Sorry it took me longer than usual to post – the chapter was rewritten from the scratch. Answering your comments (thanks, by the way, because sometimes I make some changes to already written things based on your smart remarks) – nope, there'll be no Nancy, sorry. I like Miss Drew in other writer' works, but writing this story is difficult enough without inviting another emotional character to it. But there could be another nice and familiar character soon, you know…could be not, too, however, as I never promised a happy ending. Stay tuned :)

Despite popular beliefs, London winters can be relatively nice, with mild temperatures and occasional sunshine. Rain happens, too, but what's London without rains? January 2010, however, was unpredictably cold and the snow that started on January 1st didn't stop until nearly 10 days later. Most Londoners will remember the month as the coldest since 1987 and most social services will remember it as a nightmare, with traffic system collapse, heating problems and people raiding food-stores as if in fear the Ice Age had returned.

It left Frank Hardy glad he had been out of England for almost 20 days, which meant having enough supplies of tea, left from the times of abundance, and enough saved money to pay the extra bill for electricity since the heater was working non-stop since he'd flown back from New York a day ago and returned to his chilly London apartment.

The snow was falling outside the window, leaving snowdrifts on the windowpanes of Victorian houses and making people look clumsy as they walked. Frank pressed his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes, clutching on a cup of hot tea. TV was on and the news screamed "cold snap", "extreme conditions" and other messages of life in the UK being almost paralyzed.

What did they know about paralyzed lives and extreme conditions? He pondered miserably.

If he thought coming back home for Christmas was bad, it was nothing compared to coming back to Bayport from Chicago after almost two weeks of futile search for Joe.

The distance between New York and Chicago is around 850 miles, the car which took Joe and the mysterious woman out of Bayport was blown up at the end of their journey, just 50 miles to the south of the city. The local police found nothing but burnt metal with no clues to what had happened to the driver and the passenger. The local people of rather deserted area knew little about the incident, too, and didn't spot anyone or anything suspicious around that time. Frank and Fenton stopped at every gas-filling station and every little store on the way between the two cities to talk to the staff, but no one recalled seeing Joe. And the woman…. the blurred image of the woman left her unrecognized- and unfound.

Whatever happened to Joe and her on the way between the two cities - he and Fenton couldn't find anything. No. Anything. At. All.

After 10 days of hopeful search, they were faced with a dead-end. The decision to turn the car around and drive back To Bayport was heart-breaking and left both of them silent for the entire time of the journey, withdrawn into the misery of admitting another failure in the case of Joe's disappearance.

It was 5 miles to Bayport when Frank finally spoke, "You're gonna tell Mom?"

Fenton silently nodded. It took him a minute to find his own voice, "I thought his death was horrifying. I thought finding you suicidal in the bathroom was horrifying, too. I thought – I hoped maybe the horrors were gone and it would get better someday… But telling Laura- it will be…." He never finished. There was another minute of heavy silence before he spoke again. "I don't know what's worse, Frank. Knowing he's dead for sure but at peace or thinking he might be alive but suffering all this time."

Frank knew the feeling too well. Throughout their search, he often wondered – why didn't the woman contact them? The answer that came to his mind chilled him to the bone – if she knew the Hardys believed Joe had died in the car accident, what reasons could she have to contact them? Only to say that she held him as a hostage for some reason and he was alive. If she didn't, then… he couldn't bring himself to admit the obvious conclusion.

"Will you still look out for clues into the case?" he asked his father as they turned onto Elm street.

"Joe was- is my son, Frank. I won't stop looking until it's solved."

Frank nodded. "I'll keep an eye on his e-mails and other Internet accounts, too," he said quietly, knowing he'd be extremely lucky to receive another revealing message.

The beautiful Hardy home came into view. Frank watched it from a shortening distance and suddenly realized – he wanted to be anywhere in the world but in that house. Later that evening, he booked a nearest flight to London and hurriedly left, leaving his father to tell the story to Laura and letting them grieve over the second loss of their youngest child. It felt cowardly and traitorously to run away again and he made no excuses for himself. But when he shut the door to his cold London apartment, he could literally shut everyone out and spend hours tête-a-tête with his depressed mind – until he found a reason or desire to communicate with the world again. Which, he thought, would be soon because he was dying for a pack of – no, no cigarettes, since was true to his ambition to quit – Walkers Pure Butter Shortbread.*

Maybe, he thought, he'd go out to a local Tesco later, but for now he turned away from the window and went back to the sofa. Frank stared at the TV screen, but saw through it. His mind was far away, still going over details of Joe's case. There should have been something else, something more he could have done or come up with. There should have been a clue. There should been a sign. There simply should be something he could do.

Minutes ticked, but his mind remained blank. Possibly, the best thing he could do was to get a hot-water bottle in bed tonight, he thought gloomily.

With a sigh, he switched attention to the news channel. Weather is a popular topic in the UK, but it seemed to be the only topic those days as the video showed snow-covered hills, muffled-up children, complaining elderly men and blue circles of low-pressure cyclone over the British Isles.

The anchorman shook his head at the end of it and gave a smile for the viewers, "But someone felt much warmer earlier today. The National Lottery spokesperson said of the massive Euromillions win – quote, "We are delighted to have another huge Euromillions winner here in the UK, following so closely to last November's record breaking jackpot winners. We have plenty of champagne on ice and look forward to welcoming the ticket holder into the millionaires' club", unquote. Well, someone did get their share of miracles this winter, didn't they?" he finished with a soft laugh. "Coming next…"

Something clicked in the back of Frank's mind and he frowned. "Share of miracles?" Don't be stupid. The more he thought about it, the more foolish it felt. The idea was blatantly crazy, but his heart started to beat faster at the thought of it, as if telling him to at least give it a try. After all, he couldn't think up with anything better.

He looked at the watch, relieved to find it too late to do anything about the idea tonight. Though, there was still time for a pack of Walkers Shortbread.

* Scottish cookies ®