It had almost become a part of the routine of their nights together now. At some time between two and four o'clock, Anna would wake up in a state anywhere from mild agitation to full-blown panic. She would sit up still mostly asleep or, heart pounding, wide awake and ready to fight or flee. Robert would wake up with her, would sit up, would hold her gently to ease her back onto the bed or would grab her in a strong embrace, keeping her from struggling, from running to or away from whatever it was she was dreaming. Anna, often not even conscious, would give over as he pulled her into him, laid her down, and wrapped his body behind and around hers. Either that or she would fight him, a perilous situation for both: even imperfectly directed and landed, her blows were painful and capable of inflicting considerable damage. Robert never knew what the night would bring.

Tonight she was calm, her expression vacant, almost hopeless, Robert thought, though he didn't know why he read it that way. She didn't wake up as he pulled her back down with him. "What are you dreaming, Luv?" he whispered. "When will you tell me?"

He got up with Anna again the next morning. They were awake at 6:00 and out the door by 7:00. He escorted her to the station, watched her enter her office, ensconced himself at Dante Falconeri's desk, and then sat and wondered what to do for the rest of the day. Elizabeth had insisted they meet in the evening; he had more than twelve hours to kill, rattled nerves, and no clear plan. He decided all he could do was try to keep Anna safe.

So when she emerged from the office two hours later and announced "Julian Jerome's finally awake," he was bound and determined to go with her. She didn't fight him, and he noticed with no small sense of satisfaction that she was wearing the bullet-proof vest under her coat.

When they arrived at the hospital, Ava had already been ejected from Julian's room on Anna's orders. They had never been left alone; Anna hadn't wanted them conspiring to present the police with a fiction or to keep evidence back. She worried that they might, in a nefarious and misguided plot, given the obvious danger Giordano presented, decide to take revenge on their own and leave the PCPD out of the loop. Anna wanted their information or, barring that, wanted to hear obvious inconsistencies. It would help her to understand exactly what she was up against.

She and Robert entered with a uniformed officer. Julian, hooked up to various monitors and devices, looked surprisingly weak and helpless for a man of his usual bulk and bravado. His eyes were shut but the nurse assured them he wasn't asleep.

"Julian Jerome," Anna said, announcing their presence; "we'd like to ask you a few questions about your shooting. Do you feel up to speaking with us? We'd like to take your statement."

Julian opened his eyes a crack. "I've certainly felt better. And I'd like to see my sister. The guard hustled her out of here as soon as I woke up. Why am I being isolated when I'm the victim of a crime, not the perpetrator?"

Anna approached the left side of Julian's bed and stared down at him. "You're being guarded for your own protection," she told him. "Someone tried to kill you; it only makes sense that they may try to finish the job. Especially if you saw your assailant. Did you get a look at the person who shot you, Mr. Jerome?"

Julian pressed his eyes shut again. "No. But I assume it was someone working for Sonny Corinthos. Have you questioned him yet? What does he have to say?"

Anna grimaced. "He has nothing to say. Mr. Corinthos was shot very shortly after you were and wasn't quite so lucky. His funeral is tomorrow. We're operating on the assumption that both crimes are the work of the same person or persons, as are the deaths of your employee—I believe his name was Mr. Thomas Park—and of Mr. Corinthos' henchman Shawn Butler."

Anna noted that Julian looked genuinely shocked and momentarily puzzled. But almost immediately he recovered his composure. "Looks like you'll have your work cut out for you," he observed. "The crime was apparently not committed by the usual suspect."

Anna shifted, looked down and away, and then back to Julian. "Can you tell me what happened immediately before you were shot?"

Julian was impassive. "I pulled into my parking stall after a late business meeting. I opened the driver's door, got my briefcase from the back seat, stepped out, set the car alarm. I began to walk toward the central elevator when someone called out my name."

"Was it a man or a woman?" Anna asked.

"A man. I didn't recognize the voice. He called me Julian, not Mr. Jerome. I stopped, turned around, and before I could see who it was, I felt the first bullet hit me in the shoulder. Everything after that is a bit of a blur. I remember lying on the ground for what seemed like hours; I vaguely remember a woman's voice saying something to me—I have no idea what. And then I remember nothing. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in here, Ava's calling for help, and I'm surrounded by a crowd of doctors and nurses. And then you showed up."

Anna crossed her arms. "Mr. Jerome, I cannot stress enough the danger you are in—and your sister is in; do you know an attempt was made on her life as well?" Jerome didn't react to this bit of information; he was either a skilled actor or felt very little affection for the hysterical woman pacing the hallway outside his hospital room. Anna wasn't sure which was true.

"We have guards assigned to both of you. You must not, under any circumstance, attempt to evade those guards, arrange for them to be distracted, try to get around them, or in any other way compromise your own protection. Do I make myself clear?"

Julian nodded.

Anna frowned. "If you remember anything else, it is in your best interest to contact the PCPD and entrust that information to us. Don't take matters into your own hands, whatever you do. I'll be in touch again soon." Anna strode out of the room, followed by Robert and the officer.

Julian was alone for a few moments before Ava rushed back to his bedside. And in those few moments, he wondered what the hell was happening and broke out in a cold sweat. If not Sonny, who the hell had tried to kill him, and why?

Giordano was up uncharacteristically early, wolfing down a huge breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon, and toast. As he ate, he watched the local news, and smiled at the announcement that the Police Commissioner would be holding a news conference at 3:00.

"I'll be sure to tune in," he said out loud, to no one in particular, before he shoved another forkful of eggs into his mouth. He chewed with his mouth open, something he would never do in public, or even in the presence of one other person. He felt free, untouchable. Life was good.

When they got back to the station, Anna disappeared behind her door again. Robert sat twirling his pen, his eyes glazed over, his mind not blank but working just under the threshold of cold, hard consciousness, ready to snap to attention again with the slightest significant visual stimulus—such as Anna's door opening, which it did, forty minutes later. He grabbed his pen in mid spin and straightened his spine.

Anna looked at him, smiled, gestured for him to come. He did.

Once the door closed behind them, she took his hand, leaned in to him, kissed him on the cheek, and led him back to the desk. They stood side by side and leaned up against it. Her hands in his, he played with her fingers as she spoke.

"I have fifteen minutes before I meet with our public relations people and legal counsel to prepare for the news conference," she sighed. "They'll hand me my speech and the lawyers will warn me what not to say during the 'q and a' session. I don't know why they want me there at all. None of it is me, none of it is from me, I'm not allowed to contribute anything anymore. I'm nothing more than a ventriloquist's dummy. I hate it."

Robert smiled. "I used to like making statements. Saw them as an opportunity to have a good scrap with the press. I found that pretty satisfying."

Anna laughed. "Revisionist history—you never liked press conferences, always complained about them. But now they're even worse. It's not like the good old days, Robert. Back then it mattered who the Police Commissioner was. We were important; we were relevant; we made a difference. Now I feel like I'm nothing. The police are ineffectual. At best we make empty threats, get minimal airtime, while the bad guys win, while they operate unmolested. And the legal department gives me a script to follow. No improvisation allowed. It's a world for the very young. I'm having trouble adjusting. To be honest, I don't want to adjust, really. I thought I was young and hip, but in many ways I'm an old fuddy-duddy, just like you."

Robert leaned over, bumped her shoulder, smiled. "I'll be out in the crowd. And I'm your biggest fan. Just one request: promise me you'll wear the vest."

Anna shook her head and laughed again. "The conference is being held in a secure room in the station. Everyone has to pass through metal detectors to get in. If I'm not safe in the station, where am I safe?"

She'd meant the question to be rhetorical, but Robert's breath caught as an answer came, unwanted, immediately to mind: nowhere, she was safe nowhere; they had never been safe anywhere, and they still weren't safe. He leaned in to kiss her. It was a long, slow kiss, and Anna felt herself completely disoriented. She forgot where she was, when she was, and what was about to happen.

When they broke apart, she smiled. "Thank you, Robert" she told him.

Two hours later they were back in her office.

"Fuck!" It was the first in a string of expletives Anna let fly as she paced the room, her body vibrating with frustration and fury. She didn't swear often; when she did, Robert knew better than to interrupt her. She needed to get it all out. "God dammit, Robert!" More obscenities followed, more elaborate physical movements. Even enraged she was graceful as her aggravation found expression in the motions of her arms, her legs, her head.

Robert watched her calmly, waiting for her energy to exhaust itself. His anger manifested differently: he became disconcertingly composed, quiet, still. When she was finally completely spent and had gone silent, he spoke. "They're paid to get under your skin, remember that," he told her. "You kept it together. There was nothing more you could do. They had their knives out."

Anna gestured grabbing an invisible opponent around the neck and throttling him. "I wanted nothing more than to grab that one son of a bitch and squeeze the life out of him. You know who I mean."

Robert did.

"It's been less than two days and they're already suggesting I'm incompetent, that I could somehow have prevented the shootings, that I've been soft on crime. Scot Baldwin's public statements haven't helped at all—he'd throw his mother under a bus to save his own skin, the bastard. He demands air-tight evidence, too lazy and too much of a coward to take cases to court that he'd actually have to work to argue. No wonder criminals walk free in this town."

Robert worried that Anna was getting worked up again.

"All I can say is they'd better not call too loudly for my resignation. I might just give it to them. Then where would they be? In a whole lot of—hoo ha, that's where they'd be."

She was abandoning the obscenities. It was a good sign her anger was dissipating. Robert's, however, continued to boil under the surface. He forced a smile.

"I think it's time the two of us got out of here," he told her. "You, me, the back door, and then a few martinis. I'll phone ahead to the Port Charles Hotel lounge and see if their private room is free. You deserve to get drunk, Commissioner Devane."

Four or five martinis later—Robert had lost count—Anna was drunk and decidedly feeling less pain. Now what she needed was food, a safe and warm place to sleep, and love, none of which Robert could give her, not this evening, not tonight. He had to meet Elizabeth, and he suspected he'd need time on his own after they spoke. So Robert called Robin, asked her to collect her mother, take her back home and care for her. He'd pick Anna up in the morning. A plainclothes policeman would be posted outside their door just to make sure there was no trouble. Robert had gone behind Anna's back to make the arrangement, had made a few phone calls to well-placed individuals and put bugs in their ears. He hoped Anna would never find out. He was at least fairly confident that she wouldn't notice before morning, since she was more than a few sheets to the wind.

Robin arrived as requested and saw her mother head down on the table. She arched her eyebrows. "How much did Mom have to drink? And how am I supposed to get an unconscious woman into my car?"

Robert smiled. "She's not unconscious, just relaxed. Don't worry, she can move on her own steam; you won't have to carry her. Just bring her home, give her some dinner, some tea, make sure she's okay, and put her to bed. She's exhausted. Let her sleep late tomorrow. Phone me when she wakes up and I'll come and collect her."

Robin eyed him suspiciously. "Why aren't you drunk? The two of you always got blasted together. I don't remember you ever taking turns as designated drivers. What's up? You didn't get her drunk on purpose, did you Dad?"

Robert scoffed. "Of course not. It's just that I have an appointment. That's why I couldn't drink as much and why I can't take your mother home. Don't be so mistrustful."

Robin didn't look convinced. She put her hand on Anna's shoulder and gently shook her awake.

It was a good thing Robin and Patrick's house had an attached garage—Robin was able to get her mother inside without prying eyes seeing the intoxicated, strangely syncopated sway in her mother's step. Once in the living room, Anna flopped on the couch, her hair dishevelled, her smile crooked. Robin had seen the news conference. She'd seen her mother attacked. Whatever her father's alternative reason might have been for getting her mother drunk, he'd done exactly the right thing. Robin saw no evidence of stress and strain in her mother's body or expression at the moment. For a few hours, at least, she could relax.

"Where's Emma?" Anna asked, smiling.

"She's upstairs, Mom. Patrick's putting her to bed. It's probably better that she doesn't see you right now. I don't really want to have to explain why Grandma is acting funny."

Anna's expression was a mixture of mock shame and honest delight. "I know," she sniggered; "I'm a bit tipsy. I tried very hard when you were young not to let you see me like this. I completely understand."

Robin wanted to ask her mother how she was feeling, whether she was in any danger, whether she was still having the nightmares her father had told Robin about, but she thought it best to keep things light. "Do you want some tea, Mom?" she asked.

Anna nodded. "That would be lovely. Thank you."

"Maybe we can watch a movie. If you want, while I'm making the tea, you can change and make yourself more comfortable. Your nightclothes and robe are still in the guest bedroom closet. You can use my make-up remover and cream—I bought that stuff you recommended. I decided it's time to start worrying about wrinkles."

Anna looked at Robin, puzzled. "I'm staying here tonight?"

Robin laughed. "Yeah, Mom, Dad asked me to bring you home and take care of you. You had a rough day."

The relaxed joy flattened out of Anna's voice. "Where's your father? Why did he ask you to bring me here?"

Robin shrugged. "He said he had an appointment. I have no idea with whom or where. He told me he'd pick you up tomorrow morning. That's all I know. Sorry."

Anna frowned.

Robert was waiting at the bar of the PC Hotel lounge, nursing a club soda though he desperately wanted something stronger. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Robert." It was Elizabeth's voice.

He didn't turn around. "Don't touch me," he ordered quietly. "The back room is free. Let's take our conversation somewhere more private."

"Aren't you even going to offer me a drink?" Elizabeth asked.

"Order up and bring it with you," he told her. "I'll be waiting." He turned and left without looking back.

Five minutes later she appeared at the entrance to the private room, hands full. She was carrying two glasses and a bottle of champagne. She shot Robert a look of a shocked inquiry: wasn't he going to help her? When she realized he wasn't, she shrugged, walked up to him, and deposited everything with flare on their table.

Robert looked at her carefully. Anna was right, Elizabeth's hair was cut in exactly the same style. And she was wearing exactly what Anna would wear: smart trousers; a button-up shirt; a simple, classic blazer; a stylish trench coat. She wore a plain leather bag slung diagonally over her shoulder, the way Anna always did. Elizabeth seemed a very different woman. Robert's skin crawled.

"Funny—I assumed you'd be the type of man to help a lady, with her coat, with her chair," Elizabeth remarked. "I guess I was wrong." She moved her own chair, removed her own coat, and sat down. "Lovely to see you again Robert. I've been looking forward to our date all day. I've been giddy with excitement." She smiled and cocked her head—the way Anna would. The way Anna did.

Robert clenched his fists under the table. "Obviously this isn't a date. You have something for me. We can deal with our business fairly quickly and go our separate ways. There's no reason to linger here."

Elizabeth's smile brightened. "But I ordered us champagne! Open it, will you, Robert? I want us to drink together, to toast our agreement, our new partnership. You watch my back, I watch yours."

"I don't want any champagne."

Elizabeth sighed. "Oh, all right then, I'll do the honours. I want you to know you're really disappointing me. I had this fantasy you'd be much more gallant, much more 'Cary Grant.' You could be if you wanted." She grabbed the champagne bottle and expertly removed the cork with a subtle pop. She poured out two glasses, raised one. "To you, my most worthy opponent. Who knew reaching an impasse could be so incredibly exciting?"

She sipped from her glass. Robert didn't even raise his. She glared at him. "Drink to my toast, Robert. You can't afford to make me angry. I'm in the more powerful position here. Trust me on this."

Robert took the glass, raised it, and drained it. He put it back on the table.

Elizabeth smiled. "That's better. Keep Lizzie happy and everything will be fine."

"Do you have what you promised me?" he asked. "To be completely honest, I'm not convinced by your threats. In fact, I doubt you have anything damning on me. As far as I'm concerned, it's game over then. We go our separate ways. That means you leave town."

Elizabeth turned around, grabbed her bag, pulled out a thick envelope. "Here it is, as requested," she told Robert as she handed over the file. "Of course it's a copy, and I've removed quite a few pages I thought prudent not to share. But there's more than enough here to substantiate my claims, my 'threats' as you call them. I know more about you than Ms. Devane, the love of your life, will ever know. Some of it quite shameful."

She continued. "And just so you're aware, I have her file as well." As Elizabeth spoke, she gradually and increasingly assumed Anna's voice, her accent, took on her mannerisms. "And so, conversely, I know more about Ms. Devane than you, the love of her life, will ever know. The file contains details of exactly what you abandoned her to, Robert, when you declined the WSB's offer. It's probably better that you don't know; I suspect that, if you did, feelings of guilt would tear you apart. The suffering that woman went through! You can only hope she doesn't now and never will remember any of it. If she ever does, she might just end up hating you."

By the time Elizabeth finished, she was Anna accusing him, Anna threatening him. Robert grabbed her wrist and pulled it violently, sending Elizabeth off-balance, wrenching her forward, her elbow knocking against the table, their champagne glasses tumbling to and shattering on the floor. "Stop it," he hissed. "What the hell are you playing at? I get the threats, I get the blackmail, but I don't get why you're mimicking Anna. What's your game? You can't be her; you can never be her; you can't even be like her. You think I'll want you if you impersonate her? You think I'll want to sleep with you if you pretend to be the woman I love? You repulse me."

Elizabeth's expression went blank. Anna was gone. "I'd enjoy fucking you, Robert, but not as Anna Devane. Your devotion to her would make the sex less exciting, less satisfying for me, too tender, too loving. I'd want us to come together out of sheer physical, sheer animal attraction. And I'd like that attraction to be mixed with strong repulsion, even hate. That would be incredibly gratifying to me. So you've said nothing to sadden or intimidate me here. I'm quite encouraged, in fact."

"It will never happen," Robert spat, releasing her. "So why the pretense? Why are you dressing like her, speaking like her, moving like her?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Everyone emulates someone. We're basically imitative creatures, Robert. We're accumulations of other people's gestures, other people's expressions, other people's attitudes, other people's opinions. We would have no sense of who we are, how to act, how to be human, if we didn't copy those around us. For example, according to your file, you entered the WSB to be like your father, who worked for the Australian government. But imitation is even more subtle, isn't it? You've probably on occasion caught yourself standing exactly the same way he did—perhaps crossing your arms like him, standing with your weight shifted to one side, like he did. That's not genetically programmed behaviour. That's subconscious patterning.

"And this is key—most imitation happens unconsciously. I've simply refined the process. I've made my imitation conscious. I've chosen my models and exemplars very carefully. Anna Devane is well loved. She's elegant, attractive, powerful, respected. Why not imitate her? Why not become her, at least for a while? I want what she has. How better to acquire it than by becoming her?"

Elizabeth looked to the glasses shattered on the floor. "What would Anna Devane do in this situation? No glasses, a full bottle of champagne, a raging thirst, and no one but you watching. What would she do, Robert? Can you tell me? Because I can tell you."

Now Robert's expression became flat and neutral. "She'd drink straight from the bottle. That's what she'd do. And then she'd hand the bottle over to me to do the same."

Elizabeth smiled, took the champagne, lifted it to her mouth with both hands, and drank deeply. She lowered it again and pushed it across the table towards Robert. "Read the file," she told him. "You'll want to get in touch with me when you're done. You know where I'll be."

Elizabeth got up from the table, collected her things, put on her coat, and walked away.