A/N: I guess if I want the lyrics to show up right, I have to leave an author's note. So, here's one.

There's a lady who's sure
All that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to Heaven
When she gets there she knows
If the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for

- Led Zeppelin, "Stairway to Heaven"

CHAPTER 25: Stairway to Heaven

. . .

The name of the place was Pawn Solo, which Amanda supposed had been meant as a near rhyme, though not a very good one. Without the Millennium Falcon hovering above the logo, she wouldn't have caught the reference at all. She was tempted to ask what happened when a customer insisted that "Han" should rhyme with "pan," but so far no one had answered the jingling bell above the door or the call bell she'd rung twice. They probably wouldn't find her snarky Star Wars question humorous anyway; she didn't. Although, to be fair, she was in no mood to laugh.

"Come the fuck on," she grumbled under her breath, and smacked the bell again. She had chosen this shop because the outside signage, as cheesy and unclever as it was, looked professionally done. All the bulbs in the lighted sign above the entrance still worked and hadn't melted the plastic, making it seem like a reputable establishment. Life-size cartoon versions of Han and Chewie were painted on the storefront window, adding to the charm. Plus, it was one of the few open pawn shops she'd come across since leaving the apartment.

She hadn't set out planning to pawn the earrings. She didn't even remember grabbing them off the bed before she left, but they were there in the pocket of her jeans when she crammed her freezing hands into the cloth inserts, desperate for warmth. Her wallet was in her coat pocket, and she could have paid for a cab, but somehow that felt like conceding. To whom or what, she didn't know. (To her mother, who would compare her stubbornness with Dean Rollins'; to Olivia, who would scold her for not at least wearing a hat and gloves—why hadn't she at least worn a hat and gloves?—and to the bitter late December cold, of which she was most defiant of all.)

After being cooped up in the apartment for weeks, walking seemed like a luxury, even if hurt, even if she could barely feel her fingers and toes anymore. So she walked, and as she walked, she replayed her argument with Olivia—every awful, ugly moment, but especially the things she had said and done. It was even worse in her head. In her head, she was no better than her father or any of the men (and women) who had hurt Olivia over the years. When the phone began to vibrate in her back pocket, she couldn't answer it for fear her fiancée would be on the other end, telling her not to come home.

Then she discovered the earrings. And no amount of speed walking the Manhattan pavement, teeth chattering behind her upturned collar, could block out the echo of Olivia's dispassionate words:

"They're yours now. Return them, pawn them, throw them off the fucking Brooklyn Bridge, for all I care. I don't ever want to see them again."

Returning the jewelry wasn't an option because not only did Amanda have no idea where it had been purchased, she also didn't have a receipt. No way in hell would she call up Alex to inquire about either of those things.

Thanks to a mountain of past gambling debts, she was quite familiar with pawning. "You still robbin' Peter to pay Paul, Mandy girl?" her daddy used to ask, when they were on speaking terms. He should know: he'd been the one who taught her how to do it.

The first thing she had ever witnessed being pawned was her mother's antebellum brooch, an heirloom passed down by her great great (great?) grandmother. It should have gone to Amanda, and eventually Jesse, but instead it went to Bobby McGee—yes, his real name—the scrap collector/pawnbroker who had a yard full of rusted out jalopies, mattress springs, and mangled rebar behind his shop. To eight-year-old Amanda, the yard had looked like a playland, albeit a shabby one. But Dean told her to stay put, insisting she would step on a nail and get tetanus, which he claimed made your jaw lock shut until your teeth shattered, choking you to death. For a long time, Amanda assumed he had been keeping her safe by never letting her play outside McGee's Metals & More; then she realized he'd simply wanted an accomplice so the blame for pawning Beth Anne's possessions didn't fall entirely on him.

Years later she went back to see if the brooch was still there, but McGee's was boarded up, the corroded insides of an upright piano, recognizable by the dozen or so scattered strips of wood with black and white tips, all that remained in the yard. Amanda had squeezed between the padlocked gates to kick a few stones around and pluck at the piano strings, just for the hell of it. She didn't step on any nails.

Stereo equipment, DVD and Blu-ray players, a Les Paul electric guitar (the nicest thing her father had ever given her and probably hot as Hades), a brand new Xbox, furniture, a collectible Bowie knife left behind by an ex-boyfriend—those were just a few of the items she had put into hock to keep the loan sharks at bay. Most of it she never saw again. But it had been hers to lose, no one else's.

The earrings were different. No matter what Olivia said, they still belonged to her. Amanda hated herself for even considering pawning them; had walked blocks out of her way, hoping to dissuade herself, hoping that the suggestion would stop playing over and over in her head, almost as if Olivia were encouraging her to give in . . . .

If she did give in, she probably wouldn't get enough money to buy the new engagement rings, but it might at least cover the watch repair. The Breitling was what put her in the hole to begin with; if she got out from under that, she could focus on saving for the wedding and the new rings. And it wasn't as though she would be selling the earrings permanently. More than likely they would remain in the glass case along the wall, with all the other jewelry displayed on black velvet—to emulate a twinkling night sky—until she returned to pay off the loan. She might even be able to get them back in time for the wedding. She didn't want Olivia to wear them, but she'd grin and bear it, if it meant her fiancée would still have her.

That had been the deciding factor, the realization that she could return for the earrings later. With any luck, Olivia wouldn't even notice they were temporarily missing—it wasn't like she took them out of the drawer and admired them every day (Amanda hoped). And once the burden of debt lifted from Amanda's shoulders, things could get back to normal. She could set about winning Olivia's trust again.

The thought was too exciting to pass up, and she had entered the pawn shop, eager to start the transaction. But the longer she had to stand around ringing the damn bell, the more she began to lose faith in her plan. Was it just the old Amanda talking, with all the excuses and addictions clouding her judgment, or had she really found a logical solution to her problem?

"Come. The. Fuck. On," she repeated, punctuating each word with a swat to the bell. It was painted green, large Yoda ears protruding from either side of the dome.

"Be right with you," a voice called from the curtained back room. A cardboard cutout of Darth Vader stood beside the doorway, hand extended in the infamous Force choke, except this particular Sith Lord held a sign proclaiming: Do not underestimate the power of surveillance cameras.

"'Bout time." Amanda took the earrings from her jeans pocket, intending to place the box on the countertop, then changed her mind when she saw how dirty and scuffed the surface looked. Everything looked like that in the city, but she hated to think about those germs getting on Olivia's earrings. One coat pocket contained her wallet, the other held her cigarettes and keys, so she left the box out, turning it compulsively in her hands. She couldn't figure out why the counter was shaking until she noticed her twitching leg.

Finally, a minute or two later, a man emerged from behind the curtain. He was more Jabba the Hutt than Harrison Ford, lumbering up to the cash register like he expected her to just hand over whatever item she came bearing. Awfully presumptuous for a giant space slug. "What can I do you for?" he asked, disarmingly cheerful.

It took a moment to reconcile his corny greeting with the wart-tongued, slimy creature Amanda had been comparing him to in her head. She summoned a tenuous smile and brandished the box without offering it to him.

"Got a pair of earrings I wanna put down as collateral," she said, clearing her throat and flicking the bangs from her eyes. She felt about as antsy as she had at ten years old, trying to sit through an excruciatingly long church sermon. This guy probably already thought she was a tweaker, just here to score some drug money with jewelry stolen from a family member.

Oh wait, that was her sister.

"Excellent." Genial Jabba reached below the cash register, grunting as he withdrew a clipboard with several forms attached. He plucked an uncapped pen from a plastic R2-D2 cup Amanda vaguely recalled being sold at some fast food chain or another years ago, placed it on top of the clipboard, and slid both across the counter to her. "If you would be so kind as to fill these out for me. And while you do that, I can have a look at the earrings, yes?"

"Um, yeah. Sure." Reluctantly, Amanda pressed the box directly into his hand, hoping he wouldn't set it down on the countertop.

But of course he did. From beneath the cash register, he retrieved a loupe, placed it next to the box, and pulled over an adjustable lamp that extended from the wall like an according. It reminded Amanda of trips to the dentist, and she grimaced as she leaned over the paperwork. This was already proving painful.

While she tried to concentrate on writing her autobiography (there were five pages altogether, but the last three were mostly fine print she didn't read, followed by lines for date and signature), stealing fitful glances at the big sausage fingers poking around at Olivia's delicate jewelry, Judicial Jabba oohed and ahhed over the quality, his eyeball practically touching the magnifying glass. They were definitely real diamonds, by the sound of it. Fucking Cabot.

"You got a layaway plan here?" Amanda asked, glancing over nervously when he took out a calculator and started jabbing in numbers. He hesitated for a moment, looking up at her with a confused expression on his pockmarked face. "'Cause you could call it Princess Leia-way."

Jocund Jabba threw back his head and laughed at the joke, though he'd probably heard it a hundred times before. He slapped the counter in amusement, chortling and wiping his eyes and nose. "Just for that, I'll offer you an extra fifty," he said, and nudged at the earrings with the same finger he had used as a Kleenex.

"Great." Amanda offered a queasy smile and forced her eyes back to the page in front of her. She scribbled out whatever came to mind on the next few questions, but stopped cold when she reached the final section—secondary contact information. Olivia was always her secondary, her in case of emergency. She could use Daphne or Fin, but somehow that felt like a betrayal. This whole damn thing felt like one big betrayal.

Then her phone buzzed again in her back pocket.

"You know what," she said, pinching the completed forms free of the clipboard and returning the rest to Jabba, "I changed my mind. I can't, uh— I can't do this. Sorry I wasted your time. You can still use that Princess Leia-way thing, though. No charge."

"Oh." The man's cheery mood faltered as he watched her fold up the papers and stuff them inside her zipped coat, but he brightened again just as quickly. "You're sure you don't want to hear the price I had in mind? I think you'd find it highly satisfactory . . . "

He emphasized the "high" in "highly," if Amanda wasn't mistaken, and it required all her self-control to reach across the counter, snap the lid closed on the earrings, and cram the box into her pants pocket. She had made a lot of mistakes tonight, some she might never be able to fix, but if she stole from her fiancée like this—the way her father or her sister stole from their spouses and lovers—she would be past the point of no return. "Nah, I'm good. But thanks." She forced her feet into motion, backing away from the counter and tipping a nod to the man behind it. "Happy New Year."

"You too. And if you change your mind, just bring those papers back in with you. I'll get you all set up." Generous Jabba bid her farewell with a wave and one last sales pitch, calling it out over the jingle of bells above the door: "Come back before January thirty-first and interest rates are half off until May the fourth."

Amanda hadn't heard. She was digging the cell phone out of her pocket, hoping to answer the call before it ended. Olivia's pretty, smiling face greeted her from the screen, as she'd suspected, and her heart gave a frenzied kick at the thought of what awaited her on the other end of the line. But just as she was about to answer, the call dropped and the screen returned to her background photo—a candid shot of the kids and dogs, upon returning home from Daphne's Halloween party.

Frannie and Gigi were the only ones who had glanced up for the picture. The children were in varying states of undress: Noah had removed his phantom mask and consequently resembled a tiny, curly-headed count; tired of the bulging foam muscles, Jesse had traded her bodysuit for a nightgown, but refused to take off the do-rag, the sunglasses, and the Fu Manchu (she slept in all three and woke up crying about the fuzzy yellow caterpillar on her pillow the next morning); and Matilda still looked exactly like Orphan Annie, despite having removed all of her clothes to sit naked amid the piles of candy her siblings sorted on the carpet.

It was one of Amanda's favorite photos of her children, and one of her favorite memories with them and Olivia. That night had been the first time Amanda really felt like they were a family. And not just because of Daphne's little candy trick that resulted in Amanda basically proposing and offering to have Olivia's babies right then and there. Something had been different that evening on the way home, the kids chattering happily in the backseat, Olivia smiling over at her from the driver's side and laughing at all the ostrich feathers in her hair. They had a rhythm and an ease that Amanda didn't know could exist within a family, until that moment.

Her heart had been bursting with such love, she'd decided later the same night that she was going to propose for real. A few days later, she had the ring in hand; a few days more, it was on Olivia's finger. Amanda had felt like the richest woman in the world then.

But now.

There were three missed calls on her phone, and from Olivia all three. The same number of bullets it took to kill Calvin Arliss—and Orion, too. The same number of nails it took to hammer Jesus to the cross. According to some, bad things occurred in threes: deaths, natural disasters, crime waves, crises big and small. Personally, Amanda had always considered three to be a lucky number. She played it often when she gambled. When she used to gamble, that is. One night she'd won $10,000 by betting solely on the modest little digit. She bought herself a truck with those earnings.

Just like that, Amanda knew what she needed to do. Everyone would tell her not to, including her sponsor (whom she hadn't spoken to in a couple months), her coworkers ("Don't do it, Rollins," Fin would advise sagely, "I ain't bailing your skinny ass out again"), and Olivia (the only one whose opinion mattered, and the one she wanted to do this for). That made her want to do it even more. She had just proven how much self-control she possessed by walking away from the pawnbroker empty-handed. If she could do that, she could draw the line elsewhere. She could stop. In the meantime, she might make enough money to solve most of her problems, and prove herself trustworthy. Maybe she wasn't even an addict anymore.

"Resorts World Casino," she told the cabbie when he arrived fifteen minutes later. There was no way she was hoofing it all the way to Queens, not even in perfect weather or in perfect health.

Resorts World wasn't her first choice of casinos, either—all of the tables were electronic and the constant throng of tourists didn't make for a very intimate setting—but it was the only option available on short notice. She hadn't kept tabs on underground gambling rings in the city since the one that introduced her to Declan Murphy and nearly got her fired, among other things.

She could probably contact Nate Davis, her ex-sponsor and the dirtbag she had knocked boots with a few times. His bar had been a popular hangout for the G.A. crowd and someone was bound to know of a nearby speakeasy. But just the thought of speaking to him made her skin crawl. She'd heard that when you slept with someone, you slept with all their previous sexual partners, and she sometimes felt the urge to apologize to Olivia for everyone she brought into their bed—especially Nate and his stupid, stupid hats.

The big, flashy casino with its overpriced games and noisy crowds would have to do. If she really hit a winning streak, her surroundings wouldn't matter anyway. Everything else faded into the background when she had a good hand or lucky dice. It was the same way she felt firing a gun. The rest of the world disappeared as she honed in on her target . . . steady . . . steady . . .

And bang! Bullseye.

Amanda stood outside the casino twenty minutes later, heart thumping so madly in her chest, it almost drowned out the voice inside her head warning her to turn back. Grandmama Brooks had told her about it—that still, small voice in which God spoke to the faithful, like Elijah when he passed through the wind, the earthquake, and the fire: "What are you doing here, Elijah?"

What are you doing here, Amanda?

She had no answer. Not for God or herself. Every excuse that got her here was suddenly nowhere to be found. Part of her hoped the phone would ring right then; that Olivia would be on the other end, begging her to come home, or even just yelling at her. Once again, she was waiting for Olivia to say stop. And once again, Olivia didn't.

"Come on," she pleaded, reaching back to make sure the cell phone was still in her pocket and hadn't fallen out in the cab. She took it out and squeezed it, gazing hopefully at the blank screen, whispering prayers to it ("Please stop me, please, please"), as to a faceless deity, like the God of Elijah and of Grandmama Brooks—or anyone else who would listen.

The phone stayed silent, and so did the heavens, and five minutes later Amanda was inside the casino. Ten minutes after that, she found her seat at the blackjack table. Within an hour, she had won her first card game in almost seven years. It was the easiest two hundred dollars she'd ever made.

She lost it all at the poker table, which should have been discouraging, but when she stepped out onto one of the designated balconies for smokers, she felt exhilarated by the cool rush of air, the bitter rush of tobacco, and the nearly orgasmic rush of possibility and risk. Of knowing what she should do, and doing the exact opposite.

That had been her favorite way to act out as a kid—learning what the rules were, just so she could break them. "You better never let me catch you with one of these, Mandy Jo," Beth Anne used to say, cigarette nestled into the corner of her mouth, smoke unfurling from the tip. Naturally, Amanda had pilfered two Virginia Slims from the pack in her mother's purse the first chance she got, and smoked both of them later that night, behind her daddy's shed. She immediately threw up, but continued stealing her mama's cigarettes from then on, until developing a taste for Camels sophomore year to impress a boy.

Such was the story of Amanda Rollins. The worse a thing was for her, the more she had to do it. And the more she liked it. For instance, she knew perfectly well that when she finished with this cigarette, she would go back inside, chase the first two bourbons with a third, and win (or lose) more money than she made in two weeks as a detective third grade. She could hardly wait, but just as she snuffed out the cigarette in a large cement urn in the corner, her cell phone pulsed—twice—against her backside. Text message.

She considered ignoring it, but the sight of a couple necking at the opposite end of the balcony changed her mind. Despite her gambling high, she still missed Olivia. For one absurd and fleeting moment, she wished her fiancée could join her for drinks and a few hands of poker. She wasn't even sure if Olivia knew how to play the game, she realized. How strange that they had never discussed it. The captain had one helluva poker face, that was certain; but she was not a skilled liar, or at least not a willing one. It would be interesting to see how well she played. Of course, that would all require telling Olivia where she was, and Amanda had no plans to do such a thing.

At some point in the past hour and a half, Olivia had called again—there was now a four next to her name in the Recents log—but Amanda either hadn't felt the phone vibrating or hadn't wanted to feel it. The text was from Daphne. Mandy Lou! it began, Are you alive? It's been 84 years. Miss my hot af friend & her righteous babe of a wife (seriously, just get married already sheesh, what are you guys waiting for, Christmas?) Call me, text me, LOVE ME.

Amanda could practically hear the message narrated in Daphne's lilting, and often deeply sardonic, voice. Her friend lived to tease and stir up mischief, but she wasn't totally off base about how long it had been since they spent time together. Besides Daphne's visit to the hospital, which Amanda forgot until Olivia mentioned it a day or two later, they hadn't seen each other in almost a month. Amanda had discouraged her friend from dropping by the apartment while her mother was there. Beth Anne always made Amanda's guests supremely uncomfortable, whether by showing too much interest (usually with the men) or none at all (i.e. the women). The more people Amanda spared from her mother's catty, capricious behavior, the better.

But that was over now. And Amanda was lonely.

She preferred gambling solo, but there were no hard and fast rules against answering texts. She composed a quick reply—Hey Daph, how the hell are ya? Miss you too. We should—then couldn't decide how to close. Talk sometime? Get together soon? Meet for coffee tomorrow while my wife is out with her ex-lover?

In the end, she deleted the full text and stared at the blinking cursor for several moments, before switching over to her Recents. Most of them were Olivia, who called regularly from work to check in on her and the kids. Up until the past few days, it had warmed her heart to see the captain's name and photo pop up on the screen at lunch and break times—and whenever else Olivia took the notion. Since Christmas, it had begun to feel like a sign of mistrust. How tenuous was Olivia's faith in her, that she needed to call so frequently?

Her thumb wavered between "Liv" at the top of the screen and "Daph" a few spaces down. Tonight was all about the gamble, the better odds. She held her breath and made her choice.

. . .