A/N: So, it's been awhile. Most of the reviews for this story are positive, but usually follow up with "when are you going to continue posting?" This chapter is brought to you courtesy the ONLY person thus far given explicit permission to coax me into updating, due her consistent encouragement and feedback. I frequently receive reviews requesting updates, but hers are the only ones I don't ignore. Gotta obey the Thirst.

This chapter's theme is loneliness, confusion and resolve.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Christian Grey, Anastasia Steele or the FSoG franchise. If I did, Leila, Elena, Linc and Jack wouldn't have survived the epilogue.

APoV

"Mom, mom, help, no! Get off me!" I'm once again wrenched out of my slumber, drenched in sweat, heart racing. Sitting straight up in bed, clenching my blankets, eyes unfocused. Think Annie, think! Not this again. I don't want to wake up Ray. Not again.

I'm home. Safe. No worries that Carla will appear to carry me off into the back of beyond any time soon, and yet… Who would've thought a judge would've made it so easy for her to drag me out of state to live with her abusive, pervy, no-good husband? That the price of her empowerment was my powerlessness? For some reason, she loved that psycho. She had gone so far to the dark side, she had refused to testify against Morton, citing spousal privilege, but thankfully, a jury of his peers had the sense to find him guilty, guilty, guilty, on every count thus far, despite her stunning refusal to cooperate.

Apparently, Chris worked some sorcery to keep me out of the thick of the investigation, and the numerous trials spawned by Morton's extensive trail of victims. Though they didn't question Carla regarding anything that happened to me, they did inquire about what happened to all of her husband's money. After all, he had quite a few mouths to feed, and very little cold, hard cash to finance it.

I'd always wondered what Carla saw in the slimy bastard, because he was hardly handsome, and didn't seem gainfully employed. However, turns out he was a trust fund baby, so he impressed her with the dregs of the fast diminishing gravy train provided by his wealthy parents. Surprise, surprise, that neither his father or mother showed up to any of his trials, not even as character witnesses. They disowned him so hard, I'm surprised they didn't repossess his X and Y chromosomes, leaving only a pile of primordial goo.

Realizing they wouldn't get anything useful, they sent my egg donor back to her cushy cell in the detox country club, where she'll stay, hopefully until I graduate high school. Better that than jail, but as soon as she gets out, all bets are off. She's contained for now. This is not a victory, but a stalemate. A pyrrhic victory, as she ensured Ray could never adopt me. I've been left in a precarious position. At best, Ray, my dad, is considered my temporary legal guardian, and though my legal majority isn't too far off, I can still hear the ghostly snick of the swinging pendulum slowly descending over our heads.

I'm up, and there's no going back to sleep, and o-dark-thirty, the dawn before it's wiped. I peel off my soaked t-shirt and sleep pants, dropping them in my laundry bag, not wanting the stench of sweat to contaminate my room. Next, I strip the bed, and open my window, letting a cool breeze sweep out the stagnant air.

After donning a fresh pair of yoga pants, a clean t-shirt, and socks, I grab my laundry bag and make my way downstairs, quietly as possible, as not to wake up Dad. Skipping the two squeaky stairs, I get to the utility room to toss my dirty items into the washer, without adding the detergent and bleach. I won't turn it on until I get back.

Heading through the kitchen, I walk out the back door, the stiff breeze waking me up completely. Though it's still quite dark out, it's bright enough to make my way deeper into the backyard, especially once the motion-sensing security light flashes on, flooding the yard with its luminance. It's the work of a few moments to get to my "shed" located a few dozen yards from our back door. I'll need to work out hard to shake off this impotent rage along with my well-developed sixth sense which has been forecasting imminent doom.

Entering my little cottage away from home, I smell the scent of the lavender beeswax candles I burned yesterday afternoon and the dried wildflowers arranged in the stained glass vase I made in HomeEc. On the small, round occasional table, I spot my iPod and mini speakers, which I take outdoors to the side of the house where Dad and Chris installed my Wing Chun dummy. I turn on my iPod, cueing up my "Fight" playlist before I do my stretches. I'm starting to feel the last bits of sleep ease out of my body.

Lunatic fringe

know you're out there

You're in hiding

And you hold your meetings

I can hear you coming

I know what you're after

We're wise to you this time (wise to you this time)

We won't let you kill the laughter

My body is accustomed to these movements, katas preserved in muscle memory, a long way from solar plexus, sternum, instep, nose and groin, though they are also my old friends. Dad learned to fight from his father long before he joined the Marines, and he attempted to instill in me the techniques to defend myself, without Carla's knowledge. Hmm. At first I was resistant to his training, but I couldn't ignore my slight build compared to those who might not take "no" for an answer. Besides, anyone repulsive enough to raise my hackles, yet close enough for me to exhibit my particular skillset deserves every bit of pain and suffering I can extract. And because my training was well-rounded, I can also injure from a distance.

Since I've returned, I'm more out of place than ever. At the grocery store or even the diner, conversation dries up when I'm in the vicinity. I don't know how it is when Dad is alone, but I suspect it's me that triggers the selective mutism, because their power of speech miraculously returns when I leave. I know they've surmised something major happened while we were gone, especially when I returned without Carla, and Morton's trials began receiving national coverage soon after.

I've been studying my correspondence modules assiduously, with an eye to graduating as soon as possible because I won't be making Montesano my forever home. I really would've liked to. It's beautiful here. It's a great place to live and raise a family if you're one of them, but Carla pretty much marked us both pariahs with her slutty behavior. She took her dissatisfaction with her marriage and motherhood out on us and several women in our tiny town, leaving Ray and me to deal with the fallout.

And Ray has lived here his whole life. His grandfather and great-grandfather built the majority of our house with their own hands. I could never explain to him how unwelcome, and sometimes threatened, I feel in his hometown.

But this is open season

But you won't get too far

'Cause you've got to blame someone

For your own confusion

I've come to the conclusion that Chris is some kind of workaholic. Or maybe I'd gotten spoiled by the sheer amount of time he was spending with us. But now, if it wasn't for regular email updates, I'd think he'd disappeared from the face of the planet. I practice my blocks as my energy begins to flag. I wish Christian's demons were as simple to defeat as this dummy. Not that it's going anywhere. Not that Elena is going anywhere.

Sure, he could report his abuse, but the statute of limitations had long expired. She'd need to be caught breaking the law now, a big one, and not something that'd garner the barest slap on her whip-cracking wrist. Meanwhile, we have to cool our heels, waiting for her to commit a crime having no connection to Christian. I can only pray she hasn't lured another innocent child into her web of sex and depravity, because monsters like her don't stop. She may have tricked Chris into thinking she was some benevolent Lady Bountiful sacrificing her snatch for his greater good, but then she'd have to justify why she doesn't do it all the time. If cheating on her husband to screw her best friend's kid was so beneficial, why not spread the wealth? Why limit her aid to one child? Was Christian really so deserving of her special, carnal attentions?

The sky has lightened to a pale shade of lavender, and I'm now just lethargic enough to start the laundry and take a shower before I make breakfast. Putting my things away, I'm latching the door as I hear Ray yelling my name.

"Annie! Annie? Where are you?" Ray continues to call out. I know I should've returned sooner, but I needed the workout.

"Back here!" I shout, making my way back to the house, meeting him a few yards from the house. "I was just exercising at the shed, and I didn't want to wake you up," I explained. Hopefully the bags forming under my eyes won't clue him into the fact I haven't been sleeping well since Christian went away. He has some cockamamie idea that I should strive to make more friends my age. Anything would improve upon the whopping zero friends I have here, unless he counts a couple teachers who are even older than Christian, so definitely not my age.

God love him, but Dad needs to face facts. Carla's my mother, I've read Carrie, and Montesano boasts at least one pig farm… It's too late to try building new friendships when I already have one foot out of the door. I see myself visiting often, but I can't live here, grow a family, with townsfolk waiting for me to go mad, pull a Carla, neglect my kids, cuckold my husband, then run off with the first man that pretends my shit doesn't stink.

Carla was the interloper. The "city girl" (more like "small town girl" from a different shithole town) rolled in, corrupting fine, upstanding gentlemen with her easy loving and wicked wiles, swaying her hips to lure roving eyes and single-handedly creating broken homes. And Annie was Carla's daughter. And because of this, no-one cared she was a straight-A student, on the honor roll, and soon-to-be inductee of the National Honor Society. I may as well have been the spawn of Satan.

After all, they'd never actually met Frank Lambert, had they? He could've rocked horns and cloven hooves for all they knew. Worse, he was an outsider, too. And if the fair townsfolk refrained from speaking ill of the dead, thinking poorly of him would hardly rate a mention. I was just Carla's changeling, returning cap in hand to mooch off of Ray until I met my inevitable, terrible end. At least that's the accepted narrative.

"Annie, I was worried when I woke up and you weren't in the house," Dad muttered.

"I didn't leave the property, and why should I have disturbed your rest just because I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep?" I reasoned, and Ray's expression softened. He's been so understanding. He stares doubtfully at me. Is he waiting for me to slip into madness, too?

Hopefully, being a shitty mother and helpmeet isn't hereditary, or communicable, because I want at least three or four children one day. Not any time soon, of course, but eventually. The two reasons I didn't completely hate being an only child was having Ray for a dad and Carla not birthing any more children to experiment and fail on. I wouldn't wish her on any child, especially an innocent sibling.

About the money, that crooked trail led to the general store, which, surprise, surprise, Morton owned or, more accurately, used to own. He had sold it, waving the proceeds under Carla's nose to lure her to his next safehouse. Yet no-one wondered why he'd masquerade as a simple manager. People here are so hypocritical. If they gave it any thought, they'd have come to the same dismal conclusion I did; he's surely left another victim right under their upturned noses.

We're on guard this time (on guard this time)

Against your final solution

Am I going to seek her out? No. Of course not. She's made her choice. And I've got to allow her sanctuary from the narrow minds of this small town. She hasn't come forward, and I'm not going to drag her into the harsh glare of their disapproval. Or in Chris' parlance, their self-righteous bullshit judgment.

While Chris was kind enough to spare me the scrutiny of Morton's investigation, I can't help but wish that they'd examine this place with a fine-toothed comb to see what turns up. Morton had left a swath of victims everywhere else he laid his depraved carcass. He usually targeted a woman with a prepubescent daughter or two, moved in with her, then quickly laid waste to her household. I wasn't fool enough to think he'd made Montesano an exception, especially as he was brazen enough to drag me along with Carla and him like a to-go bag.

From what I've observed, Morton was escalating, spiraling, or both. He was trying to train me into some kind of sister-wife for Carla. I am totally insulted. First, that I'd come in second to Carla, even on my worst day, and second, that I wasn't capable of visiting a come-to-Jesus on him that he'd feel to his third and fourth generation, and finally third, that he thought Ray would let him live had he succeeded in any of his aims.

We can hear you coming (we can hear you coming)

No, you're not going to win this time (not gonna win)

We can hear the footsteps (we can hear the footsteps)

Hey, out along the walkway (out along the walkway)

Perhaps I am a little bit crazy, but who wouldn't be after my experience? I've stared into that great yawning abyss and prepared to meet it with my own darkness. I may go through the motions, but I'll never be Ray's innocent little girl again. I'm a bit older, a lot wiser, and far less tolerant of taking anyone's guff. I've earned my spot at the grownup table through my own courage, guile and grit.

I'm not the same as when I left. I've changed, irrevocably, for both good and ill. When I was little, I thought I had the best parents in the world; at least I was half-right. But as I grew older, the cracks began to show, along with Carla's increasingly bitter resentment at being trapped in our tiny town. That would've been bad enough, had she not turned her discontent toward us.

She wanted a larger-than-life, grade-A adventure we couldn't provide. Too bad she impatiently sought it out for herself. Her careless, reckless, and often immoral, pursuit of happiness, was hurtful, and while at first I believed we were collateral damage, I later realized we were her targets, too.

I used to want a small, simple life. I guess I'm like my dad that way. But after Texas, seeing the huge schools, and understanding the vast opportunities of which my peers in Montesano could never conceive, I've revised my earlier ambitions.

I want a large, uncomplicated life. And I've reasoned out a few ways to attain it. First, by totally abandoning any and all pretenses that I will ever make true friends here. I had to face the cold, hard fact that people who had watched me transition from a baby, to a toddler and into a teen thought I was a future Jezebel because I'm related to Carla. Carla, who barely spent enough time with me to be any type of influence. It was ludicrous, which meant they gobbled it up with a slice of apple pie and coffee.

Second, though I'm not paranoid or vain enough to believe my life here is just a neverending season of "Everybody Hates Ana," I'm never going to be happy if I spend my life trying to please anyone here. Except Ray, and maybe our closest neighbor, a very sweet and funny, quite elderly woman with no living children, who may not be long for this world.

Finally, a few teachers and I have been working very hard to make me attractive to colleges, especially those with generous scholarships. I don't know if they're helping me so much because they want me to be successful or if they want to help me hurry up and go. It could be both. I can no longer place my faith in things and people that enter my life unless it is in a measured, organic way. I'm not going to pursue people, but let them come to me, and show themselves friendly first.

I'm missing Chris, which is why I'm so maudlin. I never realized how lonely I was until I had a friend then lost him to his stupidly innovative and profitable work! He cut his visit short due to his sudden illness, then his business started acquiring assets right and left. Chris had gone international, becoming part of the jet set.

Lunatic fringe

We all know you're out there

Can you feel the resistance?

Can you feel the thunder?

I went through the motions, making a huge breakfast of eggs, bacon, waffles and cottage potatoes, taking small bites here and there. Ray was eating with gusto, not speaking, probably planning his next projects in the woodshop.

"So, what are your plans for the rest of the day," he inquired out of the blue.

"Well, nothing is really pressing. I thought I'd look over this new set of books I received in the mail yesterday," I replied. Yeah, that venture had been a real hoot. I had to ride my bicycle to the post office to pick them up, with the postal worker's beady eyes simultaneously scrutinizing my kraft paper wrapped parcel while sneering down at me, as if someone had sent me something illicit. Yeah, my sayonara suckers ticket was in my hot little hands. I'll take "education as an escape" for $300, Alex.

"You study too much," he chided gruffly. As if the last time I'd taken something resembling a leisurely stroll around town I hadn't caught the eye of a predatory pervert. There's nothing to do here, and, if Ray intends to be in his workshop, no-one to do anything with. I wonder sometimes if it was obliviousness that kept him ignorant of Carla's antics. It would explain his blissful unawareness of my utter lack of friends.

Years of no sleepovers, and scant invitations to birthday parties, unless everyone in our classes was invited ensured I knew I wasn't welcome. In all these years, no-one ever singled me out as their particular friend, and I'm finally at peace with their oversight. Because I have my own best friend now, and I don't have to quietly yearn for their scraps.

They don't need to know it was my best friend who put new computers in their schools, or donated high-speed internet to take us out of the dark age of dialup. OK, it wasn't dialup, but it may as well have been, with the only computers located in the computer lab for kids taking computer science electives, the library and the administrative offices. The old consoles probably ran on frustration, because they worked slower than molasses when they worked at all. And my friend made this all possible. Would it be churlish to be glad that when I leave, this town will probably never see another thin dime from him again?

I find myself absently playing with the baubles on the friendship bracelet Christian gifted me the day before he left for the wild black yonder… In my world, the normal one, friendship bracelets are usually handmade, consisting of braided embroidery floss, yarn, leather or plastic cording, not crafted in 14 carat gold, and sometimes feature seed beads, not moonstones, sapphires and pearls. Then again, most friends don't have more money than sense. How the heck does he make so much money? He is generous to a fault, and I mean that quite seriously. Who wastes three grand on a freakin' bracelet? Christian Trevelyan Grey, that's who!

But I love it. It's beautiful, and if I hold it up to the light just so, the sapphires perfectly match my eye color. It costs more than all the clothes in my closet, honestly my entire full-season wardrobe including all my winter gear, and it's my guilty pleasure. I make sure it's covered up when I go anywhere. I feel sad that I have to hide it. And a little angry, too. But if anyone saw it, they'd probably imagine I stole it, or earned it; I don't know which is worse. That people would believe I'm a cunning master thief at sixteen years old or suspect I'm already freelancing as a prostitute.

I glance up during my ruminations, and catch Ray staring at me with an almost guilty expression.

"You know what, Dad? I think I'm going to take these books upstairs, maybe peruse the syllabi, make a basic study schedule and reorganize my bookshelf. Then I'm going to catch some shut-eye. I woke up really early this morning. Make sure you're back for lunch by 1pm. I'm making homemade chicken soup and sandwiches on sourdough. Yum!" I offer happily.

"Sure," he muttered. "Sounds great."

But as I made my way upstairs, automatically skipping a squeaky step, I could've sworn I heard him say the word "Taylor" and I only know one of those.

NOTE(S): Friendship Bracelet Christian gives Annie: Mid-Century Moonstone, Sapphire and Pearl Bracelet (~$2000-$3,000)

Song: Lunatic Fringe by Red Rider