Emily turned the phone over in her twitching hands, struggling to make herself dial their number. It had been two and a half weeks since Thanksgiving dinner, and a week and a half since she visited Ally in prison; she hadn't been able to call them. Now she sat, curled on Matt's couch, waging her internal struggle, while he spent time with the guys. She needed time to think, to force herself to do this, so she'd sent him off with her blessing, and began convincing herself to forget the secrets betrayed in Albany.
She needed to talk to them, had to know, but she could die happy if she never spoke to them again. But, Ally wasn't talking, and that only left her parents, well grandparents, as it were; they were the only ones who knew the identity of her biological father- the son-of-a-bitch who raped an eleven year-old girl. She hated him, more than she'd ever hated anybody, but she had to see him; she had to look the monster in the eye to prove that she wasn't him.
Learning your father is a child rapist turns your whole world on its head, makes you wonder about yourself, what you came from. It makes you wonder if he passed his evil on, through the DNA he contributed to your existence. It makes you wonder if he knows what he did to that child, if he knows you exist, if he ever thinks about the little girl whose life he wrecked. But, by the far, the worst, sickest thing it made Emily wondered, was if he loved her. Regardless of the evil inside him, the idea of a parent previously unknown is like a second chance to child who felt very little parental love growing up. Emily hated herself for that. That was why she had to look him in the eye, to prove his love didn't matter, that there was no connection between them, except cold DNA.
If she could do that, she could put this whole mess behind her, pretend it never happened. There would be no more speaking to the people who raised her in their cold, unforgiving house, or the mother who can't look at her without reliving her trauma. She couldn't blame Ally, and she knew, if Ally could ever look her in the eye without seeing her rapist, Emily wouldn't hesitate to scrap their failed attempt at living as sisters, and try as a mother and daughter. Until then, Emily would give her distance, and try to mend the painful rift with her…uncle? God, how could she think of him as that?
"Hello?" A voice answered on the other end of the line before she'd even realized she'd dialed the number.
"Hi mo-Hi," Emily corrected herself; this was her grandmother, not mother.
"Emily, sweetheart, I'm so glad you called, I'd just about given up, oh, please don't be mad at us, we were only doing what we thought was best…" The woman seemed so frantic by the surprise call, she couldn't stop her mouth.
"Stop. I'm not ready to really talk to you, and I'm not ready to forgive you. I don't know if I'll ever be, but…I need to know some things." Emily inhaled, trying to steady her voice.
"What more could you need to know?" Carol tried to hide her exasperation unsuccessfully.
"Why didn't you take Ally to get an abortion?" She asked quietly, almost cowering from the explosion she knew would be forthcoming.
"Emily Elizabeth Lehman! Never, never, never would I allow my child to kill her baby! I could never conceive of that, it wasn't an option."
"Okay, so why not give me up for adoption? You obviously didn't want me."
"Of course we did, you're our blood, our responsibility. I couldn't imagine anyone else raising you, my little girl's baby." There was love in her voice, and though Emily understood how hard it must have been for her then, she couldn't let it go.
"Did you even think about Ally? What seeing me everyday would do to her?" Emily breathed in deeply again, struggling to keep her head above the rushing tide of emotion.
"No, I can't say I did. You have to understand Emily, nobody talked about rape back then, we didn't know about those trauma conditions…"
"It's called PTSD."
"Right, it wasn't around back then. How was I to know keeping you around would hurt Ally?"
Carol was right of course, she couldn't have known, but still shouldn't a mother know when her child is suffering? Or, was she so blinded by grief and the stress of lying daily that she just simply overlooked Ally slowly self-destructing? Several minutes passed before Emily realized she'd been silent, complete lost in her head. Her mouth moved silently as she tried to form the words for her next question, her hands quivered with trepidation.
"Emily, are you still there?" Carol's worried voice came over the line.
"Who was he?" She blurted, startling them both.
"Who honey?"
"The man that raped Ally…my father."
"Your father is Tom Lehman, that man…that man is in the past, it's not important."
"I have to know who he is." Her voice was tinged with need, almost pleading.
"No you don't, you leave it alone Emily." Carol's warning tone hadn't been directed at Emily since she was a teenager.
"Mom, I need to know, please tell me," Emily begged voice thick with tears, not bothering to correct herself.
Carol faltered, swallowing down her dread; her heart was laden with guilt and she wanted her youngest daughter back. Yes, Emily was her daughter; she'd raised her and loved her in her own difficult way. "He was Ally's flute instructor, his name was Jim, James Farmer."
Emily released her captured breath, a tears rolling down one cheek, and then another falling along the other. "Thank you."
"Can we talk about something else now? How's Matt?" She asked quickly.
"Still here miraculously…I can't do this. I can't pretend like I didn't have this bomb dropped on me, like you didn't lie to me for thirty-five years. Maybe someday, but not today…sorry…" Emily hung up the phone, and wiped at her eyes, wrapping a throw around her shoulders and curling further into the couch, inhaling the scent of Matt on the blanket and taking comfort in it.
Two weeks later, Emily's search was underway, and dangerously close to consuming her. She was constantly on the computer, searching every record and newspaper she could think of and find. She'd already shelled out money for subscriptions to various media databases to allow her access to old records and newspapers. She was even using the FBI's database of information in her search, something Matt would never have imagined her doing. After work, during lunch or any other breaks they got, on the weekends, she was constantly searching, and it was beginning to worry him.
Sometimes, he'd wake up in the middle of the night, the spot beside him empty, and Emily perched at the desk, drumming and clicking away at her laptop. She claimed she just couldn't sleep, Matt attributed that at first to her relentless her search, but now he had the feeling there was more she wasn't sharing. At times the look she wore as she scrolled across the screens seemed almost desperate, and even a little frightened. Matt didn't know what to do, she wasn't focused at work, and had sleepwalked through her last few classes. He'd secretly asked Cheryl to keep them off negotiations for a while, at least anything big or high profile. He could shoulder the weight of the smaller ones and attempted suicides himself, while Emily drifted through them, lost in her mind.
Today she'd managed to focus on Max Logan, as he explained how things were going to play out. His contacts had come through, and being that Emily had lived in the country since birth and worked as a public servant, they had no problem rushing and granting her paperwork. But, first she had to go to Canada and argue with the Canadian courts about her birth. Logan had called a friend who worked with Canada and gotten his assistance drafting a petition to get the convent-school's records on Allison Lehman. He'd received the records that morning, and called them as soon as the documents arrived.
"So, here you are, proof that you were born in Canada. If we could get a deposition from one of your grandparents, that would be helpful too."
"Not going to happen," Emily mumbled, pulling the papers out and studying them. There was a page on basic information on Allison: name, age, permanent address, parents, brief physical description, and the circumstances under which she came. A note in all capitals read: RAPED, NO ABSTINANCE CLASSES NECESSARY. Then there were pages and pages on Ally's medical care through her pregnancy. Each exam was documented in detail, including how they intended to have her deliver via caesarian, and counseling sessions on what was to become of the baby after it was born, and four sonogram photos. Then there were a couple pages on Ally's recovery post-op, and a page on the baby girl she gave birth to, Emily Elizabeth.
"So, you can see, that with a copy of your falsified American birth certificate, this is all the proof they really need, and I'm going to try and send this through without making you go through the courts. You want to fill this out for me?" He handed her a Canadian birth certificate, a sheet he'd gotten from the friend after a trip to Canada to argue for his clients.
Emily filled out the mother side, and baby information easily, turning to the convent records for information like her weight and time of birth. The father section was more difficult, being she knew very little about the man. She now knew his name and birth date; he was thirty-one when he forced himself on Allison, and he will have had his sixty-sixth birthday three weeks earlier. Biting her lip, Emily handed the filled-out form back to her lawyer, happy to have one less thing to stress about.
Cheryl hadn't spoken to the upper-ups yet, she was waiting until Emily got her citizenship status straightened out. If she told them now, and they fired Emily, it would be more complicated to get her reinstated, a complication they might choose to avoid in light of the can of worms Tobin Jensen opened. It wouldn't matter how much talent Emily had in her field, they would forget her if they felt she was a potential embarrassment. If she was never fired, they might consider her value to the Bureau, and decide to avoid the complication of finding a legitimate excuse to fire her.
"Okay, I'll send this over, and hopefully in a week or so, you'll be a legal Canadian citizen." Max smiled as he organized his papers, preparing a stack to be faxed to Canada.
"But, I don't want to be a Canadian citizen." Emily stated impatiently.
"We need to make you a Canadian citizen, which you rightfully are, before we can get you legitimate citizenship in the US. It's a process, give it time."
Emily nodded, understandingly, but still obviously very anxious. "Do you need anything else from me?"
"Nope, not right now. Just keep your head down and nose clean until we sort this out." He smiled again as he ushered them out of his office. He wasn't terribly worried; his client was a public servant who'd lived in the states her whole life, and never did anything worse than break the speed limit. This was a cakewalk for him.
That night was as tense as Matt and Emily's evenings tended to be the last few weeks. She was quiet, stressed, and hell-bent on finding her biological father; he was tired, stressed, and worried that his girlfriend was not so slowly becoming unhinged. Still, Emily spent every night at Matt's apartment, curled up next to him in bed, because in his arms she felt secure and loved. Matt kept her there, ignoring the tension, because as her body lay near his, he knew she was still herself, and safe for even just that moment.
That night they'd gone to bed, spooning, his arm around her waist, her arm cradling his, but had spread apart through the night. He wasn't alerted to her nightmare by her elevated heart rate, or the sweat gluing her shirt to her skin. He was too far away to notice either, just as he couldn't hear her soft whimpers through his deep sleep. What he felt, what woke him up, was the bed shake beneath him, as Emily literally jumped awake, breathing heavy, eyes fully dilated, glancing wildly around the room. He went to place his hand on her arm, to remind her she wasn't alone, but Emily jumped at his touch, and ran to the bathroom.
Emily felt her speeding heart rate pumping through every vein in her body as she turned the shower on to too warm. Her lip biting habit was more gnawing now, as she stepped into the hot spray and began to relive her nightmare. She was poison, a living, breathing, personification of poison.
She walked toward Matt in the CNU, and offered what she thought was a smile. He began to gag and his eyes grew wide as she struggled for breath before plunging to the ground. Emily knelt beside him, and screamed frantically for help, holding back her tears, as she stared helplessly. People began rushing into the room, eager to help, only to fall victim to the same fate, coughing and choking, before falling to the floor, eyes rolling backward in empty stare of the dead. Emily was the only one immune to it, because she was it, the deadly plague sent upon them.
Emily's body quivered against the heat of the shower, her cold much more internal. After several minutes, she shut off the shower, grabbed a towel, and went back into the bedroom, feeling no cleaner than when she'd left. She dried herself off, and set the towel on the back of a chair, sitting on the edge of the bed, completely naked.
Matt sat up when he heard the door, and watched her walk around the bed, and deposit her towel. After she sat down, he gently rested a hand on her back, sighing in relief when she didn't jump. She turned toward him, looking terribly lost, and crawled into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck. Matt rubbed her back gently, and kissed her temple as he held her, determined to make her feel safe. He pledged this to himself nearly every night the last few weeks, when she woke up beaten by a nightmare. At first, the cuddling worked, and she went right back to sleep, but as her nightmares became worse, it took longer for her to fall back into sleep. Tonight, was the first night she jumped at his touch and ran to take a shower. He didn't know what else to do.
Pulling back from their sitting up embrace, Emily began pulling at Matt's t-shirt, trying to yank it over his head. He stilled her hands, and looked through her scared eyes, into her breaking soul. "Shh…you don't want to do that tonight."
She shook her head. "No sex, just lay with me."
He wasn't sure why she wanted them naked, but wasn't about to deny her, not if it would quell her fears. He pulled his t-shirt over his head, and then pointed to his boxers. Emily nodded, marveling, not for the first time, at how she managed to find this man. He pulled them off, flung them on the floor, and eased himself back down into the bed. He opened his arms, lifting the sheet, and allowing her to climb in beside him.
Emily scooted in beside him, pressing every inch of her skin, against as much of his as she could manage. She slid one of her legs between his to get even closer, and finally let her head rest near his collarbone. Her blood was tainted by evil, her figurative poison, but his was pure, he was pure. She hoped enveloping her tainted self in his purity would somehow cleanse her soul, and redeem her of the sins of her father.
Two weeks later, waking up the morning of Christmas Eve, Emily dressed quickly, and gave Matt as hearty a smooch goodbye as she could manage. It wasn't much, her spirit dangerously close to broken, her body tired and worn with stress, guilt and disappointment. It was the kind of kiss you give someone to shut them up, you don't mean it, but you do it anyway. And, she knew by the hurt in his deep, chocolate eyes, Matt felt it too.
But, damn it, it had nothing to do with him. She still loved him more than she had any other man, and needed him in a way she'd been terrified of since she was a child. Her problem was a lack of closure, that left her tending to an open, gaping wound. He was out there somewhere, rapist of eleven year-old children, perhaps never thinking for a moment that he had a daughter. Somewhere, he was living punishment and guilt free, ignorant to the suffering of the grown-child he helped create. Or was it possible that it felt her existence somewhere inside of him, like a sixth sense of sorts? Was it possible his body tingled with phantom pain, or that gossamer strands of guilt weaved through his brain? But...she knew better.
Once at her own apartment, Emily pulled up her email to check that any of the countless emails she'd sent panned out. She'd sent most of them weeks ago, and received occasional, "sorry, I can't help you," replies, or lame suggestions of places she'd already scoured. She left to start the warming the shower water while the computer booted up. The whole gang was meeting later tonight to celebrate Christmas together, Matt's cozy home was the chosen venue. It always amazed her that his apartment wasn't a bachelor pad, she had little doubt Frank's was, and Lia's eye rolling was enough proof that Duff's was. Then again, she remembered him vaguely mentioning having Cheryl's assistance decorating.
There was a generic Christmas greeting from the Bureau in the her email, as well as one reply from a librarian at the Albany Library. She was surprised when the opening line lacked the standard sorry, and began reading eagerly. The librarian wrote that she found James Farmer mentioned in a newspaper in the database. There was a brief blurb from the newspaper, local to one of Albany's rougher neighborhoods.
"Local man receives praise for work with underprivileged youth," offered the head line.A local man was recognized by the Albany Community Alliance for guiding underprivileged youth through music enrichment. Jim Farmer, who grew up in Schoharie, and plays the piano, clarinet, flute and violin, spent the last ten years in Albany…" Then the little blurb cut off, leaving Emily's heart pounding, and brain screaming for the rest.
She closed her mouth and stared at the email, unable to believe something finally panned out. This was him, the man who taught her sister to play the flute and how ugly the world can be--this was her father. Swallowing with some difficulty, she shut down her computer, began to pace, gnawing again on her lower lip. Then she made a split second decision: she had to go to Albany, right now. Not bothering with packing a bag, she grabbed her keys and purse, tossing her phone on the kitchen counter, before running out the door. When she didn't show up later, he would call her and keep calling her until she answered, and right now, Emily didn't need the distraction, and emotionally, couldn't handle the worry in his voice, and obvious love he had for her. She'd be home for Christmas, she rationalized, he would have to settle for that.
Fortunately, a flight left twenty minutes after she got all checked in, which was surprisingly quick; she attributed this to it being a Monday, everybody flew home over the weekend. The flight was long, but she was in Albany before four, and in a cab bound for the newspaper's office by twenty after. She saw a light that may or may not have belonged to the newspaper's offices, but jumped out anyway, and started pounding on the buzzer.
"Yeah?" A surprised voice answered, not exactly pleased.
"Hi, um, I'm looking for my birth father and need to look at your archives." He had to be at least a little sympathetic to that.
"Sorry? I can't hear you very well. I'll buzz you in, third floor, hang on." She barely caught it, and tried not to appear surprised as she walked in.
"So, what can I do for you? Please tell me you have a juicy story, it's Christmas Eve, there's nothing to print." He seemed happy for the distraction.
"Uh, it's juicy, but you can't really print it."
"So why come to a newspaper?" He looked disappointed and a tinge annoyed.
"An article in your archives mention my father, who I didn't know existed until Thanksgiving, and I've been searching for him since. It's not much, but it's the only lead I have to go on." No need to mention the rape, that might freak him out.
"We don't normally let people in our archives."
"Please, I'm already here, I'm desperate, and I want to meet my father on Christmas. Please help me?" She nearly begged him, and was successful, he relented.
"Okay, I'll take you down. You know what article you're looking for?" He asked, leading her to a rickety elevator, and hitting the B button.
"Yeah, it's September 23, 1974." She struggled to read the note she'd jotted, as the elevator creaked, groaned and jostled them down four floors.
"Oh, that's an old one. Let's see, try that furthest column down. We only began printing in 1972, so it should be on that rack. I've got to go back upstairs and fake news for tomorrow mornings edition, which nobody will get. Will you be okay by yourself?" He clearly wanted to do anything, but return to his cubicle.
"Yeah, thanks very much."
"No problem," he waved behind himself as he hopped into the ancient elevator.
The archives smelled like a basement: mildew, mold, and dust permeated the air, and threatened to make her sneeze. Fortunately, luck was on her side that night, and she found the folder easily, yanking out the thick manila for that week. It clearly hadn't been opened since it was put together and stowed on the shelf long ago. A string resembling a shoelace kept the folder shut, until now, when it revealed an accordion style inside, baring a slot for each day of the week. She yanked out the 23rd, and flipped until she found the article. It wasn't very long, and said little more that was useful to identifying him, but on sentence stuck out.
"It's unfortunate to report that Mr. Farmer will be returning to his hometown of Riverrock, in Schoharie County by the end of the year, to care for his ailing mother, and will no longer offer his music enrichment classes in Albany. The youngsters of Riverrock are very lucky indeed."
Lucky, her ass, Emily thought, but this gave her something to go on. For at least a short time, he returned to the town he grew up in. She looked around at her surroundings; there was a computer in the corner, opposite the elevator, and know one to say she couldn't use it. Without another thought, Emily hopped on the machine, praying they had access newspaper databases in other counties.
It was almost nine o'clock, and Matt was on the verge of panic, full blown, hysterical, breathing into a paper bag panic. Emily hadn't shown up at 6:30, like they planed, so he tried calling her house and cell, no answer on both. Duff and Frank went over to her place around eight, and found her cell phone discarded on the counter, but her car was gone. Cheryl and Lia were in charge of keeping him calm, and having a hell of a time, and not succeeding. Oh god, oh god, where was she?
He'd called every friend she had that wasn't already at his apartment, and was bracing himself to call her parents? Grandparents? He still wasn't sure what to refer to them as. The bastards that lied to her, her whole life, and neglected her as a child, was what he was favoring at the moment.
"Hello?" Carol answered almost immediately, sounding cheered by the holiday.
"Mrs. Lehman, the is Matt Flannery, I was wondering if you'd heard from Emily today?" He tried to keep his voice level, no reason to send someone else into panic.
"Well no, I haven't, why is something wrong?" There went that idea, she was already starting to panic.
"Maybe, I can't find her, I'm getting a little worried. But, it's alright, I have some friends from the FBI here, we're all looking for her."
"Oh dear, Matt, you have to find her!" Carol was beginning to grow shrill, and it was only adding to Matt's migraine.
"I promise you, Mrs. Lehman, I'll find her. I'll call you when I know something." He promised, hanging up before she could answer.
Matt made his second phone call, while Lia hacked her way past Emily's password, and into the computer. She typed furiously on the laptop, hoping the negotiator left some hint of where she was going on the computer. She listened as Matt had a very similar conversation with Brian, who they still referred to as Emily's brother. Clearly, the man had no idea she was missing, hadn't heard from her, and was another person Matt needed to placate before hanging up the phone, and turning agonized expression toward Lia. Cheryl was calling local precincts, Frank and Duff were searching Emily's apartment, hoping for some clue as to why the negotiator up and disappeared.
"Oh, I've got something. The last thing she did was check her email, one from Elyse Raynard, at the Albany Library. It's a blurb from an article that mentions a Jim Farmer. That name ring any bells? It seems Emily was asking about him." Lia turned to Matt curiously.
He looked grim. "Yeah, the man who raped Ally…she got that this morning?"
Lia quickly turned her surprised face back to the computer, and scanned the email. "Um, last night. Was she at your apartment then?"
"Yes…so, she gets home, sees this email, and disappears, what's the newspaper?"
"Uh, West Albany Courier."
Suddenly, it dawned on Matt. "She's in Albany, looking for this article."
"She'd must know that everything will be closed, it's Christmas Eve," Lia insisted, unwilling to believe that Emily would have just taken off without a word to anyone.
"Not a newspaper office, Lia. And, it would hardly matter to her, she's desperate to find him, and this is her first lead." He stared at the email, willing his mind not to go where it was headed.
Lia watched his face blanche, and became worried. "Matt, what's wrong?"
"I have to find her, and stop her, before she finds him." He struggled to remain calm, but panic was quickly overwhelming him. "I need to get on the next flight to Albany."
"Why, what's the big deal with her tracking him down?"
"Lia, proof of what he did 35 years ago is going to waltz right up to him, do you think he'll sit her down for a fatherly chat? He raped a child, god only knows what he could do to her to cover that up." His fingers were alternately digging in his hair, and covering his mouth and he breathed into them, to try and calm himself. He shouldn't be panicking this way, Jim Farmer might do nothing, but when it came to Emily, Matt had already proved that thinking straight when she might be in danger, wasn't something he was really capable of.
"Okay, okay, first flight, searching now. You better go tell the guys and Cheryl what's going on." Lia shooed him away, while she scoured the airlines for a quick flight.
Even with the windshield wipers at full speed, Emily still struggled to see through what was beginning to resemble a blizzard. Fortunately, like riding a bike, she hadn't forgotten how to drive through snow, a skill she perfected as a teenager and college student. Living that far north on the East Coast, she'd seen her fair share of blizzards. She was on her way to Riverrock, where as far as she could tell, Jim Farmer was still residing. His mother hung on for twelve years, according to the 1986 obituary, leaving her home to her only child, one James Farmer, well known music teacher. By then he'd been teaching music class at one of the local schools, and she hoped he was still living in Riverrock, retired.
She was yawned as she grew more tired, and cracked the window slightly, hoping the chill would keep her alert, as it was nearly midnight. It took her three hours of searching to find the obituary, and another three of driving to her get to her current location, five miles from Riverrock. Her eyes were starting to burn, and she longed to close them, but the demon that possessed her with this mission, refused to rest, so she pressed on.
In her opinion it should never take twenty minutes to go five miles, but the snowy roads forced her to about fifteen miles an hour. But, not five feet past the Welcome to Riverrock sign, she caught the bright lights of an all night dinner. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. The word repeated in her head, directing her toward the red, very retro looking dinner. A bell tinged as she pushed her way through the door, and the young woman at the counter momentarily turned her attention from the radio, which was spouting information about the weather.
"Welcome to Yetter's Dinner, what can I get for you?" She asked, as Emily slid onto one of the stools parked in front of the counter. Formica tables and counter, red vinyl booth and stool cushions, and completely empty save for Emily. Just what she expected to find.
"Coffee please."
The woman looked up from her pad, unimpressed. "Will that be all?"
"Yes, please." Emily judged the girl in her early twenties, and decided to risk a question.
"There you go, and here's some creamer, sugar's already out."
"Thanks…um, do you know of a James or Jim Farmer, he used to live in this town?" She sipped the coffee, before deciding it wasn't too hot, and too a long gulp, needing to substance to pry her eyes open.
"Yeah, Mr. Farmer, taught music at my elementary school. Don't know where he went though, but hang on a minute." She bounded away from the counter, toward the kitchen.
Emily finished her coffee, and pulled a five-dollar bill from her wallet, setting it on the counter just as the girl came back out, with an older man in tow. He looked to be in his sixties, with a healthy paunch to his belly, and little gray hair left upon his head.
"Mike Yetter. You looking for Jim Farmer?" He asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Yes, I am. Do you know where I can find him?" She refused to be intimidated from his unfriendly stare.
"Maybe, why are you looking?"
"He's my father." Again, she left out the rape part; they might not believe it, and be reluctant to give her information if she accused him.
The man's eyes softened immediately, and he seemed to age before her eyes, an old man, who'd seen too many friends pass away over the years.
"Keep going straight on this road, make a left onto Pinebrook, ride that for about twenty minutes, then make another left on to Mayberry, 137 Mayberry Lane, it will only be about five minutes down the road."
"Thank you very much," Emily offered before tearing out the door, oblivious to the look on his face that suggested there was more he wanted to tell her.
His directions were easy to follow, and before she realized it, Emily was turning on Mayberry Lane. She straightened in her seat, and felt her nerves jump in fear and anticipation. She was so close, so close to finally ending this horror story once and for all, so close to being able to move on with her life. She saw only a few houses, noting their numbers and pressing on, surprised when she saw rows of scatter gravestones appear on the other of a fence. The house must be after the fence she judged, and continued on slowly, squinted through the snow. Then she saw a large sign for number 137, etched on an iron gate, and understanding hit her like a city bus.
Then the fear, excitement and trepidation washed out of her in a rush, taking with it her hope. Her shoulders sagged, she suddenly felt very tired, and wanted only to go home.
Two hours. Matt couldn't get on a plane for two hours. After the four hour flight he grabbed a cab and directed the driver to the Lehman's house. He wanted to check in with the couple and see if they heard from Emily, before he started randomly driving around the city. He had no idea how to find her, but he by hell or high water, he would, somehow. Breathing in to try and calm his racing heart, Matt knocked on the door, much like he had a month ago, when the whole awful mess began. After several moments, Tom Lehman answered the door, Carol behind him, both in bed clothes, but clearly awake, unable to sleep with Emily missing, even though it was after three in the morning.
"Matt, no luck I suppose?" Tom didn't sound mad, but more broken than anything else.
"No sir, I was hoping that maybe she had called while I was on the plane." Clearly, she hadn't.
"No, not us. Come in, have some coffee." He instructed, ushering Matt inside.
The negotiator thanked him, and pulled out his cell phone, explaining that he wanted to call some of their friends back home, see if Emily talked to any of them. Carol was walking in with mugs of coffee, and Matt's fingers were poised over the keys, about to dial, when the phone began to ring. He pulled his hand back, and looked at the number: Brian's number.
"Brian?" Matt demanded eagerly.
"It's okay, she's here, she's safe." Brian's tired voice announced.
"What? Really?" Matt thought it was too good to be true.
"Yeah, she wandered in about twenty minutes ago, looking pretty beat and about ready to cry. She's passed out on my couch now."
"I'll head over there right now." Matt answered quickly, almost too happy for words.
"You're in Albany?"
"Yeah, plane just landed."
"Okay then, we'll be here." Brian answered, hanging up.
Matt turned to the Lehman's expectant faces. "She just walked into Brian's house, I'm going over there now."
Neither replied, except for nods, and neither asked to accompany him. Emily had told Carol she wasn't ready, and they would respect that, rather than risk loosing her for good.
It was nearly four o'clock by the time Matt made it across town to Brian's house, only getting a little lost. He parked quickly, bounded up the pathway, through the snow, and knocked with similar speed. Brian answered, but said nothing, just held open the door and gestured Matt inside. He led the anxious man to the living room, where both men watched a blanket covered mound, red hair sticking out from one end. Brian left without a word to meet his wife in the kitchen, who was sipping coffee in her pajamas, wondering if it would be worth it to go back to bed, considering their daughter got up at the crack of dawn every Christmas.
Matt crouched next to the couch, where Emily's head lay, and stroked her hair. She stirred and opened her eyes, and after a quiet moment to process that he was actually there, she leaned up, and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. She looked so hopeless, so broken at that moment, and he worried about what might have transpired between her and her child-rapist biological father.
"Did you find him?" He whispered, lips close to her ear. She nodded.
"Did you talk to him?" She shook her head, tensing slightly.
"Son of a Bitch is dead." She murmured, and Matt finally understood her current state. Her breath caught, and his shirt began to dampen with her tears. She would never get her closure, she would never get to face him, call him what he was, and know that she didn't need him. He would always be a sickness inside her, a poison running through her veins.
"Hey, it's okay Em. He's a monster, and there's not one speck in you that's monstrous. You chose to spend your life helping people, you're a good person, you aren't like him. You could never be." He whispered soothingly, hoping that she might actually believe it.
She turned to look at him, tears dripping from her puffy, red eyes, drops clinging to nose and lips, falling from her chin. Her whisper was strangled with guilt and self-loathing. "I wanted him to want to me meet, I wanted him to love me."
Her secret, despised desire finally revealed to the one person she trusted more than anyone, Emily buried her face back in his shoulder, wondering, and half-expecting him to pull away. Instead he held her closer and kissed the top of her head.
"I'm no shrink, but even I understand that. You had a rotten childhood, Emily. Your parents neglected you, and seemed to resent your existence, and your big sister hated you. You had a chance at a parent that might not, regardless that he was a scumbag, it's natural to want that from him. There is nothing wrong with that, Em."
She picked her head up again, and looked at him, wanting to, but not yet believing him.
"There is nothing wrong with you. And, you've done nothing wrong, except run off like this, and scare the hell our of me." He teased her, to try and make her smile.
She bit her lip. "I'm sorry."
"That's alright, just promise you won't run off without telling me again."
"I promise."
"Good, and Em, if you're looking for unconditional love, you're looking at it now. I love you, and I can't imagine ever not feeling that way. It doesn't matter what went on with your family, or who your parents are. You aren't Carol's daughter, or Ally's daughter, or a child of rape, you're Emily, and that's all that matters. Okay?" His brown eyes were staring deep into her hazel ones, daring her to challenge what he was saying. She didn't.
She nodded her head, and pull herself closer to him, holding him tightly. "Thank you…I love you, Matt."
They held each other a while longer, each relishing in a different Christmas wish come true. With the reminder of how much he loved her, Emily realized she wasn't as eager to seek the parental love she missed. She wasn't a child anymore, and could bask in a new kind of love. But, the disgust and self-hatred that comes with being the child of a rapist, that was going to take time to wash off. While, for Matt, it was simply being able to hold her in his arms on Christmas, something he'd been terrified he wouldn't get just half an hour earlier. In fact, knowing what she planned to do, he'd been scared he might never get to have her living and breathing in his arms again.
"Oh shit," Matt suddenly blurted, pulling away quickly.
"What? What's wrong?" Emily's eyes moved furiously, searching his face.
"I need to call home, when you didn't show up, I wasn't the only one worried." He pulled his cell phone out, and dialed Cheryl, seeing as how she'd be canceling all the alerts she sent out.
"Matt, tell me good news?" Cheryl asked in lieu of a greeting.
"Found her, she's safe."
"Oh thank god. She have an explanation?" Cheryl went from relieved to kind of pissed in less than a minute.
"Not really, but things, I think, will be better now." He decided that in her state as it was, he couldn't really hold her accountable for taking off.
"Is she with you now?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Put her on." She used her, 'I'm your boss' tone then, and Matt knew it wasn't going to be good when he handed the phone to Emily.
"Hey Cheryl," Emily grimaced as she greeted her.
"You get one stupid thing every decade Lehman, and you just used yours. You ever pull something like that again, and you earn yourself a new partner, maybe even McAllister." Separating the two was probably the worst punishment she could threaten on either of them, and replacing them with an idiot like McAllister was just mean, but she wanted to drive the point home with Emily.
"It won't happen again."
"Oh, I know it won't. Now, take it easy, get yourself back on track, and have a good Christmas. And, oh, you got a call from Max Logan. He says they fast-tracked your paperwork, you'll be an American citizen by the end of the week. Congratulations." Cheryl practically rolled her eyes at herself; she had a soft spot for the duo, and it wasn't just because they were her friends, there was more to it. Not, that she'd ever be able to figure out just what that more was.
"Thanks, Cheryl. You too, and tell everyone I'm sorry?" God, now she felt guilty. She didn't mean to make everyone worry, in fact she didn't even think about it before she took off.
"I will." She heard the click that signified her boss hung up, and turned to Matt, then glanced around the room. The first signs of light were starting to break through the night, and Brian's kids would be up looking for Santa's loot soon.
"We should go, I'm not up for doing a family celebration, and the kids will be up soon." All she really wanted to was go back home to LA, and spend the day and night, curled around Matt.
"Next flight isn't for two hours, think we can find someplace to get breakfast around here?" He ran his hand up and down her back, happy to show his affection, and knowing she needed it.
"Breakfast sounds good." She leaned into him, looking out the window and realizing that the snow had stopped falling, leaving the snow-covered street glistening in the moonlight. In a few hours, Albany would wake up to a White Christmas.
Sorry this took so long, but I never got the time to get to the library to update it. This is the last piece to this story, so thank you very much for reading, and please review!