Later, he could never remember exactly what had possessed him to approach the crying girl on the park bench. Probably, he admitted to himself, it was just his natural curiosity, his inclination to meddle in the affairs of others. It wasn't as though the sight was so unusual; in other towns, perhaps, but not in Storybrooke. Often as he made his rounds through town he saw sadness in the people around him: the young teacher, Miss Blanchard, gazing pensively into space; Hopper, the psychiatrist, shuffling with his head down, his Dalmatian trotting alongside; the town handyman, Marco, looking wistfully in the direction of the schoolyard as the children played. He had never felt the need or the desire to approach any of them, to inquire as to where their sadness lay and if there was any way he could help to alleviate it—for a price, of course.

But something about the girl on the bench drew him. As he got closer to her he recognized her. She was the Miller girl, the daughter of the town's lone insurance salesman. He had seen her around town through the years, but their paths had never crossed before. He knew almost nothing about the girl, not even her exact age, though he knew she had to be in her late teens by now. The one thing he knew about her was the one thing he knew about every citizen of Storybrooke—her name.

"Amy?" he said softly.

The girl jumped and looked around, startled. She didn't relax as she realized who he was; her eyes widened and her expression became, if anything, even more apprehensive. He supposed he couldn't blame her. After all, Mr. Gold was the closest thing Storybrooke had to a boogeyman.

Not that he was fearsome-looking. He was on the short side for a man and thin, and walked with a slight limp that required a cane, courtesy of an accident in his boyhood (what kind of accident? exactly how old was I?) He was also without a doubt the best-dressed man in Storybrooke, with a seemingly endless selection of perfectly tailored suits, each with their own set of perfectly matching accessories. Even the cane he carried seemed to be an elegant accompaniment to his wardrobe. His medium brown hair was just beginning to gray slightly at the temples, and oddly was shot through with streaks of pure gold (it was rumored about that Mr. Gold went into Boston occasionally and got highlights at an ultra-expensive, ultra-discreet salon. The main propagators of the rumor were women who envied the flawless color job. Had he cared, he could have told them it was 100 percent natural.) What was no secret was that he went for a manicure every two weeks like clockwork, and as a result had hands as slender and elegant as the rest of him, with long, slim fingers ending in perfectly trimmed and buffed nails.

Mr. Gold's face wasn't traditionally handsome; his features were too angular, his bone structure too sharp for that. Nonetheless it was an arresting face, and he was one of the blessed few who actually got better-looking with age. His most gracing feature was his large brown eyes, the precise shade of milk chocolate. His eyes were beautiful, or would have been had there been any warmth in them.

No, it wasn't his looks that frightened the people of Storybrooke. It was the two things he had that very few others in the town did: money and power. He had more money than anyone in town, and more power than all but one—and he wasn't afraid to use either to achieve his ends. Nearly everyone in Storybrooke had been, or was, in his debt.

Including the father of the girl who sat before him. He and Miller had…done business…several times over the past couple of decades. Miller was one of those rare creatures with absolutely no scruples, something Gold rather admired in a man. Their ventures together had been most lucrative. They had never had anything other than a working relationship, though; even Joseph Miller wasn't eager to get chummy with Mr. Gold. Gold wasn't insulted by this. The man had to make a living after all. What was more, very few in Storybrooke knew his true nature, and most believed him to be the honest and decent businessman he appeared. It would be foolish to be openly friendly with the man most regarded as the town villain (although, Gold reflected, he and Joseph Miller weren't really so very different at all. Gold just made no secret of his ruthlessness.)

He barely remembered Miller's wife, a quietly pretty, painfully shy young woman. Grace, her name had been. He didn't think he had ever heard her say two words. She had died…he concentrated…years and years ago, when the girl before him was very small. Or had she actually died giving birth to the girl? Yes, that was it. Some sort of freak accident during childbirth…a hemorrhage, an aneurysm, something of that nature. Tragic, very tragic. The baby had been the couple's first child, and Miller had never remarried. He had raised his daughter as a single father, in a modest ranch-style house in Storybrooke's one subdivision. The Millers weren't on the same financial wavelength as Gold or the mayor, Regina Mills, but by Storybrooke standards they were quite comfortable.

"Amy," he repeated. "Are you all right, dear?"

The girl eyed him warily, but when she spoke her words were polite. "Hello, Mr. Gold." Then, in a breathless rush, "Did my father send you to find me?"

Gold shook his head slowly. "No, dear." Hmmm, he thought, just what was going on here? This could be very interesting. "I was just out for a stroll, and saw you sitting here, and…well, you look rather upset. Is everything all right?"

Oddly, the girl looked rather disappointed at the news that Gold was not here as an emissary from her father. Then she did another odd thing: she shook her head slightly and gave a small, bitter smile.

"I should've known," she muttered to herself. Then to him, "I'm sorry, Mr. Gold. Yes, I'm all right, thank you. Everything is fine." He might have believed her if she hadn't burst into fresh tears at the word fine.

"Mind if I sit down?" Gold asked. Amy nodded, hiccupping. He eased himself onto the bench beside her, maybe a bit closer than he really needed to but not touching her, and offered her a handkerchief.

She looked at the black silk square and shook her head. "Thanks, but no. It's too nice to get tears and snot—um, mucus all over. I have Kleenex." She held up a crumpled ball of tissue before using it to wipe tears from her eyes.

He extended the handkerchief to her. "Really, I insist. I can afford dry-cleaning, you know." With a small smile she finally accepted it. He noted that she only lightly dabbed at her eyes with it, however.

"So, dear," he began, "what seems to be the trouble?"

She gave him a rather sharp look. He could read clearly in her face the desire to say Mind your own business! But then, out of respect for an elder, fear of the nefarious pawnbroker, or her need to unburden herself (he found himself hoping it was the last) she answered the question.

"I'm pregnant," she said simply.

He tried not to look startled. "Oh, I see," he said. That made sense. She was the right age for such a thing, and he knew she was unmarried. Joe Miller, who so prided himself on his public image, would not take kindly to the news of an unwed, pregnant teenage daughter. No wonder she was crying.

"Yep, the girl all her friends made fun of for being the last virgin in her high school is now with child," she continued, apparently so relieved to be getting it all out she paid no mind to what she was saying. "Not only that, but the father-to-be hopped the next Greyhound out of town after I told him. He was only here for the summer anyway, but he wasn't supposed to leave for a couple of weeks yet. He didn't leave a forwarding address, of course. And then—" her shoulders started to shake and fresh tears spurted from her eyes—"then my father found out."

For once Gold didn't know what to say. He made a sound that he hoped was commiserating, and debated whether to put an arm around her shoulders. Finally, he patted her on the hand.

Apparently she found some comfort in the small contact, because she turned to look him full in the face. It was then that he noticed the dark red mark on her cheekbone.

"I told them at the clinic not to leave any messages on the machine—I signed a paper saying they were only to speak directly to me, and not to call the home number at all—but—Mr. Gold, he yelled at me! He said the most awful things; he said I was a whore, and he wished I had died with my mother…" she nearly choked on a sob.

Gold grimaced with distaste; fortunately, the girl was again wiping her eyes and didn't see. The grimace was not towards her in any event. It was for her father and his words. Gold was not a father himself, had never had any desire to be one, but he couldn't imagine hurling such vitriol at a frightened girl—much less his own flesh and blood. Apparently Joe Miller's lack of caring for other people extended to his personal life as well.

But not everyone was able to distance themselves from their emotions the way he could, he realized. It was possible that Miller had simply been very upset and spoken before he thought.

"I'm sure he didn't mean it, dear," he murmured soothingly. "Perhaps he just…let his anger get the better of him. Surely if you go home and talk things out with him, he'll calm down and be more…understanding of the situation."

"I can't go home," she said miserably. "After he said those things to me, he hit me. He'd never done that before either. Then he told me to get out, that he never wanted to see me again."

Gold felt a wave of pure disgust wash over him. As coldblooded as he was accused of being (and, truthfully, could be), he would never dream of striking a woman. A pregnant one, no less. He found physical violence to be most repugnant. There were much better ways of getting one's point across.

That wasn't what Amy Miller needed to hear right at the moment, however. So he repeated, "I'm sure he didn't mean it."

Once again she looked him square in the eye. Very few people in Storybrooke could bring themselves to do this, and he mentally saluted her. "He meant it," she said. "Mr. Gold, you don't understand. My father doesn't love me. He never has. I blew any chance I ever had with him just by being born."

Gold couldn't believe he'd gotten himself into this. He almost wished he had never approached the crying girl. But here he was, and he was going to follow through. As the townspeople said, once Gold made a decision he never backed down.

"Dear, that can't be true," he said gently. "I'm sure he loves you. You're his only child, the only thing he has left of your mother. Of course he loves you."

She shook her head. "That's just it. He can barely stand the sight of me for those exact reasons. I wasn't the boy I was supposed to be, and I killed my mother. In that order, I think.

"I told you he'd never hit me or shouted at me," she continued. "That's true, but…he's never hugged me, either, or told me that he loved me. At least not that I can remember. I don't remember a whole lot of my childhood, but I know that he was almost never there. As soon as he brought me home from the hospital, he hired Mrs. Woods—you know her, she owns the inn and the diner; her granddaughter Ruby is one of my best friends—to be our housekeeper and my nanny. She raised me herself until I was seven years old. Then my father said I was old enough to look after myself and he dismissed her. After that…" with a heroic effort she managed to keep from tearing up again…"after that I was on my own."

Several thoughts flashed through his mind at this little speech. No, dear. Mrs. Woods may run the inn and the diner, but I'm the one who holds the note on both of them. And a deeper part of his mind mused, isn't it funny that one barely out of her childhood remembers so little of it? It's almost as if…as if…he couldn't seem to complete the thought, and shook his head slightly in frustration.

She misunderstood the head shake. "It's true," she insisted. "My father is not the man people think he is. You must know that, Mr. Gold. I know you and he have had some dealings over the years."

For a brief instant he could only gape at her. Quickly he composed himself. But he felt another wave of admiration at the girl's candor. She had done a foolish thing, but she herself was no fool. He was beginning to think that the fool in the equation was Joe Miller. What a stupid man, not to realize what a jewel of a daughter he had, unplanned pregnancy notwithstanding.

He chose his next words carefully. "Your father and I have had some business dealings from time to time," he acknowledged. "However, he never wanted to share any part of his personal life, and I respected that. But if I'd had any idea that he was mistreating you…"

"He wasn't. He didn't," she said. "Like I said, he was never abusive or anything. He always made sure I had food and clothing and all that. Hell, he even bought me a car when I turned sixteen. But…it was all for show, don't you see? He only did all of it because he had to, because people would have talked if he didn't. I've always understood that. He's always made it clear to me, even if he never came right out and said it." This time she couldn't stop the tears from flowing.

Impulsively he grasped her hand. She was too surprised to pull away. "Then he's a fool," he said just as impulsively. What was he doing? "I don't know you well, Amy, but I can tell you're the sort of girl that any man…any smart man…would be proud to have as a daughter. You obviously love your father, even after all these years, even after what he said and did to you today. And I don't believe for a minute that you're a…girl of loose virtue. You must have loved the young man, to…do what has to be done to make a baby."

She was still crying, but she smiled a bit as his words, at his gentlemanly euphemisms. "I did," she whispered. "At least, I thought I did. But now…"

"Now you realize that a man worth loving wouldn't have left you to deal with this on your own?" he concluded. She looked away, but he saw her tiny, almost imperceptible nod. "That's good. That tells me you're a wise young woman, Amy. Loyal and smart and loving…you could have made your father a happy man all these years, if only he weren't so blind. Perhaps he'll come to see that eventually.

"But for now I think you're right. It's best that you don't try to go home, at least not right away."

"I'm afraid to try," she said almost inaudibly.

"And I don't blame you for that. You have to stay somewhere, though."

She heaved a huge, gusty sigh, but her tears seemed to have abated for the moment.

"I was going to try to leave town," she admitted. "Go to Boston or somewhere. I don't have much money, though. I have a bank account, but my father's name is on it too. He told me he was going to close it. Even if his name weren't on it I'm sure he'd have found a way to do that. I have enough cash on me to get a room at the inn for a couple of nights, but after that…"

"I'm sure Mrs. Woods would be glad to let you stay on for free after that for a little while," he told her. Especially if I had a little talk with her. Not that that would be necessary, he thought. Mrs. Woods, known throughout town as "Granny", was well-known for sheltering lost lambs. It was one reason she had never been able to make a go of either of her business ventures.

The bottom line, though, was that Amy Miller must not leave Storybrooke. On the surface of it the idea of leaving seemed to be a sensible one, or would have been if the girl had had any resources. She could have made a fresh start elsewhere, far from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the town. Certainly she could find more opportunities for herself in almost any other town, especially Boston. But the girl had no money, and most likely no friends on the outside to help her. More than that, something in his gut told him that if she were to leave Storybrooke, terrible things would happen. Well, of course they would. She would end up homeless on the streets of Boston, maybe give birth to that baby in an alley. Even as the thoughts flashed in his mind, though, he knew those weren't the sort of bad things he meant. If she even tried to leave town, something awful would befall her even before she left the city limits. Any time a citizen of Storybrooke tried to leave it, at least for good, it was that way. Outsiders could come and go—not that many did—but the actual townspeople were, for all practical purposes, stuck. Gold no longer questioned this. It was just one of the many oddities of the town. And besides, that deeper, almost subconscious part of him thought, it wouldn't do to question these things. You don't want to upset…Who? He felt the familiar frustration. He feared no one…did he? He forced his mind to return to the business at hand.

Her next words drove his admiration still higher, and planted the seed of an idea. "I couldn't do that," she said almost indignantly. "The inn is struggling as it is. I couldn't ask her to let me stay on for free indefinitely. I'd ask her to hire me on as a maid or something, but I know she can't afford that either. She and Ruby have to do everything at the inn and the diner themselves. If they had to hire on even one more person, they wouldn't be able to make ends meet."

"Then perhaps you would consider staying at my home for a while," he said.

She stared at him, speechless.

"As an employee," he rushed on. "Mrs. Woods may not be able to hire a maid, but I am. I have a girl coming in a couple of times a week now, that Ashley Boyd, but she's hopeless. Why, she dyed one of my favorite shirts pink the last time she did my laundry."

Amy couldn't stop the weak, watery giggle that escaped her. Ashley, too, was a good friend of hers. But she could imagine what kind of housekeeping Ashley would provide.

"No, I can't let you fire Ashley," she protested. "She needs the work. Since her stepmother kicked her out, she doesn't have anywhere to go, either."

He thought quickly. "I wouldn't fire Ashley," he said. "But you could be my live-in maid for the time being. She could do the heavy work that you shouldn't be doing in your condition, and you could help her with the lighter housekeeping…and the laundry, of course." She let out a real laugh as he gazed at her with his eyebrow raised and his lips quirked. "It would look better for a man of my position to have more than one maid. There's a nice little apartment on the lower west wing of my house. A good-sized bedroom, a full bathroom, even a kitchenette. It would be a good place for you to stay and…get your thoughts together. Think about what you're going to do."

"I've been doing the housework at home since I was little," she mused. He didn't think she realized she was speaking out loud. "The cooking, too."

"Perfect," he said. "I've been taking all my meals at the diner. Ruby and Mrs. Woods are excellent cooks, but I'm getting weary of short-order food."

She shot him a glance he could only describe as mischievous. "You mean Ashley hasn't been cooking for you?" she asked, the innocence in her tone belying her expression.

He grimaced. "After she set the kettle on fire," he said, "I decided to relieve her of that particular duty."

Amy, who a half-hour before had been ready to jump off the nearest bridge, burst out laughing. "All right, Mr. Gold," she said. "I'll come to work for you…if you'll answer a question for me."

That eyebrow rose again. "You can certainly ask, dear, but I can't guarantee you I'll answer."

"It's nothing earth-shattering," she assured him. "I just want to know…why are you doing this for me? Forgive me, but you aren't exactly known for…" She trailed off as her face turned bright crimson.

He laughed. She stared at him in amazement. She had never heard him laugh, was willing to bet no one in town had. He smiled, certainly, almost constantly, but she couldn't think of a single instance where he had laughed in her hearing. It was a nice laugh, a perfectly normal laugh, but for some reason it sent a chill through her.

"I'm not exactly known for random acts of kindness?" He finished her thought for her. "Well, Amy, it's not entirely a selfless act on my part. I will be getting some decent household help out of it, after all. And truthfully, I like you."

She ducked her head almost shyly. He saw her late mother in the gesture. For a brief instant he had a crystal-clear image of Grace Miller. Amy didn't look exactly like her, but the resemblance was definitely there. "Like me?" she mumbled. "You barely know me, Mr. Gold."

"That's true," he acknowledged. "But I pride myself on being a good judge of character. You're a rare girl, Amy. You're intelligent, you don't seem to be terrified of me like most in this town, and you have a loving heart. Sometimes, as you've found out, that's not exactly an asset. I hope one day for you it will be." He rose. "Come, dear. It's getting late. We'll go on to my house and I'll show you your new quarters, then we'll think about dinner."

She stood up and he offered her his arm. With only a slight hesitation she took it. They left the park, and he noted that she matched her steps to his, mindful of his limp. He smiled down at her—he was not a tall man by any means, but she was tiny, barely reaching his shoulder. She smiled back up at him. Yes, this new venture of his would certainly liven things up. There were other reasons he had offered Amy Miller a job and a home, not the least of which was the townspeople's reaction when they found out. The main reason, though, was the baby. Gold had dabbled in baby brokering from time to time over the years. It wasn't something he made a habit of doing, but with an opportunity like this dropped into his lap how could he resist?

Yes, this would be a most lucrative arrangement. For him, and for the girl as well. He wasn't an evil man. He would see to it that she was well compensated for the child, and see to it that the child went to a good home. Knowing what he did of Amy, he thought that the latter would be more important to her. Of course, there was a chance she would want to keep the child, but he was sure he could persuade her to see reason. After all, she was young, broke and completely lacking in a support system. In the end, what other choice would she have?

None, that's what. He knew this, and he knew she would come to realize this as well, at some point between now and the time the baby would be born. He stole a glance at her midsection and was relieved to see that it was flat under the outsized T-shirt she wore. She couldn't be any more than three months gone, four at the very outside. There was plenty of time yet.

She noticed the glance, but obviously had no idea of the thoughts behind it. If she'd had any idea, she would have cut and run, he was quite sure. "Ten weeks," she confirmed. "I only found out last week."

Ten weeks…just two and a half months. Yes, there was plenty of time. He would be able to convince her that adoption was the only solution, if she was as intelligent as she thought she was. And he believed wholeheartedly that he was correct in his belief. If he hadn't been entirely truthful about anything else he'd said to her, he'd been truthful about one thing: he was an excellent judge of character. Even on such short notice.

He smiled down at her in a way he hoped was kind and altruistic. Because of his hope, and her naïveté, that was what she saw. "Don't worry, dear," he said. "You and your baby are going to be just fine."

He had no way of knowing that he was right…and also wrong. For there was one person in Storybrooke who knew the truth, and that one person had the power to make his words a lie. To destroy all their happy endings.