A/N: For the record, achatina is a genus of land snail native to sub-Saharan Africa.

Chapter Seven

Rumpelstiltskin read over the last communication from Ross Anderson, belatedly acknowledging receipt of the final cash transfer to his offshore account and apologizing for the delay in doing so. He was about to delete the email, when he realized that the lawyer had also attached a letter from Emma Swan. At her request, the lawyer had continued. Rumple's eyebrows shot up. He hesitated only a moment before he moused over to the document and opened it.

Dear Baby, he read. And then, he could almost hear the writer's in the next lines. Of course, you're not a baby anymore. I don't know how old you are by now, or what you look like, or even what your name is. If you're reading this, I guess you want to know who I am and why I gave you up. Sit down and buckle up, kid. Something tells me you're not going to like it, but here we go…

Rumple smiled. He'd never met this young woman, of course, but he had a feeling that if she was who he suspected she might be, one day, he was going to. He scrolled down, skimming as he went. It was no novel, but it was a respectable length; she'd managed to fill slightly less than two pages in 10-point Times New Roman. And she'd signed it. He sighed. Well, that complicated things somewhat. But not fatally so.

He considered. Regina had been insistent from the start that young Henry would be her son—and no one else's. Then, a few days later, she'd stormed into the shop, ranting about how Henry's mother had been found in the woods outside Storybrooke, eighteen years earlier. For his part, Rumple had been hard-put to conceal his excitement and play at ignorance. How had she…? Sidney. Say what one might, the man was good at his craft. Rumple shook his head, but he was smiling slightly. Now, he could admit to the apprehension he'd felt on that day, after the mayor had flounced off, promising to return the boy to the agency. Something—he didn't care what—must have changed her mind, because she'd returned, baby in tow, and he'd never heard another word about the matter.

Of course, Rumple knew, the only way that she could have put so momentous a discovery out of her mind, was if she'd deliberately chosen to forget. Probably, she'd used the same method that he was about to. But if she were to relearn the truth, and she would if he turned the letter over to her… No. There was a better course of action to follow.

Rumple read the letter one more time. Then he hit the print icon, folded the papers when they'd emerged in the tray, and slid them into a legal-sized envelope. Then, in careful letters, he printed across the front of the envelope: To be given to Henry Mills. When he asks about her. It was cryptic. He wasn't certain that his curiosity wouldn't get the better of him, and he couldn't be forever brewing more forgetting potion. (He wasn't certain that it was possible to find achatina shell in this realm, but he'd certainly never seen any on Storybrooke's beach. What he had would suffice for four, perhaps five doses. After that, well, he'd simply have to hope it wouldn't be long until the Savior's twenty-eighth birthday.) However, if the child was to be the instrument that would draw the Savior here, then Rumple intended to help him. Even if he wouldn't know the reason for it until afterwards.

He went back out to the front of the shop, opened his cash register, and placed the envelope inside, at the back, inscription-side up, where he would see it every day. Perhaps, the curse itself would work its usual business and under its haze, he would imagine that the envelope had always been there and never wonder how it had or be motivated to examine it further. He hoped so, anyway.

He gave the envelope one last look. Then, satisfied, he closed the drawer and returned to the back room to prepare the forgetting potion.

It wasn't until Emma's release, when Durango returned to her, not only the clothes she'd been wearing when she'd first arrived (the top still fit, but she hadn't lost enough pregnancy weight to fit back into the jeans) but also the personal effects that the halfway house had sent over that she realized what her mistake must have been.

Besides the clothes, the keychain, the baby blanket she'd been wrapped in when she'd been dumped on the side of the highway, and a few schoolbooks, there had been an envelope from the Arizona Department of Corrections. Emma remembered now: she'd received it two days before her ill-fated trip to Globe. She'd opened it and…

Eyes wide, she checked the contents. The form. The form she'd asked for and even begun to fill out before she'd shoved it back into its envelope. The form to get her name on the list of people Neal would be approved to call, if he got phone privileges where he was. She'd wanted to talk to him, hear his voice, tell him that he was going to be a father… And then she'd stopped. Afraid that he wouldn't want the baby, afraid that he would and she'd somehow have to get through the next however many years without him… Afraid. And so, she'd put the paperwork away and decided to think about it some more.

But it had had Neal's name and the name and location of the prison and…

There must have been some sort of bed check; the house manager had told her up front that she could expect those and warned her that they were completely random. And when she'd turned up missing, he'd probably called Ross and checked her room for clues and… and… She was such an idiot!

But she was also out of juvie for good now, and she was over eighteen. She looked at the form again, before she carefully slid it back in its envelope. She'd deal with it in a day or so, but right now, she needed to check in to the residence that her case worker had helped her find. She didn't know if she wanted to remain in Phoenix necessarily, but right now, she had twenty dollars in her pocket, a canvas carry-on bag, and no other place to sleep tonight. More to the point, she needed some sort of address to provide for the form and right now, she couldn't afford a PO box.

She put the form into her carry-on, slung the strap over her shoulder, and walked out of Durango forever.

"No way…" Emma said under her breath, when she saw the article.

Lorraine snorted. "I know, right? Wonder what happens to the kids now."

Emma was trying to read the article, but her eyes somehow refused to move past the headline: Durango nurse arrested in black market adoption ring.

"Hey, Emma? You listening?"

Emma blinked and tore her eyes from the paper to meet those of her shift leader. "Sorry, what?"

"Do you think," Lorraine repeated slowly, "that the mothers will get their kids back?"

Danielle Gutierrez, a nurse at the Durango Juvenile Center was arrested in connection with her alleged participation in an illegal adoption ring. Gutierrez is believed to have helped to arrange over three dozen—

"I don't know," Emma said hollowly. She skimmed the three columns of newsprint. "It says that most of the babies were adopted out of state." Ross wasn't mentioned. Emma wondered if the police knew about him. Maybe he'd cut some kind of deal or skipped town before they'd arrested Nurse Dani.

"Hey, you okay, Emma?"

She forced herself to smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay, because if you're feeling sick, there's no way you're doing sandwich prep today."

Emma took a breath. "I'm fine," she said a bit more firmly.

Lorraine shrugged. "Okay, if you say so. In that case, finish your breakfast; you're on-shift in… eight minutes."

Emma nodded, took another bite of her grilled cheese sandwich, chewed, and swallowed without tasting it. Only this morning, she'd been wondering what she was still doing in Miami, Arizona. (She'd come here for two reasons: it was less than ten miles from Globe, and the more-famous Miami was in Florida, where she and Neal had intended to settle down.) Now she realized that if she'd left Arizona, she might never have seen the newspaper article. And if the authorities had found out about the black market adoption—adoptions, as it turned out, she hadn't been the only one to be pressured into giving up her baby—then maybe Lorraine was right. Maybe she could get her son back.

"Lorraine?" she called out. And when the other woman looked up, she winced and tried to look nauseous. "Uh… you were right. I don't feel so good. Maybe, I could just sweep up today?"

Lorraine shook her head. "If you're sick go home and sleep it off. The diner will still be here tomorrow."

Emma smiled gratefully. "Thanks." She still had the money Ross had transferred to her account. She could miss a day or two of work and not worry about paying rent. Wait. If she got her son back, would she have to give back the money? Her blood ran cold. Would the police come after her for giving up her son? What was that line from those cop shows she'd sometimes watched in some of her foster homes? 'Ignorance of the law is no excuse'. She'd been meaning to call up the newspaper now and try to get more information, but maybe that was too risky.

She walked out of the diner and headed back to her apartment. She needed to think.

She started walking without paying attention to where she was going. The sun was climbing in the sky, but it was only March and while she'd always pictured Arizona as a land of hot sun sand, cactuses, and the occasional beeping roadrunner fleeing a starving coyote, the high today was expected to be only 74 degrees. She had a water bottle with her, just to be safe, as she continued along US Route 60.

It wasn't a bad day for a walk and it felt good to be out in the fresh air. It felt free. It felt like she could just keep going indefinitely. She was thinking about that part in Forrest Gump, where he just started running one day and didn't stop for more than three years and wondering if she could do that just more slowly. She… She read the sign and did a double-take.

No way. She'd known Miami was close to Globe, but she'd never thought she could just walk from one to the other in just over two hours!

Emma considered. She'd still never sent in the form for visiting Neal. And since she'd gotten it almost two years ago, it might not be up to date anyway. But as long as she was here, she might as well see if she could pick up another application; maybe fill it out in person and save herself a stamp. And—

Her eyebrows shot up as she read the sign over the storefront. Maybe it wasn't that surprising that a small town with a prison in it would have a legal aid clinic or two. Maybe she could get a few more answers also.

She pushed open the door and smiled when the receptionist greeted her. "Uh… I don't have an appointment, but I was wondering about the article in the paper about Nurse Gutierrez. I was in Durango; I know one of the girls who gave up her kid that way and I know she regretted it later. I was just wanting to know if there's any hope of tracking down the adoptive parents? B-but only if she's not going to face charges herself for… for turning over her baby that way…."

There would be no charges. The adoption might not have been legal, but nobody was going to prosecute a scared teenager for being manipulated.

"That contract you signed wasn't enforceable, either," the lawyer she'd spoken to—a woman by the name of Angela Garcia—had informed her. It hadn't taken her long to figure out that Emma hadn't just been 'asking for a friend'. "Even had it been legal, which it wasn't, you were a minor at the time."

"So, when Ross… I mean, Mr. Anderson told me that I'd have to repay the money…"

"He would have needed to sue you for those funds and there's not a judge in the country who would have upheld that contract." Her voice hardened. "He was counting on your not knowing that."

Emma closed her eyes and sucked in her breath. She held it for several seconds and exhaled. Her eyes, when she opened them again, were cold. "How can I find out what happened to my son?"

Garcia rummaged in her desk drawer for a moment and came up with a business card. "It's not a charity," she said. "Private investigators don't work for free. It's a place to start, though."

Emma took the card. "Thanks. And about my boyfriend…?"

Garcia raised an eyebrow. "After two years of no contact, are you certain you can think of him that way?" She didn't wait for Emma to answer. "Fill out that form. If you want to have someone here look at it before you send it in, we can do that if it's not too busy. Might not be 'while you wait,' but we can call you when it's ready."

Emma nodded and slipped the card into her pocket with another mumbled thank you.

Garcia extended her hand across the desk for her to shake. "Good luck, Emma."

"Ray Manuel?"

In response to Emma's query, the dark-haired man behind the counter looked up and smiled. "That's right. What can I do for you?"

Behind him, a wall with rows of hanging file folders stretched, stacked four high. There were more folders on his desk, as well as a telephone, and a pencil caddy with a woven design. Emma had been in Phoenix long enough by now to recognize the style as belonging to one of the Native American tribes in the area. "That Apache?" she guessed, gesturing toward it.

"Tohono O'odham. You can probably find one just like it in most souvenir shops, but I'm guessing you didn't come here to soak up local culture, or you'd be checking out Phoenix or the Gila River reserve. So, again, what can I do for you?"

Emma swallowed hard. "Uh… Angela Garcia at legal aid gave me your card," she said. "I was hoping that you could…" She forced herself to continue, realizing all the while just how… desperate and pathetic she had to sound. What chance did she have? No money, no family, no job, no authority, no real power… Just desperation and a few shreds of hope. Even if this guy could help her find her kid, would any judge look at her situation, compare it with her son's new family's and grant her custody? "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "This was a mistake."

Manuel gave her a long, searching look. "Do you have any office skills worth speaking of?"

Emma blinked. "Sorry, what?"

For answer, he gestured toward the file folders that seemed to be everywhere. "I'm in the process of computerizing everything, but I need a data entry clerk and if she knows how to sound professional on the phone, take messages, and maybe smile when a potential client comes in, it's a bonus."

"Are you offering me a job?"

Manuel shrugged. "I'm offering you a chance to acquire the skills you'll need if you're going to pursue this. I'm familiar with the Durango adoption scandal; all of those kids were adopted out of state. Unfortunately, as a one-person outfit in a small town, I can't pursue it; not the way you need it done. And frankly, from what you're telling me, you can't meet my rates, never mind what you'd need to pay one of the larger outfits in Phoenix that does have those resources. So, maybe we can work something out."

He smiled. "Were you aware that in Arizona, if you want to work as a private investigator, you don't need to take a course or have a degree? In fact, you just need to be employed or registered by…" He waved dramatically at the certificate on the wall to his left, "…A licensed Arizona P.I."

Emma knew her mouth was gaping open. "You want to train me as a PI."

"You want to find your son. I can help you acquire the tools and resources to do it. Meanwhile, I get a receptionist-slash-data-entry-clerk for minimum wage—which is going to get you farther in Globe than it will in Phoenix, I might add. As an added bonus," he shrugged, "it might be nice to have someone to talk to. Unless you're settled in Phoenix," he went on. "Granted, if you pull up stakes to move here and we have a major blowout your first week and quit… there are fewer jobs here than there are back there, so that's something to think about. Plus, there's less going on. If you're the partying type, I can't recommend it. Then again, if you're used to the New York or LA nightlife, I can't recommend much in Arizona, though Phoenix and Scottsdale have some decent things to do after dark."

"I'm not," Emma said quickly. "I don't type very fast, though."

"Not yet," Manuel smirked. "That'll improve with practice. And if you accept my offer, you'll get plenty of practice."

"And I don't know how long I'm staying here. If I get to see Neal and it doesn't go like I want it to, I won't have any reason to hang around."

"Except a chance to learn how to track down your son. And maybe one day, you'll find somebody else in your situation and you'll be able to help them, too." He shrugged again. "Look, if it's not something you want, it's been nice meeting you and I'm sorry I can't be of more help. But if it is…"

Emma took a breath. "I don't know if it is or it isn't," she said. "Not yet. But…" But it sounds like the best offer I'm likely to get. I can't afford to pay an investigator. I don't know where to start looking. And I think this sounds like it could be my best chance. "But I think I want to find out."

"Good call," Manuel said. "Go walk around. Have a coffee. Grab a newspaper. Check out places for rent; whatever. I'll draw up an employment offer and since I've never been one for five-dollar words, it'll be in plain English. Unless you happen to speak O'odham?" he added. He grinned at her quick head-shake. "Didn't think so. English, it is. I'll have it ready by three-thirty. You can read it over or take it back to Angie at the law clinic to make sure you understand it all. After your past experience," his expression was deadly serious now, but his eyes were kind, "I'd be surprised if you didn't do some due diligence. If everything checks out and you're not having second thoughts, sign it and bring it back to me by the end of the week and we'll go from there. Sound fair?"

It sounded more than fair, and they both knew it. Still, something made her ask, "Why are you doing this?"

Manuel's expression didn't falter. "Because when I was eighteen, I walked into another PI firm with twelve dollars, thirty-five cents, and the name of my birth mother in my pocket and the clothes on my back and the guy I spoke to made me a similar offer. Just paying it forward. Like you're going to do one day, right?" He extended his hand.

Emma took it. "Right."