Previously on "The Mysteries of Our Lives": Summer of Seasonal Eruption
ø Ralph advised his sister to accept the root cause behind Samantha's death, and to stop pushing away everyone that cared for her. Hopeful, but not convinced he got through to Dana, Ralph made a distress call to his sister's best friend and boyfriend, Matthew Pryce. Meanwhile, a bereft and lost Dana arrived at the hospital chapel, where she came to realization that her guilt could not be absolved, and solace was the last thing she deserved. (~)
ø Although grateful to Vanessa Manthroll for helping get H&B Fashions off the ground, Michelle warned the model that if she pulled another stunt against her sister, she would be out of a job. Directly following the tense sit down, Vanessa found herself once again preaching the evils of Danielle Marquez to Lucien. Lucien, growing tired of defending his friendship with Danielle, pronounced to Vanessa that he was gay. Before adequately dealing with their feelings on the matter, a legal processor arrived and served Vanessa with unidentified papers. (~)
ø Andrew tried his best to convince Shanna that they could have a future, but in her heart, Ben would always be alive and that was reason enough for her why she could never love another man. Unbeknownst to Shanna, she further twisted the knife by suggesting that her relationship with his brother, Terrell, was a mere stop to her true love (Ben). Unable to strangle his former sister-in-law then and there, Andrew opted to trash the art studio he spent months building for her, instead. (~)
ø During a visit with Kavina Shah at the rehabilitation center, Rochelle started to re-enact emergent memories of the night Leonard Stone was murdered, convinced that events of that night weren't as they originally appeared. Kavina, however, became so rattled by Rochelle's persistent tale of blood and murder that Kavina's nurse ordered her to leave.
***"What is it?" Lucien inquires, standing a couple inches behind Vanessa Manthroll, who is still processing the legal jargon on the document that the processor just dropped off.
"It's a restraining order," she finally admits as she flips roughly through the document, moving a hand over her mouth to shield her outrage. "I am not allowed anywhere near Danielle."
"You're kidding?" He remembers talking with Danielle a few weeks ago about everything that went down at the fashion show, and although she was still disappointed with the end results, she seemed willing to move past it. Of course, that was before Vanessa stormed into the studio, accusing Danielle of trying to drag her name through the mud. But none of that seem to warrant Danielle seeking a protective order.
Vanessa, however, has no problem believing that her rival for Lucien's heart would do something so spiteful. In fact, she reads aloud the bolded print in the third paragraph of the document, hoping that will clear up any doubts for Lucien as well: "In light of recent evidence, we believe that you pose a potential threat to the plaintiff, and respectfully request that you exercise a 25-mile distance from Daniella Marquez at all times, unless deemed professionally necessary. This ruling is effective immediately and subject to contest."
"I don't understand." Lucien relays as he makes way in front of Vanessa, his back now turned to her. "Why would she do this?" He does not intend it, but the question comes across like an accusation, one that Vanessa is quick to get on the defensive about.
"Because she's a vindictive little twit, and wants to see my reputation expunged." The words flow naturally off the tip of her tongue as she peers over Lucien's shoulder, hopeful that he is finally beginning to see the blemishes in Danielle's character. Problem is, if she could actually see his face, her hopes would be utterly dashed. Before facing her once again, he considers his next words carefully.
"I realize you two have your differences, but that is not Danielle." He pauses, awaiting acknowledgement from Vanessa that doesn't come. He adds, "You would be behind bars if she were a different person. Instead, she's trying to put this whole misunderstanding behind her."
"Really Lucien?" The steam from her ears making its way through her eyes in the form of sharp daggers. "Did this display of compassion come before or after she went to the press?"
"You don't know that for sure."
"Who else could it have been, Lucien? This piece of ..." She takes a deep breath, but it does little to temper her rage. Her nose flaring, she waves the dreaded legal document in one last restraining effort. Feeling a little more grounded, she resumes her train of thought: "This restraining order is just her latest attempt at revenge. That woman will not be happy until she's destroyed our relationship. Why can't you see that?"
Realizing that outright denying Danielle's interest in him will only fuel the fire, he opts for the passive-aggressive approach. "Even if Danielle were interested in me romantically, there is no way I could return those feelings. Van, you need to accept that--"
"Have you?" The question penetrates through the tail end of his sentence. She just couldn't hear those words again. "Have you, Lucien, because I saw your face after you realized Michelle had overheard your confession."
"I thought you and I were having a private conversation. Of course I was mortified to learn Michelle had overheard part of it. She is my boss, for heaven sakes."
"And Danielle's sister. Let's not forget that."
"That is not what this is about." He begins to wonder if she is so foregone in her own fantasy world that she can not see why his acceptance had little to do with the shock of how Michelle came to learn his secret. "It's about keeping my professional and personal life separate."
"So it's okay that you're perpetuating this lie about who you really are in front of the cameras?"
"It's not a lie, Van. It's my job and frankly, what I do in my personal time is no one's business but my own. I only told you because I value you as a friend, and I didn't want this secret between us."
"But it is between us." She emotes with her hands, driving home the fact that they are the only two in the room. Pacing back, she considers keeping her back turn, but thinks better of it. He needs to see what she feels--the rift.
Vanessa adds, "And because of this secret, I'm supposed to fall out of love with you. I'm supposed to watch as Danielle Marquez plays victim and poisons your mind against me."
"I can't change your mind about Danielle's motives, but you know me." He shakes his head in between words, heightening the resolve in his voice. Reaching out and grabbing hold of her hand, he tries to get through to her: "I've never lied to you. So please hear me when I tell you that I'm not interested in Danielle. She's my colleague and a friend. That is all."
In a move that stuns and saddens him, Vanessa pulls away from his grip. The manner in which their hands unbind is so effortless that he wonders if her hand simply slipped. But the way her eyes dart up at him, the teasing of words on her lips that never come--it couldn't be more clearer than what happens next as she simply turns her head and walks away.
(<- HatcherKeller & Associates Investigations: Royce Keller's Office ->)
With sounds of laughter and sibling banter swimming through his ears, Royce Keller stands gazing out the window of his third story office. The sun is subdued, maximizing the effects of the nice cold front passing through the states. The locals have certainly taken advantage judging by the smell of freshly baked croissants and muffins that filter through the air and his office building. On Royce's desk, however, a now chilled cup of coffee sits untouched.
He really used to love this time of year--really, he did. Dressing in his winter coat and boots, the snowball fights, the food, skiing, and family and friends. Naturally, it started to lose its luster after his mother's death.
"This is her fault. I don't want them here dad." He could still feel that inner rage in his heart to this day as he denounced the presence of the Pryce family at their annual holiday get-together. It was less than a year after the death of his mother, and a mere month before he discovered his father's affair with his best friend's mother. No way could he sit there and pretend everything was alright.
The tradition would have gone downhill from there if it weren't for his sister, who loved it just as much as he did. Of course, it wasn't as grand without his mother or the extended Pryce family, but they got through it. After their father's passing, it went dormant for about three or four years. Samantha decided to revive it, inviting their extended network of friends--Jay, Robin, Anton, Kavina, and Rochelle--into the mix. With his sister now gone, it all seems rather pointless.
"Royce?" Rochelle Desmores calls out as she steps into her boss' office. When he directs his attention her way, it's almost as if he's looking through her, rather than at her. "Hey, you looked like you were miles away."
"I kinda was." He clears his throat in attempt to mask his dejection. Then, without further hesitation, he seats himself at his desk and presses on with business as usual. "So, what can I do for you?"
"Oh, I just wanted to brief with you over the Kitty Atlas case, but it can wait." She drops the folder to her side as she eases up to his desk, taking a seat at one of the chairs in front. "How are you?"
He really hated that question. With one hand place just above his eye, he answers, "I'm doing what I can to get by. This place certainly keeps me busy."
She sighs in agreement, "Tell me about it. Most days I'm lucky if I can even factor in enough time to sleep."
Folding his hands across his desk, "Well, if you need some time off--"
"No." She raises her left hand in protest, nearly climbing out of her seat in the process. "If I'm honest, the work actually provides a nice distraction."
He inches closer over his desk, sensing that she might need to unburden. "Anything you want to talk about?"
"I don't know. It's really complicated. I haven't quite made sense of it myself."
"Perhaps you just need someone to buffer off of."
She does think a sounding board might help. She's just not sure Royce is the best choice considering his close relationship with Kavina. Not to mention the impact the whole situation had on their relationship. Then again, that could work in her favor.
"It's about Kavina and the night of Leonard's murder." The very mention of Leonard's name and murder sends Royce falling back into his chair. Why, after all this time, would she be focusing on Leonard's murder?
(<- Leysdale Hospital ->)
**The role of Robin Keefer Elkasinogen is now being represented by Tava Smiley.
Dr. Erick Kerrigan's steps are mixed with panic breaths as he waltzes up to the main residency area in hot pursuit. Meanwhile, a pregnant Robin makes her way slowly through the hospital's main entrance just a few feet away.
"Hey, do you know what happened to the patient in 205? Junior Wilde?" He inquires, holding the patient's paperwork in his right hand, which shows no indication that he's been discharged. The female assistant on duty runs a quick check through the computer before replying.
"I believe Dr. Chandler took him down for more blood work."
"Dr. Chandler-- of course." He grits his teeth, dropping Mr. Wilde's paperwork on the firm structure before him. To make sure it doesn't blow away, he proceeds to kneed down the paperwork with his fist. In his concentrated efforts, he doesn't hear or see the woman approaching him from behind.
"I think I'll have a talk with that arrogant, self-righteous--" he sneers to himself before directing his attention to the owner of the hand inching around his shoulder. "Robin. What are you doing here?"
"With such a warm reception, I have to wonder myself."
Erik corrects himself and gives her a quick hug, mindful of the growing fetus between them. "I'm sorry. It's wonderful to see you. You just took me by surprise is all."
"It's okay. I'm just pulling your leg," she notes with a smile. "I know how busy it gets around here."
"Actually, it's been rather quiet lately. This place could use your presence."
Robin scans the neighboring area, and realizes that things do seem a little different. Most days, you couldn't find a seat in the hospital lounge and today, there seem not be nay soul around.
"Excuse me?" The female assistant standing behind Erik calls out. Both Erik and Robin's eyes are immediately drawn upon her. He had nearly forgotten she was there. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but could you stand guard here for a few minutes? I just need to run to the restroom."
"Sure," he waves it off. The woman cuts him a smile, along with a "thank you" before slipping down the hall. Erik maneuvers his way around the opening of the residency desk station, positioning himself where the blond assistant had been previously standing. Robin simply moves closer to where Erik was standing, leaving enough wiggle room between her expanding abdomen and the surrounding residency station.
Harking on the void in the hospital, Robin adds, "Delilah told me about her position in Washington."
"Yeah, she was--" he pauses, attempting to find the right word. "She was inquisitive, sometimes overly so, but she was good to have around." He tries to downplay it, but Robin can see that her absence affects him. "She took Samantha's death especially hard. She was on duty that night, you know?"
Robin skates the question, "It was an emotionally charged day. Jay and I just found out we were having a boy. Brock and Samantha started talking about having a child of their own. We even fantasized about how awesome it would be if both our kids grew up to become friends like the four of us." Her throat gets a little dry that she takes an extra moment before finishing her train of thought. "It just makes me angry sometimes when I think about it."
"I wish I got to know her as well as the rest you did. She sounded like a remarkable woman."
"Yeah, she was." A somber chill passes through the hospital as her eyes fall to the ground.
"So is everything all good on the baby front?"
Robin smiles, looking down at her pregnancy bump. She still couldn't believe that she was at this moment in her life--about to bring a new life into this world. "Yeah, my OBGYN has given us the clean bill of health."
"How much longer til you're due?"
"Oh," she clenches her jaw as she feels Jay Jr. momentarily brushing up against her ribs. "20 days and counting."
"Wow. Right in time for Thanksgiving." He states as his makes his way from behind the residency station, allowing the pretty blond assistant from earlier to return to her post.
"Yeah, our own little blessing to be thankful for. Although Jay and I are both stressing out about having everything ready and in place for when he's finally out."
He chuckles, "The first is always the most stressing."
"Oh, do you have--"
He immediately senses where her line of questioning is going, and turns a nervous shade of red. "Oh no. I actually have two nieces and a nephew thanks to my brother and sister."
"Wow. All this time, I assumed you were an only child. I guess because you never really talked about your family."
"We're not all that close. Their fault, not mine." He states with finality. Before Robin can even contemplate a clever way to probe deeper, he is grabbing hold of his paperwork from earlier and extending his parting remarks. "Anyhow, I better get back to my patients or the chief will have my head."
Robin offers an agreeable smile, "It was nice talking with you." Erik returns the sentiment, and then heads for the elevator. Robin watches as he boards the elevator, and starts to wonder if all Delilah's curiosity about Leysdale newest staff member wasn't just romantic intrigue. Erik Kerrigan does appear to be a man of mystery.
(<- Shanna's Art Studio ->)
"Thank you for coming with me this morning," relays Shanna as she and Jessica make their way up the path to her studio door. After her surprise run-in with Andrew Stokes last night, she was not sure she wanted to test the odds by arriving alone again, especially if he was still holding onto some mild delusion about them being a couple.
"No problem." Jessica adds in between a shiver, the unusually chilly autumn air nipping at her skin as they come to a stop in front of Shanna's studio door. She further elaborates, "I figured it would be a good time to finally see some of your work."
Turning her head back, Shanna's face warms as she jokingly acknowledges, "You always were an opportunist! Lucky for you, I don't mind sharing." She turns back to her studio door, grabbing her keys from the side pocket.
As she opens the door, she adds, "You know, there is this one painting..." Her sentence and the glow on her face are cut short by what the studio light brings into full focus once she flips the switch.
Jessica, too, gasps in horror upon seeing the destruction of her friend's studio in full view. She doesn't even realize Shanna has left her side until she hears, then witnesses, the speechless widow stepping over broken paint brushes, pencils, paint trays, canvases and other accessories.
Dozens of portraits of Shanna's husband--pieces that took months to complete and which she had plan to put on display--had been mangled, torn and/or defaced. Buckets of red paint stain the once beige walls in a fury. The sicker image comes as Shanna makes her way around the back of the studio. Leaning across the wall, she finds a near perfect piece of art salvaged, only there is a pair of strategically placed scissors jammed right through the canvas. Shanna wants to believe as her eyes start to swell that this is some random act of violence, but the position of the scissors--the fact that it's the only canvas that remains--feels deliberate.
Still standing in the doorway of Shanna's studio, Jessica moves across the way to access the land line phone, but nearly trips over some of the torn canvases in the process. It's all a little unnerving for the psychiatrist. What if she had not accompanied her friend this morning to the studio? What if Shanna ran into this vandal alone? The latter question nags at her even more when she discovers that the land line phone has been ripped from the walls. Tossing it aside, she opts to use her cell phone instead.
"I am calling the authorities." Jessica dials 911 into her phone, not sure that anything she has said has even registered with Shanna, who musters up a bit of strength to pull the pair of scissors jammed through the heart of her husband's chest. She knows the painting isn't real; that Ben does not feel the sharpe edge of the vandal's weapon of choice, but she can not leave it there--dropping the bloody thing to the ground. Jessica is so fixated on her friend that she almost doesn't catch the dispatcher's voice on the other end.
Redirecting her focus, if only half-heartedly, Jessica speaks, "Yes, I would like to report a break-in." The male dispatcher tracks her location via her mobile phone's GPS device. Once a location is pinpointed, the dispatcher verifies with Jessica that they have the correct address.
As if the scissors weren't a sick enough touch, Shanna notices that the painting has been further altered. The precise detail used to seal her husband's eyelids is both creepy and impressive. This vandal was no stranger to a paintbrush, even more evident by the carefully placed dashes of red paint from where the wound would have likely bled out.
Unable to take the sight of her husband's mutilated image any longer, she turns away, her eyes meeting with Jessica's across the room. From what she can discern, her friend is still communicating with the emergency dispatcher. She would move closer to find out, but she's too preoccupied by the destruction that surrounds her.
"Why would someone do this?" The question pops into her head, followed with, "If this was a random act, why go through such trouble to destroy every painting of my husband?" It all seem too surreal to the widow.
"Thank you. We will be waiting outside." Jessica concludes before putting away her cell phone. She walks up to her friend, who is knelt down, shuffling through the remains of her paintings. Her heart breaks watching Shanna aimlessly shuffle through this mess, probably for some type of answer. Yet the only thing she can really do is try to get her away from all of it.
"Hey, how about we head outside? The authorities should be here soon."
The suggestion obviously falls flat as Shanna makes no sudden movement, nor indication that she's even consciously aware of Jessica's presence at this point. Even in it's current state, she couldn't forget what a refuge this place was to her after Ben's disappearance and especially, in the aftermath of his death. His body may be buried in the local cemetery, but she felt a large part of him with her everyday in this studio. It was almost like coming home, in more ways than one.
"Shanna?" She calls out as she delicately touches her shoulder.
Hanging on to what remains of her favorite piece from the collection, Shanna regrets that she had not brought it home sooner. It was one of the few where she felt she had truly captured her husband. The original landscape showed him leaning over the hood of a car, his body and clothes covered in dirt and oil. But what she liked most about it was the way his head was position toward the viewer, and that when she smile, it was almost like he was smiling back at her.
"It's ruins," she chokes away the tears that threaten to fall. The sheer range of emotions that it conjurs up in her is enough to send this cold feeling rushing through her face as she tosses aside the severed painting. Spreading her hands out, she vents, "I mean, look around. There's nothing left, nothing left!" The tears begin to stream down her cheek as Jessica quietly moves to both knees, consoling her friend as she pulls Shanna into her arms.
"I'm not quite sure I follow." Royce says with a raised brow.
Rochelle, with her head slightly tilted, slowly confirms his suspicions: "Like I said, it's complicated. I tried to get some answers from Kavina, but she only clammed up and tried to make it look like I was the crazy one." Cocking her head, it dawns on the legal aide as she watches Royce pull his hand back from his coffee mug. "But Kavina trusted you more than anyone. Did she tell you what went down that night?"
Royce diverts his eyes for a quick second or two, but that's all it takes for him to spy the 4x6 picture frame of his sister smiling back at him. "Honestly, it was so long ago that I barely remember any of it." He hastens to add, "We know the important parts: Leonard forced himself on Kavina, and she shot him in self-defense."
"But she brought a gun to his hotel room. She tried to cover up the crime." Rochelle could hear her voice elevate as she repeats the afforementioned facts. "I mean, what was she thinking?"
"She was trying to be your friend." He defends, "I don't have to remind you of the emotional rollercoaster that Leonard Stone inflicted on you."
"I know. He was an ass." Royce couldn't have said it better himself. It was shameful how many times that man came crawling back for her forgiveness after he inevitably lost control of his zipper.
"So why dredge all this up?"
"It's not as simple as that," choosing her next words carefully, "It's like I'm looking at the events of that night through a whole new set of eyes. Something about Kavina's story doesn't add up."
Royce raises his right hand to his temple, but drops it when the sharp pang subsides. "Leonard's murder happened over a year ago, so perhaps your mind is just confusing the details of that night." He rationalizes, much like Kavina did the day Rochelle went to see her.
"Confusion is one thing, but I remember the shock; the fear of seeing my hands covered in Leonard's blood." Royce's eyes are unflinching until she further adds, "I remember hearing a gunshot."
He gulps down the lump that forms in his throat, "What exactly are you getting at?"
"I think I was there, Royce, before the murder." She senses a change in the room the moment those words escape her lips. Royce spins his chair about 90 degrees counter clockwise, leaving his body and chair nearly parallel to the desk. Rochelle moves in closer as Royce's outstretched hand lands on the desk,, "I know it sounds weird, but it's the only plausible explanation. I'm just not quite sure what it all means yet."
Royce balls his hand into a fist as it continues to press into his desk. He takes a steady breath to temper his climbing blood pressure, then arches his body forward while unbinding his fist in the process. "What could it mean? We all know what happened to Leonard. He was shot and killed after he tried to rape Kavina." Rochelle swears that he's repeated that last line at least three times now. "The man was not worth your time when he was alive, and he certainly should not be occupying it now that he's dead. Kavina's life has already been ruined because of him, so do yourself a favor and forget what did or did not happen that night."
"That's the problem." Enclosing her hands in a circle, "There is this hole where memories should be. Now, Leonard may not have been the most faithful of boyfriends, but in my heart, I know that he cared. My gut is telling me not to let this go."
"I can't argue with your gut," and he really wants to, "but I think for some reason you're trying to find some redeeming value behind Leonard's death, and I don't think there is any."
"We all have our flaws Royce, some more than others. Leonard was a human being. His death was not some sort of justice, just ask his brother."
"You're right. The death of a loved one is never easy." His eyes once again draw on the photo of Samantha on his desk. Rochelle spies the star dazed look in his eye, and instantly feels a twinge of guilt in the pit of her stomach. From where she was sitting, she couldn't make out who was in the picture frame, but the stillness that passes through the office tells her more than enough.
(<- Everglades Pines Resort: Brock and Samantha's Apartment ->)
After lying awake in his bedroom for nearly an hour, Brock Lombard finally saunters out of bed and into the livingroom, where he comes face to face with the source of that obnoxious shrill that's been vibrating against his eardrum for the last 20 minutes. In rhythmic fashion, his brother placed a thin stack of junk mail into the paper shredder, watching as it was grinded down. The shredder would mute for a few seconds before Ralph begin loading more junk mail. Brock clears his throat in a vain attempt to redirect his brother's focus.
"Hey, good morning." Ralph says with the broadest smile, setting aside the junk mail currently in front of him.
"Yeah." As he takes a seat, Brock notices that the mountain of mail previously monopolizing his coffee table has been drastically reduced. "I can see that you're off to a really early start."
"Actually, you can thank our sister for this. She did all the manual sorting. I'm just taking care of your junk mail portion."
"Well, I appreciate it. I just haven't been able to do it myself."
"No problem. You know Dana and I are happy to help anyway we can."
"Where is our sister?" He inquires with genuine concern. For weeks, he couldn't even go to the bathroom without feeling like there was this shadow lurking over him. Now his sister was suddenly M.I.A.
"She just went out for some fresh air. I think she realized she's been overcrowding you just a bit." The last thing Ralph wants to do, however, is bring up the fact that there sister seems resign to blaming herself for everything that led to his wife's death. Brock has only just gotten a grip on the whole thing.
He chuckles to himself, picking up the stack of letters on the coffee table. "Yeah, maybe just a little." He scans through the pile of letters, one from Leigha Gray popping out at him. He can't imagine what the woman who almost destroyed his marriage had to say to him. They were hardly friends, or amicable to one another, especially after she so cruelly hurt his brother in the process.
"What is it?" Ralph inquires, noticing that his brother has been staring at something for quite a while.
"It's a letter from Leigh. Did you know this was here?"
Ralph shakes his head no. He can't even remember the last time he and Leigh have seen each other. He heard through the grapevine that she was dating Anton's cousin, and he's read some of her coverage on the Hallandale Weston shooting and Seth Stapleton's conviction trial.
"Do you want me to put it with the junk?"
The thought does cross his mind, but for some reason, he can't bring himself to commit to, "No. I think I should see what it has to say first." Brock is about to open the letter when a strange and eerie sound summons their attention from nearby.
"Sorry, that's me." Ralph says in a slight panic as he moves from the couch and over to the back of his brother's front door, where his jacket currently hangs. Digging into one of the corner pockets, he pries out his cell phone on what is arguably the fourth or fifth ring. "Detective Lombard," he answers, realizing it's police headquarters.
The room is quiet for a few minutes as the caller fills Ralph in on the situation. Brock drops the stack of letters back on the coffee table and slips into the kitchen while his brother finishes with his call. Ralph doesn't even realize that his brother's gone until he turns his head back to grab a pencil and paper to copy down the location of the incident.
"I got it." He glances at his watch, and informs the dispatcher that he should be there within 15 minutes. He thanks her for the information before disconnecting the call. With a weighted sigh, he moves to grab his gun, shoulder holster and badge from the mantle, setting his phone and the scribbled note down temporarily. When Brock returns from the adjoining kitchen, he finds Ralph placing the gun into the pouch of his shoulder holster.
"Police business?" Brock infers, although the answer is already clearly written over his brother's face.
"Yeah. It looks like some vandal broke into Shanna Hemmings' art studio sometime between last night and this morning."
"Is she alright?"
"From what I gathered, she and Jessica Chappell discovered the scene just a few minutes ago. With the lieutenant away, I'm the next in command."
"Well, if you need to go, then go. I'll be fine." He strains a smile, only half-believing the statement himself.
Ralph doesn't like it, but he's told Dana time and time again that they can't crowd their brother. Grabbing hold of his phone and the note, he begins making small steps toward the door. "Okay. I guess I will see you later then."
"I'll be here." Brock reassures as his brother's eyes remain affixed in his direction. Ralph catches himself about a minute after the fact, and proceeds to grab his jacket. While sliding into the arms of his jacket, he makes his way over to his brother. Placing one firm hand behind his brother's head, Ralph strongly urges: "Do not hesitate to call if you need anything. I love you."
"I love you, too." Brock feels a tear stream down the left side of his cheek as he and his brother exchange a quick embrace. When they part, Ralph quickly vacates from the apartment, the door shutting lightly behind him. With nothing left but the mail on his coffee table to keep him company, Brock drops down on the couch and contemplates what he should do next.
(<- Leysdale Hospital: St. Christopher's Chapel ->)
With light, gradual steps, the youngest of the Lombard family clan makes her way down the church aisle, suffering through her tear-stained view of the glass panels of St. Christopher and the Virgin Mary. Being in the presence of such holiness--strength--light-- it should restore her eternal faith and optimism. It should wipe away her tears. Instead, it all feels foreign to her, much like the hours leading up to Samantha's death.
She knows her brother is right. It is counterproductive to think about the What if's?, but sound reasoning does not abate the nagging question: "Why didn't I see it sooner?"
Her head screams at her to accept that it was an emotional time; the readings were bound to get misconstrued because there was so much on-going confliction at the time. But there's this other voice that reminds her that she and Matthew both deciphered the meanings behind the warnings, yet they did nothing to save Samantha's life.
"No, Dana. You resigned yourself to the fact that it was going to happen." And she knows it. She wasted so much time trying to figure out how to tell her brother what she feared was coming instead of looking for some sort of loophole. This was her family--her brother's wife! Why didn't she fight harder? Maybe Brock was right, after all.
With her sister-in-law dead, there would be irrefutable proof that the cards could predict the future. That the cards don't lie. She could finally prove all those naysayers wrong.
"No," she screams aloud at the twisted devil in her head. She would never sacrifice her brother's wife at the altar of her tarot cards. It just wasn't who she was... was it? Dana turns back toward the altar as her cell phone--snuggled in her purse--begins to vibrate in the distant. She can feel the eyes of St. Christopher watching her; if only he could give her the answers that she and her brother so desperately needed. As her eyes switch over to the Virgin Mary, she remembers the text message she received on her way over here.
The message opens with one simple, yet inquisitive word, "Why?" It was also a word that she was painfully familiar with. The text warned that when something unexpected occurs, we often trudge along asking ourselves "why" in some attempt to understand the senselessness of it all, and that consequently, we're so caught up trying to find that answer that we end up far lost than we ever were. Dana can't help but think as she stands at the altar how a simple text can sum up the last couple of weeks in a just a few small sentences.
Although she has no assurances that prayer will even work at this point, she gets down on both knees as the door to the church creaks opens, unbeknownst to her. She has to believe that he has an answer for her. It may not be the one that she wants to hear, but it had to be better than those going through her head.
"I know," she stresses while looking up at the eyes of St. Christopher. "I have already vented enough today. I don't want to do that again, but I need to understand why she's gone. Why with a gift you entrusted me with, I couldn't save her."
"Dana?" Robin calls out to the woman kneeling down just a few feet away from her. She's not even certain that it is Dana until their eyes are staring back at one another. Dana, equally surprised, springs to her feet.
"Robin. I didn't hear you come in."
Robin is not sure how to take that statement. She certainly wasn't trying to eavesdrop on Dana's private confession, and even if she hadn't heard bits and pieces of what was said, it was apparent that something was wrong. As a friend of the family, she feels compel to ask, "Are you alright?"
Dana tries to laugh it off, but realizes how futile the attempt is when she catches the unyielding concern on Robin's face. "Honestly, I don't know how to begin to answer that question." She circles her way around Robin, but she doesn't get too far, stopping between the second and third pew.
She refuses, however, to turn back and look Robin in the eye. "I mean, what am I doing? My brother's wife is dead and I'm here?!" Her voice begins to crack, but she hastens to add, "Here making it all about me."
Robin tries to move forward, but a slight twinge in her abdomen forces her to rethink that choice. Taking a slow breath, she places a comforting hand on her abdomen, hoping her son will take it as a cue to calm down a bit in there.
"I seriously doubt that," states Robin with conviction. "Even so, Samantha was your sister-in-law. She was part of your family. Of course it's about you."
"You know..." Dana starts as she takes a seat on the pew in the second row, "It was really great having another woman in the family. I mean, I love my brothers," she gestures by placing her hand over hear heart. "But it's different to have an actual sister, you know."
"I think I have an idea," concurs Robin as she takes a seat in the pew directly in front of Dana. The expectant mother, however, positions her body so that her legs are out facing the aisle. With her head arched toward Dana, she adds, "Samantha was just that special of person."
"And that's just it: how can someone like that be gone?"
Robin sighs as the question falls at her feet. She knows and recognizes the contortion in Dana's face. It was a plaguing question, one that she doubt they would ever fully understand. With regret, she simply responds, "I don't know. I think you just -- you try to hold onto whatever part of them you can find. Like this hospital. Or photos and mementos."
"But doesn't it just make you question it all the more?"
"Of course. But if you focus hard enough, and you're able to shut off that nagging part of your brain long enough, you'll actually just feel and see what it is you're holding onto."
The words sound so simple as Dana listens to them replay in her head. She saw the sparkle in Robin's eyes as she relayed the words, it wasn't BS for her. She would also wager by the way Robin's hands sort of navigate around her abdomen that the very thing she's holding onto is the new life growing inside her. And if that's the secret, then the only question that remains is what is it that she's supposed to hold onto?
***Tracking in a cold gust of wind on her way inside the studio, Danielle Marquez rubs her hands together, cracking away at the invisible layers of ice that must have formed as a result of the autumn chill. As the front door shuts itself behind her, Danielle directs her eyes to the familiar sound of a high-powered camera going off. Slipping out of her jacket, which she hangs on the coat rack, she begins walking toward the main studio shoot area. To her immediate right, she finds her sister pacing a couple feet behind the fidgety, indecisive cameraman. Stephen was probably one of their best photographers, so if he was having difficulty performing this shoot, it was likely down the model.
When Danielle turns her head to her left, she is surprise to find Lucien at the end of Stephen's camera. No matter the shoot, she always knew him to deliver 110%. However, watching him perform today, she could tell there was something off in the way he smiles--the half-hearted manner in which he steps forward and winks toward the camera. Stephen diverts his eyes from the lens, and gestures for Lucien to move back and try something else. Lucien walks back, scolding himself as he takes a deep breath. For his third take, he starts off by tucking his hands in the pocket of the designer jeans, and standing at an angle that gives prominence to the label. He proceeds then to exercise the muscles in his neck by arching his head upward, then back down as he shifts his body in line with the camera's eye.
Stephen rejoices, "Good, Good. We're getting somewhere." Michelle's pacing comes to a stop as she watches Lucien's confidence return full speed with a number of hand gestures and carefully executed movements across the studio floor.
Danielle's face brightens in appreciation; she's also relieved for Lucien and Stephen that he was able to tap back into his inner magic. She wonders what prevented him from using it beforehand. Despite passing Vanessa's car on her way inside, she notes that her favorite arch rival is surprisingly nowhere to be found.
"Then again, that woman has a penchant for popping out of nowhere," she thought to herself. Danielle is about to announce her arrival to her sister when she feels, then hears her cell phone vibrating against her waist. Slipping the phone out of it's protective case, she recognizes the caller's name immediately. This was a call she needed to take in private, so she backtracks her steps toward the studio entrance. Meanwhile, Stephen's camera lens continues to devour Lucien with no qualms, capturing his broad shoulders, peaked triceps, and heighten charisma. Lucien can actually feel the beat of the music now. Vanessa may have been right in that he has to take on a persona in front of the cameras, but it's not about deception. It's about being in the moment, and selling the product. He's not selling himself, although he was sure his adoring fans would enjoy the way he teases the camera as he pries his shirt upward, affixing his gaze somewhere between the lens, his abdominal wall and the front of his jeans.
"Excellent, and cut." Stephen announces, relieving his hands of his camera as he sets it down on the tripod stand.
While powering off his camera, Michelle passes him a bottle of water, "Here, I think you deserve this."
"Thank you," he takes a sip of the Dasani before adding, "What's going on with Lucien?"
"I'm not entirely sure," she responds, breaking eye contact with him. Stephen follows her gaze to an oncoming Lucien, who feels compel to apologize for his lack of focus on today's shoot.
"Hey Stephen." Lucien starts, extending his hand out to shake the photographer's. Stephen accepts the overture and greets him back with simply, "Hi Lucien."
Sensing Michelle's analytical eyes on him as he faces Stephen causes Lucien's breaths to tighten, making it all the more difficult to get out what he wants to say. "I want to--well, this photo shoot--completely disastrous--thank you for hanging in there with me. I know I was all over the place."
Picking up on his nervous guilt, Stephen absolves him: "It's alright. I think we managed to salvage today's shoot."
"Good. Again, I'm really sorry."
Stephen lightly smiles at him before Michelle addresses him, her eyes squarely on Lucien. "Stephen, would you mind terribly giving me and Lucien a second alone?" The minute the question leaves her mouth, Lucien feels his body tense up.
"Not at all." Stephen grabs his tripod and camera, and heads toward the photo room. Michelle takes a tentative step toward Lucien, her hands folded just below her waist.
"I feel slightly awkward bringing this up because it was a private conversation between you and Vanessa, but I don't want it to become this invisible wall between us every time we're in the same room together. Your personal life is your business; as long as it doesn't interfere with your job, you'll have no problems from me."
"I appreciate that, and I want you to know that it won't. Granted, I was a bit distracted today, but I will do my damndest to make sure it doesn't happen again."
"I hope so, but to be honest, everyone here knows that Vanessa is carrying a serious torch for you. I don't think it's going to go away overnight."
"I don't know what I can do, Michelle. I can't program myself to feel a certain way, and I thought Vanessa understood that. But now she has all these conspiracy theories about your sister, and her feelings for me, and-- it's just out of control."
"Maybe a little distance will do you two some good? I mean, you see one another practically everyday."
Shaking his head, "I don't know. I just feel like any slight change will just make things worse. Did you know that your sister served her with a restraining order today?"
"What?"
"A protective order, which stipulates that outside of work-related situations, Vanessa is not allowed within a 25-mile radius of Danielle." Repeating it in his own words, Lucien could not help but recognize why Vanessa got so angry. It makes her sound like a common criminal.
"Well, I knew she was feeling a little unnerved after the whole drugging incident, but a restraining order?"
"It doesn't make sense to me, either. And Vanessa was none to please to be served."
"I can imagine. Has Danielle been in yet?"
"I haven't seen her. Hopefully, Vanessa won't have to either." As Lucien eyes burn a hole into the wall that happens to catch his gaze, Michelle takes a calming breath within, wondering if allowing her sister and Vanessa to work together in light of this new development was not asking for disaster.
Danielle, meanwhile, wraps up her phone call with Joy: "Thanks for the heads up, and for getting this done for me. You too. Bye!" She hangs up her cell phone, taking a moment to reflect on her decision.
"You bitch!" The fierce, biting words bellow from the lips of none other than Vanessa Manthroll. Only, Danielle doesn't receive 100% confirmation until she turns around and find her nemesis glaring bullets at her, the ill-conceived protective order outstretched in her hand. Apparently, Vanessa had reserved the label strictly for her, and Danielle couldn't be more annoyed, yet vindicated by the sad scene she knew was about to take place.
(<- HatcherKeller & Associates Investigations: Royce's Office ->)
The subject of Leonard's murder leading them nowhere, but down a very unpleasant path, Rochelle decided to focus on what brought her to Royce's office this morning in the first place: the home invasion case for Kitty Atlas, which she explains is now a civil suit for the assailant and his mother.
"According to Atlas, she discovered the assailant in her home when she awoke to the sound of something crashing against her kitchen floor. When she arrived in the kitchen, he was in the process of setting off a stink bomb. She pulled out a revolver previously tucked in her bedroom dresser and advised him to stand where he was."
Royce listens, "How did she end up shooting this Messing kid?"
"She got spooked, most likely by Messing's accomplices. While her attention was diverted, Messing lunged in her direction. She freaked, and pull the trigger."
"And the state has brought no charges up against Gerry Messing for home invasion?"
"Here's the kicker: Kitty Atlas opted not to press charges."
He scoffs in disgust, "And in appreciation for her kindness, Messing decides to slap her with a civil suit. There is not a jury in this world that would blame Atlas for what happened."
"You'd be surprised. I'm sure the opposing counsel will argue that Messing made no direct attack on Atlas. He/she will probably use the fact that she opted not to press charges against her."
"Unbelievable. What type of scum would take this case to begin with?"
"Supposedly, it's some big shot, which is unfortunate. This woman's sense of security was violated, and now she's the one about to be put on trial?" It was times like this where Rochelle felt her passion for the law really mattered. Kitty Atlas could have easily been her, or someone close to her. No way was she going to allow the Messing family the opportunity to profit from this incident.
"This case is going to garner a lot of media attention. Are you confident we can win?"
"I'm confident. Gerry's paralysis is unfortunate, but Kitty Atlas is the victim. The firearm in her home was legally registered, and she was well in her rights to have it in her possession that night." Rochelle states matter-of-factly. The sound of a woman cursing and something plopping to the ground directs their attention to hallway, where Evelin Vasquez is picking up some case files that fell out of her briefcase.
Rochelle moves from her seat to assist, offering Evelin a friendly smile in the process, "Need some help?" Before Evelin can even answer, Rochelle is already scooping up a seat of case files on her end as Evelin shuffles the rest together.
"Thanks, I'm a bit clumsy this morning." She remarks as the phone in Royce's office starts to ring. He picks it up on the second ring. "HatcherKeller & Associates, Royce Keller speaking."
Rochelle waves off Evelin's gratitude, "No problem. It's good to see your face around here again."
"Yeah, I know. I haven't been much of a team player lately." Evelin makes sure the lock on her briefcase is secure this time, and then quickly pats down her business suit.
"It's understandable. The health scare with Earl, and then everything that went down afterward." They both know what she's alluding to as their eyes cast a wayward glance toward Royce's office. For Evelin, however, it just felt like the tip of the iceberg. "If you need any help getting caught up, I am more than--"
"Thanks, I appreciate that. Although it looks like you've done more than enough in my absence. Anyway, I actually have a meeting in the conference room, so catch up with you later?"
Rochelle can see that Evelin's feet are already two steps ahead of her. So she simply smiles, "Sure," and watches as Evelin takes off for the conference room. She steps back into Royce's office as he is hanging up the phone.
Concern, Royce asks, "Is everything alright with Evelin?'
Although she has her own doubts, Rochelle downplays it to the best of her ability. "Yeah, just your run of the mill, back-to-work nerves."
(<- Everglades Pines Resort: Brock and Samantha's Apartment ->)
With an hour already gone since his brother left the apartment, Brock Lombard spent most of it confined to his livingroom. Feeling adventurous, he had decided to tackle some of the accumulating mail from his and Samantha's joint credit accounts, which turned into having to explain to six or seven different representatives why his wife would no longer be an authorized contact. He didn't realize they would need to see physical proof of his wife's demise. Finding that death certificate crumpled in a dresser drawer under several Grief and Dying pamphlets from the hospital literally transported him back to that day, where he was a ball of tears and denial. He just couldn't believe that mere moments after being surrounded by family and friends, his wife was just gone. It was hard for him, breaking from that memory, and moreso, forging ahead with business as usual. Unfortunately, he knew it had to be done. The next couple of calls were easier in the sense that he knew what to expect, but with every subsequent one, he felt like the facade he was trying to hold onto was faltering away. After his sixth call, he ended up in a locked bathroom, where he cried for nearly ten minutes straight.
When he was done, he grabbed a wet cloth and wiped away the tear stains from his face. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he tries to convince himself that he can do it. That he can go back out there in his livingroom, and keep it together. Still, as he wraps his hand around the bathroom doorknob, he's now sure how. It's not like he needed a death certificate to think about his wife, she was all over this place. When he opens the door, and passes over the threshold, he finds himself standing in the hallway that connects directly to the living room and their bedroom. As he moves closer to the living room, he hears it. Her voice.
"...If this an emergency, you can always try me at the hospital, or my husband--Brock, where can they reach you--" There is a decisive pause before Samantha's voice returns to the speaker, "okay, just leave us a message after the beep." The answering machine beeps, and a woman's voice comes on that Brock does not recognize. He's not even paying close attention to what she's saying. He's too focused on the fact that for a split second, when he walked back into his living room, he expected to see his wife standing there. Shielding his eyes shut for about 30 seconds, he notes that even on a device as impersonal as a voice messaging machine, his wife exudes warmth and consideration. It was just another thing he missed about her. He had plenty of photos and video footage, but none of it would ever pale to the real-life person.
(<- Outside of Shanna's Art Studio ->)
After surveying the wreckage inside, Detective Ralph Lombard exits the vandalized studio, sending the officer who was previously waiting with Shanna and Jessica inside to assist the other men with collecting evidence. Jessica continues to stand closely to Shanna, her left hand positioned a few inches from Shanna's back in a way that almost appears as if she's supporting her friend upright. Ralph retrieves his notepad from the pocket of his jacket before addressing Shanna.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hemmings. I know this is difficult, but if you could tell us anything about your last visit to the studio prior to break-in that might help us track down the person or persons responsible."
"Um," she shakes her head trying to gather her thoughts. "I left the studio late last night around 9 or 10, I think." She feels the vein in her forehead tense against the fingers in her hand, which she waves off for emphasis, "I really can't be sure. I had a run-in with Andrew Stokes--he built this studio. We talked for a good while before I left."
"Was this run-in a pleasant one?"
"It's hard to describe. It was personal." Shanna's body squirms just at the thought of her encounter with Andrew last night. Furthermore, she readjusts the collar of her shirt even though it's perfectly fine. It's rather inconspicuous to the untrained eye, but it tells Ralph that perhaps Shanna and Andrew were closer than she was willing to let on. While he opts to avoid that line of questioning, he jots down the observation, nonetheless.
"Who was the last to leave: you or Mr. Stokes?"
Before Shanna can answer his question, an officer calls out to him, "Lombard, check this out." Ralph excuses himself, following the tall, african american officer over to the front door of Shanna's studio. "The hinges and latch of the door are completely intact. So odds are our perp had a key, or the door was already unlocked."
If the latter, that presented a whole new set of possibilities. Ralph nods his head affirmatively, turning back to Shanna. "Who all had access to your studio, Mrs. Hemmings?"
"I'm the only one with a key, and I can assure you that I didn't vandalize my own studio."
"No one is suggesting that. We are just trying to cover all our bases." Ralph refers to his notes for the name, "How about this Andrew Stokes: did he own a key at any time?"
"Yes, but it was given to me once renovations were completed on the studio."
"So you have the second key in your possession, then?"
"No. I figured I should keep the spare nearby in the event that I lost my key." She explains as she navigates over to the welcome mat in front of her studio door. She pulls back a concrete slab that must have come undone after years of wear to reveal the second key. "See, it's right here."
Jessica begins to wonder aloud, "Why would some random stranger go through all the trouble of breaking in here?" After all, this was a private art studio in the middle of nowhere. What were they looking for? And if the door was indeed locked, how could they have known there would be a spare key under the welcome mat.
Ralph could see that Jessica was leaning toward the same conclusion he was. "Was there anything of value lying around that the perp could have been after?"
Shanna tries to think of something of significance--anything--but draws a blank. "I don't know. It's an art studio! Mostly all I have here are art supplies."
"Well, it looks like the perp stuck to the common area. We found no sign of gang-related memorabilia or markers. My gut tells me this was personal. Can you think of anyone who might harbor a grudge against you, Mrs. Hemmings?"
"No. I don't have any enemies, detective."
"Maybe it's not you. What about your husband?"
In hindsight, Ralph realizes that he should have known that would be a far worse alternative to pose to the widow. Turning her lip, she simply states, "My husband is dead," although the words are anything but simple. "What possible outcome could someone expect from this?"
"People are sick, honey." Jessica rationalizes as she drapes her arms around Shanna. "If they resent someone strong enough, that hatred could latch onto those closest to him or her." The psychology of it all makes sense to the doctor because she witnessed it first hand with her ex- husband. "They probably figure they can hurt Ben through you."
"Come on, Jess." She breaks from her friend's embrace, looking her squarely in the eye. "Ben was the nicest, gentlest soul. He didn't have enemies."
"Well, don't make up your mind just yet," advises Ralph. "Sit on it for a few days. Meanwhile, my men will try to get a composite on the prints lifted from the studio."
"Okay." Not that she has much of a choice.
Ralph gives Shanna a friendly nudge before moving inside the studio to survey things for himself. Jessica takes a deep breath as she circles around Shanna. "You ready to go?"
Shanna turns back to see the yellow crime scene tape now adorned across the archway of her studio door. The fact that this crime could have been personally motivated by a grudge against her or Ben sends a shiver down her spine. She can not imagine who either of them could have upset so much to warrant such irrational violence. The timing also bothers her.
"Shanna?"
The widow redirects her eyes in Jessica's direction, managing to communicate with them what her lips fail to say.
Jessica confirms once more, "Should we leave now?"
"Yeah. Let's get out of here."
***After spending the last hour and half transcribing her client's phone deposition, Evelin Vasquez moseys on into the lounge, craving something sweet to zap some motivation into her. Her mind lingers between the snickers bar or a honey bun, but ultimately opts for the former. Confirming her selection, she waits for the snickers bar to drop down into the pick-up hatch, only it doesn't.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," she remarks at the sight of her snickers bar hanging from the mini door that secures the remaining snickers. Refusing to pay for a second one, she begins hitting her fist against the front of the vending machine. After about 30 seconds, her hand starts to regret that choice. Unfortunately, it doesn't negate the fact that her snickers bar is still stuck. "Ugh!" She screams, slapping her hand against the side of the vending machine before bumping right smack into Royce on her way out. "Royce, hi!" She cringes on the inside at her obvious nervous squeal.
He doesn't say anything at first, directing his eyes and feet over to the vending machine. "Is this thing acting up again?" Turning his fist at an angle, he fires one expert jab at the machine. He then squats down and removes her snicker bar from the hatch, handing it to her in his next breath.
"How did you do that?" Evelin asks as she accepts the snickers bar.
Royce chuckles, "Oh, this machine and I have had our battles. I thought you were working on a deposition for the Van Zwol' case?"
"I was, but the man talks about 100 words per minute, which is nothing ordinarily, but--"
"You're not all here," he recognizes. "It's been a trying year."
Hearing Royce agree with her makes her small little issue with Earl Pryce relocating a few miles away sound like a walk in the park. At the end of the day, she could still call him and/or her brother. They weren't dead.
"How do you do it? How are you here right now dealing with all of this?"
He wasn't sure he knew the answer to that question himself, but he tried to answer, nonetheless. "Strength, arrogance," he lightly chuckles. "My sister wouldn't want me to lose myself in this constant state of lament. Sure, it's going to nag me until the day I die that I wasn't there for her in her final moments, but if I've learned anything, harping over the past does not change it." He sighs deeply, pacing around her. He stops a few feet from her, tucking his hand into his pocket as he turns at an angle, offering ocassional eye contact. "Earlier this morning, I was thinking about her--my sister. Thanksgiving is right around the corner; she really loved this time of year--getting everyone together."
"I remember," concurs Evelin, wrapping the snickers bar into the palm of her hand before folding both of her hands in front of her. Blushing, she adds, "I think she tried to set us up one with year at her big holiday dinner."
"Yeah, my sister was not afraid to play with matters of the heart, which put me in a lot of awkward positions. Non-sexual, unfortunately." He winks, invoking a chuckle from her. "Although I don't remember her persisting with me and you for too long. I guess she realized what we both knew--that your heart belonged to someone else."
Lifting her head up, she can feel her heart go pitter patter even now as she think of his face. "Even after all these years, it still does."
"Well, we men can be daft sometimes, perhaps telling him will put things into perspective."
She shakes her obstinately, "No, I can't." Pacing sporadically across one spot in the lounge, she realizes just how insignificant her feelings as she comes to stop. "It doesn't matter, anyway. He'll be gone tomorrow."
"What do you mean?" Evelin's statement catching him noticeably off guard. In vain, she moves to cover her mouth, but the words are already out there.
With the proverbial cat out of the bag, she sees no other choice, but to tell Royce the truth. "Earl is leaving Hallandale--for good." Although the words sound coherent enough to him, Royce still has a little difficulty processing them. He's not sure why. That part of his life sailed away a long time ago, yet he's not really sure how he feels about her revelation.
(<- Leysdale Hospital: St. Christopher's Chapel ->)
Dana Lombard slides the strap of her purse onto her shoulder as she makes her way toward the chapel door. Robin follows only a few feet behind, arching her back slightly as Jay Jr. starts shifting around again. She figures he's reacting to all the moving around she's done today because for the most part, he was fairly quiet while she and Dana were seated on the pews. Now she's up on her webbed feet again.
"Are you going to be alright?"
Dana breaks out in a smile, "I will be fine. I have to be. I can't keep torturing myself this way."
"No, you can't, and I'm sure Samantha wouldn't want that either. Maybe in time you will get the answer you're looking for."
"Maybe," she responds half-heartedly. After her long conversation with Robin, Dana thinks she may have already found her answer. She's just not sure how it pertains to her or Brock yet. "So are you heading out as well?"
"Mm... no. I think I'm going to stick around for just a little longer."
"Alright. Well, you two be safe and say hi to Jay for me."
Robin assures that she will before giving her a quick hug. As they part, Dana moves to open the door, but only gets as far as the archway before her eyes draw back on the stained glass painting of St. Christopher. She looks on for a few seconds before finally letting the door shut behind her. Robin, alone, walks up to the pew in the first row, and takes a seat. With her hands in prayer position, she tilts her head down slightly.
"It has been a while since my last confession. I'm not going to sit here and bend your ear about how unfair it is that my friend is now up there with you instead of down here with her family. I think you understand what Samantha's death means to us because you created and mold the person she became. I just want to ask that you continue to shine your grace on all of us, especially those that loved Samantha dearly. Help them find meaning in this strange, crippling time. I've been fortunate enough to be able to focus on this baby that I'm carrying, but her husband, her brother, and even Dana as you saw and heard are going to need your comforting hand. Please give it to them. Amen."
She is about to stand when she decides to add on, "Oh, and if you have a moment, please grant me the strength to deliver this baby--happy and healthy. Thank you." She bows her head once more and then rises. As she stands, she feels a warm draft caress her skin. Turning toward the chapel doors, Robin finds no one standing or entering. Yet she gets the feeling that she's not alone all of a sudden. Doing a double take around the church, she can clearly see that no one is here and comes to the conclusion that maybe it's time for her to go home. Walking toward the exit, she can feel Jay Jr. practically jump with her when the chapel door comes flying open within seconds of her face.
"Hey Robin." Matthew Pryce stops in his tracks, not taking into account that he practically bulldozed her on his way inside. "Dana's not back there, is she?"
"No," allowing her heartbeat to return to normal, "You just missed her actually."
"Damn it." It dawns on him after the words leave his mouth that he's technically standing in a place of faith. "Sorry, I mean, how was she when you saw her?"
"She was--it's hard to describe. She didn't seem to have her usual optimism. We sat here for a good half hour talking, and she seem sound enough when she left."
"I was hoping with a little time or space that she would realize that none of this was her fault, and now it looks like I have just abandon her. I have to find her and let her--" His train of thought is cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. Matthew doesn't even think to look at the caller ID before anxiously picking up the call, "Dana?!"
Robin watches a wave disappointment wash over his face and deduces that it is not Dana on the other end. The confirmation comes when Matthew speaks up again.
"Bro, this isn't a good time." The room is silent for about a minute. "What do you mean it can't wait? What's going on? Alright fine, I'll see you in about 20 minutes." He hangs up his cell in a huff. "I guess I will have to track down Dana later."
"I'm sure she'll be fine. Was everything alright with Earl?"
He squints his face, "I'm not sure. He sounded a little weird. I'm guessing whatever it is he has to tell me must be important."
(<- H&B Fashions ->)
When a discussion opens with "You bitch," it's probably best to make a quick exit. Danielle attempts just that as she flags her palm up, indicating to Vanessa to impede her forward movement. "Something tells me this isn't work-related, so if you'll excuse me."
Vanessa grabs her arm forcibly, preventing the model from getting very far. "Not so fast."
"Get your hand off me," Danielle commands as she pulls away from the demented woman's grasp, "unless you want to experience the full effects of my restraining order."
A smile mixed with shock and spite usurps her face. "A threat. If only Lucien could see his innocent little Daniella now."
"You are the one that made this ugly Vanessa with your self-crazed delusions about what is going on between me and Lucien, which is absolutely nothing. Now if you expect me to just sit by and put up with your abuse, think again." Danielle once again attempts to bypass Vanessa, but Vanessa simply steps in the path of her descent. She definitely had more to say, and Danielle was going to listen whether she liked it or not.
"You listen to me you bleach blond hack..." Danielle eyes burn across her forehead. "I don't give a damn whose sister you are. This was my turf until you slithered off the streets, right smack in between me and Lucien, using every waking moment to turn him against me." Danielle simply turns her head, wondering if there is any point in denying these ridiculous accusations. Seriously, it was like talking to a brick wall, only it kept yammering away: "Now you expect to use this stupid protective order to further drive a wedge between us, and I'm not gonna to let that happen."
"Ugh, Wake Up!!" She snaps at the model, drawing the attention of Michelle and Lucien, who are only a couple feet away. "The reason I was working so closely with Lucien these past couple of months is because we were both involved in a joint marketing campaign for which I was the leading draw. It was not an elaborate conspiracy theory. I was signed on for a job and I did it." She takes a considerably longer pause after that sentence, but she realizes there is just one more thing she needs to make clear as she broaches closer to Vanessa. "Now, if there is a rift between you and Lucien, then perhaps you should consider taking a cold hard look in the mirror."
"You sanctimonious--"
Before Vanessa knows it, her hand shoots up and then spirals outward toward Danielle's face, only to be stop by an accelerating force. "No, no, no." Lucien says as he grabs hold of her hand, stepping in the path of its intended route. Vanessa finds herself somewhat comforted by his urging eyes and restraining hand, but the moment passes as she regains her footing and realizes that he's standing characteristically between him and Danielle. Jerking her hand away with a light grunt, Vanessa breaks away from his gaze and then runs her hand quickly down her thick blonde hair.
Danielle is still a little shell shock from nearly being slapped a second time when Lucien looks her way. She notices a glimmer of hurt and confusion in his eyes as soon as the question leaves his mouth, "What are you doing?"
"What am I doing?" She blinks twice, the words stuttering from her lips. Leaning in closer, she adds, "Lucien, you saw what was about to happen here. Your friend was about two seconds from assaulting me, yet again."
Lucien retorts, "I heard what you said, Danielle. It was unnecessarily cruel."
Vanessa's ears perk up. It was probably too much to hope for, but maybe, just maybe, Lucien was finally starting to open his eyes where Danielle was concern.
Taken aback by Lucien's statement, Danielle calmly tries to explain what was going on before he springed forth between her and Vanessa: "I offered her my personal opinion on a situation that she continues to shove down my throat. If it was a bit hard for her to swallow, that's not my fault." In hindsight, Danielle realizes she could have exercised a little more tact, but she didn't ask to be thrown into Vanessa's constant drama. No way was she going to be made to feel guilty by Lucien or anyone else for telling that woman what needs to be said. That much becomes evident to Vanessa and Lucien as her voice takes on a fiery pitch, "It does not give your friend the right to put her hands across my face."
"Of course not. I didn't mean to--" Lucien barely has enough time to refute the implications of her message. Instead, he takes a step back as Danielle fires back at him.
"Then don't stand there and throw this all at my feet, Lucien." Shifting her eyes from him to her, she lifts and tips her head pointedly at Vanessa. "She is the one violating the terms of a protective order!"
"And you're just loving that, aren't you?" Vanessa advances forward, stopping at Lucien's side. Feeling more bold and in control, she adds: "So go ahead, call the authorities."
Inaudibly, Lucien lip-syncs her name as he steps swiftly in front of her. She can see the worry take over every one of his facial muscles, and it makes her love him all the more. Truth is she had no idea where that surge of bravado came from, but she couldn't cower in front of Danielle now. Spying Danielle's glare from across the room, Vanessa rolls her neck and locks her eyes right on her.
(<- Hallandale PD Headquarters ->)
Jessica and Shanna wait patiently in Detective Lombard's office while Ralph makes a copy of their official statements. He is headed back their way when he stops to check with one of his officers about the prints found at the scene.
"What do we do have?"
"Besides Dr. Chappell and Mrs. Hemmings, we found a partial from Shalia Guittierrez, as well as one belonging to her husband, Derek Guittierrez. We're still trying to locate a match on the last set of prints."
"What about the carpenter, Andrew Stokes?"
"Nothing. The system doesn't recognize the name, and without a driver's license or social security number, we don't have a whole lot to go on."
The reality of that statement hangs in the air as Ralph thanks him for the information, and then advises him to keep on searching. He had a feeling there was more to this surprise vandalism act than meets the eye.
"Sorry about that," he announces to Shanna and Jessica upon re-entering his office. He quickly settles behind his desk, dropping their respective statements in front of them. "Take a moment to review, then sign and date here." He gestures to Shanna as he hands her a pen. He advises the same to Jessica.
Ralph looks up at the wall clock while Shanna and Jessica are reviewing their statements. It's already an hour before noon, which means his brother has been home alone for nearly two hours now. He knows that he can't possibly be around him 24/7, 7 days a week, but after hearing about the near drowning after Sam's memorial service, he's just been a little hesitant to leave him alone.
"So what happens next?" Shanna calls out over his thoughts as she finishes signing the sworn statement. Ralph manages to cover well, giving no indication that he just mentally checked back into his office.
"Now that we have confirmation that two of five prints found at the scene belong to Shalia and Derek Guittierrez, our next step would be to call them into the station for questioning."
Shanna sighs lightly to herself. When did her life become so surreal? First, her husband disappears. Then, she learns his plane crashed and his body was charred beyond recognition. Last night, the man who would had been a God send to her for months told her that he was in love with her, and expected her to just push aside her grief to start a relationship with him. Now she was sitting in a detective's office, mulling over possible suspects for vandalizing her studio.
"Derek and I have had our issues, but he wouldn't vandalize my studio. His wife, on the other hand, I can't be too sure. My husband never fully trusted her, and I've had my suspicions since Ben took off to investigate her."
"Had you had any recent contact with Mrs. Guittierrez?"
"No," she notes while wrapping her fingers around her neck. Clearing her dry throat, "I haven't seen her since my husband's service." Ever since she and Derek agreed to call a truce where his wife, and Ben's disappearance was concerned, she hasn't heard much from Shalia outside of the smile niceties Derek would pass along on her behalf whenever they saw one another.
"Well, it can't hurt to ask them a few questions."
Shanna digs down into her purse, shuffling through the items for her address book. "I should have Derek's number somewhere."
Ralph flags his hand in the air, "No need. An officer is already putting in a call to them."
Shanna lightly nods and proceeds to re-zip her purse. Jessica takes the opportunity to ask Ralph about the other set of fingerprints. "When do you expect to get a match on the last print?"
"It depends," He starts, folding his arms across the desk. "Shalia and Derek's prints were accessible through our local database. However, we couldn't find a record for Andrew Stokes, who would have likely been the owner of the fifth print considering his access to the studio."
"Is that normal?" Jessica's moves in closer while Shanna continues to listen, shifting her eyes between the two of them.
"It happens, especially if the individual is using an alias or recently had his name changed."
"Wouldn't the system be able to automatically detect that?" Jessica didn't have any concrete proof yet that these prints were even Andrew, but everything she heard suggested they were. Plus, she knew Derek had his own suspicions about Andrew and his relationship with Shanna.
"Ordinarily."
"Why would Andrew be using an alias?" Shanna shoots the question out there, her eyes conveniently fixed on Ralph, who reasons, "It's not uncommon. People adopt a pseudonyms all the time--actors, models."
Jessica chimes in once again, "It still seems a little weird. Shanna has been leaning on this man for months, and now we learn it's possible he's been lying about his identity this whole time."
Shanna finds herself giving him the benefit of the doubt: "Andrew and I didn't exactly meet under the most normal of circumstances. He might have been using the alias as a precaution. He was involved with some pretty serious people."
"When did you two meet?"
"God, it feels like eons ago. I would say a little over year ago."
"Did you ever have any contact with these associates of his?"
"No." Shanna is about to say something else when Jessica's pager goes off. Jessica apologies as she begins shuffling through her purse for her cell phone. One look at the caller ID, and the psychiatrist's suspicions are confirmed.
"Excuse me, I need to make a call," she explains as she moves from the desk chair and makes her way out of the office. Shanna turns her eyes away from the door once she spies Jessica heading outside the station.
She wants to say or ask something, but she's drawing a blank. "I'm sorry, what we were we talking about?"
"Your relationship with Andrew. How you two met, but why don't we take a break?" Ralph suggests, already standing on his two feet. Shanna, however, doesn't move as quickly. Her head is clearly elsewhere. "Shanna?"
"The scissors. They were sticking out of my husband's portrait, streaks of red paint covering it. It seems like such a cold and calculating move." The vandal took time to stick the scissors through the heart of the canvas, and to deface it with red paint. Why would he or she unless they felt personally wounded by the subject or the artist?
"Yeah, one of my officers mentioned finding some red-stained scissors at the scene. Your prints as well as our anonymous fifth party's were both lifted. So he/she definitely seems like our guy.
"If that's true, then--but it doesn't make any sense. I mean, I know we shared some words last night, but he couldn't. He couldn't do this." The widow goes silent as she grips her hand around her neck, leaving Ralph wondering what part of this story he has yet to hear.