When she wandered to the front door the next morning, the locks were still there.

Marilyn's breath escaped her in a small sigh. It wasn't like she'd really expected him to take them off; it was just the gentle lilt of his voice, the way he'd held her in his arms all night, the feel of his kiss on her forehead when he left for work that lead her to hope for what was obviously hopeless.

She walked aimlessly back to Johnny's crib. Her son lay there, chubby little fists curled into balls, his toothless mouth smiling up at her. Johnny loved her, she knew it; he loved her because he had no idea what a broken, futile person she'd become.

His dark eyes locked on her face and he giggled in delight at recognizing his mother.

How soon would he be calling her "mommy"? And, for that matter, how soon before she was locked away in prison, only communicating with her son through a pane of glass and a plastic telephone handset?

Tears welling in her eyes, she scooped Johnny from his crib, cradling him close to her breast. He was the one good thing she'd done since the doctor entered her life. Perhaps the only good thing she'd ever done, if she were being honest with herself.

Johnny squirmed restlessly, then fit himself into the curve of her breasts. One little hand grasped at the cotton material of her nightgown.

"I won't let you down," she whispered, dimly aware of the tears that welled hot in her eyes. "I promise, baby." Marilyn dropped a tender kiss on the porcelain-smooth forehead of her son. In response, he squealed and struck out against the world with all four limbs.

She held him until he slept, and even after he was drifting away in the sleep of the innocent, she held him. Marilyn held him like he was the only thing she had left to hold on to.

A shatter of glass woke her from her afternoon nap.

The facts all lined up within the few moments after she roused into consciousness; she had put Johnny to bed, then laid on the couch, eyes staring sightlessly towards the ceiling. It seemed she'd never find peace, all the worries and fears echoing unforgivably in her skull, but soon she floated away into the sleep of the restless. She couldn't be sure how long she'd slept but the sudden crash that broke through the afternoon's lull sent her shooting up, wide awake at once, and everything fell into place as if in slow motion:

The sliding glass door was shattered.

There was a large rock on the floor.

Behind the curtain was the silhouette of a man.

Marilyn scrambled to her feet and away from the window, something that her excited mind insisted was quite funny – shouldn't she be moving towards the window, towards freedom? Wasn't that the sane thing to do?

But no, she was still backing away because there was a hand reaching through the hole where the glass had shattered, she could hear the soft click of the locks as it undid them one by one.

"Marilyn," came a voice, and then the door slid open.

Her eyes darted around the room for something, anything, but the only thing within reach was the bowl of mints Oliver kept on the coffee table.

"Marilyn," the detective said again, pushing past the curtains that now flapped freely in the lazy afternoon breeze, and of course it was the detective because who else would it be? Who else knew where she was? But why, why the rock, why the plate glass door and not an arrest warrant?

Spears stood there, staring at her as though he could sense the frantic rabbit-run of her thoughts.

"Let's go," he said.

Her breath caught in her chest. She looked from the glittering glass shards on the floor, to him, to the curtain and what lay beyond.

"What are you talking about?" Marilyn murmured at last.

"Come on, we're leaving." The detective gestured impatiently towards the door. He looked haggard somehow, like he hadn't slept much in the past few days.

"I – what do you mean we're leaving?" She didn't dare to move; he had the presence of a junkyard dog on a chain and she was just out of reach. "Why did you break the glass?"

"Why didn't you?" he demanded, then took a sudden jerky step towards her. She backed up instinctively and felt the couch bump the back of her calves. "I mean, you coulda thrown a chair through it any time, you coulda gotten out -" Spears waved at her as if it had been Marilyn speaking instead of himself. "- who cares, doesn't matter, let's go."

"Where are – where are the other police?"

"They're not coming, Marilyn, I'm your knight in shining armor, so let's get the fuck out of here." He took another step towards her and reached for her arm. She edged away slightly but there was no more room behind her; he was closing in.

"Detective, I-"

"Oh come on, sweetheart," he said, his Maine accent heavy with sarcasm, "you call Bloody Face by his first name, least you can do for the man who's rescuing you is do the same."

Her heartbeat pounded thickly in her throat. He moved closer and now she was wedged between him and the couch, she would have to dart to her right to escape but any quick movements would alert him. Now that the detective was close enough she could smell his breath; it was sharp with the medicinal scent of alcohol.

"David," she ventured slowly, trying to control the waver of her voice, "have you been drinking?"

He laughed, a tight barking noise that bounced off the walls of the living room.

"Yeah, you could say that," Spears said, and reached towards her, taking a lock of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. She stiffened as he began stroking the blonde strands absently.

"You're a pretty little thing." His grey eyes flicked to her face, then back to her hair. "You know that? 'Course you do, you could tell that just from your picture. Woman who knows how she pretty she is, she's got a certain... look in her eye."

"Aren't we leaving?" Marilyn said softly, but he ignored her.

"Kept your picture in my desk," the detective went on. "Swore to myself I'd find you somehow, some way. Even after they found your note I thought maybe it was like, what's the word?" He made eye contact with her again and smiled thinly. "Destiny. Yeah, that's the word."

The house was so quiet; her heart was a wild drumbeat in her ears.

"Then one day I come out here on a routine call and here you are, playin' housewife with a serial killer who's supposed to be locked up in Briarcliff." His smile disappeared and now he stared at her with a flat sort of insistence. "But that's all over now. We're goin', right?"

He reached for her arm and she drew back as though burnt. Something here was wrong, it was very wrong, she didn't want to leave with him, as insane as it was she didn't want to be rescued by this stern man with his eyes that glinted like cold stones.

Spears saw her shrink away from him; at he same time, down the hall, Johnny began to cry.

"Oh," he said slowly, his lips curling into that humorless smile again, "so you don't want to leave?"

"David," Marilyn started, and he interrupted her with a short jerk of his hand. She winced, convinced he was going to strike her, but he stopped just short. Her son let out another wail from his crib and her breasts twinged with their familiar ache.

"He can come too," he murmured. "That's no problem. Unless, of course, you don't want to come. In that case, one might have to wonder about the sanity of a mother who would keep her child under the same roof as Bloody Face." His voice caught on the word 'sanity' in a way that made her skin prickle with goosebumps. As it set in what he meant, what he really meant, she suddenly felt she might be sick.

"What are you saying, David?" she whispered.

"I'm saying," the detective said, returning his attention to the hair still caught between his fingers, "that this is how it's gonna work. You're gonna come with me, you and the baby. I'll arrange for the doctor to have a little 'accident', and the whole thing will be over with. I'll take care of you."

When she didn't respond, he gave the lock of hair a gentle tug, as if to make sure she were still listening.

"And if you don't come with me? It'll be the doctor in the electric chair, you in Briarcliff, and your little bastard in St. Ursula's Home For Lost Children." Spears paused, then smiled, then tilted his head towards hers. "So... are you ready to go?"

She saw his face moving closer, his eyes closing in the way a lover's do, and her frantic mind raced to find the most logical survival tactic. He wanted to kiss her, that much was for sure, he wanted her the way men want women and her only option was to fold to his desires, to meet his lips with hers and give him what he wanted...

Johnny let out another feeble cry and it was like a needle of clarity through her brain – this man had threatened her, threatened her son, called him a bastard...

She knew how to collapse into the arms of a man that stood in the way of her freedom and yet she found this time she couldn't do it. It was impossible. It was like asking a rabid cougar to relax into the caress of a misguided zookeeper and even though she knew it was wrong, she knew she was destined for failure, she struck out with wild rage and felt her fingernails catch warm skin.

Spears jerked backwards, his steely eyes popping open in shock as his cheek began to weep red tears.

"You stupid bitch," he growled, then moved towards her, all purpose and strength and fury. His hands closed around her wrists and forced them above her head, his hips driving her back against the couch.

"No-" Marilyn gasped, and her speech was stopped when he mashed his mouth onto hers, the dull edges of his teeth cutting into the tender flesh of her lips.

The detective forced her back further, parting her legs with a rough jerk of his knee, and began working at the crotch of his pants.

"Destiny," he mumbled, "it's destiny, you and me, just let it happen..."

"No!" she shrieked, thrashing beneath his grip, fighting for herself and her son. "Let me go you bastard, let me go-"

"Come on..." Spears' breath had quickened to a pant as he began unzipping his trousers. "Come on, you did it for Bloody Face, right? Did it enough to push out a kid, come on, you can do it for me..."

Marilyn struck out at him with her free hand, pummeling at his face and chest, sobbing uncontrollably. He was almost there, he was shoving up the hem of her nightgown and he was going to-

Somewhere – it sounded like a thousand miles away – a strange sound came, an almost inhuman roar of rage. She was still beating at Spears when suddenly he was propelled away from her, he was flying across the room like magic.

But it wasn't magic, it was Oliver, his face distorted with fury as he dragged the detective off of her; he had one arm wrapped around Spears' neck and was closing off the flow of air with deadly precision. Marilyn struggled to her feet. She was vibrating with anger, her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms.

"Kill him, Oliver!" she found herself screaming, a wild sort of vengeance taking over her body. "Kill him, kill him!"

Both men's eyes met hers at the same time. The detective, unbelieving; the doctor, impassioned.

They struggled together for what seemed like forever, what could've only been a few moments, but then there was a distinct change in the air. The sounds coming from Spears suddenly went silent except for soft choking noises. His feet began to twitch. He grasped desperately at Oliver's arms.

Her heart still hammering crazily in her chest, Marilyn's eyes caught the doctor's again. He was breathing heavily, his dark eyes gleaming, his body taut and strong. In that second she wanted him so badly, she needed him, and though it was only a brief moment of their time together it somehow seemed to sum up everything between them.

He looked to her for what she assumed was approval; she nodded at once.

Oliver's hands fumbled towards Spears' head. While the older man struggled weakly against his grip, Thredson grabbed the detective's skull and, with one swift motion, snapped his neck.

Marilyn saw the light go out of the detective's eyes, though they stayed open. He slid to the floor as Oliver let him fall.

A long moment of silence passed. She looked at the doctor. He looked back at her.

Someone sobbed. It was a short, bitter sound, and Marilyn realized it had come from her.

Then Oliver was moving towards her, wrapping her in his arms, stroking her hair and whispering words of comfort in her ear.

"Darling, darling, are you all right?"

Just the sound of his voice was enough to make her weep helplessly. Her hands grasped desperately at the lapels of his suit jacket.

"I am now," she managed, letting her tears soak his crisp white shirt.

Oliver held her for a long time, making soft soothing sounds in her ear, pressing his lips to her forehead.

After she had stopped weeping, he pulled away slightly to look at Spears' lifeless body. Her eyes followed his.

"Did you know him?" Oliver asked softly.

His dark eyes left the detective to meet hers. Marilyn met his gaze evenly, not giving an inch.

"No," she said.

He studied her face. In that moment she thought he could see down to her very soul.

Then, at last, he nodded.

"Okay." Oliver drew her face to his chest as though he couldn't bear to look at her for another second. "I'll take care of it. Don't you worry."

And for once, Marilyn decided she wouldn't.