Thanks, everyone, for sticking with me! More Alan angst (and, don't worry, slight forward movement as well). I have to admit I find this chapter slightly cheesy. I know, way to sell it. To warn you, it's probably due to the very teeny hints of ship. I don't do ship. ;)

Recap: Charlie's been taken by an Utter Nutter. Everyone else is trying to put together pieces of the puzzle.

After so many hours, Alan still hadn't figured out what the parent of a missing person was supposed to do with his time during the long and painful wait for news of any kind. He didn't want to think about bad news, but didn't know how to not do that except to stave those thoughts off with more positive ones. And he had to say that while he had unwavering faith in Don's ability to do his job, knew that one way or another Charlie would be found, the positive thoughts were becoming more and more difficult to cling to. He wished he had something to do besides sit around and think.

He looked at the clock for the one-hundredth time since Don had called him in the morning. At least he thought it had been morning; there had been no sleep for him last night and time blurred. The strong scent of coffee filled the house, but it was no more welcome a smell than the beef stew had been yesterday. The caffeine already slithering through his veins made him jittery but didn't really do much to take away his sheer exhaustion. His body wanted to sleep, but that was something he wasn't going to let it get until this was all over. He couldn't, not knowing what could be happening to Charlie at any moment. Alan changed his gaze from the clock to the New York Times crossword spread out before him. The black and white boxes seemed alien and wrong to him, and they started crossing each other. He shoved the newspaper away, running a hand across his face, rubbing his weary eyes.

He stood up, paced the kitchen a couple of times. He thought a slow jog might make him feel better, at least for a little while. He could use the energy and concentrating on one foot in front of the other on the pavement always helped clear his mind. Alan stretched his arms out as he walked toward the stairs. He had to pass by Charlie's bedroom to get to his own, and he couldn't seem to help himself. He stopped at the doorway and looked in, as if he expected his son to somehow be there. The bed was the exact rumpled mess it had been yesterday, perfect in its disastrousness. He chuckled a little, remembering how Charlie had never liked to make his bed when he was a boy. It used to drive Margaret nuts, one of the few habits of Charlie's that did.

The jog all but forgotten, Alan entered the room and sat down on the edge of Charlie's bed. He glanced around the room. It wasn't filled with sports trophies like Don's old room. It wasn't filled with math awards, either. Aside from the clutter that was characteristically Charlie, the room was of stark design. He wondered why he'd never really noticed that before, though it wasn't like he really spent much time there. He stood up and started stripping the sheets off the bed.

When Charlie got home, he'd probably appreciate clean sheets.

Alan got halfway done when he was overcome with an intense need to scream. Or cry. He sat back down on the bare mattress, arms full of sheets that smelled of Charlie and just…sat there. He couldn't move and didn't know where he'd go, anyway. He couldn't do anything really useful. He hugged the sheets to him. If he washed them, they'd lose the smell of Charlie. Now he didn't know if it would be better to wash them or not and felt stupid for hesitating. Charlie was coming home.

The sound of someone knocking on the front door saved him the final to-wash-or-not-to-wash decision. He shook his head and rose to his feet. He wasn't expecting anyone. Don would call with information, not come over. Unless…Alan raced down the stairs and to the door. He should have realized when Don wasn't standing in the foyer that it wasn't him, with Charlie in tow. He should have realized he was having a whopper of a pipe dream. He opened the door. Amita stood on his front step, looking all of fifteen and frightened.

"Sweetie," he said. He'd never called her that before, didn't know why he just had. He didn't even know her, really, mostly from what Charlie had mentioned. Her dark eyes filled with tears. "Come in."

"I couldn't…I couldn't seem to get myself to campus today," Amita said. She sounded as distressed as she looked. Her normally smooth curls were a mess of frayed, loose tangles. Her shirt was wrinkled and her unneeded makeup haphazardly applied. "I don't mean to intrude. I just can't believe this is happening."

He wanted to issue words of calming wisdom, for himself as much as for her. Maybe even more.

"Neither can I," he said, and his voice cracked. "As real as it is, it doesn't seem that way, somehow."

Amita nodded and moved through the door. Once inside, she stood in one place and just looked around, searching every corner. Alan knew what she was looking for, since he had vague memories of doing the same thing at about three AM. Hell, he'd just done it up in Charlie's bedroom. He also knew that Amita wouldn't find what she was looking for, that it wasn't up to them to find it. To find something that would help find Charlie. Knowing, in this case, did not make him feel any better and he was fairly certain that was true for her as well.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"I can't remember the last thing I said to him," Amita told him absently. Alan saw now that her smudged makeup only enhanced the shadows that were already under her eyes. "I've been trying to, but I just can't. I didn't see him all week, so it must have been 'good-bye' or 'have a nice weekend' or something like that. Wouldn't you think I could remember?"

Finally, there was something he could do. Alan pushed the door, let it slam shut as he walked over to Amita. He didn't really know her well enough for more than polite conversation; she was Charlie's friend, his would-be girlfriend. But right at this moment, Alan knew her very well, and this horrible thing intimately connected them. He pulled her close and hugged her. The human contact was a welcome relief, one he hadn't even known he'd been missing. He gained as much as he gave in the embrace.

"You couldn't have known," he said, knowing the words were inadequate. He didn't remember the last words he'd spoken to Charlie; he remembered the last words he'd spoken about Charlie and they weren't ones he was proud of. "There was no way to know this was going to happen, so why would you think about it?"

"I don't know," she said into his chest. She was so small compared to him. Not too different from Charlie's size, he thought. He squeezed tighter. "It's just so unbelievable. I don't know what to do, Mr. Eppes."

"Call me Alan, Amita." He had told her that before. He told almost everyone that. "I prefer to be called Alan. It lets me cling to the illusion that I'm not an old man."

Her arms shifted around him and she turned her head to the side. He patted her back a couple of times. Nothing had changed, but Alan felt just a little bit better. He hoped the hug had the same effect on her. Amita sniffled a couple of times. He stared at the tissue box on the other side of the room.

"Hey, are you going to be okay now?"

"I should be asking you that, you know."

Alan almost bluffed away the gut wrenching fear that felt like it'd never go away, but then he realized she had her ear on his heart, and the heart never lies. So he didn't say anything and just let the hug last a few moments longer. It was Amita who finally pulled back, looking slightly less like she could fall into a million pieces right there on the floor. Alan was glad for her relief, though it didn't really lessen the emptiness inside himself.

"I can't say if I'll be okay or not," Alan said. He rubbed her right shoulder, then finally let go of her altogether. "I can't stop thinking about what could have happened to him. I wish I could do something besides wash Charlie's sheets so they'll be fresh if he comes home."

"If he comes home." Amita's face did a quick crumple and she looked away. Before she did, he saw new tears in her eyes. "You said if."

Alan faltered back a couple of steps, until the back of his legs hit the arm of the sofa in the den. He sat down on it. He hadn't meant to say if. When. He had meant to say when. And this time it was Amita who hugged him, draping herself across him and laying her head on his shoulder. She sniffled a little, and his own eyes filled with reciprocal tears. He could still see the hands on the face of the clock. It had been forty-two hours since Charlie disappeared. Thirty since he had thought about anything else or slept. He shook slightly as he tried to keep himself from crying outright.

"I meant when," he whispered, his throat tight. "Donnie will find him, I know that. I should have said when."

"I know."

"The thought of Charlie out there, in God knows whose hands, I can't…I…who would want to hurt him?"

"Everybody loves Charlie," Amita said into his ear. He sensed she meant that to mean she loved Charlie, but she didn't say it. He was grateful for that discretion, the words not something he needed at the moment. "Even those who are jealous of him can't hate him."

His face was hot and wet. Alan had failed to keep the tears in his eyes, but he suddenly didn't care. He needed this release even more than he'd needed a simple hug or two. The not knowing was killing him bit by bit. As unbearable as it was to watch Margaret waste away before his eyes, and as much as he missed her and looked for her every single day, to not have any idea what might have happened, what could still happen, he corrected, to a loved one was a different horrible kind of pain.

"He does have a certain kind of charm," Alan said. His voice was thick, strained. "I know he's got at least one secret admirer."

Amita stiffened and pulled back a little. She looked him in the eye, color rising in her cheeks. She was really lovely, he thought, even in a messy state like this. Alan was reminded yet again why Charlie was so gone on her. Brains and beauty, an irresistible combination. That was a weakness Charlie had definitely inherited from him. He allowed himself a small smile. Maybe it was okay to focus on that for a moment. Goodness knew he tended to butt in on his sons' romantic (or lack of romantic) lives.

"I was pretty sure that wasn't so secret anymore." Amita's blush deepened. "If anything happens to him…"

"Oh, you left him that note?" Alan was genuinely surprised. Note-dropping didn't seem Amita's style, even from what little he knew of her. "Why didn't you just tell him those things face to face?"

"Note? What are you talking about?"

"The, uh, the one Charlie found in his office a couple of months back. Something about liking his hair," Alan said. Amita blinked at him a couple of times. He scrubbed at his face. The tears were drying and starting to itch. "The one Larry suggested Charlie fingerprint…back when Don was helping that actress or whatever with a stalk – "

"Mr. Eppes, that wasn't me. I didn't send Charlie any notes."

Amita backed away from him as he made to stand. Secret admirer. Stalker. It could be a fine line. Something besides emptiness started bubbling in his gut. Had Charlie received any more love notes from this mystery person? Surely he would have said something about them if that were the case. Still, Alan had to wonder if there wasn't a connection. It certainly was something Don should know about. As worrisome a thought it was, he also thought it had given him the slightest spark of hope.

"Mr. Eppes, what's going on?"

"I don't know," he said. "I need to call Don. Someone was taken with Charlie enough to send him a message of secret love. Maybe this wasn't about using Charlie for some criminal intent, or about anyone hating Charlie. Maybe this was simply about someone liking him a bit too much."

"Oh, God," Amita said. She looked shell-shocked again. "Everybody loves Charlie."

He hoped that Don had his cell on. This might be nothing, but it might be everything and he had to put the bug in Don's ear. If he knew his son, he'd be on campus right now, digging for any type of clue as to Charlie's whereabouts. He hit the number and waited while it rang. Amita walked in small circles in front of him. She looked like she was still processing what he'd told her.

"Eppes," Don said into his ear tersely.

"Donnie, it's me. Listen, I think I might have an idea," Alan said.

"Someone did this intentionally, Dad. Charlie called the dean the night he disappeared, made up a story about a family emergency. The head of the math department forgot to put out a sign to say Charlie's classes would be cancelled until late yesterday. If Larry hadn't stopped by…"

"What? That doesn't make any sense. Why would Charlie call work but not me or you?" Alan shook his head. He was getting caught up in what Don had to say, when he had his own things to say. "Remember back a couple of months ago, that stalker case that turned out not to be a stalker case that you were working on?"

"Yeah," Don said. "Dad, I know you want to help, but I've got a lot of people to interview here."

"Listen to me. About that same time, Charlie got a note from a secret admirer. Ask Larry, he'll tell you. Don, what if this person had something to do with this?"

"What, you mean like someone might be obsessed?"

"It's possible, right? You can look into that. Find Larry. Ask Larry."

"Yeah, Dad. Thanks, that's good…worth checking out," Don said. "I've got to go, I've got another call coming in. Could be important, about Charlie. I'll call you when I know more."

Don hung up on him. Alan knew it wasn't to be rude, but that his son had leads; he'd had that determined edge to his voice. He glanced at Amita, who'd stopped moving and was just watching him. Adrenaline now mixed with caffeine in his bloodstream and he fidgeted.

"Don's going to find him soon," Alan said. He believed it, truly, for the first time in a great number of hours. "They've already found suspicious activity on campus. Someone there had to have something to do with this."

For the third time in the scant few minutes since Amita had entered his home, Alan hugged her. This time, though, there was less fear and more excited hope behind it and it only lasted a couple of seconds. She smiled at him, her eyes losing a bit of their scared darkness.

"Then I guess I'd like a cup of coffee. And I could help you wash the sheets," Amita said. "For when Charlie comes home."