A/N: To say that I am humbled by the incredible response to this story would be a gross understatement. I am both flattered and honored that so many of you have enjoyed the first part of this journey. I hope that you will continue to do so. Thank you so much for the overwhelming amount of support and encouragement. It absolutely means the world to me. Ellie

Part 2--Escape

3 Months Later

Megan Andrews sells real estate

She gets to work at nine o'clock and leaves promptly at five. There are occasional instances that require work during off-hours, but they are few and far between, and the cyclical nature of her newfound life sometimes threatens to make her dizzy. She doesn't love her job, but then she doesn't dislike it either. After years of improvisation and persuasion, she's discovered that she's an excellent saleswoman, and it's nice to be good at selling something besides one of her many aliases.

Beachcomber Realty is housed by a small, brown shingled building that looks as though it may be lifted at any moment by an ambitious gust of wind. A bell hangs over the door and three pairs of eyes lift in greeting whenever it chimes. She sits every day at a large oak desk and sips at a paper cup of coffee until its lukewarm bitterness becomes more than she can handle. There are no pictures to adorn her desk, no knick-knacks to commemorate her past or present. Just a complimentary desk-calendar she received from her phone company and a shiny plaque with the name 'Megan Andrews' etched in bold, capital letters.

The real-estate discovery was made one rainy evening as Sydney sat on a soft bed in a small room filled with flowers and doilies. After emptying her accounts in Los Angeles, Sydney had been relieved to open an account with a local bank. She had been less than relieved, however, to discover that the only place with a room available was a chintzy Bed & Breakfast owned by a woman who seemed to believe that Valentine's Day was a year-round event.

It was here that Sydney Bristow looked in the mirror to see Megan staring back. Megan Andrews, a quiet graduate of the University of Washington and holder of a newly-earned real-estate license. A shy, young woman who hates running and has never been to a hockey game. Megan Andrews, who can't stand violence and wishes she could speak a foreign language. Megan, who likes to drink tea and wears pastels, loves the idea of romance but has never truly been in love.

Megan Andrews, Sydney has decided, has never known the pain of a broken heart.

He's angry with her. Three months after finding her engagement ring, he still can't believe that she left him alone to deal with the tangled web of Lauren's lies. He can't understand how she could be so selfish and so weak. He thought she would understand the fervent need for justice after being deceived by someone you love.

Apparently he overestimated her.

The numbness he felt at her departure had stayed with him for several days. After finding her ring, he'd simply set it back on the nightstand just as he'd found it, and walked silently back to the living room to reacquaint himself with the couch's middle cushion. He knows now that it was an attempt to rewind, that maybe if he froze the moment, if he pretended that he hadn't found the ring, pretended that he didn't know, she might walk through the front door with a chirpy greeting. But the front door would remain closed for three more days. And when it finally opened, a worried Weiss was on the other side.

"Damn it, Mike! Where have you been? You were supposed to board your flight to Valencia more than four hours ago. Mission? Lauren? Spain? Ring any bells?" Weiss snapped his fingers in front of Vaughn's face.

"She's gone." The two words were his only muttered response.

"Who's gone?"

Sydney! Who do you think?" He spat her name in frustration and shook his head in disbelief. "She left me. She just took off and left me to deal with everything alone. I guess she can't handle someone else playing the part of the victim."

Weiss shook his head. "That's not fair, man."

"It's not fair that she just up and left because I wasn't playing Ozzie to her Harriet! I stood by her side for years while she worked through her issues with Danny's death and Sloane. I guess I was just stupid to assume that she would do the same for me."

"Except…" Weiss started to counter Vaughn's claim, but hesitated when he realized how irrational his best friend was in that very moment.

"Except what?" Vaughn all but sneered in Weiss' direction, just daring him to continue.

Weiss was about to respond when a look of understanding passed like a shadow over his features. This was what Sydney had been living for the past six months. He gave a wry laugh before he looked Vaughn dead in the face. "Who the hell are you? What have you done to yourself? Do you not understand that you hurt Sydney? You hurt her, Vaughn."

"I gave her a ring. I asked her to marry me! And she wakes up one day and decides that I'm not devoted enough??" Vaughn's bitter tone grew colder with every word. "It's not like I'm some workaholic lawyer who refuses to come home for dinner. I'm a goddamn CIA agent! And I'm just trying to make sure that Lauren pays for what she's done. Hell, Sydney is an expert on the topic of vengeance."

"Except that somewhere in the middle of Sydney's fight against SD-6, it stopped being about revenge and started to be about the two of you and your future." Weiss reminded him.

"What the hell do you think I'm fighting for?" Vaughn asked incredulously.

Weiss studied him for a moment before responding. "I don't know, Vaughn. You tell me."

It's been three months of living without her and he still hasn't been able to answer that question. Instead, he avoids the issue altogether by throwing himself headfirst into work and his continued search for Lauren. He has convinced himself that the searing emptiness he feels will be remedied when he apprehends Lauren. He tells himself that he's okay; that he'll survive without her. And he almost believes it. But just when he's on the verge of pushing her absence from his mind, he'll enter their apartment and wonder where the scent of vanilla has gone. Or he'll attempt to arrange the decorative pillows on the bed and wonder how in the world Sydney had done it.

It's been strange to live in an apartment that was hers before it was theirs and he's considered moving, but there's something that keeps him from moving on. Something always prevents him from scanning the real estate ads. Probably the same thing that stops him from replacing her favorite bedspread or even emptying her dresser drawers. Instead he keeps himself surrounded by the little reminders of her and, despite the torture, he lets them be.

"Quentin! Quentin, get back here right now!"

The grains of wet sand squeak beneath her bare feet as she pounds down the beach at full-speed. With a look of dismay, she watches as her Golden Retriever leaps down the beach with her leash dragging along behind her. When she'd adopted the dog two months before, she hadn't had any training whatsoever. And while she's improved immensely, her leash manners still leave something to be desired.

Thoroughly exhausted, Sydney ceases her chase and rubs the tenderness in her shoulder that always flares up when she allows Quentin to drag her down the beach. She's not overly concerned about the dog's freedom since she always comes running back when she reaches wall of jagged rock about two hundred yards away. With a tired sigh, she lowers herself to the sand and stares out into the water as the last crescent of sunlight dips beneath the horizon. The sky is colorless and the rolling waves look black in the sudden darkness, but this is Sydney's favorite moment of the day. The moment between day and night. A tiny slice of time when she doesn't have to be anyone or anything. She can simply be.

Turning an eye down the long expanse of flurried sand, she is relieved to see that her dog has turned around and is gaily loping back in her direction. A few moments later, she's panting heavily at Sydney's feet and parading a look of triumph over her obvious victory in their race. Sydney shakes her head before reaching down to give the dog a pat. Clipping the nylon leash to Quentin's matching collar, Sydney turns her back on the rolling surf and heads toward home with the retriever trotting at her heels. As frustrating as she can be, Quentin has saved her from the intensity of the loneliness that engulfed her upon her arrival in Fort Bragg.

It hadn't taken more than a quick drive through the pretty little seaside town and a steaming cup of French Roast for her decision to be made. This was the place. So after an extended stay at that eccentric bed and breakfast, she'd settled into what can only be described as a seaside cottage. Although the Victorian architecture is consistent with the town's other structures, its one bedroom, one bathroom size distinguishes it from its larger counterparts. And while it was probably colored in the traditional vivid hues at one time, the house now wears an understated gray as a wraparound porch hugs its small circumference. A weathered picket fence wraps its way around a small yard as timid flowers poke out of the ground and a broken gate swings loudly on rusty hinges. It's not actually on the beach. Such a feature would have taken even the tiniest house right out of Megan Andrews' limited price range. But the Pacific is close enough to send a crisp, misty breeze across her porch every morning. And it's close enough to keep her constantly scrubbing at the layer of sea-salt embedded on her windowpanes.

Slipping her shoes off when she reaches her front porch, Sydney attempts to catch her breath. Quentin wags her tail happily and she can't help but laugh at the dog's giddiness. Doing her best to dust most of the sand from Quentin's golden coat, Sydney finally unlocks the front door and lets the dog scramble through the door in front of her. She doesn't have plans for the Saturday afternoon so she thinks she may just lounge around the house and read. Perhaps go for a drive through the redwoods later in the evening to clear her mind.

Life is different here. Haircuts are cheaper, breakfasts are bigger, and houses are older with more colorful histories. Time seems to move more slowly and the world seems quieter. The change has been a welcome one, but Sydney would be lying if she was to claim that Megan Andrews had it all.

What Megan does have is a cozy cottage near the ocean and a wonderful canine companion in Quentin. Megan has a flexible and satisfying job in real estate which leaves plenty of time for reading, coffee, and manicures. Megan has several neighbors who wave hello…and one who wants to take her to dinner. She has peace and quiet and reliability in her life, which are all of the things Sydney Bristow once desired for herself.

What Megan doesn't have is Michael Vaughn.

He settles back against the upholstered seat and releases a sigh of defeat. The ice cubes in his orange juice have long since melted and his continued sips are simply a measure of courtesy. An anonymous tip just two days before had enticed him enough to immediately purchase a ticket to Nice, where he had been successful in accosting approximately six blonde women who bore a vague resemblance to his ex-wife. Unfortunately, none of his so-called victims had been his intended target, so after several apologies and a reluctant admittance of defeat, he decided to call it quits and go home. Perhaps even more unfortunate however, was the route he selected when he decided to take a walk for some much needed fresh air. The restaurant had looked as quaint and had smelled as delectable as when he and Sydney were just another pair of patrons. He remembers the cream-colored sweater and the nervous smile that played uncertainly over her features. He remembers how mesmerized he was on that night and he wonders for a second if such painful assaults on his memory will ever fade to become fond thoughts of the past. He wonders, but he doubts it.

A shrill cry suddenly erupts from just across the aisle and when Vaughn turns his head, his sight meets the apologetic eyes of young father. A baby dressed in a fuzzy blue sleeper is now curled against his mother's chest as she quiets his cries with soft whispers and little kisses. The man offers a small nod at Vaughn before turning his attention back to his family, pressing a kiss to his wife's temple, and brushing a finger lightly across the baby's chubby cheek.

Vaughn watches the small family with an odd fascination and is surprised to feel the searing emptiness of the past three months start to grow. He allows himself to ponder what has previously been stored in his mind's 'No Trespassing' zone. He thinks of Sydney, of where she is, and what they would be doing if she had stayed. Would they have been on their way to resembling the trio across the aisle? Probably not, he figures, since the search for Lauren keeps him so busy. But a quick glance back toward the now-sleeping baby awakens something in his mind. What that man has seems to be worth so much more than any kind of revenge or justice.

For the first time since Sydney left, he wonders where he went wrong.

The brevity of the night's ocean breeze forces a subtle shiver to pass over her exposed skin and ruffles the thin pages of the book she's reading. Setting the book down, she tangles her fingers in long strands of fringe to pull the knit blanket from her lap, instead cocooning herself in its warmth by draping it over her shoulders. It's almost too cold for this. But she pushes the discomfort of the chill out of her mind and resumes her reading as she settles against the wood-back of the porch swing.

"The door opened, swung inward. He stood in it for a moment, hiding the room, then he stepped aside. "Go in," he said in a thick, light voice. They went in… The bed had not been disturbed. On the floor lay a soiled undergarment of cheap silk a little too pink, from a half open bureau drawer dangled a single stocking. The window was open. A pear tree grew there, close against the house. It was in bloom and the branches scraped and rasped against the house and the myriad air, driving in the window, brought into the room the forlorn scent of the blossoms."

She's nearly breathless as she reads Faulkner's exquisite words. The Sound and the Fury isn't typical of the novels favored by Megan Andrews. Actually, Sydney believes Megan to be more of a Harlequin romance kind of girl. But after all the loves Sydney Bristow has surrendered in past months, her love for great literature is a casualty she can't allow. So she is here on her front porch and she is reading about Quentin Compson's escape. Of a young woman's escape from a house that is filled to the brim with nothingness. She reads about the discovery of Quentin's absence, of her untouched bedroom, and she identifies.

Her own Quentin rests loyally at her side and Sydney smiles down at her lone companion. It's no coincidence that the dog shares a name with one of her favorite literary heroines. Making an escape has been all but easy for Sydney, but Quentin is her companion in her search for a new future. Not a perfect one. But one that is hers to claim. Even if she has to do it with another woman's name.

She marks her spot in the book and shakes her head in frustration as she hears the squeak of the swaying front gate. Dreams have been plaguing her lately. She thinks tonight's was triggered by the exuberance of a young and engaged couple as she showed them an adorable, fixer-upper earlier in the day. Their clasped hands, the occasional flicker of the diamond, and their optimism for what the house could become had taunted her. Of course, while Megan Andrews had simply smiled as she emphasized the hardwood floors and the vaulted ceilings; Sydney was positively aching for a future that was now destined to remain in the past. And behind the façade, her soul is still throbbing.

A quick glance through the front window tells her that it is nearly one o'clock in the morning and that she should be heading back to bed. Her listlessness, on the other hand, is telling her that it might do her good to go for a quiet drive. Because while Sydney Bristow always had the pier and the train station; Megan Andrews has a quiet camaraderie with the massive trees of the redwood forests. It takes just one thought of the coveted solitude she feels on her drives and she is rummaging through a drawer to find her car keys.

The streets are quiet and damp as a thin fog tumbles quietly across the coast. With the radio off and the heater humming, she takes a deep breath. Suddenly she's not Megan Andrews or a tea-drinker or a lover of pastels. As she winds through dense darkness of the forest, she is Sydney Bristow. And she is allowed to miss, to mourn, to wish, and to regret. So she does.

TBC…

Excerpt from William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury.