It was hot. So hot.

The sun was something too big, too bright, like a monster, like a dragon her daddy had once read a story about, and it breathed fire like that dragon, burning the top of her head, her shoulders.

The air was hot, like when daddy, baking the good things to eat she never had any more, opened the oven door, so hot it made her lungs hurt as she ran, as hard as she could. She had to keep running, to get far, far away.

Tall yellow-brown grass whipped at her bare legs. Sweat stung her eyes, and her dark hair, stringy and dirty, stuck to her cheek, to her neck.

She tripped and fell hard, and for a minute she stayed there, coughing at the reddish dust that puffed up like a cloud as she'd fallen. Her legs hurt from running so far, and her chest hurt from breathing so hard, but most of all, her heart hurt because she was scared and wanted her daddy.

The man's voice called to her, calling her by that name, calling her Emily. She'd never be Emily, though, no matter how much he scared her. No matter how much the lady slapped her when she said it wasn't her name. She'd never be Emily. Never, never.

His voice came closer, and she pushed herself to her feet and ran again. Behind her, she heard him say bad, bad words, and yell at her to stop, to come back home because mommy was worried. She ignored him. This wasn't her home, and that lady wasn't her mommy, because she didn't have a mommy. It was just her and daddy. And this man, this scary man who said he was her new daddy, was a liar. Liar, liar, liar, because this man was thin and had mean blue eyes, and her daddy, her real daddy, was big and had a soft tummy and brown eyes like her own. This man yelled a lot and drank things that smelled bad. He never smiled like her own daddy, who smiled with his whole face and had a beard that tickled when he kissed her.

And she had never been afraid of her daddy. He'd never yelled at her, never kept her locked up in a hot, hot house, never kept her away from school, never kept her from her friends. The lady frightened her too, with her scary-looking eyes, calling her Emily, hugging her too hard, petting her too often, until she wanted to just scream and run away from being held too close by someone she didn't like and couldn't trust. They both told her that her daddy had given her to them, that he didn't love her anymore, but she knew that was a lie. Her real daddy had loved her, because he always said so, always kissed her and hugged her and sang to her. She knew he loved her and he would find her soon and take her back home.

The shed had become her hiding place, an old grey building almost falling down, the boards of the walls so far apart that she could see the whole big field through the cracks. It was full of spiders and squeaky little mice, but the lady was afraid of it, so it was her place to hide when she could sneak out.

She hid behind some old bales of hay and tried not to sneeze from the dust. The man was coming. She could hear his feet, in their big boots, running, hear the keys on his belt jingling. Reaching into the pocket of her old faded shorts, she pulled out the hair ribbon she'd kept hidden for all the time the people had kept her. It was pink, grubby from her fingers stroking it every night before she went to sleep, dirty from keeping it hidden from the lady. The lady had found it today, had screamed and cried and tried to take it away, but she'd snatched it out of her hands and had run.

It was all she had left, a hair ribbon her daddy had given her. In darker pink writing, it had her name, her *real* name, almost rubbed off from her touching it. She could spell it, but never wrote it around the lady and the man, because it made them so angry. The lady had wanted to throw it away, but she would never let that happen. She'd hide it, and the lady would never find it.

Her fingers scrabbled in the dirt beside the hay, until she'd made a little hole, just big enough to hold the ribbon. She folded it up, gave it a kiss, and put it into the hole, covering it with dirt and hay. It would be safe there, safe from the lady, who would never come into the shed.

The man came in, and she made herself small, like a little mouse, hoping that he wouldn't find her. Hoping, hoping, wishing so hard it made her head hurt. Wishing her daddy would come and find her, come and take her back home.

But of course the man found her. He always found her, no matter how well she hid, or how far she ran. His hands were rough and hard as he jerked her to her feet, and she cried out, "Daddy! Daddy!" as he swore at her and jerked her out of the shed, back into the hot, hot sun, back to the ugly old house he said was their home now.

Chris jerked suddenly awake, his heart hammering in his chest, his head pounding, his breath rasping in his lungs as if he'd run ten miles. Ran them uphill, and in the blazing sun. He scrubbed his hands through his damp hair, then over his sweaty face, nausea rolling in his belly, sour on the back of his tongue.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck." His voice sounded even higher-pitched than normal, breathy and thin with adrenaline. It had been so real. He could taste the dust on his tongue, feel the heat pounding down atop his head, the dirt under his fingernails, smell the musty, rotting hay.

Automatically, he reached for Howie to ground himself in the warmth of reality, but his hand slid across smooth cool sheets. Alone. Oh, yeah. He needed to get used to that. After two months of living alone in the apartment they'd shared for so long, he should remember he didn't have Howie any more. But then, two months of solitude had nothing on four years of living together, right? Sure.

Chris reached for the bedside lamp, his hands shaking. Golden lamplight puddled across his bed. He fumbled his glasses on, and his bedroom sprang into sharp focus. The bedside clock mocked him with the time: four thirty-seven. Hell.

Too restless to lie there a moment longer, he flung off the covers and levered himself up to sit at the side of the bed. Sweat trickled down his back, an itchy tickle, and his tee shirt stuck clammily to his skin. He was tired, tired to the bone, as his gramma would say. Six fucking nights he'd dreamed of this kid. Six nights of vivid dreams, of hearing her call for her daddy, of feeling her confusion and despair.

He hated his fucking gift, hated his gramma and her grandfather and every other member of the family before him who'd ever had the Sight. Why the hell couldn't it have skipped him? He drew in a deep breath, and blew it out, again and again, until the shaking in his hands stopped and his head cleared, until he couldn't hear her calling her for her daddy anymore. He rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbed them through his thick hair until it stood on end. Who was he kidding? He certainly didn't hate his gramma, and definitely wouldn't wish this off onto any of his sisters, even Taylor, who was going through a bratty stage, and likely to drive his mom insane.

Whether he wanted it or not, it was his gift, his obligation, to deal with. He couldn't say it was all bad, couldn't say he hadn't helped people. Hadn't he brought families back together with it? That alone was worth the headaches, the sweats, the nightmares, the fragments of visions.

It was even worth the loss of Howie.

There was no point in trying to get back to sleep; he felt too unsettled, too jangly with adrenaline. Chris pushed off the bed and ambled into the closet, stripping as he went. He needed a shower, but he might as well get in his morning run before he did and it would help work off some of his tension. He'd go on his run, shower, get dressed and let himself into the office, and maybe, if he was really lucky, he'd search through the files until he came to a name to put to that pretty, dirt-smudged little face.

He knew from long experience he'd have no peace until he did.

Mmmmmm.

Coffee. Chocolate. The scent tugged Chris out of a light nap. He cracked open one eye, and a Starbuck's cup swam into his bleary vision. Opening both eyes, he wondered why Lance was standing on his head, and then realized, duh, Lance stood over him as he'd fallen asleep leaning back in his office chair. He wondered if he had been snoring or drooling, and wiped at his mouth just to be sure. It was way too early to endure Lance's mocking if he had.

"Bass, Bass, divorce Laura and join me in a big gay love affair. You can keep me in chocolate and coffee forever, and I'll be your gorgeous yet freakishly gifted and intelligent boytoy." Greedily he reached for the cup, but Lance laughed and backed away, holding the cup out of reach.

"Sit up. No way am I giving you this until you do. I don't want to replace another keyboard."

Chris recognized the finality in Lance's smooth, deep voice, and sighed. He sat up straight, cracked his neck, and pulled his glasses back down onto his nose from their place on the top of his head. His head ached dully, and his eyes felt blurry from lack of sleep and three hours of staring at the National Missing Children's website. "I'm up. I'm awake. Give me my damn coffee already."

Lance leaned over and put the cup into his grabby hands. Chris inhaled deeply then took a sip. Perfect. Heaven had to have a Starbuck's on every cloud. "Seriously, I love you, man. You're the best."

"At least you didn't call me the Coffee Fairy this time," Lance said as he picked up a pile of files and books from Chris' spare chair, held them for a moment as he looked around for a place to put them, and finally just stacked them on the floor before pulling the chair up to Chris' desk and sitting down with his own coffee.

"Yeah, well, you hit me in the back of the head with a file for that, Bass. Saw stars for hours. And they weren't even Brad Pitt or Colin Farrell, either. I was robbed, I tell you."

"Quit bitching," Lance said without heat, and put a paper bag next to Chris' elbow. "Laura sent this to you."

Chris opened the bag, and the warm, sweet smell of fresh blueberry muffins rose to tickle his nose. He just barely held in the moan of happiness, because Laura made the best baked goods ever, even better than Momma Bass, who had long ago achieved legendary status in Chris' mind. "Oh, man. Forget you. I'll marry Laura instead, 'cause obviously, she loves me."

Lance snorted. "Oh, yeah, *that's* a likely scenario. Wrong equipment, remember?"

"Hey, I could learn to like girls in exchange for regular meals." It was an old joke between them. Laura was well-acquainted with his outrageous flirting, and Lance just rolled his eyes, knowing Chris liked dick way too much to ever be any serious threat.

"Yeah, well, whatever." Lance leaned back in his chair, sipping at his coffee. He looked smooth and perfectly put together as always, trousers perfectly pressed, shirt unwrinkled, silk tie just so. Chris had an unreasonable urge to either smack him, or mess up his spiked hair. He knew that fashion-wise, he suffered terribly in comparison, wrinkled and unkempt in jeans and an old Rancid tee shirt, but it didn't matter. He wasn't meeting with clients today, and sitting at a computer for hours, looking through files and files of pictures called for comfortable clothing. He was just glad he wasn't like Lance, the owner of Bass Investigations, who had to look polished and professional at all times.

"You look like shit," Lance said, after Chris had wolfed down one muffin and was working on the second. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I sleep," Chris replied indignantly, and Lance calmly wiped muffin crumbs from his trouser leg. "Sorry," Chris muttered. "What the hell are you doing here this early, anyway?" He didn't particularly want to talk about his sleep, or rather, the lack thereof. The best defense was often a quick offense.

Lance smiled crookedly, rueful. "This morning, Laura threw my ass out the door and told me she never wanted to see me again, and that we were never, ever having sex again."

"See? She's realized her lapse in judgment. She should've married me, after all."

"Nah. She called me by the time I'd driven around the block, and wanted me to bring her some sweet and sour shrimp for lunch. With a side order of tacos." Lance shook his head. "She's gone past being as big as a house. She's an apartment building now."

Chris rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Man, I do hope you didn't say anything like that to her face. Even *I* know better than that." He'd been raised in a house full of women, and prided himself on his ability to relate well to them, to charm them, even if he had little or no desire for them.

"Of *course* I didn't say anything like that, you moron. And besides, I think she's gorgeous now. Don't get me wrong, she's beautiful even when she's all covered in mud from weeding the garden, but now that she's pregnant, she sorta...glows." Lance's pale green eyes, always as sharp as razors, went all soft and hazy.

Chris laughed; he couldn't help himself. "If you could only see the dopey look on your face. Worth a mint, I tell you."

"Fuck off," Lance said sweetly, and unfolded enough to kick Chris in the shin with his expensive Italian loafers. Chris yelped and jumped, spilling coffee down his hand and wrist.

He sniggered as he licked mocha from his wrist. "Underneath that solid, serious exterior is a solid, serious man, but way underneath *that* is a mushball. Don't worry. I'll keep it under my hat. Scout's honor."

"You were never a boy scout," Lance scoffed.

"No, but I did a lot of them back in the day," Chris replied cheekily, and grinned at Lance's sour expression.

"TMI, Chris." Lance tilted his head and looked at Chris speculatively. Chris hated being at the receiving end of that pale, intense stare, but refused to wriggle uncomfortably just out of stubborn principle. "I don't suppose you'd have any idea when Gabriel's going to decide to be born, do you?"

Chris finished the last of his coffee, and tossed the cup into the trash. "Hey, I already told you that you were having a boy, you greedy bastard. Now I have to tell you when he's coming?"

Lance rubbed the back of his neck, and color chased across his cheeks. "It's just that Laura's so restless, so...on edge. It'd be kinda nice to know how much longer to expect, y'know?"

"It's not a party trick," Chris replied, and wiped at his chin to make certain he'd gotten the crumbs out of his short goatee. "I can't just put on the Captain Clairvoyant tee shirt and wave my hands around and come up with answers, y'know. It comes when it comes, and I have no control over any of it."

His granmma had better control of the gift, but he'd never learned to manage it as well as she could. She'd told him the men in the family who'd had the Sight tended to have lesser control of it, and he'd had to take her word for it. Not like he could ask his great-grandfather about it, after all, and he was the only one in his generation who had it, so no help from that quarter. Sometimes he had flashes of visions when he touched items belonging to people, and could imprint on them that way; that method worked better when he was actively searching for someone. Sometimes he had bits of visions that never seemed to relate to anything, that he could never figure out or connect to anything concrete, like randomly spinning the tuning dial on a radio and getting bits of this or that. And sometimes, as in the past week, he had vivid dreams.

"I know, I know. I was just hopin'." His Mississippi accent had deepened, and Chris realized that in spite of his cool exterior, Lance was really stressed with Laura so heavily pregnant with their first child. He'd worked hard at softening his thick as molasses accent over the years they'd been friends.

"If I see anything, you'll be the first to know, okay?" Chris said, relenting a little. It was the least he could do for Lance's easy acceptance of his gift, and the opportunity to put it to good use. Lance was a good guy, though he'd probably deny it, and his best friend. He flung his arms over his head and stretched hugely, then yawned. His neck ached, his shoulders felt knotted tight, and his head throbbed from staring at the screen.

"I appreciate it," Lance replied. He leaned forward in his chair, peering at the screen. "So. Is this something new, or something old?"

"Something new," Chris said with a sigh. He clicked through another file, and another, waiting to recognize the face that haunted his dreams. "I don't have a handle on it yet, so I'm just looking around until something clicks, y'know? Kinda a 'I'll know it when I see it' type of scenario." He clicked rapidly through three more files, three more missing girls in the right age range. "It's a fucking pain in the ass, 'cause she could be anywhere."

"No hints? No clues as to where she might be?" Lance edged closer, until his shoulder touched Chris', and Chris could feel his warm concern.

Four more files went by before Chris answered. "I have a sense of where she is now. It's hot, really hot. Tall grass that seems to go on for miles, but that might just be the perspective of a small kid. A few old dilapidated buildings. It made me think of the Thirties, back in the Depression, actually."

"You sure it's something current, and not just..." Lance paused, thinking, his graceful hands moving, attempting to give his thoughts some shape, "...maybe something you've seen on TV, or read recently?"

Chris leaned back in his chair and thought. Before he'd left, Howie had been doing some research on the Depression for his classes at Valencia, and he remembered watching some of the old film clips. He wondered, for a brief moment, if this might not be some aspect of that creeping into his mind.

"I don't think so," he said slowly. "I did see some documentaries on that time frame, but man, this was too real to be a spin-off of that. The little girl was too real. The documentaries just gave me a frame of reference, more than anything else." He scrubbed at his face. "Besides, I've been dreaming of her for more than a week now."

"Well, hell," Lance said. "No wonder you look so tired. I just thought it was...well, never mind."

"You can say his name, Bass," Chris said, suddenly weary. "He just left me, he's not like, dead, or anything."

"Sorry. It's just that you guys were together longer than Laura and I have been, and really? I thought you'd be together forever. Howie's a great guy."

Chris picked at a hangnail on his thumb, and frowned when it began to bleed. Lance handed him a kleenex, which he ignored, popping his thumb in his mouth to suck away the blood. "Yeah, he is. Smart, funny, good in bed. But sometimes, things just don't work out, in spite of your best intentions. This whole," he flapped his hand around to encompass the office, and himself, "psychic thing was just like the icing on the cake. But I gotta give him credit for hanging in there as long as he did. I think the McBride case was the one that finally broke him." It had almost broken him, and Chris never, never wanted a case like that ever again. He couldn't blame Howie for bailing; he'd been almost crazed in his search for the little girl, and ultimately, for her killer.

Lance opened his mouth to say something, but closed it as they heard the main door of the office open, and JC's clear, bright voice singing a happy hip-hoppy tune. Chris' mouth crooked in a half-grin. "Looks like it's time for you to start doing the boss-man thing."

"Guess so." Lance rose fluidly, and patted Chris on the shoulder. "Tell me if I can do anything to help, okay?"

Although Chris knew the offer extended beyond his office and into his private life, he chose to interpret it as work-related. "Not much you can do, at the moment. Only I know what she looks like. And what I saw probably has nothing to do with where she was actually taken. The point of origin could be *anywhere* in the country. She looks like she's five or six, but I have no idea of how long ago they took her. Her memory of her daddy seems pretty strong, so it's probably not been all that long." He shrugged, pushing away how desperate she'd felt to him, how sad it had been to hear her calling for her daddy. "So, it's just slogging through thousands of files until I recognize her."

Lance winced at the thought. "I don't envy you. If you need anything, let me know." He moved to leave, then stopped, a thoughtful expression on his face. "JC's good at sketching. Maybe he could work with you, and get a picture worked out so he could help you look?"

"It would probably be quicker for me just to look, but I appreciate the offer. Now get your shapely ass outta my office so I can concentrate, okay? And send JC in with another cup of coffee when he gets it made, willya? His coffee is like, worlds better than that shit you make." Already he'd turned back to the computer screen, having gained his second wind, ready to slog through as many files as he had to in order to find her.

After three cups of coffee, a bagel, and rollerblading around eight blocks to work off the caffeine buzzing through his blood, Chris found her in the files.

He let out an ear-splitting crow of victory, and did a little victory dance at his desk, elated. He bounded out of his office, caught JC in the hallway, grabbed him around his slim waist and polkaed him halfway down the hall, scattering the papers JC had in his arms in their wake. Chris finally released him in the main lobby, gave JC's forehead a loud smacking kiss, and left him blinking big blue-grey eyes, looking as if he'd been run over by a train. Dani, in her place at the receptionist's desk, didn't even bat an eye.

"Bass, I found her!" he announced as he blew into Lance's orderly office like a tornado. Lance rose from his desk, grinning, and pounded Chris on the back when he hugged him. "And fuck me, if she's not a hometown girl, too. After searching all over the country, she's from here. Briahna Fatone."

"Right under your nose, huh? Isn't that something?" He wheezed as Chris hugged him again, hard enough to make his ribs creak. "Chris. Need to breathe."

"Oh, sorry," Chris said, and released him. As he slid away, Chris suddenly felt a wave of disorientation and grabbed onto Lance's firm biceps. Lance's spicy cologne faded, and the brightness of Lance's office darkened.

The smell of antiseptic was cool and sharp, contrasting with the warm, animal smell of body fluids, edged with the coppery scent of blood, the salty smell of sweat. The light was subdued, bright enough to see, but not intrusive. Lance stood at the bedside, clad in wrinkled, sloppy blue surgical scrubs, his smile huge and brilliant, the crooked one, all big teeth and gums, so different than his cool, professional smile. He wiped at his face, and his hand came away wet, then he leaned down and kissed Laura tenderly, smoothing away her sweaty dark hair with gentle hands. She smiled up at him, exhausted, but so happy she almost glowed with it. Lance kissed her again, murmured soft, loving words to her. A moment later, he leaned closer and ran a fingertip of the soft pink cheek and rosebud mouth of his son, bundled in blankets, held closely to Laura's breast.

The vision poured out of his mind like water out of a pitcher, and he stood blinking, once more in Lance's familiar office. Lance leaned in, peering at him. "Chris?"

Sweat beaded on his upper lip, at the nape of his neck, the small of his back. He blinked again, and his vision cleared completely.

"You okay? Your pupils went all weird. Normal, then blown huge, then normal again."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Quit mother henning." Chris slapped half-heartedly at Lance's supporting hands. "And you know I don't do drugs, so don't even start that."

"What was it then? Did you see something?"

"Yeah, you." When Lance arched a fine dark brow, Chris continued. "Tonight, man. Ten thirty-six in the evening. Gabriel James Bass makes his debut upon the world stage."

"What?" Lance flushed, then paled. Chris had never seen him look so poleaxed. "Tonight?" And in all the years he'd known Bass, he'd never heard that deep voice squeak before. It was fucking wonderful to see and hear.

"Tonight," Chris said, warm with satisfaction.

"I was just gonna go and get her lunch. Are you *sure*, Chris?" The accent was back, as thick as honey.

"The poor kid has your huge fucking nose," Chris replied, and laughed as Lance, finally convinced, turned back to his desk and began throwing his things into the leather satchel he always carried. "What are you doing still here? I'll tell Dani you're leaving, okay?"

Chris stood at the door to Lance's office as he watched him tear out, moving faster than he'd ever seen the normally laid-back Bass move before. He snickered, and hoped Lance paid attention to the speed limits.

"Wow," JC said as Lance sped by him, almost bowling him over, muttering "sorry, C, sorry" as he ran. "Did Laura call, or something?"

Chris leaned against the doorjamb. "Not yet. She's probably just starting to feel labor pains."

"Oh, you saw it?" JC smiled down at him, the happy, squinched-faced real smile Chris had always loved to see. "That's gotta be great."

"It was that time," Chris replied, crossing his arms over his chest. Too many times it was so far from great as to be in a whole different universe. He'd had way too many visions that were horrible, bloody things; more times than he cared to admit, the visions or dreams had forced him to his knees, vomiting helplessly, sick at what he'd seen. "So I guess he's out of the office for the next few days. Wanna play since the cat's away, little mouse?" Chris offered him an exaggerated leer.

"You're awful," JC said, but he looked pleased; he loved it when anyone flirted with him, and Chris was always happy to oblige. "Straight, remember?"

Chris cocked his head and allowed his gaze to roam from JC's long, wild, curly hair, to the wide, soft mouth, to the pink henley stretched across his chest, to the low, hip-hugging embroidered jeans, to the assorted beaded bracelets around his wrists, and his bare feet clad in flip-flops. A turquoise toe ring winked in the light.

"Dude, you're like the poster child of randy gay boys everywhere. You just *cannot* be straight."

"I'm merely secure enough in my manhood to wear what pleases me," JC said with a flip of his curly hair. "And besides, I don't believe in stifling stereotypes."

"You're a braver man than I, Gunga Din," Chris replied, and unfolded himself from his slouch. "What do you say I treat you to lunch, sparklyboy?"

"I'd say I'm also secure enough in my masculinity to accept," JC answered, blue-grey eyes glinting with amusement.

"And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you're also the cheapest bastard I know." Chris put his hand in the small of JC's back, and steered him toward the door. "Just so you know, I'm so gonna expect you to put out for it." He paused long enough to say, "Hey, Dani. C and I are out to lunch. Should be back in four or five hours, after cheap food and wild monkey sex. Don't let the cockroaches take over while we're gone."

"Totally disgusting, Kirkpatrick," Dani replied, not bothering to look up from her filing. "Thanks ever so much. I'll see you in one hour, just like always."

As they reached the door, JC sent a merry glance over his shoulder. "Hand off my ass, Chris."

"So sorry," Chris replied with mock sincerity as he did just that. He congratulated himself on being a big enough man that he didn't even give a final squeeze before he did it.

"Y'know," Justin said quietly, hitching up his jeans over his narrow hips, "I remember when this used to be fun. When it used to be more than just fuckin' in your office after hours, just gettin' off, and gettin' out."

Joey sat sprawled in his big office chair and watched the smooth movement of muscles in Justin's back as he jerked at his zipper. Justin had a spray of freckles across his broad shoulders, and Joey could remember lying atop him in bed on a lazy afternoon when Kelly had Briahna out, pinning Justin to the bed, and licking across them slowly, then working his way down the bumps of his spine, feeling Justin shiver beneath him in pleasure.

It had been a long time since he'd taken the time to do that. A whole lifetime ago.

"I don't make you come here," Joey said, exhaustion overwhelming the momentary pleasure Justin had given him. Justin had the best mouth, the most clever hands, and just the thought of him crouched between Joey's spread thighs would've been enough to get him up and ready to go again. But that was before. Now, even the reality of a lean, naked, beautiful Justin was barely enough to get him hard. Joey thought he should probably be worried about that, but was too weary to care much at the moment. "Nobody says you have to show up."

"I know." Justin turned, his tee shirt in hand. Joey stood up from his chair, and hitched up his own trousers. He pulled on his shirt, avoiding looking at Justin as he tucked in, buttoning and zipping up. "But I keep thinkin' that maybe. Well."

Without looking up, he could see Justin's big hands wadding his shirt into a tight, wrinkled ball. Slowly, he tracked up Justin's smooth, muscular body, until finally he could see his face, young and etched with worry, half-hidden in the shadows of his office. Justin's soft pink mouth was set in an unhappy shape, and for a moment, pity for Justin welled up within him. He'd certainly not made it easy for Justin lately; but no matter how much he felt sorry for Justin, his own misery quickly crushed any other emotion.

"Maybe what?"

Justin's dark blue eyes regarded him steadily. "That maybe, you'll decide it's time to start livin' again. It's like. Like Briahna wasn't the only one who. Who."

"Died," Joey supplied, his voice cold and flat. "You don't have to fuck around with it, Jus. Go ahead and say it. She's dead."

"Man, you don't *know* that."

"I know it," Joey said, and the crushing certainty of his knowledge made him fierce, made him take a step forward, his big hands curling into fists. Whatever showed in his face made Justin give ground. But only for a minute, because Justin was as persistent, as stubborn as he was. Justin's chin set in a manner that often had his kitchen assistants scrambling for cover, and Joey knew the fight was on.

"They never found anything. They never found her bo.... They never found *her.* You just don't know, Joe, if she really, truly is dead."

"It's been a fucking year and a half," Joey said, and his voice lowered dangerously, grew louder, harsher, in the quietness of his office. Anger and sorrow burned deep inside him, hollowing him out, leaving him empty of anything good or clean or human. "They'd have found her by now if they could've. I've accepted it, and moved on."

Justin pulled on his muscle tee. It clung like a second skin, and once, Joey would've noticed such a thing with pleasure, would've wanted to touch his flat belly, would've wanted to lick and bite the long line of his throat. But not now. "Liar," Justin said in his soft voice. "You've accepted it, but you haven't moved on. You're still in that moment when they took her. You're still in that place of grief, and man, you're not goin' anywhere. You've moved in permanently."

And what burned more than anything was the realization that Justin was right. His life had stopped; he'd never gotten past that day, that hour, that moment when the nanny had called, frantic, to tell him Briahna had disappeared without a trace from the market where she'd been shopping. It had been a small market, without cameras, and no one had seen anything at all. It had been as if she'd disappeared into thin air. Frantic, he'd waited by the phone, thinking it a kidnapping, but no call had ever come, no demands for her release, nothing. The police had no leads, and the FBI had nothing.

Briahna had just disappeared. When days, weeks, months, and finally a year, then a year and a half had gone by with no word, no clue, no atom of information, Joey had finally just accepted that she was gone, forever. He'd given up hope.

And all the joy, all the light went out of his life in that moment of realization. Life had no pleasure, no flavor. All he had was his work, the running of his restaurant, Il Giardino Bello, and into that he poured what little of himself he had left, working sixteen, eighteen hours a day, letting the work, the routine, the stress, numb him to everything else. His parents, his family, could not comfort him, and in spite of their best efforts he'd drawn away from them, wracked with grief and guilt, inconsolable.

Even Justin, who had shared his bed for two years, could not bring him pleasure, just a momentary release, a temporary easing of the heaviness that shrouded his life.

"There's nowhere else to go, Justin," Joey said finally. "There's nothing left."

Justin sucked his lower lip between his teeth, then stepped forward. His hand slid over Joey's forearm, and squeezed gently. "I waited. I waited for you to come back. I tried to help you, but I don't think you can come back to me. To us. You've got everyone else fooled, got them thinkin' you're okay, you're handlin' things, but, man, I know you better than that."

He moved even closer, and Joey let Justin slide a long arm around him, pull him against his body. Justin felt warm, and strong and young. Vital. Full of life; too alive for him.

"It's time to stop waiting, Jus." He pressed his hot face into the side of Justin's throat. "Time for you to move on."

"The really shitty thing is, I know you're right," Justin murmured, stroking his hands over Joey's back. "Known it for awhile. I wanted to hold on to what we had, and I can't do that. You need to move on, and you can't do that with me around. I'm just a reminder of life before it happened, and I think that maybe." He swallowed hard. "Maybe we just need to cut loose from one another and start over again."

In the time Briahna had been missing, he hadn't wanted anyone in his life, but he hadn't wanted to be completely alone, either. Justin stayed, offering himself, and Joey took what he gave freely, even knowing it was unfair that he couldn't offer anything in return; he'd been like a black hole of grief and loss. Justin deserved more than that; deserved someone who could meet him halfway, who could give of himself. And Joey knew that person would never be him again.

"You're a decent guy, and I haven't treated you like you deserved. I've been a selfish shit. I'm sorry." Joey pulled back, and slid his hand over the nape of Justin's neck, squeezing gently.

"Man, you didn't do what I didn't let you do. We'll call it good, still be friends, okay?" Justin had the bluest eyes, and they shimmered a little in the half-light. Color chased across his cheeks, and he ducked his head.

"Still friends," Joey said, and brushed his lips across Justin's short buzzed hair. "Always that."

Justin looked up, and his eyelashes were wet, but he smiled. "And I'm still the best damn chef this roach motel has ever seen."

Joey smoothed his hand down Justin's back, one last caress before pulling away. "And the worst diva I've ever seen."

"I'm worth every fit I throw, Joe. You've got the awards of excellence to prove it." Justin gave a nod to the plaques hanging on the wall, commendations, awards from the local newspapers.

"I can't deny that." Joey's mouth curved upward slightly; Justin Timberlake was temperamental, without a doubt, but his perfectionism, his creativity, was well worth smoothing a few ruffled feathers.

Justin's smile grew wider, and he sat on the edge of Joey's desk to pull on his socks and shoes. "Wanna come out with me for a quick beer? I wouldn't keep you out long."

Joey ran his fingers through his thick hair. It had grown long and shaggy; he'd forgotten to get it cut again. "I'm kinda tired, really. Think I'll go home."

"Did you eat today?"

"I think I ate lunch. Not really hungry, though."

Justin buffed his shoes with his chef's smock. "Figures. Surrounded by food, and you forget to eat. You've lost a lot of weight, and your clothes are too big." He slanted a glance down at Joey as Joey slipped on his own shoes. "I kinda miss the belly."

"Yeah, well, you don't look like my mama, so shut up," Joey said without heat, and stood up, smoothing down his slacks. They really were big on him now; he hadn't noticed.

"Man, I am way prettier than your mama," Justin replied, and snapped his fingers in an S-shaped curve. "I am *fine*."

"Need to work on that inferiority complex, kid," Joey said, and switched off the desk lamp. "Ready?"

"Sure." Justin lead the way out of Joey's office, and Joey closed and locked the door behind them. The huge, immaculate kitchen, the heart of Il Giardino Bello, stood quiet and still, everyone else having gone home after closing. Seeing it had always made Joey feel full of joy and pride, and even now, those feelings stirred somewhere deep in his chest.

Justin opened the back door, and Joey set the alarms, then pulled the door closed behind them, locking it. Even at close to midnight, the summer night pressed down upon them, humid and heavy after the air conditioning of the restaurant.

"Man, fuckin' hot," Justin said, and ran his hand over the back of his neck. "Orlando in August. Gotta love it."

"Complain now, but you've never lived through a Brooklyn winter."

"Not likely to try, neither. Snow's okay for vacations, but give me the year round sunshine and warmth. I'm a southern boy, through and through."

Justin's car, a red Sebring convertible, stood not far from Joey's own more sedate black BMW, both parked under one of the lot's lights. Another car sat close by, a red PT Cruiser, and Joey frowned; he couldn't remember anyone he knew who owned one. They started walking out to their cars, when the door to the Cruiser swung open, and a man stepped out, closing the car door behind him. Joey stopped in place, reaching for his cell to call the cops, while Justin said, "Now what?"

The man held out both hands to show they were empty of any kind of weapon. "Mr. Fatone," he said, in a clear, light voice. "My name is Chris Kirkpatrick. I'm not a mugger or anything, honest. I just came to have a word with you."

"It's midnight," Justin said with a frown. "Don't you think it's a little late?"

"I'm fully aware that it's midnight," Kirkpatrick replied with some sharpness, his face turning toward Justin. The light flashed off the lenses of his glasses for a moment. He was a small man, on the slim side, with a shock of dark hair and a short, neatly-trimmed goatee. Dressed in an orange shirt over a black tee shirt and trousers, he didn't really look like a typical mugger, or really, given the difference in their sizes, much of a threat. "I'm sorry for the lateness, but I needed to speak with you. It's important."

"So important it can't wait until tomorrow?" Joey asked.

Kirkpatrick hesitated a moment, and Joey had the odd feeling that hesitancy wasn't much a part of his normal behavior. Even at the late hour, and fidgeting a little, from one foot to the other, he seemed to almost crackle with energy. He made Joey tired just watching him.

"Not really," he said finally. "I left a couple of voice mails on your cell, but you didn't answer, and as I said, it's very important."

Joey clicked on his phone, scrolled through, and sure enough, two voice mails, presumably from Kirkpatrick. Wearily he said, "I have no idea who you are. Why should I waste any more of my time with you?"

Kirkpatrick went still, and the effect, after all his movement, was startling. "It's about Briahna."

Joey felt every muscle lock into painful rigidity, and couldn't draw a deep enough breath. Beside him, he heard Justin draw in a quick, startled breath, but didn't dare to look at him. Couldn't look at him, only stare at the dark man standing in front of him, who looked as serious as anyone he'd ever seen. His heart thudded in his chest, and his blood seemed to prickle in his veins. He wanted to turn away, to wrap his misery around himself and disappear, but he was a Fatone, and didn't back down. He drew himself up to his full height, and stared down at the smaller man.

"What about Briahna?"

"I think she's still alive. I. I've had these dreams about her--"

And whatever else Kirkpatrick started to say was lost as rage, heavy and hot and crimson, slammed into him, pouring into him like lava, filling all those hollow places, wiping away the sadness, the tiredness. He had a moment to register Kirkpatrick's surprised eyes just before he drew back his arm and let go, arm driving smoothly from the shoulder, his fist landing in Kirkpatrick's face.

The asphalt was really fucking hard, still radiating heat from the day.

Above him, Chris could hear scuffling, low, fierce swearing, and a softer, higher-pitched voice saying, "Joey, Joey, cut it the fuck *out*, man."

Slowly Chris rolled to his belly, and his head spun wildly. His belly lurched, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick, but the sensation passed as he drew in a couple of deep breaths. Asphalt, check. Tire to the BMW in his line of vision, check. Throbbing in his left cheekbone--hell, the whole left side of his head--double check.

Fatone had hit him. Chris had seen it coming, just a second before it happened, and only his quick reflexes kept him from having a broken nose, because Fatone had fists as big as Chris' entire head. At least they'd looked that big coming at him. He'd twisted enough to avoid the main impact, but it had still connected, spun him around, knocked him to the ground.

Chris dared to turn his head; the swearing and scuffling had stopped. He blinked, his vision fuzzy, and decided that it wasn't a concussion, but the lack of glasses that affected his sight. He could see the lenses glinting in the light from above, just out of his reach. Not broken, thank God.

At least the tall kid had kept Fatone off him, and for that, he could be grateful, because Fatone was a big guy, a lot bigger than him, and evidently as strong as an ox, from the way his face hurt. The kid now held him closely, one big hand smoothing over the broad expanse of his back, the other long arm looped around his waist. After a moment, Fatone raised his arms and wrapped them around the kid, clutching him tightly, and Chris could almost see the waves of misery radiating off him. And hell, if that didn't make him feel pretty shitty, because misery was the last thing he'd wanted to offer him; he'd wanted to give him hope. He could hear the rise and fall of the kid's voice, and although he couldn't make out the words, he could hear either Tennessee or Kentucky in his accent, curiously soothing.

The pose, the way the kid held Fatone, was too close, too intimate to be merely friends, even very close friends; their tall bodies melted into one another as only lovers did. Ah. Interesting, the observant, analytical part of his brain said, and the rest of it said ow, ow, ow, our face hurts, and get out of here before you fuck it up any more. The analytical portion replied, hey, moron, you probably can't screw it up any more than this.

He knew he should've waited until tomorrow to approach Fatone. He knew he should've given himself a chance to calm down, to put on his professional armor, to get his thoughts into alignment. He knew he should've brought with him either JC, who could charm the scales off snakes, or Lance, who was smooth and cool and polished, the consummate professional investigator. But no, he'd hared off, excited he'd made this much of a connection, eager to start the hunt for her.

And besides, on a more selfish note, he'd not wanted to have that dream yet again.

The two men parted, and Fatone circled around him without looking at him, trailed by the kid. Chris heard the door to the BMW open, and figured he'd probably better move before Fatone finished the job and ran him over. He wobbled to his feet, and when he bent over to pick up his glasses, his head throbbed like crazy, and the side of his face burned. He braced himself against the side of the Sebring and slipped on his glasses, and mercifully, the world sprang back into focus.

Fatone sat in his car, the door open, the kid leaning in, talking earnestly to him. Chris saw him nod wearily, and hand over a set of keys to the kid, who smiled sweetly and squeezed his shoulder gently. The kid closed the door, and Fatone started the engine. When he looked up, Chris saw dark, dark eyes, filled with such unhappiness that something turned over in Chris' chest. God knew he'd seen enough devastated parents, but something about Joey Fatone made him feel his pain more acutely.

"C'mon, man," the kid said, coming up to him. "Let's get you iced down before it swells any more, okay?"

The wasn't much else to do. Obviously, Fatone wasn't going to talk with him, at least not tonight. Chris wanted to heave a sigh at the delay this caused in searching for Briahna; he wanted to get started *now,* and obviously, he'd fucked up in some major way, to get this sort of reaction. Chris heaved a sigh, and ran his fingertips gingerly over hot, puffy skin. Yeah, it was gonna swell like a mother. "Sure. You got some?"

He waved a big hand toward the restaurant. "Got all the ice we need in there." Turning, he strode off toward the back door, jingling the keys in his hand. With a shrug, Chris pushed off the car and followed.

At the door, while he waited for the kid to unlock and disable alarms, Chris looked back toward the car. Fatone sat with his arms draped over the steering wheel, his dark shaggy head bowed. Normally, he'd have bounced back up and torn into anyone who hit him; he'd never taken shit off anyone before, and had no plans to begin now. Although he didn't like to admit it, getting hit had been his own fault; he knew better than to approach a client without getting all the information possible, without being prepared, without anticipating all the possible outcomes, including violence. But in spite of his size, his anger, Fatone felt curiously soft and vulnerable to him, filled with a sorrow that went deep to the bone. That vulnerability reached out and wrapped around Chris, wiggled its way beneath his own anger. Chris felt a prickly ball of emotion rise in this throat. He had to look away and swallow hard a couple of times to get it to go away.

"You're lettin' out all the cold," the kid said impatiently, his tone sharp. "In, okay?"

"Yeah, mom," Chris replied, and stepped inside.

They passed through a dimly-lit storage area, and then into the kitchen itself. All the equipment, eerily silent and abandoned in the dimness, made Chris a little nervous, made him imagine vividly all the scary movies he'd ever watched, and to regret every one. He half expected a raptor to leap out at him, or someone to come after him with a cleaver. He narrowed his eyes at the kid in front of him, and contemplated fleeing just in case that thought had occurred to him also.

"This is his office. You can sit in here, while I get the ice." He unlocked the door and flipped on a switch that turned on the desk lamp.

The office wasn't that big, and as offices went, it was, well, office-y. Filing cabinets, a big desk with a big leather office chair behind it, a desktop PC, a chair in front of it. A dark leather sofa that looked comfortable and was big enough to sleep on. Polished wooden floors, an oriental-looking rug. The walls were a warm orangy-red shade that made him think of paprika in the spice bottles at his mom's house. He bet the paint manufacturers called the shade that, also.

On one wall was a huge landscape that made him think of rural Italy, and duh, Fatone was hardly anything else but an Italian name. Another wall had several framed certificates and awards. But the third wall caught his attention, drew him. Photographs.

Pictures of Fatone's family. His parents, what looked like an older sister and brother. Fatone at various ages, with lots of different people; family and friends, he assumed. One picture in particular caught his eye, a fairly recent one, it seemed: Fatone wearing a baseball jersey, and a backwards ball cap, and the serious, sexy look on his bearded face, the depths of his dark eyes--whoa. Nice. His eyes lingered a moment, then moved on.

Bingo. Dark eyes, sweet face, curly light brown hair, and big, big smile like her daddy. Briahna. A lot of pictures of her, either with her daddy or with members of the family, including a woman who looked far too much like her to be anyone other than mommy. Chris touched Briahna's face, ran his fingertip thoughtfully over the curve of her cheek. Strange, that she'd never called for mommy, just for daddy.

"We'll find you, honey," he said softly to the little girl in the picture. "I promise we'll get you back home."

"You serious about that?"

Chris jumped as the kid entered the office, a bag of ice in one hand, and two beers in the other.

"Totally." Chris took the ice and laid it along the swollen side of his face, and took a long drink of the cold beer. It tasted incredibly good and soothed his parched throat. He wanted to chug it down after all the events of his long, tiring day, but forced himself to sip; he didn't need a buzz and its accompanying problems to contend with on top of everything else.

"You really a psychic dude?" He looked interested and curious, though Chris could feel disbelief and disapproval skittering along his skin. The kid disapproved of him for some reason that Chris hadn't yet discovered, but couldn't seem to quell his interest, though he had good control of his expressions.

"Absolutely." Chris kept his answer short and crisp and sincere.

Hitching himself onto a corner of Fatone's desk and crossing his arms over his chest, the kid looked down his nose at Chris. He had the height, the nose, and the attitude to do it, but Chris had been challenged all his life by bigger, meaner guys than this one, and hadn't given ground. He wasn't inclined to do so now.

The kid studied him a long moment, dark blue eyes alert and serious. Chris held himself very still and matched his stare without a flinch; he could out-stare anyone.

Evidently he passed some sort of test. "I'm Timberlake. Justin." Justin held out his hand. It was every bit as big as Fatone's, and it almost swallowed Chris' own.

"I see your name on quite a few of those awards." Chris hitched a thumb toward the wall of framed documents and awards. "Lead chef, right?"

Justin grinned, unexpectedly sweet and charming. "Yeah. I've been with Joey about three years now. Determined to get this place a five star rating. We're gettin' close."

"Three years with him, huh?"

The way he'd worded it could've gone either way, but Justin's sunny expression darkened, and Chris thought, oh, shit, smart move. Justin was bigger than he was, and if the muscles moving beneath his muscle tee were any indication, he lifted weights in his free time. And he'd been decent to him--not a great idea to antagonize a possible ally.

"Yeah, so?" He'd had Justin for a moment, and now he was slipping out of his grasp; his straight dark brows were lowering ominously. Chris knew he needed to say or do something to pull Justin back to his side.

"Chill, dude. I'm a member of the club, too."

Justin blinked; he obviously hadn't expected that little revelation. "What, your psychic powers told you that?"

Chris grinned. "Nah. The fact that you, Fatone, and this office reeks of sex told me that. And the body language you share. I'm psychic, but I'm also observant. I'm a PI." Chris set down the half-empty beer, reached into the back pocket of his trousers, and flipped his wallet open to his ID and license.

Justin studied his ID carefully. "Huh. You work for an agency, or freelance?"

"Agency." Chris took back his wallet, and fished out a card with Bass Investigation and his own name and number printed neatly below. "I'm legit. If you want to call the Better Business Bureau, feel free. Call the cops if you want. The FBI, if you're so inclined. In fact, I'd encourage it. I have a good record with them, and have nothing to hide. The agency is completely on the up and up."

"I just might do that," Justin replied, and pocketed the card.

Chris shrugged, and took another sip of his beer, then adjusted the ice bag on his face. His skin felt numb now, but still throbbed dully deep within. "If I'd introduced myself that way, I might not have had this happen to me."

"Mmm. Probably not," Justin agreed. "That's about the worst approach you could've taken, man." He shook his head. "Joey and psychics...not the best mix."

"I'm not one of those tragedy chasers. Something bad happens, and the lunatics come crawling outta the woodwork. Doesn't help the cases of those of us who are serious." Anger simmered within him; he'd had plenty of dealings with fake psychics, unscrupulous people who'd tried to profit from the pain of others. They were parasites and he despised them, had done his best to shut down as many of them as he could. Evidently, the experiences Joey had with them had been bad.

"How come you didn't come out when it happened?"

"I wasn't here. I've only been in Orlando a year now. Two years ago, I was in North Carolina." He'd liked Asheville, and would've been happy to stay, but Howie had been offered the job in Orlando, and it was too good of an opportunity to pass up, so Chris had pulled up stakes and followed. He hadn't regretted it.

Justin nodded. "Nice place, been there on vacation." He looked thoughtful. "If you'd been here then, would you have shown up on his doorstep?"

"Don't know," Chris answered honestly. "I go where I'm led, not necessarily where I want to go."

"So why now?"

"Dreams." Chris lowered the ice bag and set it on the carpet; his hand was going numb. It dripped a little onto his trousers, and he rubbed absently at the wet spots with his other hand. "I've been dreaming about her for six days. She's alive, and I want to find her. I need his help to do it, though."

"Not fuckin' likely to get it," Justin said candidly. "When the cops couldn't find her, Joey's parents listened to psychics, and lost a bundle. Huge amount of money, for nothin'. This was after he'd lost more money than he needed to lose, himself. So nope, he's not likely to listen to you."

Chris sighed. "Hell. Man, I hate that. I really fucking hate it. It makes my job a hundred times harder when something like that happens. No wonder he hit me. I mean, I didn't enjoy it, but I understand it."

"Thing is, Joey's not like that," Justin said, leaning forward earnestly. "He's not a violent guy. It surprised the hell outta me when he did it, and probably him, too." Justin's gaze turned back to the pictures on the wall. "Before this happened, man, what a great guy. Always smilin', always laughin', pullin' pranks. Generous, sweet natured, easy-goin'. And not a better dad in the whole world. She was everything to him."

Yeah, the pictures showed a happy guy with a killer grin, a man who looked totally at ease with himself, and head-over-heels crazy for his daughter. He didn't much look like the angry and solemn man Chris had seen. "And now, he's given up." Chris could feel again the misery radiating from Joey, and it was so distant from the happiness in the pictures he couldn't imagine them being the same man.

"Pretty much, yeah. On everything, except the restaurant. Tryin' to work himself to death, I say. No room for anythin' or anyone else."

Justin's voice sounded calm on the surface, but Chris heard echoes of Justin's own misery in his words. He turned back, and Justin shrugged. "I loved Briahna. Everyone who saw her loved her. You couldn't help it. I was 'Unca Jus' to her. But after she disappeared, and had been gone for so long, he lost hope. He's not the same guy." Justin paused. He pressed his lips together tightly, and in that moment, looked very young. "I can't compete with the misery."

"No, you can't. No one can." Chris drained the last of the beer. "I can help him, if he'll let me. And even if he doesn't help me, I'll still try."

"What's it to you?" Justin sounded curious. "Why is it so important? Is it the money? I can't imagine you do this for free."

"I won't lie. Hiring the agency isn't cheap. But I don't get anything other than a standard salary from this, moneywise. What I do get from it is satisfaction from finding her and returning her. And man, if I don't try, the dreams will drive me crazy."

Justin studied him a long moment, and Chris could almost see him rolling the thoughts around in his head, weighing them, the possible consequences of his actions. "Listen. Joey's my best friend. I'm gonna check you out, and if you really are on the up and up, I'll put in a good word for you. He can't go on like this. It's eating him alive."

"Yeah. You do that." Chris took another look at their happy faces, their laughing eyes and swore that even if Joey didn't help him, he'd follow it on his own time and his own dime. Joey and Briahna deserved to be happy again.

Joey slept like shit.

Finally giving up after six hours of tossing and turning, he levered himself up to the side of the bed and sat with his face in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He'd had nightmares when he did manage to sleep, a mix of things he thought he'd finally gotten under control, and new things, like the surprised expression in Kirkpatrick's dark eyes before he'd slugged him.

Sourness rose on the back of his tongue. Not one of his most shining moments, there. He'd just been glad Justin had been there to hold him back, to talk reason into him before he did something monumentally stupid, instead of just really stupid. Even though anger still simmered in his blood at Kirkpatrick's presumptuousness, he wasn't a violent man, and shame curled hotly in his belly at what he'd done. His parents would be mortified at his actions; they hadn't raised him to be violent. He'd always been pretty good-natured, everyone's friend, and so hadn't needed to fight; those he couldn't charm, couldn't make laugh, he intimidated by his size. He'd never had much trouble with anyone, ever.

Sitting up straight, he flexed his right hand. The knuckles were scraped, and the joints felt stiff and sore. He hoped he hadn't done any real damage to Kirkpatrick, and frowned again as he remembered the thud of fist against face, remembered how the other man had dropped like a rock. He really didn't want a lawsuit on his hands, one he'd probably lose, given the difference in their sizes. It never looked good when a big guy hit a smaller one.

Oh, well. He trusted Justin to calm things down, do spin control. In spite of his occasional divatude, Justin was generally pretty level-headed, and good with people. Friendly, charming, even. God knew he'd fallen for him the minute Justin had smiled at him in a way that indicated he just might be interested in more than an employer/employee relationship.

He sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. Yet another fucking failure. At least it was over, and Justin was free now to find someone who could care for him the way he deserved.

Joey heaved himself to his feet and ambled into the bathroom. He showered quickly, and didn't even feel the urge to jack off. Slapping some gel into his hair to help control the unruliness, he neatened his beard and stared at his reflection. He could feel anger still simmering deep within him, like the seconds before a pot broke into a full boil, though he managed to keep it from his expression.

Just when he thought he'd brought some order to the wreck of his life, just when he thought he had things under control, here came Kirkpatrick, with his serious dark eyes and claims of being a psychic. When Briahna had first disappeared, his kind had come like vultures, feeding on his anxiety, his despair, his fear. If it wasn't reporters seeking him out for interviews, it was fucking fakes, offering to help him find her. They'd gotten to him at his lowest point, but worse, they'd gotten to his parents, almost mindless with grief, and his parents had lost almost everything. He'd felt partially responsible for that loss, and that was one of the reasons he worked almost non-stop, trying to replace their savings.

Fucking psychics. Fakes, the whole bunch of them.

He almost didn't mind the anger. Although it burned, cut, it was better than feeling nothing.

After he dressed, he stopped in the kitchen, trying to decide if he wanted to try and eat anything. His mom had cooked especially for him, trying to tempt him to eat, but not even her home cooking sounded appetizing. He ate at the restaurant only because Justin was such a bitch about it that it was easier to eat than to fight with him about it. Running a hand down his belly, he knew Justin had been right; he'd lost a lot of weight, but hadn't really cared too much about it. Briahna had always liked his daddybelly, as she called it.

Fuck. Joey rubbed viciously at his eyes, grabbed his extra set of keys to the restaurant, and headed out the door.

Damn Kirkpatrick.

He swore all the way to work, then plunged into the masses of paperwork it took to run a successful restaurant. By the time he looked up, it was just past noon, and Justin stood in the doorway with a sandwich and a mug of soup. He looked a little like some sort of avenging angel of nutrition, his face set with determination. Joey sighed, and pushed aside the papers. It wasn't worth an argument.

"So," he said, as Justin pulled up a chair beside his desk to make certain Joey ate, and didn't just toss the food in the trash. "What happened last night?

"You didn't break anythin', and he's not gonna sue for assault." Justin stretched out his long legs. He had flour all over his jeans, and a smudge on his cheek.

"I guess that's a relief," Joey said. The soup smelled good and rich, and he spooned it in. Minestrone, his dad's own recipe, he thought. It soothed some of the cramping in his gut. The sandwich was just as good, thick slices of roast beef and horseradish on chewy wheat bread; Justin had always known how to make the perfect sandwich. Justin sat uncharacteristically quiet while he ate.

"Yeah." Justin dug in his pocket and pulled out a small white card. He put it on the desk, and pushed it toward Joey.

"What's this?" Joey leaned forward and peered at the card. Heavy stock, simple and tastefully done. Bass Investigations, it read. In smaller print he'd need his reading glasses to really make out, he saw graceful script.

"It's his card."

Joey picked it up like it was contaminated, and flicked it into the trash. Justin sighed.

"He's a PI. Works for an agency. He's on the up and up, Joe."

Joey could feel the anger gathering in him, feel the frown pulling at his mouth. "I'm not--"

"Jesus, Joe, just shut up a minute." Justin's face clouded, and his jaw set. "Listen to me for just one sec, willya?"

Joey subsided, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his own jaw hardening. He and Justin had never fought much, but he could be just as stubborn. "Fine. What?"

Justin drew in a deep breath, and let it out with a whoosh. "Okay, you remember Kevin? The lawyer dude I had hooked up with before you?"

Joey turned the name over in his mind. Kevin Richardson. Justin had mentioned him frequently, and they'd run into him once while out. Tall, pale, with black hair and striking dark green eyes. Handsome and urbane, well-mannered and well-spoken, and after meeting him, Joey had been surprised Justin had left Kevin for him. "Yeah, I remember. What about him?"

"I called him early this mornin' and talked with him. And no, not about hookin' up, because I know how your mind works, asshole." Justin rubbed the back of his neck. "So anyway. I had him check out this agency, and this Chris Kirkpatrick guy. The cops know him, think pretty highly of him."

Joey snorted. "Like I believe anything they have to say. If they couldn't find her, why should I believe anything he has to offer?"

"Dude, I talked with him last night. He's serious about it. I told him what happened with the other so-called psychics, and it pissed him off. He wants to help you."

"He wants to help himself to my bank account."

Justin looked as if he were counting to ten, trying to keep his anger under control, his big hands flexing. "Man, you're so bitter, I don't know if anyone can ever break through it."

"I've got reason to be bitter, Justin. I've had the rug jerked out from under me so many times. I've been offered hope, and then watched as it dried up and blew away. I've waited and prayed, mom has lighted candle after candle at church, and nothing. Nothing. I won't be played again. I've been through it once already, and I'm just not buying." Joey's voice grew louder and deeper as anger and grief bubbled up within him.

"I know this. I've been right there beside you, remember?" Justin's voice went soft, a surprisingly gentle voice for a man his size.

Joey's eyes burned, and he rubbed at them, leaning back in his chair. He cleared his throat, and his voice lowered back to normal. "Yeah. You have. I know that. But since you've been there, how can you ask me to go through that all over again? I'm just. I'm just getting back on track, and now it's all opening up again, this big huge mess that I'm not sure I can push down inside me again."

Justin sighed. "Joe, you know I wouldn't even suggest this if I didn't think it was legit. Kevin thinks it's on the level, and he's the least likely person to believe in anything even remotely spooky. He's like, the supreme logical guy. But he saw the results of what this agency, this guy, can do. He said it was fuckin' impressive. He's got no reason to lie."

Joey's eyes wandered over to the framed pictures, the only thing he had left of Briahna. He leaned forward and pressed his hands to his face. The anger had faded, had left only swirling sorrow in its wake.

"I'm not sure I can do it, Justin."

Justin's hand wrapped around his arm, and squeezed gently. "You can if you want. You're strong." He paused a moment. "And man, what would you think of yourself if you had one chance of findin' her, and you turned your back on that one chance? What if you didn't take that one chance in a million, and it turned out to be the real thing?"

Justin rose and ran his hand over Joey's bowed neck. "Think about it, man. That's all I ask."

Justin left, closing the office door gently behind him. Joey sat for a long time and thought. He thought about hope and how fragile it was. He thought about that tiny little spark of it in the back of his head that wouldn't die out, no matter how much he insisted he'd come to grips with the reality of Briahna's death. He thought of Briahna, laughing and skipping through the house, singing along with the old sixties doo wop stuff he used to play on the stereo. He thought about giving up completely, totally squashing the tiny bit of hope left in him.

Slowly, he reached down, and pulled the card out of the trash and set it on his desk. He rubbed his eyes, and thought of all the reasons he shouldn't call. None of them matched up to the one, single reason he should.

With his heart thumping hard in his chest, he reached for the phone and dialed.

"Oh, honey," JC said softly, his long fingers cool and smooth on Chris' face. "What happened?"

Leaning over him, practically in his lap, JC was very, very pretty. He smelled wonderful, some cologne that made Chris think of cool, shady woods. He had some of his "meeting the client" clothes on today, a loose, plum-colored shirt, pleated dark grey trousers, and oddly enough, suspenders. *Suspenders.* Chasez was really an odd duck. It looked really good on his tall, slim body, though Chris couldn't figure out exactly why it did. He looked soft, and very approachable, but Chris knew beneath the deliberately non-threatening exterior, JC was as sharp as a razor.

"Get off, you're smothering me," Chris said and though he might have sounded cross, he wasn't, not really. JC was simply a touchy-feely sort of guy with his friends, and never quite knew when he was too much. Chris didn't want to pop a boner, and so he pushed at JC's chest. "Cut it out, willya?"

He could understand JC's concern; he had to admit the bruise was pretty spectacular, blooming red and purple across his left cheekbone. But at least part of the swelling had gone down, and he felt pretty grateful to Justin for insisting on icing it down. It was bad enough now; he'd hate to see what it would've been like if he hadn't taken care of it.

"You're fine if you can bitch," JC replied with a smile, and hitched his narrow ass onto Chris' desk. A couple of magazines and a file plummeted to the floor, but he shrugged and ignored them with the blithe ease of long practice. "So, man, what happened?"

"Stupidity happened," Chris replied, and took a sip of his coffee. "It's fine, don't sweat it."

AJ's Doc Martens landed on his desk with a thump, hard enough to make his keyboard rattle. Chris thought for a moment about knocking the feet off, but it was pointless. AJ would just put them back; he was as stubborn as Chris.

"I can beat the shit outta him, if you want," AJ offered in his raspy voice, slouched down in Chris' only extra chair. He pulled his ever-present sunglasses down his nose, and his dark eyes glittered. "I don't mind."

AJ had just gotten in from Chicago late in the morning, and had griped at Chris over the phone until Chris had pestered JC, who had already been out working on a case of his own, into picking him up at the airport. Chris hated airports. AJ looked tired and hungover, but had come back in triumph, his case solved. Chris figured he'd be off in a little while to get some sleep, but AJ always liked to touch base with them, to make sure they were all fine. Chris knew he worried about them getting hurt. In their line of business it was an ever-present threat, but AJ would die before admitting any kind of mushy emotion.

"Nah. Thanks. Some of us aren't into mindless violence." AJ was the only one of them who went armed on a regular basis, who had a weapons permit, but then he generally took the rougher cases; Chris stayed mainly with missing children, or the occasional observation job.

"Your loss," AJ said, and shrugged. He was a small guy, hardly taller than Chris himself, and looked painfully skinny, but Chris had seen him work, seen him fight, and knew AJ could take down guys twice his size. Anyone who underestimated AJ McLean had a rude and painful surprise in store for him.

"Are you sure you want to keep at this case?" JC sounded worried.

Chris leaned back in his chair and looked up at JC. "Totally. I had the dream again last night. It won't leave me alone until I try and find her."

"Okay, fine, then." JC held out a CD in a purple jewel case. Chris took it from him and turned it over in his hands. In JC's loopy writing, it simply said 'Briahna Fatone'. "I collected everything I could find on her or possibly about her. Police reports, old news articles, coroners' reports of any body matching her description in a three state radius. Reports of known child molesters in the area. Prison releases of any molesters released around that date. Whatever I could find that seemed even remotely relevant."

Chris knew it would be an impressive and exhaustive amount of information. Computers were JC's passion; he could get information out of them that no one else could. He was also a consummate hacker, and Chris figured it was best to know nothing of how JC obtained some of his information. Chris had blessed his skills on many occasions.

"Thanks, man, I appreciate it."

JC grinned hugely, and his eyes squinched up into half-moons. "You're welcome. Information tapered off after the first six months of her disappearance, as the papers focused on the next big thing. Hopefully, you'll find something that will help, though."

Chris reached over and squeezed his thigh gently. "I'd lay a big wet one on you for all this hard work, but AJ would like, knife me in the back or something, even though I called dibs on you when I first started working here."

JC flushed, and AJ growled, "Yeah, I would, because I was here first, asshole. Your dibs mean nothing."

"Um, straight, guys, remember?" JC waved a hand to get their attention.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," AJ said, and when JC's eyes rounded and Chris snickered, he said, "What? Don't I look literate?" Covered in tattoos and dressed in worn denim and black leather, looking like a tough, scarred tomcat that had seen too many fights, Chris couldn't really say he did. Chris opened his mouth for a smart-ass comment, but they could hear Dani's excited squeal from the main lobby. In a moment Dani burst in with Lance in tow.

"Look, look, look," she said, and thrust pictures at JC.

Lance had a bunch of blue balloons in his fist that Chris knew had come from Dani. He looked tired but happy, rumpled in jeans and an orange tee shirt that Chris hadn't seen since their college days.

AJ unfolded from his chair and gave Lance a hug and a couple of whacks on the back that made Lance's pale eyes widen comically. "Congrats, man. I hear Psycho was right and you got a boy."

"Hey!" Chris protested, even as he took the pictures of Gabriel from JC, who had decided it was his turn to hug Lance. "-IC, not -O. PSYCHIC."

"Right," AJ drawled.

Chris stuck his tongue out at AJ and looked at the pictures. Gabriel was a cute kid, as far as babies went, but Chris had been right; the kid would have Lance's prominent nose. Laura looked exhausted, but practically glowed with happiness. Chris knew Bass would be a wonderful father; he and Laura had wanted children from the very first.

Chris handed over the pictures to AJ, then went to rescue Lance from JC's enthusiastic hugs. Lance hugged him hard, and Chris pressed a kiss to his neck. "Congratulations, Bass," Chris said. "You're gonna be a great dad."

"I can only hope. I had a good role model in my own parents," Lance said, and squeezed Chris hard before letting go. Chris couldn't deny that; Diane and Jim had practically adopted him.

Lance grabbed his shirt as Chris pulled away, noticing for the first time Chris' face. "Hey. What happened?"

"Don't worry. My fault entirely. Just took the wrong approach at the wrong time. Live and learn." He wasn't angry at Joey's behavior; he understood it, after Justin's little chat. He'd probably have gone after him with a baseball bat, were the situation reversed. Chris could take someone shitting on him, and learn from the experience, but man, he couldn't take anyone messing with his family. Anger like that, he understood.

"Is this the something new you were working on?"

"Yeah," Chris said, and shook off Lance's hand. "The Fatone kidnapping."

Lance raised a fine dark brow. "You've been hired?" Lance didn't like to be kept in the dark about anything; every bit of paper in the office crossed his desk.

Chris rolled his eyes as AJ sniggered. "Well, I will be. It's just a technicality that I haven't. Yet. Really." He glared at AJ, but AJ had grown immune to his dark looks, if he'd ever been bothered by them in the first place. Chris liked to think that maybe he had, if only for a little while.

"Hey, Chris, wait," Dani said, pausing in her flirting with JC to grab Chris' sleeve and tug at him until Chris turned to her. Chris despaired of the shape of his tee shirt from all the tugging and pulling at it today. "I almost forgot, in the excitement of seeing the new daddy." She fished around in the pocket of her sweater--she always wore a light sweater, complaining that they kept the office too cool for her--and brought out a phone memo. "Here. You said Fatone, I recognized the name. He called just before Lance came in."

Chris took the pink slip from her. In her angular writing, it said: Caller: Joey Fatone. Time: 1: 24 pm. Message: Call me, and we'll talk. No promises. That message, followed by the number Chris recognized as Joey's cell.

"Well, well," JC said, blatantly reading over his shoulder.

Chris elbowed him. "Doesn't mean anything," Chris said, though inside, he practically danced a jig of glee. Baby, he thought, we are gonna find you and bring you back to your daddy. I promise. Smiling, he tucked the note into his jeans pocket. "Who's in favor of the new daddy buying us all lunch?"

Everyone was, and Chris laughed at Lance's chagrined expression.

Joey pulled into a parking space and cut the engine. The heat of the late afternoon sun sliced through the windshield, and within a few seconds, the interior of the car began to grow uncomfortably warm.

The offices of Bass Investigations were in an upscale business complex, the buildings classic and modern, pleasing in their lines, the landscaping gorgeous and soothing and very clearly expensive. Doctors, lawyers, accountants had their offices there, the signs for them understated and elegant. It was a classy place, and honestly, he hadn't expected that.

From what he'd seen of private investigators in movies and on tv, he'd expected a cockroach trap in the worst section of town. He'd expected dirty streets, rundown slummy buildings, shady characters lurking on the corners and in alleys, and police sirens wailing nonstop in the background. He certainly didn't expect a modern complex with the parking lots filled with Mercedes and expensive SUVs.

Of course, he hadn't expected Chris Kirkpatrick, either. If he remembered correctly, the guy had looked nothing like he expected, or like the phonies he'd seen. Kirkpatrick had looked solid, grounded, serious. He'd taken the punch and gotten up, and not offered a fight in return. That in itself had surprised him, because even in the few minutes he'd seen Kirkpatrick, he'd struck Joey as stubborn, a scrapper, a fighter.

Sweat beaded his upper lip from the heat, and Joey got out of his car and headed for the part of the complex that bore the name of the agency. He let out a sigh of relief as he stepped into the coolness of air conditioning. Third floor, F Wing. Joey stepped into the elevator and stared hard at the numbers as they counted off the floors, his hands clenched into fists behind his back. Anger still simmered within him, but he'd pushed it way down deep, where he could control it. He'd give Kirkpatrick a few minutes of his time, because in all honesty, he couldn't dismiss this out of hand. Justin had been right; he had to follow the tiniest scrap of hope, even if it didn't pan out and made him more miserable than before. He owed Briahna at least that much.

The offices of Bass Investigations took up the entire third floor wing of the complex. Their main lobby was soothing, restful, a mix of polished wooden floors, oriental carpeting, pots of palms and other plants, calm landscapes on the walls, and very comfortable-looking leather couches and chairs. Jazz music murmured in the background, nothing too jangly, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla. Everything had been geared toward soothing and relaxing potential clients.

"May I help you?"

The speaker was a busty blonde with a beautiful smile. Dressed well but in an understated fashion, she was the perfect accompaniment to the office. Nothing like a sleazy moll, and Joey did an internal eye-roll. He'd clearly watched way too many detective movies in the past.

"I'm Joey Fatone. Here to see Chris Kirkpatrick." Something squirmed in him as he said the words, and he shifted from one foot to the other. His stomach hurt.

A shadow crossed her dark eyes, but her smile remained unchanged. "Yes. If you wait just a moment, I'll tell him you're here." She picked up the phone, punched a number, and murmured into the receiver. After a moment, she hung up again, and said, "If you'll follow me, I'll be glad to take you to his office."

Joey followed her. If he liked girls, he could go for this one; she was tall, really stacked, with blonde hair. Her hips swayed gently as she walked; she made him think of Kelly and her generous curves, and he jerked his eyes from them as she led him into a hallway.

The first office to the left belonged to an older woman, salt and pepper hair, who made him think of his third grade teacher, Mrs. Harrison, back in Brooklyn. The next had the door closed, but the third had a man about his own age, with a lot of curly brown hair and blue eyes that narrowed as he passed by. The fourth office had a dark, skinny man with a moustache, dressed in black, wearing sunglasses on the top of his head, who scowled at him.

The stopped at the fifth. "Chris, this is Mr. Fatone. I know you've met him before." Though the pleasant lilt of her voice didn't change, her disapproval was like a smack in the face. Guilt curled through him; no wonder the others had glared at him.

"Thanks," Joey muttered, and the girl slipped by him as he stepped into the office.

He stopped just inside. Oh, hell. He felt heat crawl up his throat, spray across his cheeks, and his belly twisted. Chris Kirkpatrick stood there beside his desk, and the left side of his face around his cheekbone looked terribly bruised, purple and red. I did that.

Kirkpatrick was a small man, a good five inches or so shorter than himself; on the slim side but not skinny, he had thick thighs and a little softness at the belly. A folded blue bandana held back thick spiky black hair and he sported a short, neatly trimmed goatee. Two silver hoop earrings glittered in each ear, and he wore a red tee shirt tucked into faded blue jeans. He wore black sneakers, and the long silver chain of a chain wallet swung gently against his thigh.

His eyes were dark, like Joey remembered, intelligent and serious, though he could see amusement lurking somewhere in their depths. One corner of his mouth crooked into a smile.

"You can come in," he said, and his voice was light and musical. "Have a seat."

"I'm not sure. I don't."

"You can stand there if you'd like," he replied with a casual shrug. "No skin off my nose. But me, I'm gonna get comfortable." He plopped into the chair behind the desk and leaned back, folding his hands over his belly.

Joey stood there a moment longer, his belly twisting again. He was afraid, he realized suddenly. Afraid of really hoping again, afraid of having that hope ground to pieces. Afraid that he'd regret coming here, afraid of being jerked around again, afraid of having his heart torn out again. He was afraid that he really hadn't tried as hard as he could have to get her back, though he knew he'd moved heaven and hell to find her. He was afraid of the desire to believe that Briahna was alive still. He was afraid that the man sitting in front of him was on the level, but more afraid that he wasn't.

Kirkpatrick sat quietly, though his knee jiggled a bit, and there it was again, that energy simmering just below the surface, sparkling in his dark eyes. His face offered nothing but calmness. No anger, no resentment, and it surprised Joey; in Kirkpatrick's place, he'd have been seething with resentment.

But nothing would be gained by turning tail and running now. He was here, and would make the best of it. He settled into the chair on the closer side of the desk and tried to look composed.

The soft sound of someone clearing his throat made him glance back at the doorway. The curly-haired man he'd seen in the office stood halfway in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. Next to him slouched the dark man in much the same pose. Neither of them looked particularly friendly, though the smaller dark man carried it off much better.

"Chris, you need anything?" The smaller man smiled thinly.

Kirkpatrick sighed, and Joey turned his attention back to him. "Nah," he said. "I'm fine. We're good. Mr. Fatone, these are my associates, JC Chasez, and AJ McLean." Each nodded slightly at his name, and Joey swore the temperature dropped ten degrees. "And now you guys can get lost, okay?"

"I'll be in my office working, if you need me," Chasez said, and underneath the words was the not so hidden message of 'if this big lug tries to hit you again'. Joey wanted to squirm guiltily, but forced himself to stay still.

"Same here," McLean said. Of the two, he was most definitely the threat; he made Joey think of a cat, crouched and waiting to pounce; if he'd had a tail, it would've been switching back and forth.

"If we decide to do some body slams worthy of the WWF, I'll holler," Chris promised, and made a shooing motion with his hands.

"C'mon, skinny man. We're holding up business." McLean rolled away from the doorjamb, all fluid movement, and Chasez followed.

Out of sight, Joey heard a loud elastic snapping sound, an outraged howl cut short, and Chasez said, "Cut it out, you asshole!" A second later, his flushed face appeared around the doorjamb again. "Sorry. Really. Leaving now." He disappeared again.

Joey turned to Kirkpatrick, who had covered his mouth with one hand. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement, and it danced over his face. He didn't laugh aloud, though he cleared his throat before removing his hand from his mouth.

"Your associates are very...attentive," Joey said slowly.

"They're good guys." Kirkpatrick drew in a deep breath, and blew it out, as if bracing for something. "Okay. Let's get this out in the open, over with. I'm not pissed off. I can't say our introduction was the most pleasant in the world, but I've had worse, and after talking to Justin, I understand where you were coming from. If the situations were reversed, I'd have gone after you with a baseball bat and a Klingon war howl, because man, no one messes with family in my book. I'm not one of those fucking assholes who screwed you over, and it pisses me off that what they've done to you makes you not believe in me. But I can't do anything about that. All I can do is say it's fine, I'm cool, and that I'm willing to start over again."

He leaned forward and offered his hand. His face looked open and friendly; it wasn't a handsome face, but so sharp, so clever, so lively that looks became secondary. "I'm Chris Kirkpatrick. I'm a private investigator for Bass Investigations. I'm also a psychic. You can call me Chris."

Joey cleared his throat. He felt stupid for doing this, and thought it was unnecessary. But he figured he owed Chris, and if the other man wanted to play it this way, he could swallow his feelings and go with it. Slowly he leaned forward and took Chris' hand; it was small, but strong, his grip sure. "I'm Joey Fatone. You can call me Joey. Only my dad is Mr. Fatone, and not very often at that."

"I guess Justin was as persuasive as I thought he'd be," Chris said. He snagged a pen from the top of his messy desk and tapped it against his thigh. "Or else you wouldn't be here."

"He was, yes. We also had your agency investigated."

"I'd have been very surprised if you hadn't," Chris replied agreeably. "I would have, in your place."

"Yeah, well." Joey looked around the office. It was about the same size as his own, though cluttered. On one wall hung framed Bruce Lee movie posters, and on another hung a framed hockey jersey, pennants, and various pictures and articles about hockey. On the shelves below, books that seemed to have a lot to do with various sports, an eclectic collection of biographies, a baseball tucked neatly into a worn glove. Beside the shelves lay a pair of roller blades, a battered hockey stick, and a beat-up looking skateboard. On another wall, shelving held a stereo system, and scattered CDs. One wall held pictures, of a woman he assumed was Chris' mother, and four girls who looked like him in varying degrees. He also had pictures obviously drawn by those girls, all matted and framed, displayed proudly. And everywhere were books, files, and magazines, in haphazard stacks.

"This surprises me," Joey said, with an absent wave around the office. "It doesn't look like anything I expected."

"What, you expected crystal balls? Incense? Spooky lighting? A fog machine producing atmospheric mist? Me, in a turban and long robes?" He looked amused. "That's all fake sideshow crap. I'm just a regular guy. I'm not a fake or a quack. I don't channel voices from the netherworld, read tarot cards, or any other shit like that. I don't read minds."

"What the hell do you do, then?" Joey knew he was being deliberately argumentative, but he couldn't seem to help himself. It didn't seem to bother Kirkpatrick in the least; he acted as if he expected it. He probably did, Joey thought sourly.

"On the normal side, I investigate. I poke, prod, and dig, until I find what I'm looking for. I'm very stubborn and persistent, don't give up easily. On the paranormal side, sometimes I see things that other people don't see, know things that others don't know. I take my skills, my talents very seriously, because I'm in a serious business. Most of my job is finding kids, and man, as far as I'm concerned, that's the most important thing in the whole world, bar none."

"Nice little speech," Joey said flatly.

Chris shrugged. "Take it or leave it. I refuse to downplay what I can do, and refuse to apologize for it."

Joey sat there a moment, struggling with his disbelief, the rising wave of anger and sorrow. "Why now? Why, after a year and a half, do you suddenly bring this all up again?"

"I had no idea who you were until yesterday morning. I've been having dreams for a week about a little girl. They keep occurring, and are almost always the same, down to the little details." Joey watched Chris' sharp gaze soften, as if he looked at something in memory. "I had no name, no information, no anything. So I came in and started looking through our database of missing kids. And I finally found her. And you." His eyes lost their faraway look and fixed on Joey with an unnerving intensity.

"And now, here you are. You've made yourself believe that she's dead, tried to move on, but you can't, not really. You've convinced yourself that you have no hope, but I don't believe that. You'd like to convince yourself that I'm a quack, but there's a part of you that doesn't want to give up on the idea that I might not be." Chris looked down at his nails, then his gaze flicked back upward. "Right?"

For a moment, Joey sat there and struggled against the constricting bands that seemed to have locked around his chest, preventing him from drawing a deep breath. "I thought you said you weren't a mind reader."

"I'm not." Chris' mouth turned up into a smile, but it had nothing of humor in it. "I've just been doing this for a very long time." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Okay, so. We can sit here and go another ten rounds about how you don't believe in me, in what I can do, or we can get on with the business of finding Briahna. Personally, I think that's the most constructive approach, because you and me, we don't matter a bit. She's the important one."

Two days ago, he'd have laughed bitterly if anyone would've suggested that he would be here, listening to this. Part of him still damned himself for an idiot, a fool, wishing for something that so obviously wasn't true. But that little spark of hope deep inside him, the spark he'd tried to crush, to kill, wouldn't die; at Chris' words, his quiet self-confidence, it grew a little bigger, a little stronger.

He rubbed at his face, tired from lack of sleep and the rollercoaster of emotions. "You said you had dreams?"

"Yeah. Every night, for the past week. She's alive. I know it."

He wanted to believe, he needed to believe, but it was so hard after being burned as he had, as his parents had been. "How accurate are these dreams you have?"

Chris shrugged. "It's not like tv or the movies, man, where the psychic," he made little quote signs with his crooked fingers at the last word, "gets everything played out in his or her mind in technicolor and surround-sound. They're not...hmm...predictions, exactly. More a feel for things, a sense of how things are. Or were. Or will be."

Joey felt the frown tug at his mouth, his eyebrows. "Sounds like a lot of double talk to me."

"Nothing is ever black and white. I know what I saw. It feels like a recent occurrence, either in the near future, or the near past. I can't tell. It feels like maybe the near past, though I can't really say why."

That wasn't what he'd hoped to hear, what he wanted, needed to hear. Frustration welled up in his chest, followed by anger. "Man, you're just jerking me around and I...." Joey heaved himself to his feet, ready to leave, unable to stand the pain of having his heart ripped out again.

"I'm not." Chris' voice sharpened. He rose as well and circled around the desk, stepping right into Joey's space, intense and unafraid. "The picture of Briahna on the far left, next to you in the baseball jersey? You know that one?"

Oh, yeah, he knew that one. He'd had it done the day before she'd been taken, dressed in pink, looking like a confection, as sweet as marzipan. The photographer had loved her, because Briahna was as much a natural ham as he was. He remembered how much they'd laughed during the session, and how they'd gone for ice cream later. She loved strawberry.

"The pink ribbons in her hair." Chris looked up at him, willing him to believe. "They have her name on them, don't they? In darker pink, with little white daisies, right?"

Joey blinked hard against the stinging of his eyes. Kelly had made the ribbons, a pair, and Briahna had her picture taken with them in her hair, because she had been so proud of them. Joey had sat with her in his lap, and showed Briahna her name on them. She had been delighted; she'd known how to spell her name for awhile, but the way Kelly had written it with puffy craft paint on the ribbons, had fascinated her. The next day she'd insisted on having one decorating the ponytail Joey had pulled to the crown of her head. He could still feel how the curls, the softest things he'd ever felt, had clung to his fingers as he'd worked.

The matching ribbon lay curled on the top of his dresser.

"How the fuck did you know that?" His voice caught, sounded suspiciously wet. How did Chris know? In the picture, no one could see the writing on the ribbons; by some angle of the camera, the lighting, they just looked plain pink.

"I told you. I saw it. She's kept it all this time, kept it hidden away from the people who took her. She remembers you, man. She wants to come home." Chris' dark eyes bored into him, slicing through the layers of pain and bitterness he'd built up between himself and the rest of the world. "I swear it." His voice softened. "I want to bring her home. Please let me help you."

Slowly, as though the weight of the entire world rested on his shoulders, Joey felt for the arms of the chair, and sat, willing to listen.

Chris knew he had Joey, if only for the moment. A part of him wanted to dance around the office in victory, shriek in the hallway, and while he wouldn't normally hesitate to do that, or worse, around his co-workers, to a stranger, something like that would be unnerving. And disrespectful. Although others might not think so, he had a sensitive side, was empathetic in spite of his usual brashness.

Handling Joey required tact, a certain amount of sympathy, and the timely application of a cattle prod. He had to find that balance between allowing Joey to feel his grief, and not let it overwhelm him, cloud his thoughts, his judgment. He understood Joey's hesitancy; Joey seemed a practical sort, and even if he hadn't been so burned by fake psychics, it would probably still not have been easy to win him over to something a bit outside the box.

Right now, he seemed a little overwhelmed, and Chris couldn't blame him. He folded a hand over Joey's broad shoulder, squeezed gently, then stepped out of the office. The kitchen was just next door, and he went to the fridge and picked out two Cokes. Between the coffee he'd had, and the assorted sodas he'd consumed during the day, he'd probably have a hell of a time sleeping tonight. Even now he felt a little jittery. Part of it, he knew, was nerves, because he didn't really have any experience to prove Joey wouldn't hit him again, though he believed Justin when he'd said it wasn't Joey's nature to be violent. He'd gotten that impression easily enough. Part of it, and probably the greater part, was the urge to begin the hunt.

He opened the cans and carried them back to his office. Although Joey hadn't lost control of himself, Chris had the notion it was a close thing; the emotion lay thick and heavy in the air, like the pressure just before a storm. Joey lifted his head, and well, hey, hello. Chris found himself impressed all over again at what dark, arresting eyes Joey had.

Definitely not something he needed to contemplate.

"Here," he said, and held out the cold can to him. Joey had such big hands, with long thick fingers, the hands of a construction worker, not a businessman. He tried to avoid brushing his fingers against Joey's as he passed him the soda.

"Thanks," Joey said, and Chris sat down behind his desk, setting his soda perilously close to his keyboard. Lance would bitch a blue streak if he saw it. "So," Joey said quietly, "tell me about the dreams."

So Chris did. He described the place as well as he could, the impressions he'd been able to get from a young child's perceptions. The heat, the dust, the ramshackle appearance of the buildings. The tall grass. The thin man, who wore boots and had a ring of jingly keys at his belt. He hadn't seen the man's face, though; that had been disappointing. When he told of Briahna calling for her daddy, Joey had looked down at the carpet, long lashes blinking. Chris wanted to reach out and put his hand on Joey's arm, to offer comfort, but guys generally tended to reject that sort of thing, so he folded his hands together, instead. He didn't tell Joey about Briahna's fear, her despair; he knew Joey knew, and why kick the man when he was already down.

"I think," Chris said slowly, "that she's being cared for. I didn't get the impression that she was being mistreated. Or," Chris paused, then had to force the words past the tightness in his throat, "or anything else."

He didn't have to say anything else; it had probably preyed on Joey's mind since the day, the hour, the minute she'd been taken. It was a horror of any parent, the possible sexual abuse of a child. And Briahna was a very pretty child.

"Thank God," Joey said softly.

"Yeah," Chris said. He wasn't a religious man, but he knew it gave comfort to others, and he was all about whatever it took to get through a tragedy such as this. "I don't get that impression at all." He cleared his throat, and tapped his fingers on his thighs, thinking. "A lot of times, people take kids when they can't have any, or when they've lost their own. I think. I think that's what this is. An attempt to replace a lost or non-existent child with her."

Joey rubbed his eyes. "I sat by the phone for days, waiting," he said wearily. "Waiting, thinking I'd hear from someone, asking for ransom. I'm. I'm not like, a *really* wealthy man, but I do well, money-wise. I've got the restaurant, and I've been lucky to invest well. But no one called. It wasn't that."

"Y'know, it's probably better that it wasn't," Chris said, and wound the chain of the wallet around his fingers, watching his fingertips go red.

"How can it be better?" Joey's voice sounded sharp, and Chris looked up at him, releasing the chain. It slithered back down his thigh, jingling softly. "How can this be fucking better?"

"Because. Most of the time, in a kidnapping, you don't get the child back, even if you turn over the money. They're killed, to make a clean break of it. No witnesses, no descriptions of anything. I think Briahna was taken by someone who wanted her, who needed her, and who will take care of her. That has kept her alive."

Chris took a drink of soda to gain a moment to think. "What about Briahna's mom?"

Joey blinked at him. "What about her?"

"I don't think it is, but I need to be sure this isn't a custody problem. The police reports don't mention that, but we have to start with the basics. Where is Briahna's mom? She doesn't think about a mom, only you, so I'm just curious."

"Her name is Kelly. Kelly Baldwin." Joey hesitated a moment. "What did Justin say?"

Chris shrugged. "Nothing. In the pictures hanging in your office, I saw a woman who looked too much like Briahna not to be her mother. But Briahna doesn't think about mom. I was just trying to piece together relationships."

"It's not a custody battle. Kelly is." Joey thought for a moment, clearly weighing things in his mind, debating what to tell him. Chris fidgeted within, but held himself relatively still. It was better to get information given willingly, and in his experience, people eventually talked, given enough time and encouragement. "Kelly is a good friend of mine. We've known each other since junior high school. Best friends. I'm." Joey rubbed the back of his neck, drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Okay, so here it is. I've always known I would never get married. Ever. But I still wanted a kid. I could've adopted, maybe, though it's still hard for single guys to do so." Joey paused for a heartbeat, then plunged ahead. "Especially gay guys."

Chris kept his expression completely neutral. Evidently Justin hadn't told Joey about Chris' own preferences, or else Joey wouldn't be having such a hard time admitting this. "No, it's not," Chris replied. "I understand. Really, I do." His gaze rested on Joey, willing him to understand, and it took a second or ten, but Joey was a smart guy and Chris watched the understanding blossom in his eyes. "Totally understand, man."

"Yeah?" Chris watched as Joey relaxed fractionally, evidently realizing that Chris really did understand to some degree the difficulties he'd faced. "Okay. So, I wanted to have a kid, but didn't want to get married. Kelly offered to help me out. So we." Joey cleared his throat, and warm color crept into his cheeks, out into his ears. "Anyway, she got pregnant, and I took care of her, paid all her bills, paid the hospital bills when Briahna was born. And as we agreed, Kelly signed over custody to me, and I've raised her. Briahna knows her as Aunt Kelly, and that's worked out fine all around."

"And you have no reason to suspect she changed her mind?"

"No. She's devastated. It was really hard for her, because she was supposed to have had Briahna that day. She had to get the nanny to take her because she had a rescheduled business meeting. I tried to tell her it wasn't her fault, but man, guilt is a hard thing to shake."

Chris rubbed at his nose. "Yeah, it is. So, in your opinion, she had nothing to do with it?"

"Nothing. I trust her completely."

"And the nanny? Elizabeth Hernandez?" The cops had checked out everyone, and hadn't had any reason to implicate anyone, but Chris wanted Joey's viewpoint, to get a feel for what Joey thought.

"God, no. She's a friend of my mom's. I've known her for years, since we moved here from Brooklyn. No way, man. She's eaten up with guilt over this."

"Okay. Going with whom you and the cops eliminate as possible culprits helps, if only a little."

"So what do you need from me?"

Chris smiled. Though Joey might not believe in what he could do, Chris knew he'd put aside his disbelief, his bad experiences with frauds just enough to trust him, if only a little. It simplified things tremendously; he'd had clients with whom he'd had to fight tooth and nail to get even the most marginal cooperation. Joey was smart enough, brave enough, to put aside his preconceived ideas, and work with him. Chris had to admire him for that.

"I need cooperation from you. That's all I ask."

"Cooperation? Whatever I can give, whatever I can do, you've got it. All I ask in return is that you let me help."

"Done, man."

Joey blinked. "Really? It's that easy? I expected you to, I don't know." Joey made vague hand gestures. "I guess, wanna do things on your own."

"If it were me, I'd want to be involved in any way I could. I figured you were probably the same way."

"When the FBI were involved, they had this 'hands off, go sit in the corner' attitude going. I didn't like it. At all."

"Yeah, they're pretty famous for that. They need to learn some people skills." Chris took another drink of soda, his leg bouncing a bit. Restlessness bubbled in his blood, the urge to do something, anything, strong. "So. What I'd like to do, if you'll allow it, is to go through and look at Briahna's things."

"Go through her things? Why?" Joey's face took on a mulish slant, and Chris thought, here we go again. He avoided rolling his eyes only by a margin, and reined in the impatience. Really, he should be accustomed to this by now, and generally, he was, but on occasion, it still rankled.

"Sometimes it helps me to...hmm...lock onto the person I'm looking for. Kinda like baby ducks imprint on the first thing they see. I wouldn't ask, if I thought it wasn't something that might help."

"Fine." Joey still didn't look happy, but Chris could live with that. Whatever it took to find her, he could endure. "When do you want to do this?"

"Today. Tonight. The faster we get started the faster we can find her." Chris' leg bounced a little faster, and he pressed his palm against his thigh to stop the movement.

Joey glanced at his watch. "I need to be at the restaurant for the evening rush, but after that's over, I can get the assistant manager, Nick, to close up for me. How about nine? Is that too late for you?"

"Nine. No problem." He stood when Joey stood, his blood thrumming.

"So it looks like I've hired your agency." Joey slanted a look at him from beneath his lashes, a little sheepish, and Chris thought, *oh.* A little curl of something--attraction, maybe--warmed in his belly, and he thought, hey, none of that, this is a client, and it's strictly business.

"It does look that way. Lance, my boss, will be pleased, because I'd have followed this, regardless of whether or not you hired me."

"You would have? Why? I mean, why would you do that, if you weren't getting paid to do it?"

"Because I have to." And it was true. He'd get no rest, no peace, until he resolved this, until he found her. Somehow, she'd wedged herself deeply into his heart, and he felt connected to her, responsible for her. He would find her because he had to.

"I can't say I'm not thankful for that attitude, because I am. I'm still not sure I believe in this psychic shit, and I can't promise that I won't have problems with it, but...I'll try."

"That's all I ask," Chris replied.

Joey stuck out his hand, and Chris took it. Joey's hand enfolded his, warm and big, and sensations washed over him like water: anger, despair, and others, so quickly he felt dizzied. But the one he felt most strongly was hope. Joey dared to hope again. Chris hoped he didn't lose that during the time it would take to find her.

"Guess I'd better sign some forms, make it all legal," Joey said, but he didn't release Chris' hand. The desk separated them, but still, his hand in Joey's, Chris felt very close to him.

"Yeah." Chris pulled back, and Joey released him. Chris closed his hand into a fist, as if he could hold in the feeling, but already it had begun to fade. "Lemme get you back to Dani. She's the whiz at paperwork."

Joey nodded and followed him back out to Dani's desk, and Chris explained to her what they needed. He left Joey in her care, and as he started back down the hall, he turned and said, "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Yeah. Nine." Joey looked up from the clipboard Dani had given him, his eyes dark, and Chris smiled back at him and walked down the hall, rubbing his fingers together to get the last sensation of connectedness before it faded entirely.

Joey and Briahna lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, in a house that while plain compared to some of the others, still managed to be really nice. Chris pulled his PT Cruiser into the driveway and sat for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night: a dog barking somewhere in the distance, the murmur of insects, the light whoosh of wind in the trees. Far more peaceful than nights he could remember growing up, which were full of neighbors screaming at one another, kids shrieking, tvs or radios blaring, and the sirens of cops and ambulances. But that was his past, unchangeable, and it did little good to dwell on it.

The only past that now interested him was that of Briahna, and only for what he could learn from it to apply to the present, and to the future.

He stepped out of his car and walked to the front door. He rang the doorbell, fidgeting from one foot to the other, jingling his keys in his hand before frowning and stuffing them into his pocket. Drawing a deep breath, he let it out slowly, trying to settle himself, because he didn't want to freak out Joey with his constant moving around. Generally, he could curb it, but the need to get moving, to start searching for Briahna, crawled up his spine and took a couple of laps around his brain. He wasn't certain why, but he felt that something had, or was about to change, and not necessarily for the better.

Just as he was about to ring again, the door opened and Joey stood there, his tee shirt and shorts rumpled and his thick dark hair damp. He ran a big hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than before, and offered Chris a half-smile that made his heart skip a beat.

"Sorry. In the shower, and didn't hear you. C'mon in, man."

Joey stepped to the side, and Chris brushed past him to enter, close enough to feel the heat from his skin, smell the fresh, crisp scent of soap and shampoo. He had an urge to lean in close, and take a deep whiff, to study the combined scents of soap and fabric softener and the faintly salty-musky scent of clean skin, but didn't because even he knew that was just a little freaky.

"No problem." Chris stepped out of the foyer and into the main room. It was cool inside Joey's house, welcome after the wet heat of outdoors. Joey's home seemed bright and cheerful, light woods, bright colors, but still it seemed dark, heavy-feeling. Even if he hadn't been psychic, Chris thought he could still have felt the sadness in the air. "How was the restaurant?"

"Busy. We do a good business. Ever been?" Joey stepped forward, leading the way into the main room, and gesturing for Chris to sit on one of the comfortable-looking couches.

"Once. We'd just moved to town, and Lance and his wife Laura took us there for a fancy 'welcome to Orlando' dinner." He made little finger quotes, grinning. "It's great. A little too expensive for daily dining, at least for me, because I'm such a cheap bastard, but I liked it."

"We?" Joey's dark eyes studied him.

"Yeah. Me and Howie. We moved from North Carolina because he got a job offer he couldn't pass up, teaching at Valencia. Lance and I have been friends since college, and when he offered me a job here, it seemed like the thing to do." Chris shrugged. On the coffee table was a collection of Superman figurines; some of them looked vintage.

Joey flopped down on the opposite couch, putting his feet on the table. A bright Superman logo tattoo decorated his right ankle. He had huge feet and long, long legs with muscular thighs. Chris pinched his own thigh to keep from looking too long.

"I've been here since junior high school. I like it fine." Joey's broad shoulders heaved in a shrug of his own. He studied his thumbnail a moment. "How do you guys like it?"

"Separately, now," Chris replied. His leg jiggled, and the chain of his wallet clinked softly. He nodded toward the tattoo. "Nice ink."

Joey took the change of subject gracefully. Surprisingly flexible for a guy his size, he twisted his leg around, and ran a finger over the tattoo. "Thanks. My present to myself for graduating college. Have a couple of others. Kinda like marking special events, a way of making them your own, y'know?"

Chris nodded in agreement; he had a couple of his own, for the same reasons.

Joey dropped his feet to the floor with a thump, and leaned forward, serious. "Okay. So I gotta tell you, man. This whole thing about looking through Briahna's stuff? It weirds me out. I don't like it. It's like...voyeurism, or something."

"I've been called a voyeur before. Hell, I've been called a lot worse. There's nothing you can say to me I haven't heard before. It just goes with the territory."

"Probably does, at that." Joey looked thoughtful, and almost sympathetic. "So. You want a beer, or do you want to get to it?"

Chris rubbed his hands together. They felt oddly cold; generally, his hands were always warm. "I need to do it with a clear head. So, no. But later, if you're still offering, I might take you up on it."

He didn't really expect that to happen, because looking through a child's things tended to either totally depress people, or make them angry out of grief and frustration. He suspected Joey was one of the latter; after all, he'd seen it in action.

When Joey stood, Chris did also, and followed him into the depths of the house. Joey had a lot of Superman memorabilia---posters, pictures, shelves of stuff, all displayed artfully, instead of just strung around. Either Joey himself had a good eye, or he'd paid someone to organize and display it. All the cheerfulness seemed in keeping with the pictures he'd seen of Joey in his office, the laughing, happy Joey, but didn't seem to fit the Joey he saw before him, serious and somber and depressed.

They stopped in front of a door, and Joey paused. He slanted a look at Chris, dark eyes giving away nothing, but Chris could read the tension in his broad back, in powerful biceps and big hands. He could feel it radiating from Joey like heat from the sidewalks. "You're sure," he said softly. "You're sure that it will help?"

Chris nodded, equally serious. "I wouldn't ask otherwise. I wouldn't put you through it if I didn't think it would help us find her."

Joey nodded, then opened the door, reached in, and turned on the lights. He stepped aside so Chris could enter, and his sadness drifted over Chris' skin. Chris offered him a small smile, then entered the room.

Briahna's room was large, bright, cheerful, like the rest of the house. A little girl's room, with pale wood furniture, including a small table and chairs, two of the three chairs filled with large stuffed animals. One corner held a small easel with a drawing pad and supplies; the picture on the paper was of a bright yellow sun smiling down on a lumpy figure on an even lumpier bicycle. She'd signed her name in big scrawling purple letters, and Chris felt sadness curl in his chest.

On her bed, covered by a pastel pink cover, sat a lion, looking ragged and well-loved. Her closet door stood ajar, and without moving, Chris could see two levels of clothes hanging up, and on the floor, in a neat order, several pairs of small shoes. Low bookshelves held dozens of small, brightly-covered children's books, and on top, more toys, and a cd player with stacks of jewel cases. A game of Chutes and Ladders lay on the floor, stuck for a year and a half in mid-play. Obviously, Joey had touched nothing, because a thin film of dust lay on the dresser, on the night stand, on the table.

Chris looked over his shoulder. Joey stood in the doorway, quiet, his bare toes just touching the carpet, as if afraid to enter. For the moment that suited Chris; his misery was so strong he thought it might interfere with anything he might feel here.

He turned back, and closed his eyes, deliberately blocking out Joey and his emotions, and opened himself to whatever he might find left of Briahna. Like a whisper against his skin, like the faintest breath of breeze, the energy, the essence of her young life curled around him. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, feeling her seep into him, but Joey's voice seemed very far away, calling softly, "Chris?"

"Very happy," Chris said dreamily, still not back into the sharp-edged now. "She was very happy here. You were both happy in this house." He paused, sifting through feelings. "Not without some fights, because she was a very strong-willed child who knew exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it. But almost always cheerful. Always singing. That she gets from you, because you taught her all your favorites, all your dad's favorites. The love of drawing she gets from Kelly. Kelly took her to art classes at the museum, I think--it's a big, cool building next to a park." Slowly, Chris' hands moved, describing a large building. "Justin taught her how to ride a bike. She...skinned her hand, here." Chris' fingers brushed across the heel of his left hand. "Justin was...very sad, but it was better, after he cleaned it up, and then they went for ice cream."

Chris let his eyes drift open, and turned, the room blurring for a moment before springing into sharp focus as he closed himself to the warm sensations in Briahna's room. He raised a hand, pushed his glasses up to the top of his head, and rubbed his eyes. His lashes felt suspiciously wet. He had long ago become accustomed to such a thing happening when he opened himself up, and felt everlastingly grateful the tears hadn't been accompanied by wrenching sobs and vomiting, as was often the case when he opened himself and the child was at ground zero during a murder or an assault.

When he pulled his glasses back down, he saw Joey still standing in the doorway, as pale as milk, his dark eyes huge and haunted, one hand over his mouth.

"Fuck me," Joey finally said, softly. "That's...."

Chris cleared his throat, back to himself once again. "Spooky. Yeah. Three hundred years ago, I'd have been burned at the stake," he replied. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, slick with sweat, and wiped it on the leg of his jeans. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a bandana and wiped his upper lip, the nape of his neck, and his throat. He could feel sweat at the small of his back, tickling a little. "But what I said is all true, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Joey wiped at his face, cleared his throat. "When you went all still, I thought...man, I thought you were shitting me, putting on this act, making me think you were really working it for the money I'd paid the agency. But that's stuff you couldn't have known."

He stuffed the bandana back into his pocket. "I'm not shitting you, man. I'm serious."

Slowly he moved amongst Briahna's things, trailing his fingers along toys, hoping to find more, something more concrete than the sense of contentment and of being loved. Something that might help him lock more securely onto her, to get a sense of where she might be now. He touched everything that she had touched, toys, furniture, all her clothing in the closet, acutely aware of the heaviness of Joey's gaze on him. People had watched him before, and he'd steeled himself to the waves of desperation, panic, and fear that came from them, because strong negative emotions interfered with the process. He'd never wanted to disappoint anyone, but for some reason, he really didn't want to disappoint Joey Fatone. Somehow, it had become very important to him not to fail this one man.

Nothing came to him, though, until he picked up the stuffed lion. It flopped in his hands, most of the stuffing gone, a ragged tawny and brown toy that had obviously been loved long and well. Chris found himself humming lightly under his breath, a song he'd not heard in ages, and when he opened his mouth to say something to Joey, the song burst out instead, his voice rising high and pure into "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."

Halfway into the first verse, a baritone joined in, twining around his own voice, and he half turned to see Joey had finally entered the room, and had joined him. Close now, Joey reached out and put a big hand over the lion's head as he sang. Chris could feel the pleasure, the joy overriding Joey's despair as he sang and lost himself in memories of obviously happier times.

When the last note faded, Joey smiled, and it was such a sweet smile that Chris' breath caught for a moment in his throat. "It was her favorite song," Joey said after a moment. "My dad and I taught her all the doo wop songs we knew, but she loved that one the best." His hand fell away from the lion. "But man, I could never get that high. Not without losing one or both of the boys."

Chris cleared his throat. "Well, I sure didn't do that." He resisted the urge to cup himself protectively, or cross his legs at the very thought of anything threatening his balls. "I'm a counter tenor," he volunteered. "Not many of us around."

"Ever think about putting that talent to use?" Joey sounded genuinely curious.

"I've had offers," Chris replied. "A couple of opera companies, and mostly for the historical or freak interest. Not much call anymore for a guy who can sing higher than most women." He shrugged. "But it's kinda hard to go haring across the country looking for a kid when you're in a production. And when it comes down to a choice between singing, and finding lost kids, there is no choice at all."

"Do you regret it?"

"Not for a minute." And that was the truth; only human, Chris had done things he'd regretted, but never once had he ever seriously regretted his gift and what he was able to do with it.

Joey made a thoughtful sound, and Chris looked up to find Joey studying him. He could almost see the thoughts moving around in his dark eyes, see the shuffling of his ideas, his beliefs, see Joey reassessing him.

"So did you find anything helpful here?"

"Other than gaining a sense of Briahna, nothing concrete." Chris laid the lion back on the bed, in exactly the same position he'd found it.

"I thought you said that it would help." Frustration crept into Joey's voice, and Chris couldn't blame him for feeling it; he felt it himself.

"It's not like I can touch something, get this epiphany, and then have everything fall neatly into place. It just doesn't work like that." Impatient with both his lack of progress, and Joey's inability to see how he worked, Chris shoved his hands into his pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels. "You ever do jigsaw puzzles?"

"Um, yeah." Joey looked confused at the abrupt change of subject. "What does that have anything to do with it?"

"It's a lot like that, the things I see. Sometimes, they don't make sense to me. The pieces fall into my head, and I move them around, try them here, try them there, see if they fit with anything else I know. Sometimes, they fit, and the picture becomes clearer. Sometimes they don't, and actually belong to a completely different puzzle. I just have to be patient, and keep shuffling puzzle pieces until they all fit together."

"Somehow, you don't strike me as a very patient guy. I'd have figured you for someone who took a hammer to the puzzle pieces to *make* them fit." One corner of Joey's mouth curved upward, and Chris grinned in response.

"Well, yeah. For anything else, I would be that guy. But I can't make things happen with this. I don't have any control over what I see."

"Okay. So what's next? What do you need to do?"

Chris rubbed the back of his neck. "Dunno. You have picture albums, I assume. Have any videos of her?"

Joey smiled wryly. "Man, you have no idea. Briahna grew up with me taping her. I have like, too many tapes to count. Seriously."

"Would it...hurt you if I watched some of them? Just to get a feel for her in movement? Here," he gestured at the room, "I get a feel for the essence of her, but I'd like a sense of her in real life."

Joey's face clouded again. Chris waited; if Joey said no, that would be that, and he'd think of something else. He was merely fishing, looking for something that would inspire him, a piece that might fit into the puzzle.

"Yeah, it will," Joey admitted. "It'll hurt like fuck. But I can take it if it'll help."

"You don't have to watch with me. I can do it alone. I understand, man. You don't have to put on the hair shirt and suffer."

Joey drew himself up to his full height. "I said I can do it. And I will. C'mon." He turned and strode out of the room.

And that, Chris thought, was that. He cast one last look around the room, turned off the light and closed the door behind him.

They had taken Briahna when she had been four and a half years old. Chris had decided he only wanted to watch a year's worth of tapes when Joey had opened up his tape cabinet, and he'd seen the sheer volume of neatly-labeled tapes.

"You weren't fucking kidding, were you?" Chris asked with a low whistle, leaning forward to peer into the cabinet. "I should've bought stock in blank camcorder tapes."

"Yeah, well. I'm a camera freak."

He'd settled Chris down with a Coke, and they'd watched tapes. He'd been right. It did hurt like fuck. The only time he'd watched was a night a month after they'd taken her, and Justin had sat with him on this very same couch, had rocked him and held him and stroked his back while he cried. The next morning he'd put away the tapes, and he hadn't seen them sin