I know it has been forever, but Jan's recent review made me start thinking about where this story should go now. There is a bit of irony for me in that my daughter is doing better, and while I was writing the last few chapters of this, that things were such a mess with her that it fueled all my writing (as I could control what went onto the page and deal with my agony that way), and now I don't have that impetus, not that I ever want to have that impetus again. But I'll do my best to push on because I care about these characters and they sure need their HEA.

Chapter 35

I watched in disbelief as G.G. somehow wrigled free and bit, kicked and scratched at the orderlies. Whether she'd actually gotten to them or inflicted much damage was less clear as it was all happening so fast and I couldn't even quite follow all the action. In the end it took four orderlies to carry a straight-jacketed shrieking and still struggling G.G. out of the room.

Watching it all happen was horrible, and of course we heard her every scream and accusation against the orderlies, against Rick and me while they worked to subdue and restrain her. She accused the staff of trying to "cop a feel," said many other horrible things about how they wanted to sleep with her, but she wouldn't ever let them because "George decides all of that." But the worst to me was when from her place on the ground, her head pressed to the floor (but tilted to the side in the direction of the broken, one-way glass, toward me), she announced "I know this is all turning you on, Bill, to see me restrained like this, just the way you like it," and then licked her lips in what I suppose was supposed to be a sensual move.

It was anything but. For one thing, she's my baby sister. For another thing, it was all so ridiculous, pathetic and childish.

Mr. McCowan ordered in whisper, "Don't respond."

I didn't. I hadn't planned on responding anyway. G.G. clearly wanted to engage with me but on her terms. But what does someone say to a crazy person that ever helps? She might not have been crazy, but she was clearly trying to provoke me and I wasn't going to play that kind of game. No. I gave her the blank Darcy stare, even while I was a mess inside.

Finally, after G.G. was taken from the room, I collapsed down into a chair (after I tipped it over to get the shards of glass off of the seat). Mr. McCowan pulled up a chair himself and said "Wow, we were not anticipating that. How are you doing?" He reached out a hand as if to pat me on the shoulder but then stopped mid-reach as if thinking the better of it and returned his hand to his lap.

Just that little shred of compassion (though not fully realized) was enough to undo me and I began to sob. Mr. McCowan handed me a box of cheap, institutional generic tissues and waited. I did not want to confide in him, would not make the mistake of again thinking that anyone here in Scotland might be on my side, so I just let myself cry for a minute until I could master myself once again. I really think about half of what helped me to stop crying was feeling how rough those tissues were on my nose each time I blew it, some kind of aversion therapy I guess.

But stopping crying did not mean that I did not still feel horrible inside. All I wanted to do was to go back to the hotel and collapse for the rest of the day and night, the next morning get on my uncle's plane and flee back to the United States with Rick, and then hunker down alone in my house under all my blankets. I did not want to try to handle anything that was going on. But I wasn't a child that could just run away and hide. I had responsibilities toward G.G., even if they were a horrible burden that I just wanted taken away from me.

"Better?" Mr. McCowan finally asked.

I nodded.

"Well, we've hit a little bump in the road, so I am not sure when you will be able to talk to Georgiana's psychiatrist. He's probably busy right now dictating the course of her care. But we do need to get out of this room so they can clean it up. A pity to have this room out of commission as there were other visitations scheduled for in here. Of course they have two other rooms like this, but . . . "

I wasn't sure why he was bothering to tell me all this. I could give a sh*t about the damn room. Then it struck me that despite his profession, he was uncomfortable with me crying and just trying to fill the emptiness with the sound of his own voice. I started to feel bad for him; he had probably played some role in getting the whole visitation approved and I hoped that G.G.'s outburst and wrecking of the whole thing had not put his butt in a sling.

"You can bill me for the damage," I said.

Mr. McCowan made a dismissive wave. "No need to worry about all that now, but . . ." he shrugged, "they probably will when all is said and done."

The door leading out into the hall opened and Madge came in (she must have left earlier, but I hadn't noticed it at the time). "Conference Room B, fifteen minutes" she told us.

"Thank you," McCowan said to her and then turned to me, "Ready to get out of here? Let's see if we can track down your cousin in the meantime; of course he might already be there, so that's where we should start."

Mr. McCowan stood up, so I did too, and I followed him out of the room. We went down several hallways painted various muted, forgettable shades, colors that would not offend anyone, but would have looked nicer had they not been the glossy finish that cleans more easily. We passed a couple of patients, all wearing orange scrubs and slide shoes that reminded me of prison garb, and I recollected that G.G. had been wearing the same.

After several turns I was left hopelessly confused as to where we were in the complex with no hope of finding my way to the front door or even back to the room I was last in without a guide, but finally we arrived at the well-labeled Conference Room B.

McCowan opened the door and ushered me in. A gouged and chipped rectangular wooden table that could seat eight was at its center and my cousin was pacing around the table. No one else was there. "I'll give you a moment," McCowan told us, leaving me in the room with Rick and closing the door.

Rick hurried over. "G.G.'s out of her mind, insane," he blurted. "Well maybe not insane like clinically, but she's clearly living in some fantasy world with wholly different rules from our own. How she can still want to be with George Wickham and treat us as the bad guys is beyond me."

I saw that one side of Rick's face was pinker than the other, the side where he'd been slapped. "Does your face still hurt?" I asked.

"Not really," he rubbed that side of his face. "I'm tougher than all that. But seriously, who does that? We are trying to help her."

"Well, she sure doesn't see it that way." I felt weary and sat down along one long side of the table. "Face it, Rick, we are just obstacles, to be driven around or over. It's all about her pimp George."

Rick pulled out a chair next to me and collapsed down himself, "She's so stubborn. How can she not see what is straight in front of her?"

"Cognitive dissonance?" I offered, not even sure if that was the right term.

I lay my head on the table, jet lag and an overwhelming feeling of sadness bringing me low. I tried to think of happier things: Lizzy's email and the someday date we would have, holding a warm weiner dog that licked my face, Andy Dufrezne and Red meeting up in Zihautanajo. I objectively knew these were good things, things that in other circumstances would bring a smile to my face, a squishy-good feeling to my heart, but I couldn't feel the happiness connected with them just then. It was all a gray mist.

It occurred to me then that if Ms. Berry was earlier incorrect in her thinking that I was depressed and needed meds, well I surely was and needed them now. But could I do what needed doing for me? Nope, not now.

A few minutes later, Mr. McCowan, Madge, an orderly with a scratched face and several others came in, but remained standing. Rick stood up, too, but I didn't. It took all my resources to sit up and pretend to be alert. I had no strength in me to stand up or engage in small talk as Rick was. There was also a policeman in uniform, but he wasn't one of those that I had met the day before.

Among the last to arrive was a bent old man with a full head of messy white hair who was wearing a worn salmon colored polo shirt that was misbuttoned. Unlike most of the others, he wore no facilities badge, apparently was just that well known. He looked as if he were in his late 70s and it was clear that he was important as everyone else deferred to him. They waited until the old man seated himself (right across from us), before taking the remaining chairs around the table.

A young woman to the old man's right, an assistant of his most likely, handed him a file folder. The old man, who I surmised was probably the head doctor or administrator, peered through half moon glasses at the top paper in the folder for several long moments, his trembling finger tracing along some lines. He looked up at us and then said, "Ah, you're the carers. Mr. Dandy and Mr. Fitzgerald."

The woman leaned closed to him and in a loud whisper explained "Dr. Cassin, it's actual Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fitzwilliam."

Dr. Cassin shook his head and complained "No one writes clear anymore and why are all the blanks so small?"

He flung off his glasses and said, "That visit was a disaster, so the question is where we go from here." It was half a statement and half a question. No one answered.

Rick asked, "How is G.G. now?"

"Miss Darby? She's in isolation where she can't hurt anyone, in the appropriate facilities, what laymen like to call a padded room. Normally she'd have a nice shot of Haldol by now and be sleeping, but I did not want to give her any medication in her gravid state unless it was absolutely necessary. Her earlier statements of self-harm are serious and warrant careful observation, but it seems she's more likely to harm others rather than herself. Hum, yes. By her behavior, she more than warrants longer confinement, but now of course there's the question of charges.

"We're in a bit of a pickle I'm afraid. Hum, yes indeed, for of course it was all captured on tape and Carl got a good scratch, awfully close to his eye, and got spat at, too, for his trouble. And Seth got bit on the wrist. You, too, Mr. Fitzgerald, got slapped? Hum, yes. I saw the tape, I did, along with Jimmy, our police friend.

"Now how old is she again?" He asked Rick.

"Sixteen."

The old man seemed to be pondering. "Hum, sixteen, sixteen, a trying time, not a child or an adult, hum, yes. And enthralled with a much older man, a bit of Stockholm syndrome perhaps or maybe just an obstinate sort. What to do, what to do. Now, we usually don't like any ugliness, tend to keep things of this sort hush, hush, for it does nothing good for our reputation, but she did more damage than most do, hum, yes, yes. But countering that, she is young, pregnant, in distress and in a foreign country, perhaps has a bit of a cause to feel off-kilter. As things stand now, she will be remanded, but after that could, likely would end up in the care of the government for her crimes if a report is made. Not a thing I like to see done to a young lady, not at all. Could cause a bit of an international incident if your government does not agree with mine. Of course all is early stages now, yes, yes. Not just up to our young man Jimmy if he makes his report, will go into other hands to decide then. Of course he hasn't yet taken a formal report, there is still time to determine whether this is an internal matter or not. That's why we are all here now of course, yes, yes, for we must decided how to proceed."

The old man looked at Rick again; he was apparently our formal spokesperson as I had yet to say anything.

Rick took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and declared "The way I see it, G.G. is determined to ruin her life. Yes, bad things have happened to her, but they don't excuse her behavior. If she gets fully let off the hook for this, next time she will do worse. If she's locked up, at least for a bit, she can't get back to George Wickham or men of his ilk, she'd be relatively safe. Hell, she might even learn something."

"Wickham, Wickham?" The old man furrowed his brow until his assistant explained that Wickham was the man with whom Georgiana was picked up. "Oh, he's not getting out any time soon."

"Well, actually . . . " the cop Jimmy blushed and announced "there was a bit of a mix up between him and another man collected at the same time, a George Walkhamm who was only accused of kerb-crawling. So that man got remanded and Wickham got bail. It was sorted out, a couple of hours after, but when they tried to collect him he'd done a runner."

Rick scraped back his chair and stood up. He shouted as he waggled his finger at the young cop "You mean to tell me that rapist, kidnapper, pornographer George Wickham is out? Damn it all to hell. If he's out there, you've got to keep her in here, no matter what!"

It took my weary mind a minute to take this all in. "If George is out and G.G. can get ahold of a cell phone, she'll find a way to get to him again, just like she did at school."

A/N: Okay, what should happen next?