A/N: I hope you don't mind the brief authorial filibuster in this chapter. In case you didn't figure it out from "Trina, Interrupted," one of my pet peeves about Victorious (and Dan Schneider in general, really) is the attitude "Mental illness is hilarious". Also, thanks for all the reviews. I know that this story emphasizes talk over action, but I hope that you're enjoying it nonetheless.

Normally, Tori considered herself a patient person, but this was really pushing her to her limits.

"Yes, I just need to know the name of David Vega's precinct captain seventeen years ago…yes, Vega, V-E-G-A…No, I'm not sure exactly where, but I think it was somewhere in East L.A….yes, I'll hold. Again."

As "Dancing Queen" came on once again – doesn't the LAPD have any hold music besides ABBA?, she thought – Tori sighed heavily and took the phone from her ear for a moment. She was beginning to wonder whether this was a fruitless quest. After all, she had no idea whether this man knew that he was her father; he might not even realize that she existed, and, if so, her just showing up on his doorstep would surely be a nasty shock. But still and all, Tori firmly believed that she had a right to know where she really came from – and, she thought darkly, given that this man had had no problem sleeping with the wife of one of his subordinates, maybe he deserved to get a nasty shock.

A cry came from the doorway, making Tori jump. "I DON'T KNOW YOU!"

"It's all right, Mrs. Harris. I'm Andre's friend Tori, remember? I'm just staying here for a little while. I don't mean you any harm."

The elderly woman eyed the young Latina up and down. "…You're sure you're not one of them?"

"Who's 'them'?" asked Tori warily.

"The ones who come into my bedroom at night. They mess with my brain while I'm sleeping – put wires in it. I can feel them…" Charlotte Harris began to tremble. "Oh, God, I can feel them – burning into my head…"

Tori had always found Andre's grandmother to be an annoyance at best, and at worst, more than a little terrifying. Now, though, it dawned on her just how sick the poor woman truly was. Visual and auditory hallucinations, paranoia, illogic – all the textbook signs were there: schizophrenia. And yet, despite the torment Charlotte had to endure every waking moment of her life, she still found the strength to love and care for Andre. How sharp a contrast with Tori's own parents, who bore no such burdens, yet thought only of themselves.

"I'm so sorry that you have to go through that, Mrs. Harris," she whispered. "I wish there was some way I could keep you safe from them. I really do."

For the first time, Charlotte visibly relaxed. She looked at Tori with a newfound lack of anxiety – or was it even, perhaps, affection? "No one ever talked to me like that before except Andre. Thank you. I hope you can stay here longer."

"It…may be a while, actually," said Tori softly. In truth, she had no idea whether she would ever go home. But then, she couldn't impose on Andre forever…

"Hello?" came a small voice from the phone. "Are you still there, Miss Vega?"

Tori had momentarily forgotten all about her quest. Hurriedly she raised the phone to her ear. "Sorry about that. Were you able to track him down?"

"Yes, I believe I've found the name you were looking for. Captain Harry Reynolds."

Harry Reynolds. Harry Reynolds is my father. Tori's voice wavered as she went on: "I know this is a lot to ask, and you probably have all kinds of privacy regulations and stuff, but could I have an address for him? Home or work, I don't care which one. It's really important. He's…I can't believe I'm telling this to a complete stranger, but…I'm pretty sure he's my biological father."

The voice on the other end of the line, previously so curt and officious, suddenly became hesitant. "Miss Vega, there's something you need to know…"

A minute later, as Andre Harris puttered about the kitchen, making peppered omelets for breakfast, Tori walked in, her face completely white.

Andre immediately dropped what he was doing. "What's the matter, muchacha? What happened?"

"I need.." Tori whispered. "…I need you to drive me somewhere, please."

/

The morning dew was still on the tall grass as the two of them trudged through it. Andre had wanted to stay by the car – this would be an intensely private moment for Tori, and he felt he should stay out of it – but she had insisted that he come. She had a strong presentiment that she would need his shoulder to lean on.

The cemetery was in poor repair. Wind and rain had long since scrubbed away the names on the grave markers beneath their feet, rendering them illegible. Many of the taller tombstones had cracked and fallen. A limestone angel lay on its side, its finely carved tears now impossibly flowing sideways. Tori was at first unsure whether she would even be able to find what she was looking for.

But she was fortunate – or, rather, Harry Reynolds had been fortunate. For his gravestone – a simple red granite pillar, barely three feet high – still stood, silent and watchful, near the fence that marked the farthest boundary of the cemetery.

1950-2003. He had been 45 when he fathered Tori, 53 when he died. Old enough that he shouldn't have faced any risks greater than cutting his fingers while shuffling papers. But then, he never could have predicted he would be mugged on a simple night trip to the corner store. And he certainly couldn't have known that the mugger had a partner, ready and waiting to stab Harry Reynolds in the back.

After decades of service as a cop, a completely random death. Bleeding out behind a trash can in a dirty alley, alone, probably terrified. Tori wondered whether David Vega would someday meet the same end.

She knelt and laid the bouquet of flowers she'd hurriedly bought at the foot of the gravestone. Her hand ran over the shallowly incised letters that were now all that was left of her father's existence.

"Who were you?" she said to the morning air. "Were you a good man? I know you slept with other men's wives, and you had loose lips, but…you spent so many years trying to protect other people. That has to say something about what you were like, right? Please tell me it does."

She began to weep soundlessly. Andre laid his hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him. "I'll never know what his voice sounded like, 'Dre. I'll never know what his favorite food was, or what movies he liked. I'll never know…what he thought about me…if he knew…if he loved me…"

Andre pulled her close, and let her sob into his chest, as the rays of the morning sun fell upon Harry Reynolds' grave.