"That was Dove," Gold said after ending the call. "He spotted the man who broke in." He looked at Isabel uncertainly. "I need to talk to him, find out what was going on."
What was going on, Isabel thought. Because there was more to this than someone breaking into their house. She'd heard what the man had said while she hid. He'd been looking for her.
And there was at least one person out there who'd been working with him, someone he didn't worry about chatting with while he completed a crime.
"I don't have to go," Gold said. "If you'd feel safer—"
"No," Isabel said, trying to ignore the fear churning inside her, trying to ignore the voices telling her to run, to hide. "I'll be all right."
"Isabel. . . ." Gold always knew when people were lying, not that he was going to call her on it.
"I'll be all right," Belle repeated firmly, trying to believe it. Besides, whether she managed to hold it together or not wasn't what really mattered, was it? "We both know it's not safe while he's still out there."
Gold agreed. He wasn't happy about it. But, he agreed.
After he was gone, Belle sat on the sofa, Wee Jock curled up in her lap. She refused to look at the closet. She tried to think of the sheep station in Australia and her first night in a real bed after Rum, her dragon man, had found her. She tried to think of anything besides hiding away and closing the door.
If she hid there this time, it would be different. This wouldn't be hiding away until she felt safer. This would be closing the door because even the house wasn't safe anymore, the same way the world outside was too dangerous for her to set foot in.
If she hid there now, she was never coming out. Even if they dragged her out, it would be too late. The door would be closed. Her heart, her mind, her soul—something inside her would be trapped forever, and not Gold nor dragons would set her free.
She sat on the sofa, stroking Wee Jock, counting her breathes as she slowly let them in and out, and trying not to remember the closet was there, like a hungry beast just waiting to swallow her whole.
The battered storybook Gold had given her was on the table. Isabel didn't dare open her eyes and look at it, but she began reciting lines from it in her head, pacing her breathing to the lines.
Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
"I am stronger than you," Isabel said. She still didn't open her eyes but she could feel the door there, inviting her in. "I am stronger."
She started on the next verse of the poem.
X
Emma was back in the sheriff's office, looking over Graham's notes and trying to make sense of them.
He didn't ask any questions.
No, that wasn't Graham. He had his problems, especially when it came to Regina, but he was a good cop, a clean cop. He wouldn't—he would never—
Except he had. A good cop wouldn't ignore the only witness to a crime.
The file missing, she'd been able to understand that. Maybe Graham had discovered it stolen when he reopened the case. That's why he hid the second one so carefully. Or maybe he still had the original but had hidden it some place Emma hadn't found yet.
That there'd never been a file at all? No, she hadn't thought of that.
He was an inexperienced cop, Emma told herself. Storybrooke crime was lost cats and parking tickets. What did Graham even know about investigating a real crime?
Enough to get it all wrong. Witnesses not interviewed, case file missing, rape kit gone or destroyed.
What was the saying? Never blame malice for what can be explained by stupidity.
Was Graham this stupid?
No, he wasn't.
But . . . Graham was the one who'd reopened the case. It was Graham's notes that had gotten her started on this.
OK, Emma, think this one out.
There was plenty of notepaper on the desk, but Emma didn't start writing anything down. If Grant had a reason for hiding the file, notes—any notes—weren't safe, not till she knew what was going on.
And, if there wasn't a reason—or if that reason was as rotten as old fish. . . .
Then, Emma wasn't ready to admit by picking up a pen. She cleared her mind and tried to put her thoughts in order.
The victim: Isabel Lacey, an Australian. Not that that meant much in Storybrooke. There were a lot of accents here. But, by whatever small town rules decided these things, she was an outsider. Or maybe that was just how people talked about her now she was dead.
Rumor said she was a party girl. But, rumor didn't add up to fact. More likely people had started telling stories after she was attacked and they took on a life of their own. After all, if the victim deserved it and had been asking for trouble, then you could still keep your kids safe, couldn't you?
She thought about the look in Granny's eyes and Ruby's missing mother, wondering again what had happened to her. One mystery at a time, Emma thought. Right now, the one that interested her was Isabel Lacey. Australian, nanny, victim, and woman who'd lived in a small town for five years without ever being close to anyone besides Henry, or not anyone who was admitting it.
So, that's the victim. What about the crime?
Sometime between nine and ten on a school night, Isabel Lacey was attacked in an alley. Attacked, beaten, left for dead.
The crime was ugly, but that's not the point, is it?
Outrage, disgust, anger, Emma parked them at the door when she was working a case. It didn't matter if a bail-jumper cheated on his wife or stole money from orphans—or it didn't unless it gave her a good guess where to find him. Doing her job meant keeping a cool head and focusing on what mattered. The point of a missing person was figuring out where they'd gone. The point of a crime like this was figuring out why it was committed. Why would lead her to who.
This crime was vicious. Someone had wanted Isabel Lacey smashed to pieces and left for dead, someone who hated her—maybe hated her personally, or hated anyone who worked for the mayor, or hated something else she reminded them of. But, that hatred was the key to this case, she was sure of it.
And her prime suspect?
Keith Nott was a small-time crook and full-time drunk who thought he was heaven's gift to women. He probably had a big problem taking "No" for an answer. He might follow a woman out a bar when she'd told him to get lost and put the question to her again, not giving her a chance to turn him down. It wouldn't surprise Emma if he had.
She could also imagine him hitting the woman too hard as she tried to get away or choking her when she screamed for help. Killing someone because he was scared of getting caught or too stupid to know, in real life, people didn't just get up and walk away from major head injuries, she could see that.
He'd probably be all for it if you wanted to hire a thug, too. She wondered if Gold ever needed to hire extra muscle besides Dove and that was the reason Nott was mad, because the boss had turned on him.
Not likely, she decided. Much as she liked the idea of getting something on Gold, you would only hire Nott if you didn't care what damage he caused on the way. He'd also spill everything he knew to the police to save his own skin—or spill it all to the guy sitting next to him in The Rabbit Hole next time he'd had a few too many.
But, this? This was like a mad dog, blindly tearing apart its' victim. Keith Nott felt humiliated by Gold and he robbed his house. Whoever did this would have broken everything inside—or, no, they'd find the one thing Gold treasured the most and break it. They'd leave everything else intact and grind it to powder, so he would know they had chosen it just to get to him. Something vicious and nasty that would hurt.
That was the crime. But, what happened after?
Isabel lived. A twelve or thirteen year old girl was cutting home and found her in time to save her life. For a little while.
And then . . . what? The traumatized girl is sent home. The brutalized nanny is sent to the hospital. Regina shows up, which wasn't sinister, even if Emma would like it to be. After all, Isabel worked for her.
Gold also showed up, which might be sinister. Or might not. He was a lawyer, and Isabel was a crime victim. Emma still didn't know if he was the mayor's enemy or friend but suspected he was both, not that that helped her guess which one he was being that night. But, either one might be plenty of reason to help a dying woman.
Or to hurt her.
Forget that. Stick to facts. Gold showed up and, according to a young girl who might or might not know what she was talking about, had an argument with the mayor. It might have been about Isabel. It might have been about what happenedto Isabel. Were they accusing each other? Making threats?
Or maybe Gold just tracked the mayor down to tell her the town owed him money and didn't care who was dying a few feet away. Maybe his being there had nothing to do with Isabel. It wasn't like life stopped—or like Gold would stop being a major pain—just because someone was in the ICU.
Whatever happened, Graham's investigation five years ago came to a quick halt. Evidence vanished and witnesses weren't even interviewed.
Regina, Emma thought morosely. That was the only reason Graham would drop something like this, if Regina told him to.
Except—except—she'd seen him fight Regina. He'd hired her as deputy when Regina wanted her out of town. He'd listened to her instead of Regina when she'd told him how to find Henry. Whatever grasp Regina had on him, he'd been breaking free of it.
And he'd started the investigation again on Isabel Lacey.
Emma looked at the map of the town. She stuck a pin in Regina's house. She stuck another pin in The Rabbit Hole. A third pin went into the alley where Isabel was found. It was in the opposite direction from the bar—but it was only a block away from The Dark Star Pharmacy.
The attack had happened between nine and ten, early for a heavy drinking partier to be heading back from a bar but just about right for someone running out to get milk before the store closed. Which meant there was one more person who might remember what had happened that night, one more person who might give her a hint what Graham was thinking.
Emma glanced out the window. Night came on early this time of year in Storybrooke. It was already dark out, but the pharmacy would be open for a few more hours. She was betting Tom Clark could answer at least a few questions for her. After all, when a woman is practically murdered on your doorstep a few minutes after you sell her milk, it tends to stick in your mind.
