Author's Note: To anyone who might be concerned, this is not the prequel to "Undercurrants". Trixie is completely straight…in this story. ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own FOP. I don't own my own house. In fact, I don't even own the right to go in my house without 'supervision'.

ChapterTwelve Finding the Right Scapegoat

"What?!" Mr. Tang chokes, and it's not just on the fumes from the painting upstairs. Paint fumes carry downstairs and she has a sinking suspicion her father's trying to recreate something crucial to her. So, for the moment, she'll leave the idea of seeing her mother aside and focus on this.

Folding her arms across her chest and trying to show she's the perfect young lady her father's trying to force her to grow up too soon into, Trixie replies coolly, "What are you doing upstairs, Father?"

"Retouching," He retorts equally as coolly, but she shoves her way past him. Up, she scrawls the wooden ladder and beholds a plethora of pictures she never knew existed. All of them are of her mother.

Or, rather, she should say they were of her mother. For now, except for one mural, half hidden by a dripping painting, all have been converted to black. Every single one has been erased, essentially, stealing her mother's face from their memories.

Trixie's eyes well up with unshed tears as she approaches the final one. Scowling, a hired painter jumps in front, brandishing his paint brush. With an obscene gesture, he indicates she leave.

But she isn't persistent for nothing. If she didn't hold to her convictions, she'd never have started dating Timmy (despite the heartbreak he'd causes her…she wondered if it's she he wants). So what if her outfit ends up being ruined? For once, she has other things on her mind.

"You're not supposed to be up here, young lady!" The painter, dressed in all white with white overalls and scraggy brown hair dangling down, admonishes her. He shakes his brush at her and splatters of paint land on her hair and outfit. So, her prediction was right. Well, so what? It's her mother's portrait she's concerned about, nothing else.

"Leave my mother's pictures alone!" Trixie snaps, grabbing it off its pedestal and clutching to her chest. Still wet paint from another butchering smatters her shirt, but she doesn't care. Other than the background, it remains untouched and that's how she's going to keep it. Right now, she's ready to risk life and limb for it.

"We have a job, missy, and we're going to do it no matter what you think!" Grabbing her by the elbow, he attempts to pry it from her arms. If he holds her any tighter, she's sure he's going to break her elbow.

"Let go of me!" Trixie shrieks, performing a sweeping kick that knocks him off his feet. Then, when he's down, she, after a grand attempt not to fall over herself, kicks him hard in the arm. The sheer shock forces him to release her and she casts him one wretched glance before running off.

Through the halls, past the expensive but ultimately worthless crap, down a long, forbidding corridor…she flees the scene, clutching her prize to her as tightly as humanly possible. In fact, she hasn't even seen her mother's face yet, she's waiting until they're both somewhere safe. She wants to know what she looks like- before she hunts her down.

Finally, at the end of a catacomb of winding halls, she finds herself in an ill used, often locked room of the house. Unfortunately, she doesn't have the key…but she knows how to pick locks (just don't tell Tad and Chad that) and she can get in if she needs to, which she does very much. Just a flick of her extremely long nails and she's in!

Gasping for air, thanks to all the dust, she stumbles in and clumsily locks the door behind her. Once her eyes focus, though, it's a completely different story. In fact, now she knows why this room was locked.

"Patricia Elizabeth Montgomery," Trixie reads off a trophy, situated by a bed so layered with dust, it's almost impossible to see the sheets. In fact, everything in that room is so covered; she has to wipe things off to know what they are. Why haven't the maids been in here to clean? Unless…

"Mom…" Trixie breathes, placing the portrait on her bed. This was my mother's room…no wonder they kept it locked. They probably didn't want me finding it.

Beaming up at her is a picture that, aside from the decidedly non-Asian appearance of her eyes, could be her. Maybe her father's so strict with her because she resembles her mother so closely, they could be sisters. The thought makes her smile and then frown again- her father was to blame for her not having a mother.

If only she could gather everything in here, clutch it in her arms, and return her mother to her. No matter how many things she might have of hers, it won't mean she'll come back. The only way that will happen is if she manages to convince her…

Blowing softly, she uncovers another relic, this time as precious as the portrait. It's a tape recorder, and, when she hits play, it runs her mother's voice. Before she left, or, rather, fled, she recorded this for her. It fills her with a sense of nostalgia and a yearning to know her.

"Trixie, my sweet…" A melodious, pleasant, charming voice chimes, sounding maternal and elegant at the same time. Echoes resound; she clings to them desperately, longing to remember something far too long ago to recall. This is her mother, damn it, if only…

"If you're listening to this, it's probably because you snuck into my room. I sincerely doubt your father would permit you in here, considering how much he hates me…"

Here, the tape broke down, but she recognizes it not as crinkling, but her mother crying. Instantly, her heart goes out to her, forced to live a horrible life because of her father. Every second she hears, her hatred grows exponentially.

"I don't know what to say to you…I wish I could come over there and hold you in my arms and kiss away all your tears, but all I have to offer you is this number…

"I can't tell you if it'll work whenever you find it, however long that will take, but I pray it does…when you're old enough to use the phone, that is.

"I love you, Trixie…" With that, the recorder clicks off, leaving her speechless. Number? There is no number. Wait- why? No…her father got to this too…

There's another click and, startled, Trixie jumps. A broad smile crosses her face- she figured her father might try to go through the tape. That must be it.

"Trixie Elizabeth Tang, if you're listening to this, you're in direct violation of one of my rules and, as of this moment in time, are grounded for a month. You shall have no contact with your mother whatsoever, which was the purpose of removing her phone number, and if you think I'm kidding, you have another thing coming. Leave this room, never enter it again, and forget your mother ever existed, because neither can you interfere with. Are we clear?" From behind her as well as on the tape, the voice echoes.

Stunned, she spins around to find her father glaring at her. Pain crosses his eyes as he glances around, and his fingers clasp onto a garment.

"Now, get out!" Mr. Tang snaps, burying his face in her mother's garments. Trixie, however, doesn't budge an inch. Instead, she merely pretends to leave, but lingers by the door, waiting for his reaction.

"Patricia…I'm so sorry…I love you so much…please don't hate me…my parents forced you away…"

These words send a chill through her heart; even as she turns away, up the stairs, she can't strike it from her mind.

"My parents forced you away"…then I guess it's time to talk to Mommy and Daddy Tang.

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"C'mon, Trixie, sweetie, grab my finger!" Patricia grins, sweeping her up in her arms and kissing her chubby baby cheeks. In response, she gurgles happily, running baby fingers through her raven tresses.

However, all too soon, she grows up and she glances back, only to discover her mother's gone. In her place stand Mr. and Mrs. Tang senior and she glowers at them. They took her away…now they'll pay.

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Trixie jerks awake, clutching her blankets to her body. The only thing she sees in the darkness is revenge.