire experience was based on completely unfounded and shaky ground. She'd only ever really dated Wyatt, and had never once even remotely entertained the possibility of being with a woman, so to fall for Rachel, and to have Rachel feel just as intensely for her as she did, it kind of melted her brain a bit. Rachel finally laid on her back and relaxed, Amelia doing the same, but in the opposite direction, both women staring up at the hotel ceiling.

"You know..." Amelia started, "I don't miss Calvin as much as I thought that I would."

"Really?" Rachel asked, sounding surprised.

"Yeah. Don't get me wrong, I do miss him, he was my brother and I loved him, but...as close as we were growing up, the more distance that was put between us, the less close I felt. Had he still been alive when I came home - say I came home under different circumstances and not because he'd died - I can't really say with any concrete certainty that I would be that close to him. We'd drifted apart. We talked on the phone, online, sent packages, but it never really...we never quite got back to that same closeness you have with your siblings when you grow up with them."

"Wouldn't know, never had siblings. Barely had parents," Rachel said, "...the world is really lonely when you grow up without anyone. It's one thing for a kid to be self-reliant because their parents are supporting the household, or whatever, but it's a whole other thing for a kid to be self-reliant because nobody gave a shit that they were there to begin with. I think having family who opts not to be there is worse than just not having family at all. One is a choice, the other is not."

Amelia sat up, crawled on the bed until she hovered over Rachel, now upside down beneath her, and both grinned. Amelia leaned down and kissed her.

"That's why we make our own families," Amelia whispered, "just call me mommy."

"Oh dear god," Rachel said, cracking up.

Thing is, even with it being said under the guise of semi joke, Amelia wasn't wrong, and Rachel knew this. Having Wyatt in her life, having Ricky as a friend, and now having Amelia as a partner, plus having Kelly back by her side...yeah. She'd forged onwards through the loneliness and come out the other side with those who cared about her, wanted her there, sought her company out because they felt it enriched their own lives to boot. Family was just a word, in the end.

And words, as she knew from her English classes in college, had shifting definitions all the time.

***

"I love him, I want him," Kelly said, standing next to Wyatt in a curio shop downtown, staring at a jackelope sitting mounted atop a small wooden base. Wyatt nodded in solemn agreement.

"He is rather dashing isn't he, and he'll be even moreso once we give him a top hat and a monocle," Wyatt said.

"He isn't a 1920s railroad tycoon, his name is Slothgore, and he shall live in our living room, on the bookshelf, protecting the knowledge," Kelly said.

"Knowledge? All that's there are vintage cookbooks," Wyatt replied, smirking.

"And he'll protect those cookbooks and their awful meat jello combination platters with his life," Kelly said, the both of them chuckling now. Wyatt reached an arm around her waist and pulled her in, kissing her on the side of the head. In the last three weeks, things had cooled off. Wyatt had given Paul the information he'd needed to get a proper investigation started, and Paul had told him he'd simply "be in touch" when he required more assistance. And that, until that moment came to pass, Wyatt should just go about living his life. Which he did, happily.

"You know, if you'd asked me right after I fell out of a plane whether or not I'd be happy again, I'm sure I would've said yes, if only because, you know, I still somehow had the ability to walk and had survived an airline accident. But I definitely wouldn't have considered the reason being influenced by being in love."

Wyatt blushed as she turned to look at him.

"My ex wife, she...she would've wanted to go shopping for stuff that was boring and expensive. I always liked the weirder side of stuff, the obtuse and bizarre."

"Explains why you like me then," Kelly said, giggling.

"And I always found it far more entertaining going out and simply riffing on stuff, window shopping, than actually purchasing things," Wyatt said, "...thanks for giving me that. Thanks for, you know...allowing me to be that version of me again."

Kelly could hear the shift in his tone, and knew he was being serious. She nodded slowly, putting her hands on his face and, leaning on her tiptoes, reached up to kiss him. Kelly had had a point, he knew. Of all the wild things that had come out of having simply attended that reunion, meeting her and falling madly in love had somehow been the wildest. His love for her overshadowed the involvement with a cult, murder, an illicit pornography ring. No. Kelly. She was the wildest part, and that made him feel like he was actually still living in the real world, if something as ordinary as simply loving another person could be the most interesting aspect of a life that had long since stopped being remotely normal by all standards.

"How would you feel about getting take out, and then going home, and maybe trying to find just the right spot on the shelf for Slothgore the 3rd," Wyatt asked, making Kelly chuckle.

"Oh, he's the third now?" she asked.

"Well he comes from a long lineage of keepers of the knowledge, you know how it is," Wyatt replied, shrugging, making her laugh as she buried her face in his chest. They both knew the good times wouldn't last forever, so they should enjoy them now while they could. She had every intention of doing just that.

"That sounds perfect," she whispered as he kissed the top of her head.

***

Ricky opened the door to the hotel, wearing a v-neck, some sleep shorts and a white robe spotted in multicolored dots, his hat still atop his head. Rachel smirked as she looked him up and down.

"Hello, I'm with the Fashion Police, and I have a warrant for your arrest," she said, as he rolled his eyes and stepped aside, letting her enter. She tossed her things onto the nearby second bed and exhaled. Ricky walked back to the table and grabbed another taco from the box, biting into it as he went back to typing with his freehand on the laptop.

"Didn't know you were coming back today, or else I'd have prettied myself up," he said, mouth full of taco.

"Aw, you're always pretty, you're gonna be the prettiest girl at the prom," Rachel said as she seated herself on the end of the bed and tugged her shoes off, tossing them to the floor.

"Finally, Jason Killborn will notice me," Ricky said wistfully, making Rachel cackle.

"Though, I must admit, the robe is...it's a decision," she said, causing Ricky to stop and turn to face her.

"What's wrong with my robe?" he asked through his bite.

"Dude, you look like you skinned a clown," Rachel remarked.

"You know, in some fictional universe, that would make me a goddamn hero," Ricky said, "listen, uh, I need your help. I'm...I'm gonna reapproach Grudin's wife. With the information I have now on who was involved in this thing, I feel like we may need her on our side. I wanna talk to her about everything, tell her everything. But that only works if I go in with a united front."

Rachel nodded, understanding. Ricky was, in a sense, throwing himself on the mercy of the court. She sighed, looked around the room and thought. How would Grudin's wife react to this sort of information? After all, the man who'd gotten her husband killed was still alive, but he'd killed the man whose plan it was originally, so...it was hard to decide where the blame would fall, and where her ultimate loyalties would lie.

"She's got that daughter, the disabled one, and I think, you know, if anyone is going to be sympathetic to a case like the one we've come across, it's gonna be a parent, especially a parent to a child who could so easily become prey to such vile people," Ricky said, "you don't have to help me, Rachel, but you're good at it, and you're my friend, and I've enjoyed doing this together with you. I wanna see this thing through to the end with you by my side and, maybe, ya know, after it's all over, we can work together regularly."

"I'd like that, actually," Rachel said.

"You have an eye for detail, it's why you're a painter," Ricky said, "and that eye for detail is a critical, crucial necessity for detective work. You're good at this."

Nobody had ever really told her she was good at anything, and to hear it come from such an unexpected place, it took her by surprise. But what took her even more by surprise was the fact that she so easily believed him. Rachel had, thanks to the people who had hurt and used her - especially in college - grown to be wary of anyone who complimented her, often following up their question with an internalized question of her own of "what are you trying to get out of me?" but...this wasn't the situation with Ricky. He had nothing to gain from her. He simply liked having her around, and the feeling was mutual, he was fun to investigate with. Rachel smiled.

"So when are we going?" she asked, making him grin excitedly.

***

Wyatt was sitting on the couch back at the apartment as Kelly took a shower. He was comfortable, reading a book - the first time he'd managed to sit down and do that in a while, so he was happy - and had a bowl of chips next to him. It was quiet, and calm. Peaceful. It had started to rain ever so slightly, and the water was pooling a little on Kelly's balcony floor right outside the living room. Sometimes lightning would strike, and he would occasionally glance towards the window and smile. Life, when you had the one you wanted, really was enjoyable to experience, he'd learned. And then the phone rang. Wyatt groaned, slipped his bookmark into his novel and reached over to answer.

"Hello?" he asked, lifting the receiver to his face.

"It's Paul," Paul said, and Wyatt's entire demeanor changed.

"...I was wondering when I'd hear from you," Wyatt said, sitting upright now.

"We need to meet up and talk soon," Paul said, "I've been going over the specifics of some things, gathered from the information you and your informant managed to dig up, and...it isn't good, Wyatt. It's not good at all."

"How so?" Wyatt asked.

"I'd prefer not to discuss this over the phone, frankly," Paul said, which caused Wyatt to raise an eyebrow. He rubbed his stubble and bit his lip, crossing one leg.

"That serious huh?"

"...this...thing, that you guys managed to uncover, this thing with Brighton and everyone involved, it runs so much fucking deeper, man," Paul said, his voice stone cold, "let's meet soon okay? I'll give you a location and a time and date when I decide. Until then just...get your rest. You're gonna need it."

And with that Paul hung up. He worked for the feds, sure, but...Wyatt didn't expect him to be stereotypically stoic and vaguely ominous. He hung up the phone just as Kelly walked into the living room, towel around her, brushing her hair.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Celia's ex husband," Wyatt said, "wants to talk to me about...about Calvin and stuff."

"Oh...is...everything okay?" Kelly asked, approaching the couch. Wyatt reached out and put his hands on her hips, pressing his face into her.

"Yeah," he said quietly, "Everything's just fine."

***

Wyatt was laying on the ground beside the car, his vision fuzzy, his body aching. Clark licked his hand gently, as if to tell him everything would be okay. But...would it? So many were dead now. People he loved. Cared about. Some were hurt, but others were outright gone. How does one contend with that kind of loss and grief? It all just felt like too much. How does one come back from that? He closed his eyes, the silence of the space surrounding him bringing him a calm that knew no equal. After so much chaos the past 11 months, and so much pain the last few hours, he was finally happy to embrace the quiet.

Shoes walking on dirt. Steps getting ever closer.

"Sir?" a voice asked, and Wyatt opened one eye. A man stood in front of him, tall, a little older than him, in a cop uniform. The sun was blinding over his shoulder. Wyatt raised an arm in front of his face to shield his vision from the light; the man asked again, "Sir, do you need help?"

How much time had passed? How long had he been laying here? Wyatt looked to his right. Clark was gone, nowhere to be seen, presumably carted off by the cops. He looked around. A shroud lay over her body. His too. And she was nowhere to be found as well, likely taken to the hospital for help. Wyatt groaned and tried to sit up, but the officer knelt down and gently pushed him back.

"Whoa there buddy, take it easy," he said, "you're hit but you're alright, we've got ambulances on the way. You wanna tell me what happened here?"

"I'll tell you," Wyatt said weakly, straining to speak.

"Let's start with your name," the officer said.

"Wyatt. Wyatt Bloom," he said.

"Wyatt, nice to meet you. You know you're a goddamn hero, right?" the officer asked, holding out his hand to shake, "Wyatt, I'm Officer Augustine. John Augustine, head chief of the local law enforcement."

As Wyatt's hand clasped with his, their eyes met, Wyatt suddenly realized who this man was. This...was the enemy. This was the man behind it all. All the pain, all the horror that had befallen the children involved in Brighton and Wattson's crimes and god knows who else. This was the man with the brain to put it all into motion. Wyatt narrowed his eyes and struggled to smile.

"Nice to meet you too," he said, nearly whispering. And it was nice. It was nice to finally put a face to the name.

But it would be even nicer when he killed him.

"This is..." Delores said, but she couldn't even finish the thought. She set the script down on her lap and looked at Justine and Michelle seated across from her in the living room. She shook her head and sighed.

"Well that certainly isn't a hopeful reaction," Michelle said.

"It shouldn't be," Delores replied, "don't get me wrong, it's well written, it's strong, it makes a point, but it also feels...harsh, in a way that doesn't feel earned. It feels just plain aggressive."

Michelle nodded, taking her words in and thinking on them while Justine finished drinking the coffee that Delores had made for them. She then set the now empty mug onto the table beside the couch and exhaled, putting her hands on her knees. She hadn't been this sober in a good while, and it felt strange, seeing the world a lot brighter than she had in a bit.

"It's supposed to be aggressive," Justine said.

"I understand that, and there isn't something inherently wrong with aggression, but aggression for the sake of aggression is, more often than not, not as impactful as well meaning aggression."

"Well meaning aggression?" Justine asked, echoing her words, smirking and scoffing.

"Yes, you know what I mean; aggression where it's a necessity to prove a point or make a difference, rather than just for your own benefit or release of anger. And I'm not speaking about violence, for the record, I just mean emotional aggression. This is...well, this isn't emotional aggression."

Michelle nodded, taking in every word and thinking of it, while Justine leaned back into the couch and crossed her legs.

"Sometimes someone needs something with a bit more aggression than just a harsh tone," she said coldly, "sometimes you can't get a point across any other way. Again, as you said, not speaking of violence. Just speaking of forcing someone to actually hear words from others when they only ever hear themselves talk."

Delores nodded slowly, before looking from Justine to Michelle.

"Well then I think you're going to get your point across, but just be aware of what it might cost, and if that's worth it, because-"

"She saved me from my mother," Michelle said, sniffling, her eyes starting to wet, "my mother had me trapped, I was completely under her thumb, and Beatrice pulled me out of that. Gave me a future. A job. She saw my effort, and recognized my worth. My mother always put her work ahead of me, her art always was her baby moreso than her baby. Was I recreating the set because it meant something to me, or was I doing it as a way to maybe make my mother finally think we had something in common? It's the only artistic thing I've done."

"Then maybe it's time to do more, and for yourself, not for others," Delores said, leaning forward a bit and smiling warmly, as she always had when speaking with Michelle; she continued, "there is no rule that says you have to be an artist, or stick to doing what you've done. You are not an extension of your mother, or Beatrice's sidekick, you...are Michelle Helms, and you need to decide who she is."

Michelle nodded slowly, her mind expanding at the realization that Delores was right, she'd never once truly confronted who she actually was and what she really wanted to do with her life, herself, and if that was even related to art of any kind. All of this, everything with Beatrice, had just kind of...happened. She'd just gone along with it, and maybe now it was time to finally pull back and figure out who she herself was. Michelle looked back up at Delores, who looked her dead in the eye and smiled. This woman...this woman was the woman who'd really been there for her all along.

Unfortunately for Michelle....Justine was out for blood.

***

Leslie was cleaning up the apartment.

She'd taken a few days off, deciding that she needed a break, and was just staying home, getting things done, doing her hobbies, taking time for herself. Like Bea, she was a workaholic, but unlike Bea, she had interests outside of work that she longed to return to, as well as resenting herself for neglecting important things such as general household chores. The kitchen sink was often filled with dishes, laundry baskets full of unwashed clothes, and that was just the stuff that wasn't general cleaning like vacuuming, dusting and the like. So today Leslie put on podcasts, made herself some coffee and decided it was time to do these things, while taking occasional breaks to pop in on the puzzle they'd been working on in the living room or read a bit of the book she'd been struggling to finish for months now. And it was going well, until Bea came home. The door opened, and Leslie smiled to herself as she finished emptying the dishwasher and pausing her radio show on her phone.

"I was hoping you'd be back soon," Leslie said, "I really feel like going out to dinner tonight. I've been cleaning and being generally productive all day and I could really use a break, so if you-"

But when she turned, she realized Beatrice wasn't alone. There was a young woman standing there with her, looking nervous, uncertain. Beatrice approached Leslie, taking the final dish from her hands and popping it into the overhead cabinet before looking her in the eye.

"Leslie," she said quietly, "this is Claire. She's my daughter."

Leslie felt suckerpunched. She stepped backward, her lower back touching the kitchen counter now. Beatrice turned, still holding Leslie's arms in her hands, and looked back at Claire.

"Honey, this is my partner, Leslie," Beatrice said, and Claire smiled politely.

"Hello," Claire said, her voice fraught with nervousness.

"I..." Leslie started, pulling her arms free of Bea's fingers and reaching back, gripping the countertop firmly, "...uh, hi, hello, Claire, welcome to our home."

Claire continued smiling, but no more discussion filled the room. Beatrice was likely acting too quickly inviting Claire over to meet Leslie without first prepping Leslie for such an event, but...well, she'd spent so much of her life without her daughter, she just was thrilled to have her back, and have her meet the other most important people of her life. Leslie exhaled, and then walked past the both of them, heading into the bedroom. Beatrice whispered an apology to Claire, and followed after her, but as soon as she reached the end of the hall, the bedroom door shut. And then the sound of the lock clicking hit home. Bea stepped back from the door and stared at it momentarily. She may have messed up this time.

"I can go back to Justine's, if my being here makes things difficult for-" Claire said, now standing at the opposite end of the hall.

"No, of course not, that..." Bea said, before approaching her and placing her hands gently on Claire's shoulders, smiling, "...I've spent more of my life without you than with you, and this is my home, and you are my daughter, and I want you here with me."

Bea then glanced over her shoulder at the bedroom door and slowly shook her head, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Just...give her some time," she whispered, "it's a lot to accept."

"Are...are you...telling me that, or...yourself?" Claire asked, and Bea froze on the spot.

She didn't know.

***

Delores had gone to the kitchen for more snacks and drinks, before heading upstairs to the bathroom, leaving Michelle all alone in the living room. After a bit, Michelle exited out onto the front porch, where she found Justine standing there, smoking. She quickly waved away the smoke and coughed, before Michelle smiled and shrugged, indicating she didn't mind, and seated herself on the swinging porch bench.

"She's not wrong, you know, it is really aggressive," Michelle said.

"Sometimes aggressiveness is the only thing certain types of people understand. You have to understand something about Beatrice, and I realize this is going to sound wild coming from someone who has far less history with her personally than you but trust me when I say I know this type of person better than you could because we work in the same creative field, and that is that she's bought into this idea that she's infallible."

"If you actually knew her you'd know that isn't true," Michelle said, "she-"

"No, no, not her as a person. Her as herself," Justine said, and that caused Michelle to screw up her face in a confused look; Justine sighed and took another long drag before adding, "okay look, when you are a creative, like she and I are, and you work in childrens entertainment, you have two versions of yourself. There's you, the one who takes off the mask at the end of the day and lets down the persona and goes home to watch, I don't know, shitty crime dramas or whatever. Then there's you, the one who wears the mask and does the dance and puts on a performance via this public persona. She's spent so long being the second she's come to believe it's who she is, and because the public sees her as this wonderful, perfect person, she too has bought into that belief that she can't be wrong. How could she be wrong? Children love her, parents depend on her, she's a gifted genius in the arts! Any visible threat to that needs to be swiftly shut down. I'm not saying she's acting maliciously, because that would imply she has the intent. This isn't intentional. She's just protecting what she's built, what others have built her into. Do you get it?" Justine asked, and Michelle slowly nodded. Justine put her cigarette out and sat down beside Michelle.

They didn't say anything for a bit. They just sat there on the bench and stared at the street. It was a dense fog that had drifted in, enshrouding the neighborhood in a cozy greyness that didn't feel offputting but instead welcoming. Michelle could hear Justine breathing, clearly struggling to keep herself from panicking.

"I don't...I've never been able to connect with others easily," Justine said quietly, hands on her knees, "ever. For some reason it's always been difficult for me to have friends, let alone romantic partners. I just work on a fundamentally different level, sociologically, psychologically, than most people it seems and that isn't me saying I'm smarter than others or some weird art film loner bullshit. I'm saying it sucks. I want to be able to do those things. But I just can't. My brain works different. So, on the rare occasion that I finally find someone who also works like I do, it's like...it's like finally being seen. It's like when a lonely ghost finally makes contact with the living. It's happened exactly twice, and exactly twice I've lost both."

"You know you don't have to keep it inside," Michelle said, "you can talk to me about the plane crash, you don't-"

"He loved me so much," Justine said, interrupting, her voice cracking, tears starting down her face; she continued, nails digging into her knees now, "he loved me...in ways I didn't know I could be loved, for things I didn't think were capable of being loved. He didn't always understand me, but he loved me nonetheless. And Casey...Casey understood this need to create when you've lost so much. To fill the world with your truth because everyone else refused to see it. And then I lost her too. What is a life when it's only filled with loss?"

Michelle opened her mouth, as if she expected herself to respond, before realizing...she couldn't. She didn't have an answer. Justine had a point, after all. All that she'd ever cared about, the people she truly felt 'got her'...they were all gone, and when you feel that alone to begin with, that kind of loss, the one where you lose the only ones who make you feel found, is insurmountable. She couldn't even fathom it. Michelle sighed and pulled her legs up under her, sitting cross legged on the bench now as it started to swing softly back and forth.

"My dad left when I was really little," Michelle said, "I never even got a reason why. He just...left. And the thing is, a part of me wants to have that quintissential story about how when I was little we had this cute game we played together and losing that hurt but that just isn't true...until I met Keagan and Bea, I also never felt like anyone got me. So...I kind of get it. It should've been my parents, but it wasn't. It was total strangers, ironically, who finally made me not feel alone."

Justine nodded in understanding. She turned her head to look at Michelle, who looked right back at her, square in the eye.

"Then help me make her see that you already didn't have people who loved you, and how much losing someone who swore they did hurts," Justine said, "just...help me, Michelle, please."

Michelle looked back out across the street and saw a woman walking with their small son and she smiled. Justine was right. Beatrice needed to be held accountable, and recognize that, at some point in the process, she'd lost herself in favor of the version of her that everyone loved, while Michelle had come to love the actual Beatrice. Michelle sighe deeply and looked back at Justine, smirking.

"So," she asked, "...how much do you want it to hurt?"

***

It was 9pm when Beatrice finally regained entrance to the bedroom.

"Figured it was only fair to let you sleep in the bed," Leslie said, sitting cross legged on the bed as she looked through a large book of photos. In the time Bea had been out of the room, she'd cooked dinner, taken a shower, and hung out with Claire until she'd fallen asleep on the couch. Bea now had brought in some leftover dinner for Leslie, who gladly accepted it, being very hungry.

"I know it's a lot all at once," Bea said, almost whispering as she seated herself on the end of the bed, "it was a lot for me too."

"It isn't about it being a lot, Beatrice," Leslie said, "it's about expecting everyone to just...roll with it. For you, it's reconnecting, but for everyone else, it's someone completely new, someone with a deeper connection to you than any of us have, sans perhaps Liam, and now we have to reconcile with the fact that the woman we thought we knew and were the most important to has someone more than that."

"No, Leslie, it isn't like that at all, it-"

"I don't want to fight with you," Leslie said, "but you need to recognize what you did, how you did it, was wrong for everyone else and, lo and behold, Bea, you do actually need to take others into consideration. Look what you did to Michelle. You never told me why you fired her, you just came home and told me you did, and then you still hid your daughter from me until now? This isn't a relationship, it's a dictatorship."

Beatrice's heart groaned, her breathing labored. How could everyone feel so strongly against her in regards to something that was so personal to her?

"...I...I don't...understand," Beatrice said.

"I know," Leslie said, "...that's the fucking problem."

And with that, she put her now empty bowl on the bedside table, closed the book, and shut the light off before laying down on her side, back towards Bea.

***

Justine was sitting in the car as Michelle said goodbye to Delores for the night. She was watching the two of them hug from the passenger seat of the car, wishing she could hug her own mother in that way. But she knew it was for the best. She knew the distance was imperative. Michelle finally opened the driver side door and slid into the seat, turning the car on and pulling away from the curb.

"I don't speak to my parents anymore," Justine said, turning the heater towards her face, "after the crash, they were so insistant on talking to me, because we'd always been close up to that point, but to be close with anyone after that meant the possibility of inevitably enduring their loss as well. Couldn't allow that."

Michelle nodded, listening, not speaking. So Justine continued.

"We talk a lot, in pop culture, about having a parasocial relationship with the people we admire, the creators and artists and influencers and stuff. But nobody ever seems to recognize that you can also have a parasocial relationship with your own parents too. The very people from wence you came, the ones who, theoretically, should understand you better than anyone, can somehow be the most aloof and distant. The most unattainable. Wild."

"Is that how you see what Bea and I have? Parasocial?" Michelle asked.

"She gave you an organ, Michelle, I think the transfership of an internal organ alone eliminates that as a possibility," Justine said, making Michelle chuckle as she added, "I'm just saying that it makes sense why people connect to those people, why children look to childrens show hosts for guidance in a world where so many are often neglected in that guidance firsthand from the people who should be giving it to them. We connect to those we need, and children need that more than anyone. But adoptive agency...it's more than that. It still has to be two way. Otherwise what you have isn't nurturing, it's worshipping."

Michelle nodded slowly. Justine made so much sense, and Michelle herself had never recognized that before.

"Then why should I help you hurt her?" Michelle asked, "because she hurt me first? That doesn't seem fair? I think she feels badly enough about what happened to Casey, and, yeah, she was mean to you about it the last time you guys spoke, but still."

"You don't have to, nor should you, I'm just asking if you will," Justine said, "ultimately the choice is yours and yours alone."

Justine looked back out the window.

"But unlike your folks, and unlike Bea, I'm at least giving that choice. That has to mean something, right?"

Michelle's eyes widened a little. She was right.

And that scared the hell out of her.

Michelle was laying in bed, staring at the wall.

She refused to believe it was real. That the words that had been said had been meant. Bea was angry, scared, confused. She just needed some time off, she was simply letting off steam, and Michelle had caught the brunt of it. Surely she could go back tomorrow and everything would be the same as it always was. But her key card didn't work at the gate when she pulled in the following morning. Nor did it work the next day. Or the next. And it very quickly dawned on Michelle that, yes, in fact, she was fired. Bea had meant every word. So now she spent her days in a nearby cafe, sitting in a booth and drinking coffee, something she'd rarely done before, while she typed away on her laptop.

On the ninth day, Michelle was sitting there, still tapping away on her keyboard when she was finally discovered by Keagan. Keagan sat herself down in the booth across from Michelle, with a poppyseed muffin and a tea, but didn't say a word. Michelle didn't even look up or acknowledge her presence at all whatsoever. Instead she just stayed hyperfocused on her work. So Keagan ate her muffin in peace, until Michelle finally finished furiously typing, and relaxed back the vinyl booth seating.

"At least you're keeping busy," Keagan said, and Michelle stared out the window.

"I went to her apartment after Liam died. I found her crumpled on the floor against the wall crying. I picked her back up and got her back to work," Michelle said, "I did so much for her."

"Why did you tell her Michelle," Keagan said, "I know we agreed that it might come better from you, but that was not the opportune time. Why didn't you wait...or...I don't know, let me run the risk of-"

"Couldn't be you. We wouldn't even be here if it hadn't been for you," Michelle said, finally looking at Keagan, "all I did was digitize tapes. You're the one who found everyone. You're the one who should have had my job all along. Who should've had the relationship with her that I've had."

"I don't know that I wanted it," Keagan said, "I just liked discovering lost media."

"Well, either way, this whole thing only exists today because of your efforts. You need to be there," Michelle said, "I don't need to be anywhere. My mom made that clear. And now so has she."

And with that she went right back to typing, not saying another word the entire time. Keagan ate and drank in silence, watching Michelle, her heart breaking with every keystroke. Somehow, she knew, she had to fix this.

***

"This cake is really good!" Claire said happily as she took another bite, causing Bea to smile.

"Figured the best I could do is start making up for all the birthdays I missed, wasn't able to bake you a cake," Bea said.

"It's not my birthday though," Claire said, mouth full of cake.

"Doesn't have to be," Bea said, chuckling.

Bea and Claire were sitting in Justine's kitchen. Justine was hiding out in her upstairs bathroom, opting to stay as far away from Beatrice as possible whenever she come over to visit Claire. She'd hoped, that with Claire and Bea getting in touch, that perhaps this meant Claire would simply move in with her mother now, and Justine could have the quiet sanctity of her house back, but this wasn't appearing to be the case just yet. She could hear them very muffled through the floor as she lay on the bathroom tile.

"How did you even find me?" Beatrice asked.

"Well," Claire said, finishing chewing and swallowing her sweet treat before brushing hair from her face, "actually, it was surprisingly easy...my parents didn't really hide it from me, exactly. I just knew they weren't my parents. I kept asking. Pushing. They were always kinda cagey about it, but they did finally give in completely, own up to it all, told me what I wanted to know. But I always knew."

Claire put her fork down, wiped her mouth on a napkin and looked at her hands in her lap.

"...I never forgot you," she said softly, and Bea's heart cracked a little; Claire continued, "you think a child doesn't remember things if they're young enough, but I was old enough to remember. I didn't remember your name. I just knew you were 'mom'. But once I saw your face...saw the new show...it was so obvious."

"I'm so sorry," Bea whispered, reaching across the table and holding Claire's hand carefully, rubbing the back with her thumb; she swallowed, eyes wet, and added, "if it's any consolation, it was the single worst moment of my life. Your father and I, though, we...it was...messy. Creative partners. Business partners. Both a beard for eachother. We reached an impasse when we each realized we couldn't continue to be hidden from the world, and needed to be our authentic selves."

"But you weren't," Claire said, "I mean, I read, in the paper, when they saw you kissing your girlfriend at that event. You obviously weren't yourself. So you left me for no reason?"

"No, I..." Bea said, sighing, "um...your father sold the company out from under me to a pizzeria, and after a while it became too commercial, and lost all meaning. The pizzeria was going under as well, and...and I had to walk away. And after that, I realized I'd lost the three things I'd loved more than anything - the show, my daughter, and my best friend - and in my head I thought, well, this is what happens when you love something. It gets taken away from you. So I didn't love again. Not for a very long time."

"What happened then?" Claire asked, "what changed that?"

Bea didn't want to say it. But she knew it was true. It was Michelle. Michelle and her rebuilt basement set. That had reopened Bea's long since locked away heart and made her realize that loving, even loving something that was no longer there, was worth it if it brought you happiness even in its absence.

"I'm just glad you're home," Bea whispered, pulling Claire's hand towards her and planting a small, soft kiss on it.

"I missed you, mom," Claire said, the both of them crying happilty now.

Justine, however, was cold and emotionless. She could hear the crying, knew it was all good vibes, but she felt nothing. Why would she. Why would she ever feel anything for the woman who had, even unintentionally, driven her own creative partner and best friend to the void. Justine sat upright by the toilet and finished off another drink, then she stood up, grabbed her keys from the bathroom counter, and headed downstairs and out the front door to her car. She needed to see Michelle.

***

Michelle was back home, curled up in the recliner in sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt. She wasn't doing anything, she was simply sitting there, almost motionless, expressionless, as she chewed absentmindedly on her nails. Eliza was at work, and without her, or without work herself, Michelle didn't have anything to do and nobody to distract her. She wanted to go to the studio so badly herself, to go back to working, but she knew that simply wasn't a reality. She needed something to distract her. Something that would keep her busy. She needed a project, like she used to have.

A knock at the door startled Michelle from her absentmindedness, and stirred her back into reality. She stood up and walked to the door, unlocking and pulling it open, only to find Justine, only mildly more sober than usual, standing on her porch.

"...come on in," Michelle said, not even hesitating as she stepped aside to allow her entrance.

"She's in my kitchen," Justine said, "they're both in my kitchen, and here you are, shackled to your loneliness."

"Wow, you really are a writer," Michelle replied, smirking as she walked past Justine and sat back in her chair. Justine paced in front of her.

"Exiled to the fringes, when none of this would have happened without you in the first place," Justine said, seemingly ignoring Michelle's good natured pithy comment; she continued, running her hands up into her hair anxiously, "she has a public facing persona that has no basis in reality."

"That isn't true, she really is good," Michelle said quietly, now pulling her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and reting her chin on her knees, "she gave me a lung. She saved my life. I would still be living in my mothers rental home with nothing going for me if not for her."

"No, you wouldn't, and you know why I know that? Because you built that set. You did that without ever knowing her, without ever knowing she would see it or what it would lead to, meaning you do it for the love of the artistry, showcasing your skill and talent, proving that, if given the right opportunity, you were capable of more than everyone was telling you you were capable of."

Justine dropped to the floor in front of the chair and grabbed the armrests with her hands, clenching tightly, her nails digging into the soft foam.

"Do not let her discount what you started simply because she co-opted your involvement as a springboard for her own comeback," Justine said sternly, and Michelle nodded slowly, her eyes widening as Justines words hit hard and fast. She was...right. Without both Michelle and Keagan, Beatrice was the one who would still be living in the shadows, living her life in the doldrums of times gone by; she would have none of this success, this money or newfound fame, and she certainly never would have seen her daughter again.

"What do I do?" Michelle asked, sounding on the verge of tears as she wiped her nose on her sweatshirt sleeve.

"...you write me a script," Justine said.

***

"You know, you look just how I pictured you," Bea said, "It's really remarkable. I mean, I guess in a way I had some idea of how you'd turn out, since I did have you for a number of years, but...you look exactly like what I thought you might."

"I wish you'd been there," Claire said, "for all the things I did. All the stuff I experienced."

"Like what, tell me about them, tell me about your accomplishments," Bea said, crossing her arms on the table and smiling, listening.

"Oh, no, there's no accomplishments," Claire said, chuckling, tucking hair behind her ear, "no no, nothing like that. But just, I mean...how I turned out, the stuff I went through, you know, like, growing up. Not that she was a bad mom or anything, she was great, but...it just...she wasn't you."

Beatrice furrowed her brow and cleared her throat.

"...what do you mean there's no accomplishments?" she asked.

"I mean there's nothing to talk about. I haven't done anything of note," Claire said, "I went to school, but I dropped out, I couldn't handle it. I've tried doing lots of different things, but none of them have worked, or I didn't like them enough, or I wasn't good at them. I'm not you, despite being yours."

Beatrice nodded slowly, understanding. Claire hadn't done anything with her life thusfar, except find her. Beatrice was hoping she would have stories, tales to tell, but she had nothing. Bea cleared her throat again and sighed.

"When I was your age," she said, "I moved to the city, I started doing one woman shows, that's where I met your father. But the world is different now, I guess, and I shouldn't have expected you to have done the same things I've done, or even been able to, considering how drastically things have changed. The world isn't the same as it was when I was your age. Sometimes it's hard to remember that."

"You just weren't there, so why try hard," Claire said, and this...this statement above all others hit Bea at her core.

She'd spent a lifetime trying to tell children they were worth something, regardless of the opinions of adults around them. That they could do anything they wanted, be anyone they wanted. And yet the one who needed that most was her own daughter, whom she turned loose. She struggled to not cry, and bit her lip. Claire was starting to seem like a barely developed person. Thusfar, she'd exhibited absolutely no interests, no hobbies, no ambitions whatsoever. Her only goal, really, it seemed, was finding Beatrice. Bea finally exhaled, gathering her nerve back, and smiled sweetly.

"How would you like to help me with what I do?" Beatrice asked.

"Really? What could I do though?" Claire asked.

"I don't know, we'll have to check out your talents, skills, but personally, I've always been of the belief that you can do anything you want, if you just believe you ultimately can. Now, there's the obvious issue with this sentiment, which is that, inherently, some people can't do certain things, but there's no shame in that either, because nobody is good at everything. But everyone is good at something. Even just one thing. Let's find your thing, sweetheart, together."

Claire smiled, trying not to cry now herself. All she'd wanted her whole life was to have her real mother by her side, helping her through the world. And yet, within her, she had this horrible nagging reminder that someone close to Beatrice had taken the fall in order for Claire to get what she wanted, and that didn't seem right. The thing is, Beatrice was right, Claire was, in fact, good at something.

And that something, as it would turn out, was being the version of her mother her mother pretended to be.

***

Michelle was sitting on the bed, staring at her laptop screen, as Justine sat beside her. Michelle was furiously typing away, whiled Justine provided input - specifically in regards to wording, phrasing, tone - and it was the first time in a long while either felt like they truly had a purpose again. Meanwhile, Eliza was still at work, in The Hole, sitting at her workbench, loupe over her eye as she added sequins to a puppet with her hot glue gun. She stopped and glanced over to the Liam puppet sitting at the top of the bench. She put the glue gun down, grabbed the puppet and slid it on her arm.

"This isn't right and you know it," the puppet said.

"But what can I do?" Eliza asked.

"You stand up for the woman you love," the puppet replied, "you do what is necessary. Otherwise you are no more complicit in Beatrice's actions than she herself is."

Eliza nodded, then pulled the puppet back off and set it back down. Sometimes she just needed to hear the truth come out of a mouth that wasn't technically her own, even if the words were from her brain. She sighed and spun around in her chair, looking up at the puppet covered ceiling like some kind of felt sistine chapel, and she shook her head. Beatrice had given her this whole life, this job, believed in her work, tracked her down to bring her back, but Michelle...Michelle had given her the kind of love she never thought she would have. That was more worth protecting than her job.

Keagan and Lexi were at the house, Keagan continually beating herself up over what had happened while Lexi attempted, to the best of her abilities, to help her see that it wasn't her fault. And yet, like Eliza, they knew if they let Michelle continue to be fired, they too would be just as bad as Beatrice. Someone had to do something. The facade was cracking. They were starting to see Beatrice in a new light, as a person capable of making mistakes, being selfish, or perhaps even manipulative, even if she didn't know she was. That's the thing. It wasn't malicious, she was simply acting out of human nature.

She'd built her entire identity around being a dog; mans best friend, loyal and understanding, compassionate and always by your side to support you. But she wasn't a dog. She was a human being, full of flaws and quirks and capable of hurting others and screwing up.

And it was time they reminded her of that.

"I feel...like it's my fault," Bea said, "everyone tells me not to feel that way, but I do. I took something that was important to her, something she had, in theory, been doing already for an extended period of time, and I gave it to others. It was a betrayal, and in hindsight, she had every single right to be mad at me about. In turn, I'm mad at Michelle because she told me that Casey, and her emotions, were not my responsibility, but the thing is...they weren't anyones. She had no family. No romantic partner. She had nobody but me. So, if she wasn't my responsibility, whose was she? Her own? No. That's callous. Nobody should be alone."

The therapist nodded, taking it all in as Bea and Leslie sat on the couch together. Ever since Casey had killed herself, the two of them had made it a habit of coming here once a week to try and work through Bea's grief. Thusfar, however, it hadn't really been all that successful and endeavor, sad to say.

"I understand that your entire...schtick, so to speak, is caring about everyone, especially kids who had nobody else to care about them, but-"

"It isn't a goddamn 'schtick'," Bea grumbled, Leslie and the therapist exchanging a glance, indicating the therapist had indeed messed up with that verbiage; they tapped their pen on their clipboard a few times anxiously and quickly course corrected.

"Um, right, I'm sorry, I apologize. But even still, she wasn't a child. She was a grown adult," the therapist said.

"Was she?" Bea asked, "because trauma stunts the developmental process. So, sure, from the outside they may look like adults, but emotionally, psychologically, they're still the terrified little kids they were when the trauma occured. Saying she was a grown adult is only accurate if you're speaking of her physiologically."

Leslie exhaled and took one of Bea's hands in her own, squeezing gently.

"Hey," she said softly, "you cannot save everyone."

"I have to," Bea said, on the verge of totaling losing it, "I have to, cause nobody else will."

Her thoughts turned from Casey to Liam, to their daughter. Every single time she closed her eyes lately, she saw her little girl. She saw the day they left her. She saw the betrayal, front and center. Seemed all she'd done her life was betray little girls. Maybe that was why she'd attached herself so tightly to Michelle, because in a way, she saw a woman who hadn't really had a mother, and so in a sense, Beatrice could make up for her past mistakes.

"Does Michelle know about this?" the therapist asked and Bea scoffed, chuckling, shaking her head.

"We've barely spoken since the incident. We spoke at the speech, but that was about it. Since then I've kind of kept my distance, which I'm sure has hurt her but...it's better this way, cause I know...I know that the next time I see her face..." Bea stumbled for words, biting her lip, "...will be the last time I see her face."

***

Michelle was standing outside The Hole.

The lot was busy, bustling, preparing for the next shoot, but Michelle wasn't involving herself, opting instead to stand outside The Hole and simply stare at a nearby billboard featuring Bea's face. She was chewing gum as she stared at the billboard, featuring Bea, Liam's character and a few other puppets, advertising the show, and she shook her head as the doors to The Hole opened and Eliza stepped outside.

"Did you wanna come back in?" Eliza asked, wrapping her arms around Michelle's waist from behind, hugging her, "it's cold, and I could make you warm."

"I don't even think being here is good for me," Michelle said.

"Was it Keagan?"

"I mean it's not her fault someone sought her out as a line to Bea," Michelle said, shrugging, "that's what Keagan does, she...she finds things. That's how this all started. I can't blame her, she's my friend, and she's an unwilling participant. No. It's Bea's fault. It's Bea's fucking fault for doing this in the first place, for creating this landmine that was set to detonate at a later point in time, taking out everyone around her with it."

Eliza pulled away and looked at the Liam puppet under her arm, before sliding it back onto her arm and raising it up, standing in front of Michelle now.

"Don't be mad at her," Eliza said, pretending the puppet was talking, making Michelle smile softly, "she was young, she didn't mean to. You can't blame someone for something they didn't mean to do. Ask Eliza, she would know."

Michelle's eyes moved from the puppet up to Eliza's face, her eyes now cast to the ground, making Michelle slightly nervous. Was Eliza using this puppet as a way to work through things, or was this a subconscious thing she wasn't aware she was doing, thinking this puppet was actually Liam? Her heart ached at the idea of the second being true.

"He's right," Eliza said quietly, still looking at her shoes, "it isn't her fault. And even if it were, it's only partially, cause there's still the dad to blame, whoever he ends up being, if it even matters. But he's right."

Michelle pushed the puppet down a bit and took Eliza's soft face in her hands, pulling her in close and kissing her softly. Eliza blushed and gave in, her knees buckling as she leaned into it, so happily kissing Michelle back. Michelle and Eliza rested their foreheads against one another, both trying not to giggle uncontrollably.

"You make me feel so grounded in a world of uncertainty," Michelle said.

"And you make me feel like there's more to me than my work," Eliza replied.

"I love you, baby," Michelle whispered.

"I love you too," Eliza said, before holding the Liam puppet back up and adding, "and I love you both!" making Michelle cackle. Just then a car came screeching to a halt in the lot, almost doing a donut as it stopped, causing Michelle and Eliza to look up, surprised by the sudden noise and arrival. The car idled momentarily before turning off and the door opening, Justine stumbling out. She was wearing a pleated grey pencil skirt, a blue button down blouse with a cream colored houndstooth cardigan over it, her hair looking as though she'd at least tried to make it into a bun but had done so sloppily. She stood and stared at the girls over the roof of her car.

"Justine?" Michelle asked, "what are you doing here?"

Justine turned and looked up at the billboard, then pointed at it.

"Fuck that dog!" she shouted, making Michelle laugh nervously to herself.

***

"I don't know what to do," Leslie said, sounding exhausted, as she sank back into the couch. Bea had retreated to the restroom momentarily, leaving the therapist and Leslie alone. The therapist nodded, bouncing their knee as Leslie continued, adding, "I've...I feel, like, fuck, I've done all I can at this point, and it's absolutely killling me to watch this and what the guilt is doing to her."

"Until she accepts it wasn't her fault she won't move forward, it's simple as that," the therapist said.

"I don't think she can," Leslie said, "I genuinely...knowing her intimately, loving her, I don't think she's capable of allowing herself that grace. She's too harsh on herself."

The door opened and Bea quietly slipped back inside, shutting it gently behind herself. She then seated herself back on the couch beside Leslie, who leaned in and planted a small kiss on her cheek, making Bea smile and blush, just a little.

"Beatrice," the therapist said, "you grew up with a good family. Great parents. Where do you think this need to be a mother to every little girl comes from?"

Bea knew the answer, but admitting to it would forever change her relationship with Leslie, as well as Leslie's perception of her as a whole. No. She couldn't have that. She wouldn't. Bea shook her head and shrugged. Perpetuate the lie to keep the peace. That had always been their plan. Now, with Liam gone, the responsibility fell to her and her alone, even if it meant isolating the ones she loved around her further.

"It can't just be related to the show, to the morals you want to express," the therapist said, "because it obviously runs so deep in your soul, or else you wouldn't be feeling this way and doing it to such a degree offscreen. I'm just...I'm trying to figure out the source. Help me, Bea, so I can help you, and we can help eachother."

"There's nothing to figure out," Bea whispered, eyes looking at her hands between her legs, "please stop looking. I'm as plain as day."

Leslie felt her heart hurt just a little more. Beatrice sounded so wounded, so run down. But, as the therapist had said, without her cooperation, all their efforts were moot. Bea put her hands in her hair and started crying, making Leslie lean over and pull her head to her chest, rocking her gently.

"There there, I've got you," Leslie said softly.

"I'm a bad person," Bea whispered through her tears, her breathing shaky, her voice weak.

"Why do you say that, sweetheart?" Leslie asked.

But Bea, as per usual in these sessions, didn't elaborate. Elaborating meant facing the truth, and the truth would tear her whole world apart. No. Stoicism in the face of uncertainty, that was the path forward.

No matter what the cost.

***

"Goddamn dog came into my home, cleaned up my kitchen, removed all my alcohol!" Justine shouted as she stumbled towards Eliza and Michelle, "who is she to have such moral superiority!? As if she's better than me."

"Did you drive here drunk?" Michelle asked, now sounding more concerned than finding it amusing as she had before; she lowered her voice even more to spare Justine the embarrassment, adding, "Justine, did you drive here intoxicated? When did you start drinking?"

"When did I stop?" Justine asked loudly, "I'm drunk from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep, and it wasn't an issue until she decided to stop by and take it upon herself to act like a goddamn AA sponsor!"

"I'm...going to go inside," Eliza said sheepishly, backing away. Michelle understood, and didn't stop her.

"This is serious, you cannot be driving under the influence," Michelle said, "for fucks sake, Justine, there's schools between here and there, not to mention the people who bring their kids to the lot. Or even hurting other drivers, pedestrians, yourself."

"As if hurting myself would be bad," Justine said, taking Michelle by surprise. Justine walked, or rather shambled, over to the nearby wall and leaned against it, sliding down it as she cried softly, "it's one thing to lose someone once, but to lose someone twice? That's...that is a loss that is insurmountable. I didn't have a choice in losing him, that was an accident, that was the result of weather and poor plane maintenance. But her?"

She didn't even need to say their name. Michelle knew all too well.

"...she didn't have to die," Justine continued, her voice so weak and soft, as if she were scared of hearing herself, "she didn't have to die, and she did, and it's my fault, and I could've stopped it. I couldn't stop the other one but I could've stopped this. But she's dead. She jumped off that bridge thinking nobody loved her. She was my friend. She was my friend, and I killed her. I was selfish for an hour and I killed her."

Michelle approached the wall and sat down beside Justine. Justine fall into Michelle, sobbing against her shoulder, as Michelle reached up and ran her fingers through her hair.

"You didn't kill her. She killed herself," Michelle said, "that's a distinction you need to recognize. Your actions didn't motivate that. After learning what her life had been like, I...I can't say I was too surprised. I mean I was surprised in the moment, cause, yeah, you never expect that. But in hindsight? Fuck. Impressive she made it that far, even. You didn't kill her, Justine."

"Why..." Justine asked, looking up at Michelle now, their eyes locking, as she uttered, in the lowest voice possible, "...why does everyone I love keep dying?"

That did it. That broke her. Michelle herself was now feeling tears form on her face.

"Uh," she said, wiping her face on her other arm, "um, fuck. I can't answer that, I'm sorry. I...I genuinely wish that I could, but I can't. If it's any consolation, though, it happens to everyone. Everyone that loves others loses them to death eventually."

Justine grabbed Michelle's arm and cried even harder. Michelle exhaled.

"I know how you feel," she continued, "I know it's not the exact same, Casey and I didn't really have the working relationship that you two did, but I know how you feel. After she died, I took it upon myself to bring Beatrice back from the brink of a breakdown once Liam left, and I...I need to save those around me, because I pushed Casey away from the production. I was the one who told Bea not to worry about her, which sent her spiraling, and onto your doorstep. You wanna blame someone for what happened? Fucking blame me, okay?"

Justine looked up at Michelle, their eyes meeting yet again.

"You didn't kill her, Justine, I did," Michelle said, crying now too, "and I'm gonna pay for that for the rest of my life, or die trying to save everyone else instead."

Another car pulled up and Beatrice climbed out.

"The hell is going on out here?" she asked.

Michelle stared Bea down.

"I have something you need to see," Michelle said flatly.

***

Inside The Hole, Eliza was sitting at her work desk, staring at the Liam puppet, still on her hand, raised to eye level.

"I can't help them," Eliza said.

"You can, you just don't know how to yet," the Liam puppet said.

"No," she shook her head, "I love Michelle so much, but I can't help her. I can't even cope with you being gone. That's why you're here now. And if...if she ever gets the idea of what you are, to me, then that's going to scare her and make her stop loving me."

"You know that girl could never stop loving you," the Liam puppet said, and Eliza lowered him onto the table, pulling him off her arm and laying him there. She leaned back on her chair, pulling her legs up into her chest and wrapping her arms around them, a physicality she always retreated to when things got scary. She knew the puppet wasn't talking. She wasn't hearing his voice. She was simply utilizing it in a way that helped her cope with the grief of his absence. Besides Bea, and her family, Liam was the only other person she had known for that long, and for him to now be gone, it had gnawed a hole clear through to her heart, and she didn't know how to handle it.

"...I wish it had been me," Eliza said softly, to a room full of nobody but puppets.

***

"Where are we even going?" Bea asked as the three women marched across the studio, heading to the trailers in the back.

"You'll see," Michelle said.

"I don't have time for cryptic vagueries today," Bea said sternly.

"You had time to clean my fucking kitchen," Justine said coldly, catching Bea off guard.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was helping you regain sobriety an inconvenience to you?" Bea asked, as Michelle opened the double doors at the back, the three of them continuing to head outwards and towards the trailers, now within sight.

"Do you really think the wisest way to respond to someone drinking to deal with loss they feel responsible for is to antagonize them further on the subject?" Michelle asked, and Bea shut up. Michelle was sounding...like her. Bea should've been proud, but instead, all she felt was even more ire for the woman now.

"Oh, you think...you think that was an inconvenience? Well you know what was a real inconvenience?" Justine asked, "telling a woman so devoted to the craft you'd built that she couldn't be a part of it because of her emotions, things you tell children every day they shoudln't be ashamed to feel or show."

Bea began to snarl through her teeth without saying a word, her insides fuming with rage. How dare Justine think she had the right to speak to her like this. Justine wasn't even really involved in this production, what the fuck was she still even doing in their lives?

"It's appropriate that your age range for your work is small children, considering the way you act," Bea replied sternly, making Justine laugh.

"That's a rich one coming from a woman who talks to puppets on fucking television!" Justine said, "no, ya know what, it actually makes sense you would pretend to be a dog, because you're definitely not a human, and everyone loves dogs, and you need everyone to love you, don't you?"

"You wish the worth of your work remotely rivaled my own," Bea said.

"Unlike you, Beatrice, I don't fucking judge myself based on arbitrary standards of the content I produce, you know why? Because it isn't indicative of my value! We are in the same business, we both make things for kids, the only difference between us is that I recognize that what I do is a job, and you think you're a saint for doing something other hosts have done longer and better than you have and ever could! It's a fucking TV show, get over yourself."

"I'm trying not to hold a lot of what you say in high regard considering you're drunk," Bea said, "but being drunk doesn't give you a license to just insult everyone around you."

"I'm not insulting everyone around me, I'm only. insulting. you," Justine said.

"Guess it was inevitable you'd turn to being an alcoholic, seeing as how you're a writer and all," Bea said.

They finally reached the trailers, as Michelle gathered her key from her pocket and put it into the lock.

"At least I'm not afraid to practice what I preach. You spout all this bullshit about togetherness and understanding, all while hiding everything about yourself, because to allow yourself to be a fully fledged person would mean you're not a faceless entity that children can project themselves onto."

"And what do you preach, exactly? How mommy gets drunk to escape her problems?" Bea asked, and that got it, as Justine turned and socked her in the nose hard. Bea stumbled back down the ramp a little as Justine recoiled in pain, nursing her fist in her hand. Michelle finally got between them.

"Guys! Chill the fuck out!" she shouted, "we are all suffering from the same thing, okay? She died. We all lost her. The last thing we should do is turn against one another."

"Why did you even bring me out here?!" Bea yelled, "she wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for you convincing me that I shouldn't chase after her!"

Michelle couldn't believe her ears. Bea was...blaming...her? Was that...was that what was happening right now?

"You...it was...you think it was my fault?" Michelle asked, her lip quivering, voice broken now, "...I just didn't want you to be stressed."

"Well I'm stressed. I'm stressed every goddamn day now," Bea said, "I was supposed to protect girls like that and you stopped me!"

"Then allow me to fix the goddamn problem!" Michelle shouted back, turning and kicking the door to the trailer open, "enjoy!"

Beatrice's eyes widened in shock. Time itself stood still. No noise penetrated this moment. There, sitting in the trailer before her, was a young woman who looked suspiciously like a mixture of both herself and Liam. No. No no no, there was no way, this couldn't be, how could this be happening? Bea slowly walked in, and Claire looked up from her chair. Bea reached out and slowly, so slowly, put her hand on Claire's cheek. Claire closed her eyes and smiled.

"Mom," she whispered.

Bea turned and looked back at Justine and Michelle, standing in the doorway. She then pulled her hand back and walked up to Michelle, looking her directly in the eyes, before taking her hands in her own.

"Michelle," she whispered.

"I didn't know you blamed me, but I...I guess I was hoping this might be a way I could make up for it. I took a girl away from you, and now I'm giving you this one back. Keagan, of course, is who actually got in touch with her first, but I asked if I could introduce you two, because I knew...I had to atone for my part in Casey's death. We...we built this thing together, you and me and Keagan. Just like you and Liam. We cannot devolve into what we're devolving into, Bea. We just can't. What we have built here is just...it's far too important for that."

"Michelle," Bea said, smiling, squeezing her hand.

"Bea, I'm sorry," Michelle said.

Bea turned and looked back at Claire, before looking back at Michelle, their eyes locked, their whole history lay bare between them. She smiled so wide, making Michelle giggle in response.

"Oh, Michelle," Bea said, "...you're fired."

Helena stood in front of her bathroom mirror. She had showered, gotten dressed up in her best dress and was now fixing her hair and makeup. But, the weird thing was, it felt like muscle memory, a habit, but she knew it wasn't important. She knew that, if she chose not to do this, things would be just fine. And that made her smile. After she finished she checked her watch, and knew she was ready just in time, and, as predicted, there came a knock on the door. Helena smiled, gathered her coat and her purse, and headed to the front door, tugging it open, to find John standing there, well dressed, holding a bouquet in front of his face.

"Oh, wow, flowers brought me a person, how romantic," Helena said, causing John to chuckle as he pulled the bouquet away from his face and handed them to her.

"Well, flowers are a romantic, and let's be honest, everyone loves getting a person," John said, making Helena smirk as she took the bouquet and took them inside, placed them on the table and pulled a vase out from under the kitchen sink, starting to fill it with water. John walked in, watching the whole thing, hands in his pockets.

"Wow, you're really anal," John said.

"Shut up!" Helena said, laughing, "god, I can't help it if I'm a prepared person!"

John laughed as he leaned against the table and watched. Helena finished filling it with water, placed it on the kitchen table and popped the flowers into the vase, then wiped her hands off on a nearby hand towel. She stood there, staring at it, hands on her hips. John glanced between the vase and Helena, watching her face soften as she watched the flowers, almost as though she were expecting them to do something.

"You okay?" John asked softly.

"...nobody's ever given me flowers," Helena said.

"Really? Cause you seemed surprisingly prepared for the occasion, I just sorta figured it was something that happened quite a bit," John said, and Helena chuckled.

"No, I'm...I'm just..." Helena said, "uh, I've always hoped it would happen, so I've always been ready for it. I remember, back in high school, on Valentines Day, all the other girls in classes around me would have things delivered to them from their boyfriends or prospective love interests, and I just was, ya know, ignored. I've always wanted to be given flowers."

John's expression changed from that of mild amusement to intense sadness. Helena seemed so confident, so brazen and strong, and yet here she was, openly admiting that she actually had rarely if ever been romantically involved. Obviously she had been, to have had a child, but outside of that, it sounded as though she'd almost always been ignored when it came to romance. John had trouble seeing it. She was so smart, so driven and ambitious, and so very attractive, but it made sense that she would throw herself into her job if that was the case. Anything to distract ones self from not attaining the thing they truly want.

"Do you like them?" he asked, and she nodded slowly, trying not to cry, so as not to ruin her eye makeup.

"They're beautiful," she whispered and he walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the top of her head. She closed her eyes and just let it happen as she reached out and gently touched the petals with her fingertips. Life, for them both, had been so very difficult. But it was great now. Financial success and love and friends. Helena was anal, sure. But that didn't mean she wasn't appreciative.

***

Lilian was standing in the kitchen making pancakes. Maddie had gone to school, Miranda was at the doctors, and so Lilian had the place to herself. She was currently mulling over her response options to Barbara Hawkins, but she hadn't figured out what to say in return just yet, or even when to do so. As she finished cooking, plating and preparing, a knock came at the door. Lilian rolled her eyes and walked over to it, pulling it open. Nothing else mattered the moment she did, because there stood her best friend.

"Hi there," Alexis said.

"...fucking 'hi there'?" Lilian asked, "you vanish for months at a time and 'fucking hi' there is the best I get?"

"What did you want me to do, pop out of a giant, wooden horse?" Alexis asked, and Lilian smiled a little as she stepped aside, allowing Alexis entrance before shutting the door behind her; Alexis turned around, once inside, and shoved her hands in her pockets, continuing, "sooo...how have you been?"

"I don't even know how to answer that," Lilian said, "I've been trying to track down information on the woman who died at the theme park I was at as a kid, but that's been difficult. Miranda's preparing for surgery. Maddie's been doing great. I've just been busy and stressed out."

"How's the court proceedings going?" Alexis asked.

"I mean, they're going, slowly. I'm supposed to go in and meet with a lawyer and the woman who gave me the info very soon, so that should be...terrifying," Lilian said, seating herself back down at the table and staring at her breakfast.

"Well, hopefully it goes smoothly. If you want moral support, I mean, I guess I don't know if I'm legally allowed to come with, considering I'm not, like, involved but, I'll go in with you if you'd like so you don't feel as alone or whatever and-"

"You just left, Alex," Lilian said, finally breaking, her voice cracking, the tears coming hard and fast, "you just...you just fuckin' left. You didn't even tell me you were going, you didn't tell anyone where you might be going, all of a sudden my best friend is just gone and I'm supposed to be able to pick up the pieces and be okay with it all. You left me."

Alexis swallowed, feeling her pulse quicken, her heart begin to race. She knew this might be an uncomfortable visit.

"Yeah, I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't really have much of a choice for what it's worth, uh, all things considered with what went down. I was worried I may be prosecuted, or something, and I just...I'm sorry, Lil, I'm really sorry, genuinely, I missed you so bad out there. I didn't want to leave, but I didn't know what might happen if I stayed."

Lilian poked at her pancakes with her fork, breathing harshly as she did.

"I understand," Lilian said quietly, "that's what really sucks, is I absolutely understand. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt. It might...it might take me a while before I can talk to you again the way we used to."

"I get that," Alexis said, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting down. So the two women sat in the silence of the kitchen, with nothing but the air of uncomfortablness between them, trying their best to figure out how to resuscitate a friendship that, for all intents and purposes, felt dead on arrival. Lilian had missed Alexis so badly, and yet, now that she was here in her kitchen, didnt' seem to have a single word to say to her. And Alexis, well, she never really knew what to say. In trying to save her sister, she'd hurt so many around her, and she began to fear that, unlike John, this might be one relationship she simply could've salvage.

Only time would tell.

***

"This place is beautiful," Helena said, "I never took you for much of a romantic gentleman."

"I'm deeply wounded by that," John remarked as he helped her take her coat off and placed it on the chair he'd pulled out for her. Helena smiled brightly and seated herself, while John walked around the table and seated himself across from her. The restaurant in question was nothing fancy, in terms of its culinary offerings, being instead a mere grill, but the atmosphere was right. Soft lighting, gentle jazz, and just an overall warmness of the place made Helena feel safe to let her otherwise constantly upheld emotional guard down a bit.

"It's been so long since I've been out on a date," Helena said.

"You're tellin' me," John replied, chuckling, "I can't even remember the last time."

"Really? That's surprising to me, considering what a handsome gentleman you are," Helena said, smirking, "Can't believe you don't just have women knocking down your door."

"Didn't say I don't, just that I not typically one to take any up on the offer," John said, as a waitress approached the table to take their orders. After ordering their respective meals, John and Helena then turned their attention back to one another as they awaited their drinks. John was drinking soda, but Helena opted for an alcoholic drink, which John didn't mind but he wasn't interested in partaking in himself, considering his past. As he sipped, he watched Helena look at the menu in front of her.

"These desserts look amazing," Helena said.

"You want some dessert? We'll get some dessert," John said, "what's to your fancy?"

"I'm not sure, but I'm generally a cake person, so maybe a nice slice of cake," Helena said, "perhaps Red Velvet, if they have it, that was..." she paused, her voice lowering to a weak whisper, "...that was always his favorite."

"You don't have to get that just because of its association," John replied, reaching across the table and taking one of her hands off the menu, gently squeezing and rubbing the back with his thumb; he added, "you are allowed to disown the things that someone liked even if you loved them if it hurts too much. There's bands I can't listen to, for example, because she loved them."

Helena put the menu down and exhaled slowly. This woman, usually so steady and composed, now seemed so fragile. She looked at John's face, and he smiled back at her, making her blush a little in response.

"I can't do that," she said quietly, "I can't...lose...other parts of him. I already lost him. I refuse to let anything more of his be taken from me. I would rather feel a small twinge of emotional grief if it means I get to eat something he loved."

John smiled, nodding.

"That makes sense," he said, "I support you either way."

"I gotta know," Helena said, "why me? It can't...it can't be because you actually like me, right? I mean, after all the aggravation I caused you, caused everyone? There has to be something more to your reasoning, surely."

"You're a smart businesswoman, a confident woman in general. You aren't afraid to stand up for your principles, your beliefs. I admire that. I like women who refuse to be told what to do, because it means they refute the perception the world has at large for their gender. I would say imagine it, but you don't have to, because you live it daily. Still, for the sake of context, imagine it...imagine being told every single day, by every single facet of society - including other women, which is especially wild - that you have inherently less worth and value based on certain notions. You'll never have the power men have. You'll never be paid the same men will. Once your looks fade you become less worthwhile. But you don't give a fuck, and frankly, that's hot as hell. I love women who don't give a fuck. That's partially why I adopted Alexis. Because she too didn't give a fuck. Women who didn't give a fuck are why women today have personhood."

Helena's expression slowly changed, a long, thin smile spreading across her lips, her eyes brimming with intense passion. She made the decision, then and there, to fuck this man that evening, even if he didn't know it.

"I suppose you're right," she said, shrugging.

"What's truly remarkable is how little you think of yourself, even in lieu of all you've accomplished, but I guess that's because that's what the world does, right? Not just in general, but to women especially. Your achievements aren't noteworthy because they're outright impressive, they're noteworthy because you're a woman and women aren't supposed to be impressive. Your gender dictates every single fucking thing about you and that can be taxing, wear down your self esteem. It may be fucked up to say, but...there is an upside to my daughter being perpetually stuck in arrested development, and that is that she will never lose the love she has for herself, or get trapped by the worlds disbelief in her, just because she's a girl. She was spared from that. I'm kind of thankful, because she, and every woman, deserves better."

Helena nodded, now listening intently. No longer was she thinking about sleeping with John, no, in seconds she'd switched gears entirely to being simply moved by his dedication to helping and protecting women, when all she'd really known her whole life was men who did the exact opposite.

"I don't want to put you on a pedestool," she said, "realize I only have worth now cause you, another man, has come forward and made me believe in myself, or some trite bullshit like that. But...it is nice to have someone think so highly of me, outside of myself of course."

John laughed loudly.

"There's that confidence!" he said, "that inflated ego we love to see!"

Helena laughed with him, and the two spent an overall excellent evening.

She had vanilla cake for dessert.

***

"Are you gonna respond?" Alexis asked, looking at Lilian's laptop screen.

"I want to, but I'm scared," Lilian said.

"You've come this far and now you're gonna chicken out?" Alexis asked, "come on, man, commit to the bit at least."

"I just...what if getting the information I want leads to something worse, or opens up old wounds and creates fresh ones, not just for me, but also for the family who lost them? There's so many factors I need to, well...factor in."

"I understand that, but jeez, Lily, like...you're so close to getting closure to something."

"Is that all life is, though? Getting closure? Maybe sometimes closure isn't necessary, maybe we put too much emphasis on it," Lilian said, and Alexis nodded solemnly, exhaling and running her hands through her hair, posting her knees up on her elbows.

"When Rick and I were out there," she said, "we stopped at this little seaside town, and while we were docked there, we went to the little boardwalk they had. There were carnival rides, and desserts and all sorts of neat stuff, games, and one of the things they had was a tunnel of love, which has always sounded like a really dirty euphemism if we're being honest but that's neither here nor there."

Lilian and Alexis laughed, and she continued.

"Anyway," she went on, "we decided to go on the tunnel of love, and while we were on the ride there was this couple in front of us, these two girls, and one of them was talking about how she saved a little girl from drowning when she was younger, when she was doing lifeguard work while in college. She was talking to her partner about, like, not letting that moment define her, you know? Like yeah it was formative, but she wasn't gonna allow it to be her totality. She never saw the little girl again, she moved on with her life, there was no closure."

"Does this exposition have a point, or are you just monologuing for the fun of it?" Lilian asked, leaning back in her chair and smirking, crossing her legs.

"...the little girl was me," Alexis said, and that made Lilian's eyes snap wide open, her breath caught in her chest in surprise; Alexis added, "I was the little girl. And for so much of my life I've wanted to find her, and talk to her about it, and there I was, I had the opportunity, but I didn't take it, because yeah, you're right, closure is this weird manmade idea and it isn't necessary for everything, and sometimes the healthiest thing one can do is simply move on, especially when doing the opposite might further negatively impact the lives of those involved. I didn't the chance, and...I'm okay with that. It's up to you. You can move on, or you can go back, but who knows, maybe you're the only other person who remembers this event, or was remotely involved or associated with it, and maybe meeting someone like that will bring them joy, not sadness. You never know."

Lilian smiled warmly as Alexis exhaled and placed her hands on her knees now, her eyes cast downwards to the floor.

"You are so different than you were, and not just before you left, but, like...even a year or so ago. You just seem so much more...I don't know...at peace," Lilian said, "I'm jealous, honestly."

"Yeah, well, turns out you can actually heal your inner child pretty well by beating your parents with a bat, so," Alexis said, the both of them laughing.

Alexis had returned, and with her, so did some normalcy to Lilian's life. She'd missed her so much, she couldn't stay angry at her for leaving. She knew she had to.

"I could go with you, if you want," Alexis said, "like, if they want to meet, or whatever, I could go with you. If you didn't wanna go alone. If you were scared about facing it by yourself. I know, from having Rick there, how much it can help to have someone who loves you by your side during difficult things."

Lilian smiled and leaned out of her chair and towards Alexis, grabbing and hugging her tight.

"I was so mad at you," Lilian whispered.

"And now?"

"I'm still mad at you, but at least you're here," Lilian said, making Alexis laugh a little.

"I guess I can live with that," she remarked.

***

Standing on the front porch, Helena digging for her keys in her purse, John watched her quietly, hands in his pockets. He glanced up at the porch light, a cool, cobalt blue color, and he squinted, curious about it.

"It was his favorite color," Helena said, catching him off guard. He turned to look at her, she too now looking at the light; she sighed and continued, "I put it in a bit after he died...I figured, I guess, in a way, it was like he was always home with me."

John nodded slowly, taking in her grief. Helena finally got her keys out and opened the door, then turned back to face him.

"Do you want to come inside?" she asked.

"It's a little late," John said, shrugging.

"Come inside," she said sternly.

"Well that was demanding," he replied, grinning.

"You like women who are in control, don't you? Isn't that your whole thing? Girls who tell you what to do?" she asked, making him crack up, which in turn made her chuckle. He shrugged and started to walk on past her and into the house.

"Well, if you say so," he said.

And she shut the door behind them.

Justine had never been a big drinker.

Even when she'd been younger, it simply had never been an activity that she'd found much pleasure in, but now...now she seemed like no matter how much she drank she couldn't stop being thirsty, and she couldn't stand the idea of being sober, so being drunk for as long as she was awake seemed to be the only option. She groaned as she woke up on the bed, still in her clothes from the previous night, and rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. She slowly sat upright and figured, if nothing else, she should at least try to get some food inside her. Justine climbed off the bed, knees weak and wobbly, as she put her hand out and placed her palm on the nearby dresser to help steady herself. Then she started to make her way downstairs, a risky move in and of itself, considering. When she breached the kitchen doorway, however, she stopped and stared. There was Casey, standing at the stove, cooking.

"...Casey?" she whispered.

"Good morning," Casey said, turning to face her; her appearance was different, the color faded from her skin, her clothes sopping wet, her hair matted down from water. Justine slowly slunk into the kitchen and seated herself at the table.

"...what are...what are you making?" she asked.

"Fish," she said.

"For breakfast?" Justine asked, laughing nervously.

"For my breakfast. This is yours," Casey said, grabbing a packet of airline peanuts from the counter and plopping it down in front of Justine, who recoiled at the sight. Terrified, she looked up at Casey, their eyes meeting, though there was definitely no life behind her eyes.

"...why are you in my kitchen?" Justine asked, her voice shaky.

"Cause you want me to be," Casey replied.

And then she woke up, vomiting. Justine rolled to her side and continued throwing up off the edge of the bed. When she finished, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and tried to catch her breath. She was so shaken from this dream, to see Casey again, but in that manner, had rattled her deeply. Justine did her best to scoot up the bed and lean herself up against the headboard, sighing and trying to catch her breath as she ran her hands up into her hair.

"I need a drink," she said.

***

"That tickles," Eliza giggled as Michelle kissed just under her ear.

Eliza was propped up on the nearby worktable, Michelle's hands on her hips, giving her soft kisses, teasing her, the both of them giggling. They had gotten breakfast on the way in, and then headed directly for The Hole, because Michelle simply didn't want to be apart that morning, and who was Eliza to argue. Besides, she figured, the more time she spent with Michelle, the less time she spent alone with the Liam puppet, and that was for the best.

"Do you like when I whisper in your ear?" Michelle asked, her lips right against Eliza's lobe.

"It feels funny, but it does feel nice," she replied softly.

"Yeah?" Michelle asked, her hands running up into Eliza's bushy mop of hair, adding, "you like that my pretty girl?"

Eliza blushed crimson and nodded as Michelle kissed down her neck and stopped on her collarbone. They still hadn't slept together, but that was fine. This level of intimacy was good enough for them both. Eliza liked the attention and Michelle liked taking it slow, giving things a chance to blossom naturally. Just then the door to The Hole swung open, and Keagan walked in. The girls stopped and quickly readjusted themselves, causing Keagan to chuckle as she approached.

"Sorry," she said, "did I interrupt?"

"Interrupt what? We obviously weren't doing anything lewd at all whatsoever," Eliza replied, making her laugh harder.

"Um," Keagan said, trying to stifle her laughter, "uh, Eliza, I need to borrow Michelle for a bit."

Eliza's smiled quickly faded. She knew that tone. It was time. Time to introduce Michelle to Claire. Eliza cleared her throat, her eyes darting around the room anxiously.

"Shouldn't I help?" Eliza asked, "wouldn't that be a good idea?"

"...sure, yeah, you're right, that's probably smart, have as many hands on deck as possible," Keagan said, "we're gonna go to the radio office. Just follow me."

Michelle, confused by the shift in tone and vagueness of it all, felt mildly concerned, but she knew neither woman would ever do anything to hurt her in any way so she trusted them. She picked Eliza up off the table and put her back on the floor, making her laugh again, then took her hand as the two followed Keagan. Eliza, as they exited The Hole through the swinging doors, glanced back at the Liam puppet sitting on her workdesk, and bit her lip. Her own secret, she figured, would pale in comparison to the one about to be unveiled.

"Why the radio offices?" Michelle asked.

"Bea never comes over there," Keagan said, "in fact only Steph does, and she's not here today, so. Just kinda want some privacy."

"Oooh, are we planning a surprise party for Bea?" Michelle asked, half joking.

"...you could say that," Eliza muttered under her breath.

***

Justine was sitting on her front porch now.

She had sobered up quite a bit, and was now watching the people of her neighborhood go about their day. She took a long breath in, then held it for a moment before expelling it. She was doing everything in her power not to get stinking drunk again at least until evening rolled around; after all, she did have a reputation around here to consider. She finally gave in and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, opting to light one up. She was doing her best not to smoke too much too - a habit she'd kicked after the crash - but right now she was so on edge and it seemed like the lesser of two evil vices, all things considered. As she clicked her lighter, a car pulled up and stopped in front of the house, and a woman stepped out before casually heading up to the front steps and stopping. Justine glanced up at her, she was an older woman, wearing a nice blouse and slacks, her hair well groomed.

"Hello," Justine said.

"I got your address from Liam's office," Bea said, "I hope it's okay that I come by here."

"Course," Justine said, blowing smoke out as Bea seated herself in the wicker chair beside her.

"Heard about your efforts with the book," Bea said, "the one that Casey left behind."

"Did ya now?" Justine asked, turning the cigarette between her fingers, admiring the light.

"I just...I wanted to come by and see if maybe you needed any help, or, perhaps, wanted a contributor," Bea said, "I guess I feel greatly responsible for what happened to her, and I...I just want to extend my efforts any way that I can to ensure she has a legacy of some kind."

"You feel responsible? That's weird, because I'm the one who killed her," Justine said, he cold, flat tone surprising Bea as she took a long drag and continued, crossing her legs, "she came by here, needing to talk, begging me to give her just a little bit of my time, and I didn't. I had people over. A social calling. I'm pretty sure she went and jumped immediately after that. She's dead because I had a party. You can't have joy in this life without giving sorrow to others."

"Well that just isn't true," Beatrice said, reaching out and putting her hand on Justine's knee, adding, "you had no way of knowing what state of mind she was in. You weren't her mother, her sister, or any familial kin."

"But I was her friend. Her creative partner. I have to be held to some level of accountability," Justine mumbled, her voice breaking, her eyes welling up with tears, "I had a moral obligation and I failed to uphold it, and as a result, she is dead. You of all people can't fucking sit here and tell me that people aren't supposed to help one another, it's what your entire goddamned brand is about! Being there for others! Listening! I didn't listen. And she's fucking dead."

Bea nodded slowly, taking it all in, as she pulled her hand away and sighed, easing herself back into the wicker. She looked around as the sky turned colder, and a soft, light rain began to drizzle down around them. Bea chewed her cheek and sucked air in through her teeth.

"People always say not to blame yourself, but sometimes, in order to process, to cope, to move on, that's exactly what one needs to do," Beatrice said softly, "there's no wrong way to work through things, and being told you're not to blame doesn't automatically make you feel less guilty. If anything, it just makes you feel even worse, cause, well, great, now you're not even grieving correctly, are you good at anything?"

Justine chuckled a little at this sentiment, which made Bea crack a smirk.

"I think," Bea said, continuing, "we need to work together, to make this happen. I...I really need to help you do this, if you'd be kind enough to let me. I think, maybe, together, we can kind of process it all, and create something great for her to leave behind."

"She already left something great behind. All I'm doing is polishing it," Justine said, and Bea smiled again, nodding. Justine truly believed in Casey and her work, and it was nice to see that, even if nobody else might, she would at least be remembered by one single person on this planet who clearly missed her very, very much. Justine took another long drag, then exhaled, tossing her bangs from her face before adding, "you can help if you want, but only my name goes on it with hers in the boilerplate."

"Understood and agreed upon," Bea said.

Justine didn't know it, but Bea had ulterior motives, though nothing sinister. She just felt like she had done the same thing to Casey that she had done to Claire, she had left her behind for the good of her work, and she hated that she'd made the same mistake twice. Now she was attempting to do whatever she could to rectify that to some degree. Justine invited Bea inside for some lunch, which she graciously accepted. Upon entering the kitchen, however, Bea noticed the enormous swath of alcohol bottles and containers, and quickly realized that the biggest demon Justine had wasn't her guilt, but was, in fact, her vice as a result of said guilt.

Bea had her work cut out for her.

***

Michelle, Eliza and Keagan stopped at the radio office, and Michelle couldn't help but notice the degree to which Keagan had ensured privacy within the studio. The curtains were drawn, shut tightly, and the door was locked. She stood behind a ways, arms folded, as she watched Keagan reach into her pocket for the keys. Eliza looked down at her shoes, catching Michelle's attention.

"What's wrong baby?" Michelle asked, and Eliza blushed a little.

"I just...I really hope you're okay after this," Eliza said quietly, making Michelle all the more nervous. She looked up again, hearing the jingling and spotting Keagan holding an enormous keyring full of keys.

"Are you a medieval dungeon master?" Michelle asked, making Keagan laugh.

"Quiet wench," she replied, causing Michelle to laugh in response.

The lock clicked, and Keagan put her hand on the knob, then stopped. She turned and looked toward Eliza and Michelle; Eliza and Keagan's eyes met, and they nodded as Keagan sighed deeply before shaking her head.

"I'm so sorry Michelle," she said softly, before opening the door, reaching in and flipping on the light. The room filled up with bright lights as Michelle entered and spotted a young woman, a little bit older than her, sitting at the editing bay. Eliza entered after Michelle, closing the door behind her so Keagan could secure it once again.

"You know this isn't Al Capone's vault, right?" Michelle asked.

"I do know, because unlike that, there's something in this room," Keagan said as the woman at the bay turned in the spinny chair to face them.

"This thing is complicated," she said, "there's so many buttons and knobs and, like, you'd think with things being so digital now that it'd be different, I guess? You've still got such an analog setup."

"Well, it's not just for editing," Keagan replied, shrugging, "it's also for taking the calls, stuff like that. Um, Michelle," she said, looking towards her now, "this is Claire, and Claire, this is Michelle."

"Hiya," Claire said brightly, clearly feeling more chipper today.

"Yes, hello," Michelle replied politely, smiling nervously, before asking, "is this, like, an intern, your assistant, I gotta be real with ya, Keagan, I'm at a loss here."

"No," Keagan said, "Claire...is Beatrice's daughter."

A long, heavy pause hit the room. The air was as still as air could possibly be perceived as being. Eliza and Keagan watched Michelle for any kind of reaction, but she remained stoic, cold, emotionless.

"...run that by me again," Michelle finally said.

"I'm Beatrice's daughter," Claire herself reiterated, "gods honest truth."

"...you know, I thought that, at this point, I wouldn't have to struggle to breath anymore, but you damn knocked the wind right out of me, I'll give you that," Michelle said, "uh...I...I need to..."

And with that she turned and faced the door to hide her tears.

"Did I do something wrong?" Claire asked.

"No, you didn't," Keagan remarked quietly, "Can't say the same for your mother, though."

***

Michelle was sitting in front of the TV, a big blanket wrapped around her, the lights in the room off. She was squeezing a stuffed dog to her chest, pretending it was Beatrice, as she watched a rerun of the show that day. The show hadn't had a new episode in months. She didn't understand why it wasn't coming back. Footsteps. Her mother entered the room, causing Michelle to look upwards at her as she stood in the doorway in her overalls, a paintbrush tucked behind her ear, her hands messy with material residue.

"Your father isn't coming home," she said sternly.

"Why not?" Michelle asked, "he's been gone so long."

"And he intends on keeping it that way. Says it's too difficult. You're too difficult. Everything encompassing your medical situation has him on edge, and scared, because he's weak. Can't be around it."

Michelle felt her pulse quicken. Her father was staying away because she was sick? That didn't seem right...he'd never really...though...she had heard them fighting about it, so maybe he had been upset about her illness...

"Can I see him?" she asked.

"He's not even in town, Michelle," her mother replied, "he probably won't be for a good while. Said he had to get away from all of this. But don't worry, I'm still here, and I'll take you to your appointments, help you manage your health, your breathing, okay? Just because he's a coward doesn't make you one."

"It's my fault though?"

"It's nobody's fault you're sick," her mother said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed now, "but it hasn't helped things. Your father and I have always been shaky, but this pushed it all out into the open and over the edge. So, yes, one could make the argument that had you been healthy, we could've kept pretending, gods honest truth."

Michelle nodded slowly, gently, squeezing her plush dog tighter. She looked back at the TV now as her mother readied to return to her work.

"Why aren't they showing new episodes?" she asked.

"Show ended, I believe," her mother said.

"So dad is gone, and the show is gone?" Michelle asked, fighting back tears now.

"Seems that way. I'll be back out in a bit to make us lunch, okay?" her mother said, before rushing back off to her paints. Michelle stared back at the screen, her face now wet with a deluge of tears, even though she made no audible noise to indicate their presence. Her father had left. The show had left. Her mother probably would too, if she were given the opportunity.

Why did everything she love leave her?