No one living suspects Constance is raising the only surviving Harmon twin. No one. Constance knows how to blend in, cross her t's and dot her i's, and slither beneath the radar to arise any suspicion. For all the police know, Michael Harmon met the same fate as his brother. That's how Constance wants it to be kept for as long as she has a say in it. It's been three years and the immaculate little boy has himself wrapped around Constance's finger; she'll do anything for that little boy, has done everything for him—even if it's cleaning up his messes. He never remembers what happens afterwards; he only looks at her with confusion at the blood on his hands, even if only prior he'd look elated like he's so proud of what he's done. She'll have to teach him to hone his talents when he's older her, when he's old enough to go to school, because she doesn't want him to be in too much trouble too soon.

Regardless of the missing Hispanic babysitter, Michael's hick-ups are becoming less and less (not that he remembers it. He still asks where Rosa is, now-and-then, and is perfectly content when she merely shrugs her shoulders). He's eating cheerios while drawing Constance another picture to decorate the refrigerator with. "Michael, that's lovely! Is that me and you?" He nods, quietly; beaming at the fact she recognizes herself and points to the squiggly line that's supposed to be her. 'Nana.' He responds. He's very articulate, just like Tate, but oh-so-quiet. "I see! Well, I think I've never looked better!"

His blue eyes light up and it's easy, oh-so-easy, to forget about Rosa's body on the floor of his room just a week ago. Good thing she bought two dogs: they're still dining on her remains.

Constance hasn't smoked in three years, either. It's a personal best.

Picking up an envelope that's addressed to her, she opens it up, realizing that the messy handwriting is one Violet Harmon's. "Your sister sent in more photos of your niece, it seems. I'm surprised she doesn't wear a helmet. I hear that's what they make retards do nowadays." Adelaide Harmon is Autistic and, therefore, inferior in Constance's mind. She doesn't deserve to share the name with her Addy: no one could ever match her strength, her endurance, or her intelligence regardless with how they were hatched. She tosses the photographs to the side. She figures Tate would want them. Every month she receives a status report and every month she gives it to Tate. Ben and Vivian already video chat with their daughter on those internet things: her baby boy deserves better, anyway. Like Michael.

Tate doesn't want anything to do with Michael.

Idiot.

Billie Dean visits. It's a monthly ritual, but Constance has to give the letter and pictures to Tate as always. She'll respond within a week or so. She has to make time to pretend to give a damn. "I hope it's no trouble you watching him for ten minutes," Constance begs, putting on her sunglasses as she's nearly out the door. "He's asleep in his bed, dead to the world. As soon as I come back you can tell me about the network's decision to renew your series."

Constance sneaks into the basement, her son's frequent hide out, and gives him more and more pictures of the little disabled child he's so proud to father, while there is a perfect, healthy one next-door he seems not to want anything to do with. "He's Ben's, not mine," Tate tells her if she ever pries it out of him why he's so distant. Ben Harmon always asks about Michael, as does Vivian, and it's in the two people she doesn't want to share anything with about the immaculate boy is she able to be the proud, doting grandmother. She hates having to pretend to give a damn when they talk about Adelaide finally, after all this time, speaking her first word. "Song," Vivian says proudly, grinning ear-to-ear. "I told Ben that she's going to be a musician just like me…or was."

"How nice," Constance comments, sipping her tea as she continues to feign interest, "I'm sure you must be proud at how well little Violet is adapting to motherhood."

They are. She can tell.

Constance finally excuses herself so she can go back to her golden child, her special boy, but as soon as she steps inside the walls are covered in blood and the room smells like death.

"Good lord, not again."

Violet Harmon is no longer a drifting, sullen fifteen year old girl; she's now nineteen, second year of college, and is studying to be a teacher for special needs children. She wants to write, so her minor is Literature, but Adelaide inspires her to help other children like her out every day. She's thankful for scholarships and she's thankful for her Aunt Jill for being so amazing and loaded; she doesn't think she could've done it alone. Dark eyes, burly blonde hair, and (sadly!) her mother's nose, Adelaide Harmon is nothing like her father. She's kind, loving, and regardless what anyone says she's smart. She knows what's going on: just because she can't articulate it, yet, doesn't mean she's an idiot.

There are times, too, when Violet thinks she isn't Autistic at all.

For one, Adelaide always loves on her or her Aunt Jill. She gives smiles, laughter, kisses and hugs. Sometimes she thinks why Adelaide is so quiet is because she hears—no, she knows—something that Violet cannot. She remembers how excited she was when she got to tell her grandparents her first word, and how she clapped for herself when Ben and Vivian did, encouraging her whole heartedly. Violet never thought she wanted kids, or even liked them, but Adelaide has filled something inside of Violet she never knew needed filling.

Sometimes she wishes Tate was here, with her, being able to be excited over the milestones Adelaide partakes in, but she can't regret leaving him like she did. She's forgiven him, something she never thought she could do, but she can't forget and she can't regret choosing Adelaide over Tate. The house got to Adelaide after all with her learning difficulties: she can only imagine what it would've done if she had stayed.

Times like this she finds herself in her daughter's room, staring at the framed picture of Adelaide and Tate on the end table. Regardless of what he's done, Violet likes to believe he still loves Adelaide; she may always love him, it's hard pressed not to when they have a child together, but as long as he doesn't blame Adelaide for anything than she's fine. She curls up on the toddler bed, staring at the photograph, allowing herself to drift off in some daydream where everything was different and he wasn't dead, that there was no Murder House, and that he's in the living room right now with Adelaide as she plays with the toy construction truck he gave her.

Wailing snaps Violet out of her reverie as she rushes in the living room, finding Adelaide lying on the floor in a fetal position, screaming as tears stream down her chubby cheeks; "Mama!" She cries, brokenly. It's the only other word she knows besides 'song.' "Mama!"

Violet picks her up and cuddles with her on the sofa. She's never been particularly affectionate, not ever, not really with Tate and when she did, it usually was fleeting, or at least she thinks so. Adelaide is so different. Adelaide changed her, saved her, and Violet couldn't be happier for it. After wailing turns to sobs, sobs to whimpers, and whimpers to hiccups those doe eyes look up at Violet's, pleadingly, before uttering her first complete sentence: "Bad boy mean. Stop bad boy." She pleads, her bottom lip trembling. "Make bad boy go 'way."