Joyce Summers dabbed at her lips. "How is yours?"

"It's fine." Buffy poked at her grilled salmon and risotto. It was good, even if she had spent more time pushing it around the plate than eating.

"How are you feeling?"

Buffy carefully placed the fork at an angle on her plate; that kept her from throwing it across the restaurant, which would have caused a scene at the fairly crowded Sunday brunch. "Mom, it was yesterday, and-"

"I know." Joyce took a sip of water. "I also know that this is very upsetting and that you… don't have your… usual support system."

"Is that a long way of saying I don't have any friends?"

"No." Joyce adjusted the position of her glass on the white tablecloth, moving it perhaps a millimeter. "It means that you had an unusually close, important group of friends, friends that you shared literally life-and-death experiences with. It's natural and normal for that to leave a void."

"We were so close that none of them had any problem leaving." Buffy bit into a roll in an unusually aggressive manner.

"Buffy." Joyce's lips compressed into a thin line.

The former Slayer dropped the bread onto her plate. "Yeah, you're right, that was uber-small of me." She curled her upper lip. "Besides, it's not like it's all bad… Cordelia's gone… I kid, I kid." She raised her hands in mock self-defense.

"I know that I'm being pushy and I am not going to apologize for that or justify it." Joyce cut off a tiny bit of grilled polenta, speaking as she wielded her knife. "I ignored what was right in front of me before and helped cause three of the worst months that either of us has ever experienced." She chewed, seemingly less for flavor or enjoyment and more to give herself a moment to work out some tension and calm down. "And that's not going to happen again."

"Mom, I…" Buffy looked at her mother's earnest face. "I… thanks."

Ross Grimsby followed the housekeeper into the spacious, high-ceilinged living room. The center was open all the way to the roof and an honest-to-God balcony ran around the perimeter. He could see four doors at the second level: probably bedrooms.

"Mr. Fisher will be with you in a moment," the housekeeper said and left the room.

"Probably finishing his squash game," Grimsby said.

Zuleika Wilson nodded. "On the court in the basement. Next to the bowling alley." She wore a black pantsuit over a bright white crewneck.

"Oh, yeah, place like this, private bowling alley, yeah." Grimsby let his eyes roam around the room. "Let's have a seat."

"You think we should?"

Grimsby looked over his shoulder at Wilson. "I'm not standing around here until Richie Rich shows up. He wants to keep me waiting, it'll be in comfort." He lowered himself into a white leather armchair and sighed as he leaned back. Wilson shot him a look and settled on the edge of another chair. Grimsby craned his neck to look around the room. "Who does a room in white leather?" He shook his head and took his notebook out of the inside pocket of his sport coat. They waited for a few minutes before they heard footsteps, three sets: one quick and sharp, two slower, heavier treads.

The housekeeper appeared, trailed by two men. The younger man was taller than average, probably three or four inches taller than Grimsby who was five-ten. He wore jeans so plain that Wilson was sure they cost three figures and a vertically-striped blue-and-white oxford shirt. The other man was a couple of inches shorter, with thinning blond hair and a pronounced dimple in his chin. He wore a dark charcoal-gray suit and red tie. Grimsby scratched his ample belly and heaved himself out of the chair. "Ross Grimsby," he said, extending his scratching hand. The older man hesitated slightly, then grasped the proffered palm.

"Andrew Townsend."

"Huh." Grimsby clicked his pen over his open notebook. "Townsend?"

"Yes, of Bates, Loew, and Townsend."

"And you are here in what capacity?"

"I am Mr. Fisher's attorney."

Grimsby looked taken aback. "This is just an interview."

"I'm here purely in an advisory capacity. I'm sure that you won't even know I'm here." Townsend extended an arm, palm up. "Please, let's all have a seat." Patrick Fisher sat on a sofa; Townsend sat at the other end. Grimsby resettled himself in the chair and flipped open his notebook.

"Okay, we are beginning the interview with Patrick Fisher, attended by counsel Andrew Townsend, Detective Ross Grimsby and Zuleika Wilson conducting. Okay, Mr. Fisher, we just need some simple, straightforward information. Did you attend a party at the University of California-Sunnydale last Friday?"

Patrick glanced at Townsend, whose nod was so small it would have required an electron microscope to measure it. "Yeah," the young man said, "there was a party."

"At the Cage?"

"Yeah."

Grimsby licked his lips and consulted his notes. "Uh, Mr. Fisher, could you tell me what the Cage is?"

"It's the student club in the basement of the student union."

Grimsby scribbled in his book. "What sort of activities are typically held there?"

Patrick shrugged. "Concerts, uh, poetry readings, I think, stuff like that."

"Are all events at the…" Grimsby consulted his notes "...the Cage sponsored by the university?"

Townsend held out a hand toward Patrick and leaned forward."How is this relevant?"

"Mr. Townsend, we're just asking some simple questions. There's no need to act like this is a court unless you want it to take forever."

Patrick shook his head at Townsend. "It's okay. No, you can rent the Cage. Frats and sororities do it."

"What about private individuals? Can they rent the facility?"

"Yeah."

Grimsby flipped a page in his notebook. "So, was the party last week a school event or one of these private parties."

Townsend touched Patrick's arm again. The younger man shook his head. "It's okay, they wouldn't ask if they didn't already know." He turned to Grimsby. "It was a private party and, before you ask, yes, I was one of the people who threw it."

Grimsby made a note, then scratched his ear with his pen. "So, did you set up the party, oversee its planning?"

Patrick offered a small smile. "I paid the rental fee. I didn't have anything else to do with it, friends did that."

"So, you had nothing to do with the entertainment, the refreshments….?" Grimsby let the question dangle.

Patrick frowned. "I don't follow."

"Well, how hands-on were you with this party planning? Were you aware, for instance, that there are reports that minors were served alcohol?"

Patrick opened his mouth and sat back. "What…? That would be a crime, wouldn't it?"

"It would."

"Wow." The young man shook his head. "Maybe I should have kept a closer eye on what the guys were doing."

"Uh-huh." Grimsby looked at the notebook while the tip of his pen hand's pinkie explored his ear canal. "Did you observe any students who appeared to be intoxicated at the party?"

"I don't think Mr. Fisher is qualified to judge someone else's sobriety or lack thereof."

"Yeah, that's probably true." Grimsby pursed his lips as he looked up at the second-story railing. "So, you paid for the rental of the facility. Do you have any record of that?"

Patrick nodded. "There's a receipt."

"Uh-huh. Do you know where it is? I might need to see it."

"Sure."

"So, Mr. Fisher, again, you paid for the rental, but you didn't have anything else to do with the party?"

"No, not really. I left that up to the other guys."

"Do these other guys have names?"

"Sure."

"Could you provide them?"

Townsend leaned forward again. "Detective, this interview seems to be ranging rather far afield."

Patrick looked rueful. "I have to agree with my attorney."

Grimsby nodded. "Okay then, let's get back on track. How long did the party last?"

"Why were the authorities at your home?"

Patrick Fisher waved a dismissive hand. "They were asking questions about that party. The other guys let it go too far and it caused some waves."

"And brought attention to you."

"Nah. They're worried about guys taking a leak against a lamppost and girls running their cars into hedges."

"They were questioning you about a rape?"

Patrick shrugged. "The girl who accused me left school. It's all going to vanish."

"What if they have security footage?"

"No cameras in that parking lot. They're too cheap to pay for them." Patrick gave an annoyed shake of his head. "I'm not stupid."

"That is a topic that is very much open to debate. Your behavior is childish. You are attracting too much notice."

"Hey, get off my back."

"You are only here because of your grandfather and the debts owed to him. Do not overestimate your value."

Patrick's jaw tightened and his face went pale. "Are you threatening me?"

"We are not exactly men of honor, but we do understand obligation. That will only reach so far, however. Do not let your ledger go into the red."

Grimsby's notebook hit the desk with a flat smack as he walked around his desk and collapsed into his chair, which squealed in vociferous protest. Zuleika Wilson sat in one of the visitor's chairs, left leg crossed over right knee. "Thanks for taking me along," she said.

"Ah, needed somebody else there, and you're gonna make detective inside of five years." Grimsby stretched and twisted. After his spine cracked he said, "What did you think?"

"I think that he had a very high-powered attorney present for a simple interview."

"Yeah, which by itself isn't exactly news, but did you notice how the kid talked to him?"

"Called him 'Andrew'."

"Yup. Founding partner of the ritziest firm in Sunnydale and a, what, twenty-year-old kid calls him by his first name. Letting him know who's the boss."

"Did you notice the hand?"

"Yup. An abrasion on the heel of the left hand, just like you'd get if you, I don't know, fell down on pavement after somebody pushed you away."

"You didn't ask him about it."

Grimsby shrugged. "It's circumstantial. Easy to explain."

Zuleika folded her arms. "So… what's your take?"

Grimsby ran a thumb along his jaw, then used his finger to spin his notebook in a circle. "I don't know if the Summers girl is giving us an accurate picture, she was pretty obviously intoxicated, but she was right about one thing."

Zuleika pursed her lips. "Which is?"

Grimsby shifted his weight and grunted. "Patrick Fisher is an asshole."

"What's your next step?"

"I thought I'd look into that school he went to in Connecticut, see if it's the kinda place you stash your kid because he's an asshole." He heaved himself out of the chair. "But first I gotta wash my hands."

"Yeah." Zuleika nodded. "I wondered about all that scratching."

Grimsby made an offended face as he reached the office door. "What, you think I was playing into the stereotype of an uncouth cop?"

Zuleika shrugged as she stood. "Not totally playing."

"Ms. Summers?"

Buffy felt a shiver up her spine, then gave a mental shake of her head: this wasn't high school, a teacher calling her name wasn't automatically a sign she was in trouble. She straightened and turned. "Yes?"

Dr. Adjei stood at the end of the row. The other members of the class did the invisible-student trick as they slipped past her and headed for the back exit; it was the preferred method of egress this high in the classroom. The professor offered a brilliant smile and a tilt of the head. "Do you have a few minutes?"

Buffy looked around; maybe she would find an excuse lying on the ground. Realizing that the field was bare, she looked back at Dr. Adjei. "Yeah, I guess."

"Excellent. When you've gathered up your things, meet me down front. We'll walk to my office." She winked and danced down the steps as students parted like the Red Sea. Buffy was aware of the stares directed toward her by people who mere moments before had been unaware of her existence. She concentrated on loading her backpack until the crowd thinned a bit, then shouldered her burden and trooped down to the front of the classroom as Dr. Adjei clicked the latches on her leather satchel. "Ah, good. Follow me." Buffy complied, trailing the professor's corkscrew curls down the hall, up the stairs to the second floor, and to a dark wood door with Dr. Eilidh Adjei inscribed on a small gold-toned plaque. Dr. Adjei unlocked the door and stepped aside, ushering Buffy into a small office made to seem even smaller by the floor-to-ceiling cases crammed with sculptures, photographs, and books. "Please," Dr. Adjei said as she placed her satchel on the floor behind her desk, "Take a seat."

Buffy slipped her backpack off her shoulder and settled on the plastic visitor's chair, mindful of the roughly foot or so of space available on all sides. Her eyes roved over the shelves. "Is that Sumerian?" she said as she pointed at a statue.

"Why, yes, yes it is." Dr. Adjei sat down in her chair and scooted it closer to the desk. "How did you know that?"

"Oh, I-" Buffy caught herself. "The, uh, the high school librarian had a lot of interesting stuff. It looks like some of his."

"Well, good for you." Dr. Adjei rested her elbows on her desk and interlaced her fingers. "I wanted to talk to you about your paper."

"My- The one about the archetypes?"

"Yes, since that is the only paper I have assigned so far." Dr. Adjei's voice sounded like she was on the verge of breaking into either laughter or song.

"Oh, yeah, sorry." Buffy made a chagrined face. "That was of the dumbness."

"Not at all." Dr. Adjei waved a hand in a gesture that clearly said 'No matter'. "In high school whenever the teacher calls your name, it's never a good sign."

"You read my mind."

"Well, college is different." Dr. Adjei leaned back and rested her elbows on the arms of her chair, transferring her intertwined hands from the desktop to her abdomen. "Your paper was very impressive."

"I'm sorry, I just- Wait, what?" Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Did you say 'impressive'?"

Dr. Adjei nodded. "Yes, I did."

"Do you mean 'impressive good' or 'impressive in its badness'?"

The professor grinned. "I see that your voice is definitely your voice." She sat up straighter. "No, I definitely mean 'impressive good'. The ideas, I mean. There are some issues with grammar and vernacular usage that need to be addressed."

Buffy pursed her lips. "You mean I not write so good?"

This time, Dr. Adjei laughed. "That's good, that is very, very good, but basically you are correct. The mechanics of your writing need to improve, but that's my point. Mechanics can be improved, ideas are hard to come by."

"What are these 'ideas' you keep mentioning?" Buffy supplied finger quotes.

Dr. Adjei put her hand flat on the desk. "You chose the Shadow as your archetype. Now, every semester, I have students who choose the Shadow. First, they often confuse it with the Anti-Hero or the Devil Figure. You did not." She raised her hand and pointed the index finger at the former Slayer. "And you had a great deal of insight into the essential nature of the Shadow, particularly the idea that the Shadow is the Hero gone awry or corrupted by incorrect choices."

"Oh." Buffy shifted in her chair. "Thanks, I guess."

"So." Dr. Adjei leaned forward over her desk. "I will admit, I was a little surprised by your paper, since you haven't interacted much in class."

"Yeah, about that." Buffy winced. "Interacting academic-wise is very much not my thing."

"Well, then, what was your 'thing'?" Now Dr. Adjei did the air quotes.

"I guess you could say… practical application?"

"Ah." Dr. Adjei nodded. "Well, I want to encourage you to take more of a role in class discussion and, if you cannot do that, please come and see me. You may have a real gift for this subject."

"A-A gift?" Buffy stammered.

"But you will never know unless you explore it." Dr. Adjei winked. "Thank you for coming to see me. Do you have plans for the evening?"

"There's a, a movie showing at the Union Theater. One of my other teachers said we could watch it for extra credit."

The professor nodded. "Well, enjoy."

"And eight. Push it up. Keep your back flat, don't cheat. That's why I'm here."

"Will… you… shut… up?" Matti's breath exploded out with the last word as her arms locked out and she let it rest in the cradle. David Sarikh put a hand on the bar to steady it. A towel was draped over his shoulder; he snapped it free and handed it to Matti.

"That's three sets," he said. "Good workout."

"Yeah." Matti turned sideways on the bench and held the towel to her face. It had been a good workout and she was sweating buckets; a deep, dark V ran from the neck of her Sunnydale PE T-shirt to midway down the front. "It was."

David paused from re-racking the plates. "I've really enjoyed our workouts."

Matti stood up and stretched, working out the kinks in her spine. "Thanks. I have too."

"Would you like to have dinner?" He slid the last of the plates onto their rack.

Matti's head snapped around. "What?"

David crossed his arms; his upper arms swelled against the jersey fabric of his T-shirt. "I would like to take you to dinner, if you would like to go."

"Uh, I…" Matti blinked. "When were you thinking of doing this?"

David gave one quick nod. "Excellent question. A school night is probably out of the question, I know it's not my first choice. We have games on Friday night for the next several weeks, so I was thinking that Saturday would be best."

"This Saturday?"

"If that's all right with you."

Matti felt like she'd stuck out her hand and grabbed a passing train: she was being pulled very fast in an unexpected direction. "Which restaurant were you thinking about?"

David shrugged; the shoulder seams of his shirt threatened to disintegrate. "There are several options in the University district."

"The UCS Theater Department's putting on Into the Woods. They have a performance on Saturday night."

David considered this information. "You're a fan of the theater?"

Matti shrugged and held up a thumb and forefinger. "Little bit."

He nodded. "All right. So, dinner Saturday evening and two tickets to Into the Woods. Does that sound good?"

"Uh, yeah, it does." Matti wiped down the weight bench with the towel.

"Do you have a preferred cuisine?"

Matti considered the question. "Well, I'm always up for barbecue."

"Is there a particular place you like?"

"There's a place on Taumont, just before you get to University, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."

"Then it's a date." David grabbed his gym bag. "Here, tomorrow?"

"Y-Yeah," Matti stammered. "Sure."

"All right. See you then. Have a good evening." He touched two fingers to an eyebrow and left the room with his quick, light stride. Matti watched the door as it clicked shut, then grabbed her own gym bag.

"What the hell was that?" she mused.

"Chief?"

Jaime Arrabal looked up from the report he was reading. Ross Grimsby stood in his doorway, notebook in hand. "Detective," Jaime said, extending a hand to the visitor's chair. "What have you got?"

Grimsby sat down, knees wide and forearms resting on his thighs. "I made some calls to, uh, St. Enda's, that school in Connecticut that the Fisher kid went to."

"Yes, you said that was your next step. What did you find out?"

Grimsby leaned back into as much of a slouch as the chair allowed. "Well, I spent most of the call talking to a school PR flak." He offered a sour grin. "Would you be surprised to know that it's an institution of impeccable reputation and the highest academic standards that prepares its graduates for success by preparing them for the challenges of life academically, socially, and creatively."

"Wow." Jaime propped a foot up on the corner of his desk. "You recited all that without looking at your notes one time."

"It was easy," Grimsby replied. "I only had it recited to me about thirty times on the phone."

"So, you're saying that no one broke down and confessed to any major crimes?"

"Minor ones either." Grimsby flipped his notebook open. "Apparently butter wouldn't melt in their mouth."

Jaime sighed. "So, it was a dead end."

Grimsby's mouth turned down. "Well, not completely. After I talked to the school and was assured that they are so morally upright that they can look down on Mother Theresa, I called the local PD."

"Ah… and?"

"About all I had to do was mention 'St. Enda's' and I start finding out about future Nobel Prize winners who spend their weekends engaging in a fair amount of misdemeanors and a few light felonies." Grimsby consulted his notes. "Turns out that St. Enda's doesn't have many students who spend all four years there. Lotta two-year and even one-year alumni."

Jaime closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you implying that much of the student body was asked to leave another school?"

Grimsby rested one ankle on the opposite knee. "I wanted to see if this was the kinda school where you hide your kid if he's an asshole. I think I found out that this place is Asshole State."

"Really?"

"Yeah. See, when their PD interacted with one of these little toads, they had to contact mommy and daddy, so I asked for their hometowns, then I called those PDs. You'd be surprised how many times I just had to mention some rich little shits name and then, man, were they ready and willing to offer info."

Jaime picked up a pencil and began to idly spin it in his fingers. "You said 'rich'."

"St. Enda's costs $39,000 a year."

"And you don't think it's the school's sterling academic record that causes parents to pay that."

"I do not. I think they guarantee parents that their little shits will be kept off the radar."

"You said you'd hide your child there if he was an asshole."

"All male student body." Grimsby tapped his notebook against the sole of his shoe. "Wanna guess what most of these guys did that got 'em shipped off to Connecticut?"

Jaime Arrabal kneaded his forehead with one hand. "In spring a young man's thoughts turn to love?"

"Yup. Almost every one of 'em."