Something made Lizabeth stop and take out her phone. Though she had been sorely tempted to contact William Darcy many times over the last week and a half, this seemed to warrant a call. She didn't wait to hear if he picked up or if it went to voicemail but tucked the phone in her bra as she walked up to talk to Ryan Fitzwilliam.

There was the briefest whisper of her name when she heard William answer, but it was covered up by the sounds of her feet crunching on gravel as she called over, "you can walk."

"I can," said Ryan as he turned to stare at her. "What the hell are you doing here, Lizabeth?" He ran a hand over his chin where he had grown a beard. It made him look more dangerous, somehow.

"William brought me here once," she said.

"Ah, the honorable, arrogant, fuck-up William," he said, sighing. "If only he hadn't; I wouldn't have to worry about what to do with you now. How did you get in?"

"The gates are open," she answered, taking a step backward, though she knew that wouldn't help.

"Josef is such a prat, and forgets to wipe his nose when it runs," he said.

When Lizabeth heard Josef's name mentioned, her body flushed; it was a similar reaction to when Mrs. Bennet yelled at her when she had done something wrong. But she also couldn't help the exclamation, "no!" escaping from her lips.

All her ideas about Ryan and the depth of his involvement in the various dealings in Merton flashed through her mind and made sense. Ryan Fitzwilliam was the lynchpin that held it all together.

During the week, William and Caroline had worked hard on repairing the story arc, repeatedly meeting with the new writer who took them on a far darker path. Caro loved the new direction and believed that the audience, particularly the eighteen- to twenty-five-year-old-eyes, would love it.

Considerations of where he had gone wrong with Lizabeth had dominated William's mind to the exclusion of everything else. But making amends was something he wasn't used to doing. In the past, he had always moved on. Perhaps a little unhappy that things hadn't worked out but usually far happier that his lover or girlfriend was out of his life. But not now. William wanted Lizabeth back but had no idea how to go about doing that. He had failed to woo her once before, but could he woo her a second time? Did he know how?

Once or twice in his life, he had been utterly surprised by an announcement, though he usually was jaded enough (having grown up in LA) to not be stunned by a disclosure. But William found himself blinking his eyes and feeling stunned when he read the news about his cousin's arrest.

Anne was a blood relation; they had played together as children. He thought he knew her, despite her foibles or quirks or her ill-health. He had seen her use illness as a means of keeping people at a distance (or claims of it—she was never consistent about what ailed her). But when a friend called on Saturday morning and woke him up to ask 'hey, isn't that your cousin on the news?', William had no response and could only say 'no comment' before he found himself glued to the TV.

It wasn't much longer before his Aunt Catherine called and demanded he come up. But William wasn't sure what he would do if he came rushing to her side, so he told her he wouldn't. He thought about Lizabeth taking a stand with her mother. It felt harsh, in a way, to push his aunt away at such a time, but he didn't know what benefit it would be for him to listen to her complain.

He was troubled and depressed by Saturday night, cooking supper and raiding his stash of wine (and drinking too much of it, though he had many excuses for drinking that night). On Sunday, he slept in. The news continued to be bad, and he wasn't inspired to work, so he holed up in his home office—out in his shed.

William couldn't keep Lizabeth out of his mind. Her luminous dark eyes, that luxurious hair, and that small uncertain, untried smile. But there were other things about her, her insight, the way she picked up on things, and strung facts together to a conclusion. She was clever, quick. He had discounted her, sneered at her. Caroline was correct that he hadn't deserved her.

He felt like his world was falling apart; what he knew about film and storytelling wasn't true anymore and wasn't what people wanted to hear or see. This new writer, with her insistence on dark, morbid topics and points of view—wasn't his. And he had discovered that his family members weren't who he thought them to be. It made him question where he was in life. Was this where he should be and was it what he really wanted to do?

He had seen himself as a caretaker for both of his cousins, even if Ryan was older. William admitted now that he had felt upstaged by Anne with her bit-coin offering and making millions in one day. But news of her flight, and becoming a national celebrity in a bad way was a blow—there was such a thing as bad publicity, and he didn't enjoy being attached to it.

His mind swung back to work, and he wondered if perhaps they ought to just scrap all of Bella Montaña, and take the financial hit. Maybe he should change how he worked. It seemed with his current process, he was always scrambling to keep up. Maybe he ought to plan better and work a year out. Instead of considering the fall line-up, he should think of the spring and buy himself time, with room to breathe, and a little peace of mind.

He felt better when he wasn't stuck inside, but the beach wouldn't do it for him with that recent incident involving the bicycle thief. William got in his car and headed up through Beverly Hills into the canyons to snake his way along the curves of Mulholland Drive to clear his head, getting lost merely driving the hills.

His phone rang, and he answered with a click of a thumb before he glanced at the caller ID. His heart leaped up into his throat when he saw that it was Lizabeth.

"Lizabeth?" he said, tentative and almost convinced he was dreaming, as if he had conjured her up from nowhere since she had been on his mind. But no voice answered. He was confused as there was ambient noise on the line but no words. The sounds of both the motor and wheels from his car overlay the sounds coming from the phone, and he called her name again, "Lizabeth!"

She said, "you can walk!" and he was puzzled by the response.

But then he heard his cousin answer. "I can."

Sweat beaded his brow, and his hands were suddenly slippery. William felt unsafe driving and feared he would lose control of the car. He didn't want to call out and ask if she was safe, fearing that his cousin would hurt her as he heard the menace in Ryan's voice.

William didn't understand the situation. He only felt sick, sweaty, and confused, but he kept driving and attempted to find a place to pull over. The next part of the conversation was missed as someone was riding his bumper (people loved to speed on Mulholland). Once William parked and pulled the phone up to his ear, he could only hear movement. The way you hear bodies shuffle and shift over the phone as they walk or cook or do some physical activity.

"Down the hall," he heard Ryan call.

William still wasn't sure where the two of them were beyond a location Lizabeth knew, though it was apparent that his cousin knew it as well. There was the sound of a door opening and hinges squeaking.

"Up," Ryan ordered, followed by the sound of feet on wood.

The pair seemed to be climbing stairs. "I didn't see this," he heard her remark.

"I locked my cousin in here once. It was so far from the rest of the house that no one could hear him yell. I don't need to worry about gagging you."

William felt his face go cold as he realized that they were at Pemberley.

"It took my aunt and grandmother an hour to find him. Little fucker didn't even attempt to find a way out. If only he had attempted to crawl out the window and over the roof, he would have been free in ten minutes. He was never the adventuresome sort; he always sat daydreaming," Ryan sneered. William thought he had erased that memory, put it down to boyhood mischief. He hadn't realized how intentional the act had been. He also felt torn. In order to call the police, he had to hang up and lose his connection with Lizabeth, so he hung on, wondering if Ryan would leave, and he could whisper to her and discover if she was alright.

There were muffled sounds. He could hear his cousin's voice fading out, then getting clearer again as he asked her to put her hands behind her back, apparently to tie her up. There was something about the reality of listening to it that made his stomach cramp. Such a scene in a movie was one thing, hearing it played out was another, and William felt sickened.

There was no talking for a minute, only those sounds of movement, but his cousin's final farewell (but not a fare well, as Ryan didn't wish Lizabeth well at all). His words, "they'll find you…eventually," were loud and clear.

William waited and waited. He knew it was mere seconds. His ears waited for a sure sign that Ryan had gone but didn't receive it. The fact that there was no more noise finally made him brave enough to whisper, "Lizabeth? Are you okay?" he began.

"William! Ryan is in on it. He can walk, but he's leaving now with Victor and Josef. You have to call the police," she exclaimed.

"Do you know where they're going?" he asked.

"No." He could hear the sounds of movement as though she were attempting to free herself.

"But are YOU alright?" he insisted, frantic.

"I'm at Pemberley," she said. He had no measure of how she was. She sounded factual and not emotional. He had seen her do that before, retreat when overloaded.

"But are you alright?" he repeated.

"Yes," she answered, still sounding distant and out-of-touch.

"I have to hang up in order to call the police. I am going to hang up now. They'll come for you soon," he insisted, reticent to do so, and yet he wanted the police to free her as soon as possible. "Bye."

"Hurry and call as they've already left," she insisted.

William reluctantly clicked the red button to end the call and dialed the emergency line. It took some time as he had to identify himself and explain that he didn't have an emergency, but he was calling about one in a town hundreds of miles away, hours away, in another police jurisdiction.

Using his cell phone parked on a road with questionable cell coverage complicated the process, but he was finally able to get some traction and got the operator to understand when he mentioned his cousin Anne. His final exchange, before hanging up, was to assure the authorities that he would drive to Merton.

He tried Lizabeth's cell, but there was no answer. Whether because she was still tied up or was now free but was speaking to the police or wouldn't take his call, he didn't know.

It was the longest drive to his place of birth that he had ever made. Never before had William wanted to be there in an instant. The radio was of no help. He tuned it to a station that broadcast the news constantly, but no news made him happy during that long drive. There was nothing about her or Ryan.

William drove with the long straight stretch of freeway in front of him and cars or semis impeding his progress. But there was nothing to stop his mind from repeating those snapshots of overheard dialog. When he had first picked up the phone, he had wondered why she was calling. But as the scene played out (he had almost been able to see it in his mind), he had briefly wondered if she had called for some cruel reason. As if she knew Ryan would hurt her and wanted revenge, wanted him to suffer by hearing her tortured or tormented.

But William quickly dismissed those thoughts. Other lovers might have acted in such a calculated way, but Lizabeth would not. She had walked boldly into a scenario, probably meaning to confront Ryan, but as a back-up—having been caught off-guard by his apparent ability to walk—she had called William at the last minute. She must have hidden her phone somewhere that Ryan didn't find it as he speculated that his cousin must have searched Lizabeth before tying her up.

She had incredible strength. He hadn't realized that, but it took strength to end relationships. She had looked at the big picture and decided what she needed and called it off—even though it had been devastating for him. And she had confronted Ryan. William didn't understand why she had gone to Pemberley to talk to his cousin, but he could only admire Lizabeth as he sped toward Merton and his family home.

She was beautiful, intelligent, clever, and strong, and William realized that he loved her. He had never loved any other woman he had dated. With only the freeway's length taunting him and not knowing her fate, William thought nothing came closer to tearing him apart as he sped past cars, desperate for news, receiving none, and not making enough headway.

Driving during the day, it was over five hours to reach Merton. At least Pemberley lay on the south side of town, and River Road was an exit just off the freeway. The landscape in front of his ancestral home was blocked by a dozen police cars, and when he pulled up to speak to a uniformed officer, leaning across his car to talk through the open passenger window, the man blew a whistle and waved at him to move. William stood his ground and called out that he owned the property. He was still waved on but told to pull beyond the police vehicles.

What followed was a far longer time than he anticipated, like on Monday, speaking first with local police and then with FBI agents. He immediately asked about Lizabeth and was assured by every person swarming around the Pemberley grounds that the young woman had been rescued within fifteen minutes of his call. She had been checked out by medics and released to stay with a friend.

No sign of Ryan Fitzwilliam or his associates had been discovered, nor did they have any clue as to which direction they had fled or their next moves. When William asked, 'which friend?' Lizabeth Bennet was staying with; the police said alternatively that they didn't know or couldn't share that information, but that they needed William to stay and answer questions.

They wanted to know what he knew about his cousins and their activities. The snippets which Lizabeth had mentioned in their short conversation became clearer as he began to understand that Ryan was involved with the two men who were still wanted for questioning (and suspected of masterminding) the Spectre Software Dark Web swindle. William couldn't believe that Ryan was involved, a relative. But he had also had a hard time believing that Anne had created a successful bit-coin offering—and then fled with the money.

He felt slammed from the repeated blows of the news and physically sick, though he answered the authorities' questions as best he could. Part of his brain realized that his relationship with Anne Deburg and Ryan Fitzwilliam (and co-owning Pemberley House) made him a suspect. Eventually, he was asked for his contact information, where he would be staying in town, and for how long. He said he would be at the hotel. Keeping Aunt Catherine at arm's length was best (particularly if he remained a suspect).

Once back in his car, he tried Lizabeth's phone, both her cell and home number, but she didn't answer either one. He wondered who she was staying with or if she had gone home to her family. Part of him, a small part, was content that she had found comfort after her ordeal. But a larger part wanted to console her himself, and he checked into the hotel, realizing he was angry and frustrated after all the events of the day.

Lying on his back on a hotel bed was far less satisfying than sitting in his home office as he realized how disappointing everyone's answers had been, the same with the news and the events of the day. He had begun the day posing questions about the future, for himself and his company, and ended the day in bitter disappointment, feeling worthless, and even to blame.

Somehow, had Lizabeth not known him, she wouldn't have ended up at Pemberley, confronting Ryan, and being locked in the turret. Her fate was his doing. William was miserable and melancholy and fucked up. He rose from his bed and went down to the hotel bar to drink, thinking he might recognize someone. Maybe Charles was in town and visiting Jane? but there was no one. It was just him and a line of drinks before he stumbled back to his hotel room in confusion and misery.

He took his time on Monday to shave and shower and dress. William didn't attempt to call her but thought that speaking in person might be easier for both of them. He arrived at the Recording Office just before noon, hoping they might have lunch together.

But Lizabeth wasn't behind the counter. That jokester wasn't at the computer in the public area, either. The office was quiet, almost clinical. A small metal bell sat on the counter, and William rang it. Troy Metcalfe poked his head out of his office after a too-long pause.

"Hello?" said Metcalfe.

"Hi." William smiled. "Is Lizabeth taking the day off?"

"I don't know what happened to her. She didn't come in, didn't call. I haven't been able to get a hold of her," the Judge explained as he came farther into the room. "How are you?"

"Fuck," William muttered before attempting to look again at Troy Metcalfe. "Um, confused. Not sure if you've followed the antics of my relations or not? But Lizabeth got caught up in them. I'm surprised that bit hasn't made the paper yet." He started and stopped many times in his explanation to the Judge about what had happened the day before. With his focus on contacting Lizabeth, William hadn't paid attention to the news that morning.

Perhaps the police were down-playing their search for Ryan Fitzwilliam, Victor Denny, and Josef Pratt? The men having been holed up all this time in town was being kept quiet while they still searched for the fugitives. Any news about an associated kidnapping had been kept quiet as well.

Judge Metcalfe looked distant after William shared the story of her call and his police interrogation on Sunday. "I have to assume she's traumatized," said Troy. "I'll need to figure out coverage for the desk until she resurfaces." He bit his lip, which seemed very uncharacteristic. "I care a lot about Lizabeth. She's sweet, no, that sounds sappy. Different—spunky and smart and has run this office efficiently. No one has ever complained. Thanks for dropping by."

Judge Metcalfe wandered off with his mind considering a substitute records clerk. William watched him shut his office door before he walked out, wondering where she was. He tried her phone numbers again, but Lizabeth didn't answer either one. He didn't want to be a nuisance, so vowed only to call once a day. But now he had the afternoon stretching in front of him.

Work, his work, needed addressing. One glance at the email on his phone showed William that he could get lost in work and not surface until the next morning, but he put off tackling it until after he ate. His call to Caro ended up lasting hours, with both of them on speakerphone as he discussed the news, his role, his cousin's role, and what had happened to Lizabeth before they even tackled work. He signed off, indicating that he wouldn't be returning to Los Angeles until he knew that Lizabeth was okay—which meant seeing her in person. Oddly, Caroline didn't hurl any quip his way, merely saying that she would handle things at the office, and the phone went dead.

On Tuesday, he was hopeful, though he didn't honestly expect her to be at her desk. When he walked in, a dark-haired woman with her hair obstructing her face was reading at Lizabeth's desk, and his heart leaped in excitement. It fell fast when the woman looked up, and he saw it wasn't Lizabeth staring back at him.

"May I help you?" she called over.

"No, thanks," he answered and walked back out.

On Wednesday, there were two people behind the counter, but neither woman was Lizabeth. The same brunette (who was about the same height and age as Lizabeth) was there; she appeared to be teaching a young blond woman, a girl really to William's mind, how to enter items on the computer. The second woman looked slightly familiar, as if he had seen her once before, or in a picture.

The brunette frowned at him; he suspected she recognized him from the day before. "May I help you?" she repeated.

"Judge free?" he asked.

"No. He's gone to lunch," she answered. William said he would come back and declined to leave a name.

By Friday, he had repeated the pattern of calling without success at the John Muir Recording Office. Lizabeth hadn't returned, and Troy Metcalfe was just as elusive. He continued his policy of only calling her once a day, but Lizabeth never answered her phone.

William wasn't bothered by work as he let Caroline make all the decisions about writing and directions for the story arc, giving feedback if critical, but otherwise, he brooded. The news about the fugitives had finally broken. Sometime in the middle of the week, it was reported that the three fugitives had somehow evaded both the US authorities and Canadian authorities and boarded a flight to Russia. They had fled over the northern US border and managed to escape all nets set for them.

When he wasn't going through the functions of calling at the recording office or returning a call from Caroline, William allowed himself to ruminate over the unreality of this entire situation. Calls to a family lawyer also didn't help alleviate his mood. It was possible that the government would seize Pemberley because of his cousins' actions, and he was likely to lose his share of the property. There was word that all of Anne's and Ryan's assets were frozen. Their treachery was quite personal and damaging.

Pemberley had been in a slow state of decline, and William hadn't been able to convince his cousins to invest any money into it to fix it and bring it back to life. His interest in the place and the land hadn't been for money but out of sentiment. It hurt to have them throw it away, the way his mother had thrown away their land. The way his aunt was throwing away her property. (Despite all that happened, he continued to keep Catherine Deburg at a distance. He had enough to cope with.)

And Lizabeth didn't want him. He had had his chance and blown it. William was the cause of her misfortune—had been the cause for her kidnapping. He couldn't blame her for never wanting to see him. Could his world be any worse?

When William stepped down to the hotel restaurant on Friday night, he heard his name called from the bar. It was Charles.

"How are you doing? You look…terrible," said his friend as he walked forward. William thought it was the first time that Charles had said anything that was less than gracious.

"I haven't slept so well," he admitted.

"I just arrived in Merton, come and have a drink with Jane and me. Unless you're meeting somebody?" The way he put his question left a lot for interpretation.

"I was just going to eat and then head back to my room…to sleep, I guess." William realized how much he had been drifting.

"Have a drink," Charles insisted, the charm sneaking through. It wasn't the full gigawatt version, but a more subdued one which showed his concern.

"I will," William agreed, walking up to the bar. He greeted Jane.

"Have the police found any answers?" Charles asked.

"That's a very open-ended question." William wasn't sure that he wanted to talk about his now-infamous relations.

"Well, have they?"

"I know nothing more than what you have read in the paper," William asserted.

"It's been an eye-opener," said Jane. "I thought we were immune to…I don't know, big-city problems. We're a sleepy, small town here. That's why I like living here, why I asserted I would never move." Her eyes glanced at Charles, then moved back. "Now, I realize that bad things can happen anywhere. Bad people can live anywhere. I was wrong to think that one place is safe or that I shouldn't, perhaps, consider other locations. Just because they're big doesn't mean they're impersonal."

William thought that speech had a lot to do with his friend's chances for happiness and success with Jane Sweet.

"So, are you here to see Lizabeth?" Jane asked. An innocent question, and yet, he felt punched in the gut and didn't know quite how to answer it.

"Did you hear what happened?" William tentatively asked.

"No!" Jane was an instant concerned friend.

"I guess Ryan kidnapping her hasn't made Jones' column yet," he mused.

"Your cousin kidnapped Lizabeth!"

He nodded. "It's all my fault."

"Your fault? How is it your fault?" Charles asked.

"If she hadn't known me, if we hadn't been together, Ryan wouldn't have done it," William claimed.

"But didn't Mimi introduce Ryan to Lizabeth at the gender reveal party?" Jane asserted.

"Maybe she would have met him regardless," said Charles. "Maybe Ryan would have done it, even if you two hadn't dated."

"Yes, but what if he did it out of revenge against me?" William asked.

"How would you know? How are you to know what your cousin's motivations are? What if Lizabeth was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe he simply needed to leave and didn't want her calling the police."

"Yes," Jane agreed. "You can't blame yourself for your cousin's actions."

William leaned over, ready to argue, but the music got a little louder. He looked over at the woman at the piano who was unabashedly listening to their conversation. He thought he ought to hold his tongue and stop talking. Best not to start any rumors about her.

Having only one drink relaxed him and seemed to comfort him (and not consuming a multitude to drown his sorrows). But having someone to talk through his problems made William feel less guilty about what Lizabeth had suffered at Ryan's hands. But he still wouldn't be happy until he could speak to her.

Jason Jones had a piece in the Merton Daily the next morning. Much of what he wrote were allegations based on research, and having interviewed people and the authorities. Jason speculated that Ryan had met Victor Denny and Josef Pratt in Afghanistan when he was still in the service, though he hadn't been able to trace the exact movements of all three men. He suspected that the two, Denny and Pratt, had run guns into the area. They had formed a budding partnership based on, again he speculated, a hatred of authority.

Ryan Fitzwilliam had been wounded, but not as severely as he ever admitted, hiding his progression out of a sickbed through the help of friends at military facilities. Denny and Pratt moved to Merton, and the three began an elaborate long con game. The two men founded a software company and solicited investors while, Jason speculated, Fitzwilliam raised money in illicit ways. Possibly by bilking money out of former fighting friends, or by skimming money from corporations that he solicited for donations for wounded vets, or through contacts given to him by the other two.

Spectre Software had created and sold legitimate software, and booked that money at a small profit. But that security software was then used as the basis to develop the Dark Web software. Jason alleged that the two men had contacts in Eastern Europe who took the code and manipulated it. The company made far more money selling its Dark Web software than from the legitimate software. It was also possible that Spectre created back doors in their 'legitimate' software to be able to steal their customers' data and information. Jason couldn't confirm this as no customer would admit to a data breach.

But the two men got lazy or greedy or frustrated, and started a credit card skimming ruse, using their own software to sell stolen credit card numbers on the Dark Web and pocketing the money. Jason wasn't able to ascertain if investing in real estate had initially been one of their goals, but it appeared that developing the Goulding property had dropped in their lap when they hired George Wickham with his ties to the Merton community.

But it fell apart when Wickham discovered that there were two sets of books and when he had confronted Denny and Pratt. They set up Wickham to take the blame, then disappeared. It was assumed that they transferred the money out of the country before they fled with Ryan Fitzwilliam to Russia, having set up off-shore accounts in untraceable and untouchable places like the Cayman Islands.

William Darcy sighed when he got to the end of the story. He couldn't help but wonder if his other cousin hadn't been connected with this fiasco. While Anne's final destination was less known, she was still considered a 'fugitive.' He speculated that the similarities between his cousins' actions meant that they might have colluded at one time. Had they known about the other's activities and assisted one another? Had Anne given Ryan money, or had Ryan given her contacts, so she had a place to go once she fled with the bit-coin money, betraying her partner, Georgiana?

While William could concentrate a modicum on work that weekend, his mind was far more focused on running scenarios through his head of a potential meeting with Lizabeth than genuinely dealing with work problems.

He had only a small measure of hope when he walked into the recording office on Monday, just before the noon shut-down. He expected to see the blond head of that interim clerk there, but there were two heads at the desk. One was dark, but this time he knew it was Lizabeth Todd Bennet, and he wondered how he could have been mistaken the previous week.

He walked to the counter and pressed against it for support, but she didn't look up. "Lizabeth," he called.

She turned, her hair moving as she swung her head to look at him. He thought she must have been expecting him as she didn't seem surprised. His daily visits the previous week had probably been reported. Plus, he had called her once a day and left a message.

"Hi," she said. "I figured you'd come by. Lydia, I'm going to leave a few minutes early for lunch." She stood, not looking at the figure next to her. They had been working together at the computer as if Lizabeth was training her.

"I'll lock up at twelve," said Lydia, who stared at William.

A/N: apologies for this author tormenting you'all, but it's my job. Downhill from now on. Now the bell for the story's thumbnail makes sense?

Confession: I've agonized about having a wounded vet be a villain or a disabled person be the villain. I hate to perpetuate any stereotypes or shine a bad light on either group. The disabled most often live below the poverty line and with very few opportunities. I have a cousin who had to become a ward of the state and lives in a nursing home. They do not become criminal masterminds.

And just so you know, I stab myself with imaginary daggers after writing truly angsty bits. They get to me too.

Stay safe.