Wheeler's limousine…

Trixie frowned as she watched the countryside slide by. Not that she didn't enjoy the view. The homes that lined the stretch of highway leading into the city were beautiful, after all. They weren't all as lavish as the Manor House, of course, but many were as old as Crabapple Farm. Over the years, to pass the time, she'd spent hours crafting mysteries about the homes and their occupants. Buried treasure and ghosts had played major parts in most of her plots, but she'd also imagined international jewel thieves and counterfeiting rings operating under everyone's noses. Today, though, the trees blurred into a meaningless blob of green and the houses all looked the same. Not even the occasional glimpse of the Hudson River could pique her interest.

There was something off about the gala. Something more off than the fact that she'd been forced to dress to the nines and submit to a hair treatment and manicure. If she hadn't been able to talk Honey and Diana out of the open-toed shoes they'd wanted her to wear, she had no doubt that she'd have also been required to suffer through a pedicure. But that wasn't the real problem. No, the real problem was something that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Not yet, at least.

"It was awfully nice of Senator Frayne to give us these tickets," Diana said, and Trixie was forced to turn her attention to the other occupants of the limousine.

"I believe it was self-preservation as much as generosity," Matthew said, drawing his focus away from his wife's legs with obvious reluctance. Trixie had to giggle—Matthew Wheeler might think he was subtle about how much he appreciated his wife's beauty, but it was obvious to anyone who had eyes in their head.

"If he didn't give the tickets to you, he'd have been forced to give them to someone he was trying to impress politically," Madeleine said, crossing her legs and reclaiming Matthew's attention. "And we all know how tedious that can be."

Trixie shuddered as she imagined being forced to schmooze with politicians and wealthy contributors.

"It is a shame that they decided to take their own limousine," Madeleine continued. "I thought they'd be travelling with us, didn't you?" she asked, nudging her husband. He dragged his eyes upward and away from her stockings and blinked.

"I suppose," he said, though it was obvious that he didn't really care how the Fraynes made their way to the gala. "I imagine that he didn't want to crowd us."

"Or maybe he just wanted Brian to be able to hold a conversation without his eyes glazing over as he stared at Honey," Trixie teased, causing Honey to blush and Matthew to press his lips together.

"More likely he didn't want to inflict us with Jonesy," Matthew said curtly, as if he much preferred that explanation to one involving a young man in love with his daughter.

Trixie couldn't blame him—she preferred that explanation, too.

But she didn't believe it.

No, there was definitely something rotten in the state of Denmark, and it had something to do with the Fraynes and her brother Brian not riding into the city with them. More trouble with Jonesy, perhaps? Something to do with Senator Frayne's job? Something to do with his health?

She had no idea what it was, but she'd find out by the end of the night, or her name wasn't Trixie Belden.

At the Gala…

Honey Wheeler clutched her tiny purse, testing for the familiar shape and feel of the inhaler it contained. She hadn't wanted to say anything, but her throat had started itching the moment they'd stepped into the limousine. Tom had probably switched to a different polish, she knew. And he'd stop using it immediately as soon as she mentioned her reaction. But that did nothing to help her now.

"Honey?"

She flinched at the voice, knowing that she couldn't hide anything from her best friend. At least, not for long.

"I just need to…" Her voice trailed off and she gestured toward the restroom with her purse. Luckily she'd attended other events at the Sheraton and knew the location of every restroom in it.

Trixie's sharp eyes narrowed and she tugged Honey down a narrow corridor. Honey followed, slipping free as they entered the small powder room.

"How long has it been bothering you?" Trixie demanded, watching as Honey shook her inhaler and positioned it at her mouth.

She couldn't answer, of course, but she shrugged as she breathed deeply, speeding the flow of medicine to her lungs. When she'd rinsed her mouth and patted it dry, she fumbled in her purse, returning the inhaler and searching for her lipstick.

"It was something in the limo," she admitted. "I know it's not Mother's perfume or Daddy's aftershave, of course. I think that Tom might have switched polishes."

Trixie tapped her feet and studied her intently. "Do you feel better now that you've had some fresh air?"

Honey shrugged. She felt better being out of the limo, but the hotel, as she'd anticipated, was rife with the mingled scents of hundreds of people. She eyed her rescue inhaler, but decided against taking a second dose. She'd be fine, she told herself. If she had to, she'd step outside for fresh air. Actual fresh air, not the re-circulated air the hotel pumped through the vents.

"Let's go mingle," Honey suggested, ignoring how difficult it was to draw a proper breath. She'd be as good as new in a few minutes. Better than good as soon as she found Brian!

And though Trixie eyed her suspiciously, Honey smiled and led the way from the powder room back to the gala.

Elsewhere at the gala…

Brian Belden generally avoided charity events. At best they were long nights of mediocre food and uncomfortable clothing. Tonight, though… tonight was different. He touched the shiny, cool surface of his cufflinks and then straightened his arms. He didn't hate wearing a tuxedo the way many men seemed to, but this evening was the first time he was honestly glad to be looking his best in formal attire.

All clothing served a purpose. His seldom-worn-lab coat marked him as a doctor. His rugged jeans and flannel shirts kept him warm when he was lucky enough to be back at Crabapple Farms doing chores. His everyday uniform of dress pants, shirt, and tie allowed him to function in Senator Frayne's world.

Tonight, though, his tuxedo was his armour.

Strengthening his resolve, he scanned the room. Sure enough, Matthew and Madeleine had arrived and were greeting another couple with forced smiles and air kisses.

False, he thought to himself. They were all false. From infancy the social elite were programmed to present the front of their choice, whichever image they believed would benefit them most. At Crabapple Farm he'd been raised to be polite to all people and to judge on merit, not money.

It was a good lesson and one that he knew he would put into practice this very evening.

He was, after all, a Belden, and Beldens were nothing if not forthright.

"There you are."

Brian turned to face the speaker and smiled with grim determination. "I wouldn't miss this for the world," he said.

A sympathetic expression crossed Winthrop Frayne's face before matching Brian's determination. They were very different men, but Win's success as a politician was partially due to his innate ability to understand others' emotions and motivations. "I know this won't be easy for you," he said.

Brian shrugged. "Nothing right is ever easy." He paused and fought the urge to wipe his hands on his trousers. To do so would be to acknowledge that he was sweating. That he was nervous about what he was about to do. And he wasn't willing to acknowledge any such thing.

Even if it was true.

Especially if it was true.

"Isn't that the truth." Win paused, studying the occupants of the room. "Would you like—" He hesitated. "That is, when would you—"

Brian pressed his lips together and watched as the most beautiful woman he'd ever known slipped into the room, accompanied by his sister. White, he thought, his mind blanking on the image before him. She was wearing white. A riot of images flashed before his eyes, some wholesome, others not. And before he could put too much thought into it, he strode across the room, intent on making contact. He hadn't really planned how he'd handle this encounter, but in the back of his mind he had thought that he would stretch it out, at least a little. Anticipation heightened the senses, after all. He'd wanted Honey to come to him, to seek him out.

But drawing out the moment wasn't going to happen. Not when Honey Wheeler was dressed like a perfect angel.

An angel who was about to have her wings clipped.

Elsewhere at the gala…

Trixie Belden frowned as she entered the room. She'd always been proud of the fact that she seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing when something mysterious was going on, but tonight… tonight she was almost ready to trade in that gift for something more useful. Like clairvoyance. Or telepathy. Or the ability to render even the most fashionable of clothing comfortable, she thought, absently adjusting the thin strap of her dress that insisted sliding down her shoulder at every opportunity.

"Well, this is a surprise!"

Trixie turned at the sound of the familiar voice and forced a smile to her face. It wasn't that she didn't like Ben Riker. She did, actually, though she'd never admit it aloud. And certainly never to his face. No, Ben Riker was okay, once she managed to get past the infantile practical jokes and crippling self-esteem issues. Or, rather, once he managed to get past them. And he'd danced with her at every fancy event Honey dragged her to. Without complaining too much about his sorely abused toes when the dance was over.

"I should have known you would be here," Trixie said, attempting to return his smile even as she continued to scan the room for the source of her unease.

"What is it?" Ben asked in a low voice, instantly attuned to her misgivings. He and Trixie had never been particularly close, but he knew her well enough to know when she was bothered.

She shook her head, unable to articulate her sense of unease. "I'm worried," she admitted. "But I don't know why."

"Honey?" he guessed instantly, and Trixie nodded.

"Yes. But that doesn't make any sense. She's happy as a clam and thrilled about dancing with Brian tonight." She paused. "You did hear about Honey and Brian, right?"

Ben shrugged. "Sure. Well, I overheard your mother telling my mother." He shook his head. "There was a lot of squealing and giggling involved, so I don't actually know any of the details." Frowning, he asked, "Is there something I should know?"

Trixie scanned the room. "No," she said slowly. "At least, I don't think so. I mean, I don't think there's anything we could possibly know yet. But maybe we should."

Ben's forehead creased as he tried to follow her. "Maybe we should what?"

"Know what's going on!" Trixie exclaimed. "There's something off," she said, speaking faster as her thoughts organized themselves. "Senator Frayne, Jim, and Brian didn't ride with us to the gala. Win and Jim I could understand, but Brian? He's gaga over Honey. Something isn't right there. I thought it was just a logistics issue, but that's not it. There's something mysterious—"

"Say, isn't that Brian there?" Ben asked, gesturing with his champagne toward the dark-haired man purposefully crossing the dance floor.

"Yes," she agreed. "And it looks as if he's heading straight toward Honey."

"To ask her to dance," Ben finished her sentence, but Trixie frowned.

"I don't think so," she said slowly. "He looks… upset." Which wasn't like Brian. At all. Without another word, she started toward Honey, hoping to reach her before Brian did.

"Maybe he's in a rush to see her," Ben suggested, hurrying after her and taking her arm. He slowed her pace enough that they didn't draw attention to themselves. "They haven't been dating very long, right? As much as I hate to admit it, what with Honey being my cousin and all, I can see why he'd be anxious to talk to her. I wouldn't say he looks upset. I'd say he looks determined."

"Determined about what?" Trixie demanded. "It's not as if asking her to dance is a big deal. They're dating! They're in love. No, you mark my words, Ben Riker. There's something else going on here, and—"

She stopped talking as Brian reached Honey and tapped her on the shoulder. Honey whirled to face him, beaming. But with each step Trixie took as she hurried to her friend, Honey's face grew paler and the smile slid from her face.

"He's not asking her to dance, is he?" Ben muttered.

But Trixie had reached the couple and ignored Ben in favour of making out Honey and Brian's hushed conversation.

"I don't understand," Honey whispered, and Trixie wasn't sure if she was trying to be discreet or if that was the most volume she could muster.

"I asked why you weren't here with your new boyfriend."

Trixie gasped loudly but didn't interrupt. Brian's accusation was so ludicrous that she couldn't formulate a rebuttal without more information.

Honey gaped at him as if she, too, needed more information in order to understand what he was driving at. "You're my boyfriend," she asserted, two spots of colour appearing high on her cheeks. "You know that."

"Really?" he questioned. "That's the story you're going with?"

"It's not a story!" she protested. "Brian, I don't know what you're talking about!" Honey reached to touch his arm, but he recoiled as if she'd burned him. She gasped and her face drained of its little remaining colour. She took in another breath, but it was far too shallow and Trixie knew that Honey was past the point of being able to calm herself down.

"This is ridiculous!" Trixie exclaimed, and pushed her way closer to the couple. Tucking her arm around her best friend, she glared at her oldest brother. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded, resisting the urge to follow up her question with a shove to his chest.

"What's wrong with me?" Brian laughed, the sound brittle as breaking glass. "Not a thing. Not a thing, other than the fact that the woman I thought I loved is obviously not in love with me!"

Trixie wasn't one to care overmuch about social propriety, but couldn't stop herself from glancing uneasily at the people nearest them. A few people had turned away but the majority were watching the drama unfold with as much interest as Trixie herself.

"Ghouls," Trixie muttered. "Don't they have anything better to do?"

"Better to do?" Brian echoed, noticing his sister for the first time. "Funny you should say that. Apparently Honey is the one who found someone better to do."

Honey stumbled backward, her breath coming in shallow pants.

"That's absurd and you know it," Trixie hissed. It was difficult not to raise her voice and tell him what she really thought of his behaviour, but she knew that Honey wouldn't thank her for it. If there was one thing Honey hated, it was drawing attention to herself. And Brian had already done quite enough of that.

"Is it?" Brian faced her then, and Trixie was shocked by his expression of complete bitterness. She'd never seen him look so betrayed. Not even when he'd been in graduate school and a fellow student had plagiarized his work. "Is it? Where was she last night, then?" he demanded.

Trixie blinked. "At home?" She turned to Honey for confirmation, but her best friend was still staring with horror at Brian, her eyes unfocused.

"Oh, she was at home, all right," he sneered. "She was making herself completely at home. On the veranda. With another man."

Trixie glanced around her again. They hadn't attracted as much attention as she'd feared, but there was a group of attentive eavesdroppers, no longer shy about concealing their interest.

"Brian, this is ridiculous," she said, and tugged at his arm. If she could just get them alone, she was sure that she could get to the bottom of whatever was bothering Brian. And it was high time for Honey to find a quiet place, away from prying eyes, where she could recover from the short, shallow breaths currently racking her frame.

"Honey," she said, alarmed at the decline in her friend's breathing.

But Honey waved her hand to dismiss her concern and straightened her spine, giving her full attention to Brian. "If you have something to say," she said, her tone frosty with dignity and sounding remarkably like her mother's, "say it."

"Fine," Brian spat. Instead of using his own words, though, he took out his cell phone and stabbed the buttons until everyone around them could hear the audio recording. Trixie's face flamed when she heard the low male voice moaning Honey's name.

"Turn that off!" she snapped, and grabbed her brother's phone when he didn't comply. She jabbed the buttons until the sound cut off mid-heated groan.

"I saw you," Brian said, pointing at her with a shaking finger. "And now that's all I'll ever see when I look at you. All I'll ever hear when you speak to me." He shook his head in disgust. "And I'll do everything I can to make sure I never hear or see you again."

Honey recoiled at the venom in his words and pressed her hand to her chest. When Brian spun away from her, she sagged as if unable to support herself for another moment. Trixie stretched her strong arm around Honey's waist and kept her upright while she glared at Brian's retreating form.

"Just what is going on here?"

Matthew Wheeler's strong, distinctive voice echoed in the eerily silent room and Trixie realized that everyone in the room had been witness to the exchange and that none of them were bothering to pretend otherwise.

"I'll thank you to stay away from my daughter if this is how you treat women," Matthew continued, bristling with outrage. "Far away from my family and home."

"Better wait with any statements you can't take back," Win said quietly, moving to stand beside Brian. "Because whatever you say to Brian applies to me as well."

Matthew blinked in surprise at Win's determined demeanour.

"He may not have handled it the best way," Win continued, "but Brian is the wronged party here, not Honey. It's possible that you don't know your daughter as well as you think you do."

Matthew pressed his lips together. "I know her well enough," he said gruffly.

Win nodded, accepting that Matthew would give his daughter the benefit of the doubt, just as Win would give Jim the benefit of the doubt. He swallowed a sigh and accepted the fact that this could very well turn into a publicity nightmare. He had hoped that Brian would either calm down from his simmering rage or at least wait until after the party before he vented it, but Win couldn't fault him. As much as he liked Matthew Wheeler's daughter, Win knew that he'd be unable to look at her in quite the same way after seeing the video that had been anonymously sent to Brian's cell phone.

Win's people hadn't been able to trace the video yet, but he had the sinking sensation that it wouldn't matter even if they could. The damage was done, and he highly doubted that either Brian or Honey would recover from it anytime soon. If ever. For that matter, it was possible that this would be a deathblow to his friendship with Matthew. He couldn't imagine it; they'd been friends for as long as he could remember. But Win had seen the video himself and he had no intention of letting Brian face any of this without support.

"Let's go, Brian," Win said, placing his hand on his back. "I think we're done here."

Brian continued to glare at Honey for a long moment, and then nodded stiffly. He wheeled, shaking off Win's hand, and strode out of the room without a backward glance.

Trixie stared after him in slack-jawed amazement until Honey slumped against her, very nearly taking both of them to the floor.

"Honey!" she gasped, but her best friend was unable to answer. Her face was blue and the look of panic on her face was no longer related to Brian but was obviously due to a severe asthma attack. "Honey! Your inhaler!"

It took Trixie only seconds to rip open Honey's clutch, shake the inhaler, and give her a dose, but it felt like an eternity. Trixie knew that the inhaler would work. It always did. It might feel like forever, but it wasn't, she told herself. Honey would be fine.

Only she wasn't.

She was barely breathing at all.

"No, no, no," Trixie muttered. "Don't you do this to me, Honey. You start breathing, dammit!"

Biting her lip, she shook the inhaler again and prepared to give her a second dose.

"Give her the dose," a strong voice instructed. "I've called 911."

Trixie used the inhaler, hoping against hope that it would work. But Honey's breathing didn't ease, and her eyes, which had been filled with panic only seconds earlier, fluttered and closed.

"She's not breathing," Trixie reported, looking up for the first time. Matthew Wheeler filled her line of sight and she realized that he'd been directly across from her, kneeling beside his daughter. She expected to see an expression of anger or impatience on his face, but instead he looked almost as pale as his daughter. Desperate, she turned back to Honey and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

"I've called 911," the confident voice she'd heard before reminded them. She twisted her head to look behind her and saw a distinguished older gentleman.

"Do something!" Matthew beseeched the man, his voice breaking. "Why aren't you doing something?"

"When the paramedics get here they'll open her airway with a combination of specialized equipment and medication," the man Trixie assumed was a doctor said. "Trixie has already done everything that can be done without those supplies." He nodded in approval at Trixie. "We're only minutes from Presbyterian and the ambulance will be here any minute."

"Yes," Matthew agreed, "but what if—"

To Trixie's relief Matthew's question was interrupted by the arrival of the paramedics and they were both unceremoniously shuttled out of the way. Working quickly and calmly, they fitted Honey with bag-mask ventilation and inserted more equipment that she couldn’t identify. Before Trixie could release any of the questions burning her tongue the paramedics had strapped Honey to a hard board and began hustling her out to the waiting ambulance.

After a moment of frozen silence, Trixie struggled to make her legs work and stumbled after the paramedics. Matthew quickly overtook her and she scrambled to keep up. In the back of her mind she remembered that she wasn't likely to be allowed to ride in the ambulance, but it didn't stop her from trying. The issue was resolved with one pointed look from Matthew and they hopped into the back of the ambulance on either side of the stretcher. It was a crowded fit and she had no doubt that the paramedic tending to Honey was cursing their presence, but she didn't care.

She'd seen Honey have asthma attacks before, but never like this. One puff of her rescue inhaler had always been enough to open her airways. She knew that as a child, before Trixie had known her, Honey had been hospitalized several times to get her breathing under control. Maybe this wasn't any worse than those attacks, she whispered to herself. But one look at Matthew Wheeler's face told her that no matter what Honey had endured in the past, what she was going through now was just as serious.

"She'll be fine," Trixie said, her voice sounding hoarse to her own ears. It sounded uncertain, too, and she scolded herself for her lack of faith. Honey would be fine. She had to be. Anything less simply wasn't an option.

Matthew nodded, but his face was pale and he refused to let go of his daughter's hand.

"Sir," the paramedic said, her exasperation evident, "I need more room to work or we're going to lose her."

Matthew inched further down the bench but never took his eyes off Honey's.

it was surreal, Trixie thought numbly. She expected more action, more drama, when someone's life was in danger. But Honey's body was deceptively still when the machines began to beep frantic warnings. The paramedic swore under her breath and time seemed to slow.

This, then, was what it looked like when someone died.

Waiting room at Presbyterian Hospital…

Trixie dropped her head into her hands and leaned forward, closing her eyes against the cold sterility of the waiting room. It wasn't cold, she corrected herself. Or sterile. Someone had obviously attempted to make the room comfortable by choosing a soft yellow paint and matching upholstered chairs. Seven chairs, to be exact. And one coffee table, three smaller tables, and four paintings.

Not that she was counting.

Springing up from her chair, she resumed her recently abandoned pacing. Honey was probably fine. If she wasn't fine, someone would have told her.

Wouldn't they?

Once again she cursed the fact that she hadn't been able to talk her way into staying with Honey as the emergency doctor took over her care from the paramedics. But the role of family had most definitely fallen to Honey's father, and none of her impassioned pleas had provided any useful results.

Other than an intimate knowledge of the thankfully empty waiting room. It had been empty from the moment she'd entered it and as the minutes dragged on, she began to wonder if they'd placed her in a private room of some sort. Surely there were others waiting for word on emergency patients. Or maybe they'd correctly assumed that allowing her to be in contact with other humans at this time wasn't in anyone's best interests.

Or maybe the Wheeler name had pulled invisible strings. Silently.

Silently, she knew, because she hadn't talked to a single person since she'd been unceremoniously ushered into the annoyingly cheerful room. Left alone to wait while doctors worked feverishly to save her best friend. Throwing up her hands in frustration, she threw herself into the nearest chair, flinging her arms up and over her head.

"Planning to get yourself admitted in a room next to Honey?"

Trixie leaped to her feet, nearly knocking the chair over backward. "Jim!" she exclaimed. "What's going on? How's Honey? Have you talked to a doctor?"

"Whoa!" He held up his hand to forestall further questions. Holding up a finger for each question he said, "One. Honey had a severe asthma attack and was rushed to emergency. Two. She's in ICU because they had to intubate her and put her on an IV and a respirator. She’s sedated because they had to give her medicine to relax her airway. Three. You can be sure I was talking to a doctor because there's no way I could make this stuff up. Did you even know that they could give steroids through an IV? I didn't."

It was on the tip of her tongue to mock him for his admission that he was uninformed on any topic, but instead, to her utter shock, she burst into tears. Eyes wide, she clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at him in horror.

Trixie didn't cry often. When she did cry, it wasn't pretty. With her hand covering her mouth and nose, her face was soon slick with tears and snot. She couldn't blame Jim for his expression of mingled surprise and discomfort. She was fairly certain that it matched the expression on her own face, after all. What she could blame him for, though, was his sudden scramble toward the box of Kleenex on the end table and the solicitous way he handed her a tissue. It was out of character for him, and it was seriously messing with her head. When he tentatively took her elbow and encouraged her to sit down, she completely lost it, sobbing harder than she ever had before.

"She might… d-d-die!" Trixie stuttered, saying aloud the word that had been echoing in her mind. She looked up at Jim, stricken that she'd given in to her fears. But instead of focusing on his face, she found herself staring at his chest, and then her head was on his chest, and she was back to sobbing with a truly terrifying vehemence.

To his credit, Jim was silent. It was for his own good, Trixie thought through her tears. If he'd tried to murmur comforting platitudes or patted her back she'd have dropped him. As it was, she could only hope that the stress of the day would dull his memory and he'd forget how she'd fallen apart in front of him.

Or rather, on him.

Realizing that she'd wiped her nose on his formerly pristine white dress shirt, she pulled away, wiping her face with the back of her hand. It came away wet with all manner of disgusting substances and she hastily wiped it on her borrowed skirt before Jim could offer her another tissue. Honey wouldn't mind if she returned the skirt dirty—she was most likely expecting it. Fresh tears filled her eyes as she contemplated the possibility that Honey wouldn't be around to teasingly chide her for the damage, but she refused to let them fall.

"I can't believe that Brian would do this to her," Trixie said, her sadness giving way to anger. Pulling away from Jim with a jerk, she launched to her feet and tried to shake off the sensation of warmth she was leaving behind. She paced the room, pausing at each corner as her fury grew.

"He knows that stress triggers her asthma," she fumed.

Jim cocked his head to the side as she turned at the next corner.

"And he's a doctor!" she exclaimed throwing up her hands with a vehemence that nearly threw off her balance. "Didn't he see what was happening? I saw what was happening and I barely qualify to be a candy striper! Didn't he notice? Didn't he care?"

She turned again and clipped the corner of the coffee table, causing her to cry out in pain and balance on one leg as she rubbed the other.

"Sit down," Jim instructed, and tugged her back to the spots they'd been occupying while she cried. She glared at him but complied, limping as she favoured her injured shin.

"Ass," she muttered, and then gave Jim a halfway apologetic look. "Not you. Brian."

Jim placed Trixie's leg in his lap and felt for bruises. "Maybe you, too," she grumbled. "That's not the leg I hurt."

Flushing, Jim pulled her other leg into her lap and ran his hands along her stockings. "Ouch!" she hissed when he probed the rapidly forming lump.

"You'll live," he said shortly. "Now what's this about Brian? I know that he and Honey had a fight tonight, but I'm not sure how that relates to her asthma attack."

She narrowed her eyes and struggled to reclaim her legs. Jim merely shifted and secured his hold.

"I wasn't questioning you," he said mildly and moved his hands to her feet. Plucking off her shoes and tossing them aside, he said, "I just don't understand why you're so upset with him."

Trixie's glare slipped when he started massaging the bridge of her foot. "It wasn't a fight," she informed him, staring at his hands as they worked magic on her tired feet. "It was an attack. Some nonsense about her cheating on him." She shook her head. "Honey would never cheat! And Brian ought to know it."

Jim shrugged. "Lots of women cheat."

She would have made a second attempt to pull away from him, but he'd found the ball of her foot.

"Not Honey," she said firmly. "Not ever."

Jim raised one eyebrow and his fingers stilled. "Ever?" he questioned. "That's a pretty broad claim to make."

Trixie crossed her arms over her chest. "It is. That doesn't make it any less true."

He studied her thoughtfully for a long moment before resuming his ministrations to her feet. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Of course I do! I wouldn't say it if I didn't. Honey Wheeler doesn't have a dishonest bone in her body. And she's head over heels in love with Brian."

Jim looked away.

"What?" she demanded. When he didn't answer she wrenched her legs away from him and sat up straight. When he still didn't answer she got in his face, tugging at his chin until he was forced to meet her eyes.

"What?" she repeated. "Out with it, already!"

"I saw the video," he said uncomfortably, shifting his weight.

"What video?" she asked, and then she remembered Brian showing her his cell phone and mumbling something about proof. She’d heard some audio, but it hadn't made sense then, and it made even less sense now. What proof of Honey cheating on him could Brian possibly think he had?

"Someone sent Brian video of Honey… er…" Jim flushed and refused to complete the sentence.

"Video?" Trixie scoffed. "Let me guess. Was it grainy?"

He nodded. "And taken at night," he admitted.

"At night!" Trixie threw her hands in the air. "And you entertained it as proof? Honestly!"

"There's more," Jim admitted reluctantly.

"More what? More fabricated evidence?" she sneered. "I still can't believe Brian was taken in by this nonsense. He knows better! Or at least I thought he did."

When Jim didn't reply Trixie rolled her eyes. "Okay. I'll ask again. What's this other evidence that Brian thinks he has?"

She wondered if the uncomfortable look on his face was due to the subject matter or to the fact that he really didn't enjoy being pressed for answers.

"He saw her."

Trixie was momentarily silenced. "He saw her?" she finally said.

Jim nodded.

"He couldn't have," she said decisively. Before Jim could argue she continued. "What does Brian think he saw?"

He paused, and Trixie realized that he was genuinely uncomfortable discussing Honey's alleged sexual activity. She was momentarily flummoxed by his surprising reticence but recovered quickly. "Out with it," she said, rolling her eyes. "You're not going to shock me."

"He saw her having sex with a guy," he admitted. "They were in the veranda and he was in the grove close to the house."

"When?" she demanded with a frown. She knew it wasn't true but she needed facts if she was going to refute them.

Jim shrugged. "I’m not sure. Last night, maybe?"

She frowned, remembering the previous day. Moms had kept her busy at Crabapple Farm, keeping it company-ready and full of food in case Senator Frayne dropped by. She often spent the night at the Manor House, but knew that she hadn't since before the reception.

"The veranda?" Trixie mused. "That's where she and Brian..." Her voice trailed off and she realized Jim wasn't the only one uncomfortable discussing sex.

"I know," Jim said, rolling his eyes. "Believe me, I know."

"Brian told you?" she gasped, outraged.

"Honey told you," Jim fired back.

"She didn't tell me details," she protested, blushing. "Just that it was, you know, special."

Jim grinned. "Brian's not really the kiss-and-tell sort of guy, either," he said. "He just couldn't keep the stupid grin off his face. I put the rest together with my superior detective skills."

"Right," Trixie said, "your superior detective skills." She wanted to snort, but it reminded her of blowing her nose after she'd cried, and then she was forced to remember why she'd been crying. "Look," she said, sobering. "It was dark. Brian saw two people having sex. He was sent a video of two people having sex. It doesn't mean that Honey was one of those people."

Jim shrugged. "It does if the man kept calling her Honey."

Trixie shook her head stubbornly. "I don't care if he called her Madeleine Giselle Wheeler and proposed. It wasn't Honey!"

Jim studied her intently for so long that she had to fight the urge to look away.

When he finally spoke, though, she realized that she must have passed some sort of silent test.

"You're completely convinced, aren't you?" he asked, and his green eyes held something that looked like respect.

Trixie nodded. "Of course I am! I know that Honey hasn't done whatever that ridiculous video shows."

"Okay," he said after a long hesitation. "Okay."

"Okay what?" she asked, frowning.

"I believe you," he said simply, and she found that the words meant more to her than they should. In the long run, she didn't suppose that it mattered one way or the other what Jim Frayne believed. What mattered, after all, was the truth. And what could be proven. Still, it touched something deep inside her that he'd chosen to believe her over the supposed evidence.

"And you'll help me prove that Brian has this all wrong?" she pressed. She was pushing him too far and she knew it. Asking him to take an active role against both Brian and his own father was asking too much.

But she couldn't seem to stop herself.

Jim's lips parted but he didn't speak, and Trixie had a sinking feeling that she wasn't going to like what he said when he finally did get around to it.

But Jim wasn't finished surprising her.

"Okay."

She blinked. "Okay what?" she asked, parroting their earlier conversation.

"I'll help you," he said simply, and the coil of tension she'd been carrying since she'd first noticed Honey's laboured breathing loosened its hold one small notch.

"You will?" she breathed.

"I will," he promised, and she knew, deep down, that his promise was a turning point.

For both of them.

He was a man of his word. He was also stubborn, quick-tempered, and had a tendency to think he had all the answers, but he was as honest as the day was long and just as loyal.

And that was all she needed to know.

"Okay," she said, accepting his offer.

Accepting him.

"Okay," he agreed, and she wondered if they were doomed to spend the rest of the conversation using inane word fillers.

Whatever. She was no longer alone while she awaited news on Honey's condition, and she wouldn't be alone as she fought to convince her idiot brother that Honey was innocent of the ridiculous accusations he'd brought against her.

"We'll tackle this together," Jim said, as if reading her thoughts.

"Agreed," she said briskly, attempting to ignore the flutter in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with worry and everything to do with anticipation. But Jim's hands were on her waist—when had that happened?—and he wasn't looking away. And his eyes were very, very green.

Jim Frayne, she found, was not a man she could distance herself from.

"We'll figure this out," he promised, and moved his hand to cup her cheek.

Her breath caught and he leaned toward her, his lips inches from hers. Was he really going to kiss her? Only a week ago she'd have scoffed at the very notion, but now she found herself wanting to close the gap of the last inch, aching to feel his lips against hers.

"There you are," a weary voice said, and they sprang apart from each other, blushing and righting their tangled limbs.

Matthew Wheeler slumped against the doorframe, oblivious to what he'd interrupted. "I have news."

A weight so heavy she didn't think she could carry it settled in the pit of her stomach.

Sleepyside Police Station…

It wasn't often that Dan found being questioned by a police officer amusing. Sleepyside, it turned out, was full of surprises, and Sergeant Mart Belden was one of them.

"Let's go over this again," Sergeant Belden said, and Dan had to work to suppress a grin. He might be enjoying their interrogation, but his partner in crime, Luke, was most certainly not.

Which was another source of enjoyment right there, he reflected, and had to work even harder to keep the smile off his face. Sleepyside was definitely messing with his head. When he'd arrived, he'd been mostly content to continue in his role as Jonesy's lackey. Since then, though, he'd grown what he suspected was a conscience. And he was finding it harder and harder to keep from smiling in certain situations. He wasn't sure if either development was a good thing. He had a feeling that neither of them would enhance his work for Jonesy.

But even when his conscience was pricking him, he still felt better than he had in a long time.

"You," Sergeant Belden said, pointing his pen at Dan.

Dan shifted in his chair and met the officer's eyes. "Yes, sir?"

"Did you really think that we'd let something like lethargy slide?"

Lethargy?

Sergeant Belden waited, tapping his pen on his notepad. Dan wanted to answer, but he wasn't entirely sure that laziness was a crime. Or that he was guilty of it.

"Well?" the sergeant demanded, just as the pen exploded and blue ink pooled on the paper, the table, his hands, and even his pants. He flushed and blotted uselessly at the mess with a crumpled tissue from his pocket. Dan would have helped, but the room was devoid of anything other than the metal table and chairs, and he'd been relieved of his own belongings before being held overnight and all day before finally being admitted to the interrogation room.

"Whatever," he finally said, and crumpled the ink-stained tissue. He scanned the room for a garbage can and, when he failed to find one, tossed the Kleenex over his shoulder. Luke's resulting sneer made the sergeant flush, and Dan knew that he'd lost any sympathy he might have been able to cultivate.

"Lethargy," he repeated, and started to point the pen at Dan again, but hastily dropped it when fresh blue ink spewed from its cartridge. The pen skittered across the table, leaving a trail of indelible ink in its wake. All three men watched as it rolled off the table, fell to the floor, and skidded to a halt at Dan's feet.

"You're being questioned in conjugation with loud and lethargic activities committed at the Wheeler estate last night," Sergeant Belden said, resolutely ignoring the pen.

Dan worked through the sentence in his head. Multiple times.

"Okay?" he finally said, sensing that a response of some sort was expected.

"Good. You're not respecting arrest."

No, Dan silently agreed, he was certainly not respecting this arrest.

"Do you deny that on yesterday evening you did knowingly observe two persons having sex?"

Dan leaned back. "Yes."

"Ha! You admit it!"

"No, I said that yes, I deny watching two people having sex." Last night, at least. Probing back any farther than that might change the answer, but it was best not to go there. And last night had been the other way around. At least it had if everything had gone well. Hopefully Brian Belden had caught his and Jane's show.

Or hopefully not? It had been Dan's idea to stage the deception, but now he wasn't so sure that it had been the best plan. It had seemed to serve the purpose at the time, but it now seemed to him that there had to have been a better way.

"It's a serious crime," the sergeant continued. "Punishable with a fine and up to twenty hours of community service."

If this was Sleepyside's idea of a serious crime, he definitely needed to think about relocating. It was still within commuting distance to the city, after all.

"Dan's more of a hands-on kind of guy," Luke smirked, and Dan knew that he was being thrown to the wolves. Of course, Sergeant Belden didn't seem like much of a wolf, but appearances could be deceiving.

The sergeant's eyes narrowed and his eyes took on an entirely too intelligent gleam, proving Dan's theory. "Are you saying that Mr. Mangan was the man guilty of the act of fabrication?"

Now that, Dan thought, was a charge he couldn't actually deny. "Well," he hedged, "a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."

But the sergeant's eyes were icy blue and Dan knew that he'd said the wrong thing. "You'll tell plenty when you make it to trial for accessory to murder," he said, his voice deadly serious.

Dan froze, and even Luke looked vaguely surprised.

"Jane's dead?" Dan whispered. If she was, it wouldn't be the first death he'd had to deal with. It wouldn't even be the first death he'd felt responsible for. But it would be one of the most senseless. "How?" he asked. "Why?"

But Sergeant Belden's previously guileless expression was marred with a frown. "Jane?" he questioned. "Who's Jane?" While Dan tried to remember the girl's last name—he'd been doing well to remember her first name, especially since he hadn't let himself ever use it—Mart drummed his fingers on the tabletop, inking his fingers as if he was preparing to fingerprint himself.

"Jane Morgan?" he finally exclaimed, recognition dawning.

Dan was pretty sure that was the name she'd given him, so he nodded.

"And where did you have these… relations?"

Dan shrugged, not seeing the point in prevaricating any further. "The Wheelers’ veranda."

"And what time did these relations take place?"

"Right before you picked Luke and I up," Dan said, and Luke smirked and gave him a surreptitious high five.

"Dude," he said, "I would have tapped that, too."

"Shut up," Mart muttered, though he didn't appear to be particularly offended by Luke's less than respectful comment. "So you didn't have relations with Honey Wheeler."

Dan shook his head, wondering if he'd just slit his own throat. Telling the truth here might keep him out of jail, but it wouldn't help him once Jonesy heard about it.

Unless…

He shifted in his seat, trying to piece together a plan that would get him out of the situation without being in trouble with the law or Jonesy.

"And you're saying that you occupied the Wheelers’ veranda just before midnight." He paused. "You and Miss Morgan were the only people there?"

Dan nodded.

"You're sure that there wasn't another couple also making use of the veranda?" he pressed.

"It was just us," Dan said, and then paused. This was the moment. He could leave things as they were and let the situation play out, or he could take action and undo some of the harm he'd caused. He knew what he wanted to do, but the words stuck in his throat. It went against every instinct he had to volunteer information. If this was going to work, Sergeant Belden was going to have to help him out, he thought helplessly.

"So who died?" Luke asked callously, and Dan realized that he'd been so preoccupied with his own guilt that he'd completely dropped the ball Sergeant Belden had passed him.

"Allegedly died," he said, aging before their eyes. "Honey Wheeler collapsed at the gala in the city and the rumour is that she didn't make it to the hospital."

Dan wasn't prone to gaping, but it was a near thing. "Honey Wheeler is dead?"

"Allegedly," Sergeant Belden snapped, and Dan knew that it was personal for him. Of course it would be personal. He was a Belden, after all.

"We don't have word either way yet. But if you have information that would assist us in our investigation…" Sergeant Belden shook his head in disgust. "What am I saying? You probably wouldn't pour water on a burning man."

Dan shifted in his seat, feeling the sting of guilt. He'd never been guilty of exactly what the sergeant was suggesting, not literally at least, but he had looked the other way more times than he cared to remember.

Still, it wasn't right that Jonesy not pay for his part in whatever had happened to the Wheeler girl. Dan didn't think that Jonesy had worked actively toward her death, or alleged death, but his meddling had gone too far.

Dan's meddling had gone too far.

And he had known it from the moment he'd suggested that he seduce Jane Morgan.

Still, it would be a delicate business to lead Sergeant Belden to the right conclusions without looking too eager to give up information.

"Wait," Belden said, almost as if he'd read Dan's mind. "Why were you on the Wheelers’ veranda?"

Luke snorted. "If you had a chance with a girl like that, wouldn't you?"

The sergeant glared at him. "No," he said shortly. "No, I mean, why the veranda? Why not, well, anywhere else, really?"

It was the opening he needed.

But could he walk through that door?

"Because of the direct line of sight from the grove to the veranda," he admitted. He'd expected the words to leave a bitter taste in his mouth, but he was surprised to find that he didn't feel anything other than a slight lessening of the habitual pressure on his chest.

"And why would—" Sergeant Belden started to ask, but trailed off as he stared thoughtfully at Dan. He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head and spreading blue ink through his closely cropped blond hair.

"You wanted someone to see you," he surmised.

Dan's silence was answer enough.

"You wanted Brian to see you?" the sergeant asked, raising an eyebrow.

No matter how he tried to justify it, that part just sounded wrong, Dan thought.

"But why would you want Brian to see you and Jane Morgan having sex?" he continued. To Dan's relief, Sergeant Belden appeared to be thinking out loud rather than interrogating him. "And why would Brian think that it was Honey?"

Sergeant Belden leaned forward suddenly, his chair crashing down onto four legs. "The girl in the video. You called her Honey."

He was almost there, Dan thought with relief. "It's a common enough endearment," he said, his tone mild. This was no time to distract the man with belligerence or prolonged silence, after all. Not if he wanted to keep him on the right path.

"Not for Jane Morgan, it isn't," he snorted. "There's nothing sweet about her. No, you wanted Brian to think that Honey was cheating on him. The question is why. What do you stand to gain from it?"

Nothing. Nothing other than feeding Jonesy's pathological hunger to make life for Winthrop Frayne as difficult as possible.

And wasn't that the kicker? Here he was, sitting in an interrogation room in a podunk one-horse town while Jonesy… Well. Jonesy's life wasn't particularly glamorous, but at least in he wasn't in lock-up.

Yet.

The sergeant studied him thoughtfully, his guileless blue eyes probing uncomfortably. "What brought you to Sleepyside, Mr. Mangan?"

"Career opportunities?"

The sergeant's raised eyebrow would have had more punch if it hadn't had a streak of blue colouring the light lashes.

"We came with Jonesy," Luke put in, giving Dan a hard look out of the corner of his eye. "You know, the senator's brother."

"Half-brother," Sergeant Belden corrected him.

"Whatever. We don't study his genealogy. We're his…" Luke paused, searching for the right word. "Entourage. Yeah, that's it."

"You're the senator's half-brother's entourage," the sergeant repeated, and Dan winced at how utterly ridiculous it sounded.

Probably because it was utterly ridiculous.

"And Jonesy wanted my brother to think that Honey was cheating on Brian," Sergeant Belden said softly.

"He doesn't much care for Dr. Belden," Dan said after a pause. "Or Senator Frayne," he added.

"No, I imagine not," he said, and Dan realized that as soon the sergeant had started putting the pieces of the puzzle together, he'd stopped mixing up his words.

Was it possible that he used ridiculous words on purpose to disguise his intellect?

"You've been very helpful," he said, pushing back from the table. Standing, he placed his hands on the table in a puddle of blue ink. "Thank you for your co-operation."

Dan and Luke exchanged uncertain glances. "You mean we're free to go?" Luke asked.

The sergeant nodded. "Well, you are," he said, looking at Luke. "You," he continued, pointing a finger at Dan that was so blue it brought Smurfs to mind, "I want to talk to you yet."

Luke left without a backward glance.

"Is Honey Wheeler really dead?" Dan asked immediately. While he'd been working to lead the sergeant to the correct conclusions it had been easy to push thoughts of the girl’s fate from his mind. Now, however…

"I don't know," he said miserably. "The hospital refuses to release any information and Matthew Wheeler hasn't made a statement. He's not even answering his phone. For that matter," he added with a scowl, "neither is my sister. No one seems to know anything."

Dan nodded, though he felt sick. If Honey Wheeler died, he'd carry her death with her as long as he lived. He might not have planned it and he certainly hadn't hoped for it, but he'd definitely been a major link in the chain of events that had led to it.

"Look," the sergeant said, placing his hands on his hips. Dan hoped fleetingly that ink washed out of uniform trousers. "Jonesy isn't going to be pleased with you."

Dan shrugged. Sergeant Belden was right, of course. Luke would no doubt seek out their leader and place the full responsibility for the interview on Dan. By the time Dan returned to the Glen Road Inn, Jonesy would most likely be worked into a rage.

Not that that was anything new.

Still, he wasn't looking forward to it.

"I think you should stay at my place," Sergeant Belden continued. "At least until we know if Honey is—" He stopped before his voice could crack, but it was obvious that he was personally affected by the thought that she might not make it.

"Stay at your place?" Dan repeated. "What?"

He had to have heard him wrong, he decided. He couldn't possibly have just offered to let an obviously wrong-side-of-the-tracks possible criminal stay with him.

Belden shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. At least, Dan thought, ink stains wouldn't show through pockets. Probably.

"I don't have anything solid on you," he admitted. "And you don’t have a record. If you keep your nose clean for the next few days, you're in the clear. If you go back to Jonesy, though…" He gave him a meaningful look and Dan knew that while the sergeant might not have anything on him, he did have something on Jonesy. Dan glanced at the door Luke had just walked through.

"I can only help the ones that want to be helped," Belden said, and again Dan wondered if the sergeant had mind-reading capabilities.

He was right, though. Luke would have laughed in his face if Belden had made him the same offer.

Dan wasn't laughing.

"Sure," he said, striving for a casual tone. "I could stay with you."

Belden nodded and removed his hands from his pockets. "Call me Mart," he said, and extended his ink-stained hand for Dan to shake.

After a moment's hesitation Dan extended his own hand. He grasped Mart's firmly, not flinching at the feel of the tacky ink.

He had plenty of stains already, after all. What was one more?