Disclaimer…I don't own anything, including the song 'Hotel California' or 'Tequila Sunrise' by the Eagles. But oh, if I did…

Author's Note…The thing about writing stories, for me at least, is that when I start it, I never exactly know where it is going. I have a plot, a storyline, (hopefully) unique characters, and the inevitable problem. I just don't know how it will end, and I like it that way; it's my hope that by the end of my story, my characters can create their own futures. Plus, it's kind of fun wondering where they will take me. The purpose of this little tidbit of information is to inform my readers that this 'fic is officially Going Somewhere. That's right, folks…an actual location. Located in the abstract corners of your mind, population: make it up. And sorry for taking so long to put out this chapter!

"I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!'

-The Eagles, 'Hotel California'

Hilary

Facts, cold and calculating, reel in my mind, an ethical battle waged against myself. There are simply too many things to consider; what would Shawn think? What would the girls think? Would I be betraying Megan? Johanna came here by her own choice; would I be betraying her? In the dark recesses of my mind, I can work out that someone would get hurt, were I to go through with my plan, but those are the only consequences I am able to comprehend.

But say I weren't to go through with my plan…would I be betraying Johanna's birth mother--the one she lives with now? There is an unwritten code between mothers, and I'm sure there is a subsection of the first rule (never let a fellow mom'skid walk into oncoming traffic, however vague the title of 'mom' may be) that I would be breaking.

But rules and standards only twist my mind further into the mess I know I must have gotten myself into. Because…well, if everything did go according to plan, then right now, I wouldbe Johanna's mother, and this wouldn't even be an issue. Of course, I am referring to the plan that was made a couple years ago; a plan that involved Ms. Harding, a few signatures, and a small, silver charm in the shape of neu erh, the Chinese symbol for 'daughter.'

I sigh and turn my attention to the small slip of paper in my hand. Letting my mind wander off is only a temporary high, nothing that will last.

Stealing is a crude term to use, but I suppose that is what I have done. I stole the number from the man that introduced himself as James' cell-phone. It was all too easy, really. After Shawn had taken Johanna down for a bite to eat, and we had instructed James to bring all of his luggage down to 1818 Waxberry Road, which was where we lived, Megan had drifted off to slightly drugged sleep and James just so happened to leave his jacket here--with his cell-phone in his pocket.

I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose, but still, he did it and it was a prospect I was sure I wouldn't get again. Luck is when preparation meets opportunity, and I suppose I have been preparing for this moment ever since Johanna was taken away. Never one to let a chance go to waste--if only because chance means 'hope'--I broke into his phone-book and found the number to his house.

Apparently, there are two 'houses' in James' life. One of them is a place; the other is a person. A person who did not hesitate to inform me that I was a moron…why couldn't I differentiate between 'House' and simply 'home'?

Really, he should have forgiven my confusion because everybody, or at least everybody with some luck in their lives, has a home away from home. And usually, that alternate home is not an actual place, but a person. I guess James is simply a very literal person.

"What are you doing?"

If I hadn't seen that James entered the room, I would've sworn the voice belonged to my conscience.

I turn to James with guilt spread across my face like glaring red handprints. "Nothing," I tell him hastily, my voice very similar to that of a five-year-old's, stealing sweets from the proverbial cookie jar.

James gestures towards the slip of paper I am holding. "What's that?"

"Nothing," I insist, but I can tell he doesn't believe me. As he shouldn't.

Abruptly, he makes a grab for the paper and I reflexively yank it behind my back. This doesn't stop him, and his hand snakes around my waist, searching the hills and valleys of my spine for my hand.

I grin at him. "You'll never get it," I tease, my words littered with deeper meanings and double entendres.

"Oh, but I will," he warns good-humoredly. And with that, his hand finds mine and, without pausing to notice how intimate the touch was, he pulls the paper out and reads the number in his head.

I know what will happen when he finishes reading, but suddenly, I do not care. There are shivers creeping down my skin and even as I am twisting my wedding ring, I do not worry that I won't be able to stop myself from falling into bed with this man.

I was on the other side of an affair once, when Megan was a little girl. Shawn is not aware that I know of his transgression, but I had followed the relationship passively, never confronting my husband. I can't say I was surprised, and maybe it's better that way. I may have only have a high school education, but I'm not stupid; Even then, I knew what the chances of a successful marriage when both spouses were so young. Imagine my shock when, after a month and a half or so, I realized that the affair had ended.

"Hello!" I blink; James is waving the small piece of paper around in my face, trying to awaken me from my daze. "What the hell were you doing with this?"

I exhale slowly, and do not even bother to fabricate a lie. "I was going to call her," I explain calmly.

His hands are trembling; apparently, my plan has hit a nerve. "I'll call her," he says, each word laced with anger. "I'll call her."

But it seems that neither of us will ring her. Judging from the Caller ID on James' cell-phone, she has beaten us to the chase.

XXXxxxXXX

Cameron

I remember that way back when Jimmy got a new cell-phone, and we stayed up one night working out the kinks of it, we had found a setting that enabled us to choose how many rings the phone will sound out before redirecting the caller to the voice box. Jimmy wanted six, at least; he thought he should get a second chance…and a third chance, a fourth chance, and so on.

Me; not so much. I figured that first of all, no one would stick around for six rings unless it was of utmost importance and, if it was that paramount, Jimmy really should have picked up on the first ring. Second of all, if the caller had something to ask him, say, how her kidnapped daughter was doing, they didn't deserve to be left dangling on the edge of a cliff.

Eventually, Jimmy had won out because after all, it was his phone. This is why I found myself in a little rut in the couch, with Van Morrison playing in the backround, listening to four freaking rings.

Finally, on the fifth ring, I hear a small, resigned click as someone picks up. "Hello," asks the voice which is tentative, shaken, and, most importantly, feminine.

"Who is this?" I demand immediately.

I hear a sigh. "Is Johanna your daughter?"

Through and through. "Yes."

"You're her mother?"

In the back of my mind, I understand who this woman is, although I really don't want to. "Yes."

"Well, here's the problem," the woman says, with something I cannot identify intertwining her words, "so am I."

XXXxxxXXX

For some reason, I can't help but remember the day Johanna was born. I know the process of childbirth is supposed to take time, a lot of time, but Johanna was born in a neat three and a half hours. It was fast and blurred, yet somehow I remember every second, every contraction untwisting in my belly.

I nearly killed her, you know. The cord was wrapped around her little throat, choking her. It took the doctors longer than usual to get precious oxygen into her system, and, during those few pivotal moments, the nurses comforted me. "It's my fault," I remember telling them, crying. When one especially dense nurse said that she couldn't work out how that was so, I told her that the cord was originally attached to me, and maybe if I had walked at a certain angle or slept in a different position, we wouldn't be in this position.

"Honey," the nurse responded, "this has nothing to do with you."

The shock of her statement, the notion that maybe I wasn't to blame (and my medical experience supported this idea) was still washing over me when a relieved doctor placed the tiny baby into my arms. "Look at her," he said with a hint of anxiety in his voice, "she's just fine."

"No," I countered, "she's perfect."

And she's mine.

My life's experiences at that point--which included Bryan dying, Joe cutting things off, losing contact with my parents, being completely and utterly alone--had led me to believe one thing: If I did not give something…or someone…up, I would lose them.

I had always known that it would come to this, that I would have to walk away from Johanna or she would leave herself, but I was never really prepared for it. Which was why as soon as the words left my lips, as soon as I understood it to be true, I gave that little baby back to the doctor. "You can hold her for a few minutes before we clean her up," he told me, obviously thinking I would be getting her back.

"No," I informed him sadly, "you have to take her. Now."

Before I break her.

XXXxxxXXX

"Is Jim--James there?" I harshly ask this woman who dares to call herself Johanna's mother.

There is a sigh, then a distinct fumbling noise, and finally; Jimmy himself. "Allie?"

I hate it, I hate it so much, but at the sound of his voice, relief floods through my veins and back to my heart. Thank goodness, I think. Thank goodness she's not all alone. "Jimmy," I sigh, then remember I'm furious at him. "What the hell have you done with my daughter?"

It takes a second too long for him to reply. "She's…downstairs."

Apparently, the other woman sensed that there was something wrong with his answer as well. "What happened?" I hear her ask urgently, but I do not hear a response.

"Jimmy," I say warningly, and repeat her question.

"Listen, Allie, she's got a little concussion, but she's going to be fine…" I hear a gasp almost identical to my own.

"She's fine," I hear Jimmy quietly insist to the other woman. "…Yeah, right downstairs. Room 312…Yes, Shawn's with her…Allie, you still there? Allie?"

"Yeah, I'm here," I hear myself say a little breathlessly. "What…what happened to Johanna?"

"It's just a little bump on the head--"

"It's a concussion."

"Yeah, but--"

"Who examined her?" I ask tersely. "What was the doctor's name?"

"Dr. Friedman."

"How old is she?" I am slightly impressed with my interrogating skills. I'm sure this is what House means when he says 'take a patient history.'

"She's young but don't worry about Johanna. Cameron, this town, this family…it's like Johanna's 'Hotel California'."

I rack my mind for the lyrics to the Eagles song. But I only memorized my favorites, and frankly, I was always more of a 'Tequila Sunrise' kind of girl. Suddenly, there is a frantic beeping on the other end of the line and James mutters a curse word before whispering desperately to me, "we're running out of time."

He's wrong, I realize as I walk slowly to my room, and start pulling clothes out of the closet. Time, that beautiful, horrible catalyst, has evaporated. If I want something to change, I have to make it happen myself.

You know, another word for initiate is 'beginning.' But going to this town Ms. Harding just last night; it won't be a beginning. I'm joining in media res and I'm going to have to wipe my maternal slate clean to understand anything about this life Johanna has obviously not let go of.

If only I can figure out how.