But instead of answering, Sloan lifted the gun and examined it. "This is the weapon Dad used. An old

Colt .45. A classic." His fingers traced the barrel. "Just stuck it in his mouth like a big, black Popsicle." He smiled, and the sight sent an icy chill down Bree's spine.

"If you think we're going to leave you alone now, you're nuts!" challenged Troy.

"Am I?" asked Sloan. And then, abruptly, in a flash of movement that Bree couldn't even follow he raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Bree screamed and the floor wavered beneath her.

Troy lunged for Sloan but it was too late. Or, at least it would have been if the gun had been loaded.

"Jesus Christ!" screamed Troy, as he wrenched the gun from Sloan's hand. "What are you trying to

do?" "Prove a point," said Sloan evenly. "If I really wanted to kill myself you couldn't stop me. I brought the gun in to give to you. To prove that I have no intention of harming myself. But I need to be alone. I haven't been in this house since the week she did it. I'm finally ready to go through some of her things.

But I need to do it alone." Bree's heart rate had gradually settled back to a manageable racing beat. "And it has to be tonight?" "Yes. It does."

Bree sighed. "You have to know where we're coming from, Sloan. Where I'm coming from. I know the kind of struggle you've had over your father's suicide. And now to hear that you had to face the same thing with your mother..." She floundered and Troy finished her thought.

"You look like hell and you're acting strange, Sloan. We're worried."

"I know," said Sloan with strained patience. "I know. I'm acknowledging that. And I appreciate your concern, but you have to believe me when I tell you not to worry. I've had eight years to deal with this...

unsupervised." He managed a slightly more sincere smile. "I think I can manage one more night." She and Troy looked at each other, and finally Troy nodded. But Franki was the one to speak. "All right. I'm convinced. Sloan doesn't need a babysitter, and I've got places to be." The words were flippant but Bree could easily hear the tremor in her voice. She headed toward the doorway. "At least I'll be spared the scrubbing spree." Bree and Troy followed sedately, and Sloan managed another weak smile. "Thanks for the sentiment, guys. I'll hire a cleaning crew eventually. If I decide to keep it."

"Those kids really did a number on the place," said Franki. She stopped beside Sloan and placed a hand on his arm. "It's a shame. It deserves better." "It wasn't kids." Franki lifted her eyebrows.

"It was me. I flew into a rage and trashed the place." He shrugged. "I guess I had some issues." Franki's lips didn't even begin to curl into a smile. Instead she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. Bree could hear her whisper. "I miss her, too."

"Thanks," he murmured as he hugged her back.

Franki let go and headed out the door as Troy stepped forward and held up the gun. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again I will personally plug you one with my fist." "I'll keep that in mind." "Sloan, I..." Troy's jaw worked as if he were formulating something to say, but nothing came. Instead he simply shook his head, turned away and exited the room in silence.

Bree took her turn. She stepped forward and touched Sloan's black-smudged cheek. "You didn't have to face it alone. I wish I could understand why you thought you did." "Even I don't understand it. But I'm glad to have you with me now." He raked his gloved hands through his hair. "We'll talk more tomorrow, and you can decide then if you still want to be with me." "Why wouldn't I?" He just smiled and shook his head. "Tomorrow."

She enclosed him in a hug and pressed a kiss to his cheek, but despite the contact, she still felt as if he were a thousand miles away. She let go and left the room, hoping desperately that he would find a release from whatever it was that was holding him hostage.

She stepped out into the night air, where Franki and Troy were waiting for her.

"What do you think?" asked Franki.

"I trust him," said Bree with conviction. "He just needs some time."

Troy fidgeted and looked down at the gun he still held. "All right. You two go."

"What? What about you?"

"I'll drive away, but I'll sneak back. I won't let him know I'm here. But I just wouldn't feel right leaving quite yet."

Bree nodded approval. "Okay. Maybe that's a good idea." She looked at Franki. "But there's no way I can sleep. I know it's long past visiting hours, but how about we crash the hospital. We can check on our respective invalids, and see what's what."

Franki's eyes lit up at the prospect. She waggled her eyebrows. "Maybe they've taken out his catheter by now."

Bree laughed as she led her friend away by the hand. "You're a real hussy, you know. A real one track mind."

"Is there something wrong with that?"

Sloan stood at the front door and watched the cars drive away. When the last of the taillights disappeared he breathed a sigh of relief, stepped back inside and closed the door.

He took a deep cleansing breath, taking a moment to savor the solitude before he headed up the stairs. He shut himself off to the memories of the blood that had stained these stairs. He didn't let himself remember the cloying smell of it, or the sight of her pale, waxen complexion. He tried to block out the faces of the police officers and paramedics who had swarmed over the house. They had tried to be kind and offer some comfort along with their endless questions and routines, but he had seen the truth in their faces.

He was the guy whose family made a habit of committing hara-kiri. He was the guy who made a habit of finding the bloody remains of his parents. The suspicion was subtle but unmistakable. It had crossed his mind that if the police were suspicious, then surely they wouldn't be alone. Others would begin to wonder. He would have to face stares and whispers, and strained silences. He would always wonder what his neighbors and friends were thinking. Obviously he had been right.

It had been just another reason for him to make his home elsewhere.

It had all happened in the middle of the night, so no one had seen the cop cars or ambulances in his driveway, and unlike the metropolises of Toronto and New York, here the local media enjoyed their sleep. None of the attending professionals had lived within the finite confines of Bay's Haven. Besides, they were bound by professional ethics of confidentiality. He had specifically asked that the information be kept confidential, and they had complied.

His scheme to concoct a fictitious affair, and compose the letters, had struck him on the drive home from the hospital the next morning. He'd spent the next few days cleaning up the house, composing letters...and then, on his way out the front door, he had looked around and realized it was all wrong. He couldn't leave the house like that-looking so clean and perfect. The house needed to mirror the destruction of his family. Of his world.

He had set down his bags, and systematically gone through and wreaked his revenge on the ghosts of his ancestors by dismembering and mutilating their heirlooms. Their home. He didn't want it to be his home anymore. He didn't want it to be anybody's home anymore. And up until tonight he had succeeded.

He gained the second floor and tried to decide where to look first. The master suite bathroom would be the very last room on his list. He merely had to close his eyes to recall the images of the crimson-spattered walls and the blood-slicked floor. He had no need to be confronted with the physical reminders all over again. The master bedroom had suffered a few grisly decorator touches as well, as his mother had sauntered through on her way downstairs to greet her son.

He decided, finally, on his old room. If his mother had wished to leave anything behind for him to find, then that was the most logical place. Besides, that was the one room that hadn't been turned upside down by his frenzy of cleaning and subsequent destruction. If she had left something for him in her own room, he no doubt would have found it.

His room, on the other hand, had remained essentially vacant during that time. He hadn't even slept in his own bed during those mind-numbing nights of grief and rage. He had slept on the library couch, and then had left with the clothes on his back and one bag full of essentials.

He struck out down the hall, and pushed open the third door on the right. He flicked on the light and stepped through. He instantly experienced a wash of nostalgia that stole his breath. He had slept in that bed for more than twenty years. He had read books there, and dreamed there. And he had made love there-to Bree. There had been others but she was the only one he could remember.

He had fought colds and the flu there. Propped up on pillows, sniffling and whining, he had let his mother feed him chicken soup and rub Vicks into his chest. His dad had brought him catalogues, and comic books and rigged up the television. Jonathan Carver had taught his son how to play chess on top of those finely quilted covers. And with that he had learned so much more than merely how to protect his king, or sacrifice a pawn. He had learned his father's love.

He shook off the melancholy and headed for his dresser. The stroll down memory lane was painful and pointless. He had things to do.

He began rooting through drawers, and pawing through old T-shirts and underwear. He worked his way through the chest of drawers and armoire, ignoring the familiar scent of cedar and Polo for Men that had been one of his mother's yearly Christmas gifts to him. He found nothing.

He straightened and stretched neck and shoulder muscles that had gone rigid with tension over the past few hours. His eyes wandered over the rest of the room, and finally rested on his bed and nightstand...and something struck him. Something was wrong. There was something missing.

He crossed the room and sat down gingerly on the bed in the hopes of disturbing as little of the ancient dust as possible. He stared at the nightstand that he'd had ever since he was a boy. Other than a small reading lamp and the requisite layer of dust, the surface was bare. He'd never been that tidy in his life. And then he realized why it nagged at him.

Ever since he was a child he had kept a journal. He'd never been terribly organized about it-often months at a time would pass between entries-but he'd always had a notebook ready and waiting at his bedside in case the urge struck him to write something down. It was a habit he hadn't been able to shake, even considering his affection for his trusty laptop. He still kept a notebook by his bedside in California. It always sat out, ready for his pen and his thoughts. And the one that should have been sitting on this particular nightstand was missing.

He reached for the drawer and snapped it open...and there it was, his journal, safe and sound, and seemingly undisturbed, except for the fact that he knew that he had not put it there.

He flipped it open and skimmed through until he found the last entry. The one in his mother's handwriting.

Dear Sloan, How do I begin? I wish I had your way with words. Maybe, somehow, pretty words would make it all a little easier. Heaven knows I've sugar-coated it in my mind for long enough. I should have told you years ago. I should have told you after Jonathan. I know how his suicide weighed on you. It has haunted me as well, but for different reasons. Because, you see, I knew why. I should have shared that with you sooner. Perhaps it would have cushioned the blow, alleviated the guilt that I knew you felt, and the worry. It put a distance between us, but I felt helpless to remedy it. Because I was afraid. I was afraid of your judgment, and perhaps your rejection. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you, and I let that overshadow my responsibilities to you. The responsibility of the truth.

But now I'm through being afraid. I'm through thinking of myself and protecting your father's memory.

In plain English, Sloan, your father was a thief. But, as odd as it may sound, I don't want you to think less of him because of it. He came from a long line of thieves. It was in the blood, just as he saw signs of it in yours. And, in his defense, he never stole from anyone who couldn't afford it, and he never stole out of need. He felt strongly about that. He never wanted his obsession with excitement and adventure to hurt anyone. Perhaps that is a rationalization on the grandest scale, but it was a tenet that he honored, and believed in strongly.

Lakeside House was a fencing operation for your father's acquisitions, and Vance, Russell and Joe were all partners with equal knowledge of the operation. I make no excuses for them, or for us-the wives who silently allowed, and even supported their endeavors. After all, we reaped the rewards. We had comfortable lives, healthy children and happy husbands. And I, for one, couldn't bear to take away your father's passion.

He had always planned to tell you his secret, and, if you were interested, include you. However, just as you were reaching the age when he believed you were ready to hear his story, things changed.

Perhaps you remember how, in the months before his death, he became disturbed and distracted. I have decided against telling you why, or what was involved, since it would serve no purpose other than to hurt you and others. But I can tell you that it tormented him. At the time he told me only that he saw his dreams being tainted, and to tell you at that point might have proved dangerous for you. He didn't even tell me. I only just found out the details, and I'm sorry to say I'm too ashamed to tell you how.

Despite what you may think, your father was an honorable man, and that is what, I believe, led him to his final decision. He saw no way out, and he somehow thought that his death would protect us.

I'm sorry to say I have one more secret, honey. Our lives seem riddled with them. It's wrong to write of it here, but you'll find out soon enough.

All my love, Mom One more secret , thought Sloan bitterly. What a trite way to put it.

He tried to ignore the steel bands that had constricted around his chest as he read her words. The bands were strange to him, something he had never experienced before. They weren't forged of anger, or even of guilt, but of a profound grief he had never before allowed himself to feel. He had never truly mourned for his mother, and at that moment it shamed him.

He scanned the letter again, trying to read between the lines.

What was she too ashamed to tell him? The answer to that question would likely elude him forever. But at least now he had some idea of the torment that led her to her final decision.

He continued to read and re-read the letter.

A long line of thieves . He laughed at that, strangely without rancor. It explained so much. Where the family money had come from, and his own undeniable urges. But it also kindled his other fear. Perhaps his father had chosen to end it out of desperation rather than a mysterious depression or other psychological flaw, but it didn't change the fact that he chose it. And now Sloan knew that he took after his father in more ways than he had ever dreamed.

He shook off the mood, and focused on the rest of her words. So his mother hadn't known the whole story. She hadn't known the details of what had consumed her husband in his last days. Apparently she found out later, and had considered telling him, but eventually decided that death would be easier to face than the truth.

Well, now he knew. He knew what had torn his father apart. He had seen glaring evidence of it tonight at Lakeside House. And he knew who was behind it.

Vance Elliott.

At last, he had someone to blame. And they were going to pay.

Chapter Nineteen.

Franki stepped lightly, grateful that her sneakers made no noise on the freshly polished hospital tile. Visiting hours had long since ended, but she hoped to sneak into his room without being noticed, just for a quick kiss on the forehead, and to assure herself that he was resting comfortably before she joined Bree up in Lydia's room.

She had come up the back stairs so as to avoid the nursing station altogether, and now she picked her way down the darkened hallway. She found the door to room 303, and pushed it open, but stopped when she heard the murmurs of soft conversation. She cursed the dissolution of her plans.

A nurse must be in checking his vitals. She was about to pull away and find a spot to hide out for a few minutes when she caught a snatch of the hushed conversation.

"Why on Earth didn't you call me?"

"I wasn't conscious," was the sullen reply. "It's kinda hard to pick up the phone when you're comatose."

Franki smiled to herself. He sounded like a twelve-year-old.

"Oh shush! I'll take that Sloan over my knee next time I see him. He should have called me. And he still hasn't been in to see you since you woke up?" She clucked her tongue, and Franki heard the soft gurgle of water being poured into a glass. "He should be ashamed of himself."

Craig cleared his throat. "Give the guy a break, Mom. He sat up with me for twenty-four hours straight."

"Well, I guess that's something. But-"

"Isn't your ten minutes up?" asked Craig. "The nurse said you could only stay for ten minutes, you know."

"I'll leave when she tells me to, and not a moment before."

"But aren't Dad and the others going to be wondering?"

"It's only your father and Susan, and I'm sure they're already sleeping soundly. The room at that inn is lovely, by the way. It's a shame you and Sloan didn't make better use of it. I declare if you two..."

Franki eased the door shut, and slunk back the way she had come. She had considered rescuing him, and meeting the woman who had spawned him, but he had sounded so pathetic and desperate. She just couldn't bring herself to ease his suffering.

She smirked to herself as she scaled the stairs to the oncology floor. Here the visiting hours were not so strictly enforced, since all patients had their own private room, and many were on palliative care. Franki knew that relatives often sat with their charges around the clock, hoping for a few final moments before the rapacious disease claimed their loved one.

She saw a soft glow coming from Lydia's room, and entertained a fleeting hope that maybe Bree's mother had awoken, and they were sharing a quiet mother-daughter moment. Franki had often observed the two as they chatted and whispered and laughed together. They were friends, as well as mother and daughter. Part of her envied them that. Friendship was something that she and Marie had never managed to achieve. They barely managed to get through a lunch without clashing over something. From the cut of Franki's dress to Marie's whining over her self-imposed lackluster lifestyle, they never ran out of things to argue about.

But when she reached the door, only silence greeted her. She stepped through and found Bree bent over the bed, a washcloth in her hand, tenderly washing Lydia's face and neck. "Still nothing?" asked Franki as she crossed the room and took up her position on the other side of the bed.

Bree lifted her eyes to her friend, and Franki was startled by how red and swollen they were. "What's wrong?" she asked with concern. "Why've you been crying?" Bree managed a weak smile. "She's gone." Franki blinked. "What do you mean, gone?" Bree turned her attention back to the cloth in her hand. She swished it around in the basin on the bedside table, and wrung it out before stroking it lightly down Lydia's arm. "She died about an hour ago."

Franki sank into a chair and stared at the woman on the bed. Her face was pale and her eyes closed as if in sleep. Franki would never have guessed. "God, Bree. I'm-I'm so sorry." "It wasn't your fault." "You know what I mean." Bree pressed her lips together, her chin trembling in spite of the effort. She continued to bathe her mother. "What happened? I mean...had it reached her brain? Is that what brought this on?" Bree nodded once, but then shrugged, obviously not trusting herself to speak. Franki waited, feeling helpless and angry. Somehow dealing with her own grief had been easier than seeing the pain etched into her best friend's face. Finally Bree spoke, her voice low but steady. "Her heart just gave out. They think the stress of the cancer, together with the coma was just too much for her. She'd made her request for Death With Dignity months ago and I gave my okay yesterday. They didn't take any extraordinary measures."

Franki clasped her hands together so tightly her fingertips felt numb. "What happens now? What do we do?" "Not much," whispered Bree. "The arrangements were made weeks ago. The funeral home will pick her up shortly, and after that it's just a matter of getting through it." Bree dragged her eyes away from the soft, pale features of her mother. "I just wanted a little more time. Was that so much to ask? Just a few more days and I could have given her a little piece of happiness."

"She knew you loved her, Bree. That's going to have to be enough."

Bree's eyes fell to the frail shell that lay so quiet on the sterile hospital linen. "But it's not. It's not nearly enough."

Franki nodded, and spoke a simple truth. "I know."