A/N: It's strange. I'm trying to write about three chapters ahead, so by the time I post, the chapter I'm posting seems so far in the past compared to where I am at present. It's fun.

Anyway, thanks for all the amazing feedback. Enjoy this chapter and hopefully soon my muse will stop being such a fickle little bastard and return to me.

"Do you remember the birthday party Aaron threw for you?" she asked, and her voice was too soft. He wanted to hear it loud and full of life. Sarcastic like she'd always been. But it was soft and wistful.

Still, the memory was good. "The one that was three months late?"

"Yeah," she breathed, drawing out the word. "Back when we were still secret, and then we weren't." Her chuckle was tired but genuine, happy in the recollection. He wished he had always made her happy.

"We should never have been a secret."

"It only worked because we were secret," she replied, and it sounded childlike in her tiredness. "I think you grew quite attached to me in those couple weeks of limbo. Otherwise, I don't know if we'd have lasted through an outing."

"We still didn't." He didn't mean to say it. He didn't want to bring her down. It just hurt still, if only a little. She didn't answer and he hated himself. This wasn't what she needed. No wonder she'd always called him as a jackass. "Veronica, I didn't—"

"I'm sorry." She sounded broken, like the scared little kid she had never been.

"Please don't be."

"I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I thought you killed her. I'm sorry I didn't stay with you when you were so angry and upset last summer." A little whimper bled through the phone lines, and he wanted to hold her so badly. "I should have stayed with you. I should have—"

"Veronica, stop. Let it go; I have. Really, I have. Please don't cry."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to." She sniffed, laughing and crying at herself. "My head's just all over the place. What I wanted to tell you was that that day—when you took my hand in front of all those people who hated me and told Dick where to shove it—that was one of the best feelings I've ever had."

He smiled. "Like I said, I should never have kept you a secret. I should have—" He cut himself off, too conscious of her father sitting next to him to say all the things he should have done. With her. For her. To her.

"I know," she told him, laughing a little. She understood his predicament. But she knew anyway—even if, for once, he couldn't say it. "And yes, you should have."

He laughed too, that deep throaty laugh that he hoped made her smile. And then silence—a deep, lovely silence that they hadn't shared in so long.

"How's the motel guy?" she asked suddenly, and his heart stopped. "Did Dad get to him in time?"

He was tempted to lie to her, to tell her that the boy was fine and recovering well in a hospital in San Marcos. It would be so easy. He wanted the moment to last. But then what would happen when she found out about the murder rap? She would know he was lying about either Wallace or the clerk, and would probably assume it was Wallace. Why would he be so desperate to lie about some stranger? He wouldn't.

So she'd assume it was Wallace and lose what strength she'd reserved thus far. It would break her, and a broken Veronica was one thing they couldn't afford.

"I'm sorry, Veronica," he said quickly, eager to avoid the 'what ifs' in his imagination. "He didn't make it."

He heard her throat catch on a sharp intake of air. A strangled sob. A whispered apology he knew probably wasn't directed at him. He wished he had lied. Or made Keith tell her.

"Was it…I mean, did…" He waited patiently for her to get her thoughts together, wishing he could have saved the guy if only to make her voice stop shaking that way. "Was he in a lot of pain?" she asked finally.

"No," he blurted out the lie without hesitation, thinking that it was the least he could do. Mac hadn't said anything about how long the kid had lasted, how long he was awake and afraid and in pain. But he couldn't—he wouldn't—tell her that. "He was unconscious by the time Keith got there. He just fell asleep and never woke up."

He heard her sniffle, as if pulling herself together. She had always tried to be the brave one. "Okay. At least I won't have that on my conscience."

"Your conscience? How was that kid's death remotely your fault?"

It came out a whisper, barely audible through the cell phone reception. "He died because he was trying to help me."

He wanted to take her pain and swallow it, let it be bitter in his stomach. She didn't deserve it. Lucky's actions were no more her fault than it was a wife's fault her husband drank. She was just the excuse. But then, it wasn't completely Lucky's fault either.

"It's not your fault, Veronica." He didn't know if Keith wanted her to know or not, but it didn't matter. She had to know. "We found out why Lucky snapped."

The line was silent for almost a minute, and he wondered if she would want that knowledge rolling around in her head. But then the telepathy she'd so perfected jumped in again. "It's Goodman, isn't it?"

Always three steps ahead, his girl. "We found a blackmail recording in Woody's e-mail of two boys from his old little league team talking about what he'd done to them. That he was a pervert. We think he molested Lucky when he was a batboy."

"And when Woody won for mayor, Lucky started to lose it." She didn't seem surprised, and that seemed like a sad thing. No eighteen-year-old girl should be so jaded.

"There's more, Veronica." And he wished there weren't. "The two boys on the tape, they were on the bus that crashed. Marcos and Peter."

That got a reaction and he was almost glad for it. She gasped and gave a little yelp, shakable after all. "Woody set up the crash."

"Maybe. Probably. He's one of two leads right now."

"But he'll run!" she screeched, and suddenly she seemed way too shakable. The smooth ice in her voice melted to sheer panic, strained tight his nerves. It was way too unfamiliar. Unshakable had felt better.

"It's alright," he assured her, motioning with his hands though he knew she couldn't see it. Maybe he was reassuring himself for good measure. Keith was looking at him strangely, asking him what was wrong, and he motioned to him too. "He's in jail. We've got him. Mac's just looking into the other kids who were on Woody's team. She doesn't think the person who was cut out of the recording was Lucky. Could be a better witness than two dead guys and a psychopath. And on the other hand, he could have caused the crash."

"This is all just too much." There was that strain again.

"Are you alright, Veronica?" When she didn't answer. "Veronica, talk to me?"

"I'm just so tired," she said softly, broken.

Staring out into the lonely, black darkness, he concentrated on deep breaths. It hadn't been more than eight hours she'd been gone, but it was a hell of an eight hours. It was a lifetime in eight hours, and all he wanted was for it to end. He wanted to kiss her and know he'd be able to do it again. He wanted to make all her pain go away. He wanted to hold her and make sure she was alright because he couldn't lose another one. He had lost two women in his life and both had directly or indirectly chosen their ends. Veronica wasn't selfish the way they were. She'd done this out of love. And now she was just about worn thin from it.

"Get some sleep, Veronica," he whispered, already mourning the loss of her voice. "We'll be there as soon as we can."

"I love you." He knew she meant it as a reassurance, but there was still that edge in her voice. The one that told him she was scared out of her mind and wanted only to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe. He could relate. He wanted the same thing for her.

"I love you too."

She closed the phone and took a deep breath. The battery display read one bar. Wouldn't last more than twenty minute. Probably less. If they didn't get there by then…well, a dead phone couldn't be traced. No more phone-a-friend.

It would have kept her awake, the thought of being at the whim of a cell phone battery. Cheap little thing, too. Given the option, she would have kept the thing clamped against her ear, listening to the sound of Logan's breathing, if nothing else.

But she was so damned tired.

Another twenty minutes of this and she'd lose her mind. Or worse, that sleeping pill would wear off and Lucky would be out for blood.

So she wrapped her arms around her knees and rested back against the wall. She didn't feel the hard ground beneath her or the rocks poking in her back. Tired beyond pain or fear, she leaned her head on her folded knees. Within seconds, she was out.

"Where are you?" Mac asked, and Keith could hear the keys clicking on the other end even before he answered. Always two steps ahead, that girl.

"We just turned onto Old Kane Springs. How far out is she?"

The road in front of him was empty. Any minute now, a tumbleweed would roll by. But for all the tension in the car, it could have been LA traffic during a movie premiere. Keith hunched over the wheel, looking everywhere at once as if the world would suddenly disappear if he didn't take it all in. Logan stared out the window, passing his cell phone from hand to hand as if willing it to ring when they both knew it wouldn't.

A few more keystrokes and a sigh that made him nervous. "In a straight shot, it's only about four miles, but you've got a lot of crap thrown in your way…including a network of rivers and a bunch of rock formations."

His sigh matched hers, weary and anxious. Four freaking miles. Oh, if only he could fly. "So how do we get through?"

"Keep to the road until you get to the State Park road. Take that right until it dead-ends at a stream. You want to cross it and then go off-road southeast until you hit a second river. If it's any less than two miles, you've got the wrong river. You got that?"

Keith relayed the directions to Logan, who wrote them down on an old Wendy's napkin from the glove compartment. "Alright, what's next?"

Click, click, click. "She should be right around there, on the other side of that river. I'll call to direct you when you're getting close."

He couldn't believe it was that easy. Turn here, turn there, cross a few rivers and there she'd be…his little girl. Safe at last in his arms. He'd lock her in the apartment for the rest of her life.

She scraped the pen across the page, signing her name as easily as if she were signing a love letter. And it was, in a way. It meant the world to him.

"What?" she asked at his silence, her smile somehow different in his eyes though exactly the same as it always had been. Ever since she was a little girl. His girl. "Was I supposed to sign in blood?"

He began to cry, telling her about the test. Confirming what he had hoped and prayed for, what he'd known deep down all along. She was all his, no question about it. She began to cry too, and threw herself into his arms.

"Yeah, you are!" She laughed into his shoulder, squeezing him tightly like she used to do when she was younger. When she was six years old and he spun her around in the living room. Always his little girl.

"Alright," he managed to cough out, swallowing the lump lodged permanently in his throat. "Call me if she moves."

"And you keep me informed," she replied, her excitement palpable in her voice.

"Will do."

"So are they going to find her?"

Mac looked at him, puzzled, and looked back at the computer. "Of course they'll find her. It's not even a question of if."

He nodded, looking over her shoulder at the screen. She could feel him there. Looking at her. Looking at the screen. Looking at her again. He'd been doing that since he had scared the crap out of her and then nonchalantly invited himself to stay. Why did he always have to be looking at her?

"What are you doing here, Cassidy?" she asked finally, closing the laptop in front of her. "I mean, I'm not complaining too loudly because this place gets kinda creepy alone at night with Veronica out there being psycho-bait, but didn't you say everything you needed to the last time we talked?"

He had the good sense to look down at the floor. "Yeah, about that…"

She turned in her chair, facing him fully. He deserved the full-on frontal attack. Every bit of discomfort was his own damned fault. "I believe your exact words were, 'Good luck getting laid.' Am I right?"

"I didn't…" He looked up at her, eyes all bashful the way she'd always thought was cute. "I mean, I was a total—"

"Dick?" she filled in tersely, emphasizing the word as much as possible. His eyes widened almost comically and she knew she'd hit the mark. Yeah, he knew exactly what—or rather who—she'd meant.

"I shouldn't have said it. Really." He didn't say he was sorry. And it was deliberate; she could tell. She didn't think she'd ever heard him really apologize for himself, only for his brother. Maybe that was just the way he was.

"No," she sighed, her resolve crumbling. "You really shouldn't have. But I guess I can just make you pay for it later." There was that smile she'd missed so much. The half-laughing smile, bashful from years of being the younger brother. A little sad from years of being the ignored one.

"I can live with that." He sat down next to her and looked over her shoulder again, not nearly so annoying anymore. "So what are you doing now?"

"Investigating Woody Goodman."

His smile disappeared.

She wondered why.