Langley, VA – December 2007

George is pacing his office at Langley. Back and forth. And back and forth. He's worried. It's been four days. She has checked with him every seventy-two hours exactly as promised for the last almost two years. She has never missed the check-in call. But it's been four days since her last call. Eighty-seven hours, actually. He checks his watch and lands heavily in his chair. She is fifteen hours overdue on her latest call.

"She's late," he mutters to himself. "She's never late."

"Never late," he repeats to no one in particular. When she first moved to LA, he had been worried about her assassination. He was terrified that Conrad would figure keeping her around was too much energy for him. Now, he knows that there is some sociopathic part of Conrad Dalton that likes the idea of having someone under his thumb. An adversary out there he can control and manipulate. It's a way for him to feel like he is still playing the spy game. The new Governor of New York keeps tabs on Lisa Aldin, and George keeps tabs on Governor Dalton. So now, he worries about her overdosing in some motel room. He knows when the LAPD finds her and identifies her as Lisa Aldin, a woman with no family or friends to call, she will be quietly cremated and interned in a potter's field, and he will never know.

"Damnit, Bess," he says. He sighs and books the flight. He needs to lay eyes on her. He needs to make sure she is okay. He can't bear the thought of her dying alone in a hotel somewhere, her body slowly decomposing while no one misses her. There was a time in his life when he was that bad, too. He knows how hard it is to crawl out of the hole, but Bess is still holding the shovel. He will do anything he can to make sure she gets that last hand up and out of that hole when she's ready for it. He knows that one day, she will hit the bottom of the hole she is still digging and want to escape. That day can't come fast enough for him. And he prays every day that she doesn't die before she gets there.

Pittsburgh, PA – December 2007

Stevie McCord keeps a photo of her mother under her pillow. It's her favorite picture of her mom. It's Elizabeth holding a baby Stevie in London's Trafalgar Square. In the distance, the big stone lions are looking down on them, like they're watching out for the two of them. Elizabeth looks so young and fresh. But Stevie loves this photo because her mom is looking at her. In her twelve-year-old mind, she loves to see her mom surrounded by scenery that is a dream to see. And Elizabeth is only looking at her baby, smiling at the infant in the carrier. Elizabeth has that special smile reserved only for Stevie, the child that made her a mother.

Stevie remembers her mother as loving and fun, someone who would sing off-key rock songs to her and hug her and always, always kiss her goodnight. She remembers her mom's blonde hair, which was always perfectly styled, and her outfits. Stevie remembers that her mother was what her Grandpa Pat calls high maintenance. She knows that she always got dressed and ready for the day, even on the weekends. So Stevie does, too. Her grandpa's judgments be damned.

Elizabeth would spend hours with her, playing make-believe and doing other things that little girls do with their mothers. Elizabeth always read to her daughter, and she always answered questions. No matter what the question was, she got an answer. Her mom never made her feel like her questions were silly. Her mother was so different from her stepmother. It's not that Stevie doesn't like Jess. She does. But unlike Allison and Jason, she refuses to call her mom. She's always referred to Jess as her dad's wife. It's been hard for the tween, especially now that she wants her mother so badly. She can't go to her father for this. How do you ask your dad for a pad? You don't.

"Jess!" She reluctantly yells from the bathroom.

"Yeah, Stevie?" The woman comes up to the door. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

"I need...I need..." She wants to say she needs her mom. Even in its impossibility, she wants her mom more than she's ever wanted anything. But instead, she says, "I started my period." She whispers.

"Oh! Okay." Jess opens the bathroom door. "It's okay. Don't be embarrassed. This is a natural part of life."

In the next thirty minutes, Jessica has explained everything. She has explained how periods work, what to expect, and that it happens to everyone. For the first time, Stevie has learned Jess can be more than someone to have fun with sometimes, and the girl feels like they are finally connecting. She doesn't want to admit it, but she feels closer to her stepmother than she ever has. This is something that most girls share with their mothers. This is a rite of passage. Her mom should be here with her. But Jess has been more than willing.

"Hey, you want some ice cream?" Jess offers after everything is explained and a few necessary items have been purchased.

"Chocolate?"

"If that's what you want, it's what we'll get."

"Jess?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I... I love my mom, but sometimes I'm glad I have you." She whispers. "Do you... Do you think that would make my mom upset?"

"Oh, honey." Jess sighs. Jess never met Elizabeth at The Company. She had been involved with certain things where Elizabeth is... or was... is... concerned. But she has never met her. Henry has told her a lot about the woman, and his words contrast drastically with the files she has read about her. Jess had drawn one conclusion: Elizabeth is a well-masked sociopath. A woman she will go to the ends of the earth to destroy before she ever lets her have her family. But Jess has seen the look on Henry's face when he talks about her. And it's not the look of a man talking about a psycho. He smiles when he talks about her. Not Conrad, though. Conrad spins a story about a woman who is a terrible person. He never smiles. His eyes don't light up. He never speaks in awe of her. Jess can't understand how two men can know the same woman and yet see her completely differently. But the child, her child, her daughter, well, she loves her mother. So, she needs to stick to Henry's narrative. The woman, before 'dying,' walked on fucking water.

"I can't speak for her, sweetie, but I think if she were here, she would be glad to know you're okay and that you're being taken care of. That's all mothers want. They want their kids to be okay. No matter what, they want their kids to be happy." Jess smiles at Stevie, a warm and genuine smile.

Stevie throws her arms around the woman, surprising both of them. Stevie buries her head in Jess' shoulder, crying softly. Jess doesn't hesitate. She wraps her arms around the girl. This is the first time her daughter has hugged her. "I love you, Jess."

"I love you too, sweetie."

Los Angeles, CA – December 2007

Henry's here. Elizabeth can hear him signing. His voice is soft and sweet as it harmonizes with Peter Frampton's guitar. She can't hear the lyrics of "Baby, I Love Your Way," but she can hear the music. And the mood shifts in the room from something hopeful and beautiful to an oppressive somberness. Her body is too heavy to lift and open her eyes, her throat is swollen, and her mouth tastes like cotton and death. It hurts to swallow, and when she tries to move her left hand, she can't. And the song, not Henry... no, it's definitely not Henry singing. Hey, sunshine.

Lisa startles awake. She can't breathe. She can't move. The bed is damp. Damp with her sweat. Cold and wet. Her body is so heavy. So heavy. It's too bright. Everything is blurry. Is that Henry? She can't focus. The man is next to her... No... No... It's Chris. Chris is not a soft guy or even a particularly good guy. But he's sweet enough to her. He's not a Henry. But she's sure no one ever will be. And Chris, well, he keeps the heroin flowing into her veins, and he only has sex with her when she says yes. So maybe Chris isn't a bad guy after all. She wants to ask him to turn off the lights and to open the window. Why is it so hot in here? But she can't speak. The words won't come out.

"Lis," He mumbles sleepily. He puts up with this. She can tell that he's always mildly annoyed when her issues, as he calls them, wake him. But he doesn't ask about it. He never has, even when she flinches during sex or asks him to quit touching her after. He doesn't want to ask. She doesn't want to talk about it. So he doesn't, and she doesn't. The two of them have made a makeshift pact that way. He won't ask, and she won't say anything. It's better for both of them. He is the kindest guy she met in LA; he's never mean or cruel, and he makes her forget. The sex isn't amazing, though she's sure sex never will be amazing again. It's just something she does. He's just someone she's with. And maybe that's why she likes him because he doesn't care enough about her to do anything to help her.

"Open the window," She manages. He nods and gets up. She watches his thin body as he stretches and walks across the room. His hair is a mess, his boxers are twisted on his hips, and the morning sunlight hits his bare back and casts a long shadow across the carpet. He opens the window, letting in the outside air. She needs it. She hates it when the window is closed. It feels like a cell. But she never tells him that.

"Are you okay?" He asks. She can still smell it. The dampness of the room she was in, the stale water that was poured over her hooded head over and over and over again. She looks at Chris, trying to ground herself. She tries to remind herself that she's not in that room anymore. That she's not in the dark. Nothing is covering her face. She is free. But it's not working. It's not enough. It's not nearly enough. Chris grabs a baggie. He knows what she needs to calm down, what she needs to get through the day, and what she needs to go back to sleep.

Lisa doesn't answer him. She can't. She closes her eyes. The room is still so bright. She gives him her arm, and he ties the tourniquet. Chris has a talent for finding a vein. She's pretty sure he had told her once he used to be a nurse. He's done it a hundred times now, and his hands are always steady, and the needle slides in easily. It never hurts, he never misses, and the rush is immediate.

"Thank you." She whispers. The heroin floods her system, and her breathing slows. She feels her muscles relax. Her body becomes lighter. The room is getting darker and cooler.

"Better, Ocean Eyes?" He asks, pressing his lips to hers. He lays down beside her and pulls her body against his. She's never gotten used to being held by him. It's never felt right, but she doesn't tell him that either. She's not even sure why she's still here other than she got tired of being with a different guy every night. She got tired of not having a place to sleep. She was tired of not having anyone care about her or know her name. And now she has a place to sleep, a guy to take care of her, and someone who pretends to love her.

She nods and closes her eyes. The pain in her shoulder dissipates. Her breathing slows, and the world starts to melt away. The song plays in her head, and Henry's voice sings to her. And it's just loud enough to drown out the traffic outside.

…X…X…X…

The knocking on the door is incessant. It's loud and makes her already pounding head pound harder. Lisa groans and sits up.

"Babe." Chris mumbles, half awake, "Answer the fucking door."

She looks down at her naked body and groans again. The knocking is still going, and she has no idea who the fuck is here. She grabs a large t-shirt and slips it over her head before she answers the door.

"Yeah?" She snaps as she answers the door. George stands there. His face reads of relief. Lisa squints through her withdrawal headache.

"What are you doing here?" She sighs angrily. They had an agreement. She called, and he wouldn't come. She didn't want him to see her like this. She didn't want him to find out she had fucked up her life this much. She didn't want him to know, and now here he is. She's self-conscious, and she folds her arms over her chest.

"It's been five days since our last call." He says. He doesn't move toward her. He doesn't make any attempts to touch her or confront her. He observes her. Her cheeks are sunken in, and her eyes are glazed. Her lips are dry, and she's pale. She's wearing a man's oversized t-shirt, and it is obvious that's all she is wearing. Her hair is greasy and unkempt, and her eyes are red-rimmed. Seeing her in Landsthul was almost easier than this. This time, her lack of self-care is a choice she's making. Being an alcoholic himself, he understands it. But understanding the choice doesn't mean he can support it.

"You don't have to be my fucking keeper, you know." There's a part of her that resents his love for her. She's not worthy of it. She's not worthy of anything. Not even her own love. She turns and walks away from the door, leaving him standing there.

"You look like shit." He says and takes a step into her home. Suppose you can call a shitty extended stay hotel room home. He looks around the room and cringes. The room smells like stale beer and cigarettes. Empty beer bottles and ashtrays litter the entire room. The syringes are sitting out on a table, just sitting there. She doesn't hide them or bother to keep him from seeing them. He moves his eyes to her arms, which are crossed. She may not hide the syringes, but she's conscious of the track marks. The wasp who learned from her rich and powerful parents to always look put together is still somewhere in there. He sees it. The desire to please him and not let him see her at her worst. She's not succeeding.

"And you are a stalker." She shoots back.

He steps further into the room and closes the door behind him, "Who's the guy?" He points at a passed-out Chris lying naked on the bed.

"Chris," Lisa replies and rolls her eyes.

"How'd you meet him?"

"What are you, my father?" She asks him. She's angry that he's here. He's not supposed to be here. She's supposed to call him, and he stays in DC. This is why they have the phone calls.

"Oh, Bess," George sighs heavily.

"Don't fucking call me that!" She snaps. Her temper flares, and she's shaking. George sees the tremor in her hands, and he takes a deep breath. She is going into withdrawal, he can tell. In a few minutes, she'll do anything she can to get him out of here so she can find a fix. He's done this dance himself. Being on the other side of it is just as awful, if not more so.

"Lisa." He corrects himself. "This isn't healthy. You can't keep doing this."

"Fuck you." She hisses.

"I know you've been through unspeakable things that have caused you an inordinate amount of pain. I get it. But you can't keep running from your demons." He tries to reason with her.

"You don't get it!" She screams, and Chris stirs in the bed, "Get the fuck out." she says through her teeth.

"Bess, I love you. Okay? And if you were anyone else, I would leave you be. But you're not. I can't wait around watching you kill yourself by a thousand little self-inflicted cuts. I can't do it anymore."

"Fine, go." She says. She never asked him to come here. She never asked him to take care of her. It's something he decided was his job. It isn't. She is her own person, and he has no right. No right to come here.

"Please, just come home. Just come home, and let me help you." George begs.

"Leave before I wake Chris up to make you." Lisa threatens. She is so angry she can barely think. She doesn't need him here. She doesn't want him here. She's fine on her own. She doesn't need anyone. She can handle it.

"Elizabeth..." He whispers and pauses. He knows his next move. It's going to be so hard. But rock bottom sometimes has to be accelerated. And rock bottom is the only way she'll ever get help and get sober. "I'm done. Don't call me." He swallows his tears, needing to keep his voice strong, "Don't call me for money or to talk, not until you're ready to get sober." He turns and walks out. He wants to slam the door, but he doesn't. He's afraid that it will break his heart even more. The only thing that keeps him moving forward is knowing that what he just did was for her own good.