Note: Since I love you guys, and I'm just wtfihdgisdgWOW over last chapter's review count (way to go, overworking me the one day that I promise review replies, haha), I've decided to update early. Anyway, this chapter is what I've unofficially deemed the Nami Chapter, because she's everywhere. And next chapter will probably be the Claire Chapter. 'Cause in this chapter, she's nowhere.

Oh! And did anyone else notice this is OVER eighteen chapters? Dude! I haven't done that since my first fic! (Er, don't read that one, by the way. It is muy sucky.) Anyway, thank you for the support, and read. :)

Chapter Nineteen: Precipice

Skye had perhaps imagined this scenario a thousand different ways: a policeman storming through the front door, a Wanted poster staring him the face, a villager suddenly screaming out, "He's that kidnapper—he's that criminal," and watching his whole life unravel before his eyes. That moment in the Inn lobby, staring down the barrel of a gun, Skye found himself feeling oddly numb. Relieved, almost.

The game, finally, had ended.

"What the hell is going on?" Gwen demanded.

"Your employee is a criminal wanted for serious charges," Nami spoke flatly. Her eyes did not leave her victim's for a second; her finger lay ready at the trigger. "Put your hands up and tell me where the girl is. Now."

"What if I just let you shoot me? What then, Ms. Stone?"

"That's Detective Stone to bastards like you." The redhead's eyes narrowed, hissing, "If you must know, I'd shoot you in the leg first. If that wasn't enough, then we'd work our way through the arms, the hands, the shoulder…I know my anatomy, Skye. There's plenty of ways to wound a man without killing him. You should know; taking a child is one of them."

Taking a child. Something in Gwen's heart snapped; no, this was insane, this was wrong, this...this wasn't real. Suddenly it seemed as if she was in a strange place, not her uncle's inn at all—and how could you see in a place that constantly shifted before your eyes? "You—who are you?" Frantically she glanced from Steiner to this woman wielding a pistol, and shouted, "You're a weatherwoman! Who the hell are you to come in here and point guns at innocent people? Steiner didn't do anything!"

"His name is Skye the Phantom Thief, and on the contrary, he's done quite a lot of things."

"Bullshit!"

"Gwen." The man paused long enough to photograph her horrified gaze, and then whispered, "Let the woman talk."

Stunned, Gwen drew back. "You seem unsurprised," Nami challenged her victim. "Were you expecting me?"

"Not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, yes."

"So answer me, then. Did you, or did you not, kidnap Willow, the daughter of Doctor Trent and his wife, Claire?"

The thief hesitated ever so slightly. "Are you asking me if I kidnapped Claire's child?"

"Yes, smartass."

"Then I can't deny it."

"But Claire's just a baby!" Gwen blurted out. Her heart lodged in her throat, and the blonde insisted, "Steiner is not a criminal. He's just a single father trying to raise a baby on his own, all because his stupid wife left him behind. And I'll be damned if—if—" Her words disappeared from thought; she stared imploringly at her lover, and he offered her no smile, no reassuring wink. Instead, he simply waited, as if resigned to being devoid of emotion. Waiting, she realized, for her to finally understand. Oh my God. God, no.

"Is that all, Miss Gwen?"

Gwen didn't trust herself to speak. The detective shook her head; so that was how it was, was it? Only a single look at those young amber eyes, and any idiot could see just how innocent that innkeeper had been. Skye had certainly kept his silver tongue, and even if he'd left his dignity behind, the charm that'd seduced Claire had apparently remained as well.

If it weren't for police decorum, Nami would've shot him in the face right then and there. And she'd have damn loved to.

"I will tell you one thing. This man," the detective announced acidly, "has never been married in his life. He has lived a pathetic life of petty theft and lies, and what friends he's made have lasted only as long as his interest in their female anatomy. The Claire you speak of," she continued, "is a child, isn't she?"

"A baby girl," Gwen whispered.

"Is she a blonde child?"

"Yes."

"Does she have blue eyes?"

"Yes."

"How old would you suspect her to be?"

"…I-I don't know."

"You say this man was married. Has he ever graced you with the name of his past spouse?"

Gwen fidgeted under this woman's scrutiny. A lie. It has to be a lie. She shut her eyes to Steiner—no, it was Skye this woman had called him, wasn't?—and murmured, "No. Never."

"How about his past home?"

"No."

"His past career?"

"No."

"It would seem," Nami stated, "that for a man you seem to trust so much, 'Steiner' hasn't given you much to be trusted with." The girl couldn't tell, but the detective ached to erase the wounded look in those eyes, the shattered heart that had been whole mere minutes before. Only by listing all these things, one by one, could Nami pry away the layer of fiery indignation coating Gwen's heart, and only through this pain could she force Gwen to see the monster hiding behind his lovely words.

Skye would pay for that. Damn him, he'd pay.

"Where is the girl?" Nami questioned, and Skye answered before Gwen did:

"Upstairs."

"Miss Gwen," the redhead asked, gently, "would you please go to your phone and call the number I'm about to give you? I'm going to need back-up."

Her head reeled; Gwen blinked, the words barely registering. She felt dizzy, so sick she could barely stand, as if all these conflicting emotions were churning within the pit of her stomach. "I'm sorry…what do you need, I didn't quite—?"

"The phone. Please."

With each step, the girl found herself relearning how to walk on these wobbly legs. The boots made a strange, almost earsplitting sound as she staggered to her uncle's counter; shaking hands grabbed the phone off the hook. Eyes lit with unsure passion met Nami's before daring to see Steiner's—Skye's—once more.

Just tell me she's lying. Do it, and I'll believe you. All you have to do is deny it.

He broke off the contact and turned to the floor: a slap leaving her speechless and convinced of her own stupidity.

"Miss Gwen?" The detective spoke her name almost as if it were an apology. "Are you ready?"

No. "Detective Stone," Gwen answered feebly, "why wouldn't I be?"

Skye had never sat in a jail cell before. Cold cinder-block cushioned his head and body, and he tried to remember the last time, exactly, he'd felt so alone. Nobody wound up in the prisons of the Flowerbud countryside all that often; in fact, he was willing to bet he was the only criminal in the whole place. Not that he could see through his walls. Not that he'd really tried.

He turned his head to the side, and he saw a little spider crawling up and down the far corner of the prison. Silk tied up and down in different weaves, all frightfully trying to achieve both beauty and seduction with the quickest of ease. Yet a spider web, for all its enticing danger, could be pulled apart with a single swing, no matter how transparent the web he wove.

"Skye." A door shut from somewhere, and that redhead woman stared at him from behind the door, frowning. She'd brought a chair with her, and that piqued his interest; she intended to talk, and she intended to make it long. "I've been the detective assigned—reassigned," she corrected herself, "to your case."

"I figured."

"Other than me, you will not get many visitors." She hesitated. "Frankly, you will not stay here long at all. The crime committed at Forget-Me-Not will bring you back to Forget-Me-Not for your trial. For now, you're being held here for the arraignment."

Skye nodded slowly. Nami pursed her lips, opening them as if to speak, then closing them to consider words better suited to his ears. "You don't have a lawyer yet, I understand, but you will receive one. Either way, I would get used to prison walls; no judge is going to give you bail. You're too much of a flight hazard."

Again, Skye nodded. He watched as Nami played with a pen over her legal pad, intelligent eyes scanning over past notes and reminders. "I'm supposed to ask you questions," she announced. "Get down a full interview, you could say. But I feel that's more of a formality than anything. Willow's back. After that, you getting into prison—for a long, long time—is all that matters to the victim's family and to the police force. It's always been more about Willow than you, despite what you might think."

"Willow." The thief couldn't say why he felt the need to repeat the name; all this time, he'd known her by nothing more than a face and a memory. "Where is she now?"

"At the precinct. She's in our care until her parents arrive. I believe that'll be sooner than later, so I'd prepare myself for that meeting if I were you." The detective sighed. "To start with, Skye, know your rights. You don't have to do this until your attorney is assigned, and if you'd like you can remain silent. Or I can just interrogate you. Your pick."

"I have nothing to hide." Not anymore.

"May I begin, then, with the kidnapping. How did you—" How did you do it, she'd almost asked. But such a question had no meaning, did it? Nami glanced over her notes again, all routine questionings, and found herself hard-pressed to care about any of their answers. "Skye…" She dropped the legal pad to the floor, eyes searching his. "Why? Why did you feel that you had the right to take that baby girl? To risk your life, and your future, for some ex-girlfriend's daughter?"

Skye half-smiled. His haggard face leaned towards the metal bars, and Nami could see each bead of sweat on his brow as he whispered, "Why don't you go ask Claire, Detective Stone? She knows, if not more, just as much as I do. And from the look on your face, I'd say you don't know a damn thing."

Heartbreak couldn't be restricted to a dull ache in the chest. It didn't just pull at you through tears; it tugged at you like a puppet on strings, reminding you constantly that you were no longer in charge of your own life. But you'd never been, had you? Only difference was that, now, you were tired of playing the fool. Now, you realized you were one.

Back when Bob had kindly let her down with sweet words of encouragement, Gwen could have sworn her heart had splintered in two. Hadn't she cried? Muffled her pain with her pillow? Been jealous, hurt, and confused?

It'd been nothing but a bruise on a strong and able heart. She knew that, tonight.

"I can't imagine that kind of rejection or that kind of pain. It's not possible for me."

'Hold onto that,' he'd said. 'Don't lose that,' he'd said.

Damn easy for him to say, wasn't it? Now that he'd ruined her.

For the first time in ages, Gwen had left a Closed sign on the Inn's doors during the week. She'd had no business over at the police station, not really; Stei—no, Skye had been the one they'd wanted. Still, her puppet strings kept her following this man, and his magnetic pull on her did not lessen just because her trust in him had. She sat in the lobby, alone in the corner, wiping her eyes and fighting to understand things she knew she could not. Claire—no, it was Willow now—bounced on her knee, an oblivious little ray of sunshine in a dark and broken sky. Her little hands would pat Gwen's cheeks, and Gwen would cuddle her closer, as if brushing against this child's innocence could restore some of her own.

"Hey." Gwen looked up to see someone holding an embroidered handkerchief her way. "Take it. God knows you need it."

Sniffling loudly, she did so. As the tears were wiped away, the figure became clearer; the man's physique and simple smile immediately distinguished him as Bob, and the blonde turned away, ashamed. "Wh-what are you doing here?" Why do you have to see me fall apart again? Wasn't it enough the first time?

"I've been called here, actually." He hesitated. "I would've come anyway, though. Really."

"I…I appreciate it, but you didn't have to." Gwen wiped her nose, and Willow imitated her, giggling with delight at her mimicry. "I mean, crying girls aren't exactly, you know, worth seeing. We get all red-eyed and blotchy and pathetic a-and—" The sobs came on stronger, and this time Willow's smile faltered at the sound. Bob sat himself beside them both and fit his arm comfortingly about Gwen's shoulders.

"You're not pathetic, alright? You're hurt. There's a world of difference."

"Maybe to you, but I should've known better. I gave him…" She ducked her head behind Willow's and sobbed. "I gave him everything. My first kiss, my secrets, my past, my dreams, my…my…" My heart. And that, Gwen knew, was the one thing you never got back whole. "I'm s-sorry. I should stop. Y-you're here for a reason…right?"

"Bodyguard duty," he answered. "I'm the only man up to the job, they tell me. Tina's okay with it, though, so." He shrugged as the final word hung off into nothing. "Believe me, I won't let him escape from this, Gwen. You're my best friend. I don't want any criminal who's hurt you to go around hurting anyone else."

"Oh, Bob." A quick squeeze of his hand said a thousand words for her, and the three sat together, waiting in silence for something none of them could name. The clatter of a door opening interrupted them, and Detective Stone walked out, her teeth clenched and the pad in her hand a mess of angry scribbles. Her eyes fluttered towards theirs for a moment and she raised an eyebrow.

"You're the bodyguard? Bob?"

He straightened up as best he could. "I reckon I am, ma'am."

"Excellent. This door," she gestured, "is now the most important thing in your life. It is Skye's only exit, and therefore of the utmost importance. Remember that." She looked at Gwen, softened, and extended her arms. "I'll take baby Willow, if you don't mind."

Gwen frowned; her fingers wove through Willow's tufts of hair. "Maybe I do mind."

"You can't just stay here with her, Miss Gwen."

"I could," she insisted. "I—I could just sit here, waiting, and when her parents…"

Nami shook her head. "Let that be my burden, not yours. Handing off the child to me," she persuaded, "is easier than handing her off to the real mother, isn't it?"

On either side, Gwen saw Bob nodding and Nami waiting with open arms. She'd once asked Eve, some seasons ago, why she'd broken up and gotten back together with Dan as often as she had; hadn't the glue between them begun to unstick? "You can only lose something if you choose to let it go," she'd told the cook, and at this moment, Gwen knew she had no choice but to hand off this beautiful cherub into Nami Stone's steady and sure arms.

"Ma…" Willow's eyes lit up with alarm, and her arms began to flail, her mouth red and cheeks aflame. "Ma! Ma! Ma…"

Gwen could sense her soul cracking: stained glass shattered by a battering ram with each syllable from those tiny lips. "Willow, I'm…I'm not your Ma. I've never been your Ma." But I could have been. Once.

She waited for the tears to spring at Nami's departure. She waited for the water-show to recommence, for the same anguished shame to overtake her as her body moved of its own accord: a record replaying grief over and over again.

Nothing happened as she sat on that bench, and yet, she'd never been so tormented.

When Gwen was small, she'd decided to become best friends with a girl named Nina. Nina giggled a lot, shared her flowers, and played truth-or-dare with the strictest of confidence. "Who do you like?" she'd asked Gwen once, and the blonde had tried to weasel out of it before admitting her crush to be Bob. With another giggle, Nina had just left it at that, until Gwen discovered everyone had found out from the girl someway or another.

"People aren't always the way they first seem to be," her mother had told her with a sigh. "You have to be careful who you trust."

Some lessons, apparently, you had to learn twice.

"That's some damn good work, Stone."

Nami shrugged, the child in her lap fascinated by the red shade of her hair. Willow, despite all the facts against it, sat now in her lap: a smiling, healthy, and happy one-year-old child. All this fuss, and yet she hadn't seemed to notice a damn thing had happened. It was almost enviable, really.

"Just a few weeks ago, no one would've thought you could do a lick of decent work, and yet here you are, the mastermind behind the whole arrest. You lucky bitch, your pay and publicity have shot through the roof—you'll never have to do a single weather report, will ya?"

The detective concentrated instead on Willow's hands: tiny, fairy hands that fit in the center of her own like fragile, precious rosebuds. "Yes, luck was a factor," she spoke finally. "I owe much to it." And many others owe it nothing. Shifting Willow in her arms, she stood up, and calmly walked away from the man who once signed her paychecks. He'd never needed her before, and she wasn't accustomed to being needed by him now.

"Good work, Stone!"

"Hey, let's get drinks later, alright?"

"Lucky, lucky bitch!"

Again, she ignored them all, going outside to sit under the sunlight and wonder, with a little sigh, why the greatest achievement of her life had brought the most heartrending emptiness with it.

Her cell phone rang, and she glanced at the caller ID. The Inner Inn, undoubtedly Gustafa. She considered answering it, telling him all her heart's woes and triumphs, pouring her worries into his oh-so-large heart. He'd reassure her, tell her exactly what she needed to hear, and remind her she had done her best no matter what.

Somehow, she mused as she hung the phone up, knowing that someone was willing to listen was, on its own, good enough. Besides, she'd be wiser to save her lifelines for when Claire arrived. Because, if Skye's words held water, all hell was about to break loose.