Michael

I was shocked that Fi went along with Elsa so willingly. While Sam didn't seem to have paid attention, I knew that she normally would have hit someone who tried to drag her off somewhere without her say so. With a sigh, I turned back to the two college kids and looked at them.

"So you think your step-father killed your mother?" I asked the girl.

She blinked and swallowed. "Yes."

"What is your name?" I asked, lowering myself gingerly onto a nearby zebra chair.

"Mary." She pushed her bangs out of her eyes.

"So, tell me why you think he killed her."

She batted at her bangs again. "When I was five, my dad died. That's actually how I met Sam." She glanced at him. "After a few different boyfriends that never lasted long, she met Sam. I was twelve. Then they broke up, which was the worst, I think. Sam was always my favorite of her boyfriends. I was fourteen when she met my step-father, and they got married a year later.

"Two months after their wedding day, he started hitting her. Me, when he was drunk enough. When I was sixteen, he ran over me with the car when he went really on a bender. I spent a year in the hospital, and in recovery hospitals. At that point, Jim's parents declared themselves my legal guardians, and I moved in with them.

"I've spoken to my Mom nearly every day since then. Until three weeks ago when she stopped returning my calls. Then two weeks ago, her phone stopped being on, stopped being able to connect. It wouldn't even go to voice mail. And, the police won't do anything, since she's an adult, and my step-father claims that she went to visit her grandmother in Ireland." Mary paused to take a breath.

"I didn't realize Sarah had Irish blood." Sam said.

Mary flinched. "She doesn't."

"Mary, why didn't you call me?" He asked, touching her shoulder.

The girl looked like she wanted to hit him. Sensing the same thing that I did, the boy rose to his feet.

"Because, you were the only one of them that made my mother happy, and then you left. And you were the only one of them that I liked."

Sam blinked. "Oh. I'm sorry kiddo. I didn't want to leave your mom. You're a great kid, but…"

"Things didn't work out. I know. That's always what happens, and why people break up." She sighed. "Oh, I'm sorry. That's Jim, by the way." She motioned to the boy. "I met him when I was at the hospital after my step-father tried to kill me."

When Fiona talked so matter of fact about death, it didn't bother me much. She threatened to kill me all the time, and I knew what she had been through. Who she had lost in Ireland. But with this girl, who wasn't even twenty, her calmness about her step-father's murder attempt was almost scary. Someone that young shouldn't need to be that used to death. Not where there wasn't a full scale war going on around the person.

"Mikey" Sam prodded.

I lifted my eyes from the marble tiles.

"Where can we find your step-father?" I asked. "And we'll need your mother's contact information too, just in case."

"So you can run phone records or something?" She pulled a notebook out of her purse. "I already wrote it all down. If he did kill my mother, I want him gone. Not locked away in prison gone, but…"

"Dead gone." I sighed. "I don't kill people."

"But!"

"Hey, Mary, relax. Mikey just said that he doesn't kill people. She'd probably be willing to." Sam said soothingly, nodding at Fiona who was approaching us. "Actually, judging by the scowl on her face, she's already in a murderous mood."

I sighed. Hopefully, Sam was right; though I highly doubted it. Fiona would never get angry over a free makeover. Missing a meeting with a client because the client's friend had dragged her off, was another story. I didn't want to believe that the six months had changed her that much. Fiona slipped up to me and slid a hand around my arm, any look of anger gone from her face. She smiled sweetly at Mary, and leaned her cheek against me.

"Can I have your number, Mary, so I can contact you with what I find out?"

She held out the sheet of paper. "It's already on the paper. Along with Jim's number, and our address. He and I are living in his parent's guest house, so you'll have to ask the butler about it. Can't access it from the front drive. Please, let me know as soon as you find anything."

I nodded once and steered Fiona back out to the car.

I woke to a particularly loud roll of thunder. With a groan, I rolled over and felt for Fiona. The bed next to me was empty. Jerking upright, I looked around the loft, my eyes finally landing on the front door which was open a crack. Grabbing my gun, I made my way over to the door and eased it open, peering out into the rain.

A slim figure sat halfway down the steps, leaning against the railing. Soaked clothes clung to her frame. With a sigh of relief, I set my gun on the table by the door and slipped out. Fiona turned as I made my way down the stairs, staring up at me. She slid over, and I sat down next to her.

"You're soaking wet."

"I couldn't breathe in there." She replied, returning her cheek to the railing.

"You know, if lightning hits anywhere near here, you'll be fried."

"So will you."

"Fi, look at me." I turned her to face me and shoved her sodden hair from her face. "Look at me."

Finally she raised her eyes to meet mine. I caressed her cheek gently.

"You are worrying me, Fi."

She took in a sharp breath.

"Yes. I said it. You are worrying me. What happened, in prison?"

"I… Michael, I don't want to talk about it."

"Fi." I pulled her to her feet. "Tell me."

She shook her head stubbornly, but let me guide her back up the stairs into the loft. I pushed her onto the foot of the bed and hurried into the bathroom to grab a pair of towels. When I came back, Fiona had bent over and buried her face into her hands. Wrapping one of the towels around her shoulders, I pulled her against me.

"When I was there, I had dreams about coming back here, back to you." She said softly. "When Vaughn took you, and when you were taken to D.C., I had nightmares about things happening to you. Why I am having nightmares about what happened, in Fort Lauderdale?"

"Because you were in prison, Fi." I stroked her hair.

"I hate nightmares." She muttered and wiped at her eyes. "Guys must have it so much easier at prison. Female guards are never in the male prisons, and even if they were, they couldn't get the prisoners down to an abandoned basement."

I nodded once and kissed Fiona's temple. She sighed and leaned against me, and then sat up. Wrinkling her nose at me, she grabbed the other towel and shoved it in my face. Smiling, I draped it around my shoulders and pulled her back against me. Her hand slid into mine, and she resettled her cheek against my shoulder.

"I hate girls. Hate the pretty airheads who don't know how to take care of themselves. How can someone always play the damsel role? It seems so boring. Always being rescued. But I hate the stupid ones too. The ones who get caught doing simple crimes, or who mess themselves up with drugs. Those ones are just plain mean."

"And then the guards got mean because you wouldn't let the inmates control you." I finished. "So, the bruises were from them. What else did they do, other than the basement?"

Abandoned basements wouldn't have working security cameras. Fiona wouldn't keep talking if I pressed the basement issue, and I was fairly certain that I knew what had happened. Something that I wasn't even sure that I wanted to know about. But she was talking about what had happened.

"They have nightsticks. The guards like to swing them at people's heads. I don't like things coming at my heads, and blocked them with my arms. Rest of the time, they aimed at my ribs. Or legs. I've been out of casts for… three days now. Couldn't seem to keep myself out of trouble of the head-aiming kind for more than a week after getting an arm free."

I held her tighter for a moment, and rose to my feet, Fiona still in my arms. Slowly, I pulled off her sodden pajamas and left them in a heap on the floor before guiding her back to the bed. She got in slowly, and watched me through narrowed eyes as I slid carefully under the covers, my own wet sweatpants left on the floor to dry.

"I'm not in the mood for reconnecting." She warned, her voice tense.

"I know. You'll get sick if you wear those wet clothes to bed."

"No one has actually proven that, Michael. And I could have changed." She replied tartly.

Then she slid closer to me, and tucked her head against my arm. I wrapped my arm around her, squeezing her shoulder gently and Fiona inched closer.

"I'm not going to let that happen to you again, Fi." I said softly.

For a while, she didn't reply. "I know." Fiona murmured after I had grown certain that she was already asleep. "I know."