How did my life come to this? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know…

"I have an idea," her lover said. "Yes. Anything. Please."

"This afternoon, a box of chocolates will arrive. Godiva, I think. The brand doesn't matter. Are you listening?"

"Yes." Her voice was breathless. "I want you to take the box and walk down the road until you see the silver car. A black man will be sitting behind the wheel." "Oh my God!"

"He's not going to hurt you, baby. He's a private investigator, no doubt the best your husband's money can buy. Tap on the window. Smile charmingly. Then, tell him you know what he's doing. He'll be chagrined, embarrassed about being caught. You become even more charming. Invite yourself to join him, tell him you just want to talk. Then pour out your heart about your evil husband, and while you're at it, offer him a chocolate. If he refuses, take one yourself. Eat it in front of him. Then offer him more. Make sure he eats two or three. That will do it."

"Are they poisoned?" she asked. A shiver ran down her spine.

"You think I would ask you to eat poisoned chocolates? What has your husband done to you?"

"I'm sorry, it's just – "

"The candies are doctored, love. A chocolate-flavored laxative, that's all, melted down and injected with a syringe. One truffle will have a minor impact on your system. Two or three, however, should, well, give the private investigator more pressing things to do with his time than watch you. When he drives off in search of proper facilities, you can get away."

"To meet you!"

"I've missed you, too, love."

"Tell me I'm beautiful."

His voice was generous. "You are beautiful beyond compare, particularly in black lace."

"I'll wear the garters," she said breathlessly.

"Perfect. I'll wear nothing at all."

"Oh God, I can't wait to see you!"

"One box of chocolates later, I'll be at your side." She smiled for the first time all morning. But then she remembered how she looked, and she hesitated. "I'm a little… sore," she said softly.

He understood instantly. "Then when I see you, baby, I will kiss all your pains away."

She started to cry again, quietly this time, genuinely. He would make her feel better. He always did. The first time she'd arrived with black-and-blue ribs, she'd told him that she'd fallen down the stairs. But he'd known. And instead of turning away, instead of looking at her with disgust, he had taken her in his arms and held her tenderly.

"You poor thing," he had said. "You are much too precious for this."

She had cried that night for hours. The whole time, he simply held her and stroked her hair. In her entire life, she had never had anyone touch her as gently as he did. In her entire life, no one had ever made her feel so special.

Briefly, for one instant, she thought of Amanda. Amanda who had never hurt her. Amanda who had been a good friend. Amanda who had been so excited to introduce her new man…

But you kept drinking, Mandy, she thought. You had the world's most perfect beau, and still you hit the bottle. After that, you deserved what happened. Besides, you always had plenty of men. And I… I needed him.

She replaced the phone, using the sleeve of her robe to wipe away the streaks of mascara and tears. One box of chocolates later on she would be with him again, she thought. One box of chocolates later. She hoped they came quick.

Pearl District,Portland

A little after eleven A.M., Quincy followed Rainie into her downtown loft. She flicked on the lights out of habit, though daylight streamed through the front bank of windows and the space was bright. The air carried the musty scent of a home that had been empty too long. Quincy knew that fragrance – it was how his own residence always greeted him.

"I should check on a few things," Rainie said nervously. He nodded, walking into the living area while she flitted about the open space. She had been like this all morning. Rarely meeting his eye, skittering away if he moved too close. Soft and still one moment. Nearly frantic the next. He thought he knew what was going on. Then again, his instincts weren't the best these days.

Shortly after their discussion that morning, Rainie had left a message on Carl Mitz's cell phone. She couldn't leave the number for Quincy's cell phone without revealing that he was with her, and she couldn't give the phone number of the hotel room without compromising that location, so she provided the number Mitz already knew – her loft in the Pearl District. Kimberly had opted to stay in the hotel room, where she was using Rainie's PI license number to access various law enforcement databases for background reports. Quincy and Rainie would wait for Mitz's response at her place. The division of labor made practical sense. If there were other motives, no one was mentioning them.

Quincy walked around the sofa, pausing in various sunbeams. He liked the feel of light and heat washing over his face. He closed his eyes and felt knotted muscles unclench. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that this, too, shall pass. He held on to that thought fiercely these days.

He had called Everett about his father. No news yet, and Quincy knew better than most what that meant. Each hour that passed without finding Abraham decreased the probability of ever seeing him alive. It had been thirty-six hours now. One moment, Abraham had been sleeping peacefully in his antiseptic-smelling bed. The next he was gone, checked out by a stranger posing as his son, not that Abraham would know the difference. A janitor reported seeing Quincy's father being led to a little red sports car, probably the same Audi TT the UNSUB had used to pick up Bethie.

No sign of the car since. No sign of Abraham. No big break in the case to ease the pain steadily building in Quincy's chest. His fathers kidnapping was the ultimate failure, worse somehow than Amanda's and Elizabeth's murders, because they had been independent adults. His father, on the other hand, had been vulnerable and utterly helpless. Once a proud man who had single-handedly raised his son, now a dependent. Quincy shouldve done more to keep him safe.

The realization left him in a strange place. At once bottomed out, yet fiercely enraged. Empty of all emotion, yet desperate to feel alive. Defeated. Determined.

Unbelievably angry. Unbearably sad. The academic searching for a reason. The man, knowing there was no such thing.

Why is my father gone? Because he is. Isolation is not protection. No amount of distance numbs the pain.

And then Quincy had a strange memory, a moment he hadn't thought about in years. Little Kimmy coming home from her fourth ballet lesson, walking into the living room where the family was gathered, and with her feet planted and her hands balled on her hips, announcing in her loudest voice, "Fuck ballet!"

Quincy remembered Bethie's stunned gasp, Mandy's awed expression, and his own desperate attempt to fight a smile. Fuck ballet. Such attitude. Such confidence. Such fearlessness. He had felt so proud.

Had he ever told his father that story? Abraham would've liked that. He wouldn't have said anything, but he would've smiled. And he also would've been proud. Each generation takes the next step forward. From a stoic swamp Yankee to a reserved federal agent to a brash aspiring criminologist, who obviously knew her own mind.

Isolation was not protection. He had lost his father, but maybe, just maybe, he was getting an opportunity to rediscover Kimberly.

"I'm going to grab some clothes," Rainie called from the walk-in closet. "If the phone rings, let me answer it."

"I am not here," Quincy promised her.

"Do you think Kimberly needs anything?"

He smiled faintly. "I think you would know that better than me."