AN: Sorry for the wait, I'm juggling three other stories at the moment and each one likes to demand its own personal me-time. I'll have the next chapter up shortly.

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It occurred to Michael as he followed Emory obediently to her office that he actually knew very little about her. He didn't even know if he was going to let her live through the next hour. Well, no, that wasn't true. She'd earned at least two hours of life. But he wasn't at all sure how he felt about her, and that did not bode well for his little psychologist. He had never been able to control lust, and now it filled him like wildfire with every movement of her hips, every breath of scent that he caught from her. She looked at him and his pulse sped. He was relatively sated.

For now.

In her office, Emory looked at home. While she searched for her keys and shoes, Michael examined the documents haphazardly strewn around her couch. It was Loomis's collection of newspaper articles. Michael raised an eyebrow. So that was how she'd figured it out.

Just in time, too.

Emory was standing beside him, keys in hand, watching him stare at the files. She didn't say anything as he turned his head and looked down at her. She didn't say anything when he lifted his hand to brush his fingertips over her cheek.

So beautiful. When had he started thinking of her as beautiful? No one had been beautiful since his mother had died. She had figured him out so easily, seen right through him, and now she was wriggling her way past his barriers, past all the defenses he'd built up to keep himself sane during his incarceration.

And the funny thing was: she wasn't even trying. She wasn't being a psychologist anymore; she wasn't trying to understand him, to understand his motives.

She already knew. She knew everything.

"Don't look at me like that, Michael," she said quietly. She reached up and took his hand, drew it away from her face. "I know you don't trust me."

Was that…hurt in her tone? He thought he recognized it beneath that cool, sweet voice and those pale gray eyes.

Michael looked away. He couldn't help it. He hadn't felt chastised in more than seventeen years. He didn't think he could be chastised anymore. And yet Emory had made him feel almost… remorseful for not trusting her.

"Haddonfield," she said, drawing his attention back to her. "Is that where you want to go?"

Slowly, as if he was waking from a daze, he nodded. And she reached out, took his hand and led him out of her office. The lights in the hallway pierced his eyes like needles, but he ignored them. Emory led him out the back way, avoiding main entrances and security cameras. She did this so well he began to wonder if she had planned her escape route beforehand.

Stairwell, hallway, door, door, stairwell... And then, like a screaming slap in the face, fresh air. Michael stopped. He had to. He hadn't breathed fresh air in so long he'd forgotten what it felt like. For a few moments, he was completely engulfed in sensations, from the cool kiss of the wind against his face to the rustle and chirp of fauna in the woods that surrounded the building.

Oh, God, it felt amazing to be free.

Emory tugged on his hand. He wasn't sure why he'd let her lead him like a stray puppy; submissive behavior had never appealed to him. But he supposed this was a side-effect of being completely enthralled by a woman. If so, it was small enough that he could live with it. At least for a while.

He moved again, one foot in front of the other, focused on everything at once, stretching his memory to its limits in his attempt to remember everything about this moment. How beautiful the stars were, glittering like silent gods in the sky. The smell of autumn, clean and sweet. The warm touch of the woman holding his hand tightly in her own.

Michael tilted his head down at her, watched her walking with that smooth, confident gait. She was a magnificent creature, all soft curves and sweet skin. He was reminded of how she smelled by the very air itself, and it hit him that she smelled like autumn. Like freedom.

They stopped at what Michael assumed was her car. It certainly matched her perfectly; it was a pretty little thing, all sleek silver and smooth charcoal leather and shining obsidian accents. Michael had never been the type of male that fawned over cars; he hadn't even seen one for the better part of two decades. But he knew that it was nice, and that Emory had good... and expensive taste.

The logo on the dashboard in front of him was circular, with the letters B, M, and W embossed in the leather. Michael closed his eyes as the engine sang to life, felt the vibrations ebb through his body. Ah, it was good to be free.

And so, just as the mangled bodies of four security guards were being discovered at Smith's Grove Sanitarium in the early morning hours of October 30th, Michael Myers was riding off into the proverbial sunset, towards Haddonfield, Illinois.

And Bonnie Myers.