Bree seemed oblivious to the chaos. She continued perusing the contents of her cupboards. "No Captain Crunch, but how about some Sugar Crisp? It has some fiber and vitamins, but the sugar camouflages it so you'd never know it."

"All right," he grumbled as he ambled into the breakfast nook and seated himself at the small glass-topped dinette table. He hated being able to see his toes while he ate, but he supposed beggars couldn't be choosers.

A moment later she set a bowl and a mug down on the placemat in front of him. Then dropped a pair of small white pills beside his bowl.

"What are those?"

"Drugs."

He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. "You mean like cyanide or arsenic?"

A smile peeked through Bree's eyes. "Painkillers. I know you've got a killer hangover. I thought you could use them."

He popped them in his mouth and chased them with a scalding sip of strong black coffee. He dug his spoon into the sugared wheat puffs. "Why are you being so nice to me? Last time I saw you, you seemed to think I was the Antichrist."

She eased herself down into the wrought iron chair next to his. "I'm sorry about that."

He shook his head as he munched. "No. I had it coming. But I don't get why it's okay all of a sudden."

"Don't worry. I haven't forgiven you. But I felt sorry for you, what with Craig being in the hospital and all. And, I guess I'm not exactly faultless in this whole thing, either. I put you on the spot, and you panicked. I confess I still don't really understand it all, but I shouldn't be so hard on you either." She took a sip from her own mug, and gazed at him from behind a lacy curtain of lashes. "Truce?"

"What do you want?"

To his surprise she chuckled. In fact she had to set down her mug for fear of spilling the stuff all over her white linen shorts. It took her a moment to compose herself, and when she finally spoke her eyes held a mix of sweet nostalgia and melancholy. And something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"You know me so well, Sloan," she said with a slight shake of her head. "I don't think anyone has ever known me like you did. You could always see right through me. I think that was why you used to make me so mad. I could never keep anything from you, and it made me crazy."

He allowed himself a grin. "I think it was mutual. It's scary as hell to think that someone else can read your mind. It kind of puts a person on the defensive."

"Yeah," she mused as she looked down into her steaming cup. "Maybe." "So? What did you want? A back rub? Advice? Or maybe you'd like to meet Errol Trask. If so, I could probably swing it, but don't get your hopes up for a sweep-you-off-your-feet romance. He only has three or four lines per movie for a reason." He wasn't sure why he was babbling on, but he had an odd sense of trepidation about this visit. He had a feeling that, whatever it was Bree was going to ask him, he wasn't going to like it. "He's got shoulders like Schwarzenegger, but the intellect of Elmer Fudd."

"I don't want to meet Errol."

"Whew!" he said, digging in for another dose of empty calories. "Glad to hear it. I mean-"

"Sloan. It's about Craig."

His spoon froze halfway to his mouth. His heart pounded against his chest, sending vibrations down his

arm, and making the spoon tremble. He forced himself to swallow nonexistent saliva, and set down his

spoon. "He's... He's not-" She rushed to cover his hand with hers. "No, no. Oh, God no. He's fine. Well, not fine. I mean, he's not awake, but he's alive. I talked to Franki just before you got here. And he's actually started to move around a bit more. She's hoping that's a good sign."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh. I should really get over there." "Franki doesn't want you there." "But he's my friend." "And she loves him." He nodded slowly. "Right." He managed to shovel a spoonful past his lips and could almost feel his energy level begin to edge back up toward normal. "Well then, I should go talk to the cops. See if they know any more. I can't believe

that in a town this size they can't come up with any leads on someone who would do something like this." "Uh..." She plucked at a loose thread on her placemat. "That's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

He lifted the coffee cup to his lips and waited. "I know who did it."

With a discipline and determination that surprised even him, he took a sip from his cup and gently set it back in its place. He appraised her with a steady gaze. "You do?"

She nodded.

"And you haven't told the police?"

"It's...complicated. I wanted to tell you first, and decide where to go from here together."

"No. It's not complicated at all. It's actually very simple. You tell me and I kill him."

Bree rolled her eyes. "Is that a line from some Dirty Harry spin-off? You're about as violent as Mary Tyler Moore on Midol."

Sloan ignored the jibe. He couldn't blame her for reacting that way. Normally he would have agreed with her, but seeing his friend pummeled to within an inch of his life had awoken something inside Sloan that he'd never experienced before.

When he'd found Craig, the primary emotion he had experienced had been raw terror-terror at the thought of losing his friend, and fear that maybe, at least in small part, he was to blame. But mixed in with that, in a significant proportion, was rage, a disturbing, primal, violent rage at the person who would dare attack someone that he cared about. And Sloan knew that, if focused on the right target, such a rage could be a deadly thing.

"Fine," he said with a forced nonchalance. "I won't kill him. But I would like to know who it is." He batted his eyes. "Please?"

"Derek."

Sloan erupted from the chair, sending it crashing to the floor. "What? Derek Waters? Why the hell would he want to hurt-" His mouth dropped open as the possibilities hit him. "Franki."

Bree nodded miserably. "He'd been drinking, and he saw them together. He thought he was protecting her from Craig's bi-sexual usury and depravity. Franki's talked to him and he feels horrible about it."

"Horrible?" he raved. "Horrible? He's got a little twinge of conscience-itis, and Craig may be a vegetable. Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?"

"Sloan, there's more to it than that."

But he didn't hear her. He didn't want to hear her. "That stupid, pig-headed, ignorant-" He whirled on Bree and pointed a finger that unfortunately lacked the power to smite from afar. "When I get my hands on him, I swear I'll..."

"You'll what?" Bree stood and planted herself in front of him, her green eyes blazing with their own brand of rage. "You'll beat him senseless, and then get yourself thrown in prison? Or maybe you'll strangle him and dispose of the body. Maybe you'd get away with it, but I hasten to remind you that he is Franki's brother, and you can't do that to her."

"I just want to talk to him," he muttered to his feet. He felt like a scolded child and he resented her immensely for it. "I'll just scare him a bit before I drag him down to the cop shop. I won't really hurt him."

"Huh," she snorted. "As if you could take him in a fistfight anyway."

He growled at her, but she waved away his irritation. "Besides, he's not the one to yell at."

"What does that mean?"

"You know how gullible he is. He was manipulated into doing the deed."

Sloan narrowed his eyes, sensing something big was about to drop into his lap. "So, who was it?"

"Perry."

"Perry?" he repeated like an idiot. "Perry Elliott?" he said again, just to roll the name over his tongue and let it soak into his psyche.

"Yes. We think he still likes Franki and was jealous of Craig."

"What? Why pick on Craig? Franki's slept with a couple dozen guys over the last years. What's so special about him?"

"I don't know," she said slowly. "But whatever it is, Franki sensed it. Maybe Perry did too."

Sloan plowed all ten fingers through his hair, and held them there, tufts sticking up between his fingers like a dozen tiny horns. "All right," he said slowly. "All right. Perry it is, then. Obviously the cops won't be able to do anything if he merely suggested that Derek protect his sister's honor. That leaves it up to me."

"And what do you propose to do?"

"Him I can take. What better justice than to leave him just as bloody as his machinations left Craig?"

Bree groaned. "God. Mister Macho strikes again. You disappoint me."

"Oh?" he growled. "So, what else is new? I seem to be so good at it. Why change now?"

For a moment Bree looked chastened, but then she stuck on her defiant face again. "I thought you had more imagination than that, Sloan. Surely there are other ways to make someone pay, other than to pummel them with a pair of Paleolithic fists."

Sloan glared at her, sifting through a stack of rage and resentment, as he tried to figure out what she was getting at. And then it hit him.

"You're talking about your big request," he said carefully. "That sounds suspiciously like you're taking advantage of Craig's situation to try and do a little manipulating yourself."

"That was uncalled for," she hissed.

"Was it? Do you deny that you're suggesting that I go into the Auction House and relieve Perry and his father of a few choice trinkets...perhaps alongside that information you're so anxious to get your hands on?" She continued glaring at him, hands propped on hips, eyes fierce, saying nothing. He glared back. "All right," she said at last, her face tight and her voice tighter. "I admit it. But would it be so terrible if we both got something out of it? Vengeance for you, and a gift for my mother. Even if she never sees it, it will mean something to me." He jerked his head back. "Why wouldn't she see it?" "Because she lapsed into a coma yesterday. She may not wake up." Sloan's rage seeped out of him. "Christ, Bree. Why didn't you tell me?"

"You had other things on your mind. So, will you?"

He considered. "I need information. I can't go in there cold. I haven't seen the place in years. I need floor plans, security information, everything. That's no penny-ante operation. I can't just crack open a window and fly in there like Peter Pan."

She bobbed her eyebrows. "You in green tights. I'd pay to see that."

He made a sound of disgust to cover his chuckle.

"I've got all that," she amended. "It's in my room. Should I get it now?"

"You're kidding."

"No. I'm not."

She wasn't. She'd been planning this for months. Of course she'd have everything ready to go at a

moment's notice.

"So?" she prompted. "Should we get to it?"

"You're not going with me," he warned. "I do this alone."

"Of course you do. I'm no idiot. I'd slow you down and make a mess of it. This is yours...if you want

it." Her body relaxed visibly, and she reached for her coffee cup. While he watched she took a languorous sip, and said over the rim of the cup, "So, do you, Sloan Carver?" And he had the odd sensation there was more to the question than met the eye. "Do you want it?"

"Oh yeah," he said through a grin, as the familiar rush of adrenaline scattered the last remnants of his worry and rage, and whatever else her words had kindled inside him. It felt good to have something to focus on again-a purpose, a job to do, a risk to take.

"I want it, Chicky-Bree. I just need you to show me the way." * * * * *

Franki strode past the nursing station and headed to her usual post. She felt a little more comfortable now that she had showered and changed into something more serviceable. Her knees and one firm butt cheek peeked through the worn, tattered fabric of her oldest pair of jeans, but they were soft and comfortable, and there was nothing better for crawling around on all fours, scrubbing floors and wiping away cobwebs.

She had an hour to spare before she met Troy over at the Carver place. Bree was meeting them there a couple of hours later, after she had finished with Sloan and checked in on her mom.

Franki reached Craig's bedside and ignored the disapproving glare of the latest edition of the stiff-and-sour nursing brigade.

She bent low and kissed his forehead. Her lips lingered on the cool, smooth skin and she considered the irony of both her and Bree having a loved one held captive in the realm of dreams. She hoped they were dreaming. She couldn't bear to think of him in the dark, all alone, and possibly afraid. She knew all too well what that felt like. Despite the buoyant, cheerful face she wore for the rest of the world, Francine Waters felt like she had been living in a dark, lonely place for the better part of her life.

And now she sat beside the one person who had shed a glimmer of light into her dreary existence of hot tub antics and meaningless one-night stands. That had been a desperate search for something. She just hadn't known what...until now.

She despaired to think that the flame that had just barely flickered to life, might be extinguished before it got a chance to establish itself and burn just a little brighter. She couldn't bear to lose him. Not when she'd just barely found him.

Startled by the moisture that had accumulated beneath her lashes, she brushed away the tears and leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "You have to wake up, Craig Sternberg," she said with determination. "If you don't, I'll be really pissed. And believe me, you don't want to see me pissed."

She rested her forehead against his tousled blond hair and whispered, "I have to go over to Sloan's old place now. Just for a little while. I promised Bree I'd help her and Troy clean it up." She groaned quietly. "It's a gorgeous house. Or at least it used to be. You'll have to come and see it when we're done. Do you have any idea how much I hate that job? Cleaning, I mean. I think I'd rather scale fish than scrub a toilet. It's all your fault, you know. Bree had this great idea to fix up the old place to make him feel better and take his mind off you. So, the least you can do is wake up, get off that lazy, scrawny butt of yours and help me scrub down a few walls. I mean-"

"Don't you ever shut up?"

Franki's head jerked back, her eyes wide with surprise, but Craig's eyes remained closed. His breathing continued just as it had, and the heart monitor beeped incessantly. His nurse was poring over his chart and sipping from a cup of coffee. Obviously she hadn't heard anything.

Had Franki been hearing things? Had she finally slipped over the edge of the gaping pit of insanity?

She licked her lips and whispered. "Craig? Did you say something?"

"No. You imagined it."

She blinked in confusion and self-doubt, but then noticed a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Before she could stop it her hand shot out and slapped his shoulder. "You slimy, little-"

"Hey!" His eyes flickered open. "Knock it off. I'm at death's door, you know."

Finally the nurse seemed to notice the activity. She bolted from her chair and crossed to the bed. "Mr. Sternberg?"

"Mmm?" he groaned. "Jesus, I feel like some maniacal homophobe took a switchblade to me and left me for dead."