Julia. No matter how common the name, she was certain that it was Miss Sagorsky to whom Gillian had referred. Suddenly the details of Julia's mysterious "friend" rushed to the forefront of Emma's mind: kind, honest, quiet—words that could describe many people but fit Richard so well. And the war injury, the one that made it difficult for him to forge connections with others—could it be covered with a thin panel of painted tin? Emma knew she had no choice but to confront Julia, and that this would mean confronting her own fears about Richard's fate, as well.

When she returned to the Sagorsky's, Paul and Tommy were playing catch in the front yard. Tommy greeted her kindly, but she barely registered his tiny voice as tunnel vision led her into the house.

Julia was sitting in a high-backed chair, mending a pair of shortpants. She looked up when Emma came in, lifting the fabric for her to see. "Freddy's old clothes. He was a bit bigger than Tommy, so I have to take them in—are you all right?"

"I need to ask you something," Emma said, fists clenched as she stood before her, "and I need you to be honest with me."

"Of course," Julia replied, brow furrowed with concern. "Anything."

"Your friend, the one who left Tommy here with you—you said he had an injury."

"Yes, a terrible one." Julia shuddered.

"What was it?"

Julia looked unsure, but responded nonetheless. "It was...his face. He was missing his left eye and part of his cheek, and I think part of his jaw, too."

"And he wore a mask to cover it. A tin mask, painted to look like his face. His face before the war."

"How did you—"

"What was his name?"

Julia swallowed. "His name was...Richard."

Emma took a step forward. "Richard Harrow?"

She could see the spark of recognition on her friend's face and knelt down at Julia's feet. "You're...his sister."

The Harrow girl nodded emphatically, then grasped Julia's hands.

"I knew it," Julia said, quivering blue eyes searching Emma's emphatically. "I can see him in your face. You have the same eyes."

"Well, we are twins." A wide smile spread across Emma's face.

"But you're more outgoing."

"I told you I was."

Julia laughed, then pulled Emma in for a sisterly hug. The Harrows hadn't been an affectionate family, but Julia's arms felt like home. As clear as day, Emma could see Julia helping prepare Christmas dinner on the farm, while Richard played with their children. It would be wonderful to gain not only her brother, but a sister, as well. Emma hated to break the spell of her daydreams, but she knew she must press on.

"There's something else you need to tell me."

Julia nodded, tears in her eyes as if she anticipated the coming question.

"What happened the night my brother brought Tommy to you?"

It had been little over a week and, though the image of Richard's bloodstained face was still horribly fresh in her mind, the night itself seemed like an eternity ago. "He showed up at our door in the middle of the night," she said, slowly, painstakingly, as the images that kept her awake at night swam behind her eyes, "with Tommy in his arms. His face was covered in blood."

Emma swallowed, clearly sickened but struggling not to show it. "Did he tell you why?"

Julia shook her head. "I don't think he wanted me to see it, but Dad turned on the light."

"Was it his blood?"

"He said it wasn't, but that's even worse. How does someone end up with another man's blood all over their face? I mean, it isn't as if I didn't know he could be capable of...whatever left him that way. He told me what he did in the war, so I know he's killed people, but seeing it with my own eyes was—" The words caught in her throat. She didn't really know how to describe how it had felt. She supposed she should have been afraid of him, but the truth was that she was more afraid for him than anything.

"Do you have any idea what might have caused it?"

"If only I did. I know he was a caretaker for Tommy's grandmother, so I can't imagine what he would have been doing." Had Emma flinched at the mention of Tommy's grandmother?

"When did all of this happen?"

"A little over a week ago. I tried to look for him at first, but Dad made me stop. I didn't know where to find him, anyway."

"Why did Paul make you stop?"

"He said...he didn't want to be found."

Emma looked down, eyes narrowed. "Sounds familiar."

"He's done this before?"

She nodded. "He was only home for a month before he disappeared. I only found out he had gone to Chicago when the veterans' hospital contacted me. I wasn't even sure he was still alive until I received Gillian's letter."

Julia sank back in her chair, suddenly terrified for Richard's safety and wracked with guilt in the face of all she clearly did not know about this man she loved so dearly. "What did the letter say?"

"Not much. She was worried about his mental state. Made it sound like he was dangerous."

"But he's not!" Not her Richard. Her Richard was gentle and kind, though in all fairness she had seen him threaten her father more than once. He had choked Paul to the point of passing out, and she was now certain he would have finished the job had she not intervened.

"Julia, I don't doubt that you know my brother well, but there are some things you don't know about him. About us."

"Then tell me. I need to know."

Emma shook her head. "I can't."

"You have to." She grabbed Emma's hand, staring into her eyes imploringly. "Emma, I'm in love with your brother. He means more to me than anything in the world. Nothing you say will change that."

Emma sat back on her feet, fighting back unseen demons. "When we were little—ten, I think—there were these vagrants that kept robbing the farms in the area. They broke my father's leg when he caught them in our barn. I heard them come back one night, maybe a month after that, and I went to go do something about them."

"But you were just a girl."

"I didn't say it was a brilliant plan, but I've always been too bold for my own good." She took a deep breath, wringing her hands in much the same way that her brother did when fraught with nerves. "They saw me, and they grabbed me and held me down with a knife to my throat."

Julia felt her hand fly unconsciously to her face, horrified. "What did you do?"

"What could I have done? I struggled as much as I could, but they were so much bigger than me, and then they started unbuckling their pants, and I started to think I should stop fighting it and just let them kill me. And then...they sort of...fell down."

"What happened?"

She was quiet for a moment, eyes cast downward. "Richard put a bullet through their heads."

For a moment, neither spoke as Julia considered the story she had just heard. Surely, he couldn't be blamed for doing what needed to be done to save his beloved sister, but how many boys could murder two men in cold blood? She couldn't imagine Tommy doing anything of the sort.

"All I'm trying to say," Emma began, "is that he has been capable of killing for quite some time. And I taught him that."

"You can't blame yourself. You were in trouble—"

"No, before that." Emma's dark eyes narrowed, focusing on an unseen point in her mind. "It was me. I taught him to shoot. I'm the reason he's such a good marksman. He never even wanted to kill anything before I showed him how."

Julia's heart sank for her friend's obvious guilt. "Emma, we still don't know what happened that night—"

"I think I have an idea."

"What's your idea?" Julia said, unsure if she wanted to know the answer to her question.

"When I first arrived in Atlantic City, I went straight to Gillian's address. The place was crawling with policemen, and one of them told me that...that they found twenty dead bodies there." Her eyes shot up, bearing into Julia's with an intensity that took her aback. "So you tell me: do you think it's just a coincidence that twenty men died in Richard's house, and he shows up at your's covered in someone else's blood?"

No, it didn't sound like a coincidence at all. Suddenly Julia's heart was racing, fearing the worst for her lost love. The only consolation was that Emma was here with her, her confidence a beacon in the darkness, and she hoped that Emma's single-minded determination to find Richard and bring him home was enough to get her through the long road ahead.

The second time Emma found herself at the Ritz, she did not have to remind herself to be confident. She knew that Nucky Thompson had been hiding something from her, and her determination to find out what that was carried her straight to his office, where the guards stepped aside with little more than a glance at her face.

A guard finally stopped her just outside the door. "I need to speak with Mr. Thompson," she said, the coolness in her voice frightening even herself.

"No visitors," the guard replied, gripping his rifle with white knuckles.

"I'm not a visitor," she said decisively as she pushed open the door.

Nucky was on the phone when she barged in, and he looked up at her wide-eyed but didn't dare curse at her for her intrusion, as he would his own men. Instead, he spoke softly into the telephone before replacing it on the cradle and turning his attention towards her, his feigned charm betrayed by the anger in his eyes. "Ms. Harrow. This is a surprise."

"I won't waste your time, Mr. Thompson, and I hope you won't waste mine." She stared into his sunken eyes. "I know you know something about my brother that you're not telling me."

"How do you know that?"

"Don't play coy with me, sir. I can tell when I'm being lied to, and you lied to me yesterday." She took a step towards him, her eyes bearing down on him. "Now, you're going to tell me where he is."

Nucky shifted his weight, cocking his head defiantly. "Or what?"

Without hesitation, she responded, "Or I'll kill you."

He took a step towards you. "Young lady, you have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Please, Mr. Thompson." She laughed mirthlessly. "You don't scare me."

"I wasn't talking about me."

She swallowed, taken aback by his comment.

Nucky reached out and placed a strong hand on her shoulder. "Has it occured to you that your brother might not want to be found?"

"I don't care what Richard wants." The words had escaped her before she'd had a chance to stop them, and she cursed the Harrow honesty for betraying her.

He cocked his eyebrow. The phone rang, and she saw the color drain from his face at the sound. "Are you done threatening me for the day? I need to take this."

She wasn't finished, but she knew she wouldn't be cracking him today. "I will see you again," she said darkly.

He smirked. "Is that another threat?"

"It's a promise." She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.

Dinner was tense. The women sat in silence, wrapping their minds around the situation at hand. Afterward, with bellies full and dishes cleared, Emma offered to put Tommy to bed. "It's the least I can do," she said.

Tommy was a serious boy; even his play had an air of world-weariness beyond his six years. Emma wondered how he came to be in Richard's care, realizing that she had taken it for granted that Gillian was being honest in calling herself his mother. It seemed wrong for a boy so young to have lost both parents already, wherever they may be. It was good that he'd had Richard, and now Julia, who cared for him so completely. As if he were their own.

"Are you Richard's sister?" the boy asked, his voice innocent but his eyes earnest.

"Why yes, I am," she smiled. "How'd you guess?"

"You look like him."

"That's true. We're twins. Do you know what that means?"

Tommy shook his head.

"It means," she continued, tucking the blanket around his tiny body, "that we grew up together in our mama's tummy, and we were the best of friends from then on."

"Richard was once a little boy, like me?"

She nodded. "That's right. Do you want me to tell you a story about when Richard and I were kids?"

"Yes." Such a definitive response from such a small boy.

"Well, when we were about your age, we used to go fishing at this pond near our farm. We'd sit on this old pier and dangle our legs over the water, holding sticks with strings tied to them and little grubs on the end that we'd dug for in the dirt."

Tommy was wrapped with attention, his large eyes turned up towards her.

"One day," she continued, "Richard felt a tug on his line—a real yank. That fish was a beast! He had to stand up and pull with all of his might, and I stood up too—I was bigger than him, then—and I wrapped my arms around his waist and we pulled and pulled and pulled, and then...can you guess what happened next?"

"What happened?" His eyes were nearly as big as his face.

"That fish pulled both of us into the water!"

Tommy looked horrified. "But...but..."

"What is it?"

"What about his mask? Didn't it get all rusty?"

Her heart sank, at once charmed by the boy's naivety and saddened that her brother had transformed so completely into the masked stranger who had returned from the war in his place. "No, sweetheart," she said gently. "He didn't have his mask back then."

"Oh."

She bent down and kissed his forehead. "Time for bed," she said, running her thumb across his chipmunk cheek.

"Emma?"

"Yes?"

"I miss Richard," he said meekly.

"I know, Tommy. So do I."

She hadn't been sleeping; not really. She had been tossing and turning for several hours when she heard it, her mind reeling with the day's discoveries. She had been thrilled to find out that it was Richard with whom Julia had fallen in love, but his leaving her had only served to increase Emma's concern. If he couldn't accept the purity of Julia's love for him, then maybe he was too far gone, after all.

The sound was soft, just a car door opening and shutting—gently, as if by someone who didn't want to be noticed—but her senses were sharpened in the dark and she was out of bed and at the window in one swift motion. She strained her eyes, but the thick clouds in the night sky kept the scene in shadows. Then a rustle of grass, and a darkened flurry of movement. She was not about to let whatever it was get any closer to this family.

She stopped in the living room, where Paul's rifle sat perched above the mantle. It was loaded, which seemed unwise but fortunate in this moment, all the same. She peeked out the window; the shadow was distinctly human, and was now perched against the large tree in the yard. Clutching the gun in both hands, she took the back way out.

It took several minutes to work her way around the house, giving it a wide berth so as not to alert the intruder of her presence.

She crept towards him, her footsteps light as air. A break in the clouds cast a beam of silverly light upon the scene, enough to cause the rifle in the stranger's hand to glint in the moonlight.

She raised the gun, the suspect in her sights. "Drop it."

The figure tensed, then laid the gun carefully on the grass and raised his hands in surrender.

"Turn around."

Slowly, he turned toward her, and she gasped as a glimmer of moonlight hit the tin mask pressed to his cheek.