Review, please! I want to know what you think. Am I staying in canon (mind you I've changed the plot; 'something' happened in the second season and this story takes place several years later), have I made any mistakes along the way, is there something you think I could do better? Let me know. It's like firewood to my burning muse! I live off it. So please let me know your thoughts!

- D

CHAPTER FOUR

The next day

At precisely 7:05 a piercing and shrill beeping went off inside the green jeep, quickly followed by a loud thump and a vehement curse as Michael's head collided with the car's metal frame.

"For the love of god, Michael," Isabel complained, yawning. "Did you have to set it so loud?"

"Well you're awake now, aren't you?" He rubbed at the sore spot on his forehead. "I thought that was the whole point of setting an alarm."

Max craned his neck back to look at Michael. "What time is it?" The heavy feeling of dread that had taken up permanent residence in his stomach dropped a couple of inches lower as Michael checked his watch.

"Seven."

Isabel's eyes widened. "We slept through the whole night. We've probably missed everything."

"Whose turn was it to take watch?"

"It doesn't matter." Max met Michael's gaze in the rear-view mirror as he revved the engine to life. "It doesn't change the fact that we missed our biggest, and most likely, only chance to get a lead."

"I'm sorry, Max," Isabel said, her voice remorseful. "I know how important this is for you. I'm sure there's another way that we can find out where she is." She frowned in thought while Max pulled out the parking slot and into the busy morning traffic. "If we could only –"

"Got it!"

Isabel turned around in her seat to find Michael staring intently at the same porn magazine he'd showed them earlier. It was folded open to the page where Kyla Monroe was posing as the sexy girl-next-door. With disbelief in her eyes, she stared at his triumphant expression and peered at the photo a second time to look more closely in case she'd missed something. "I don't," she muttered, annoyed now that he'd got them excited over nothing. "What is it?"

"Her address."

"We know that already, genius."

"I'm talking about the place where she works – not where she lives. Christ, do you think I'm stupid?"

Isabel, her patience strung out about as far as it could go without breaking, snapped, "Do you really want me to answer that question?"

Used to his sister's morning persona, Max didn't comment except to ask, "Where is it?" He had his own demons to fight, and feeling that his patience wasn't going to hold for much longer with those two around, he found that ignoring them was the best way to hang onto his sanity.

As they gave him directions on how to drive, he found himself fighting for control. There was a battle going on inside him. Hope was waging war with reason. It wasn't good sense to start hoping again, because if he did Max knew with absolute certainty that he would ultimately find himself facing a disappointment of unbearable proportions and he doubted he could bear to live through it a second time. Horrible just didn't come close to describing those first few weeks following Liz's disappearance and, finally, her death. Pure hell was what he'd felt the world had suddenly turned into, although in perfect honesty Max couldn't say he actually remembered living through those long, unbearable days that painstakingly slowly stretched into weeks of grief and mourning after Liz's death. As the months inched by, Max found that time held no meaning for him. Life passed him by in a timeless blur. He'd been a walking zombie. His body functioned as normal; he ate, he slept, he talked, but he did it all on autopilot, with no real emotion and no actual memory of what he'd said, where he'd been or what he'd eaten. Selfishly, Max thought he wasn't strong enough to endure that pain again.

He'd tasted it yesterday, and remembered the fear, the heart stopping tension that crept up on him and squeezed him by the throat. To have found the address of her residence only to find police and ambulances swarming the grounds and a dead person being carried off on a gurney was a feeling akin to having his heart crushed, ripped out of his chest and shredded, again and again. With a pure effort of will, Max shut the door on those memories. It wouldn't do to get carried away. He needed to keep his head clear and about him. Last night proved that. They had almost got caught and he couldn't risk anything like that happening again. Not to Isabel or to Michael.

Their first stop was Luigi's Take Out. Morning traffic in LA had proved to be a challenge that not even the three aliens were able to endure on an empty stomach. So they stopped at the nearest café on the way. They ate quickly and were back on the road within twenty minutes. Isabel had spoken to a clerk lady to ask directions, and she had told them which route to take and what streets to avoid no matter what. As they drove on, Max recalled last night's rubble, the police deputies and others inspecting the damage, securing the scene. As he remembered the covered person being shipped off by the ambulance, he grew increasingly despondent. There was nothing he could learn from this. Whatever was left at the scene would be closed off and no doubt closely watched. LAPD was no Roswell one-man sheriff patrol. The fact that there was even the tiniest possibility that she could have been there gave him a chill just thinking about it.

-

The neighbourhood was no more attractive in daylight than it had been at night, in the rain. Less so, actually, Mark reflected, recalling the last time he'd dropped by the office to pick up Kate one rainy evening. It had been late, Kate had been working overtime, and Lucas was already waiting at Mrs. Weaver's. It had been his third birthday and he'd been waiting for his presents all day. Knowing this, and hating herself for having to work late – no, for needing the money desperately enough to work late – Kate had made Mark take a quick detour to pick up the three wheel bike Lucas had wanted so badly, that she couldn't really afford. A wry smile tugged at Mark's mouth as he remembered that evening. Lucas had been ecstatic, and for a couple of hours the constant worry had vanished from Kate's eyes replaced, if only for a short while, by happiness, a pure and unadulterated joy. How he longed to see that spark in her eyes again.

The reality however told a different story, Mark considered grimly as walked through the front door into the office. In the stark light of a grey morning, the age and grime and tiredness of the place couldn't hide.

The little two-story strip mall where Prize's office was located looked to have been built in the late fifties. Hard angles, flat roof, metal panels of faded colour. Pale aqua, washed-out pink, puke yellow made up the colour scheme on the walls that weren't made out of concrete. Aluminium frames around the windows. Across the street, the 24/7 Laundromat squatted, a low brick building with no discernible style. The row of nearly identical two-story buildings that flanked Studio X had clearly been a design of great ego and little budget. The quality of the construction work was a nightmare and the outside could do with a lick of fresh paint. Apart from the monstrous sign that might just as well have been taped to the concrete wall Max was facing fifteen minutes later, no one in his right mind would have suspected a studio could be here.

Max didn't need to know about Beverly Hills and Century City to know that this was the kind of place where the lower end of the food chain hung their shingles.

There was nothing on the ground floor apart from a grey wall of concrete and a door that creaked horribly, leading out into a tiny hallway with a staircase at the end. The bell attached to the door jingled merrily and he was reminded by how out of place this whole situation was. In a matter of days he'd gone from the daily grief of mourning the loss of the one person he had ever truly loved to the perilous concept that was called hope. He still felt a little dazed by it all, as if it had happened to someone else and he was walking in someone else's shoes, trapped in someone else's body. The tide was taking him along for the ride and he could either drown or he could drift along with the flow. He hoped he'd made the right decision, and that there were no sharp jagged rocks to take him down along the way because he sure as hell didn't have the power to watch out for that too.

After ascending the carpeted stairs they found themselves in an open loft space filled with plenty of light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows facing west, and what looked like a small office on the left. In the middle of the loft, a wraparound desk was situated with behind it a receptionist. She was young, bleached blonde and pretty; and probably had an accumulated IQ of a hamster. Max felt the corners of his mouth twist into a sardonic smile. He was beginning to sound like Michael. He'd have to watch that.

Absently, she twisted a lock of hair on the end of her pencil, her mind clearly engaged in deep concentration. Her nails were long and painted a fire engine red, and it was difficult for any male, alien or not, not to become entranced by the valley of the pair of breasts that peaked ever so teasingly out of her tight little spaghetti top. Michael cleared his throat. Startled, she looked up with a pair of wide blue orbs; flushing a scarlet red as she hurriedly put away the harlequin romance book she'd been reading. She offered them a bright smile.

Both men melted instantly.

Isabel rolled her eyes and watched while Michael leaned over the counter and prepared to work his magic. "Hi, I'm Jonathan Marren. I'm a photographer…"

-

"Of course. Of course. Whatever you say, Mr. Turner." The twitchy man's head bobbed up and down as he nodded. "Naturally I understand the situation. It's only logical that she needs to take some time off. As much as she needs."

Of course, the little weasel was lying through his crooked nicotine stained teeth, Mark thought with disgust.

"Just, err… how long do you think she'll be gone? Does she know?"

"Not at the moment. When the police do I'll be sure to pass it on."

He wrung his hands nervously, a feral glint in his eyes as they focused on Mark's expensive leather shoes. "It's just that she has several bookings this month and, well, it's an awful lot of money that goes into –"

"Like I said, if there's any news, you will be contacted. Until then, I trust that she will receive paid leave."

Prize moved around the tiny office, his movements quick and jerky. It gave Mark a headache just to watch the guy. But he'd be pick for brains if he turned his back on that backstabber. "Well…"

"That wasn't a question," Mark snapped. "If you have a problem paying her salary you will have to take it up with her lawyer."

That seemed to stop him in his tracks; at least for a few seconds. "Her – err… her lawyer?

"Yes. Patrick Sheldon. Here's his card. Just in case. If there's anything else – you can contact me under this number. I'll be taking her personal items with me."

They moved out into the open space.

"If anyone tries to contact her through this office, call me or the police," Mark instructed him, Prize's concerns already dismissed from his mind. "I'll pass on your regards."

"Yes. Okay. I'll see you out then, Mr. Turner."

"There's no need. I can see myself out. Goodbye, Mr. Prize." As he turned away from the fat midget of a pest, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of disgust with the man, he moved towards the staircase and would have missed the conversation exchanged at the receptionist desk if not for one word that reached his ears as loud and clear as if someone had called it over a speakerphone. Liz.

Three people were standing at the desk, all looking in their own way completely out of place. They were young and obviously not who they were pretending to be. The tall, young woman said "Max," to the dark man at her side to get his attention, and soon it was fixed on him. With a grim feeling spreading through his insides, he walked up to them.

"What do you want?"

The third man also dark-haired but slightly scruffy looking turned and pasted a smile on his face as he zoomed in on Mark. It reeked of artificiality. "Ah, Larry Prize? I wonder if I could have a moment of your time."

"What do you want?" he repeated. If they presumed he was Larry Prize, who was he to correct them?

"I want Liz Parker."

Mark felt his insides freeze over.

"I want her to model for me. I'm a photographer."

Though the bottom did not just yet fall out from under his stomach, Mark seriously doubted the guy's sincerity.

"Sir," the receptionist called. "Sir, I told you there is no Liz Parker working for us."

Mark's hand clenched on the handle of his briefcase. "Who are you?"

"Jonathan Marren." The lie came as smoothly as the smile. He stuck out his hand. Mark ignored it.

"What do you want with her?" he said, making a conscious effort to unclench his jaw.

"I just told you –"

"Let's cut through the bullshit, shall we? I'm going to ask you one last time and then I'm out of here. Who are you and what do you want with her?"

"I told you –" 'Marren' was interrupted by the dark-haired man stepping forward and putting a hand on his arm. His eyes met Mark's and for a moment no one spoke. If the tension that permeated the air at that moment had been electricity Mark was certain they'd all been fried by now. But he refused to back down, and he returned the levelled stare with a distinct feeling that the quiet man before him was trying to come to some sort of decision.

Finally, he spoke, "I'm Max Evans."

Evans. Something clicked in Mark's mind.

"If you know anything at all about Liz Parker I need to know."

His voice was urgent, his eyes seemed sincere, but this was LA and Mark Turner didn't trust anyone.

"I don't know anyone by that name."

"You're lying," the other guy accused.

"Please." Max stepped in between them, again the peacemaker, and his eyes pleaded, "We mean no harm. I only want to know that she's all right."

Mark was torn up inside. The logical part of his brain was telling him to turn around and walk away, but the curious inquiring section was telling him to trust the man with the dark brown eyes, crinkled with genuine emotion. Isn't that what that Whitman fellow had told him? That Evans could be trusted. Evans and no one else. And he'd been right, so far; everything Whitman had told him was true. Perhaps he could answer the questions plaguing Kate. It was their only lead, and he had to decide whether or not to pursue it. It was likely their only chance.

He was just about to open his mouth and offer the man before him what he so openly craved, when a thought struck him that clamped down on those sentiments with the finality of a steel jaw. This was Kate's trust to give, not his. It was her life, her risk to take, and he had no right to decide for her. So he did the only thing he thought was right.

"Give me a phone number on which you can be reached."

Hastily, Evans scribbled the numbers down on a scrap of paper and handed them to Mark, who stuffed it in his pocket without a second glance. His mouth was grim.

"I'm not promising anything."

-

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