A/N: Here comes the real story of Parker's death. Major spousal abuse, semi-graphic. Lots of foul language. But, I must admit, Lorena was a lot fun to write in this chapter and I hope you enjoy her psychosis as much as I do. I also want to thank everyone who has reviewed so far. I don't say often enough how much I appreciate it. Even to those who don't review but add this to their favorite or alert list, thanks! And I've added links to all of the chapter titles to spread the twisted love of music that I have (edit: all the links have been fixed, sorry 'about that).
(www . youtube . com/watch?v=jfzoqjWW_pU)

Inspired by Jon Foreman and Dorothy Parker's poem "Sanctuary."

IX. My Love Goes Free
she's beautifully composed
a tune that only caged birds know

April 1941
Boston, Massachusetts

When her children asked her what her wedding was like, Lorena wasn't sure if she'd be able to answer. By the time she had to walk down the aisle, she had tipped back a bottle of champagne with her bridesmaids and was too elated to think straight. Her father kept her straight, until Parker took a hold of her hand and helped steady her tipsy body. He gave her a knowing smirk and turned toward the preacher, ready to repeat those proverbial words. Lorena, although paying enough attention to get through the ceremony without a blunder, was in another world.

Parker Hollis, with his perfect nose and kissable lips and impossible blue eyes, was going to be her husband, her own, to love and to cherish 'til death parted them. At times, she wondered if she, a half breed, was worthy of him. But it only took a few seconds of listening to Lorenzo talk to remind her that it was the other way around.

"There's just something about that guy I don't like. I think it's the way he talks to you sometimes…"

But there Lorena was, despite her brother's dislike, marrying Parker Lee Hollis: a man who was often too perfect for words.

December 1944
Paris, France

Ron was in the salon, reading a newspaper, when Lorena finally woke up. Breakfast had been over for hours and brunch was just about finished. Tea was in an hour. She had missed an entire day. She stumbled out of her room, engulfed in one of the hotel's thick robes, her hair tousled from a restless sleep. She plopped down next to him on the sofa and stared, ashamed, at her hands. Lorena had no recollection of Ron removing her clothes, putting her in the robe, and putting her to bed. But she could distinctly remember the reason she had lost consciousness in the first place and exactly where to begin with her apology.

"Ron, I'm sorry for my outburst. I don't know what's wrong with--"

"Stop apologizing, Lorena. I don't want to you. I don't need you to. It's fine."

"It doesn't seem fine," she said.

He looked at her sharply. "Why can't you let it go? I said it's fine, so just let it be fine. You don't see me getting upset over it, do you?"

Lorena scoffed. "No, not at all."

Ron sighed and crashed backwards into the sofa cushions. He wasn't so good at not knowing things. In fact, it pissed him off. And he wanted to know everything about Lorena Carlyle, especially after seeing the body that she hid beneath layers of US Army green. But it wasn't his style to go running after a woman and with time, Lorena would be his. She had told him of her child. If that wasn't trust, Ron didn't know what was. It wasn't new for people to have faith in Ron. Many men trusted him with their lives. His superiors trusted him to lead said men into battle. His wife trusted him enough to want him to raise her child. But the trust of a person like Lorena Carlyle was new to him. What she was giving was more than a life, but instead, she was giving him knowledge; secrets, ones that she had not spoken of in a long time. She had been silent for so long and Ron was sure that she would have continued to be silent had the dogs of war not barked and bayed. Because war, la guerre, did funny things to people. Ron found himself taking more risks. Life wasn't about surviving anymore. It was about accomplishing something and taking out a few Krauts along the way. He was going to be a father and a provider to a woman and child who need one. He was going to be a leader to soldiers, an enemy to Germans. He was going to be the one to bring Lorena out of her complex, well-constructed shell.

The problem, though, was Lorena couldn't understand why she trusted the lieutenant. He was the kind of man that jumped, that took chances. He was not someone to tell one's deepest, darkest secrets to, but she found herself unloading her burdened mind onto him, relinquishing the weight of the years into his strong, capable hands. Yet, she still felt so stifled by her own insecurities and past failures that she couldn't enjoy that notion.

"This isn't a matter of whether or not you forgive me, Ron. It's a matter of explaining something to you."

"And what would that be?"

"I've never told anyone about her before. Not my brother. Not my father. The cat only knew because she eavesdrops."

Ron gave his typical half-smile while admiring the way that the cushions settled around her hips. "So, what are saying, Lorena? You trust me or something?"

"Or something, yes."

As she spoke, he noticed a new depth to her eyes. Beyond the sadness and determination, a hint of freedom sparked. War had liberated Lorena. In a world torn by incivility, she no longer felt the oppressive need to adhere to graciousness and polite gestures. In a socially uncharted world, she could be truly free.

"We're in the same boat, so to speak. I've heard what the men say about you. You've heard what the men say about me. I'm two different people in one body, stuck in one reality. Do you know what I mean?"

Ron shook his head. "No. Not at all." He was lying. He knew exactly what she meant. He just liked hearing her talk, especially when she was being philosophical.

"There's the Lorena Carlyle that I think I am. Then there's the Lorena Carlyle that everyone else thinks I am. Two people. One body. See? We're in the same exact boat."

Ron smirked. "We're not even in the same body of water. I'm the same person that everyone else thinks I am."

"And who is that, Ron?" she asked, her hair falling further into her eyes.

He didn't answer.

Lorena smiled and started to laugh. "You think you're murderer, don't you? Some escaped mental institution inmate with a gun? Oh, wow. You actually do. Okay, fine. Then you're who you and everyone else thinks you are and you're who I think you are."

"Who do you think I am, Lorena?"

"I think," she began, smiling, "that you are the kind of man that is willing to raise a child that is not his own. The kind of man who is willing to put your life on the line for his country. Who is willing to risk what little may be left of his reputation to talk to someone like me. That's the kind of man you are, Ron. You're better than whatever you think you are. Of course, if you're willing to sit back and accept that you're some no good prick who kills for sport, then maybe I'm wrong. But I usually never am anymore."

May 1941
Atlanta, Georgia

True, she had only known Parker for a year, but Lorena assumed that 365 days was plenty of time to get well-acquainted with someone enough to marry them. She was wrong. In fact, she was beyond wrong. She was desperately, gravely mistaken.

Lorena had been called many derogatory names in her short lifetime, as had the rest of her family. Her father was a mick and one of them Catholic fucks, even though he was Protestant. Her mother had been a gold digger and an immigrant whore. Lorena and Lorenzo were wops, goombas, and guinea brats. So maybe, at that point, she was relatively used to being considered inferior by others, despite all of her wealth and class and used to insulting slang. But the things she heard on her first day -- no, first hour -- in the South, astounded her. And the way Parker was shouting was worse.

Only once had he lost his temper: an African-American waiter had spilt tea on his shoes. Lorena had assumed that it was because they were handmade Italian leather, but she was slowly learning that it was the man's race that angered her new husband more.

"Don't give me that superior attitude, honey. Just because you have money doesn't mean you're some damn humanitarian. Don't even tell me I married some crazy ass abolitionist? I'll divorce you right now if that's the case. I'll take all your damn money and leave you homeless in the street with all your little black friends, got it? I love ya, honey. I don't want you to be known as the crazy Yankee bitch who used to be my wife, so just don't talk about it anymore. That's the way things are down here and that's the way this are gonna be in my house. And you might as well get used to it 'cause there isn't a single hired hand named Winston or Jeeves in this part of the country, honey. Not a single one…"

She gripped the car door handle until her knuckles were white with the pressure, full of fear and anxiety. Her future began to look very bleak.

December 1944
Paris, France

If anything, the time in Paris had fully convinced Ron that rich people were insane. The high tea ritual, for example, was an asinine excuse for them to sit around and gossip and drink hot water. The sandwiches were too small and the cups were too tiny for his big hands. Even Lorena thought it was stupid, which was why she spent much of the hour looking out the window toward the gardens, toward an exit.

Ron cleared his throat of the rose petal that he practically inhaled and fingered the hand-painted floral design on the saucer. "We've still got tonight. Is there anything else?"

"Well, you've seen the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triumph, Notre Dame, the Opéra Garnier… oh, I know! There's a place just outside of Paris that I want you to see. It will be a story to bring home to your family that no other soldier in the 101st will have."

"Where?" he asked.

She was smiling, grinning, yet again. "I'll only give you one hint: a treaty from the first world war was made there."

"Versailles?"

"The Château de Versailles, to be precise. Do you think you will be able to handle it?"

Ron scoffed. It was a museum. What was so intimidating about a museum? He thought that the entire cab ride there, the entire walk up to the gates. As soon as they stepped inside, though, Ron felt his heart stop. He had never been floored by a place before. Sure, the Ritz had made him feel small, but Versailles made him feel insignificant. He was dwarfed by the Hall of Mirrors, impoverished by the grandiosity of the royal apartments, and emasculated by the heroic statuary in the gardens. Even in the Petit Trianon, where Marie-Antoinette had found sanctuary from the court he had been told, Ron felt impossibly pathetic. Yet, Lorena was in her element. She spoke at length about the history of each area, about the significance of each piece of furniture, about the person in each painting. And as the sun set on their last evening in Paris, Lorena leaned against a Corinthian column in the Temple of Love, just across the water from the queen's retreat, and smiled contently. She didn't know why, but being at Versailles was something akin to being home.

She had spent days in Versailles throughout much of her childhood and adolescence. Lorena often imagined herself in one of those wide skirts, the fabric rustling as she walked through the gardens and the corridors. She could taste the rich food on her tongue, smell the perfume of white roses, hear the operatic music from the theatre. But then her imagination would recede and the memories would intervene: her mother speaking of the Roman gods that the salons were named after, her father rowing the boat down the grand canal, her brother chasing her through the labyrinth. Mostly clearly, though, she could see her parents standing close together, their arms intertwined, in the Temple. Lorena knew, just by watching them, that what they had was true love.

"I'm afraid I might be enjoying this more than you, Ron," she said, in the middle of her reverie. "It's like some sort of spell comes over me."

"It suits you, this place. Maybe-- no, never mind."

Lorena turned to him, still grinning. "What is it?"

"I was just thinking that maybe, in another life, you lived here. Hell, you could have been Marie-Antoinette even. It makes sense, from what you've told me. She was an outsider, everyone blamed her for the things that went wrong in her marriage and their country. Sounds like you."

"Yes, except when I was led to the scaffold, I escaped the guillotine," she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

Only the two of them remained in the Temple, the warm orange light of the descending sun casting an ardent glow. The bareness of the trees, while stark, provided a clearer view of the sky and an openness that was almost symbolic. The statue of Cupid, its hands clasped tight around its bow, watched them intently. Lorena watched Ron's shadow as he walked closer to her on the checkered marble tile, his gait masculine and strong. He stood close to her, so she could feel his warm breath against her forehead, and waited for her eyes to meet his. Lorena inhaled, smelling the soap he had used that morning and the rose tea he had drank before. She finally looked at him and felt the crushing weight of desire on her chest, on her stomach, on her shoulders, on her legs. She cursed her body for the ache that pulsed through it, for betraying what her mind wanted. And Ron could feel the extra heat that she was producing, could see it on her cheeks. He wondered if she was just nervous about him being so close or if she too felt the same irrepressible need that raced in his blood stream every time she sighed and her breasts heaved or her tongue would dart out to moisten her lips. When he finally spoke again, though, he didn't think about any of that.

"What did you do to him?" Ron asked, his voice a paradox of hard and gentle.

Lorena, while overwhelmed by his closeness and his scent and his handsome face, was tired of lying. With the setting sun in her darkening eyes and Cupid's discerning gaze as a witness, she finally spoke freely, letting the cold, winter air take her confession into the ears of the only person outside the law who had ever bothered to ask.

August 1943
Atlanta, Georgia

Lorena hadn't been into The Constitution office in two weeks. To McGalahan, it was the flu that had kept her away. To Parker, it was the cracked ribs that needed to heal. To the cat, the little black stray that she had raised from a kitten and named Vienna, it was depression that would have people suspicious if she were out and about. To herself, it was pure hate that would translate into everyone wanting her locked away in an asylum somewhere.

She could remember the moment that she suspected she had lost the baby. Her body, bruised from smashing against the wooden stairs, was crumpled on the floor at the base. Only minutes after, she felt cramping, something she tried to tell herself was associated with the fall, but as soon as the bleeding began the next day, she knew what she had lost. Lorena had convinced herself before the fall that it was a girl, a daughter for her to raise and make strong like her mama had tried to do with her. But that dream was gone. It was all gone. It was another thing that Parker had taken from her. It was the last.

Lorena returned to work, her body only partially healed, but her mind full of hurt and pain and rage. McGalahan noticed no difference in her writing or her stamina. Parker was too self-absorbed to care. Little Vienna was the only one to recognize the change in her and often pressed against her leg in a seemingly desperate attempt to say, "Please, change your mind." But Lorena Giovanna Carlyle-Hollis had a plan and there was no going back.

Parker came home one evening, craving a whiskey in a high ball glass and his wife's taut body. When he walked in, there she was, his Lorena, lounging on the couch with a new copy of Vogue. She was wearing her best dress, an emerald green satin number that hugged her full breasts in all the right ways. Her nails, although manicured, were always free of that shiny shit that women put on themselves. Parker hated that stuff; a woman's hands should natural, not so polished. That night, though, her fingers and her toes were painted with a bright red lacquer to match her lips. Sometime during the day, he figured, she must have gone to a beauty parlor because her long black hair had been chopped off and styled into a short bob that laid in soft waves across one side of her face. Lorena threw her gaze, sultry and searing, toward him.

"Hello, darling. You're home late."

"What's with the get-up?" he asked before casting his briefcase and jacket aside.

"This old thing. It's been hanging in the closet forever. Here, darling, let me pour your drink for you," she said, smiling.

Parker raised his eyebrow and slumped down on the armchair. "You goin' somewhere tonight?"

Lorena filled the glass to the top. Parker was too cheap not to drink the whole thing. "Can't a woman look beautiful for her husband without raising suspicion? Honestly, Parker, you act like I'm the one who is prone to violence or infidelity."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked before taking a swig of Mr. Daniels.

"It means you're a fucking beast, darling," Lorena scoffed. "Normal women don't have to let themselves physically heal after an argument with their husbands."

She refilled his glass at least two times before he retorted.

"You ain't normal, sweet pea. You ain't never been normal."

"No shit," she said, her tone caustic. "Normal means wanting to wake up in the mornings. Normal means making love to a man, not being his personal sex device. Normal means not wanting to kill your own spouse. I'm so far from normal, it's fucking pathetic."

Parker stood, wobbling. He slapped her across her face, but she did not falter.

Without clutching her cheek, she turned her head back to face him. "But you know what's even more pathetic than me staying here and putting up with your shit? You. You're a thousand times more pathetic than I could ever imagine being. I know it's only because your dick is too small to even make a mouse orgasm, but you think a big shot like you would have more self-esteem than that. Do you really think that controlling me is going to make it grow, Parker? You've been doing this since our wedding day and, let me tell you something, it hasn't worked. In fact, I think beating me has made it shrink."

He grabbed her by the arms and shoved her against the wall. On any other day, Lorena would have looked away. She would have submitted to save herself from another bruise or broken bone. On any other day, she would not have spit in his face or shoved her knee into his crotch. On any other day, she wasn't nearly as pissed off.

"You fucking bitch," Parker slurred through gritted teeth.

Lorena took off running while she had the chance, toward the study, just where she knew she had to be. Parker caught up with her in the hall. He lunged forward, pulled her down by her ankle, and yanked her toward him. He straddled her, sitting on her empty abdomen, and held her wrists together with one hand.

"You crazy fucking bitch," he said, smashing the whiskey bottle he had grabbed from the parlor against the top of her head.

He pushed the broken ends into her collar bone and the base of her neck, causing her to scream. Lorena struggled underneath him, which only caused the bottle to break more and leave tiny fragments behind. Parker laughed as the tears streamed down her cheeks and began to pull up the hem of her glossy dress. As he did, she freed one of her legs and kicked her heeled foot, slicing open his sun-tanned face. Lorena crawled into the study and locked the door behind her. Parker crashed through it seconds later, only to find Lorena lying, practically motionless, behind the desk. He smiled as his wife looked up at him through squinted eyes. She swallowed hard and began to smile herself. Lorena pulled Parker's gun out from underneath her and grinned, her teeth gleaming bright white in the lamplight. Her husband's smile faded quickly.

"My, my, my. How the tables have turned," she said, her blood mixing with the sweat and tears on her face.

"You're not stupid enough to kill me, Lorena."

"No, but I am angry enough. And anger is a funny emotion, Parker."

Lorena shifted her weight and stood up, the gun aimed at his bloody face the entire time. For the first time, she held all the power, all the control. She was in charge and Parker was fearing for his life. She smiled manically.

"I'm tired, Parker. I'm incredibly tired. I haven't seen my family in two years. All I've had to look at is you and these fucking walls and this fucking town. Do you get what I'm saying? And the one escape from this damn world that I thought I'd have, my one chance to make things right in my life, and you take that away too." She paused to enjoy the terror that filled his ice-blue eyes. "I was pregnant Parker. You killed her. You took her away from me. And now it's only right that I take something from you."

A gunshot rang out. A body hit the floor. Parker Hollis, mercantile extraordinaire and entrepreneur, took his last jagged gasps of peach-scented air and whispered the name of the woman he had tortured for far too long.

"Lorena…"

The house went still. The only noise Lorena could hear was her own breathing and the loud thumping of her heart. She walked over to Parker's body and nudged it with her foot. Blood gushed out of the hole in his chest and soaked into the white carpet, permanently staining it. She placed the gun on the desk, slid on top of it, and picked up the phone.

"Atlanta Police Department," she said calmly. "Yes, hello, my name is Lorena Hollis and my address is 121 Gatling Way. I've just shot my husband. He's dead but you may want to send the medics anyway."

Lorena placed the phone back down on the receiver, sighing. She jumped off the desk and stepped over the corpse, her foot sinking in the bloody floor. Lorena sat down on the sofa and reached for a pack of cigarettes. Vienna jumped up next to her and rubbed the top of her head against her mother's sweaty skin. Lorena smiled and pressed her lips, the color of the blood on her chest and cheek, against the cat's back and nuzzled her. She took a lighter from the coffee table and lit a cigarette. The nicotine rushed through her body and the smoke came out in a thick cloud from her nose.

And the rest, they say, was history.

"Say something," Lorena said after she finished her story. "Anything."

Ron, who had moved back to lean against a column, took one of his hands out of his pockets and straightened his garrison cap. His mind was frozen as her voice bounced around inside of it, trying to understand. Say something. Ron stepped toward her again and looked into the face of the Cupid statue.

"So, you let him beat you and then you shot him to make it look more like self-defense?"

"Yes."

"And you got away with this?"

"Clearly."

Ron stood in front of her and put his hands back in his pockets. "I understand."

Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "And?"

"'And,' what? I understand why you did it. What are you expecting, Lorena? Do you want me to call you a lunatic? Tell you that you're a vicious blood-thirsty murderer and you ought to be in jail? Do you want me to lie to you? I always knew that you were too strong for the whole thing to be some twist of fate. Only strong people can be in control of their own destinies and I never doubted for a second that you were one of them."

Lorena nodded and pursed her lips together. Ron watched as the muscles in her body relaxed one by one until she finally looked up at him, a new emotion swirling in her espresso-colored orbs. Without warning, she closed the gap between them and placed her hands on both sides of his face. Her breath was labored and her body was shaking. Now or never. Lorena pressed her lips against Ron's firmly. His eyes went wide with confusion and shock until her mouth moved against his for a second time. That time, Ron kissed her back and placed his hands on her hips, pulling her closer. Lorena's fingers dug into his scalp and her tongue ran along his smooth bottom lip, begging entrance. Never before had she done such a thing and never before had Ron had a woman make the first move. For him, it was a nice change. He was tired of being in charge all the time. Lorena felt overwhelmed and over clothed, until she felt the cold sensation of metal against the small of her back as Ron's hands snaked underneath her jacket and shirt. The gold band around his finger was a stark reminder of how fleeting it all was and as her thoughts raged, her hormones dwindled and she pulled away, panting.

"I'm sorry," she said. "We… I… I'm sorry."

She stepped out of his arms and walked toward the pathway toward the Petit Trianon. Ron stood, confused. He ran after her and touched the top of her arm, careful not to grab or pull.

"Lorena?"

"It's too soon. I can't."

And just like that, Ron felt Lorena slipping through his fingers yet again.

September 1943
Atlanta, Georgia

The judge and the jury, thirteen white men altogether, looked at Lorena Hollis, watching her. A black and blue ring encircled her right eye. White bandages still covered most of her forehead, neck, and chest. They listened as neighbors and coworkers testified for the northerner: speaking of her history of bruises and limping and fear of her husband. They saw what was left of the Carlyle family, Charles and Lorenzo, shaking their heads in disbelief and anger. They saw the tears that rolled down Lorena's freckled half-Italian face when she spoke about that night. They knew, through the articles she wrote, that she was on the side of every working man. They pitied her. They saw their sisters and wives and mothers and daughters in her sad eyes.

"We, the members of the jury find the defendant, Lorena Hollis, not guilty of murder in the first degree."

Lorena sighed and smiled for the first time in seven months. My land is bare of chattering folk / The clouds are low along the ridges / And sweet's the air with curly smoke / From all my burning bridges.

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