Elizabeth was back in her penthouse, blazer flung carelessly over the back of a chair. She'd sprawled herself out on the bed; her laptop lay beside her; her eyes were locked on the screen. There was a knock at the door. Her head turned sharply; she sat up quickly, kicked her legs off the bed, walked out of the bedroom and over to the door. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Room service," came the reply. "I have your order, Ms. Beaty."

Elizabeth unlocked the door, swung it wide, smiled broadly. "Please bring it in. And thank you." As he wheeled in his cart, Elizabeth went to get her purse, rummaged in it for a large bill, folded and passed it to the young man with graceful charm. "Have a wonderful evening."

The young man smiled back, nodded his head in grateful acknowledgement, and backed out of the door. Just then Elizabeth's phone rang; she ran back to her purse, found the phone, picked it up, and noticed it was Stephen calling. She sent the call to voicemail and tossed the phone back into her bag. She walked into the bedroom, leaned over the bed, grabbed her laptop, brought it out into the main suite and over to the large dining table. She set it up where she could easily see it, wheeled over her dinner, and transferred the various plates from the cart to the table. She'd paused a news conference she'd accessed via the WLPC News webpage. Before she sat down, she bent toward the computer and pressed play.

" '. . . standstill. The PCPD is encouraging anyone who witnessed suspicious behaviour on the night of the shooting to come forward.'

'The Commissioner will now take questions. Yes? '

'Thanks. Eric Jackson, WLPC. Commissioner, what happens if witnesses are too frightened to give evidence? Can the PCPD offer them any protection?'

'Any information we receive will be kept strictly confidential. Right now we're not looking to find witnesses willing to appear in court. We just need citizens to step forward and help us with the initial investigation. No names will be revealed, to the press or to anyone else.'

'Just to follow up: can you guarantee confidentiality when the lead detective on the case is related to the prime suspect, Sonny Corinthos? Isn't Detective Falconeri his son?'"

Elizabeth had already watched this news conference several times; it was old, posted two weeks earlier. But still she examined it carefully as she ate.

Anna Devane pursed her lips as she prepared to answer the question. Elizabeth hit pause and studied her expression. Then she hit play again.

"'I have the utmost confidence in the integrity of Detective Falconeri . . .'" Anna Devane began.

Anna sat curled in a large armchair (her favourite recent purchase) strategically placed in the corner of her living room right next to the apartment's floor-to-ceiling windows. She was reading but occasionally looked up and over her glasses to stare out into the night over the water. A glass of red wine beside her on a small side table, she gradually felt the tension of the day ease and her muscles relax. She thought with gratitude how nice it was to be somewhere she could call home. She'd been wrong to think of the apartment as a burden.

She heard the sound of a key in the lock. "I'm back." Robert let himself in, two grocery bags in hand. "And I come bearing food. You now have a full-sized refrigerator, not a mini-bar, so we might as well stock it. I bought vegetables, fruit, bread. And the fixings for a nice dinner which I, a modern man secure in my masculinity, will now go prepare for you." He slipped off his shoes and walked into the kitchen.

Anna sat, book down, glasses perched on her nose. She smiled to herself. "Help yourself to the wine," she called after Robert. "I may not have bought food, but I did manage to stock the apartment with liquor. I've got my priorities straight. And you're welcome." Anna turned back to her book. In a moment, Robert padded into the living room, glass of wine in hand; she ignored him, smiling, until he loomed over her chair.

"Thank you," he said, leaned over and kissed her. "What are you reading?"

Anna showed him the cover of her book. Robert made a face. "Agatha Christie? Shouldn't you be reading a trashy romance or something? Don't you get enough crime and mystery at work?"

Anna pulled the book back, a little bit offended. "I bought it on impulse. I used to read Agatha Christie when I was a teenager."

"Now you're a grown woman. Read Fifty Shades of Grey. I hear that's good."

Anna ignored him. "I wanted to be just like Tuppence Cowley."

"You're worth at least thruppence, Luv."

"And I wanted to marry someone like Tommy Beresford and solve mysteries. Silly, really."

"Two out of three isn't bad. I assume I'm nothing like the aforementioned Tommy, given your tone. Anyway, I'm glad you didn't want to be just like Miss Marple the spinster. Or Hercule Poirot, come to think of it. Enjoy your book.

She looked up. "Do you need help with dinner?"

Robert made a face, spun on his heel, and headed back to the kitchen.

Anna's jaw dropped and her mouth opened in mock-indignation. "I'm not as bad a cook as you and Robin make out. I learned a few things from Filomena and Olin."

"Chief on that list, how to get others to cook for your child," Robert called out just as he was rounding the corner to the kitchen.

Anna threw her book after him. "Come back here and say that to my face," she ordered. Then, to herself she muttered, "Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black? I don't remember you ever making Robin and I dinner. Male chauvinist."

She thought for a second, then asked, "Robert? What are you making? I'm starved." She waited for an answer, got none. She got up, stretched, her hands pushing on her low back. Something in her hip cracked. Anna started for the kitchen. "Robert?" Her book was pressed up against the far wall, its pages splayed. She picked it up and tried to straighten them. She poked her head around the corner. "Robert?"

Robert was on the phone. He held up his hand. Anna stayed quiet. "Thanks for the information, mate. Yeah. I owe you one. Yeah, we will. Talk to you again soon." Robert hung up.

"What was that about?" Anna asked, clutching her book to her chest. "What information?"

"Frisco's doing a bit of digging into Ms. Beaty's father. Stephen was right—he's in weapons production. His company manufactures the hardware and software for guidance systems, has done since missiles first went high-tech. He's filthy rich."

"And dangerous?"

"No evidence of that. He's an upstanding citizen of the United States of America. No criminal record, no security flags with the FBI, CIA, NSA, WSB. He just happens to make his living manufacturing weapons of mass destruction."

Anna slowly walked up beside Robert. "And here I was feeling all calm and comfortable and happy. I should have known that feeling couldn't last."

Robert smiled. "No more business talk for the rest of the night, I promise. Just a nice dinner, a few drinks, and then (dot, dot, dot)."

Anna put her book on the counter. "I like the sound of dot, dot, dot. Could I have that first, please?"

"I thought you said you were starved?"

Anna pressed herself against him. "I am. I'm just worried that, after a few drinks, the dot, dot, dot might not be possible anymore, might not happen, you being an older man . . ."

Robert stared at her for a moment, then grabbed her, picked her up. Anna laughed, wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. "I'll show you 'older man,'" he growled. He carried her back into the living room and down the hallway.

Anna, naked except for Robert's shirt, hastily thrown on and unbuttoned, darted back into the bedroom. "I got it," she told him, "and I don't think I gave anyone an eyeful. I've got to get window coverings. Don't let me forget." She put one wine glass down on the night stand next to Robert, moved over to her side of the bed, set down the bottle and second glass on her own night stand. Then she hurried back into bed and under the covers.

"We're doing everything in reverse," Robert observed; "dot, dot, dot, then drinks, then dinner. We won't be finished eating until midnight."

"And now I'm freezing!" Anna complained. "Before I was so nice and warm and relaxed." She smiled, leaned over and gave Robert a long kiss. Then she turned, grabbed the wine bottle, gestured for Robert to hand her his glass. She filled it. She grabbed her own, poured out more of the wine. She replaced the bottle on the stand, turned back, and held up her glass. "I'd like to propose a toast."

Robert smiled back. "To what?"

Anna thought. "I don't know. To finally having a home again? To going home by moving forward?" She paused and grew serious. "You're my home, Robert. You always have been. I'm finally home."

Robert lifted his glass. "We're home."

As predicted, when they finished dinner it was very late. Robert offered to clean the dishes, and so Anna cleaned her face, her teeth, and crawled into bed. By the time Robert joined her she was fast asleep. He carefully lay down next to her, not wanting to wake her, and quickly fell asleep himself.

Suddenly he was jolted awake. His training kicked in; he sat bolt upright in bed, his arms out in a defensive posture, eyes scanning the room for danger. Almost immediately he noticed Anna seated, rigid, by his side. He reached for left her hand; she was bathed in a cold sweat. Robert wasn't sure if he'd been awakened by her movement or if they'd both reacted to a sound in the apartment. "Anna?" he whispered. "What's going on? What's wrong? I put my gun in the night stand—should I get it?"

Her voice was unsteady. "Robert. I'm sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep."

"Did you hear something? Is everything all right?"

Anna didn't move, held herself stiffly, her muscles taut, one arm wrapped around her, her right hand at her stomach. "I had a bad dream, Robert. Everything's fine. There's no danger. I'm sorry."

Robert relaxed. He twisted to turn on the bedside lamp, then back to study Anna. She was white, shaky, but forced herself to smile. "I'm okay, Robert. Just a nightmare. Don't worry."

Robert reached up and brushed a few stray hairs, wet with perspiration, from Anna's face. "What was the dream about, Luv? Can you remember?"

"No," Anna lied. "No I can't. Probably something ridiculous. I had too much wine."

Robert leaned back against the pillow and headboard, pulled her back with him, put his arms around her protectively. "You're safe," he told her. "I won't let anything happen to you." And for some reason he wasn't aware of, he added, "Faison's dead. He'll never hurt you, Robin, or us again."

Anna's mouth went dry. She closed her eyes and, despite everything she'd said to Robert earlier, she wished she could go back, could go back home, back to the Webber house, back to the time before Faison took her, when things were perfect and hopeful and before she'd ruined it all.

On Monday afternoon, Victor knocked on the door of the penthouse suite at the Port Charles Hotel. The knock was answered by Mei Wu's assistant. The two subordinates nodded at each other in respectful mutual recognition. "Mr. Giordano, here to see Ms. Wu," Victor explained. Mei Wu's assistant ushered them in.

The suite was lavish but dated, Victor noted; the Metro Court seemed somehow more urbane, if slightly cold—perfect for his boss. Victor and Giordano were invited to sit in the living room on a teal couch that was fashionably plush back in the late 1990s, but not any longer. Victor imagined, with something bordering on pleasure, that Giordano was likely being driven to distraction by the suite's decor.

Wu's assistant asked them if they wanted refreshments. Victor would have said yes but Giordano waved away the offer. They were told Ms. Wu would join them momentarily. They waited in silence.

And then she entered. Victor observed her carefully, having never met the woman before. She appeared strangely ageless—not young but not old, rather some indeterminate age in between. She was dressed in white: white shirt, white slacks, white boots. An odd choice for winter, Victor thought. And didn't white signify death in Chinese culture? A hint of a smile passed Victor's lips. He decided he liked this woman.

Giordano stood, and Victor followed. "Ms. Wu," Giordano spoke. "It's an honour and privilege to finally meet you. I apologize for the accommodations—I had no idea the other penthouse was taken at the Metro Court. It's no one associated with me, I promise you."

Ms. Wu neglected to smile. "Mr. Giordano, it's a pleasure to meet you as well." She spoke in perfect English with a noticeable British accent, betraying her foreign education. She gestured for Giordano and Victor to sit again. "Shall we get down to business? The club is almost ready to open?" She took a seat in a rose-coloured arm chair oriented perpendicular to the couch.

Giordano sat again and nodded. "I toured it recently. The renovations are almost complete, and our first shipment has been received and stored. The second arrives early Wednesday morning. This shipment includes product. Will you be sending someone to inspect and oversee the division?"

Mei Wu nodded. "Yes. Name the time and place. My assistant and another associate will come and make the inspection. We won't take possession of our share at this time—please understand that our networks aren't yet established. I only arrived the other day. Activities in the Asian Quarter have been neglected for years, have been allowed to function without any central administration. I need to gather certain individuals under my wing and, after that, deal with those who refuse my generous protection. I imagine I'll need a few weeks."

Giordano smiled. "This should be a very lucrative partnership, Ms. Wu. I have no interest in the Asian Quarter; you have no interest in Canada. We'll split the product: one-fifth for you, for local distribution, and four-fifths for me, for distribution north of the border."

He stood, and Victor followed. "The shipment arrives Wednesday morning at 3:00 a.m., 264 Shore Drive. Tell your men to come to the side door—it will be open." Giordano gave a curt bow. "We won't detain you any longer."

Mei Wu's assistant saw them to the door. She gazed after them, impassive.

Tuesday at 10:00 a.m., Anna's head was throbbing; she was leaned over her desk, eyes shut. The nightmare had woken her again early that morning. Luckily Robert hadn't stirred; she must not have jolted but somehow smoothly surfaced out of the dream. The physical pain had evaporated as she lay in bed, sharp at first, next aching and dull, finally just a memory. But the other pain still clung to her, coated her. She'd left for work early, before Robert woke up.

She should call him, she thought, let him know she was okay. But she'd be lying. He'd hear in her voice that something was wrong. And this was something she just couldn't tell him. She'd seen his relief when she'd told him she hadn't been pregnant. If he knew he'd blame himself, though everything had been her fault. Anna took off her glasses and pressed her index fingers into the corners of her eyes, trying to will away her headache.

When she'd regained her memory, she'd remembered Robin first; then, with much trauma, Robert. After that, for a long time she'd remembered nothing else: almost nothing about her time on the yacht, and less still what happened after the explosion. And then one day, years after her reunion with Robin, soon after discovering Robert was alive, there was a new memory—clear, specific, detailed. She'd been on assignment in Sint Eustatius, of all places, trying to locate a bombing suspect, a former IRA terrorist, someone who'd slipped through the cracks and under a false name had spent an undeserved retirement living in paradise. For some reason, while she was looking out over the water, watching waves crash into the rocky shoreline, it had come to her. She remembered lying near the edge of her bed in Faison's yacht, in the room that was her prison, frantic with new knowledge that she needed to get away. The feeling of desperation was intense: she needed to save the baby, needed to save their baby. Anna saw the room in crystal clarity; she felt again the pattern of the bed covers as they pressed into her face. She remembered realizing she was pregnant. She remembered feeling alone and frightened, for herself and for her child.

Robert stood at the door to his daughter's house, hesitant. He thought again about that morning, about Anna getting out of bed before 4:00, trying not to wake him, leaving for the office before 5:00. He knocked. It opened.

"Dad!" Robin exclaimed and hugged him. "Come in! Why didn't you call? You almost missed me—I was just about to go do some shopping."

Robert stepped inside. "I won't take too much of your time," he promised. "Just a quick coffee?"

Later, as they sat together on the couch, Robert asked how she was enjoying her new life of leisure.

Robin laughed. "I'm going out of my mind. This forced leave from General Hospital is completely unnecessary; I'm ready to go back. I meet with a psychiatrist next week Monday, some kind of evaluation to see if I'm fit for work again after my 'ordeal.' It's ridiculous. Don't they know who my parents are? All my life I've dealt with weird shit like this. Everything's fine now that I'm home." She smiled. "And how are you coping with your forced leave? How many more months until you get back into the field? "

"Five, but who's counting?"

"You must be going stir-crazy."

Robert shook his head. "Actually I'm enjoying helping your mother. I'm keeping occupied."

Robin's expression was suspicious; she turned her head slightly and looked at her father through the corners of her eyes. "As I recall, you never liked playing second banana to Mom. You had serious trouble taking orders from her when she was in charge of the investigation into the cartel."

"I've mellowed with age," he suggested, and then took a deep breath. "Speaking of your mother, why were you worried about her the other day?"

Robin shifted, leaned back into the couch. "Well, she called me after midnight, which scared the hell out of me—I thought something was wrong. And there was a tone in her voice. I can't really describe it, but it made me uneasy. I've thought about it since, and I think I found it disturbing because it reminded me of how she was years ago when we first reconnected, when she was first in the process of regaining her memories. She sounded different then, Dad. In every conversation we had she seemed hesitant but also somehow desperate. Everything she said was heavy with emotion, with significance—with I don't know what. And she sounded that way again when she called me."

Robert looked down at the coffee cup in his hands. "She hasn't mentioned anything to you about bad dreams, has she?"

Robin frowned. "No. Is she having nightmares? What are they about?"

"She says she doesn't remember, but I suspect she just won't tell me. I hoped maybe she'd discussed them with you."

"Mom's always worked really hard to hide unpleasant things from me, Dad. I can understand why she did it when I was a child, but I wish she'd open up to me now that I'm an adult."

Robert put his cup down on the coffee table. "She's been the same with me. She's always worked hard to protect everyone but herself."

Robin reached over and touched her father's hand. "She might still open up to you. Give her a chance."

Robert looked up. "I can't help feeling that I'm the reason for the nightmares, Robin. Do you know she keeps all the photographs of me, of us, of our life together in a box hidden away somewhere in a closet? Why? Because of the memories they trigger? Now I'm back in her life, in her bed, sitting next to her at breakfast, working at a desk at the station. What exactly am I reminding her of? Is that what she's dreaming about? Am I responsible for triggering something and making her suffer all over again?"

Robin smiled at him encouragingly. "Maybe she needs to face up to something, something she's been avoiding. I think Mom's suppressed a lot of things, Dad. Maybe you need to help her deal with whatever's bothering her. I'm biased, obviously, but I can't see anything negative coming from you being back in Mom's life. If there's any justice in this world, after everything that's happened, you two should be together and be happy."

Robert thought, and nodded.

It was after lunch and Robert hadn't yet been to the station—or at least he hadn't been to see her. Anna picked up her cell phone to call him, but then the desk phone rang. She answered.

"Commissioner? Duke Lavery to see you. Are you available?"

Anna snapped to attention. "Yes. Send him in." Why was Duke here, she wondered. She straightened herself in her chair, arms on the desk, hands clasped, finger interlaced. Did he have information for her?

He walked in. She thought his shoulders looked stooped. "Anna," he said. "Excuse the interruption."

Anna pressed her lips together. "I thought you never wanted to see me again. I was under the distinct impression that you felt I'd betrayed you."

Duke didn't respond; instead he asked, "You told me Sonny Corinthos had arranged for the PCPD to find evidence that I was at the warehouse on the night of Max's shooting—what is that evidence?"

Anna motioned for him to sit down, and he did. She pulled up a file on her computer, turned her monitor to face him. "This is the only video surveillance from the warehouse district that includes potential evidence. No one else is seen approaching or leaving the area of Sonny's business, either because they knew (or were told) the streets and back alleys to avoid or because surveillance records were interfered with, erased." She started the video. Duke saw himself on the screen.

When the video ended, Anna turned to look at him. "You need to ask yourself who you trust more," she told him, "Corinthos or me. I think Sonny has put you in a very dangerous position, Duke. You're dealing with people who don't play by the old family rules anymore. This is not Victor Jerome's mob. It's something very different."

Duke didn't reply. He just stood and walked to the door. Before he left, he turned back for a moment and cast a look at Anna that she thought might be of regret. Then he was gone.

Twenty minutes later, Robert knocked at her door. She called for him to enter. He walked in, smiled. They looked at each other. She stood, walked around her desk to him. He opened his arms and she moved into them. They stood there together for a long time, saying nothing.

At Kelly's, Duke accepted the offered cup of coffee and smiled at Deborah. She really was a lovely young woman, he thought. And he was now a free man. "Keep the change," he told her. Folded in with the five dollar bill he gave her was another note. "You sold me out, son of a bitch," it read. "Our partnership is over. Watch your back."