A/N: It will be very official soon, but I will have 9 more prompts to post after this and that will conclude Seasons of Rumbelle. This time, I promise, I won't be waiting as long to post them. I will do so once a week at least until the first semester is over and I have my grades finalized for my students. I hope you all like and don't forget the drill!

Dead Again

Prompt: Belle has a vision on who killed Isabelle that terrible night and she and Hamish deal with the aftershocks; Hamish visits Diane and uncovers something shocking, a twist unlike any other; Belle learns her true identity. (Rated T)

She couldn't get the image out of her head.

Hamish. The scissors. Isabelle's horrified expression.

Even now Belle couldn't stop shaking, her breath stuck in her throat, the phantom feeling of the gold-plated scissors piercing her throat…

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she recognized Hamish wouldn't do such a thing. He was too kind, sweet, caring. It didn't make sense. But in a flash she was back in that bedroom, a witness to the gruesome murder. She had to get away but where? She had no memory of her identity, no money, no anything to help her escape.

Hamish's heart was beating wildly in his chest. He never felt this way—this pain—from a single terrified look. Belle looked as if she expected him to murder her that very instant, which could have been further from the truth. He would never harm her. Couldn't. He had no idea what he was feeling but he knew he was falling for her. Now, she was a frightened animal. All of their progress—gone. Poof!

"Now Belle—"

"Stay back!" she hissed. "Don't come near me."

Holding his hands out, Hamish did as she told. "Okay, okay. I'm not near you. Can we talk? Belle?"

"You murdered her…" came her soft voice, accusatory.

"You got me. Who did I murder?" he asked.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Belle spat, "Isabelle!"

Hamish paused. "How could I if I wasn't born yet?"

"I don't know!" she exclaimed, confusion all over. "Maybe Rupert!"

"I'm. Not. Rupert," Hamish said tersely.

"But you look like him!"

"I'm not him Belle! Just like you're not Isabelle."

"Then why do we look like them?!"

"Christ, I don't know!" He ran a hand through his hair. "Look. This is what I know—I like you Belle. A lot. I wouldn't hurt you. Ever. You have to believe me."

"I want to," she admitted. "I really want to Hamish but I don't know if I can trust you."

There. The one blow she could possibly make.

"All right." Hamish's face was emotionless. "Don't trust me. Be scared of me. Think I'm a killer. I know the bloody truth."

He quickly thrown on his clothes and shoes and stormed out of the apartment before she could protest.

xxXXxx

Hamish was gone for the whole evening. He did call to leave a message he was bunking at his reporter friend's place—Jefferson something—and returned early in the morning. He looked as if he hadn't slept a wink; and frankly, neither did she. Belle felt awful on how things went. Looking back, she knew it wasn't presently her most proudest moment. Her fears got the best of her and poor Hamish had to deal with the consequences.

She made breakfast as a peace offering. From what she could remember she made a decent helping of scrambled eggs and bacon. Even the coffee turned out pretty good.

Hamish had a cup and plate, silently accepting her apology, but all he said was:

"I'll see Diane today."

xxXXxx

Arriving at the antique shop, Hamish looked up at the store sign and had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. The name was so ridiculous that "antiques" was not the first thing that popped in his mind. However, he had to remind himself he was here for Belle's sake, and perhaps, even a little bit of his own.

She was so adamant that she had seen him murdering Isabelle that Hamish had to wonder if there was some truth to the Rupert Strauss trial. The man didn't even confess let alone put up a defense to claim his innocence. From all accounts, Strauss really loved his wife, but his jealousy and temper must have gotten the better of him. Hamish knew he had a bit of a temper but to go as far as to commit murder?

He didn't know.

Maybe Strauss wasn't the violent type until he snapped. Hamish had seen that happened too often enough in his line of work.

Yet… he couldn't get rid of the feeling that there was something wrong about the whole thing.

He was hoping Gaston Baker would give him the insight he was looking for. Jefferson told him that the reporter was still kicking and was willing to meet with Hamish the next day.

Taking a deep breath, Hamish pushed the door opened as he and Belle went inside. She insisted on coming and he wasn't in the mood to argue. The whole visit was to prove a point that Hamish Gold was not Rupert Strauss.

Diane greeted the two with open arms (much to his chagrin) and couldn't help the delightful glint in her eyes when Hamish told her he wanted her to put him under to find out if he had a connection after all.

"Of course, Mr. Gold. Of course! Have a seat and we'll get started."

Hamish felt pretty silly sitting in that chair as Diane's hypnotic voice instructed him to stare into the candle as he walked towards the door into the past.

The first thing he noticed was the light.

It was so bright that it took him a moment to realize it was the lightning from outside. The storm was intense and he was feeling rather anxious as he stalked down the hall in a hurried pace.

The path was never-ending, stretching too long for him to reach his destination. All he knew was he had to make this call soon before everything gets too out of hand.

"Who are you?"

He can't tell. There were no mirrors to be found.

Finally, he reached his room and closed the door, pausing to make sure that he wasn't being followed. It was disconcerting not to be able to trust the privacy of one's own home, but he didn't want the nosy busybody to overhear his conversation. Not that it was anyone's business but his.

"Find a mirror. Tell us who you are."

Yes. He had to know. He had to find out who he really was.

There was a mirror. A tall one that stood proudly in the corner of the room. He went to it.

"Tell us your name."

Belle was biting her nail when Hamish's eyes suddenly flew opened, his mouth forming a silent "o" as his cell phone buzzed persistently in his pocket. His hand flew to his pocket, fumbling to grab the device, and when he had a good grip on it, he checked his message.

"We need to go," Hamish said, snapping the phone shut as he rose from his seat, avoiding Belle's inquisitive stare. "Now."

Belle turned to look at Diane who was as equally confused as Belle was, but Hamish was reaching for her hand and was dragging her out of the shop.

She waited until they were outside when Belle yanked her hand from his grasp. "What the Hell was that?" she demanded.

"Jefferson found out who you are."

Belle froze. Her name… Her real name was finally uncovered. She didn't know what to think or how to react. At first, all she ever wanted to know was who she was. Now… She wasn't so certain.

"Hamish?"

He was already standing at the driver's side of his car. "Let's go."

"Hamish," she repeated. "What did you see?"

He finally lifted his eyes to her. "Nothing," he said. "Like I told you before. I'm not Rupert."

xxXXxx

"It took some time but some neighbors finally came forward. Turns out you were mugged the night you went missing and wound up at the orphanage," Jefferson explained as he handed over a purse and wallet to Belle.

Tentatively, she took the items and noticed she had keys inside the purse. There were two on the keychain… her car and home presumably. The wallet she unzipped and took out the cards inside.

Her driver's license—Lacey Sharp.

That was her name.

Lacey.

It didn't sound right. She much preferred Belle but as she sorted through the credit cards… they all had the same matching name.

Lacey Sharp.

"Am I…? Do I…?" she started to ask Jefferson.

"Are you attached, you mean?" he clarified. Roguishly winking, he answered, "No. You're single. In fact, you're an artist."

"An artist?" Belle couldn't help the skeptical tone in her voice. She didn't feel like an artist. Actually, she didn't feel like Lacey Sharp.

"Yup," Jefferson said, his lips popping the last letter.

Hamish had his arms crossed during the exchange. The entire time he was refusing to look at her, even talking for that matter. Belle had no clue what had happened back in Diane's shop, but she wished Hamish would say or do something.

Yet he kept his silence.

It wasn't until Jefferson addressed him that he woke up.

"No, no. You can take her. I have some errands to run."

Belle's brows skyrocketed to her hairline. "Errands? Hamish…"

"Sorry Belle—I mean, Lacey—but I have somewhere I need to be. Good luck now that you have your life back."

"Thanks… I guess." Belle didn't know why he was acting like this, but she didn't want things between them to end like this. But Hamish was gone. He left without saying another word or goodbye.

"Ready to go home?" Jefferson asked.

She exhaled. "Yes. Home sounds great."

xxXXxx

He couldn't do it.

He couldn't send Belle—Lacey—back to her old life. That wasn't her. It didn't seem like her.

But Hamish had other pressing things to contend with.

For one, he couldn't stop replaying the memory of being in front of that mirror.

He knew who he was… who he really was.

Standing in that mirror, in that reflection was none other than Isabelle Strauss.

There will be one more prompt for this one and that will wrap it up.