It was another hour until they'd dragged in enough people and the search was set up to Emma's satisfaction. She'd pissed off about half the town, calling to wake them at three in the morning, but they'd showed. Leroy grumbled non-stop since the second he'd pulled his rattling, wheezing truck to a stop, but he'd also hauled over boxes of donuts and a couple vats of coffee, and was passing out refined sugar and caffeine to all who needed it. Dr. Hopper showed up inside of fifteen minutes, hair rumpled and sweater vest inside out, and settled in the doctor's lounge with Cecelia French's file.

Emma knew she should be out there with them, helping them, directing things, and especially keeping an eye on Regina, but…she didn't like the way this smelled. Didn't like that they'd waited to inform the sheriff of a problem in her own damn town, and she really didn't like the fact that Regina was involved. Of course, in Storybrooke sooner or later Regina was always involved, but that didn't mean Emma had to like it. Besides, it wouldn't take long, and Ruby was there, and that girl had a nose for these sort of things. So Emma waited until Madame High Mayor was distracted, left Ruby in charge, and jogged out to her Bug to follow a hunch.

Moe French lived a small one-story house in what Emma had learned was the cheaper part of town, back a bit from the main drag of houses and shops. It was a nice house, with yellow siding and a whitewashed porch and a bit of a garden out back. The scrolly kind of trim that made it look a bit like a gingerbread house. Cozy. If you didn't look too close, that was. If you could ignore the peeling paint, and the sagging porch steps, and the spots where the trim had warped and couple of places where it was actually falling off, and the scummy layer of film over the windows. Only the back garden looked tended to.

Light was streaming out of the dirty windows, into the dark, early morning. Emma eyed it as she took the steps very carefully. Must've had every light in the house burning. Like a beacon.

The warped wood of the porch shrieked under her feet as she picked her way to the front door, loud enough that she wasn't surprised when it swung open before she'd had a chance to knock. Moe French stood there, his eyes red-rimmed, then deflated when he saw it was her. "Sheriff."

"Mr. French. I'm sorry to bother you so early — "

"Have you found her yet? Have you found my Lacey?"

"No. I'm sorry, we're still looking. Actually, that's why I'm here. May I come in?"

"Oh, yes, oh, please, please — " Mr. French stepped back and waved Emma in.

Inside the French house was the same as the out: a sense of homey that had long ago dived headfirst into shabby. The rooms, a little small to begin with, were made a lot smaller by the mess. The carpet was stained and rather sticky underfoot; Emma spotted muddy garden boots by the door, so the stains were probably mud. She hoped it was mud. Mr. French led her into a living room. The furniture — sofa, armchair, davenport — had that comfortably worn feeling, or at least what was visible of it underneath the scattered clothes and piles of mail and magazines. The walls, beneath the smudges and the years' worth of dings that hadn't been patched, were papered in a faded but warm shade of peach, and were crowded with pictures. Mostly pictures of three: Mr. French and, presumably, wife and daughter. Mr. French looked different in them, not just younger but taller, happier, steadier. Mrs. French, a tiny, delicate-looking woman, never aged past, Emma guessed, thirty-five. Photos of the little girl didn't go past thirteen or so.

Emma picked one framed photo off an end table. The hospital hadn't had any picture of Cecelia French on hand — well, it was a hospital, not a police station — and, granted, the little girl in the picture was more than a decade off of the woman who'd escaped, but still Emma'd been expecting something…different. To get locked up for a dozen years in a nut house, you had to be seriously nuts. The apple-cheeked, grinning girl in the picture didn't really fit with Emma's mental image of that. Granted, she hadn't had a lot of experience with real, genuine crazies, just the everyday lunatics who could more or less function in society.

There was a wobbly sniff behind her, and Emma turned to Mr. French. He'd been crying, probably straight up until she come to the door, Emma realized, and fought the urge to shift back and forth. She wasn't good with tears, especially the blobby, gummy, blubbery ones that made your face go red and your nose run. Mr. French appeared to specialize in those.

Awkwardly, Emma held up the framed photo. "Mind if I hold onto this? Hospital file didn't have a picture. It might help. I know it's a lot to ask," she added quickly when his eyes filled up again. Mr. French gave her a weak nod, and she eased the photo from the frame. Emma tucked it carefully in her pocket, then glanced around, trying to locate a place to sit that wasn't stained or covered with clothes. She settled for the arm of the couch.

"Mr. French," Emma began, trying to be gentle. She wasn't real good at gentle, either, but he'd started sniffing and scrubbing his face with his shirtsleeve, so she figured she'd give it a try. "I understand Mayor Mills informed you of your daughter's escape from Storybrooke General a few hours ago."

Mr. French nodded. "Called me right after it happened. Said my Lacey got herself sick and ran out. Said she's out there right now, she's sick and out there — " His voice broke on the last bit and he couldn't talk for a little while. Emma looked around for a tissue, paper towel, anything, and found nothing, so she waited it out.

"Did Mayor Mills tell you that she suspects Lacey might come here?" Emma asked after he'd calmed down.

Another nod. "That's why I'm here. Wanted to be out, looking for her, didn't I, but the Mayor said to stay put 'cause my Lacey might run back here. Might want her Dad — "

Emma jumped in before he started crying again. "And have you been here all night?"

"Absolutely, all night," Mr. French assured her wobbly. "Came right back after the Mayor called me, and I've stayed here, in case my Lacey wants her Dad."

"And, uh, where were you before you came right back?"

"Just The Rabbit Hole. Just to have a beer. Man's entitled to have a beer after a hard day's work."

Emma nodded and tried to keep the look-over she sent around the room as casual as could be. "Can you tell me how long you were there?"

"Not long. An hour or two, three, maybe. Knocked off work and went to have a drink. But I came right back when the Mayor called me, and I haven't left, I swear."

"Did you check the house after you got back? To make sure you're alone?"

"Course I'm alone," Mr. French protested. "My Lacey isn't here, she wouldn't hide from her Dad — "

"Do you mind if I take a look around? Just in case?" Emma tried to keep it light, added in a shrug and a bit of a smile. Golly gee, I'm just a silly Sheriff, wanting to look around.

"No, no, go right ahead," Mr. French waved her on.

It didn't take very long. There wasn't much to the house, and even without the mess there weren't a lot of places to hide. The only part with even a semblance of order was a small bedroom towards the back, decorated for a little girl. Actually, it looked more like it was decorated for the idea of a little girl than a real life child; whoever'd been in charge had gone for pink and lots of it, and they hadn't skimped on the ruffles, either. More photos, in glittery, white-painted frames that looked like they might still have the store stickers on them. The one bookshelf was cluttered with delicate, spindly porcelain figurines, too, the kind that never would've survived a real kid. A couple of Baby-Sitters' Club books and a kid's diary — pink, plastic-looking cover with a cheap metal lock — on the nightstand by the bed.

Emma wondered if Mr. and Mrs. French had it done after their daughter'd been committed, and then felt a little ashamed of thinking it.

Mr. French was sitting on the sofa when she headed back downstairs. He'd found a tissue, or something, and was scrubbing his eyes with it. "All clear," Emma told him. "I appreciate you letting me take a look, Mr. French."

"I told you she wasn't here," he choked.

"Standard procedure. For the report, you know." She eased herself onto the arm of a chair. "Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions? For the report," Emma added again, taking her notebook out of her back pocket.

"Is this going to help find my Lacey?" Mr. French asked.

"Every little bit helps. For instance, I was hoping you could give me a list of Lacey's friends, other relatives, folks in town other than you that she might go to for help."

Mr. French shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut against more tears. "I'm the only family she has, and she was locked up so long ago, my poor girl, she wouldn't know anyone else here."

"Mayor Mills told me that your daughter was…" Emma searched for a tactful way to say it. She wasn't real good at tact either. She finally settled on: "…in the hospital for quite some time."

He nodded.

"Twelve years, she said."

Mr. French sniffed. "Twelve this May. My Lacey, she was just fourteen when her mum died. It was bad, bad." He glanced at a picture of his wife, serene, smiling up from the faded wallpaper. "Attacked in the woods, she was. By a bear, they said, or some kind of wild dog. My Lacey couldn't handle it. The Mayor said she had a…a 'psychotic break.'" The words were choked off for a second as the tears spilled over. "Had to be committed," he blubbered. "Very close to her mum, she was, and my Lacey's always been very fragile. Her mum, too. It's not my fault. Her mum died and my Lacey, she just went over the edge. She was sick, so sick — went right over the edge, the Mayor said. I couldn't help her, I tried, but she needed real help, proper help, from doctors. She was dangerous, the Mayor said, my Lacey was dangerous, she could hurt herself. It's not my fault — I was just trying to do what's best for her." The tears were racing out now, and he choked on them.

Emma stared down at rumpled blue-lined paper of her notebook as she felt something click together. It's not my fault, Emma thought. It's your fault, it's not my fault, and the sound of Mr. Gold's cane whistling through the air echoed in her head. Be honest, Swan. She'd already been thinking about him, hadn't she? It's your fault, it's not my fault. She'd been thinking about his voice, and the way he swung that cane. She'd been thinking about the way he'd shouted you were her father.

"You're sure your daughter didn't have any friends in town?" Emma asked again, and turned to eye Mr. French. "Girls her age. Ashley? Ruby?"

Mr. French sniffed at that, but this time it wasn't because of the tears. "My Lacey wouldn't hang out with girls like that, my Lacey was a good girl."

"Good girls sometimes like to hang out with people their parents won't approve of," Emma remarked carefully, and just as carefully added, "Mr. Gold?"

"Mr. Gold? Why would — Gold's an evil, evil man — my Lacey was a good girl, I tell you," Mr. French insisted, his indignation overcoming his tears for the moment. "Besides, my Lacey was just a little girl when she went into that place. She doesn't know anyone. Only me, and she's so sick she probably doesn't even know who I am either." Then his composure faltered, cracked, broke, and he began to cry again, noisy blubbering tears. Emma looked away.

"You, uh, need to call me if she comes here." Emma scribbled quickly on a scrap of paper. "That's my cell."

"I will, I absolutely will. You'll be my first call, right after the mayor."

Emma fought the urge to grind her teeth as she flipped her notebook closed and stuffed it in her back pocket. "I would appreciate that. You seem to be healing up nicely," she added. "After the wallop Mr. Gold gave you."

"No thanks to him," Mr. French returned, and Emma swallowed the well, no, obviously that welled up in her throat. "Wouldn't even pay my hospital bills, after what he did to me. Thousands of dollars I got to pay, and he won't lay down a dime, the bastard. Offered to run me a loan, he did, but the Mayor put a stop to that. She's helping me with the money, or else I'd have to take his deal, wouldn't I? She says I could sue him, I could get twice what I owe."

But you won't, Emma thought as she stalked back to her car. Because you're afraid of him. Everyone's afraid of him. Because no matter what you try to do to him, he can do worse to you.

Emma tried not to smirk when Mr. Gold answered the door. She hadn't figured him as the flannel pajama bottom type — more a black velvet dressing gown embroidered with the teeth of his enemies. Maybe a necklace of skulls, though, on second thought, she figured that might be a little too tacky for him. "Sorry to disturb you, but I need to ask you some questions."

"Isn't it a little late for an interrogation, Sheriff?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe. Taking weight off his bad leg, she noted, and felt a brief twinge of yeah, you're an asshole for making him come to the door at — she checked — Christ, 4:27 in the morning.

"Actually, it's early, and if it could've waited, I would've. It's about your recent arrest."

He didn't so much as blink. It was a little unnerving how he just…watched. Most people participated — in conversations, in life, in other people — but as far as she'd seen, Mr. Gold always held a part of himself back. Watching. Only time she'd ever seen him fully into something was when he was whaling on Mr. French with his cane.

"When you attacked Mr. French," Emma reminded him when he didn't say anything. "Specifically when the arresting officer — that would be me — came upon you beating the hell out of Mr. French with your cane while exclaiming, quote, 'she's gone, it's your fault, you were her father.' Unquote. I'm going to have to ask you again to identify the 'she' you were talking about. Again."

He barely lifted an eyebrow. "Memorized it, have you, Sheriff?"

"I've been looking into it."

"And I have told you, it is none of your concern."

"Yeah, well, as Sheriff I have both the freedom and the responsibility to look into anything that doesn't smell right. Like one of our most prominent citizens kidnapping and assaulting another. Besides," Emma shrugged, "one guy starts beating on another guy, railing at him about 'she's dead, it's your fault,' all of that, it piques my curiosity."

"You know what they say about curiosity and the cat."

"Yeah. 'Satisfaction brought it back.' Can you please identify the 'she' you were referring to as you repeatedly struck Mr. French with your cane?"

Mr. Gold gave her a crocodile smile, leisurely and lethal, and mimicked her shrug. "I'm afraid it must have slipped my mind."

"Mind if I take a stab at it? You know, since we're both here. Cecelia French. Daughter of Moe French. Goes by Lacey."

The hesitation was so slight Emma would've missed it if she hadn't been waiting for it. "Mr. French does not have a daughter."

Emma cocked an eyebrow. "Twenty-six years old, 5'2", brown hair, blue eyes, none of this is familiar."

Mr. Gold shook his head, smile still in place. But his knuckles were white where his hand tightened on the doorframe. Emma pulled the picture of Cecelia French out of her pocket it, held it up for him. "This was taken a while ago, but still. No? Nothing?"

He didn't so much as glance at it. "Is that why you're here at four o'clock in the morning? Chasing ghosts?"

"Almost five, and I'm here because Lacey French escaped from the psych wing of Storybrooke General four and a half hours ago."

Mr. Gold straightened, the smile still pinned to his face. "And you come here."

"Call it a hunch. You mind if I take a look around?" Emma asked. "Your shop, too."

Mr. Gold looked at her for a moment, then stepped back.

He waited in the living room while Emma — stuffing the photo in her pocket haphazardly enough that it accidentally fell out — took a look around. Kitchen, study, dining room, parlor — who the hell had a parlor anyway? A library, too, and more than two full bathrooms. If this Mary Margaret thing didn't work out maybe he'd need a roommate. Sure, he was basically evil incarnate, but Emma was prepared to put up with a lot for the sake of a Victorian claw-foot tub. The place looked like his pawn shop; dark and close, with lots of little knick-knacks and odds and ends, but every inch of space was polished and properly dusted and she'd bet he knew where exactly where every damn trinket went.

Mr. Gold was still sitting on the sofa when she came back. The photo in his hand. He glanced up when she entered, but it took a second. Had to pull his gaze away. "I'm going to head down to your shop now," Emma told him. "I have to ask for your keys."

"Of course." Mr. Gold stood, stiffly, and held the photo out to her. "I believe you dropped this."

"Thanks." And she watched as he watched as she stuffed the picture back in her pocket. "Can't think how I missed that."

"I'm sure you can't."

"Still sure you don't know her?" Emma asked.

He met her gaze and held it. "I am quite certain I have never met a Cecelia French in my life."

Truth. Which surprised her, but if there was one thing Emma could count on, it was the little hook in her chest that said when someone was lying. Course, another thing she could count on was that she couldn't trust a damn word Gold said; he didn't lie — well, often — but he liked to play with the truth, spin a version of it that best suited him. "Right," Emma said. "And I'm sure if she came to you for help, you'd call it in. Being the fine, upstanding citizen that you are, and her being a dangerous escaped mental patient."

Gold's voice was low. "We are all dangerous, Sheriff. If given reason." He turned away from her. "If you will excuse me a moment, I'll get you those keys."