Derek closed his eyes and grimaced like a child waiting for a needle. "Perry."

Craig considered that. "Of course. He was the one that goaded you into it. And..."

"And what?"

Craig blinked. "Nacho chips."

Derek's faced screwed up comically. "Huh?"

"Does Perry eat a lot of nacho chips?" He remembered seeing Perry down a couple of huge bags of them at the barbecue.

"Yeah. He's munching those things all the time. I like 'em but they stink."

Craig nodded. "And so did the guy who beat me up."

Derek's mouth dropped open, and then closed again. He nodded.

"But why?" said Craig absently. "Why would he want to do it?"

Derek barely hesitated before answering. "He's had a thing for Francie for years. Not many people know it, but he's liked her since high school. He got me to try and set them up a couple of times, but Francie laughed in my face. I never told him that, though." Derek sank into the chair beside the bed. "He gets weird about stuff sometimes."

"Weird?"

Derek shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "Yeah. I don't know...just weird. He's my best friend, but sometimes I don't like him very much." Then he perked up. "Hey! I gotta tell Francie. She'll be so relieved."

"Speak of the devil," muttered Craig. "Where is she? I would have thought she'd be in to visit me by now."

"Maybe she slept in. She likes to sleep in. And she might have had a late night last night."

"Why?" Craig battled an uncharacteristic jealousy and suspicion. "Was she out on a date, or something?"

"No." Craig's edginess was lost on Derek. "Her and the others went over to Sloan's old place to clean it up as a surprise for him."

"Sloan's old place?" And then he remembered. Franki had been babbling something about cleaning toilets when he woke up.

Derek nodded. "Yeah. It's a gorgeous place, but it got all run down since he left."

"Know what, Derek buddy?"

"What?"

Craig threw back the covers. "I'm going to come with you to look for Franki, and then, once I've given her a piece of my mind, we'll talk to the police."

"You sure about this?"

"Yup. But first you are going to take me to see Sloan's old house. He never did get around to it, and I'm afraid he never will."

Derek chewed on his lower lip as he watched Craig maneuver off the bed and rummage around for the clothes his mother had brought him. "I don't know. Sloan wouldn't like it. And I think I've made him mad enough to last a lifetime."

"I don't give a shit what Sloan likes. He doesn't visit me, he deserves what he gets. And you owe me, what with not beating me up and all."

Derek nodded slowly, apparently seeing the logic. "But what about your family. I saw them leave.

Won't they wonder where you went?" Craig stopped. His mother would worry. She would definitely worry. It was like a hobby. It would make her happy. "They'll be fine. They won't worry."

"Okay," said Derek as he hefted himself out of the chair.

Craig pulled on his jeans and reached for a shirt.

"If Francie marries you will that make her Jewish, too?"

Craig stalled with his shirt halfway over his head. He wasn't sure which was more unsettling, the thought of marrying Franki or the image of her making matzoh balls beside his mother.

He pulled his shirt down the rest of the way and tucked it into his waistband. "God, I hope not," he said through a grin. "Judaism has survived Hitler and the PLO but I don't think it could survive Franki Waters."

"Yeah," said Derek sagely as they headed out the door. "I think I know what you mean."

Perry's footsteps thudded softly on the earthen floor. There was no echo.

Unconsciously, Sloan held his breath as Perry's dim silhouette approached from the stairs at the far end of the cellar. The single naked lightbulb did a poor job of illuminating the expansive space, but finally Perry stepped into view, the harsh light casting his features in gruesome relief.

"Ah," he crooned as he took in the tableau of misery around him. "This is just too perfect. A real Kodak moment."

Sloan found his breath, and his tongue. "But it's rather cliche, don't you think? Really, Perry. Ropes and chains and an old damp cellar? Surely you could come up with something a little more original than that."

Perry faced his heckler. "How about administering a paralytic drug that leaves the subject completely powerless but aware, and then...very slowly, while they watch, of course, slicing open a wrist or two."

Perry studied him while Sloan's head swam with rage. He barely found the strength to speak. "Why? Why torture her like that? Jesus Christ. You stole her husband from her. Hadn't she been through enough?"

Perry's eyes glinted. "She tried to steal my father away from his wife." He moved very close to Sloan-close enough that Sloan could see the yellow-tinted whites of his eyes, and smell the rancid coffee on his breath. "Your mother was a whore, Carver. And your father was a thief. I guess it's no surprise that you turned out to be a little bit of both."

Sloan's foot shot out, aiming for Perry's crotch, but Perry was surprisingly quick. He dodged the foot and landed a fist in Sloan's exposed side. Sloan felt something give, and tried to stifle a groan.

Perry laughed as Sloan slumped to hang limp from his bonds again.

"You're almost as pathetic as your father. He fought me too, for a while, until I bashed him on the back of the head." Perry clucked his tongue. "Had to do it twice, actually, until he was dopey enough to let me put the gun in his mouth. It was so convenient that his gun was a .45. It blew out the back of his head and all evidence of the struggle went with it. Made such a pretty pattern on the wall, too." He sighed. "But I'm sure I don't have to tell you that."

Sloan gritted his teeth, but didn't trust himself to speak the vile epithets that were creeping up the back of his throat. He couldn't allow himself to think about the suffering his parents had endured. And he couldn't allow himself to step into the sea of guilt that was lapping at his toes. He had blamed and hated them. He had disowned them and shamed their memory. He had vandalized their home, and... And that wasn't even the worst of it.

"I don't understand!"

Sloan tore himself back to the present and focused on Bree, who was looking at Perry with imploring, confused eyes.

Perry turned slowly to face her. "What don't you understand, Bree? I'll answer you, you know. Out of the four of you, you always treated me the best."

Bree frowned, apparently as confused by the reference as Sloan. But after a moment she voiced her question. "Why did you kill them? And why did you kill your father?"

Perry stared at her, and said nothing. The silence grew and stretched until Sloan thought he would go insane. "Answer her, dammit!"

"I'm waiting for her to finish the question. She left some people out."

Impossibly, Bree's face turned even more pale in the murky light. "What do you mean? More people?"

Perry cocked his head and frowned. "Yes. Don't you want to know why I killed the others as well?"

"There were others?" breathed Franki.

"Of course," boasted Perry. "There was Joe and Russell, and I would have loved to take care of dear Lydia as well, but unfortunately the cancer beat me to it."

Sloan felt like he'd suffered a fresh kick in the stomach. "Lydia?" he whispered, his eyes riveted on Bree. "She...she died?"

But Bree wasn't looking at him. She had eyes only for Perry. "What are you talking about?" Her voice was even, but her eyes burned like a newborn star.

Perry knelt down beside her in the dirt and traced a slimy finger down her cheek. To Sloan's amazement she made no effort to draw away, but held his eyes as he spoke.

"Oh, so gullible, sweet little Sabrina. Russell's accident was no accident."

Bree just stared at him, her face a mask of pain and rage.

Perry's gaze never faltered.

"And my father?" wailed Franki, her feet scuffling in the dirt as she tried in vain to break free. There was murder in her eyes, and Sloan could easily picture her blood-red fingernails digging into Perry's throat. "You killed him, too? But...how? And, for God's sake, why?" Tears were streaming down her face, and Sloan had never felt so protective, and so useless in his life.

Perry held up his hands. "Please, please. One at a time." He touched a finger to his chin and screwed up his face in concentration. "Now, where to begin?" He whirled and looked at Sloan. "Perhaps you would care to fill them in, since you have recently become an expert on the subject."

Sloan glared at Perry. He could feel Bree's eyes on him. He didn't want to be the one to shatter her saintly image of her father. Hell, he didn't want to face it himself. How could he do that to her?

Then he reconsidered. Maybe it was best if she heard it from him. Maybe that would make it easier to take. And maybe he was kidding himself.

"Sloan?" whispered Bree.

"Our fathers were a bunch of thugs, and our mothers were their molls," he said bluntly.

Bree blinked and a tear spilled onto the dirt.

He softened his tone. "That's what I found when I broke into the Auction House. I found a business journal, a second set of ledger books and lists of bidders' names and addresses, along with detailed information about their...purchases."

"Go on, Sloan," taunted Perry as he leaned against the pole that held Bree captive. "Don't leave us all hanging in suspense. Tell her the rest."

Sloan dropped his eyes. He couldn't look at her. "The Auction House was a front and money laundering set up for a huge fencing operation. Many of the items that were sold were stolen..." He swallowed thickly. "By my father."

"What?" said Bree in disbelief. "How could they sell stolen items so blatantly?"

"From what I gather, the stolen pieces, like jewelry and art, were hidden in the furniture items. Bidders were informed ahead of time which items were key. The history of some of the pieces was trumped up and falsified to facilitate and explain the high bids. I guess the buyers never complained."

"Very good," interrupted Perry. "That's where your father came in, Bree. He refinished and refurbished the pieces that needed it." An evil smile twitched at his lips. "And he was also very adept at building false bottoms, and inlaying paintings in the backs of mirrors and such. He was multi-talented."

"You're lying," stated Bree.

"Oh, no," said Perry easily. "I'm not, and neither is Sloan. However, Sloan is leaving out one tiny piece of information." He turned his eyes on Sloan. "Well?"

Sloan licked dry lips. "You're so proud of it, I think you should tell her."

Perry sighed. "Very well. Russell's pottery pieces provided a prime hiding place for quantities of cocaine and heroin. I'm sorry to burst your bubble, honey, but the price that his work demanded had little-or should I say nothing-to do with his talent."

The room fell silent. The heaviness of it weighed on Sloan's soul like the sins of a thousand men. Or like the sins of four.

"No," whispered Bree. "Dad would have never had a part in that."

"Oh, he didn't like it much. But with my help, Vance talked him into it. Your father always had big dreams for you and your mother. He wanted to live like his friends Vance and Jonathan, and that kind of money was just too tempting."

"Then why did you kill him?"

Perry's face darkened. "Because his conscience started to eat away at him. The distribution racket didn't sit well with him and eventually he caved. I suspect your mother had something to do with it as well. He wanted us to stop the operation. And I believe he may have had suspicions about Jonathan's death." He glanced at Franki. "And he had converted Joe to his camp. Together they had decided that if we didn't quit the drug branch of the operation they were going to opt out. Like Jonathan, they became a liability. One that we couldn't afford."

Bree's eyes turned pleadingly on Sloan, and he had the irrational urge to beg her forgiveness. Somehow he felt as if the weight of all of this fell on his shoulders. His father and Vance had led them all down the garden path. Perhaps Jonathan had stopped short of stepping over a self-imposed line, but, ultimately, he had started them all down the road that led to their destruction.

Logically, Sloan knew he bore no responsibility for his father's decisions, but all his heart could see was Bree's disillusionment and disappointment.

He looked away.

"Oh dear," mocked Perry. "Do I sense trouble in paradise? Some tension between the lovebirds?"

Sloan said nothing and Perry sauntered over to him again. "You love her, don't you?"

Sloan glared at him.

"Of course you do. Your relationship always puzzled me, fighting one minute and ripping off each other's clothes the next." Perry tapped his chin. "I've never experienced that kind of passion. Since things aren't exactly idyllic between you at the moment, perhaps you wouldn't mind if I...sampled a bit of it for myself."

Sloan's stomach pitched. "Keep your hands off her."

"Oh, so gallant." Perry turned his leering gaze on Bree and took a few steps toward her. "And, oh so futile. I'll have her if I want, and while you watch, no less."

Bree shrank from him as his finger reached for her cheek.

"Leave her alone, you bastard!" Sloan twisted his hands against the ropes as wave after wave of impotent fury crashed over him. "If you touch her I swear I'll kill you!"

To his surprise Perry withdrew his hand and laughed.

"Don't worry, I was just teasing. Rape isn't really my cup of tea. I just love to torture you, that's all." He sauntered over to Sloan, and to Sloan's surprise touched his forearm. "And isn't this familiar." Perry lifted his finger, which was stained red.

Sloan blinked and finally noticed the warmth trickling down his arm. He focused on his wrists and realized he had rubbed them raw.

"More Carver blood on my hands." Then he leaned close and hissed in Sloan's ear. "Funny, but it never seems to be enough."

"Fuck you," whispered Sloan. "I'd say fuck your mother, but that's an image I'd really rather not conjure up, thanks."