A/N: If this is the first time reading this story, please read on. If you have been reading along with the original story (which I left off at chapter 40), you should probably re-read it. I began making subtle changes to the plot, with those changes becoming larger by chapter 23, and by chapter 27 the entire trajectory of the storyline changes. I have replaced every single chapter of this story up to chapter 40, and am posting the final chapters (41-44) fresh. So if you recall the plot from the original story in chapter 40, it is now ENTIRELY DIFFERENT. It is highly recommended that you reread the story for the easiest understanding. I think you'll like this storyline better, and I have already mapped out the scenes leading to the ending, which will finally be complete!

I'd expected to come back home to an apartment swarming with reporters, but as I headed home from Mullers' house, and on the bus, no less, the streets were empty. I sighed with relief as I closed and locked my apartment door behind me. Would some investigative reporter track me down here at my place? It was definitely possible, but I had nowhere to go and no money. At least my picture hadn't been shown on the news, as far as I was aware. Maybe I could lay low for a while. The fact that I was a Carnegie heiress and lived in this dump probably didn't make any sense to them.

I looked over at my answering machine, seeing a flashing red 12. Geez; twelve new messages since I'd left for Mullers' house! Would these be from Harris again, or would they be reporters, hoping to get a scoop?

I clicked the play button, collapsing onto my couch.

"You there?" a gruff voice said. It was Harris, but he sounded rougher than usual. "Listen, I don't know if you saw the news today, but the academy has been crawling with reporters. I'm gonna have to sleep in my office tonight, 'cause they're all waiting outside like a bunch of damn vultures. Oh, and don't mind that bullshit about the Blue Oyster—that was you. Figures they didn't use the word 'cottaging' for the damn news."

I could hear loud banging in the distance now; it sounded like someone was trying to get his attention by knocking really loudly on his door.

"Listen, I'm trapped in here," he said, his voice falling to a whisper. "Can you call me back? I'm just so—" and the machine had cut it off.

I rolled my eyes as the next message played.

"Sorry about that; your answering machine gives me no time to talk," Harris said. "You wouldn't believe what I've been going through these last couple of hours. I can't even take a piss without those dickheads following me into the bathroom. I'm pretty sure it's illegal, trying to record someone in the bathroom, but I left my code book at home. Anyway, I should have left Birdie's fishbowl in here to piss into, because I'm—"

Another cut-off sentence. I was beginning to get frustrated with my answering machine as well. Even so, I listened to the next three messages, which were all him as well. It sounded as if he was now stuck in his office, being stalked by reporters to get a statement from him about the special report on the news. I'd figured all twelve messages involved him complaining about the situation. But then, on the sixth message, a woman's voice came on.

"April," she said. "I saw the news. Call me."

Oh, shit. It was my mom.

The next message was my sister Angie.

"Hey April. I hope you're okay—they mentioned your name on the news. I mean, all I gotta say is, damn, you sure know how to pick 'em! But seriously, I'm sorry to hear about your boyfriend's troubles, and the Blue Oyster thing. Larry and I hope you can still come to our wedding."

Yeah, I mused, to make fun of me the whole time.

The next two messages were from Thaddeus and involved more whining from his office, and then the next call was again from my mother.

"April? It's me again. The reporters are at our house. I didn't tell them where you live, so they think you live here. How can I get them to go away? Our gardener says he can't do his job with all these people around. Even our maid had to sprint to her car this evening, just to avoid them. Let me know what you think. Call us."

The answering machine finished off with two more messages from Harris. This was getting ridiculous. I unplugged my telephone line and stared at the bare walls, breathing in the new silence. Couldn't there be some breaking news that would make this story go away? I hated this attention; now everyone would think I was some kind of ex-con exhibitionist with a strange car fetish, a bimbo heiress who still lived with her parents.

I was somehow able to sleep all night and realized that unplugging the phone had actually been a really good idea. Even so, it felt odd to remain outside of the loop all day, and so I plugged the phone back in the next morning, only to immediately have the phone ring. I didn't even think before I picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Thank God," Harris said, sighing heavily. "Thank you for answering."

"It was a mistake," I said, rolling my eyes. "What do you want?"

"Please don't hang up. Just hear me out. Please. I don't know if you heard, but this morning Lassard was released from the hospital. I've just been informed that he's headed back to the police academy with Mahoney. I would presume he doesn't know about all the changes around here, and—"

"Well, I'm sure he's going to be devastated to see you've already kicked him out of his office," I interrupted.

"Yeah, I gather that. The place has been bleeding cadets, and now I hear that someone told the news about the run-in between Copeland and Hooks back when they were cadets."

I made a face.

"What are you talking about? What run-in?"

"Mind you; this was way back in '84. Copeland called Hooks a… jigga boo."

"Yikes." I cringed at the racial slur.

"Yeah, well before I could even call Copeland out, Hightower took it into his own hands, literally; he flipped over the squad car with Copeland in it. I ended up having to dismiss Hightower from the academy on the spot. Now everyone's saying I'm racist for hiring Copeland, since I was standing right there when he'd called her that, but I—"

"Wait, but Hightower is now a captain," I said. "How did he get to be a—?"

"He went and saved my ass from being shot."

"So, let me see if I understand this," I started, frowning. "Hightower not only stood up against a racist prick but he's saved your life twice now, and you fire him," I said. "Copeland showed his racism more than a decade ago, and you don't know what to do about him. Hmmm…"

There was a pause on the other line.

"Huh. I guess the choice is easy when you put it that way. You really are my conscience; you know that? I'll let you know how it goes."

And with that, he hung up the phone.

On Saturday, I changed into what appeared to be black scrubs to start my shift as a custodian at the homeless shelter downtown. My new boss, Stanley Pepper, didn't have very much to say when I showed up ten minutes early; instead, he simply handed me my uniform and a schedule of places and items that needed to be cleaned. Mr. Pepper was a tall man with thinning brown hair and a little moustache and he greatly emphasized the need for the toilets to be cleaned; I half-wondered if I'd seen him at the Blue Oyster Bar, but I knew better than to ask. I tried to picture him in bondage gear but decided that might not be the best course of action. Even so, he seemed familiar to me. Happily, he didn't bring up the big news special that had run only two days ago, which had very clearly called me out by name. Surely he realized that the April Carnegie that had been mentioned in it was me, and yet, he said nothing about it.

The list I received from Mr. Pepper was an organized, straight-forward laminated piece of paper outlining the various tasks I was responsible for, and the order in which I needed to do them. It mainly involved emptying trash cans, picking up loose garbage, refilling toilet paper and soap, cleaning the toilets, sinks, windows, and mirrors, unclogging mild clogs in the toilet, sink, and shower drains, and vacuuming or mopping the floors. I received a key for my own little janitor's closet and I stood in the tiny room with all the strong-smelling chemicals around me, thinking about how I'd ended up here.

The bathrooms were first, and they were in very bad shape. Apparently none of the toilets flushed well and so a massive soggy wad of toilet paper was floating in each and every bowl. The wads barely went down, even though I tried to flush each toilet multiple times. I refilled the toilet paper in each stall after finally figuring out the mechanism to load each roll. This was a practical job, a job in which I wouldn't have to potentially kill people, like the police. I wouldn't have to carry a loaded weapon with me and make split-second life-or-death decisions. I wouldn't have to worry about Harris shocking me with decisions to arrest me, or to burst into a room where I'd been studying. I was now free, had a nice boss who didn't ask questions, and was finally making money, so why did I miss the academy so badly? Was it really just because of Thaddeus?

As I began to clean the main living space of the homeless shelter, I saw that the television set was turned on, and right now there was a headline about Lassard. I kept my eyes on the screen as I picked up some garbage from the floor.

"The Metropolitan Police Academy has been in turmoil ever since its figurehead, Commandant Eric Lassard, was hospitalized. In Commandant Eric Lassard's absence, Lieutenant Thaddeus Harris was given the reins, and has promptly run the academy into the ground, with only a class of twenty-two cadets remaining and all original instructors dismissed by Harris. What will happen now that Lassard has been discharged? Is he capable of continuing his career at the police academy? We'll let you decide that for yourselves. Here is a video from Friday of Commandant Lassard leaving the hospital."

There was Commandant Lassard looking alarmingly fragile, limping out of the hospital in civilian clothes and with a cane, his eyes going wide as he was accosted by reporters. I could see a gently smiling Captain Mahoney behind Lassard, guiding him from behind to a waiting squad car. I couldn't believe how pale and weak Lassard looked; his injuries had taken a lot out of him.

"Commandant Lassard, how do you feel?" the reporters asked him, their questions coming in all jumbled. Lassard made a face of confusion before replying.

"Why, with my hands, of course," Lassard replied, smiling as he lifted a palm to the reporter.

"Your hands?"

"Well, sometimes I use my feet. I imagine if need be, my face would do as well."

The reporter blinked several times at the response before asking the next question.

"Right, so you didn't get a chance to talk about Captain Tackleberry at the press conference. What is your opinion of his conduct?"

"Tackleberry?" Lassard said, looking confused now. Mahoney batted away several reporters, but one boldly pushed through to get to Lassard.

"Commandant, the police academy is now finishing its ninth week. Will you be returning to the police academy to finish out the program?"

"Oh, you flatter me," he said, chuckling merrily. "But I graduated from the police academy many, many years ago. In fact, this May, I'm turning 77… or 78. 79, even."

"No, Sir; I mean, as the Commandant."

Now Mahoney stepped in smilingly.

"No more questions," he said, pushing the microphones away. "Thanks."

The anchor returned to the screen.

"Much of the recent turmoil at the academy has involved mass dismissals of students and instructors alike, but on Friday, some of these decisions were overturned. Which decisions were they? What are the implications for the future of the academy? We'll be right back with the ans—"

"April?" someone called. I turned away from the television, having picked up the same piece of garbage four times now. It was my boss, looking grim. "We need you in the dining room, stat. Someone puked all over the place. Make sure you wear gloves. It's not pretty."

I stifled my expression. Great. So not only would I not get to know what Harris had overturned, but now I had to clean up vomit. It figured.

The next day began slightly better. I followed the same schedule as the day before, slightly more skilled at using a plunger, and soon the bathrooms were sparkling again.

When breakfast began, a large group of homeless people flooded into the building, and people got in line at the buffet-style cafeteria and then walked off to find a seat either at a table in the cafeteria or in the large room with the television set. There had been some homeless people at the shelter yesterday, but today their numbers were doubled. The cooks at the shelter were paid employees, but the servers were a mishmash of different people dressed in starkly different clothing. One of the women servers had on a Gucci scarf, and another server looked to be an ex-con with teardrop tattoos on his face. I'd been told that many people convicted of petty crimes would come here for their community service hours; I guess that made sense. I didn't speak to anyone and just wanted to get the day over with and collect the money I'd need to pay my bills.

Now I could see that an impromptu church service was being held in a corner of the main living room, and people had gathered around. I kept my head down, carrying around a half-damp mop and a dry mop to wipe away any muddy footprints. As poor as I considered myself to be since I'd gotten my own place, I'd never seen anything quite like this. It was humbling, watching a homeless family with two young children asking for an extra helping of food.

Thankfully nobody vomited, and my next tasks were to empty the trash cans in the kitchen area and to take the garbage out to the dumpster.

The homeless shelter ran like a well-oiled machine, and the schedule was easy enough to follow. In fact, I ended up doing my tasks well ahead of their scheduled time on the sheet I'd been given, so I went back to the janitor's closet to wait to repeat everything from the top again.

"Everything looks great, Miss Carnegie," Mr. Pepper said, having spotted me from down the hall. "You do have two fifteen-minute breaks you can enjoy, and a half an hour for lunch. Please feel free to join the buffet for a free meal. You don't have to hide in the janitor's closet when you have any down time; there is an employee picnic table outside you can use to get some fresh air."

"Thanks," I muttered, nodding. As he walked away, I thought about grabbing some breakfast. The eggs had looked pretty runny and I wasn't very hungry yet. I'd definitely make sure to grab lunch, and then my shift would be over for the day around 3 pm.

The hours went by much faster when I had something to do; soon lunch would be served. It had been a busy but uneventful day. The worst part of the day was when someone had gotten baby poop all over the changing table in the restroom, but I'd managed. After the restrooms were again clean and stocked up, I washed my hands and put my cleaning supplies away.

I was again ahead of schedule and had decided to go back to the cafeteria for a free lunch on my lunch break. As I walked up to the buffet, I took a tray and got in line behind a homeless man, craning my neck to see what was on the menu. What I didn't expect was for someone to know me.

"Carnegie?" a voice said from the other side of the buffet, down the line. I looked toward the source of my name and there Thaddeus Harris stood, wearing a hairnet and a white apron, metal spoon in hand. He looked horrified, but I was too far away from him to say very much. Instead, I gave him a half-hearted wave.

As I approached his station, a tray of sweet potatoes, Harris continued to gape at me, neglecting his own job of spooning out the food.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

"What about you?" he replied, raising his voice. "Don't tell me you're already homeless. God, your family is a useless bunch of—"

"I'm not homeless," I cut in. "I work here."

"What?"

"I'm the custodian. What are you doing here?"

The line had begun to back up behind me, being as Harris was not yet ready for me to move past him.

"I volunteer here from time to time. Pretty sure I already told you that."

I remembered his telling me about his vow to feed the poor, but I'd certainly never expected him to be telling the truth, and if he was, I'd never expected him to feed the poor at this particular homeless shelter. Surely my boss knew that he was the Thaddeus Harris mentioned in the news, and that I was the April Carnegie mentioned in the news.

"Excuse me," someone behind me said, clearing her throat. I cringed, realizing that I'd have to move on for now. I hadn't worked here long enough to slack off and hold up lines.

"I'm done at three if you want to talk," I murmured to Harris. "There are picnic tables out back."

He gave me a nod. I headed through the kitchen with my tray, looking back at him to see that he was also looking at me, a big glop of sweet potatoes falling off of his serving spoon and landing outside the serving tray. I smiled to myself as I heard him curse under his breath, wondering how he'd gotten out of his own rule of staying at the academy on weekends. That would definitely be my first question, among others.

I sat on a broken chair by the shelter's dumpster, a tray half-filled with food. I'd forgotten to get a fork, so I had to eat everything with a spoon. I probably should have found a table somewhere, but I didn't want to risk staring at Harris and getting him all flustered.

The food wasn't bad here. The ham was actually really tasty, and the corn was not overcooked or undercooked. It was a satisfying lunch; I could see why people came here to get it for free, no less.

I looked down at my wristwatch; I had about five more minutes of my lunch break before I'd need to get back to dumping the kitchen garbage cans and then returning to the restroom once again for its third cleaning of the day. The kitchen door opened up and now I heard a voice.

"Miss Carnegie."

I looked up from my seat. It was Mr. Pepper, my boss.

"I saw you speaking to Mr. Harris at the buffet," he began. "I—"

"I'm really sorry about that," I mumbled, self-consciously playing with my hair. "I know I was holding up the line."

"I know about you and him," Mr. Pepper said, giving me a tight-lipped smile. "You're Andrew, aren't you? Steel baron; am I right?"

I made a face of confusion; that was the name I'd given to Stan, my dance partner at the Blue Oyster. Mr. Pepper's first name was Stanley. Oh boy. I hadn't even put two and two together.

"Listen," he said, "when you showed up here on Saturday, I must admit, I was surprised. I'd figured you knew that Mr. Harris volunteered here, and so I thought, aww, they want to be together."

My face had since turned a shade of bright red.

"But I didn't know he worked here; I swear—"

"Well, then it's fate," he interrupted, shrugging. "You're a positive influence on him and God knows he needs that. He's been serving meals here for years, but his heart was never in it. Now, these past couple of months, he's been here a couple of times, and I couldn't help but see how calm he's been, how settled. He seems to finally be at peace with himself."

"Really?" I said, in disbelief. "But what about the… cottaging?" I whispered.

"The fact that you two felt the need to come to the Blue Oyster just to get some damn privacy is just sad."

"Yeah, and now the news knows about that as well," I said, frowning.

"Listen, about that, I tried to convince our proprietor to let it be, even told him about the good Harris does here at the shelter, but he did find a crack in that commode, and he was pissed, to say the least. I warned him our reputation would suffer from his spilling the beans, but we'll see."

So the proprietor had ruined Harris's reputation over a toilet? My frown grew.

"Anyway, I knew there was something special going on that day I saw you both there," he continued. "I recognized him right away, even with that cute little 'stache. Mr. Harris has been coming here for six years now and I've never seen him flirt, never seen him do anything but his job. He just existed, you know? I think The Blue Oyster was where he was finally free and it showed. That whole, um, moment you two shared was pure catharsis."

My heart swelled at the statement. Even after he'd destroyed his own Corvette to save me from the robber, even after he'd given Ace the keys to his car to save me, I'd somehow convinced myself that Harris had been doing all this to get another loyal instructor on his side. I felt awful for misjudging him. Maybe Harris did love me, after all.

"I think it was that as well," I said, making a sheepish face.

"Now, with that being said, I don't allow that kind of catharsis at the shelter, mind you."

My face got hot again.

"Of course. That won't happen again."

"It did confuse me as to why you'd be working here throughout the week, though. Are you not a cadet at the Metropolitan Police Academy?"

"Actually," I began, "I quit it, after Harris and I… well, anyway, he really wants me to come back. He's been calling me all week about it, even after the news talked about us."

"That's really sweet. He's not one to be vulnerable like that, believe me. Just scoop, dump, scoop, dump, and then he puts his apron and hairnet in the bin."

He certainly had a unique perspective of what Harris did.

"But if I do go back," I said, "I'll be a cop and I won't be working here anymore."

"You can always volunteer!" Mr. Pepper exclaimed. "But seriously, you do what you want to do. I'm just telling you that you're a positive influence on Mr. Harris and that he's a different man since you came around—in a good way, of course. Now, if you'd want to stay here and work, our homeless population could use that same positive influence as well, and to be honest, the toilets these past two days have been flushing better than they ever have. Let me tell you, if you're as effective with Harris as you are with a plunger, then he's a lucky man indeed."