I promised myself this wouldn't be a long chapter . . . I apparently lied.

I own nothing but the plot line and a few OCs. The Almighty Larson owns the rest.

Collins sat against the large tree and contemplated what he should do. If he went back to the cottage, he was risking being caught by Connor. If he stayed in the woods, he could freeze to death or worse. In both of those situations, he was sure he'd never see Angel or any of his friends again. He felt like crying. His thoughts were interrupted by a low growl. He slowly turned his head to the left as his heartbeat quickened. It was quiet for a few seconds before he heard the growl again, louder this time. He stood himself up on his crutches and headed in the direction he had come from, hoping he could find his way back to the cottage in the dark.

The trees around him almost seemed alive, reaching out to grab him. He tried to force himself to look straight ahead, but that was proving to be difficult. He thought back to what Connor had said about darkness. He couldn't recall a time in his adult life when he was actually afraid of the dark. Then again, he was normally in a familiar place surrounded by friends when it was dark. Connor had mentioned that the human mind associates darkness with the unknown. Here he was in an unknown place with who-knows-what there with him. That had to be the reason for his fear now.

When he was a small boy, he couldn't sleep if it was completely dark. He would cry and his mother would come to comfort him. She would sing to him and her voice and the words she sang would stay with him, soothing him until he fell asleep.

"This little light of mine," he sang softly to himself as he continued to trek through the woods on his crutches. "I'm gonna let it shine. Oh, this little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine."

He stopped singing and moving when he heard the low growl again. It sounded closer. He slowly and carefully turned around. There was some sort of animal standing a little over twenty feet away from him. Its eyes were yellow and seemed to be glowing. Collins was paralyzed with fear. He didn't dare make a sound. The animal suddenly charged and pounced on him, knocking him to the ground and causing his crutches to fall from beneath his arms. He screamed and covered his face with one of his arms. The animal's teeth sunk into his flesh and he screamed again. He frantically felt around for something to fight the animal off with. When his hand made contact with one of his crutches, he lifted it and, using all the strength he could muster, brought it down on the animal's head. It whimpered and released Collins' arm.

The professor closed his eyes and listened to the animal scurry away. His heart and mind were racing. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down. He was one-hundred percent positive he had to go back to the cottage now. His right arm was throbbing with pain, as were his head and leg, but he managed to get to his feet and start moving again, doing his best to ignore the blood that was trickling down his arm.

Collins listened to the sounds around him as he made his through the dark woods. Owls hooted, crickets chirped. He didn't hear anything that sounded like a violent animal, but he was still being as cautious as possible. Fear mixed with the desire to live was the perfect motivator for him to keep going. His body was telling him to slow down, but the concern about another animal attacking him or his fresh wound becoming infected caused him to pick up his pace.

After nearly three hours of trudging through the woods on crutches, he saw the lights of the cottage through the trees. He refused to let himself be relieved until he was inside. It took him another thirty minutes, but he made it onto the porch of the cottage. The second he opened the door and was over the threshold, his body seemed to shut down. He collapsed right next to the overturned armchair, the door still wide open. He was exhausted. He had no idea where his crutches had fallen, he was only slightly aware that the blood from his arm was staining the carpet, and he felt as though he couldn't move any part of him. He wasn't sure how long he had been lying there when he heard footsteps.

"Oh my God!" he heard Connor exclaim. The boy was suddenly at his side. "Professor, what happened to you? Oh no, you're bleeding!"

"Don't . . . touch it," Collins said. His voice was almost inaudible. "Don't move me . . ."

"I have to move you. I can't just leave you on the floor."

"Pain . . . so much pain . . ." Connor rushed from the room. Collins tried his hardest to sit up, but he couldn't. It was as if he was nailed to the floor.

"Don't worry, Professor," Connor said as he returned to Collins' side. "I'll take care of everything."

"Connor . . ." Collins said. Connor shushed him. He felt Connor tie the tourniquet around his arm and inject him with the morphine. Once he thought the pain was at least dulled, Connor took the tourniquet off of his professor's arm and helped him to the couch. He then shut the front door before leaving the room again. Collins couldn't decide whether coming back to the cottage was a good thing. Yes, Connor was concerned that he was hurt and that was working in his favor, but what would happen after the boy was sure he was okay?

"This may sting just a little," Connor stated as he reentered the living room. He had a towel and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in one hand and two small cloths and a roll of gauze in the other. He knelt next to the couch and placed the gauze, the hydrogen peroxide, and one of the cloths on the floor. He then spread the towel out right next to him before taking Collins' hand and slowly pulling his arm toward him, preparing to wipe the excess blood off of it.

"Don't touch it," the professor told him. His voice was louder this time.

"I have to clean the wound, Professor," Connor pointed out. Collins shook his head.

"I have AIDS, Connor. My blood might as well be acid. Do not touch it."

"I'm aware of that and that's exactly why I have to do this. I'd never be able to forgive myself if this wound became infected and I could have prevented it." Collins fell silent and allowed the graduate student to clean away most of the blood. He then watched him put the bloody cloth next to him, pick up and open the hydrogen peroxide, and pour a generous amount over the bites on his arm, making sure the arm was over the towel. He winced at the stinging sensation as the liquid did its job. After a short while, Connor dried his professor's arm off with the other small cloth. The boy then picked up the roll of gauze.

"Connor?" Collins said as his student began bandaging his wound.

"Yes, Professor?" Connor replied.

"Did you leave?" The eighteen-year-old looked up at Collins and hesitated before slowly nodding. "Why?"

"I had to. I felt . . . terrible for what I did."

"Which would be?"

"I shot at you. I could have hurt you." Connor turned his attention back to Collins' arm. "I needed a few minutes alone to clear my head."

"You were gone for hours."

"Well . . . I made a stop, too."

"Where?"

"The hospital." The boy paused for moment. Collins stared at him, waiting for him to continue. "I've gone to a doctor in New York about my headaches before, but he didn't find anything wrong. I wanted to get a second opinion." He paused again. "After I shot at you . . . I got a really bad headache. I actually blacked out for a while and ended up in my car."

"You blacked out? You seemed all right when you brought me food." Connor's head shot up and he gave Collins a confused look.

"I never brought you food. I meant to, but I blacked out before I could." Collins raised an eyebrow.

"Yes you did. It's on the table in the guest room. You brought it in, put it down, and locked the door again."

"'Again?' What do you mean by that? I didn't lock you in the guest room. Or any room, for that matter." Collins stared at the young boy in disbelief. He seemed completely innocent and genuinely clueless about what Collins had mentioned.

"You . . . you really don't remember doing these things?"

"No . . . I don't. I remember running into furniture and knocking things over because the pain was so severe. Other than that, nothing."

The two stared at each other for a long moment. Collins couldn't believe what he was hearing. He recalled a time when Connor attacked another student for tormenting him. He was the only person the boy would talk to about the incident. When he had asked how he was doing the very next day, Connor didn't seem to know what he was talking about. He concluded that his student was simply trying not to remember what happened because it was somewhat painful memory. Now, he wasn't so sure that was the case.

"What did the doctor say about your headaches?" Collins asked.

"He said he'll call me when he gets the results," Connor replied as he finished bandaging his professor's arm. He then stood up. "Would you like to go back to the guest room or would you like to stay out here for a while?"

"I'll stay here. I don't think I can move."

"Can I get you anything before I start tidying up?"

"Morphine." Collins was surprised to hear that come from his mouth. The pain he was in had to be controlling his thoughts. Connor stared at the professor, thinking of how to respond.

"I just gave you morphine, Professor," he reminded Collins.

"You have no idea how much pain I'm in right now. Please, I need the morphine." Connor saw the misery in Collins' eyes. He looked like he was going to cry. Without saying another word, the boy gathered the medical supplies that was on the floor and left the room to retrieve the pain medication.

Ed and the bohemians stood in front of the one-way glass window of the interrogation room Arthur had been put in. He hadn't spoken since he had been arrested, not even to ask for a lawyer or something to drink. He just sat at the table in the room and stared down at his hands while everyone peered at him. It almost seemed like a scene from a day at the zoo, only no one was taping the glass.

"How long has he been here?" Lieutenant Anita Van Buren asked, joining the eight others in front of the window.

"Three and a half hours in a holding cell, two hours in there," Ed replied, folding his arms across his chest.

"Over five hours."

"Damn near six. And this is one man who likes to exercise his right to be silent."

"He hasn't said one word since Detective Green read him his rights," Maureen added.

"Questioning him should be fun then," Van Buren commented. Baker then appeared carrying a manila folder.

"This just came for you, Ed," she informed her fellow detective.

"Just put it on my desk," Ed told her. "I'll look at it once I'm finished with this guy."

"Actually, Ed, I don't think you would be the best person to talk to him," Van Buren said. Ed gave her a confused look. "We want him to cooperate, not file a grievance. I'm thinking Baker should do this, she's more sensitive than you are."

"Fine." Ed walked away.

Van Buren gave Baker a look of approval and the female detective walked to the door of the interrogation room. She hesitated before opening the door and entering the room. Arthur glanced up at her and then immediately looked back down at his hands.

"Hi, Mr. Gibson," she said. Arthur didn't speak. "Would you like anything? I can get you some water or something."

"No, thank you," Arthur said quietly. Baker sat down on the other side of the table and stared at the timid man.

"I'm not here to accuse you or Connor of anything," she told him. "I just want to talk to you." Arthur slowly looked up at her and she noticed the bruise on the side of his face. "Can you tell me how you got that bruise?"

"My wife gets angry sometimes," Arthur replied.

"Angry enough to hit you?"

"Yes."

"What about Connor?"

"She hurts him more than me. I try to protect him, I really do."

"I don't doubt that. Do you ever fight her back?"

"No. I was raised never to lay a hand on a woman." Arthur placed his folded hands on the table and looked at them. "I hate that sometimes."

"Because your morals get in the way of you protecting Connor?" The man nodded. "When did the abuse start?"

"About . . . seven months after our wedding."

"Do you know what caused her to start hurting you?"

"We'd been trying to have a baby for a while, but it wasn't happening. We saw a doctor and he told Anna that she would never be able to have a child. She didn't want to believe that, so she just blamed me for her not having a baby yet."

"All of her anger came from a doctor telling her she couldn't have a child?"

"That and her sister called to tell her that she was pregnant. She felt like everything good always happened to her sister because she's younger, so that was the last straw."

"Her anger was fueled by jealousy." Arthur nodded.

"She hit me for the first time after she hung up the phone."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I just thought she needed to get it out of her system, but . . ." Arthur broke off, seemingly afraid to continue.

"But what, Mr. Gibson?" Baker pressed.

"She just . . . kept hitting me. She ended up causing me to fall down the stairs." He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "She didn't even come see if I was okay. She just went back to the bedroom."

"So she takes her anger with her sister out on you?" Arthur nodded, his attention still on his hands. "Why does she hurt Connor? She obviously adopted him because she wanted a child, so why abuse him?" Arthur flinched, but Baker pretended not to notice. "Mr. Gibson, when did she start beating Connor?"

"When he was three."

"And why did she start beating him?"

"I . . . don't know." Arthur touched the bruise on his face. "The beatings got worse when he told us he was gay."

"When was that?"

"When he was twelve going on thirteen." Arthur froze for a moment.

"What's wrong, Mr. Gibson?" Baker asked. The man looked up at her for the first time. His eyes were sad and held a great deal of shame.

"Have you ever had to . . . comfort someone because they were plagued with nightmares that dealt with something you couldn't even begin to understand?"

"I have, unfortunately."

"So you know what it's like to feel like it's your fault?" Baker immediately had to fight back tears. She cleared her throat and managed to maintain her composure.

"What are you getting at?" she inquired.

"After Connor came out, Anna spent a lot of time doing research. I knew she'd never tell me about it, so I didn't bother asking. Maybe I should have . . ."

"Did you ever figure out what she was researching?" Arthur seemed to be in deep thought. "Mr. Gibson?"

"Pedophiles . . . she had a whole list," he replied, his voice soft. "I just figured she made the list so she could warn Connor to stay away from them."

"But that wasn't the truth?"

"Some of them were crossed out with black ink and some were crossed out with red ink. Black meant they were interested in children thirteen and over, red ink meant nine and under. The ones who were interested in ten, eleven, and twelve-year-olds had green check marks beside them." Arthur's eyes filled with tears. "One of the names had a check mark by it and was circled." The tears were pushing their way out of Arthur's eyes. "For two weeks, Anna let that sick bastard come into our home and do whatever the hell he felt like to Connor." He wiped some of the tears from his cheeks. "I was working late for those weeks and she knew that."

"Mr. Gibson-"

"If I hadn't agreed to work . . . I could have been there to stop it . . . it's my fault . . ."

"Mr. Gibson, don't blame yourself," Baker told him. "I'm sure Connor doesn't." Arthur nodded and continued to wipe his tears away, trying to calm himself down.

"When he finally told me what happened, he asked me if God was punishing him for being a homosexual," he said.

"Why would he ask you that?"

"Because that's what Anna told him." Baker placed a hand over one of Arthur's hands. "He ran away and hid for a week. I have no idea where he went, but I was glad he left for a little while."

"When did he come back?"

"The day after his thirteenth birthday. That man didn't come around once he found out Connor was thirteen. He wasn't interested in him any more." Arthur looked down at the table. "The whole thing completely ruined him. He was never the same."

"The detective that brought you here said you said something about Connor not knowing he did anything wrong if he was involved in Thomas Collins' kidnapping." Arthur's attention snapped to Baker.

"I thought you said you weren't going to accuse him of anything," he reminded her.

"I'm not, I'd just like you to clarify that. Would you?" Arthur gave a slight nod.

"When he came back home after hiding for a week, he started getting headaches. They were mild at first, but they progressively became worse."

"How bad did they get?"

"He would go long periods of time without realizing he did anything, including moving from the spot he was in. And he . . . didn't seem like himself."

"What do you mean?"

"Normally, Connor is very quiet and obedient, but sometimes after a bad headache he's confident and slightly defiant. His entire personality changes. Almost like he's a completely different person. I took him to see a doctor, but he couldn't find anything physically wrong with him." Before Baker could respond, Ed burst into the room, clutching the manila folder Baker had given him in his hand.

"Mr. Gibson, I have three questions for you and they're very important," he said quickly. "Is your wife's sister's name Carrie?"

"Yes," Arthur answered.

"Did your wife take your last name?"

"Yes, she did."

"What is her maiden name?" Arthur stared at Ed for a long moment.

"Why?" he asked.

"Please answer the question. Is her maiden name Bennett?" Arthur looked to Baker for some sort of guidance.

"Is it?" she asked. Arthur hesitated before nodding. Baker took her hand off of Arthur's and turned to her colleague. "Ed, what does his wife's maiden name have to do with anything?" Ed walked toward her and gave her the folder. She opened it. "The case from Vermont?"

"Connor wasn't adopted," Ed said, staring directly at Arthur as he spoke. "His aunt kidnapped him."

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