A/N: The Hardy and the Drew families live in the same general vicinity, around the New Jersey/New York border. All young adult characters are in their mid-twenties. Not a traditional mystery, focus is on family relationships and the ability to change.

Warnings: violence including mentions of terrorism, nongraphic adult situations and minor profanity

Disclaimer: I do not own Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys and I am making no profits by posting this.

Insanity in the Tell-Tale Heart

"'The Tell-Tale Heart' starts with the following: 'Why will you say that I am mad?' Modern readers frequently take it for granted that the narrator is insane. But this is far from certain. It is also likely that the narrator murdered his housemate for his money, using insanity as a ruse. The historical context of the tale also supports such an interpretation, for in 1843, the year this short story was published, the issue of criminal insanity was a well-known social and legal debate.

"Before 1835, insanity pleas had been utilized only in extreme cases. Public and legal opinion began to shift in 1835 after a book was published that espoused the theory of 'moral insanity.' This is a phrase which refers to a person whose intelligence and social skills remain at average or above average levels, yet could still be thought of as literally powerless over themselves when it comes to behaving with empathy, civility, or respectability. Moral insanity may be compared to the modern condition of sociopathology."

Professor Ridlan stopped reading and took off his glasses. The lowered desk lamp cast a soft glow around its immediate vicinity, accenting the crow's feet that had accumulated around his eyes from four decades of smiling. His brown hair and fuller brown beard made him look more like a philosophy professor than a psychology professor. He let a moment pass. Then: "Nancy?"

Nancy felt her own tell-tale heart begin to twitter. Why had her professor summoned her to his office? "Yes?"

"Why do you think the narrator in the tell-tale heart was faking madness?"

Nancy relaxed, leaning back in her chair and tucking a strand of wavy reddish-blonde behind her ear. He only wanted clarification. "We should give more credibility to statements that can be confirmed by witnesses. This leads me to focus on the time when the police are present. Why would the police, who have been summoned in the middle of the night on 'suspicion of foul play,' sit down in the bedroom, not the parlor, and decide to have a nice little chat? The narrator said that the police were just sitting there, smiling, making small talk, dragging it out—exactly the kind of tactics that they might use to make a suspect crack."

Professor Ridlan frowned slightly, a soft, queer expression.

Nancy gazed at a spot in the distance. "The narrator knew that the police would need a solid motive in order to suspect him of killing an old man that he apparently knew well and had been living with for a while. Therefore when he fixates on the old man's evil eye, he knew that the police wouldn't consider that a credible motive, and might think it was the rambling of a perseverating person. And what's with the sentence of 'I imagined ringing in my ears?' He either heard the ringing or he didn't. Is he trying so hard to seem insane that he is trying to hear the ringing—"

"Nancy—come back to me, come back!" The professor waved a hand in front of her face, laughing gently. Nancy met his eyes, sheepish.

He mused thoughtfully, fiddling absentmindedly with a Bic pen. "Nancy, I only gave this assignment a week ago, in honor of Halloween approaching. It wasn't even on the syllabus."

Nancy's type-A personality flared. "Did you like it?"

Professor Ridlan gawked at her for a second, then cleared his features. "Nancy, it's phenomenal. You do great work."

A flush of pride crept into Nancy's cheeks. She adjusted her sweater and crossed her legs, glad that she'd worn a business-casual outfit to class that night.

"Once in a while, I try to come up with interesting assignments that make students apply themselves a little differently than they're used to. But, Nancy"—Ridlan gestured to her essay—"you researched the legal definition of insanity in 1843, the historical context, Poe's inner demons…"

Nancy waited. She raised her eyebrows.

"Which makes me wonder…" Ridlan leaned forward. "Are you that much of an overachiever? Or do you have a background in the criminal justice system? Or literary criticism?"

Nancy's jaw clenched. "That's how I think."

"And a terrific mind you have, too. Nancy, with the systematic way you think, I want to mention that this university has an excellent forensic program as well. It would take a couple of extra years, but you could get your Master's in Social Work and Forensic—" The older man trailed off as he noticed a harder edge to Nancy's eyes. "Something to think about, at least."

Nancy softened. "You're right," she said in a low voice. Her shoulders hunched forward, and she looked younger than she had in a long time. "I used to work in the justice system. I want to try something different now."

Ridlan nodded thoughtfully. "I'm sensing that there's a story here, but that's your personal information. In the meantime, Nancy…I want you to spend the rest of your time in my class learning something new. Obviously you're headed for an A, seeing your kind of work, so don't worry about the grade. You're already a pro at analyzing with your head, but this is the social sciences. Forget about the books sometimes and ask yourself what your gut reaction is to some of the things we talk about in class."

During this pep talk, Nancy had found it increasingly more difficult to focus. She nodded, attempting to smile. "Okay. I'll try harder."

"Nancy, don't use this as an opportunity to beat yourself up—I love your essay. I'm just asking you to strengthen your heart as well as your brain. You'll need to connect with clients in order to be able to help them. Even if you know exactly why your clients are engaging in maladaptive behaviors, the analysis itself is only helpful if you can connect with them on an emotional level. Then you can build the relationship it takes to have them value your opinion." The professor grinned at her, and handed back her essay with "A plus" written in the top right corner.

"Thank you," Nancy whispered, and gathered her belongings.

ndndndnd

Carson Drew let his breath out in exhaustion as he walked—dragged himself, really, he thought ruefully—through the front door of his small, one-level house, dropping his briefcase on the dining room table, throwing his coat over a chair. He poured himself a nightcap, wincing as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. The bags under his eyes were becoming more permanent, a result of a lifetime of stress and late hours catching up to him, and his grey-fringed brown hair was thinning more and more every day.

Carson downed the sherry in one shot and put the glass in the sink, paused, then rinsed out the glass and put it away so Nancy would not see that this was becoming a nightly ritual. He opened his briefcase and removed a file, knowing that he needed to review some information about his case before bed. Padding in his stocking feet, he made his way to his bedroom, but stopped abruptly in the hallway as he heard a familiar sound.

Nancy heard a soft knocking at her door, and mentally berated herself for making too much noise. "I'm fine, Dad," she called as best she could, but winced when her shaky voice betrayed the recent tears.

The door opened. "Come on, Nancy, I'm a detective," Carson said softly, peering into the darkness. He walked to her and sat down on the edge of her bed, keeping the bedroom light off but the hallway light on.

"I can't talk, Dad, I don't want to," Nancy said, gathering her tissues and throwing them in the trash can by her bed.

"That's fine, honey, then just listen," Carson said, rubbing her back in circles like he did when she was younger. Nancy was too tired to protest. "I think it's very noble what you're doing, Nance. All I do is help catch the bad guys, but you're rehabilitating some of them, and preventing more crime by giving love and attention to people who don't have anyone else."

"Yes, Dad. I'm just confused about everything, that's all."

"Understandable." Carson took a moment to think hard about what he would say next. His hand paused on Nancy's shoulder. "Your midlife crisis came early. But you got right back in the saddle, you've got another career lined up and you're back in school."

Nancy covered her face. "But I'm still living at home since mental health case work pays so low, I've just got no idea about any…personal goals…"

Carson's face hardened. "About living at home," he said, more emphatically than he'd intended, "you know I want you to live here as long as you possibly want to. I enjoy your company, you know, and you and I both wouldn't like coming home to an empty house. And I certainly don't want you to live with a man before you're married."

"I know, Dad, I didn't mean it like that."

"Okay, sweetie. There's time to figure everything out. You're only twenty-four."

"Really. I have clients twice my age who say that they've been stuck for most of their lives."

Carson laughed, lightening the mood. "Touche, but you're on the other side of the desk. You're supposed to be talking them out of their problems, not agreeing with them."

Nancy smiled at that. She sat up, grateful for the semi-darkness as she faced her dad. She was used to dissecting evidence with him, not talking about feelings, and one positive of the past year had been the added closeness they'd been forced into. "Working with people, Dad, really listening to them…there's not much difference between all of us. Rich people walking down Park Avenue in furs, poor people spending their Social Security on lottery tickets…they're both looking for some kind of status, respect, a chance for a different life. Something that reminds them they're alive."

Carson smiled ruefully. "That's a lesson we all learn. You're just learning it younger than some others. You're already good with analyzing data, now you're learning to juggle the confusing mess of feelings. Including your own."

Nancy nodded slowly, thinking. "That's just what my professor said tonight. It's so hard, I'm not sure if I can think any other way…it's all so dangerous, so unknown and unpredictable, dealing with raw human emotion."

"Please don't get upset, I know we've been through this before, but I think you need to talk some more about that colleague that died during the mission in Paris last year. That's what changed everything, and at some point you'll need to work through it." Carson gave his only daughter a supportive look.

Nancy sat up and leaned backward against the wall, obviously thinking about what her father was saying. Carson loved it, the methodical way she analyzed the world, the high esteem she placed on loved ones' advice. "I'll think about it, Dad."

Carson followed her lead and changed the subject, but decided to bring up another topic while Nancy was in a receptive mood. "But honey, about the personal goals you were talking about…if you're not sure what you want, then Frank might not be the best person to spend a lot of time with these days."

Nancy looked his way cautiously. "What makes you say that?"

"You've got to understand, Nancy, that he's not exactly an unbiased source. And when you and Ned called it quits early last year, he obviously saw the opportunity he's been waiting for."

Nancy closed her eyes.

"Frank is going to try to bring the old Nancy back," Carson continued. "You need time to decide whether you want the old Nancy to come back or not."

Nancy began to cry again. Frustrated, she dabbed a tissue furiously over her eyes.

"Frank's been waiting so long, I think he'll wait some more," Carson said. "Take your time and focus on other things for now, Nance. Detective work can't be the basis for a relationship. If you meet the right person, he won't care what line of work you're in."

"Maybe you're right," Nancy sighed. "Laura Hardy doesn't even know the first thing about taking fingerprints, yet Fenton, Frank, and Joe have always adored her. She's the innocent darling of their group." Yet Nancy was ashamed to admit even to herself that she sometimes had a hard time knowing what to say to Mrs. Hardy, a woman surrounded by crime scene investigation yet powerless to even understand what was going on around her.

Carson raised his eyebrows. "See? Anyway, just be careful around Frank. He sees his dreams falling down around him and will want to take action to fix you." Nancy was surprised by the note of disdain in her father's voice.

"Frank's a good man," Nancy responded, defensive. "But I get what you're saying, Dad. Unfortunately, though, I don't have an endless resource of friends…George is down south at her computer job, and Bess is going to be very busy adjusting to her new life. I was too wrapped up in mysteries during college to make many friends."

"People come into and out of your life for a season, and you have to appreciate them while they're there," Carson answered. "Bess and George you'll always have, but new people will come in. How about your colleagues at work?"

Nancy arched an eyebrow. "They all seem to be stuck in their routines. There's a woman there, Tracy, that I like, but she's got kids and a second job."

"Well, whoever you choose to confide in, Nancy…" Carson searched Nancy's eyes. "Pick someone, and fully put your trust in them. I'm okay with it not being me, I'm your father, maybe there are some things you don't want me to know. But right now I know some things that are going on with you, my guess is that Bess knows some other things, and maybe Frank knows something else. But there needs to be someone who knows everything."

Nancy's eyes filled with uncertainty.

"I think that George, Bess, and I can be trusted with whatever it is that you're holding inside," Carson continued. "This is your time, Nancy. Your twenties are your time to find yourself, work through things, make mistakes. Don't be afraid to be vulnerable."

Nancy smiled, closed-lipped. "Are you sure you're not a closet social worker, Dad?"

Carson gave Nancy a kiss on her forehead, hoping she couldn't smell the sherry. "Don't ever be ashamed of your work, Nancy. Your mother was a psychology major before she became a spy."