A/N: Historical notes follow, so as to not create spoilers.

NOW

Whomsoever I've cured

I've sickened now

And whomsoever I've cradled

I've put you down

I'm a searchlight soul, they say

But I can't see it in the night

I'm only faking

When I get it right

"Fell On Black Days"

Soundgarden

April 22, 1952

Worcester, Massachusetts

"All right! All right! Do we need to start over? Let's start over," Roan Montgomery said as he stood at the head of the conference table. His white hair was slicked back, a sharp contrast to the dark suit he wore, its expensive fabric smooth and gleaming in the sunlight through the window behind him. He raised his hands, palms facing forward, asking for consensus amid the quietly grumbling voices. He strode to the closed office door, opened it a crack and called out into the corridor beyond. "Agnes, dear, bring us some coffee, would you?"

Roan flashed a movie star smile to the unseen secretary; it was still on his face when he turned. He clapped his hands together, closed the door, then rubbed his palms against each other.

Chuck took another deep breath and dropped his head into his hands. Seated across the table from him were Diane Beckman and Morgan Grimes, the head of the accounting department for Burton Carmichael. This was the first time the four of them had all been together since Jack Burton's death, four days before. Chuck had requested the emergency meeting. His entire world here had slowly been devolving into chaos. Roan had cryptically delivered bad news after bad news, the crypticism his useless attempt to ease the blows. Roan's outburst and call for coffee was a chance to reset. The reset was a good idea, Chuck thought; he felt ready to pull his hair out.

A moment later, Agnes, a shy, mousy girl with thick horned rim glasses, had entered with a fresh pot of coffee, and she started filling the empty mugs around the table, like a waitress at a diner. Chuck watched disgustedly as Roan blatantly ogled the girl's behind. Normally, Chuck refrained from making any subservient requests of secretaries, believing Agnes had more important things to do.

"Is there vodka in this?" Roan teased with a wicked grin as he took a sip.

"Don't tempt me," Chuck grumbled, not the least bit amused with Roan's inappropriate levity. Chuck waited in silence as Agnes made her way around the table then exited the room, making sure the door shut behind her.

"Alright, now. Diane," Roan said, his voice lowering an octave, "for the record, you are here to…represent Miss Walker, is that correct?"

Beckman rolled her eyes and huffed, slamming her hands down on the table in front of her. "I already explained all of that, Roan," she hissed in frustration. "Power of attorney. I obviously no longer represent her father, but continue to litigate on Sarah's behalf, pro bono, to help expedite all of this mess." Her voice softened, her green eyes compassionate as she shifted her gaze to Chuck. "She is still not…feeling up to handling all of this, as you might imagine."

Chuck swallowed hard, the mention of Sarah's name wounding him, knowledge of her continuing distress sandpaper on his tender heart. "Sarah inherited Jack's half of the business, didn't she?" Chuck asked.

"Chuck, all Sarah inherited was debt," Diane sighed sadly.

Everytime he heard her say that, or some other iteration of that, he felt sicker, more helpless. "Forget about that for now," he insisted, sliding his hand across the table as if symbolically sweeping the issue away. "Technically, she is my business partner, is she not?" Chuck queried.

"Technically, yes, one could say she is. If there were a company left," she added, grumbling under her breath.

Rubbing his eyes, Chuck asked, "Tell me again how Jack was able to do all that he did and neither one of you had any idea what he was doing?"

"I'm a lawyer, not an accountant, Mr. Bartowski," Roan deadpanned, sounding offended, like the latter title was an insult. Beckman listened silently.

"That would be by cooking the books, Chuck," Morgan said, speaking for the first time, and speaking over the lawyers. Morgan's blue eyes were sympathetic. His dark, thick beard made him appear much older than he was, the same age as Chuck. "And by cooking…I mean baked, fried, and fricasseed. I've never seen anything like it. Criminal artistry. Without the forensic audit, no one would have found it."

Chuck's anger with Roan eased a bit as he asked the next question. "And no one in accounting figured out what Jack was doing? As far as I know, Jack wasn't an accountant either," Chuck added sarcastically. Chuck hated the way he sounded, irritated with Morgan when his friend had been the one to figure it all out.

"I'm sorry, Morgan," he added softly, after he'd mentally reprimanded himself.

"No, Chuck, you're absolutely right. Routine auditing ought to be part of our procedure. I assumed it was being done. I dropped the ball," Morgan said remorsefully.

"I understand that. Going forward, if there is a forward, we will put a more rigorous system in place," Chuck offered. "For now, it's done. Water under the bridge."

Water washes the bridge away with it. That was where his mind always went when hopelessness threatened him. Water. Chuck chastised himself for the morbid imagery he could never seem to resist.

Chuck's head was spinning, the floor beneath him feeling unlevel, as if he were sliding. His area of expertise was engineering, although he had studied business at Stanford as well, a double major and Master's Degree equalizing his knowledge in both fields. But Chuck's understanding of accounting was rudimentary, insufficient to dissect something this complex.

"If Jack had spent half the amount of time actually doing legitimate work as he did falsifying the records, we wouldn't have this problem. He'd been doing it for so long it must have become second nature to him," Morgan said, almost apologetically. Chuck nodded silently, concurring.

"Plain English, Roan. What am I looking at here?" Chuck asked. Chuck was bewildered; he had no choice but to accept a high-level explanation from someone more knowledgeable than he.

"Jack obviously knew this was coming to a head, which may have hastened…his demise, if you will," Roan explained, skipping his voice over the sentence, cringing at his own word choice. "We currently don't have enough cash on hand to make the next payroll. Chapter 11 is…inevitable, I'm afraid."

Roan's comment was a bucket of ice water dumped on Chuck. In an instant, he was on his feet. "There are 100 people… with families…who are counting on their paychecks to put food on the table!" he shouted, stretching his hand out as he spoke. "I'm not strolling out on the floor, dusting my hands and telling them, 'Oh, well, sorry, we screwed up!'"

"We're insolvent, Chuck," Roan said insistently. "There's nothing left."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Chuck said quickly, waving his hand. "We're still manufacturing. We're selling what we manufacture, and maintaining daily quotas. The last order for raw materials was received, which means we can produce until the end of May before we need to purchase more, correct?" Chuck asked.

"That may be true, but there are overdue bills, unpaid invoices…enormous amounts of unpaid debt. The financial troubles weren't caused by a decrease in demand or sales. They were caused by mismanagement. Burton Carmichael's gross sales had been steadily increasing the entire time Burton ran the business, while you were underage, Chuck," Roan countered.

"So he…borrowed from Peter to pay Paul," Chuck grumbled, under his breath, but loud enough for the others to hear.

"I'm sorry to say it like this," Morgan interjected hesitantly. "But it looked like he was stealing from Peter and Paul, telling Peter he was paying Paul, telling Paul he was paying Peter, and betting on horses with Judas on the side in the hopes that somehow everything would balance out before Matthew discovered it all."

Chuck, Roan, and Diane all turned to stare at Morgan, befuddled by his elaborate metaphor. "Lots of time in Sunday school, sorry," he added with a sheepish shrug.

"Grimes isn't wrong, despite his…unusual phrasing," Beckman added with a quirky, raised eyebrow.

Still on his feet, Chuck started pacing between the wall and the table. "I have a trust, Roan. My funds are accessible, aren't they?" Chuck asked.

Roan shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. He squinted before he answered, bracing himself for Chuck's reaction. "You actually have two separate trusts, Chuck."

Chuck stopped pacing, turning wide, unblinking eyes towards his lawyer. "Since when?" he asked.

"Since you were a baby," Roan explained. "The custodial trust was the combination of your fund and your sister's; it was for your guardians to administer to your needs, minus the salaries that the Bartowskis agreed to pay the Caseys."

"I stopped paying Casey and Gertrude out of that trust two years ago when I started earning a salary here…I pay them as my employees now," Chuck explained. "The trust was only meant to last until I was 18, right?"

"Originally, yes. But you have to remember, it was your fund and your sister's that were combined. And the Caseys lived meagerly, voluntarily, on far less than the amount that your parents paid them when they were alive," Roan added softly, his confusion over their choice evident in his tone.

Chuck warmed as he heard those words, a welcome distraction from the stress. Casey had promised Chuck long ago: his guardians would not touch any of the money meant for Chuck. Casey, of course, had gone above and beyond that initial vow. The age of Casey's outdated vehicle, Gertrude's over-mended clothing, and their too-long gaps between leisure activities explained how they had increased the amount left in Chuck's trust. His guardians had sacrificed any luxuries, their own comfort, for his financial stability.

He had already thanked Casey to his face, receiving only a grunt and a shrug. Chuck had known him long enough to sense the quiet gratitude in the man for Chuck's acknowledgment. He said it to himself again, his silent thanks for their sacrifice.

Sacrifice. His mind was alive with the word. Urgently, he asked, "Is there enough left in that trust to cover payroll?"

"With compounded interest, and your guardians' frugality, you have enough in that trust to pay all 97 employees' salaries until December," Roan admitted, confused by Chuck's choice as he was by the Casey's. He sighed, adding reluctantly, "But that is all the money you have left to live on, Chuck. It's in no way associated with Burton Carmichael at all. Every nickel earned from the company's remaining sales goes to pay creditors."

"You said I have two trusts. What the hell is the other one?" Chuck asked, as Roan's words came back to him.

Roan became agitated, cracking his knuckles before he started to explain. "Your parents established the testamentary trust at the same time as the custodial trust. Inheritance that was meant to be completely independent of providing for you while you were underage. It's been growing, untouched, for over 20 years. Your sister's testamentary trust was added to this one. It's almost three times as valuable as the custodial trust is today." Roan closed his eyes. "The problem is you can't access it until you're 28. Unless you get married."

"Wh…what…what?" Chuck stammered in shock. His mouth gaped open before he asked in disbelief, "Why would my parents put that kind of crazy stipulation in a trust like that?"

"It was right as the stock market was crashing, Chuck. Lots of crazy things happened. They were trying to safeguard their money in confusing and desperate times. I'm sure they would have adjusted the legal strings, if you will, when you were older…if they'd lived. But they didn't… so now it stands. Legally married or 28 years of age, whichever comes first," Roan expounded.

Chuck mumbled under his breath, mostly cursing, as he sat back down heavily into his chair. Twenty-eight was more than four years too late to help with this crisis. Marriage was something he no longer thought about, the idea now an abandoned dream. The only noise in the room was Morgan, tapping the eraser of his pencil against the table top in a nervous, unsteady rhythm. A withering look from Beckman made him stop.

"What happens to Sarah now?" Chuck asked, his voice muffled as he held his hand over his mouth. He fixed his eyes on Diane as he changed the subject. "Did Jack have life insurance?"

She sighed in response so heavily that Chuck started counting the seconds, waiting for her to take in more air. She finally did, and spoke. "He invalidated the policy by committing suicide. Chuck, Sarah's assets are frozen. Completely. When the dust settles, she could end up destitute. She has no income right now," Diane explained. "All she has to her name that hasn't been seized is the money Jack paid for his burial plot in St. John's that was refunded to Sarah when they refused to bury him."

Chuck paled as he listened. "What does that mean?" he asked, his voice cracking.

Her voice softened with compassion. "Jack committed suicide. My office petitioned the Bishop on behalf of Miss Walker, but, since the Burtons weren't regular church-goers, the Bishop's decision was final. Jack bought two plots in 1937. St John's gave Sarah back the money Jack deposited, with interest. But she can't bury him with her mother."

Chuck was already anxious, nearly desperate. Hearing this worsened it all, his chest tight as he labored to breathe. How much more suffering would Sarah have to endure?

"She can purchase a plot in Hope Cemetery, the public cemetery, with that money, but St. John's is out of the question," Diane said, close to a whisper as she observed Chuck's slip in composure.

Chuck's pallor worsened as the reality of what Beckman was saying settled on him. Sarah couldn't bury her father next to her mother. She had no money left to even attempt to move her mother to another cemetery. That was just logistics; it did not speak to the abject horror of exhuming her mother's casket and relocating it across the city.

It was too much. The burden crushed him beneath it. Hearing about all of his own woes was disheartening, defeating. But he could not bear the idea of Sarah's troubles now. He was almost helpless, but he could do something. He had to.

Chuck and Sarah were sliding down into a bottomless pit. The first response, he told himself, was to stop falling. Get a grip; grab a handhold. One thing at a time. His mind started working, turning thoughts over in his head. It was all abstract, but he could see the plan and each handhold into the distance.

"If I can infuse enough cash into the business, dig us out of the hole that we're in, will that buy some time?" Chuck asked.

"In theory, yes," Roan told him, slowly, as he postulated.

His mouth set in a grim line, Chuck nodded just once, tightly. "Then use my custodial trust to make payroll and pay the Caseys," he looked hard at Roan, shifting his eyes to Beckman before he continued, "and whatever it costs to relocate Emma Burton's casket and headstone to Hope Cemetery, beside the plot that Sarah buys for Jack."

Diane's eyes swam with unshed tears. "Chuck–"

"Don't give her the option to refuse my offer, Diane," Chuck commanded forcefully. "Just make sure she signs whatever she needs to. Can you make sure of that?" he asked pointedly. She nodded, her face solemn.

"The rest we figure out," Chuck murmured. Raising his voice, addressing everyone in the room, Chuck added, "So are we done here, at least for now?" Nods all around the table broke the meeting. Chuck stood still while the other occupants of the room slowly packed up their things.

"We'll be in touch," Roan said with a tight-lipped grin as he breezed out with his briefcase.

Morgan stopped on his way out of the room, standing in front of Chuck. Morgan was shorter in stature, his head even with Chuck's shoulders. "You're a good man, Chuck," he said with a crooked smile. "The front line is worried as hell. You know how fast rumors spread."

"Maybe you should pull Big Mike aside, let him know what's going on, but that no one needs to worry. Honesty goes a long way," Chuck told him. Big Mike was the factory foreman, and though Morgan was an accountant, the two had a good rapport.

"Sure, sure," Morgan replied. He waited a few seconds before changing the subject. "Still no word from Sarah?"

The friendship between Chuck and Morgan had developed over time—during the two years Chuck had worked as one of the business executives. Chuck's solitary nature was environmentally imposed, a direct result of the losses he had suffered as a child. Almost without his knowledge, he ensured a space remained between him and everyone else. The distance was maintained even with Casey and Gertrude, although their reserved demeanor reinforced that situation. Only Sarah had ever gotten close to him, at least for a time.

It had been a gradual distance that had developed between Chuck and Sarah, starting when he left for Stanford in the late summer of 1946. The physical distance, an entire continent between them, had made the separation difficult. Her withdrawal from him, for reasons he understood and reasons he did not, had left him bereft. Morgan and his easy-going nature had partially filled the void Sarah's absence had created in his life.

Chuck could only shake his head, his voice trapped in his aching throat.

"Just give her some time, Chuck, I'm sure she'll understand," Morgan tried to reassure him. He smiled weakly, patted Chuck on the shoulder, and walked out, tipping his head to Beckman on his way.

Chuck moved to stand next to Diane as she filed her paperwork in her open briefcase. "Is Sarah staying with Roxanne?" Chuck asked Diane.

Beckman looked for a moment like she might not answer, but she relented, staring at the table top. "Yes. Carina is on her way back from Vermont for the services."

"Was she…functioning?" Chuck asked, politely generic. Carina's mother was an alcoholic, only sometimes able to cope with the normal stresses of life.

"She was when I dropped Sarah off. Carina's due tomorrow. Roxanne usually can maintain herself while Carina's home," Diane explained. Chuck breathed a sigh of relief.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what that is all about, are you?" she asked dryly.

Sotto voce, he told her, "What if I told you I was…concerned that Jack may have been dealing with Frank Iaconi."

Diane dropped the folder in her hand and the papers fell, strewn on the table top. Her mouth was open for a moment and then she asked him, "What in the world would make you think such a thing?"

He had to tell her. The information he had was too important to keep to himself. "Daniel Shaw was there, a few hours before Sarah called you to Jack's house. The police turned him away."

"My God," Diane said, her voice hushed in horror. She sank down slowly in her chair, leaning her head forward in her hands and rubbing her temples for a few moments before she spoke again. "That was why you wanted me to stay with her," she proclaimed, sure she was correct.

Intently, he leaned forward, speaking very close to her face. "If Jack was as far in debt as he was, I can't imagine, knowing what I saw, that he wouldn't have tried illegal means of securing funds."

"You think Iaconi sent Shaw after Sarah?" Diane asked, looking up at him, the intensity of his stare piercing her.

"I don't know. But Shaw is his enforcer, you know that. As close to Iaconi as he can get with his non-Sicilian last name. I have no way of knowing what really happened…or why Shaw was there. If Jack owed Iaconi money…" Chuck squeezed his eyes shut as he shuddered. "It can't be good, Diane," Chuck explained.

"Why not call the police?" she asked.

"The FBI has been trying to pin something on Iaconi for years. He owns enough of the police department…that he's never had to worry about it," Chuck said urgently. "She isn't safe, Diane."

"There is that…ridiculous code of conduct, honor among thieves…when it comes to organized crime like that, Chuck. I'm no expert, but like you, we lawyers sometimes hear things. Iaconi himself would never send one of his soldiers after an innocent family member. It's just not done," Diane explained.

Her explanation did nothing to calm him. Honor as defined in his heart…and the kind of crooked honor she spoke of…were not the same thing, weren't even close. Iaconi was a crime boss–murdering, stealing, extorting. Chuck was supposed to trust his code, his warped values? Even if somehow that was true, Iaconi was one thing. Daniel Shaw was another.

That darkness Chuck had seen on his face that night on Sarah's porch. It was more than business, even illegal business. Whatever Shaw had been doing there, it was personal.

The storm in Chuck's eyes caught Diane's attention as she watched him. "Chuck, you don't seriously believe you can take on one of Genovese's bosses single-handedly, do you?"

"No, I don't," Chuck replied, his voice thick, vibrating with anger. "But what other choice do I have?"

A/N: Francis Iaconi was a real historical figure in Worcester, in a similar way as Al Capone would be for Chicago. His territory was central Massachusetts for most of the early half of the 20th century, until 1954, when he was convicted of tax evasion. In the 1950s, organized crime in New England was an extension of activity conducted by the five families that controlled NYC, the Genoveses being one. The comment Chuck makes to Beckman about Shaw's last name is old-school mafia, that is, no one without at least some Italian heritage and an Italian last name could rise to a position of power within the crime family. So is the comment Beckman makes about honor. Important to keep in mind.

Thanks to Zettel for pre-reading. Still reading? Let me know what you think :)