At around one o'clock on that same Saturday, November 19 (after taking an hour to write and mail a letter to Genevieve), Michael arrived at the Pfeil's Cycle Salvage, a small wad of cash in hand, and was ushered in and shown around the parking lot full of hundreds of spare bike parts by the owner, G.E. Salva.

Salva, Michael learned, was a story in himself – on the heavier side, blond, mustachioed, in his very early fifties, he had served over in England during WWII, earning an honorable discharge after killing a (trigger-happy) German sniper despite two bullet wounds in his right arm. Then, from '53 until '57, he'd been a racer, one of the best and oldest around (being in his late forties), until the front tire of the Honda Scrambler blew and threw him hard; the motorcycle was totaled and Salva was badly injured – it had taken a full seven months to completely recover, at the very beginning of which his wife threatened divorce if he tried to go back. Common sense coupled with a love of her cooking had had him keeping his head on straight.

That wasn't to say that the Honda hadn't been his beauty, second to his wife, but it had been too damaged for repair (seemingly), leading him to sell the remains to the cycle salvage yard. A little while later, he'd taken a bit of the earnings from his racing days and made investments that had paid off. He had bought out Pfeil's Salvage Yard (before it went completely under), left the name be, and dragged it kicking and screaming into back into prosperity – the yard now catered in the main to teenagers and twenty-somethings, and not just from Rydell, but from every which-way in a near fifty-mile radius.

Salva, it seemed, had no regrets. "Life is what it is." he told Michael, in a fatherly sort of manner. "Things could've gone a whole helluva lot worse."

And while Salva opted not to say anything, preferring to leave this (rather intense-seeming) Brit-born to it, the bent-up and sorry-looking frame that Michael chose to start fixing up was that of the Scrambler he'd once made a name for himself on.

He also didn't even have to ask to realize there was a girl involved somewhere in this.


At 5:32 pm, a sweaty and exhausted Johnny trudged his way back into the house and up the stairs to his room, with Andrianna calling after him to "Hurry and clean up, your homework's next on the list! You can eat while we examine where it's going wrong."

Johnny bit his tongue hard to hold back the scathing retorts, slamming his bedroom door shut and flinging himself across his bed, literally and figuratively sore, roundly and silently cussing out everyone he could think of. Following the long shouting match the night before (which Johnny had ended up forfeiting to keep from being kicked out), the new regime had begun, revolving around work and school. No more games.

Dragging him out of bed at 9 am, ignoring his vibrant protest of, "Ma, I don't got any clothes on!", allowing him half an hour to eat and clean up, his mother had driven him over to the bakery warehouse (named Confezioni dolci), leaving him there with an envelope and a set of instructions to be followed to the letter:

#1 : Take all twelve of the vans and fill the gas tanks full, there's plenty of money for this and a lunch in the envelope.

#2 : Wash each of the vans, THOROUGHLY, before vacuuming ALL of them out and wiping down ALL of the seats and the dashboards with furniture polish. All of the needed cleaning supplies are in the closet of the main office, plus a radio. You know where the key is.

#3 : Gianna and Alessandra will be keeping an eye on you. No, they won't help you. Don't bother asking.

#4 : You Cannot Call The Other T-Birds To Come Help You. Their mothers have all been informed. The same goes for the Ladies. Stephanie laughed and asked if she could come watch. I politely declined, thank me for sparing you that.

#5 : DON'T CALL ME, YOUR FATHER, OR YOUR BROTHERS TO COME GET YOU UNTIL IT'S FINISHED!

He was going to be driving one of said delivery vans from now until graduation (at which time all the matters would be reevaluated); Andrianna had vowed to drag him by the ear if needs be, had threatened to get the police involved, if it came to it, and had snapped at him that he might as well be on his best behavior, as it would be the only way she would allow him to keep any tips and wages earned.

"Keep a smile on your face, young man, the next two holidays are my busiest times, and I don't care if you don't like the company attire, I have a reputation of my own to look after!"

Johnny had cursed and muttered under his breath nearly the entire time, too angry and prideful to eat much, even as his stomach was rumbling considerably by one o'clock. At around three, he had smart-mouthed Gianna (after she had pointed to a few spots missed), who hadn't wasted a moment in retaliating, sneaking up and dumping a bucket of ice-water over his head, ignoring his yelling while Alessandra had stood off to a side, giggling. "To help you cool off, brat."

On Monday, he was expected to request Carrington's help with school, with the promise of $30 per week. Johnny was hoping to God that the British slug said no.

Of course, it was what was about to happen, that would flip his whole world even more topsy-turvy.


It was 7:06pm.

Ivaleigh was showing Lailea, Gwyneth, and Stanton into her apartment on Skid Row, wanting them to see her artworks, and maybe have some dinner – Caitríona had agreed to take Diamond for the night, and was staying over at Bastian's house, and Lailea was thinking about that, about how Diamond and Caitríona got along; looking around at all the photographs, paintings, and drawings, the Millers and Lailea were as impressed by them as Ivaleigh was proud of them.

"This is extraordinary, Ivaleigh." Stanton breathed, star-struck, while Lailea gazed in wonder – she'd known before that her sister was talented, but this was exquisite. Drawings of people that Ivaleigh knew or had seen; paintings of cityscapes, landscapes, and abstract designs; photographs of an endless variety of subjects, both big and small ...

"My mother, your great-grandmother, Francine, would have been thrilled by this, dear. She was an artist herself, although her work was all in watercolors. I have a number of her paintings, if you'd like to see them." Gwyneth declared, eyes shining, as Ivaleigh smiled big and pondered at how easily she'd allowed Stanton through the door.

Probably cos he's granddad. It's Safe.

Lailea sniffed suddenly, her nose wrinkling as she looked around. "What's burnin'?"

Outside in the hallway, someone started screaming blue murder.

By 7:38 pm, the whole building was crumbling under flames and smoke.

Thunder was rumbling loudly in the near distance, and Ivaleigh, Lailea, and their grandparents could do nothing but stand and watch helplessly, hopelessly – the screams and cries of the ones that had gotten trapped had since vanished (Tess's left-behind lover had been among them, the only one to go willingly, so desperate was he to see her again).

Ambrosia Lynn had followed the four of them to Skid Row, with a full gas can and a single match, lighting the fire just outside Ivaleigh's apartment. She had meant for Gwyneth and Stanton to perish, had meant to drag her daughters back to New Augusta, and to leave Diamond behind ... except that she'd gotten noticed by another of the building tenants, a silver-haired woman with a shrill voice and a rattling case of anxiety.

It was due to this woman's screaming at the top of her voice that all but four had escaped; it was also due to her clawed, pointing fingers that Ambrosia Lynn was now on her side on the pavement, an oily bandana over her mouth, her hands behind her back and tied up tight with a fraying jumping rope that was cutting gradually into her wrists, while Adelina and Wolf crouched beside her and sang an off-key Hava Nagila at her, repeatedly, in Hebrew.

The police cars and firetrucks were pulling up, sirens screaming, the officers and firemen looking sour, exhausted, shaking their heads. Two of the officers strode over and began questioning what was going on with Ambrosia Lynn. What a narrative they got the displeasure of hearing in the time slot of nineteen minuets (while the fire was being extinguished), from the silver-haired woman, and from Lailea, Gwyneth, and Stanton.

Ivaleigh would have laughed to the point of ridiculousness at Ambrosia Lynn's coming fate, if her nerves hadn't been shot to the ninth circle of hell and back, if tears hadn't been running away pell-mell down her face, if her mind hadn't been reeling, attempting to process what action to take – aside from the four lives gone, so too were all of her artwork pieces (the drawings, paintings, and the photographs), all of the money she had managed to save up, her clothes ... EVERYTHING she owned.

It started raining, thunder roaring again. Ivaleigh welcomed it, closing her eyes and listening, breathing in and out deeply, the air rattling in her chest. How do I how do I what what what ...

"Gertrude Miller, you're under arrest on the charges of murder, attempted murder, destruction of public and private property, arson, child endangerment … Good God, lady, you must be the Antichrist." The sergeant looked too repulsed by all that he'd heard to continue, and he'd been serving for nearly thirty years.

The oily bandana removed, Ambrosia Lynne snarled at her daughters, "None of this would have had to happen if you had simply behaved yourself at home."

"There's a confession if I ever heard one. And we have the eyewitness." said the sergeant, and Ambrosia Lynne slowly turned white, as the implications finally dawned on her. But even then, her mind was scrambling, working for a defense.

Still staring toward the smoking ruins of the apartment complex, a half-paralyzed Ivaleigh asked in a loud, thick-with-tears voice, "Would it be too much of me t' ask you t' shoot that bitch? Just put a gun to her head an' pull the fuckin' trigger. I'm willin' t' bet y'all could make it look like an accident. Or suicide."

"Off the record, I don't hold that thought process against you. Legally, a jury will have to decide what to do with her."

"Whatever's necessary. So long as we never have t' see or hear from her again, after this is over." Lailea said, pleading. She moved and put her arms around Ivaleigh. "New Augusta's gonna have a festival when they hear 'bout this." she murmured, so only her sister could hear. "… maybe Bastian can help us get our hands on some of that money ... "

Ivaleigh was already shaking her head, her back stiffening; the spinning was slowing, still harsh. "That was before this." she muttered, gesturing, the tears slowly drying, the anger finally rising, threatening to choke, choke, choke, let me strangle her. "This was beyond personal. I had half my life put into everythin' I had in that space. She destroyed it all, I don't want nothin' that was hers now."

Don't look behind you, you ain't goin' that way, someone had said to Lailea once, though she couldn't remember who. She took a deep breath, tasting smoke, ash, and rain. "But it would pay for all your equipment an' clothes an' things. College. We could give some t' everyone who lived here. Meanwhile, Mama's likely gonna be spendin' the rest of her life in a prison cell. No one'll visit, an' everyone'll hate her an' think she's a loony."

Ivaleigh shook her head. "I don't know. I don't wanna think anymore t'night." Looking over at Stanton and Gwyneth, gaze razor-sharp and pleading, Ivaleigh asked, "Can we go back t' the hotel now? I want t' sleep."

"We'll need you down at the station first, we have to get statements from everyone who saw anything regarding this."

Ivaleigh took a breath, her mind slowly getting back to work. "Can my sister an' I sue her? We both got a lawyer."

"One thing at a time, Ivaleigh, dear." Gwyneth answered with a profound and endless sadness – she didn't even have to question it to know that she and Stanton would never look their daughter in the eye again.