Much gratitude for all the reviews! This is going to be difficult to live up to, but you know me, I'll do my bloody damnedest. Here is your second chapter. Same rating applies, also same caveats: Non-linear, Callian, Cal abuse. I know Cal's looking rather peaky right about now, but trust me, I know what I'm doing. Sort of.
Actually, I lied. I think I should up the rating, 'cause there are some pretty graphic images starting to crop up here and there.
Standard disclaimers, etc.
~ W
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TRUTH'S CHAMPION DEAD
The two missing persons of the Lightman Group bombing, Andrew Black and Cal Lightman, have been found. Andrew Black was checked into Sibley Memorial Hospital with critical wounds early yesterday evening, and is now reported to be comatose. He is expected to survive. Cal Lightman was discovered dead
Gillian stopped reading. Her eyes continued to glide automatically over the black and white, but every word looked the same: dead.
It had been at exactly eight twenty-three; she'd checked the clock less than a minute before. Loker had called her. She'd learned to hate the sound of her ringtone, had learned to cringe every time it rang.
'Gillian.' He'd said, and she'd heard it, just like she'd heard it the first time he'd called.
'Loker…' She'd practically pleaded.
'Lightman's dead.'
She didn't remember leaving the apartment and driving to the bomb site, but she must have done, because next thing she knew she was sprinting through the US&R people and the police and fire department people. She'd found them, Loker and Torres and even Zoe, who must have wandered there like a homeless cat, all standing there staring at an ambulance. No, not at the ambulance; the gurney next to it.
Strong arms caught her up and held her, but she stared at the white sheet covering something real, something she could touch and know he was dead.
'Oh, God.' Gillian staggered and tried to rip her eyes away. A lone hand had fallen over the edge of the gurney beneath the stark white shroud, a patchy, angry red hand. 'That's not -- that can't be him --' Her stomach convulsed and those arms let her go as she bent over and emptied it.
'I'm sorry, ma'am.' Jared's voice was quiet in her ear. 'It's him. He was wearing dog tags.'
Dog tags. She'd never expected him to wear the dog tags, they were a gag gift. But he had. Dog tags, God, dog tags, he'd worn them. To the end.
He'd been in pyjamas when he opened the door, a black t-shirt and dark slacks and no socks. His hair had been mussed.
'Hello, love.' He'd said, blinking. 'What are you doing here?'
'Late Christmas gift,' she'd said, suddenly embarrassed, brandishing the wine.
'Oh,' he'd said, as though pleasantly surprised. '82, not a bad year. Come on in.'
She remembered that night more clearly that she did the events of, say, this morning, or last night, or the night before. Remembered that the light had been on in the kitchen, remembered the way his voice sounded when he told her Emily was asleep, remembered him fixing tea for the two of them. She'd surprised him with the dog tags, boxed and wrapped up nicely in shiny dark red paper. He'd rolled his eyes at the gaudy silver bow; it had made her laugh.
'SOB?' He'd said, laughingly affronted, on reading the tags. 'Well, thanks very much, darling, I love you too.'
'It's because you were an ass to leave like that.' She'd tried to say it like a joke, but he'd read something in her face and sobered at once. He'd put an arm around her, and when she couldn't keep herself from crying he'd put the other one around her too and held her tight.
'I'm all right, love.' He'd said. 'I'm always all right, don't think on it now. Hear me? Don't think on it now.'
She didn't register when the others had joined her, but she felt it when Torres threw her arms around Gillian. Now, as then, she cried.
'When was the second blast?' Torres asked hollowly, as if more to fill the terrible silence than anything else.
'What?' Jared had backed off a ways, as though to give them space, his hands behind his back and his eyes on the ground. He looked at them now with confusion overlaid with tactful commiseration.
'He screamed.' Gillian told him, wiping her eyes. 'While we were on the phone. And then the line died. If it wasn't - I don't know - a belated fire or something… did something… fall on him?'
'Well, no, ma'am. The body was out in the open, very close to the bomb but not… restricted.'
'But he screamed, and the line…'
'I don't know, ma'am, I'm sorry. The burns were extensive, maybe he… I wish I could offer some closure, but he's gone, ma'am. He's dead.'
Gillian was so tired. She wanted so badly to just let it go. But something wasn't right. There was something off. She drifted over to the covered gurney and put a hand on the edge of the sheet. She felt her mind erect a wall between itself and her body, almost as though it wasn't her standing there touching the single thin barrier between her and a dead man, but someone else altogether. She started to lift the corner.
A hand caught her wrist, and she looked up to see Loker. His eyes were terrified, and there were tear tracks on his cheeks, twin tracks that shone in the lights erected all around the site like a stadium. He shook his head.
'Don't look, Eli.' Gillian heard herself say. With her free hand she pulled her other gently free of his grip. She clutched his hand, though, as she touched the sheet again, needing to
feel him there. And then she pulled the white mantle away.
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What's the time?'
'Let the lying lips be put to silence.' Guy drawled, not looking over. Ooh, that was interesting. A fixation on the bible, he hadn't expected that. Probably, Ward's hatred of him had something to do with twisted verses as well as his friend's death. He played dumb.
'Wasn't lying, pillock, it wasn't even a statement, --'
Ward, who was sprawled in a big overstuffed La-Z-Boy armchair -- it turned out the warehouse stored furniture -- tossed a sandwich wrapper at him, missing. 'Shut up! If you knew the verse you'd have your answer.'
'Psalms 31:18.' Cal dropped the bomb. Ward stilled, but Cal barged on, 'There's no 31st hour, though, so you switched them, and that's 18:31. Military time, obviously, so it's six thirty o--'
He broke off as Ward stood. The look on his face was… unreadable. Cal got absolutely nothing. Ward strode toward him, picking up a second foldable chair and straddling it three feet from Cal's face.
'Titus 1:2'
'Why --'
'The verse, Lightman!'
'In hope of eternal life, which God, that cannot lie, promised before the world began --' Cal rattled off. They might be getting somewhere.
'Romans 3:23.'
'For all have sinned and fall short of --'
'John 14:6.'
Cal, who had been slouched against the chair, grunted as he forced himself as far forward as the ropes would let him go and put his face right close to Ward's. Tired but intelligent hazel eyes burned into blue, and in the blue a spark of fear flickered to life.
'I am the way,' Cal breathed, voice scorching. 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father, except through me.' The slow, deliberate words seemed to echo around the two of them, even after Cal fell silent, seemed to take wing for the rafters like ethereal birds. Ward was tripped up now, and didn't ask for another verse, his eyes were wide and stunned, but Cal trapped Ward's gaze with his own and kept spouting,
'The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.'
'Stop- that's enough --' Cal raised his voice over Ward's protests, keeping their eyes locked;
'For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.'
'I said stop!' Ward's chair crashed backward as he leapt up, pulling his brother's gun from its holster. For a split second Cal's words rang in the silence. He stared up at Ward's eyes, ignoring the barrel of the gun. Slowly, he finished:
'Do not let your heart be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me.'
Ward didn't shoot him when he opened his mouth. He didn't even shoot him when he was done. He didn't seem to be capable of it just that minute. Cal gazed up at him, expressionless, reading.
Ward whirled away and stalked out of view. Cal let himself fall to pieces when the sound of the doors slamming shut drifted to him, his head falling back against the cold metal chair and his muscles shaking minutely. He coughed; he hadn't realised he'd been shouting.
It was a moment before he registered the footsteps, but he didn't look as Dallas pulled a little table over and righted the chair. He heard the clink of glass and liquid pouring, and that got his attention. He pulled his head down to see Dallas setting out a bottle of whiskey and a chipped mug.
'I think I might love you.' Cal said.
'It's not for drinking.' Dallas said coldly, waving a handful of gauze before setting it down and, pulling his chair closer, unbuttoned Cal's ruined shirt.
'You shoot me and then you patch it up?' Cal said incredulously, 'What, are we bonding?'
'Mind your business.' Cal fell silent as Dallas pulled the sticky fabric away from his chest, watching the young man's face. He read him. Dallas dipped some of the gauze into the liquor and started dabbing blood away from Cal's bullet wound. The kid's touch was deft but gentle, and Cal wondered what to make of that.
'It's 'cause he'll kill you if I die before he gets back.' He said finally. Dallas made no response, but his hand paused in its mopping for a split second. Cal smirked, trying to get a rise. Dallas didn't take that well; after a moment he spoke.
'He's out there trying to decide if you're God or not.'
Cal blinked. 'Come again?' Dallas looked at him; his lip pulled in the smallest of smiles. Fondness, thought Cal, as he spoke of his brother.
'My brother's a certified lunatic. He didn't think anyone else on the planet knew as much of the bible as he does, so now he thinks you're Jesus or something.'
'Wasn't like that three years ago,' Cal frowned. That was interesting. There was something in that. Dallas looked at him, hand pausing again, surprised.
'You do remember?' He asked. Cal looked back at him, deciding. Then he nodded.
'I remember everything. The case, the ambush, the… the losses. I remember the way she looked on that gurney as they rushed her away to hospital.'
'D'you remember her name?'
'Grace.' Cal said, seeing her despite himself, reliving the ambush. 'Her name was Grace Hallowell. I saw it, what was between her and your brother. The day we met.'
'What do you mean?' He had the kid's attention now. 'Their friendship?'
Cal shook his head, tired. He let it fall back once more and looked up at the ceiling several metres above them until his eyes closed. 'No, kid. They were in love.'
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'Guy, cut it out.'
'What, you can dish it but you can't take it? To Grace, I thought you might like --'
'You're just jealous you never get flowers to -- Guy --'
'A few reasons to be my girl. Psht, who is this, Paul? Man, you can really tell he's a hopeless romantic, can't you --'
'Gimme my flowers, you big bully --'
'You think he'd at least have figured out that you don't like roses by now --'
'Yes, I do.' She leapt up on her tip-toes and grabbed the bouquet from him, face red and flustered and a strand of russet hair falling into one brown eye. Guy laughed at her as she peacocked away with her prize. 'Aw, look what you did, Grace, you made a thorn fall off.'
'Good. That thorn's just like you, you old jerk; a thorn in my side.'
'Except I've got better jokes.'
'Better jokes? You couldn't tell a joke if it grabbed you by the balls.'
'Maybe not, but I could tell it if it twisted. I'd be howling, anyway.'
She couldn't help snorting, even though she shook her head. Guy followed her to her desk, putting up his hands in surrender when she rounded on him. At the look on her face he settled into the chair across from it, rather than his usual perch on the corner of the desk. 'So how's it going with Paul?'
'Good.' Grace replied neutrally, making a show of arranging the roses on her desk. Guy looked at her.
'You want to talk about it?'
Grace put her head down. Catching something off in her expression, Guy figured it out: Thought you might like a few reasons to be my girl. They'd fought.
'Not really.'
'I'm always here if you do.' Grace looked at him then, almost sad, almost glad. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
'I know. I think I'd have gone insane by now if you weren't, Guy.'
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'Lookee what I got here, Lightman.'
Ward tossed a newspaper at his face. Cal roused with difficulty. When his eyes opened they took some time to start taking in his surroundings. He'd lost track of time. He'd lost track of everything. His head was light, he felt like a bubble-head, what was wrong with his head? He looked at the paper where it had fallen to his lap. He squinted at the ink, but couldn't make out the words, even the big ones at the top.
'I'm sorry, does Doctor Lightman need help to read?' Ward chuckled as he settled into his folding chair. He reached over and took the paper, swiping Cal in the face with it again for fun. Cal hardly reacted.
'Here's what it says, good Doctor. TRUTH'S CHAMPION DEAD. Funny title, don't you think? Whoever wrote that obviously didn't know you.
The last missing persons of the Lightman Group bombing, Andrew Black and Cal Lightman, have been found. Andrew Black was checked into Sibley Memorial Hospital with critical wounds early yesterday evening, and is now reported to be comatose. He is expected to survive. Cal Lightman was discovered dead in the building's basement, fatally close to the remains of one of six bombs planted around the lower level.
Hear that, Cal? Dead! Dead, dead, dead, dead.'
Cal muddled. His expression must have said something, because Ward laughed.
'You really are stupid, aren't you? They found your body, Cal. In the basement of your building. You were burnt so badly that you were unidentifiable, but you had a pair of dog tags around your neck with your name on them, your name and the acronym SOB. I wonder what that stands for, huh?'
Cal's hand jerked in his bonds. When the motion was checked it sent a shock wave through his chest, igniting that aging fire from the bullet wound. He panted, but more with fear than anything else. The tags. The chain, where was the chain, he couldn't feel the chain around his neck.
Ward laughed outright. 'It's not there. Dallas took them, you see, handed them off to be planted on a body already placed in the basement, to be found once you told your girlfriend you were there.'
'Why would you…' Cal breathed, straining. When had Dallas done that? He didn't remember that… He lifted his head to look at Ward, who was grinning openly now. Bloody tosser. Bloody tosser…
'You're no genius, Cal Lightman. They say you are, they sing your praises, but you're a fraud. If you were any kind of intelligent you'd have figured it out the instant I said it: for time. Everyone thinks you're dead, so now we have all the time in the world to play.'
When Cal said nothing, Guy slapped him across the face. Adrenaline started pumping again immediately; Cal's thoughts cleared a little. For a second all he could do was worry about what Guy was going to do, but when his brain was working well enough he realized that wasn't helping and switched tracks.
There was a way out of this. Guy was a lunatic with a penchant for verses; he could use that. Dallas was beginning to be sympathetic, and he was clearer-eyed than his brother; he could use that. Reason with him. Play to his better nature. There was still the cell phone. If he changed the circumstances a bit, he could use that. He was supposed to be dead. Uh… he couldn't use that. Gillian thought he was dead. It was probably killing her. And Torres and Loker --
Guy slapped him again. 'Pay attention, Doctor Lightman. Pay close attention. I've figured out what I want to do with you. You quote the bible like a man of God, but I've done some thinking and I see it now: you're a devil. The devil, I know, can say holy words to lure holy men, and that's what you're doing, and that's a sin. And I'm going to make you wish you hadn't done that.' He tossed the newspaper over his shoulder with a noise like wings, madly flapping wings, and Cal though ridiculously that it was his life, flying up away from him.
Guy stood, and Cal followed his progress without seeing as he crossed the open floor. That was it, he thought, time was up. He'd waited too long, and now he was done for.
'Which do you prefer, Doctor Lightman?' Guy called, words echoing, 'the knife or the gun?'
Cal closed his eyes.
Gunfire cracked, ricocheting off the crates and the ceiling, and Cal leapt against his bonds and looked over at Guy. Cal could see it in his face now; he'd lost him. He was done.
'Answer me, Lightman. Which do you prefer, the little knife or the big gun?'
'The… the gun.'
'Knife it is.' Grinning at his joke, Guy hefted a blade. It glinted sharply as it spun once, and then Guy's hand closed again around the hilt for a split second before he let it fly.
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'Now I lay me down to sleep;I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to I should -- if I should -- hang on, what's it?'
'Die, Daddy.' Emily dropped her head onto the pillow, exasperated as only five-year-old girls are capable of being.
'Oh, right. Bloody morbid prayer, this is, why do they want you learning this --'
'Daddy!' Emily shoved him with her little hand.
'Oi, I'm getting to it, don't hit me. If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take, and this I ask for Jesus' sake. Amen. Now go on, you, get up under the covers.'
Obediently Emily scrambled onto the bed from her kneeling position and burrowed under the blankets. Cal got up and crossed to the shelf next to her bed. 'Which light tonight, love?'
'Ummm… the butterfly.'
'Butterfly, flutter-by, butter flutter fly by...' Cal picked up the right one - he thought - and plugged it into the electric socket. Purples and blues and pinks alighted on the surrounding wall in a soft glow. 'There we are.' He moved back to the bed, tucking the comforter up under her chin, and flicking her nose. Planted a kiss on her forehead when she giggled. ''Night, love. First day of Sunday school tomorrow, so sleep tight.'
'Sweet dreams, Daddy.' She called softly as he put out the ceiling light. The butterfly gleamed ethereally and seemed to flicker in a little dance as he closed the door.
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Lightman was out of it. He stared blankly at the ceiling again, eyes half closed as Dallas finished up on the last of his wounds. He wrapped it tight and then smeared blood across the surface so the bandage would be invisible once he re-buttoned the ruined shirt. He cleared away the bloody, liqueur-soaked gauze and wiped off the rickety little table.
'Why d'you keep doing that?' He asked, slurring the words like a drunk. Dallas looked at him.
'If he keeps up like this he'll kill you before the night is out.' Dallas said coldly, buttoning the shirt. He put a hand at the back of Lightman's head and pulled it down roughly, flashing a little key-chain torch in each eye and checking his pulse.
'So?' Lightman asked him. Dallas frowned at him. Yeah, so what? He didn't know. But he took the time to think.
'Yours is a human life.' He said finally. 'I don't believe in taking those. Now shut up.' He stood and gathered all the used gauze in his arms.
'What if I die?' Lightman raised his voice a little. 'How'll you feel then?'
'I'll have done what I could.' Dallas answered without turning around and walked away. He stashed his armful in a crate, figuring that by the time anyone found it, it wouldn't matter anymore. He went out to join Guy.
'What are you going to do with him?' Dallas asked. His brother shrugged, leaning against the filthy concrete. He looked almost normal, not at all insane, not at all as though he'd accused a man of being Satan incarnate and tortured him for it for an hour and a half.
'I don't know yet. I'm not done with him, though. I didn't go to all that effort, planting a body and blowing up a building, just to let him go.'
'Why did you do all that?'
'Truly?' Guy grinned. 'Because I could, Dallas. I really just wanted to see how much I could get away with.'
'Innocent people, though? You saw the papers; three dead.'
'Two dead. Lightman's alive. For now.'
'The body we planted is dead.'
'He was already dead when we planted him, he doesn't count.'
'Two, then. That makes us murderers.'
'We blew up the place when there were the least possible people there. If they were still snivelling at their desks long after the business day was over, that's their problem.'
'How can you say that?'
'They work for Lightman. They're not people, just like he's not.'
'He is so.' Dallas didn't know why he said that. He didn't care about some random guy. His brother hated him, so he should too. What was he doing?
Guy looked at him like he'd stabbed him in the back. 'What did you just say?'
'He remembers the case. He told me.'
'He… he didn't tell me.' Guy dropped his gaze to his feet, frowning. Something about the look on his face -- Dallas snapped.
'Well you can stop fucking killing him now, because he remembers everything! The whole fucking case, Guy. He remembers her name and the ambush you never even told me about and how she got carted away on the gurney. He even remembers the way the two of you looked at each other.'
Guy stared at his cigarette while Dallas paced. The icy wind blew in their faces: Dallas's distressed, Guy's blank. Dallas rounded on him again.
'You blame him for her dying. I can see that. But I can't see a guy like him pulling a gun on anybody. Tell me what happened, Guy. Just, please, tell me what happened.'
Guy looked at his younger brother, whose earnest face was chafed in the cold, his emotive hands frozen in that last pleading gesture. Guy nodded slowly.
'The higher-ups had hired Lightman for a case. His job was to figure out if this Mafia boss was lying.'
'Mafia boss?'
'We assumed. We caught a couple of his guys in a murder investigation and followed the trail back to him. When we brought him in he obviously denied everything, but there had been a lot of Mafia-related activity lately and we wanted to pin it on him.'
'Did he do it? All that stuff?'
'I don't know. Don't care. Higher-ups seemed to think so, because they brought Lightman in rather than let him go. I hated Lightman the minute he walked in. Took the place over like it was his, like he was better at our job than we were, telling the guys what to do and how they were doing everything wrong, even though we were doing everything by the book, line by fucking line. And the way he looked at you. Like he knew shit about you. Like he figured he could see right into you. Pissed me right off, the minute I laid eyes on him.'
'What happened with the case?'
'Lightman got in with the Mafia guy and started talking to him. Donato, that's the Mafia guy, he didn't say jack shit for half an hour, just looked at Lightman across the table like the guy was some bug he wanted to step on. I laughed. I kept thinking, "This guy's supposed to be an expert and he's getting even less than we did." Lightman was a fraud, and I was looking at the proof from behind that one-way window.'
'What happened then?'
'I missed it when the tables turned, I'd walked out. I watched the tapes later, though. Lightman was just talking and Donato was just staring, and suddenly Lightman just started answering his own questions. He would ask Donato a question, like 'were those your guys?' and then he'd turn around and answer himself. 'Yeah, they were yours.' Watching the tape I was like, 'What the fuck is he doing?' He looked like a lunatic, like he was just making shit up as he went. But when he came out of there and told the bosses everything he'd found out, they believed him. No questions asked. The bosses sent out a team of us to check out the location Lightman made up. Five of us, six with Lightman.'
'Why would he come with you if he knew you were walking into a trap?'
'I don't know. Maybe he figured the ambushers would recognize him and leave him alone. Looks like they did, too; he got a bullet to the shoulder, but nothing major.'
'What do you mean, recognize him?'
'He was in with the Mafia.'
'He got shot and you think he's in with them?'
'Don't talk to me like that, fucker. He's alive and she's not; that's all the proof I need. He told us everything would be fine, and we got ambushed.'
'Why is that Lightman's fault? Assuming he's not in the Mafia?'
'He'd asked Donato, in the interrogation room, if there was an ambush waiting. Donato was lying when he said no, and Lightman should have seen it. If he was such a fucking expert. But he didn't.'
Dallas knew his brother's face; he saw the uncertainty flash across it. 'You can tell me, Guy.'
Guy looked at him, shoved his hands in his pockets, looked down. 'But… he remembers her. When he was unconscious, the second time, after he'd talked to his girlfriend over the phone, I think he dreamed about that night. The ambush. He kept saying shit, names, like Donato and Ward and… and Hallowell. And the look on his face, when he said her name…' Guy swallowed and pulled out a cigarette. Dallas watched for a second as he tried to light it, but his hands were shaking too hard. Dallas stepped forward and did it for him.
'I don't think he did it, Guy.' He said quietly. Guy dragged hard on his cigarette, his expression torn and lost. Dallas kept talking.
'I don't think he did it, and I think you're torturing - killing - an innocent man. You have to let him go.'
He reached over and put a hand on Guy's shoulder. In a flash Guy had knocked his wrist away, and that lost expression was gone. 'You always were an idiot, Dallas. Here's proof. Like I needed more. We're not letting him go til he's dead.'
Guy turned on his heel and stalked back into the warehouse.
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Gillian had called Zoe sometime around ten Friday morning.
'Hello?' Gillian recalled the last time she'd seen Zoe, standing there a little apart from Loker and Torres at the ruined office. The look on her face - stricken, blank.
Gillian had spent hours pacing her living room like a rattled frenetic, agonizing. She knew what she'd seen. Under that sheet. But what about what she'd seen four years ago? Could she trust that memory with Cal's life? It was a pretty sharp memory, one you never forgot, one that stuck and stuck good, but --
'Hello?' Gillian snapped out of it.
'Zoe, it's Gillian.'
Zoe said nothing. Gillian could almost see her, crumpling into a chair, all her substance coated in the concrete dust, defeated and stunned and lacking the ability to deal with anyone, especially her late ex-husband's work partner. But she still had to say it. She opened her mouth, but stopped. Dare she? What if she was wrong? What if she was wrong?
'Zoe, do you remember Cal's tattoos?'
The other end cracked with rapt static. Gillian imagined Zoe's face: first surprise, then confusion, then anger.
'What does that have to do with anything, Doctor Foster?'
'I know they found a body, Zoe, but I don't think it's him. There's no tattoo on the left shoulder.'
A sharp intake of breath translated as a rush of white noise. 'It's not him.' Zoe blurted. 'Oh, thank God, it's not him.'
There it was, then. She'd been right. But that opened up so many new possibilities: someone had planted the dog tags on some random body for a reason. Where was Cal? He was in trouble. Kidnapped? Yes, that was certain. But where? Who? Gillian finished up with Zoe, who was nearly sobbing outright with relief, full of purpose and eager to get started.
She had a job again.
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