Author's note: Welcome to my latest Gravity Falls story! I'd planned to wait until New Years' before writing a new one, but I couldn't resist making a head start. Reading "The Arrogance of Power" before this will help, but hopefully not be essential to enjoying this story. Please feel free to follow, favorite and review!

July 17th, 2018

The night Preston Northwest withdrew from the Oregon Senate race, laid low by revelations about an historical cover-up and financial misdeeds, his daughter posted a poem on her blog. They weren't the most eloquent or original verses ever typed, but they did capture perfectly the thoughts of an eighteen year old woman who'd spent a lifetime wrestling with her family's monstrous legacy and conceited present, broadcasting to the world her desire to make a clean break.

To Dad:

I loved you

I admired you

I followed you

I feared you

I hated you

I resented you

Through it all

You were still my father

Then you did the unthinkable

You betrayed your friends

You destroyed your family

You broke me

- Paz

It was liked and loved and shared 1,000 times in that first night, and thousands more as Preston's campaign entered free fall. The empathy of an entire state - an entire country - who'd viewed Pacifica Elyse Northwest merely as the perfect, pretty daughter of a public figure turned on full bcloisteredlast, plumbing her brief poem for depth and meaning and personality heretofore hidden from the public.

The media swarmed the family's estate in Salem, looking for a word with the ex-candidate, microphones and cameras at the ready, leveled like siege guns at the mansion. But Preston ignored them; he holed up in his mansion with his wife, his lawyers and a few trusted advisers, waiting for indictments to drop, discussing how they might avoid jail time, whether they could cut a bargain with prosecutors or possibly, just maybe, beat this thing with enough money and arm-twisting legal histrionics.

Despite Preston's outward calm, it was clear that their old life was over. The servants were already leaving, most of them signing lucrative deals with tabloids for the Inside Story of Preston's Downfall, when they weren't fielding subpoenas from prosecutors and DA's. The family's art work and treasures were being sold, along with their more elegant furniture and accouterments. Even the items detailing the Northwests' sordid past, so carefully in Preston's Hate Room, weren't safe; Preston's attorneys filed an injunction preventing investigators from seizing them, which a judge upheld. But only until Preston received an actual indictment; then 150 years of misery and shame would become public, demolishing anything remaining of the family's name.

Pacifica felt bad for her mother, who had borne decades of condescension and abuse from Preston with a rigid smile and painfully-swallowed emotions, had striven to meet his unflinching sense of propriety and perfection, only to watch her life destroyed at his hand. She barely kept things together, spending time in her garden and among her books, with alcohol Pacifica had only glimpsed and pills she'd merely guessed at helping her stay afloat. Always with the same smile, which looked increasingly grim and ghoulish as their situation deteriorated.

Pacifica might even miss the creature comforts, opportunities and friends that came with her family's privilege. She loved her fancy, fashionable wardrobe; she loved having entree to Oregon's nicest parties and schools and social circles; she even had a few real friends who weren't just hangers on or sycophants. Who knew if they'd still be around when the dust settled? She hoped they'd still see her as Pacifica; but since she hadn't heard from them since the scandal broke, she feared they'd now mark her as a Northwest.

But after watching her father try to murder some of her oldest friends, all over some stupid historical documents nobody cared about, Pacifica couldn't even pretend to care what happened to him. Father or not, Preston now meant nothing to her. He was a monster, a criminal who deserved everything he got - and then some.

The only question for Pacifica was: how could she escape?

Her opportunity came ten days later.

Preston had spent most of the day, as usual, consulting with his attorneys and personal secretary in their office, poring over every details of the latest legal developments. Even when he did venture out of the office - and that was increasingly rare - he barely acknowledged Pacifica beyond an inclined chin or perfunctory nod, maybe a cursory word of greeting at dinner, feeling that she had betrayed him to her "common" friends from Gravity Falls. He only went outside to play tennis, in a courtyard that grew rapidly worn and dilapidated without anyone to take care of it. Anywhere else he risked being photographed or mocked or otherwise humiliated, and that he could not abide.

That day, Pacifica tried playing tennis with her mother, ignoring the leaves and puddles of water covering the court. Pacifica was fairly good at the game, well-practiced from playing doubles with her Salem friends at school; her mom wasn't a slouch at it, either, and could usually beat her daughter when she put her mind to it. In her current state, though, it was no contest. Priscilla barely bothered to return Pacifica's serves, hardly chased after any of her daughter's balls. Against such a zombie-like opponent, Pacifica couldn't possibly enjoy herself.

"Mom, are you all right?" Pacifica asked after an especially one-sided contest. "You only returned two serves that whole set. Usually you blast them back down my throat!"

"Guess I'm just not feeling up to it," Priscilla said, sighing as she regarded the racket in her hand. "Maybe some other time, Pacifica."

Pacifica walked around the net and clasped her mom's shoulder. As she drew close, she saw so much pain in her mother's eyes that her heart sank.

"Mom...have you been drinking again?" She wanted to slap herself for asking, but couldn't help it.

"Not today," Priscilla said. Pacifica discreetly smelled her breath; no odor of alcohol. She felt so relieved that she didn't ask about pills.

"You know, Mom..." Pacifica took a deep breath, having rehearsed this speech a hundred times in her mind over the past week. "This whole situation is hard on all of us. So you're not alone, you know? You don't need to go through it alone...You can talk to me, or...get help from someone else..."

"I'm fine, Pacifica," Priscilla snapped, her voice curt and angry that she'd even suggest otherwise.

"No Mom, you're not," Pacifica insisted, trying to look her mom in the eye. "If you keep this up...I'm afraid what's gonna happen to you."

Priscilla let down her guard just long enough for a pang of emotion, a twinge of sadness to overcome her face. Then she snapped back into Stepford Wife mode.

"Nothing will happen to me that won't happen to all of us," she insisted, standing straight up, suddenly animated with resentment. "Your father's enemies are out to get him. And God knows he's made a lot of them over the years. People jealous of his success, people who hate that he's more honest than anyone they've ever met...People who can't stand to see a man succeed through his own hard work."

Pacifica felt like she'd heard this speech a million times; she listened to it numbly, her face blankly sad.

"You of all people, who've gotten so much from your father, should be standing by him! Yet you're the first to jump ship at the slightest sign of trouble. I can't believe I raised such an ungrateful child."

Pacifica dropped her racket, her face flushed with hurt. She felt bad for her mom, knew that she was saying this to convince herself more than anything. But her words still wounded. And Pacifica no longer felt she could handle it.

"Mom, I'm sorry you feel that way," Pacifica said, trying to keep her voice even. "But...Just because we're Northwests doesn't mean we need to be defined by it. Be defined by him, especially. Pacifica and Priscilla Northwest are two different people from Preston. And everyone should know it!"

"If we weren't Northwests," Priscilla insisted, "no one would know who we were." Her voice slipped into a quiet murmur, and her eyes wandered towards the weeds creeping around the edges of the tennis court.

"Someone's got to clean up this courtyard," she muttered, starting to rock in place, hands still clasping the racket. "Should do that once I finish the garden."

Pacifica made one last move to comfort her mother, then decided against it. Every time she tried to break through, her mom retreated into her shell - or worse, started barking out defenses of Preston. Pacifica still wanted to help, still felt awful that her mother could be reduced to...this. But she started feeling tired of trying.

"Okay, I'm gonna go inside," she said, trying not to cry. Without looking back at her mom, Pacifica slunk back inside, leaving her mother standing in the courtyard, the wind gently rustling her clothes and hair.

Pacifica retreated to her bedroom and laid back on her bed. She wanted to cry, but just felt emptiness within her; all she could do was sigh and allow thoughts of despair to swim around her head.

Trapped as she often felt in her home, she never really thought about self-harm, let alone suicide. But she did wonder what other choice she had at this point. She couldn't remain with her family forever, but she couldn't leave either. School didn't start for another month-and-a-half. And her Salem friends still weren't returning her calls and her emails, even the ones who'd liked her blog post the week before.

"...Another business partner's suing me." She heard her father's voice down the hall. Apparently Priscilla had come inside. "That ungrateful bastard Bill Burroughs, says I bilked him on a $15,000 loan! Well, I'm talking to our accountant at 4:00 today and we'll set him straight. Problem enough with the government without all the wolves attacking us."

Pacifica pulled out her phone and hit the first name she could: Chris Dirksen, her boyfriend.

"Hello?"

"Hey Chris, it's Pacifica," she said, keeping one ear turned towards her parents' conversation. Though it was mostly Preston complaining about different business partners while Priscilla listened.

"Uhh...what's up?" Pacifica's heart sank, detecting the tentative, even hostile tenor in Chris's voice.

"Jacob Steinfeld, too?" Priscilla called. "Of course he'd talk to you and not me about it!"

"Things are going...kinda crazy here, as you might expect," Pacifica said. "I just...I needed someone friendly to talk to."

"...Oh, Steinfeld's one of them, what do you expect?"

"Don't talk like that." Pacifica was surprised to hear her mother interject so strongly.

"Excuse me?"

"This isn't the 1940's, Preston, you can't refer to Jews as them. We had enough problems with that when Pacifica was dating that Pines boy..."

"And who do you think it was who sold us out in the first place?"

Pacifica was so caught up in this disturbing conversation that she barely heard Chris's response. "...Please don't call me any more, Pacifica. I don't associate with criminals."

"Wait, Chris..." But the phone went dead. And Pacifica listened in horror as her parents' argument escalated.

"What other slurs do you want to drop into this conversation, Preston?" Priscilla shouted. "My God, learn what century you're in!"

"I don't have anything against anyone," he lied, "unless they give me cause."

"It's always someone: the Jews or the media or the unions or your business partners or your daughter or your wife. After all we've tolerated from you. It's never you, is it Preston? Nothing wrong with the world is your fault."

Pacifica listened raptly, terrified and fascinated at what response that bit of defiance might bring. Instead, Preston remained deathly silent; after what seemed like hours, Pacifica heard him stomp back to his study and slam the door.

Pacifica waited a long, agonizing moment, then crept out in the hallway. She saw her mother, again staring into space, and felt her heart break. Without saying a word, she rushed forward and hugged her mom, who let out a quiet sob.

"I'm so sorry," Priscilla whispered. "I try...I try..." But she couldn't form the words, and just sputtered until Pacifica shushed her.

"Pacifica," she said finally. "Promise me one thing."

Pacifica looked hopefully at her mom.

"That you'll get out of here," Priscilla continued. "And don't look back."

Pacifica reacted in shock.

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," she said. "I...I couldn't."

Priscilla's face twisted back into its trademark smile. Lately it had been looking forlorn, insincere, but now it looked frankly terrifying - a grotesque parody of a smile, an Impressionist nightmare come to life.

"Pacifica, I'm already used up," she said. "I've spent my whole adult life suffering that man. Guess it's my fate."

"No it isn't..." Pacifica began. But her mother shushed her.

"My life is already good as over," Priscilla said - a thought that made Pacifica feel awful, since her mother was only 41 - barely middle-aged, not old by any standards. "But you...You're so young. You don't deserve to get caught in this, and you still have time to make your own life."

"But...where can I go? What can I do?" Pacifica wailed. "My friends...I don't even know if I have friends any more."

Priscilla considered this, then rolled through some options. A name she'd mentioned in passing during her fight with Preston came to mind.

"What about Dipper Pines?"

Pacifica's heart skipped a beat as she heard that name.

"Mom...You know that's over, right?" She said incredulously. "I mean, he's dating that Corduroy girl now..."

"Well, he and his sister - Bella, right? or something? - they're still your friends. And I know they've helped you in the past when we've..."

Pacifica thought about it. True, she'd made her peace with the Pines twins during their last meeting. But who knows how long that would last? Or whether it translated into anything deeper? She'd always thought Dipper and Mabel wouldn't judge her for her family, that they'd look at her as Pacifica, and for the first few years they knew each other it held true.

But that was before two summers ago, when everything became horrible and wonderful at the same time. And the thought of conjuring that summer's memories filled her with dread.

But, her mom was right. Her life was in free fall and she needed someone to turn to.

She gave her mother another long, affectionate hug. Then she went back to her room, picked up her phone and scrolled up her contacts list. Her mind raced, her palms sweated as the familiar name appeared on her screen; she felt like a sleepwalker, typing a quick, deceptively casual message as if by rote:

Hey Dipper - it's Pacifica! I'll be visiting Gravity Falls again this weekend - wanna hang out?

What did she have to lose?