DESTINED
follows "Served"

"We misjudged them," Alvin Danielson responded with deep regret. "You see, Jane and I hated the pigs...sorry, ma'am, the police. The way they treated us in the 60s—this scar, here, on my forehead, it's where the Chicago cops—Daley's jackbooted thugs—whacked me with a billy club. Mr. Goren was nothing but polite to us. The missus...well, I knew she was angry—not because we ignored her, but because we ignored him. Ms. Eames...she's protective like that. And little Olivia...we snubbed her, too, when she tried so hard to be friendly. It was wrong. We're trying to make amends–"

"Senora Goren is the nicest!" Mrs. Espinoza enthusiastically offered. "It says 'Big Sisters' in the name, too, but Carmelita did not want to come at first with all those ninos. You see, they tease her at school because she is...you know, regordeta. But when little Ana Serrano started to go, Rafael talked Carmelita into coming one time. The Senora made her feel so welcome, and then Ruby and Melora decided to come, too. She loves it now."

"I'm prejudiced," Shard Carver said fiercely. "Bobby worked with my dad, and my dad said he was the smartest person he knew. High spirits during his younger years, maybe overenthusiastic sometimes, but he was always a good guy—aboveboard. Honest. Polite to almost everyone, unless they were being rude or had done something illegal. And Alex...Alex is straight as they come. More reserved than Bobby, but a good person to have on your side. Scrupulously honest, to the point that some people might not like her. With Olivia? Tender, firm, loving."

"He saw me struggling," Bruno Volpe admitted, "not long after he moved in. Didn't know me from Adam's off ox. Politely asked if he could help me with the leaves. There was something about him, so I asked if he'd been in the military. 'Yes, sir,' he said as if he were a boy, very respectful. We ended up each with our own rake, working the yard slowly, and he bagged everything for me. Bought me a pop-up container for the leaves. Always seemed to appear when the yard needed raking, or the snow shoveled. We talked about history, or Milbury, or the Army; I told him about my Emma and the boys we raised here, my boy who died here, my other boy who criticizes me for living alone but never visits. Bobby's kinda like my boy now, and Olivia...I like to think of her as my granddaughter—both of 'em, she and that Ana girl–"

"Well, sure she misses her mother!" eleven-year-old Luciana Serrano said a little indignantly. "Our mama died nine years ago and Carlos still misses her. But she likes it here, too. Mr. G loves books and history and stories, just like her. He sings her to sleep when she has nightmares. She knows she can talk to Ms. Alex about anything, not like a girl at my school who didn't even know what her period was. Her mother wouldn't talk to her about sex because she said it was 'dirty'! How dumb is that?"

"Bobby's been my rock," recalled Russ Jenkins. "Everyone wants to help these kids, but nobody wants to volunteer. Here, they say, take my donation. Here's some money. Take my old stuff to use or resell. Well, how about some of your time, man? Nope, no can do. And Alex didn't have to come with him. But she watched Bobby with those kids and never turned back- Get angry? Well, sure he does, he's a human being, isn't he? Never takes it out on the kids, though. If they're wrong, he'll speak to them sternly, show them how their behavior hurts others. Some of our cynical kids thought he was a poser at first, but they turned when they found out he was on the level."

"Kids," James Deakins said with a reminiscent smile, leaning back in an Adirondack chair. "Oh, they're both good with kids. You knew Alex acted as a surrogate mom for her older sister, right? There were days she was morning sick like crazy, but she toughed it out. And the fuss she made about that kid! He was her nephew, but they were always close. She brought him to 1PP one day when he was about seven, right before Bobby left. Hell, Bobby worried about her the entire time she was pregnant. And him...kids...he always had a good rapport with the kids that sometimes were involved in our cases. I remember one—a social worker was murdered by the father of a boy she had under observation. Turned out Dad was a wannabe forcing his son to fulfill his dreams. The kid was practically suicidal from his father pushing him to the limit. Bobby sussed him right out.? Made sure he got to relatives who supported him–"

"If it wasn't for Allie, I wouldn't have been a mother–" Elizabeth Hogan yanked four tissues from the box next to her as she began her story.

"Oh, they're the nicest people!" said diminutive Lena Krentz, her button-like eyes lively. "Mrs. Goren is so thoughtful about keeping the bittersweet trimmed so it doesn't bother my trees."

"I can't say one bad thing about them," Ruth Dunbar said decisively. "They've done everything we asked, and Olivia is blooming and happy. I wish all my clients cared as much—I could weep sometimes. I've got a hospitalized toddler in my caseload now. Used as a punching bag by his 'daddy'—I use the term loosely!—because he messed his pants. But this family...it deserves to be. Here, take the files. Read my notes. Read the inspection reports."

. . . . .

               ***September 27, 2023***

Robert Goren had intended to work on additional trivia questions that evening, but since the entire household had been in constant motion since the start of the school year, he was dozing off in his recliner instead, with paper spilling down his lap. Alexandra Eames Goren, watching him from the sofa where she sat cross-legged with her laptop, had been surprised to see Bobby blink and nod. As somnolence gripped him, she slipped out her cell phone to record the event on video, amused at catching her perpetual-motion spouse so still. His hands loosed the unbound stack of printer paper he'd been reading, and, one by one, the sheets slipped to his lap, then tumbled to the floor; finally, his head nodded forward. Bandit, playing with the Ferris-wheel budgie toy mounted on the top of his birdcage, was alerted by the change in movement and abandoned the toy to crab sideways on the bars, bright black eyes fastened on his tall male human.

A small, deep sigh came from the now sleeping figure, and Alex smothered a laugh at the flutter of wings that accompanied Bandit landing amid Bobby's silver-flecked curls. The budgerigar nibbled on a few strands, then fastened his beak on a thicker lock of hair and tugged like a robin pulling up a worm. Bobby was jolted awake. "Ouch! What was–"

"Budgie alarm," she said demurely and stopped the video. Bobby fished atop of his head with his left hand and returned with Bandit sitting bright-eyed on his forefinger.

"Buddy, I don't need you thinning my hair any–"

The Skype ringtone on Alex's computer jarred them to attention; she focused on the screen, then froze.

"What's up, Eames?" Bobby said, seeing her frown. He still addressed her occasionally as he used to at work, in affection or concern.

"It's Tony."

She'd never flinched at a call from their attorney, which immediately made him uneasy. Alex answered his questioning look, saying, "I had an e-mail from him earlier. Said he might need to talk to us but hoped not."

"You should have said–"

"I'd hoped he wouldn't–"

Alex answered the online call with a quick "Hold on" while Bobby automatically rose, still carrying Bandit on one finger, and took a few steps to exit the living room and traverse the short hall. Olivia's bedroom door was open a crack, so he pushed at it slightly, just enough to glimpse her. Their ward was at her desk, back to the door, doing her homework while wearing bright purple headphones, which had been a gift for her tenth birthday two weeks earlier. Ana had gotten her hooked on Disney soundtracks, including the one for Frozen, and that's what she listened to as she worked. Since her grades were exemplary, neither saw any reason to stop the practice.

He closed the door slowly, then beckoned to Alex. After securing Bandit in his cage, they ascended the stairs to the upper story that acted as his office and the family library, with Alex carrying the open laptop. He pushed the door shut behind them.

Anthony Ambrose Fessiden seldom minced words. "Alex, you heard from Ms. Keynes? Or Bobby's Ms. Saltonstall?"

"No," she said instantly. "Why?"

"Rumor is that Madame Pepin's raising a fuss about what the State Department is giving Duplantix in return. Wanted to check in."

"In return?" Bobby retorted, color rising on his face. "What she wanted was her husband's b-bastard out of her house. That was the deal she made, so far as we know. She might as well otherwise have planned to stuff Olivia in a canvas bag with rocks and try to drown her like a kitten. At least...um...her mother saved her from that!"

"Bobby–" Alex reproved, but, having mentally reviewed Madame's actions, she wondered not for the first time what might have happened to "little Mignon" if Nicole Wallace had not made provisions for her daughter in her will. She regarded the successor to the Duplantier fortune with no less suspicion than she had some of their past suspects at the NYPD.

"Keep cool, Bob," Fessiden said soothingly. He was a short, balding, bespectacled man in his very late 50s, like a French bulldog in his looks and a bulldog in his work ethic. Alex had first consulted him to recover insurance due on her home after it caught fire and burned in late 2020; the insurance company balked on payment, and Fessiden had backed them down neatly. He'd also taken care of distribution of the money Bobby had unknowingly inherited from Declan Gage, following their wishes that the bulk of the funds go to charity save for the small amount they had invested in Shard Carver's and TJ Gomes' restaurant, The Dark Crystal, where they presided over a popular twice-weekly trivia contest. "Just rumors right now. I know Saltonstall will keep you apprised if she hears anything at her end. Maybe what I heard was bullshit."

"Bullshit originates s-somewhere," Bobby said, now circling the room like a prowling cat as his frustration transformed into restlessness.

"What exactly was said, Tony?" Alex asked evenly, her face flushed.

"Just that the patents which Duplantix holds on alternative energy are more valuable than one ten-year-old."

"What a surprise. What's the effect on the adoption process?" Bobby asked abruptly.

"Nothing at the moment." Fessiden met their eyes squarely. "Keynes would let me know if something were wrong."

After returning home in April with Olivia, they were advised by Fessiden to persuade their government contacts to retain a dedicated adoption lawyer, as the "swap" of Olivia Pepin for proprietary energy developments struck the attorney as a weak bargain made from Evangeline Pepin's spite. The State Department, influenced by Bobby's FBI supervisor Penelope Saltonstall and her contacts, had hired a local Washington, D.C., powerhouse, Amanda Keynes, who otherwise handled high-profile adoption cases. While theirs wasn't considered publicity-worthy, it was high-profile enough in Federal circles, as the Department of Energy was chafing to get their hands on Duplantix technology to make long-range modifications for climate change.

Bobby and Alex immediately realized they'd made a devil's bargain with someone proving to be as accursed as possible, even if Madame Pepin had never shed blood—at least not that they could prove—as Nicole Wallace had. Indeed, Wallace's motives seemed almost understandable next to Madame's bloodless manipulation.

"No news is good news. I know in what regard Saltonstall holds you. She'd have called. So we hold tight and wait. Maybe it's smoke and mirrors. Madame Pepin wants you to break or us to flinch. Not gonna happen at our end. But keep your ears open."

"I wish I could tell that woman–" Bobby looked ready to explode. "I wish I could tell her that I d-don't care what she does. If we have to, we'll sell up and go somewhere with no extradition."

"Bob–" Fessiden looked so weary that Alex realized he was genuinely concerned. "It'll be okay." Then he said good night and signed off.

"I'll kill her," Bobby said grimly.

"No, you won't," Alex told him, catching him in mid-stride and exerting all her force to stop his erratic orbit, capturing him in what embrace she could manage as he was so much larger than she. "No." And then she looked up at him with grim eyes. "Besides, I have dibs."

She'd intended the quip to defuse him, but there was still fire in his eyes as he retreated from her grip. "I can't–"

"Go," she said with forbearance, and he practically teleported downstairs while she trailed in his wake. Next came footfalls on the basement stairs following the faint thud of the door opening and a curt "Stay!" Alex found Sam the collie at the top of the stairs, a puzzled expression on his tapered face. She caressed the dog's head as she stood in the doorway, hearing Bobby huff angrily from below and then the percussive thump, thump, thump of his bare fists striking the boxer's speed bag he had suspended from the last free rafter in the exercise area of their basement. She reminded herself to put arnica on his hands when his anger was spent.

Odd, she thought, that Olivia hadn't reacted to the noise. But when Alex took her turn peeking into the bedroom, Olivia's blond head was still bent over her schoolwork, purple headphones covering her ears.

"Let me go! Let go! I won't!" was the shriek that awakened them.

At first, Alex was disoriented, then out of bed like a shot. The night terrors that Olivia had suffered when they first brought her home had never entirely disappeared, but they were now so rare that it seemed they had vanished by the time another occurred. Her previous nightmare was only two weeks earlier, but it had been on the eve of the first day of school and almost expected from excitement coupled with anxiety.

She didn't bother knocking, just rushed into the room where Olivia thrashed in her bed, screaming, "Let go! I won't, I won't." Behind her, Bobby stumbled half-awake into the hall. She sank to the edge of the mattress, laying a cool hand on the child's head. "Sweetie. Sweetie, it's okay. Olivia, it's Mama. Everything is okay."

Immediately, the ten-year-old had her in a stranglehold, shivering, and Alex was rocking her back and forth. Bobby stood framed by the doorway, hollow-eyed as if he had remained awake long after Alex had fallen asleep, massaging his bruised knuckles.

"Whatever you dreamed can't hurt you, Min," Alex whispered, using her nickname from school. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I won't go back to her!" Olivia cried out, angrily trying to scrub away the tears welling in her eyes. "I won't go back to that old witch! Her face ought to be green, like in The Wizard of Oz."

"Go back to?" Alex waited.

Bobby watched their daughter's face—and she was theirs, he told himself fiercely, adoption finalization or not—as it flushed in the illumination from the small lamp on her night table, partially shadowed by her tumbled curls, her brown eyes so like her mother's that sometimes they still startled him. He saw realization cross the child's face followed by consternation and could almost hear the conversation they had shared the first morning she arose in Milbury rather than Paris.

"Um...please, what are the rules?"

"...I'd say our first house rule is 'be kind.' Next is 'be truthful'—because both Alex and I have learned by hard experience that most of our problems have come from not being honest with one another."

He remained quiet, and Alex just rocked her, waiting.

"I...followed you upstairs," Olivia confessed. "I listened at the door. I'm sorry."

Both knew they would have done the same; Bobby only asked gently, "Did you hear everything?"

"Yes, Papa," she answered, hiding her face under the curve of Alex's neck.

He perched at the edge of the mattress, rubbing between her shoulder blades. "Even when Tony told me what was probably going on?"

"He said...said it might be smoke and mirrors. That means fake, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Bobby agreed.

"I didn't mean to listen...but you don't usually go back upstairs together at night, and I heard the Skype ringtone." She paused. "I went back to my room after you said goodnight to Tony, thinking maybe everything was fine, but when you ran downstairs and I heard you hit the speedbag—you only do that when you're upset. That scared me all over again."

"I was frustrated by what he said, and that's how I work it out," he told her.

"Please come to us when you're scared—any time," Alex said softly. "I swear, we'll talk about it, no judgments, just like you talk with Dr. Allyson."

"I will," Olivia promised, then hiccupped and involuntarily giggled.

"That's a better sound," Bobby said, smiling. "Do you want a story or a song?"

"Song, please," she requested, slipping under the covers again.

It was "her song," of course. It always was.

"Nobody said that life is always fair.
Sometimes it clips your wings
While you're in mid-air.
But there's a thread between your life and mine–"

The servants knew the routine well: when Maître Achard arrived for his semimonthly meeting with Madame Pepin, one of the staff would bring a bottle of the best wine from the generous wine cellar along with two goblets and a platter of small pastries from the nearby patisserie, then leave them strictly alone until Madame rang again. There were to be no interruptions, not even from the Duplantix executive offices. It was now Laurent's responsibility, Madame would say, to handle them himself.

It was Laurent she was discussing with "my dear Théo," knee-to-knee on the rose-and-green patterned love seat, still as sleek and aristocratic as the strong-willed young woman Marcel Pepin had courted years earlier, her short-cropped dark hair now attractively threaded with silver. In a blue-and-violet floral-patterned dress she wore solely for Achard, she leaned back, sipping a vintage Loire Valley wine and nibbling on fresh macarons. "–during the summer has become more and more refractory. I believe he is talking to that journalist–" The venom she put into the word was palpable. "–Anouilh on the side."

Achard, trim and tall in his conservative bespoke suit and crimson silk tie, said mildly, "He is a grown man, Vangie. You can't expect to monitor his every move, and a man should have his own friends. He and Sébastien Anouilh have known each other since university."

Privately, he found her almost imperceptible unease unsettling, although strangers would consider her as icy cool as ever. As her off-and-on lover for thirty years, Achard was privy to her deeper moods; her attraction had always been about her power—he found it stimulating if not outright titillating.

There was a sudden thump from the hallway, followed by the door to the morning room swinging open, and dark-haired Laurent filled the space it had vacated. "Maman, I wish to speak–"

His lean, handsome face sported remarkably bright blue eyes almost identical to those of the seated attorney, but his face was now flushed, with eyes slightly unfocused. His gaze fell on Achard, and his mouth twisted into an odd smile. "Oh, excuse me, I see Papá is here as well." When his mother's face turned scarlet and she set down her goblet, he protested, "What fires you up so, Maman? Were you and my sire here having a romantic tête-à-tête? Funny, I thought only the monthly profit statements gave you an orgasm any longer."

Achard bridled at the rude implication but said nothing. Madame Pepin spit angrily, "Wherever did you hear that lurid story? I will dismiss whoever started that–"

Laurent snorted. "Everyone in the household knows it, Maman, and has for the past six months. What the Gorens said to you on their last day here went through the house like wildfire. Even the laundress knows—did you not?"

Archard, face now crimson, had known, and Laurent added cynically, "You can hardly dismiss the entire staff. The interviews would keep you from Duplantix business. And the story would then spread through resentment."

"You drink too much these days," his mother said with gritted teeth, "and spend too much time with that...Anouilh ruffian–"

"When have I time to see Sébe, Maman?" he answered reproachfully, leaning on her desk for support. "You keep me tethered to a job I have come to loathe, squiring a woman I do not love. My only pleasure in the last few months has been reading the entries that la petite soeur posted on the Gorens' travel blog." Now he straightened up, his mouth drawn in a frown. "You asked that I learn all facets of the Duplantix work. I know much more now about the business than I did in the spring and so many more...secrets, shall we say?" His mother paled, but he continued unsteadily. "I realize now how useless but still necessary I am. I also see how...aboveboard you are in your business dealings—or sometimes not so.

"I know the rumors of your actions." And now he stood in front of her in inebriated resolve. "You will leave Olivia alone, Maman, and not interfere with the adoption. Do you understand me?"

"Or–" she said, rising, her chin elevated defiantly.

"Things will happen, Maman," finished Laurent cryptically, then left her, once again, alone with Achard.

"Your son–" Achard began, then amended himself. "Our son...may be becoming a liability."

"He'll come back," Madame Pepin said diffidently, retaking her seat and picking up her goblet, "even if he tries to leave. He's too soft, that one—my fault. I coddled him because he was yours. Once he remembers how difficult it is to live in the real world without the advantages I give him, he'll capitulate as always. Besides, he's a Duplantier. Blood will tell in the end—he'll take his rightful place."

"I hope you're right, Vangie," Achard said reluctantly.

The first half of October came and went without a word from either Fessiden or Keynes, and the specter of Madame Pepin began to fade from their minds. Mid-month Ruth Dunbar appeared with the first of three inspectors, the formidable Hannah Love. Another DCF worker arrived to inspect the house and neighborhood; like Hannah Love, the man was a no-nonsense sort but found nothing wanting. Dunbar advised Alex that a third inspector would go to St. Gregory's Academy.

A week before Halloween, Bobby saw a text pop up from Fessiden just after Olivia's bedtime. On the pretext of retrieving a book from the attic, he mounted the stairs to read the full text once he arrived upstairs.

"Don't get wound up, but I've had a couple troubling messages from Keynes."

"What type of messages?"

"Madame states she regrets having sent her husband's child away, that she misses her."

Bobby was about to text, "That woman only regrets not having larger quarterly profits," when Alex, not having believed her husband's evasion for a moment and followed him upstairs, removed the cell phone from his hands and tapped in angrily, "What does the bitch want?"

...[Tony is typing]

"Hi, Alex."

"What. Does. The. Bitch. Want?"

"Nothing from you. More like additional government concessions."

"Someone needs to tell Madame that slavery is illegal and children cannot be bought and sold anymore."

"Keynes hopes that she's showboating. I'm still trying for more info. Wanted to keep you in the loop—not have you hear anything from strangers."

Alex tapped savagely, "Too bad I can't put that loop around her neck."

Fessiden hastily signed off, and Alex returned Bobby's phone. She paced the north side of the upper story, and Bobby feared from the look on her face that she was going to strike something, but instead, she stopped and locked eyes with him, revealing frustration and fear.

"Eames..." he said in a low voice before he pulled her into his arms, where they clung to each other.

"We used to be able to do s-something," he said in a low voice. "I hate...sitting here waiting."

Calmer now, she gave a deep sigh. "Remember, even when we did something, sometimes our vic or their family and friends would come to us to complain we weren't doing enough, sitting on our butts—while we were busting our ass through 18-hour days to find out who stole the jewelry, killed their father, embezzled the funds...and we'd explain we were doing the best we could. Now it's our turn in their shoes—we just have to wait while someone else does their job."

"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" he quoted bitterly.

They feigned good spirits at breakfast, but Olivia immediately sensed the emotional undertones. She struggled with her schoolwork and was so listless that the nurse called home requesting that someone pick her up. An anxious Bobby retrieved her, but she remained withdrawn and, pleading a stomachache, ate only a few mouthfuls of supper before retreating to bed. At two-thirty a.m., they heard odd sounds from the other side of their bedroom door, and then Sam whined and pawed at the wood. They rose to find Olivia weeping and fumbling with the lock on the back door. When Bobby spoke to her, they realized that she was sleepwalking.

Alex stayed with her the remainder of the night, whispering, "It will be all right," each time the child moaned in her sleep. The next day, when they asked her if she was well enough for school, Olivia said in a prim, tight voice older than her years, "Maman always told me that if you had nothing else as a woman, you had your education. I refuse to let Madame interfere with mine." Heavy-eyed but determined, she went to school and remained there. Alex notified Sister Genevieve, the school counselor, and the teachers kept watch over her.

Watching Olivia poke at her slow cooker Asian chicken and dumplings that evening, Bobby suddenly said, "Your mother and I have been talking...we think it's unfair you should be the only one having fun on Halloween."

"That's right," Alex agreed with a smile, although she wasn't sure yet what she was agreeing to.

"And?" Olivia's face was closed with confusion.

"Well, neither of us...um...has been out on Halloween for years–"

Alex picked up the thread now. "Since you and Ana and Carlos need a chaperone, we might as well dress up, too."

The little girl realized this was a diversion but welcomed it, knowing they did so out of love, and the very idea tickled her. When there were no further disturbing phone calls, Olivia relaxed somewhat so that Halloween night was all she and Ana had planned. Viola Perrino had volunteered for costume duty, despite the protests of Alex and Abril Diaz, so the girls glowed as Anna and Elsa from Frozen; Carlos came as Matt Murdock, the alter-ego of Marvel superhero Daredevil. Bobby and Alex, wearing their Wizard and Princess Ozma outfits from trivia nights, trailed in their wake, and more than a few neighbors, including the indignant Danielsons harping against "the establishment," came out despite the chilly temperatures and commiserated with them. They found out later that Bruno Volpe, whom Olivia had confided in, had let the story slip to Bess Atherton, the woman on Main Street who owned Rip, the Pomeranian so insistent on having a turf war with Sam. Word of mouth being what it was, practically all of Milbury knew of Madame Pepin's perfidy.

Bobby was upstairs working the next day when Penelope Saltonstall telephoned. He had never been afraid to answer a call from her before but now found himself staring at the phone with foreboding.

"Goren," he said, terse, as he picked up. "What's the bad news?"

"Reading my thoughts, are we, Robert?" Saltonstall said dryly.

"It is bad news, isn't it?"

"Your Ms. Harcourt–"

"Trust me...um...she's not 'my' anything," he said testily. "I've despised her since she sent me photos of Nicole's body. It was deliberate and malicious."

Penelope amended, "Ms. Harcourt is talking about State and Energy backing out of this little deal."

His breath was short when he responded because his heart rate and blood pressure had spiked. "Penelope, since this is your private line, I will tell you what I told Tony—this goes s-south and Alex and I will sell up everything and g-go somewhere with no extradition. Olivia is going n-nowhere without us."

She was silent for a moment. "That's a violation of your oath, Robert."

"I don't give a f-fuck. And I know damn well...what you'd do to p-protect your kids!"

"I'd give my life," she answered in a solemn voice.

"Then don't argue w-with me any further."

She advised him, "When we finish talking, I'll speak with Nora. We'll do more brainstorming. Meanwhile, keep this under your hat."

"Too late," he admitted. "Olivia confided in Bruno, Bruno told Mrs. Atherton up the street, and n-now most of the town knows. Jane Danielson pulled me away from the crowd last night—we took Min out for trick or treat—to advise me...um...that the SDS still exists and she could get me in t-touch with them."

"Holy shit!" were two words he'd never heard Penelope Saltonstall utter, but she did so now.

"And Alex and I blew it with Lizzie several days ago. Now I'm fielding calls from b-both Liz and Jack."

"Word of mouth," she began, "travels–"

There was abrupt silence at the other end of the phone. "Penelope?"

"Robert..." Her voice was unhurried as she carefully considered her words. "Robert, do you agree that Madame Pepin is not following the terms of the agreement...and could almost be said to require extreme measures?"

Bobby leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in thought, tapping the tip of his nose with his forefingers. His mind immediately flashed back to some of the maneuvers he and Alex had used to catch their perps, and he grinned, "I...would d-definitely agree with that."

When she responded, he could almost see her catlike smile of satisfaction. "Again, let me talk with Nora. There may be better avenues to explore. But if not...well, when I was a child, as someone once said on my favorite television series Get Smart, 'No more Mr. Nice Guy.'"

               ***November 9, 2023***

The heavyset man regarded the incoming call on his cell with curiosity. It was a number he hadn't seen in several years—why was she calling him? After events in the spring, he'd thought she'd never want to deal with him again.

"Good mornin', Agent Saltonstall," drawled Harry Cavanaugh exaggeratedly, answering the phone.

"Good morning, Harry," she said mildly. And then, voice revealing surprise, "I wasn't sure you'd pick up."

"By all rights," he said, "I shouldn't have."

"I'm glad you did. You're too good for that, Harry—or you were once. And you know we couldn't let you continue the way you were. It was bad for the work environment and a black eye to the Bureau. We've had enough bad publicity. Politics will kill this agency if we don't watch out."

"You're layin' on the sugar kinda heavy, aren't you, Special Agent Saltonstall?" he bantered, still in his deepest Tennessee drawl. "What do you care? You're retirin' end of year and goin' back to your lil' love nest in Brookline."

He heard her abrupt snort before she responded crisply, "No heavier than you're laying on the cornpone, Harry-boy. So Nora was right: you do know where all the bodies are buried. My private life is none of your business, but I do care about my friends who are still working."

"Includin' Wonder Boy," was Cavanaugh's insolent parry.

"Get off, Harry. Don't act like I don't know what happened in D.C. And afterward, for that matter. Grace Chadwick now thinks you're certifiable."

"Well, the feelin's mutual."

Surprisingly, Saltonstall chuckled. "Let's just face the fact that we'll never be best friends, Harry. What I need is some special expertise. I remembered your foreign investments–"

He immediately became defensive and barked, "That was never a problem, and that money's all that's keeping me solvent right now."

Her voice shifted into sternness. "Harry, chill. That was resolved years ago. Your foreign investments did not constitute a conflict of interest. It's not the issue here. But it's because you have foreign investments that I need advice."

"This does have something to do with Wonder Boy," he said shrewdly.

She said firmly, "It has to do with Olivia."

He paused as if considering. "Ah, what's Madame Defarge up to now?"

"Eh?"

"On the French trade market, Evangeline Pepin is referred to as Madame Defarge. Knitting while the rest of the world loses their head, so to speak. During financial crises, she usually has the power to keep hers."

"Male traders afraid of a strong woman?" Saltonstall couldn't resist an additional snipe.

"Can't speak for the rest, but I'm not intimidated by her business acumen. She's a sharp cookie in my book, and if I needed someone to run a business, she'd be on the shortlist. But as a human being...she might as well be the iceberg that got Titanic. She loves her profits and her art collection, in that order—perhaps her attorney and her children as well, but I've always considered them much lower on her list. Although recently I've heard a couple of clandestine rumors that she's slightly off her game. But no need to be a profiler to figure any of it out. 'Fess up, Penny, what's she done?"

"She's making things difficult, Harry. She's using the child as a bargaining chip—well, I take that back, she initially used the child as a bargaining chip, but now she's taking it to the extreme, saying she misses the girl–"

"The only thing that woman misses are additional profits," Cavanaugh said scornfully.

"Nora and I–"

"The Terrible Two."

"–thought a threat to her beloved Duplantix might distract her," Saltonstall continued without reaction.

Cavanaugh smiled to himself. "A rumor...in the correct ear miiiight do the trick."

"Can you work that trick, Harry?"

"What do I get in return?"

"C'mon, Harry...I know you and your kids have a troubled history. But would you stick any of them to the mercies of Madame Defarge?"

"So you know my soft underbelly," Cavanaugh admitted reluctantly.

"It's why I realize you aren't irredeemable, Harry. Besides, that's my job." Saltonstall paused. "Nora and I can put in a word to the disciplinary committee. But don't expect miracles. The evidence spoke for itself all too clearly."

"Yeah, Wonder Boy mentioned it."

"Harry!" she remonstrated. "Goren told me that if she came after the child, they would leave. Go somewhere with no extradition."

Cavanaugh snorted. "Mr. Perfect and his straight-arrow wife?"

"They love that little girl as if she were their own, the way you love Harry Junior and Valerie and Phillip. Besides, did you ever know him to lie to me?"

There was a pause. "Relax, Penelope. The financial market is a precarious place. The correct word in the right ear can create the smallest bit of doubt that will magnify all out of proportion, especially these days with the Twitter twits and the Facebook freaks. Luckily for you, I know just where to set the fuse. Leave this venial ol' sinner to do what he did best, hmm?"

"Thank you, Harry. I owe you one."

"Goren already paid that debt. Keep your ears open."

After she hung up, he took a long walk, hands in his pockets, his thoughts his own. Shortly after noon, he tapped in a number.

By next morning, the spark kindled by one offhand remark to a gossipy broker had become a conflagration. Bandied originally via text broker to broker, it hit Musk's still controversial Twitter-turned–"X" a few minutes before eleven p.m. on the east coast of the United States; speculators had it distorted within a half-hour as if playing a maniacal game of telephone, and the rest of social media did the damage. Well before the Paris stock exchange opened at three a.m. Wall Street time on November 10, frantic telephone calls, texts, and e-mails began pouring into the Duplantix home office, as well as into Parisian brokerage offices and other prominent firms.

In Milbury, Alexandra Eames woke to contemplate a restful day off, as that Friday was the designated celebration of Veterans Day, which fell on Saturday. Bobby had mentioned taking Olivia to Ridgefield. Still pleasantly drowsy, Alex saw him off to the kitchen to cook breakfast while she uncovered Bandit and stood by his cage chatting to the bird while he listened attentively, then turned on Morning Edition.

Bobby nearly dropped the sauté pan with the eggs when she shouted, "Bobby! Bobby, come listen to this!" Her call woke Olivia, who came flying out of her bedroom to discover the source of the noise.

"...reporting from Paris after an unconfirmed rumor that one of France's largest energy resource and research companies may be in grave financial trouble. Last night news spread of financial instability at French energy giant Duplantix Ltd. The company has specifically denied the rumors, but social media has been exploding for hours over the news and it will be some time before a true accounting can take place. We reported here several months ago that the United States Department of Energy was considering a partnership with Duplantix Ltd. on alternative energy sources using the French corporation's innovative systems and patents. As climate change continues to affect our weather, it becomes more urgent that we enter into these partnerships to help preserve our planet. We take you now to–"

Olivia said with wide eyes, "Is Madame going to be poor?"

"I'd pay real money to see that," Alex murmured to herself, just as Bobby's cell phone shrilled the theme to the 1960s FBI television series. He loped into the bedroom, returning with the phone, already in the middle of a conversation. "–doing awake at this hour?"

Bobby popped the speakerphone on, and Saltonstall cheerfully said, "Oh, Robert, I've been up since three-thirty watching the fireworks go off. What a magnificent job!"

"None of this is real?"

"Not at all. And now, as Olivia might say, the ball is in Madame's court–"

Evangeline Pepin had never appeared in public on a business morning less than professionally dressed or presented less than a composed, collected persona to the public. Nor did she allow Duplantix to indulge in disarray. That morning, Laurent was unnerved when he strolled into the open-plan office to find every employee speaking frantically into a cell phone or face-to-face on a computer conference call; the noise level was appalling. Across the room, his mother was seated at her desk, flushed and gesturing with one hand, arguing with someone on her old-fashioned European-styled telephone, and from his vantage, he could see that her blouse was open at the collar and wisps of hair escaped her usually impeccable coiffure.

His grandfather had designed the Duplantix offices to exude confidence with its calm, professional veneer. When his mother took over the business, she retained the wooden desks and old-fashioned male-entrenched trappings in memory of her beloved father, Yves Arnaud Duplantier. Everything else was now done in a serene modern style, like being immersed in a Mediterranean seaside grotto, all cool soft blues and greens with minimal accents of tan, accentuated by restrained full-spectrum LED lighting. It was only today that Laurent noticed that the result made the employees look slightly green, too—or was that perhaps a reflection of the workers' current emotions?

"Laurent, thank goodness you're here," gasped Emilie Solange. The stout blond woman in her late 30s had been Evangeline Pepin's private secretary for years, years filled with blessed routine until this morning.

"What's happened?" he asked, looking around in astonishment; like Emelie, he'd never seen the office in this state. Voices were seldom even raised at Duplantix; nothing ever ruffled Maman. Since he refused to listen to radio or television upon arising and never even checked social media but merely went through his morning ablutions and headed for his desk, he wondered if it had to do with some recent event.

Emelie swiveled her laptop screen toward him, confirming his suspicion. "Look at what Le Monde has been reporting all morning!"

Huge headlines blared "death rumors" about his mother's beloved company; had he been pressed to tell the truth right then, a tiny part of him might have been jubilant at this small bit of retribution. But as a critical cog in the tedious (to him) wheel that was Duplantix, he knew the news was a sham.

"Don't worry, Emelie," he said confidently, then smiled covertly, realizing that the 'misunderstanding' could be corrected with one announcement. "This will be remediated presently. I promise."

And then he set his shoulders, put on a grave face, and went to talk to his mother.

"Was this you? Was this you?" she demanded, her intense green-blue eyes afire as he walked into the glassed-in office that seemingly floated amidst the larger area, filled with his mother's favorite rose-and-leaf green furnishings.

"Now, Maman," he said placidly, recalling the threat he'd made while in his cups, "as you pointed out so truthfully some weeks ago, I know which side my bread is buttered on. It would only prove detrimental to me."

She stood up, body tense with fury. "Your friend Anouilh then–"

He gave a deep sigh. "Maman, I have no idea what you have against Sébe, but I can tell you that he doesn't have the specialized knowledge to have planted intelligence of this sort. He's a satirist, a writer, a journalist—not a financier. Whoever planted a rumor of this significance knew just where to go. Which...before you say anything, leaves out Madame et Monsieur Goren. They are both very intelligent, but not in financial matters. I doubt they would live in such a tiny home and Monsieur Goren would not have had so many years of paying off the medical bills of his mother if they did."

"This is disastrous," she fumed, abandoning her suppositions. "What do we do?"

"You know the quickest way to resolve this, Maman. Stop acting as though I am an idiot," Laurent snapped. He was suddenly feeling reborn, coming up against the lioness of the family while realizing he had turned into an equally formidable leopard.

She wheeled away from him, her jaw clenched. "We could get much more–"

"–or we can lose our reputation completely," he countered sternly. "Which will it be, Maman?"

Her shoulders slumped, Madame Pepin did not reply for at least a minute, then straightened her back and lifted her chin, her eyes set with determination as she wheeled back to her desk. She pressed the button on the old-fashioned intercom her beloved father had used when he ran Duplantix. Emelie's voice came out laced with static but intelligible. "Yes, Madame Pepin?"

"You will contact Ms. Helen Harcourt of the United States State Department immediately."

"Yes, Madame!" was the immediate response.

"And Maman–" Laurent cautioned her sharply.

"Yes?"

"There shall be no more interference with the adoption," he stated implacably, and she turned to face him with some surprise. He was not inebriated now, and while his stern face still reflected Théodore Achard, his grim voice echoed the man who had raised him.

"I agree," she capitulated with dignity.

"And I will deal with the press," he responded quickly. "This means I will contact Sébe to advise me of the best way to address this. He will know. Just so you know."

She watched him leave, wondering if it was too late to reverse his transformation.

Penelope Saltonstall telephoned Robert Goren at 6:24 p.m. that evening. "You'll want to watch the national news tonight, Robert."

"I've already seen the headlines on CNN. Apparently, the United States government in the body of the Department of Energy has quashed any qualms about Duplantix Ltd. being in financial foreclosure by entering into a collaborative partnership with them."

"But of course on the hush-hush side of that partnership is an agreement with Evangeline Pepin that she won't meddle in a certain adoption process any longer."

"What did you do?"

"Made a phone call to someone who knows where all the bodies are buried, of course. In these days of social media, one tiny rumor can spread very quickly and then run amok. I got the idea from you, actually—what you told me about Olivia speaking to your neighbor."

"But whoever managed this had to have had specific financial knowledge–" Bobby paused, disbelief flooding him. "It can't be–"

Saltonstall said quietly, "I told him I'd owe him one, but he said you'd already paid the debt." When Bobby didn't answer, she addressed him by name again, concerned.

"I need time to think," he said in a dazed voice.

He couldn't see her smiling to herself. "Good night, Robert. Give my regards to Alexandra and Olivia."

He left the bedroom feeling stunned. Alex was leaning against the basement door, talking to Lizzie on her cell, but as soon as she saw his face, she abruptly ended the call. Olivia appeared in the archway leading to the living room.

"Turn on the national news, will you, Min?" he said quietly.

Olivia knew which station they favored, and the distinctive theme music played just as she had settled on the local station; Richard Davis's solemn visage stared into their living room. "Breaking news tonight: a grave financial crisis with possible global consequences averted in France today. Later in the broadcast, the administration warns of another possible government shutdown within the week; Aline Craft reports from Washington. The January 6 suspect on the run surrenders to police. We'll hear from LaShonda Ellison in Monroe Township, New Jersey. First tonight, Martine Sevier reporting live from Paris."

The red-haired correspondent stood posed so that the Eiffel Tower was visible over her left shoulder; presumably, Alex thought cynically, so clueless viewers would understand they were broadcasting from France. "Good evening, Richard. It has been a tumultuous day for the Parisian stock market, where an unconfirmed rumor resulted in a major energy firm, a key factor in the European Union's fight against climate change, almost facing financial disaster, with possible repercussions for the entire European Union." The background image shifted to a still photo of the brutalist-style Duplantix Ltd. building. "Just before midnight Eastern Standard Time, news spread online that French energy giant Duplantix Ltd. was in grave financial trouble. The rumors spread rapidly over numerous social media platforms, spawning additional disinformation about leading EU businesses, including banking firm BNP Paribas, retail giant Carrifer, and insurance organization Axa, having comparable financial difficulties. All rumors have been proven false.

"The Duplantix rumor was of particular significance due to their alternative energy source innovations. The corporation's efforts in that quarter have been expanding rapidly since rising summer temperatures and alarming news of retreating glaciers continue to accentuate the continued danger from climate change." The background image now showed footage of the cool interior of the Duplantix offices and then a brief stock shot of an iceberg calving. "This comes on the heels of a proposed partnership between the United States Department of Energy and Duplantix so that Duplantix patents can be utilized to provide alternative energy sources within the United States."

Davis asked, "Martine, do we know where these rumors originated?"

There was a minimal satellite lag for his voice to reach Sevier; when the reporter responded, the Eiffel Tower reappeared behind her, "That is still under investigation, Richard. However, based on confirmation of Duplantix Ltd's solvency, the State Department, in collaboration with the Department of Energy, did sign that partnership agreement this afternoon at about 5:35 p.m. Central European Time. We understand Duplantix Ltd.'s owner and CEO Evangeline Duplantier Pepin has extended some additional courtesies to the Federal Government to cement the deal, but those details were not made public."

Alex shot a look at Bobby, who gave her a covert smile.

"Thank you, Martine," Davis said. "We take you now to Washington, D.C., where Aline Craft–" and Alex reached for the remote where Olivia had discarded it and muted the sound.

The child was still staring at the television. "What...does that mean?"

"It means," Bobby said grimly, "that Madame, from wherever in the nine circles of Hell she came from—but I'm...um...fairly certain it's the fourth—decided that the well-being of her company," and then he smiled wryly, "was more important than m-making an issue over the adoption of a single little girl." He reached out to smooth her hair. "Foolish woman." Olivia's eyes went from Bobby's joyous face to Alex's merry one before she broke into a grin. "So this means she won't bother us any longer?"

"I've received assurance from 'a very reliable s-source' that she's to keep her nose out of our business from now on."

Sam was sitting in front of Olivia, wagging his tail at the humans' shift in mood, and suddenly, the little girl clapped her hands, dancing in front of the dog. "C'mon, Sam, c'mon! Up!" and the collie leaped to his hind legs only to have Olivia grab his front paws and dance with him, singing at the top of her lungs,

"Ding-dong, the witch is dead!
Which old witch? The wicked witch!
Ding-dong, the wicked witch is dead!"

Bobby laughed, but Alex felt obligated to protest, "Olivia, that isn't nice!" only for Bobby to counter, "Sorry, Eames, I disagree," and when Sam regained his four feet, Bobby grabbed Olivia's hands and they danced together as Olivia continued singing,

"Ding-dong! the merry-o, sing it high, sing it low,
Let them know the wicked witch is dead."

Alex had already capitulated by the end of the second line and began clapping along, at which Bandit flew to her head. She shifted the bird to her shoulder to watch while Bobby and Olivia gyrated before the television, with Sam romping around them as they repeated the verses a second time.

An hour after Olivia had been coaxed into bed, while Alex caught up on her correspondence, Bobby padded to the basement and returned to the kitchen with an unopened bottle of Four Roses bourbon Jack had bought his sister for her birthday. He poured out two shots, then delicately sipped at one. A smile crossed his face as he finished the rest, then poured himself another. Bobby started to cup both shot glasses in one hand and grab the bottle with the other to transport into the living room but stopped, raised his shot glass once more, taking the tiniest sip after making a toast to an invisible entity, then reconciled the levels in the shot glasses and returned to the living room where Alex was still absorbed with her laptop.

"Take a break, Captain Eames," he said happily, "and have a drink with me."

She set the laptop aside. "Smells like you've already indulged, Agent Goren."

"I had to sample the wares to make sure it was fit for such a discerning palate before I served it to my lovely bride," he said mischievously.

"Yeah, a likely story," she returned, accepting the shot glass. She swirled the caramel-colored liquid, gave an appreciative sniff over the glass, then sipped and smiled. "Ahhhh, Jack knows how to pick 'em."

"Smooth as glass," he agreed, settling beside her and curling his right arm around her.

"Elucidate, my dear Holmes," was her request.

He settled back. "When Penelope called on the first–"

"–you decided, and I concurred, that Madame had quit playing by the rules, and if there was nothing else she and Nora Loughran could do, it was time to quit playing by the rules, too." She sipped at the bourbon again.

He took a slightly larger mouthful than a sip. "Then let me digress."

"Oh, Bobby, it wouldn't be you if you didn't," she teased.

He arched his eyebrows and flashed a grin. "I had heard of Harry before he became my supervisor. Not due to his rep, but because of an ethics challenge he became involved in. Cue an Ethics Refresher Class, to a chorus of groans from all involved. Harry had legal investments in foreign holdings, but there was an investigation conducted to see if they constituted a conflict of interest. Eventually, it was ruled that no conflict applied because they were foreign holdings. Of course, should any one of Harry's foreign holdings acquire a domestic counterpart involved in an FBI investigation or should one of the foreign holdings become part of a domestic case–"

"–Harry would have to recuse himself or withdraw his investment. Makes sense."

"And he agreed that was fair."

She held up her shot glass to his. "So he kept his contacts."

His clinked against hers. "And knew the right ear to give the wrong information to."

"Or conversely the wrong ear to give the right information to," and they drank together.

Bobby poured them another shot, and as he sipped, she spied a too-familiar faraway expression settling on his face. "Whatever you're thinking, Agent Goren, stop."

"What is it you think...I'm thinking, Captain Eames?" he asked, but his eyes were dark as he regarded her.

"I think you're adding another boxcar to your guilt train."

"I'm not...but I just r-realized...we made 'honesty' a virtue to Olivia and this solution hinged on a lie."

"When was Madame ever about honesty?" Alex argued practically, turning sideways to face him. "She used a child as a bargaining chip, not just now, but from the very beginning. And she says she had us checked out. Laurent checking us out I believe, but her? Hell, Bobby, for all Madame knew we could have been Mike Stoat and...and that fruitcake we once arrested for poisoning people so she could sell baby clothes–"

"Trudy Pomeranski," he said.

"Yeah, that witch...my point is that Madame would have let anyone leave with Olivia just so that she was gone. She didn't care. We tried to play straight with her and she screwed us. Eventually, we had to play on her level, the way we had to work our perps. We did our jobs, Bobby. We protected Olivia." She paused. "We protected our daughter."

He opened his arms to her, and she accepted the invitation, holding him tightly. "Do you think Min will sleep through the night?"

"I think she should sleep better than she has in weeks. And so will we."

On Saturday, November 11, at noon, Ms. Donna Hogarth, newly returned to the ranks of York County pedagogy, married publishing heir Quentin Hastings VI (otherwise known as "Zes") at an old whaler's chapel in Kennebunk, Maine. The best man was the groom's oldest friend, the groomsmen were Zes' two assistants from Hastings House publishing, the bride's merry-eyed best friend Irené Fournier served as maid of honor, the senior bridesmaid was a fellow teacher, and the younger bridesmaid was a beaming ten-year-old girl in pink chiffon with a soft green cape against the cold to match Donna's favorite watermelon tourmalines. Her future parents glowed among the attendees. After the ceremony, Olivia found herself hugged by the parents of the bride as well as those of the groom, while congratulations came from nearly the entire crowd, which included their tour bus driver, Michael Agostino ("Hey, I had to see this through till the end, right?") and Bobby and Alex's editor Holly Lewin. As the "golden hour" passed and sunset approached, signaling that the time had come for the couple to leave for their honeymoon, Donna gave Olivia a hug that almost took her breath away and whispered, "You let me know when that adoption hearing is, kitten, and we'll be there with bells on."

Seated nearby, Alex, snug in the white-and-silver cape Bobby had given her on New Year's Eve 2021, and Penelope, with a thick knitted shawl around her neck and shoulders, watched their daughters chat. The former commented in satisfaction, "It's been a beautiful day, and they make a sweet..." and here Alex paused to smile because Donna had chosen to wear a full-length, softly draping pale purple lightweight woolen gown with hand-worked white and silver embroidery edging the full-length sleeves, collar, and hemline, like a medieval princess dress draped with a white faux-fur cape, finished with lilac-colored platform shoes, with Zes attired in a vintage, long-sleeved black-and-plum vertical-striped shirt with plum-colored lapels, a purple suit jacket with black velvet lapels, violet bellbottoms, and square-toed high heel black boots ("So Peter Max!" Alex had exclaimed). "...and very compatible couple."

"I'm so happy for her," Penelope said gently, her eyes gone soft looking at the child she and her husband had called their "unicorn." "Sometimes I thought she'd never get over her first love."

Alex tilted her head in such an unconscious mirror of Bobby that the other woman had to laugh. "Broke her heart, huh? What happened?"

Penelope's eyes twinkled. "Reenie is straight."

Alex blinked, then smiled. "Oh..."

"Poor dearling." Penelope shook her head. "They were so close, and Donna thought from fifth grade on—they met in kindergarten—that Irené was her soulmate and future life partner." She paused. "It hurt Irené, too. She was in tears the day she told Donna she loved her as a friend—a best friend—only. I'm glad they're still close—in that way, they are still soulmates.

"Eventually I just relaxed. Donna had so many friends I never worried about her being alone, and I thought she would just stay fun and fancy-free. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she texted me about her first dinner with Zes. Imagine being at Sardi's and not noticing anything about the place—not like her at all! I still remember the time Matt took me there for dinner and Redford was holding court in a corner, and that was forty years ago. Donna didn't even notice the actors' caricatures on the wall."

"Bobby and I saw sparks fly the moment they first talked," Alex recalled. "Even his father missed it. After us, the one who twigged first was Michael."

They watched Bobby emerge from the crowd with three slender silver sticks in one hand. He handed one to Olivia, whose face lit up, then called, "Eames! I have your sparkler!"

"The end of a perfect day," Alex said in satisfaction, and she and Penelope joined the farewell crowd.

               ***November 17, 2023***

"Tony?"

Fessiden, looking like a squat toy soldier in his business suit, stood under the porch light with a manila envelope in hand when Alex answered the back door. "Came to deliver this to you personally. By the way, a belated happy anniversary. Do anything special?"

Alex let him in and led him into the living room. "Shard and TJ threw us a bash Wednesday night at the Crystal. We had a great time but were short on sleep yesterday."

Bobby looked up from his recliner where he was working up trivia questions as best he could because Bandit was wandering the top of the folding tray table being used as an adjunct desk, industriously chewing on paper corners, chasing Bobby's ballpoint, trying to remove the colored tags from the sheets, occasionally letting out an excited "cheep!"

"You're being a pest, little bug," Alex said fondly, and the bird flew to her head, but Bobby's grin indicated that they had been playing deliberately.

Sam came to greet the attorney, waving his plumed tail and offering a front paw, but Fessiden's eyes shifted to Olivia, who now fixed wary eyes on him instead of paying attention to what she was sketching.

He held up the envelope. "Your Ms. Harcourt may be a pain in the neck, but she delivers."

"What is it?" Olivia asked fearfully.

"Court date." He smiled, softening his basset-like face. "Connecticut Family Court in Hartford. 10 a.m. Be early."

Alex took the file folder. "We'll be there at sunrise if that's what it takes. What's the date?"

"Yours now. Check it out."

Bobby put his things aside and rose as Alex opened the folder. "December 22." She added softly, "Maybe it will help wipe out the ghosts of December 23."

Fessiden looked puzzled. "I don't understand."

"December 23 has been a bad luck date for me," Bobby admitted in a low voice. "When I was eleven years old, my mother had a psychotic break on that day."

"And his mentor died on December 23 last year," Alex said gently.

Olivia said quietly, "I'm sorry, Papa."

"I'm not," he told her with a smile. "Your mother's right. Something good to remember instead. An early Christmas gift."

"Saw the interview results," Fessiden said, uncharacteristically beaming. "You both practically walk on water."

"How many–"

"At least fifty by my estimation. 'From sea to shining sea,'" the attorney quoted. "From Penelope Saltonstall in L.A. to Donna Hastings all the way up in Maine, your Aunt Agnes in Michigan to the lady hoteliers in Virginia, down to your flaky neighbor who loves you because you keep the bittersweet pruned."

Bobby laughed. "Lena Krentz, of course."

Olivia asked suddenly, "We can bring family, can't we? Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Steve should be there, and Uncle Jack and Aunt Patty, and Donna says she wants to come–"

"It's done in a courtroom, Livvy, because it's a legal procedure," Fessiden told her. "It's probably Judge Abbott. Very popular family court judge. Specializes in adoption hearings. Strict, but knows her stuff. Ask whomever you like. It'll probably work in your favor."

               ***December 22, 2023***

"Case CVJ-1627MP," the bailiff said precisely at 10:00 a.m. "Adoption hearing for Mignon Olivia Pepin, by Robert Oliver Goren and Alexandra Victoria Eames Goren. The court will please rise."

A court officer holding open one of the double doors for her, Olivia walked into the modern-style courtroom first, in a red velveteen buckle-strapped jumper over a soft ivory-colored sweater patterned in green holly leaves—it was two days before Christmas, after all! Ana had advised her—and they heard her gasp.

Alex, following behind her in a burgundy wool dress trimmed around the collar and three-quarter sleeves with red beading, understood why.

Taking up the rear, in his charcoal-grey suit and best burgundy silk shirt, with the Christmas-tree patterned tie Shard had given him the previous year, Bobby whispered, "Just like our wedding day."

When Olivia reached the oak-veneered judge's bench at the front of the courtroom, the gentle-looking woman with a snowy cloud of white hair sitting before the seal of the State of Connecticut smiled at the child's tear-stained face and asked softly, "Do you need a tissue, dear?"

"I have a handkerchief, thank you," and Olivia reached in the jumper pocket for that item to wipe her eyes. "They're all here," she said with a tremor in her voice to the woman. "Almost my whole family."

The courtroom was nearly full, with most of the younger men standing at the back to leave the older men, the women, and the few children the seats. The crowd ranged from Alex's sister and brother and their families to the Cochran cousins to Donny Carlson and his mother Evelyn, from Penelope Saltonstall and Matthew Hogarth to the staff from the Dark Crystal, and several of the boys and girls from Big Brothers/Big Sisters in the care of Russ Jenkins, to Bobby's friend Lewis to the NYPD contingent that included the Deakins, the Carvers, the Hannahs, Zach Nichols, Carolyn Barak, and Megan Wheeler with her daughter Margo. Seated in the front row were Mike and Carla Logan, Bobby's elderly Aunt Agnes with her family—Molly's beaming smile encompassed them all—Ana and Carlos with Mrs. Diaz, Bruno Volpe, Viola Perrino, and taking pride of place near the center, Donna and Zes Hastings—his parents were standing at the back.

Judge Abbott instructed the court to take their seats, resulting in a brief, muffled commotion before the room fell silent. "We have a full house today," she observed.

"Yes, ma'am!" agreed Rafael Sanchez from the second row, his thin face anxious, and his cousin Carmelita elbowed him in the ribs and hissed, "Chitón!"

Olivia turned away from the judge, discovering more familiar faces: Dr. Allyson. Dr. Chaudry. Sister Rosamund sitting with Cerise Whittaker and Jacob Silverman from school. Holly Lewin. And, on the aisle, with a big grin splitting his face, Noah Porter-Benson perched next to his adopted mother, Olivia Benson.

The bailiff had just begun, "Connecticut Family Court will come to order, the Honorable Jerusha Abbott presiding," when there was a sharp knock on the double doors, followed by one of them swinging opening. A woman called apologetically, "I beg your pardon, Your Honor. A thousand apologies for being late. We've just arrived from Bradley—our flight was late and we were further delayed at International."

Bobby smiled at his former FBI partner Karin Hirahara with his brow furrowed, mouthing, "International?"

And then he saw Alex grin.

"All of us made it," Karin said happily as her wife Jennifer joined her at the entry, opening the second door.

Mike Logan observed in a low voice, "The Bureau is in the house!"

Nola FalaccI tossed him a cocky grin as she strolled in on the arm of her husband, Ashton. Behind her were more old friends: Tobias Fornell, retired; Veronica Heller from the central office; and Marcus Thuringer, less than two weeks away from taking over as director of the Boston field office.

Benjamin Siler from the Chicago field office completed the queue, and the judge said, "Could you please close the doors, sir?"

"If you can bear with us a bit longer, Your Honor, if you please," Siler smiled, nodding respectfully. "Some special people have come a long way to see Miss Olivia."

Framed between the open doors, a tall, attractive man with dark hair and blue eyes said, "Bonjour, ma petite soeur."

Olivia gasped, "Laurent!" and darted into her half-brother's arms. Laurent laughed. "What are they feeding you, child? What's that in English? 'Growing like a weed.'"

"Papa's a better cook than Berthe, that's why," Olivia said with a grin. "What's Madame going to think? She'll be furious that you're here."

"I told Maman I was taking a Christmas skiing holiday in Quebec, checking out the chalet mon père left me. The staff has promised, as they say, to 'cover for me.'" Then his eyes twinkled as a woman with long dark hair in a braid touched Olivia's shoulder. The child pivoted, then squealed, "Luisa!"

She lost her composure entirely and converted to French to address her former nanny with words that roughly translated as "I can't believe you're here! How's your sister? How is the baby? How is Tipsy?" until the almost bossy voice of a sturdy thirteen-year-old dark-haired girl interjected, "S'il vous plaît, Min, puis-je parler?—or, as my father claims you Americans say, 'May I get a word in edgewise?'"

Olivia joyfully wrapped her arms around Renata Sandoval. "You are here, too! You can meet my best friends at home, Ana and Carlos! And my best friends at school, Cerise and Jacob!" And then she grinned at Bobby mischievously. "And my best friend in New York City, Noah!" and Benson had to smother a laugh.

Bobby tilted his head down and whispered. "Eames, who at the State Department did you 'give a good talking to' to bring this about?"

"Let's say," Alex murmured decidedly, "I've gotten Helen Harcourt back for everything that happened after 5:37 a.m. on April 11."

He had no doubt that Alex would carry that grudge to her grave.

"The court will come to order," announced the bailiff with voice raised good-naturedly, and people wiggled closer in the bench seats, trying to make room. Olivia hugged Laurent once more, then returned to the front, her eyes shining.

"This is your doing, Mama," she said soberly. "Thank you."

"Mr. Fessinden," Judge Abbott said, "please approach the bench."

Tony had a jaunty holly boutonnière pinned to the left lapel of his suit as he faced the judge with his portfolio open in his left hand. "Yes, Your Honor."

"There is a blood relation of the child in the courtroom?"

"Yes, Your Honor," he said, unruffled. "Mr. Laurent François Pepin."

Judge Abbott said firmly, "Mr. Pepin, will you please approach the bench?"

Laurent extracted himself from the crowd in the rear, looking sleek and handsome in a cable-knit blue turtleneck sweater matching his eyes and sharply creased black trousers over highly-buffed black dress shoes. "Oui, Madame la Juge."

"You are the child Mignon Olivia's half-brother?"

"Yes, Your Honor," he answered.

"And you have no objection to this adoption proceeding?"

"No, Your Honor," he said quietly. "I am a bachelor living with my mother, and my mother, despite what falsehoods she has uttered in the past, dislikes the child intensely. Olivia is living where she belongs." He nodded at Bobby and Alex gravely. "This is where her mother wished her to be. There are no objections." By habit, he bowed his head to her.

"Your family relinquishes any claim to this child?"

"Yes, Your Honor. I will sign papers if required. I have a full partnership with my mother in legal matters."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Pepin. Please return to your place."

"Thank you, Your Honor."

"Ms. Amanda Keynes, please approach the bench. Ms. Hannah Love, please approach the bench. Ms. Ruth Dunbar, please approach the bench." She smiled at the little trio standing watching her with intensity and gestured to the three chairs to her left in front of the judge's bench. "Mr. and Mrs. Goren, Olivia, please sit down."

Tony had acted as an intermediary between the Gorens and Keynes, the adoption attorney the State Department had retained. As a result, the Gorens had very little interaction with her, limited to text and e-mail. She was revealed as a tall, middle-aged brunette woman in a fashionable green-and-white dress and high heels, reminding them of one of their former colleagues in New York, ADA Abbie Carmichael. By now, Ruth Dunbar, Olivia's case worker, was an intimate acquaintance, and they certainly remembered Hannah Love, whom Olivia had charmed during the inspection in October.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know this portion of the proceedings may be slightly dull, but the unusual circumstances of this case require me to continue with further examination. May I ask for your patience, please?" Judge Abbott explained, addressing the room. "If you have games on your phones, you may use them so long as you keep the sound off and play silently. There will be no videos or audible music in the courtroom. The bailiff will be watching to make sure you comply." There were several groans from the benches, mostly young voices, and the judge chuckled to herself.

She spoke to each person at the bench for several minutes, exchanging documents when necessary, then dismissed them, one at a time. As she ran through her questions, her eyes occasionally flickered toward the three people sitting to the side: Olivia leaning back so Alex could smooth her hair, the big, gentle hand patting her shoulder, and the girl's sweet smile at Bobby.

Judge Abbott next asked Bobby and Alex to rise, and every eye in the courtroom was now on them. She regarded both thoughtfully, then asked, "Mr. and Mrs. Goren, why do you wish to adopt this child?"

Almost in unison, they replied, "Because we love her."

To their surprise, the judge laughed, and they both drew breaths, now uncertain.

"I'm sorry," said Judge Abbott, her eyes twinkling. "But you'd be surprised how seldom I hear that. Oh, I get all types of answers indicating the adoptive parents care for the child. They say, 'Oh, he's my sister's boy, and I promised him I would take care of him always,' or 'We've always wanted a little girl, and when we saw her, we just knew,' things like that. But very rarely does anyone say directly, 'Because we love so-and-so.' It's very refreshing."

Judge Abbott asked several more questions about Olivia's routines and education before instructing them to sit down.

"Now, Olivia," the judge said next, and Olivia calmly rose, expressing her anxiety only by smoothing her jumper and fixing her eyes on the judge with a jittery smile. To put her at ease, Judge Abbott remarked, "Mr. and Mrs. Goren mentioned several times how fond you are of reading."

"Yes, Your Honor," she returned solemnly, "I know that you are named after a character in a book."

Judge Abbott chuckled. "Yes. It was my mother's favorite book. Do you know the title?"

"Yes, Madame...I mean Your Honor!" And here Olivia involuntarily curtsied. "It's Daddy Long-Legs, by Jean Webster."

"Have you read it?"

"Yes, Your Honor. And the sequel Dear Enemy, too."

"And what have you read lately?"

Olivia replied animatedly to that and other questions about her schoolwork, friends, and home life. Then she, as well, was asked to be seated. Judge Abbott glanced down at the final form on her desk, then looked up, trying to school her face to a serious demeanor but not entirely succeeding.

"In cases involving accelerated adoption proceedings, I try to be at my most thorough. It's my policy to place children where they belong, not where money, prominence, or prestige tell me where they should belong. I am particularly intrigued by this case, not just because of the positive reports from DCF, the results of the interview process, and the data from the inspection reports, but because so many of you are here in person today, despite it being three days before Christmas. You've chosen to come from California–" Karin and Jennifer exchanged smiles. "–and Chicago–" Ben Siler only winked. "–Washington, D.C.–" Veronica Heller arched her eyebrows and grinned. "–and Maine, among other states." When Donna sat tall at the mention of her home state and lifted her chin, Bobby gave a quick smile and nudged Alex, who nodded in affirmation, "not to mention from France, England, and Belgium." Renata and Olivia exchanged impish looks. "That means every one of you believes this adoption should take place, with all your hearts."

"Yes, Your Honor!" Ana blurted out, then clapped her hands over her mouth and turned crimson, and now the judge did laugh.

"Each judge concludes their adoption hearing differently. Technically all I have left to do is sign one last document, but I like to have a little ceremony. I've based it off wedding vows because it involves commitment between a parent or parents and a child or children." She paused. "I've read a long history of Mr. and Mrs. Goren, about certain events in their lives, and their friendships, so I feel comfortable in asking the Honorable Ronald Carver of the State of New York if he would like to officiate."

"I would indeed, Your Honor," intoned Ron Carver's familiar deep voice from the rear of the courtroom where he'd been standing with James Deakins and Joe Hannah. He had his robe over his arm; when he fumbled slightly in donning it, Noah bounced from his seat and helped him, his mother hugging him when he returned. When Carver finally approached the bench, Judge Abbott offered him a sheet of paper, which he accepted and scanned, then grinned. With palms upward, he gestured for the three to rise, then solemnly addressed Alex.

"Repeat after me: 'I, Alexandra Victoria Eames Goren...'"

She responded in a strong, clear voice, "I, Alexandra Victoria Eames Goren..."

"...take this child, Mignon Olivia Pepin..."

"...take this child, Mignon Olivia Pepin..."

A suppressed sob told her that sister Lizzie's waterworks had begun so that she repeated the rest of the lines with dancing eyes at what the family called the "Eames-Cochran Seal of Approval."

"...to be known from this day forward as Mignon Olivia Goren..."

"...to support and cherish, to respect and guide..."

"...to console and to counsel, to keep safe and set free..."

"...to share joy and sorrow, to educate and illuminate..."

"...to nourish both body and spirit..."

"...but most of all to love with all my heart..."

"...so long as we both shall live."

With Alex's oath complete, Lizzie wasn't the only person in the courtroom in tears, down to Shard, who was responsible for filming the event.

"You up for this?" Carver said with a little smile, for Bobby was already fidgeting, and his mouth looked dry. A pitcher of water and a stack of paper cups were next to the judge, who knew what to expect by now, and she poured some water and offered it to him. Still, when he spoke up, repeating Carver's words, his voice was thick with emotion.

"I, Robert Oliver Goren take this child, Mignon Olivia Pepin..."

When he had finished the vow, Carver squatted to Olivia's height. "Your turn."

She smiled at him through shiny eyes. "Yes, Your Honor."

He stood up once more, looking down at her with affectionate eyes. "Repeat after me: 'I, Mignon Olivia Pepin..."

She swallowed, touched the enameled kitsune pinned on the left strap of her jumper, a surprise Bobby had bought her on the sly in Los Angeles, as if for luck, and repeated, "I, Mignon Olivia Pepin..."

"...to be known from this day forward as Mignon Olivia Goren..."

"...to be known from this day forward as Mignon Olivia Goren..." She added on her own, "By my own choice."

"...take Robert Oliver Goren and Alexandra Victoria Eames Goren..."

"...as my legal parents..."

"...to respect and cherish, to support and guide..."

"...to console and to counsel, to share joy and sorrow..."

"...but most of all to love with all my heart..."

"...so long as we all shall live."

Judge Abbott smiled, signed the final document, and formally addressed her audience. "Members of the courtroom, I officially present to you the Goren family."

Carlos whooped; the rest of the children followed suit while Ana scrambled from her seat and collided with Renata as they raced to Olivia, who had her arms in wide embrace around both parents, and extracted her to hug her from both sides. The adults came to their feet, applauding, except for Donny, whose mother was hugging him fiercely. The bailiff, new to Abbott's courtroom, looked at her with alarm at the noise, but she gave him a nod of approval. "It's all right, Officer Carstairs. I like a courtroom filled with happiness. It's the main reason I don't retire."

Bobby closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath, looking almost stunned. Alex asked gently, "You okay?"

"Kinda hard to wrap my head around."

Ron Carver said softly, "It was always in the cards."

Then Lizzie and Steve and Eddie, Jack and Patty and the girls, Shard and TJ, Phil and Becky, and more surrounded them. When the tumult lessened, Olivia exclaimed, "Papa! Look who's at the door!"

Bobby did so, only to see Harry Cavanaugh there. A smile played on his lips before he excused himself from the well-wishers to start up the aisle; Cavanaugh met him halfway, opposite Penelope Saltonstall and Matthew Hogarth's seats, and they sized each other up for a few seconds.

Bobby finally extended his hand.

Cavanaugh regarded him and started to return the handshake but asked first, "Are we good?"

"You're good with me. Diaz and the others, you're still on your own."

"Fair enough." After the handshake, Cavanaugh ventured, "How'd you know? Did she–" Here he glanced down at Saltonstall, who had her head tilted toward him with a puckish arch of her eyebrows.

"Remembered you had international financial contacts," Bobby said, amused. "Well played, Harry."

From behind them, Laurent Pepin suddenly chuckled, realizing where the "unknown rumor" had originated. "Touche, sir. Very...slick, as you say."

"By the way," Harry Cavanaugh told Penelope Saltonstall, his drawl deepening for effect, "I was here early, watchin' everyone else arrive. And I believe I know somethin' you don't."

"Impossible," said Matthew Hogarth stoutly.

Donna beckoned to Olivia once she was out of the arms of Renata, Ana, Carlos, and the other children, bestowed a hug and a kiss upon her, then whispered in her ear. Olivia backed away with a big grin blossoming on her face. Zes embraced her next, then casually rose, detouring to hug Alex and pat Bobby on the back. Finally, he returned to the judge's bench and politely asked if he could borrow her gavel.

"Let me do that for you, Mr. Hastings," she responded, amused, and called the room to order.

"Thank you, Your Honor," Zes nodded, then turned to the surprised assembly. "Folks, I'm here to invite you—and that includes you, Your Honor, if I'm permitted—to a reception for the Goren family at 1:00 p.m. at the Hotel Goodwin, courtesy of Hastings House Publishing." He paused. "To also announce the second printing of The Refuge. And the future second printing of Ice Blue." Now Donna rose from her seat, her eyes sparkling. "And to let you know, God willing, that in about five months, there'll be another member in the Hastings House family."

Bobby's wink to Alex said clearly, "Isn't that what we figured?"

But Penelope Saltonstall's face was such a study of astonishment that it was all anyone could do to suppress laughter.

"Zes," said Donna with glee, "I think we've managed to surprise her this time."

"Congratulations, Grandma and Grandpa Hogarth," Bobby told them.

An older woman with reddish-blond hair appeared at Zes' side, trying with difficulty to keep a straight face. "Jullie schurken! All this time you kept this secret? Quentin, how could you?"

"Ja, moeder, you know me, hm?" Zes said affectionately, pulling her into a hug.

"Do you know if it's a boy or girl? Or are you going to be surprised?" Olivia exclaimed.

"We had the sonogram yesterday," Donna answered with a chuckle. "It's a girl."

To her surprise, Olivia looked perturbed. "But now you won't have a Zevan!"

Zes only smiled while Donna responded with a grin. "I don't think the lack of numerical progression will keep Penelope Anneliese Hastings from taking Hastings House into the next generation."

"You knew?" Bobby said to Cavanaugh with a tilt of his head toward Donna. "I realized when she smiled that she looked just like Alex when she was a surrogate mother for her sister. That same beautiful face."

"There are still a lot of things I don't know, Agent Goren," Harry Cavanaugh said dryly. "But after five brothers and sisters and three kids, I do know a pregnant woman when I see one." He paused. "Speakin' of kids, I'm spending Christmas with mine, so I need to get moving. They're scattered a couple of hours northwest of here."

"Be careful on the road," Bobby bade, then met his eyes. "Thank you again, Harry."

"Enjoy your Christmas gift, Wonder Boy," Cavanaugh said and turned to leave, only to find Tobias Fornell blocking his path with his hand outstretched. Cavanaugh considered, then clasped hands with him.

"If you're...bored...looking for something to do," Fornell said with almost studied carelessness, handing him a business card with his company's name on it, "give me a call after the holidays?"

"We'll see," the big man said. "I have multiple fences to mend first."

"Yeah," said Fornell with a wry expression, thinking of his ex-wives, "know how that is."

As the crowd thinned around her, Olivia yawned and sighed deeply. Heavy-eyed, she outstretched a hand with fingers splayed wide to Alex, who was talking with Donna. Alex interpreted the gesture instantly and came to her side; the little girl had been awake since five and gratefully snuggled in her arms. Bobby was opposite her almost as quickly. "Looks like someone's overdone it."

"Oh, please, we can't miss lunch!" Olivia protested.

"I agree, but you need time before lunch to rest. The Hotel Goodwin's only a short drive from here. If we could find a lounge–"

The bailiff tapped Alex on the shoulder. "Mr. and Mrs. Goren, the judge's chambers are directly through that door. There's a sofa you could use for a little while. I know she won't mind." Carstairs smiled at Olivia. "I have one that age at home. I know the signs."

Bobby picked Shard from the crowd and told him where they would be; Alex caught Lizzie's arm a few seconds later and did the same, then he scooped Olivia up as if she were a doll. In less than a minute, they were inside the cozy office insulated from courtroom chatter by wall shelving crammed with legal references; the room's sole illumination was a tabletop Christmas tree in the window glowing with multicolored lights, silver tinsel garland, and glass ornaments. Carstairs followed with a fresh pitcher of water and some fruit bars, obtaining glasses from a sideboard, and Bobby settled Olivia on the sofa while Alex poured water for her and unwrapped a cherry-filled bar. Olivia drank the entire glass, then ate half the fruit bar before pillowing her head on Bobby's arm. Alex gratefully eased onto the sofa next to her.

"It's done," he said with relief.

"Home safe," agreed Alex gratefully.

Olivia fretted, "I didn't...mean to interrupt everything. I'm just–"

"–exhausted from being up before sunrise? Hungry after eating only three mouthfuls of oatmeal?" Bobby asked, glancing down at her weary face.

Alex soothed, "It's fine. It's a big day for all of us. We'll get back to celebrating soon. For now, try to shut your eyes." She sighed and, taking her own advice, leaned back against the soft upholstery.

"Papa...Mama–" Olivia murmured after several minutes, arousing her half-dozing parents. "Is this like one of my books? Is it happily ever after?"

Bobby met Alex's eyes, and for a moment she saw his own eyes flicker, a gesture that almost always meant that a memory had been triggered.

For his part, he could hear Alexandra Eames' voice two years earlier, after the first night of the December weekend on which they had cared for Carlos and Ana: "You don't have to worry any longer, Bobby. You would have been a wonderful father. Mark Ford Brady didn't taint your blood. Your dad didn't ruin your heart. And I was wrong, too. Declan Gage never stole your soul."

Then Robert Goren smiled at their daughter. "I hope so, Min. If not, we'll do the best we can."