Paul and Emily: Restless

There was a giant old warehouse in New York that used to sell window panes. Bits of wooden boards littered the dark street in front of it. It was quite isolated, situated in an alley where not even the brave ventured. And that was before the business had flopped, forcing the owners to pack up and never return. The man pacing inside of it was not brave, stupid, or scared. He was mad.

Everything was proceeding as arranged. A storm was coming…he'd predicted as much. The air had a dank sort of taste to it. The atmosphere was fitting for what was about to happen. After years of slowly descending into insanity, he finally had what he had been searching for. The only ones standing in his way would no longer be a threat. No one would know it was him.

And after that, he'd deal with all of the loose ends. Going out the door, he turned to relish in one last glimpse of the three people that were bound to a chair and gagged with duct tape in the center of the room. The terror in their eyes grew exponentially every time the square metal box underneath them beeped. Two minutes left.

With a twisted smile, he left the warehouse. He knew that wherever James Stenbeck was, the old man was proud.

************************************************************

Metro was an unusually quiet club. Remarkably, it was able to keep up the image of a sophisticated hangout without the usual notoriety such joints tended to attract. There was no infestation of drug dealers or gang members. Naturally, there were ex-convicts aplenty, but in Oakdale, Illinois, the well-known of the previously arrested individuals were reformed and quite well-behaved.

The club owners themselves were not exactly model citizens. Carly Tenney's and Henry Coleman's rap sheets included blackmailing and drugging people as well as theft, and the crimes of their customers only grew more extreme from there. On the rainy night of March 15 th , for example, Carly's ex- fiancé, Craig Montgomery, was in attendance. Charges against him included attempted murder. Everyone in town knew that Craig was just as capable of being a charismatic ladies' man as he was of planting a bomb. Yet there he was, free as a bird, now tossing back drinks at the bar counter like they were going out of style.

His nephew Casey was there too. The blond-haired, blue-eyed, carefree son of Lieutenant Margo Hughes and District Attorney Tom Hughes would not have been suspected at first glance of being an ex-convict. But if he was asked about it, he would admit that on top of once having a gambling addiction, he was arrested for grand larceny. He sat on the loveseat in the corner of the club with his girlfriend Alison Stewart. Alison had once been a porn actress and a crystal meth junkie among other things, but was now a nurse at Memorial Hospital.

In the center of the dark-blue painted room, though, was a pair of individuals who literally made the news on a daily basis. Blonde, green-eyed Emily Stewart, sister of Alison Stewart, had made a name for herself as an ex-prostitute who at one point shot her fiancé in the back. But for the said fiancé (the sandy-haired, hazel-green-eyed Paul Ryan, whom many others beside Emily had either shot or blown up) all was apparently forgiven, as they were now celebrating their six-month wedding anniversary.

Emily, smiling from ear to ear, raised her glass of champagne and toasted, “Here's to us.”

Paul corrected softly, “No. Here's to you,” and clinked his glass against hers. As they sipped their champagne, the club's music shifted from the electronic-pop it had been playing all night to Journey.

Emily's eyes widened, held up a finger with an, “Mmm,” and took the glass out of her surprised husband's hand. She set their champagne flutes on the bar counter, and led him onto the dance floor.

“Dance with me,” she prompted, wrapping her arms around his back.

“Now?” he laughed. “I asked you earlier, you know.”

“And I didn't want to while they were alternating between Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson,” she grinned. “But ‘Don't Stop Believin'? Come on, that's like our song.”

They swayed back and forth, with him chuckling throatily in disbelief, “‘Our song?'”

She blushed, “Well, it came out during our generation, anyway.” Leaning her head against his chest, she closed her eyes for a moment while they slow-danced to the words of the song.

“A singer in a smoky room

A smell of wine and cheap perfume

For a smile they can share the night

It goes on and on and on and on…”

For the first time in her life, Emily found herself wanting for nothing. Between herself and Paul, life was certainly never dull. And yet, it was almost idyllic in the peaceful bliss they had found with each other. They expected nothing from one another, and yet gave each other everything. They could be independent while acting as a unit. More importantly, he was her best friend. And she was his.

His lips brushed against her silky cropped blonde hair as he held her close to him. Then his voice tickled the inside of her ear as he whispered with a grin, “Hey, Mrs. Ryan…what do you say we call it a night? I don't want to wear you out before I have to…” And with a twinkle in his eye, he linked his arm around her elbow and led her out of Metro.

Somehow, they managed to make it back to their bedroom at Fairwinds Mansion with a degree of self-control. But as soon as he began to undress, she lunged at him, and he returned the favor. He pushed her onto the bed, sucking the air from her mouth as they kissed. Breathless, her hands raced to unbuckle his belt, and he tore the tie off of her dress. It took only moments for his legs to become entwined with hers, while his mouth rubbed hard against her neck. Her chest heaved as his sculpted back moved up, down, back and forth over her. An ecstasy that she had never felt with any other man coursed through her body, until at last he collapsed on top of her with a sigh.

*****************************************************

While Emily slumbered, Paul himself was restless. He gave it until six a.m. before he realized his mind was not going to cooperate and let him sleep. Slowly and carefully, he moved Emily's head from his shoulder to his pillow. She stirred a bit, but became still again after he stroked her cheek. After he'd slipped out of the bed and put on his sweatpants, he made his way downstairs. His laptop was resting on the ottoman in front of the sofa. With a lack of any better ideas for what to do, he sat down and flipped the top open so that he could log into his email. He had one new message.

His face lit up as he saw who it was from and read aloud.

“Dear Paul,

Sorry about not writing more often. The terrible-two stage is underway, and I just spent the entire week singing Abba songs to Hallie until three in the morning so that Gwen could get some sleep. We did receive your latest pictures of Eliza. Hopefully Hallie will meet her cousin soon. I'm glad you're happy. Also, happy six-month anniversary with Emily.

~Will.”

Paul smiled, trying to imagine for a couple of seconds his brother singing “Chiquitita” to his adopted niece, Hallie. The result was so hysterical that he snorted a little more loudly than he would have liked, and quickly diverted his attention by clicking on the Internet link.

Unfortunately, his humor was short-lived as a news headline for the homepage was the first item to load. Paul ordinarily would have missed that sort of thing out of disinterest, but the picture was large enough to not go unnoticed. “Business CEO's death deemed a homicide,” read the caption underneath a picture of the dark-haired man he knew as Jordan Sinclair. A hollow shock filled Paul as he immediately opened the “read more” link.

“Despite earlier reports that indicated Sinclair's death as a suicide, police now suspect that foul play was involved after investigating the remains of a New York warehouse. Although Sinclair was originally thought to have been responsible for the bombing that killed himself and two other people, Lieutenant Harry Ashburne insists, “There is no possible way that Jordan Sinclair had the time, the means, or the motive for causing this tragedy. He was a victim, the same way Neil and Cynthia Banks were also victims of this situation. The case is still open because we are looking for the bomber, but at this point we can do no more regarding the others involved except mourn the tragic loss of life.”'

Paul could read no more. It was not grief that tormented him; although Jordan was his half-brother, they had not been close during the months that they were acquainted. After all, they had met in the most unconventional of circumstances orchestrated by their father, James Stenbeck. They parted on terms that were pleasant enough, after Paul had married a woman with whom they had both been mixed up, a woman named Rosanna Cabot. But Jordan was barely more than a stranger, and Paul had all but forgotten him. However, for some inexplicable reason, Paul felt a twinge of guilt after reading about Jordan's death. Despite being the son of a psychopath, Jordan had actually turned out to be a decent guy. He did not deserve his fate. Especially without knowing that his own son was alive.

The boy Rosanna had adopted at one point before her involvement with either Paul or Jordan had to be at least eight years old by now. In yet another attempt to ruin Paul's life, James had kidnapped both the boy and Rosanna and forced him to choose one over the other in a cabin rigged with, in a twist of irony, a bomb. Taking a gamble, Paul had figured James would not hurt his own flesh and blood, and rescued Rosanna first. Before he could return inside and save the baby, though, the cabin exploded and Cabot had been presumed dead.

Of course, Paul had unknowingly been correct about James not being able to sacrifice his own young progeny. After the wedding to Rosanna, she learned that Cabot was still alive, and left Paul so that she could rescue Cabot. When she returned, she told Paul the truth about why she had divorced him, explaining that Cabot was somewhere safe with a new family by now. Jordan, on the other hand, was already living in New York by then. No one had thought to inform him that his kid was alive.

Paul rubbed his eyes, at last properly exhausted by his earlier insomnia. He closed the Internet browser, and shut his computer down. The light of the screen flickered off, relieving his eyes from the glare. Reclining back on the couch, he fell asleep. Every word of the article echoed in his mind, and, although the image of his dead brother failed to show up as anything but a glimpse in between his dreams, there was a subconscious yet relentless fear that he would be haunted by it. And he was.

************************************************************

Ever since her marriage to Paul had begun, Emily was not accustomed to waking up alone. So, when the morning sunlight spread through the window, across her husband's unoccupied side of the bed, she was momentarily a bit thrown off. Putting on her silk robe, Emily went downstairs to find Paul dozing on the sofa. She looked at him in concern, aware that this was not the first time he'd had trouble sleeping at night. He'd been tossing and turning in their bed at least once a week ever since this past Christmas. Sometimes his rustling woke her as well, and he always apologized and tried to lie still afterwards.

“Coffee, Mrs. Ryan?” a small voice asked, interrupting her thoughts. Emily turned to see the maid holding a white ceramic pitcher.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell coming from the pitcher, which reminded her of dirty socks. “Oh, yes. Thank you, Mildred.”

The maid shot her a look of resentment as she set the pitcher on the cart that had a metal tray. Emily realized her mistake. She cleared her throat, “Um, thank you, Millicent. Sorry about that. Really, I just forgot…”

The young woman pursed her lips. As she walked away, she complained aloud, “The last Mrs. Ryan never forgot my name. She was such a lovely, friendly woman. Someone who actually talked to me and appreciated me and liked it when I brought her coffee…”

Such a cheap shot, thought Emily. It was obvious Millicent had hated her since the day Emily moved into Fairwinds. It was always, “The last Mrs. Ryan this, the last Mrs. Ryan that.” Not to mention that fact that she went out of her way to give Emily second-rate service. She had even gotten sick one morning after eating a breakfast Millicent had served her, although she could not convince Paul, whose own breakfast was perfectly edible, that the maid had told the cook to give her food poisoning.
As soon as the maid was gone, Emily rolled her eyes. “I said I was sorry, Maleficent. And it's not like your coffee is even Starbucks quality, anyway…”

“What?” Paul said in a cracked voice, finally waking up from the sofa.

“Nothing. Coffee?” she asked quickly, covering her sarcasm with a smile. A rather unpleasant smell steamed out of the pitcher as she poured two cups and offered one to Paul.

“Thanks.” He stood and accepted the cup.

“You were up early,” she remarked casually.

Shrugging, he took a sip from his cup, then made a face. “Couldn't sleep.”

“Maybe you should see my mother,” Emily suggested.

In mock-offense, Paul said, “Really, Em? I mean, I know I've done a lot of bad things in my life, but sentencing Susan Stewart on me is kind of like a fate worse than death row.”

“No! I meant for a prescription!” she laughed. “It doesn't even have to be from my mother.”

“You're talking about sleeping pills? I'll pass,” said Paul, his tone definite.

“Well, you need something to help you sleep during the night, at any rate,” she argued. “I know how you get, Paul. It starts with sleep-deprivation, then the next thing you know you're seeing mirages of the boogeyman. ”

“Oh, come on, now you're exaggerating,” he teased.

Emily would not budge on her stance. “Not to mention how it affects me when you're a downright crank. You really think I want to be around someone who's cursing at people in his sleep?”

Paul shook his head. “Look, how about we discuss this after I get back from New York?”

Emily blinked at this statement. “Wait –wait a second. New York? Since when are you going to New York?”

“Since my brother died, and his funeral is tomorrow,” said Paul flippantly.

The news hit Emily like a ton of bricks. She put a hand to her mouth and said in shock, “Oh my, oh my God. Will–Will's dead? ”

“Oh, no, no, not Will,” reassured Paul at once. “Will's actually great, except for the fact that he's apparently the new star of an at-home production of Mamma Mia! No, I'm talking about Jordan Sinclair. Remember him?”

Emily thought for a moment. “Sort of. Wasn't he the guy who worked for your mother's company six years ago, jumping back and forth from your sister Jennifer to Rosanna the whole time?”

“That's him – good ole Sparky,” Paul quipped.

“I thought you didn't like him,” Emily pointed out.

“Doesn't matter. Something…I don't know what it is, but something is compelling me to go out there and pay my respects.” Paul exhaled deeply, making the hair hanging over his face fly above his eyebrows. Looking almost ashamed, he noted, “I don't know, maybe I'm just going crazy.”

“For what? For wanting to go to your brother's funeral? Honey, that's not crazy. That's human.”

“Really?” he asked uncertainly. “Because I feel like if I don't do this…I'm not going to be able to close the book on what happened to him and his son.“

Moved, Emily kissed him, wrapping her arms around him in an embrace. “Just don't be gone too long, okay?” she murmured.

“Okay. Thank you,” he said softly. When they broke apart, he suggested, “Maybe I can even bring you back something from the Big Apple.”

“Like what?” Emily wanted to know.

Flexing his index finger so that she'd lean closer to listen, he kissed under her earlobe. “How about a different brand of coffee?”

She chuckled, and he winked. “I'd better get packed.”

Once he had left the room to get his suitcase, she noted wistfully, “I miss you already.”

**************************************************************

In Old Town later that day, Paul was passing through on his way to purchase tickets for an immediate flight out of Oakdale when he was suddenly hit with the mouthwatering aroma of mayonnaise and steamed pickles emitting from Al's Diner. He hadn't eaten breakfast after that nauseating drip coffee he'd downed earlier. Checking his watch, he muttered, “There's time.”

He turned and went inside the restaurant, which appeared to be moderately busy. Three people were already in line, and one person was seated at a table muttering how it had been forty minutes since he'd ordered.

“Where's my burger?” the customer demanded.

The diner owner, Henry Coleman, shouted, “Coming!' while he was in the process of slapping together a BLT patty melt from behind the counter as Paul got in line. Henry took notice of him at once.

“Paul!” he boomed. “Be with you in just a second!” He threw his arms up in the air and called, “BLT melt with a side of onion rings!”

“About time!” snapped the impatient customer, who had appeared next to Paul, snatched his plate, and returned to his seat quicker than a Looney Tune could run.

After the people standing before Paul had taken their orders, Henry sighed to him, “What can I get you?”

“Um, right,” said Paul. “I'd like whatever special you have on the menu for today, plus a side of lemon meringue pie.”

“We are out of lemon meringue,” Vienna Hyatt announced, sauntering into the diner from the kitchen.

Henry looked nervous. “Sweetie, are you sure? I thought we had nearly a hundred pies stacked in the fridge.”

“That was last month, ‘Enry.” Henry's name rolled strangely off of his girlfriend's Swedish tongue.

Henry sighed again. “Ai-yi-yi…anything else I can get you, Paul?”

Paul shook his head. “It's fine, forget it. The lemon was just supposed to offset any airsickness I might have on my flight. I don't know why, but it works.”

Intrigued, Vienna chirped, “Oooh, where are you going? Vacation?”

“Funeral,” Paul said glumly. “Another Stenbeck has bitten the dust.”

Vienna's eyes widened. “So sorry for your loss, Paul…‘Enry, maybe you should go with him. You are a Stenbeck, after all.” She may have said “maybe,” but her tone sounded almost decisive.

“Don't remind me,” Henry muttered. Then he realized what she had just suggested, and sputtered, “Wait a second, are you serious? I can't–I can't just leave the diner. I don't even know who the dead guy is.”

Checking his watch again, Paul announced, “I'd better get going. Good luck with this place.”

He was halfway out the door when he saw out of the corner of his eye Vienna giving Henry a shove and whispering, “Go on. I can take care of everything for a day…”

Henry ran up to Paul. “Please tell me not to come. Say it in a loud, clear voice,” he begged.

Thinking it would be nice to not have to endure what was sure to be a boring trip alone (not to mention the prospect of causing Henry some discomfort), Paul smiled and exclaimed with mock joviality, “No trouble at all! Of course you're welcome to join me!”

Before Henry turned to look at Vienna, who was beaming at him with pride from behind the counter, he shot Paul a seething glare.

Paul responded by clapping his half-brother on the shoulder. “We have a plane to catch!”

***************************************************************

“Jordan Sinclair was a good man. He was honest, quiet, and diligent. For all that are grieving him, please take heart in the fact that this man's life was not wasted if it touched yours in some way. I will now read from the Book of Job. Passage forty-two, ‘Then Job answered the Lord: I know you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted…'”

The speaker seemed to drone while Paul and Henry sat in the back of the church, somewhat regretting the decision to come to Jordan's memorial. It was uncomfortable, in more ways than one. It wasn't as if they really belonged there; neither of them was truly in mourning. Naturally, Paul was saddened by the death of a decent fellow being, but to be honest there was not much difference between what he was feeling now and what he felt whenever a rock star or well-known actor passed away.

Henry wasn't sure why he came at all. In a way, it felt disrespectful for the people who came to the funeral for the right reasons. It couldn't have ended too soon for him. At the service director's prompting to “not mourn Jordan Sinclair's life, but rather celebrate it instead,” people began to file out of the church in silence, some dabbing their eyes with hankies and others looking lost. One man, who was quite small in stature with beady eyes and a comb-over, looked uncomfortable and out of place, like he had no idea what to do now. Paul and Henry were just getting out of the church when the awkward man ventured in a wheezy voice, “Excuse me, is there anyone here who happens to be a relative of the deceased?”

Paul froze for only a moment on the outside steps, but Henry grumbled, “Keep. On. Walking.”

They made another two steps forward. Ignored, the man made another attempt. “Excuse me, sir? Sir? In the navy blazer?”

Paul looked down at his dark blue jacket. That would be me, he thought, turning reluctantly. Henry groaned.

The man squeaked, “Thank you, thank you for stopping. You wouldn't happen to know any members of Mr. Sinclair's family, would you?”

“Why?” Paul asked cautiously, at the same time Henry said, “Not at all.”

“My name is Jude Smith. Mr. Sinclair placed me in charge of his affairs before he died.” Mr. Smith held out a hand, and Paul shook it warily.

“You know, you don't look like a Jude,” Henry remarked suddenly, and the little man nodded.

“Oh, I know. But back in college…never mind. If I might ask, how did you both know my client, the late Mr. Sinclair?”

Henry burst out with a nervous laugh, “Was that his name? I didn't even know!”

“I did, but it's a long story,” Paul admitted.

“Are you family?” Mr. Smith asked eagerly.

“No!” said Henry again, while Paul didn't answer.

Instead, he said, “So, you're just looking for people to claim Jordan's estate, aren't you?”

Looking skittish, Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “No…actually. This is strictly off the record, but he hired me to find out some information for him.”

“ Really? ” Henry said lightly. “Lawyer by day, private investigator by night–you're just a regular Matlock, aren't you?”

“I am not familiar with the term, but no, I try not to make a habit out of this,” admitted the man. “He paid me twice my regular salary to find his missing child, it's a shame he did not get anything for his trouble.”

“His child—,” Paul repeated, unsure he had heard correctly. Henry clapped his head with a hand, clearly wanting nothing more than to get out of there.

“That's right. Mr. Sinclair was waiting for evidence that his son is still alive. I found the boy, but he needs a home, as his adoptive parents have passed away.” Smith blinked and shuffled his feet. “Oh well, it was nice talking you both.” He began to move onward, waddling a bit like a penguin.

Paul should have left it alone, he knew that. But he couldn't. “Jordan was our half-brother,” he said aloud, while Henry let out a complaining whimper. Mr. Smith stopped in his tracks. Ignoring Henry, Paul continued, “If my nephew needs someone to provide for him, I can do that for him. At the very least, I know people back home who'd be happy to have him.”

Mr. Smith turned around. “Come with me, then,” he said, waving a hand.

Following him, Henry muttered to Paul, “In case you didn't know, I feel like blowing you up myself right now.”

Paul merely chuckled, “How about I just buy you a martini after we get back to Oakdale, ‘En-ry ?”

***************************************************************

“Millicent!” Emily hollered, throwing another rumpled blouse on the bed. She was having a lousy day. At the office, Hunter had presented her with the latest gross figures in how much their newspaper had made that week. He informed her that their sales were down by twenty-five percent. Of course, he had to remind her that it was the third week in a row their number of readers had dropped. Then, on the way home, her right stiletto heel broke off–in a collision with Casey Hughes's runaway skateboard no less. She did not even see it coming, or hear Casey yell, “Whoa, look out Emily!” as he zoomed at her from behind. He apologized profusely, but then he had to stupidly joke that it was a good thing they were no longer in a relationship, otherwise he'd have to buy her new shoes. Emily retaliated with a speech that began with, “Listen to me, you little punk…” To top it all off, she had just gotten home from work when she saw the laundry piled on the bed. She was about to hang one of her dresses up when she noticed bleach stains on it. Rushing back to her pile, she rummaged through every piece of clothing. Colors had meshed, among them whites with reds and greens. But the worst discovery she made was her favorite little black dress, which was now the size of a t-shirt.

“Millicent!” she screamed, and she heard footsteps approaching. She marched out into the hallway, fully prepared to let the maid have it. Instead she bumped straight into someone taller than herself.

“Em? You all right?” Paul asked.

“No, I'm not all right! You should have let me know you were coming home!” Emily snapped.

Taken aback, he said, “Oookay.”

She took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. It's just–you were gone an entire weekend. By the way, the maid is evil.”

“What?”

“She hates me! She just sabotaged my entire wardrobe! Now I need to go shopping–unless you managed to bring something back from Fifth Avenue.”

Paul hesitated as they walked downstairs. “Yeah, about that? I brought something back, but it isn't clothes.”

“Okay,” said Emily, feeling a bit crestfallen. Then she started walking more quickly. “How about shoes? I need a new pair of heels after what happened –.” She froze, having finally reached the living room.

A nine-year old boy with dark hair and blue eyes was sitting on the sofa, reading a book entitled World's Coolest Racecars. He looked up at her and waved. “Hi.”

“Who are you?” Emily asked weakly.

“Alex Banks. Who are you?” the boy wanted to know.

Emily's look darted from Alex to Paul, back to Alex again. Paul supplied, “This is your Aunt Emily.”

Alex nodded. “Okay.” He started to read his book again.

Emily hissed at Paul, “‘ Aunt Emily'? Where the hell did you find him?”

“He's Jordan's son,” Paul explained.

Realization dawned on Emily. “Oh–,” she breathed. “Cabot? You found Cabot?”

“Yeah. I ran into Jordan's lawyer at the funeral. It turns out that Alex's adoptive parents were killed in the same blast as Jordan. Since he has no other family, I thought we could take care of him for awhile.”

“Seriously? Wow, that's…amazing,” Emily's voice faltered.

Paul saw the doubtful expression on her face, and said, “It's just for a little while, Em. I know we've got our plate full with Eliza. But Henry Coleman is his uncle, too. He was there when I met the lawyer. It'll take some convincing, but I'm pretty sure if that I talk to Vienna, she can coax him into helping us. And we can contact Rosanna, wherever she is right now. I know she left town, but someone will be able to–.”

“It's not that, Paul. I think it's great that you want to look after your nephew. But think about it–why would Alex's biological father be meeting the adoptive parents in the first place, only for them all to be killed that same day?” she whispered intensely.

Paul shook his head. “I don't know. I don't think I want to know.” He planted a kiss on her forehead and added, “All I know is that he needs us right now. Are you okay with this?”

Emily put her lips to his. “ Oooh , why wouldn't I be?” she asked, closing her eyes after a long kiss that ended with his mouth caressing her neck.

*************************************************************

Back at a penthouse apartment in New York, Jude Smith was sorting out the papers in his briefcase over his glass table, humming to himself. All's well that ends well, he thought, swelling with pride at knowing that little Alex Banks was well-taken care of at last.

A small note flew astray from his other files. He bent over and picked it up, squinting at the small print. It was hard to read, so he dug out his thick-rimmed glasses and put them on.

Headed with the date March 16 th , the note read:

Hello Jude.

As an autopsy will have discovered by now, the remains the police found belonged to the private investigator. I will explain when we meet at your place at ten pm. Keep Alex with you until I arrive, and receive the promised fee of five hundred thousand. Do not disappoint.

Gulping, Smith looked at the grandfather clock from across the room. It was 9:55 pm. How could he have missed the note? He was just about to reach for the phone and call the police when he heard a knock on the door. Wrestling with the lure of five hundred grand, Smith then realized that he had no reason to be afraid; he would just open the door and explain that there was a misunderstanding and that the boy was living with one of his uncles now. An easily-corrected mistake. At prompting of more knocking, Smith went to the door and turned the knob…

*************************************************************

In bed, Paul was breathing heavily as he climaxed on top of Emily's lithe form. She gasped a little as he lowered himself on her, and she moaned breathlessly, “ Don't stop.” Her heart raced as he rose again, kissing her slowly everywhere from her cheek to her neck. It had been her idea to make love all night long as a solution to the continuation of Paul's irregular sleeping patterns. She figured that it would either tire him out enough so that he'd be able to sleep during the night again, or at least preoccupy him if he couldn't rest. This was the fifth consecutive hour of their “experiment,” and it seemed to be working. Paul was exhausted. At this rate, he would be down before three a.m.

“Uncle Paul?” Alex's voice asked uncertainly just as they were preparing to go at it again. Detaching himself from Emily, Paul turned his head to see the boy standing in the doorway to the master bedroom.

Dressed in small shorts and a Batman nightshirt, the poor kid was looking down, embarrassed and a bit grossed out. “What do you need, Alex?” Paul tried to ask casually.

“The phone was ringing when I went to get a drink of water. Uncle Henry says he needs to see you for something important. Sorry I interrupted you.”

He looked away while Paul hopped into his pants and pulled on a white t-shirt, saying wearily, “Oh, no, you weren't interrupting anything.” Alex looked at Emily doubtfully while she pulled up the covers and tried to smile.

Following Alex downstairs with a bit of a tired, wobbly feeling in his legs, Paul muttered, “What could Coleman want at this crazy hour?”

Alex got to the phone first and said, “Here's Uncle Paul. He wasn't sleeping after all, he was just having s–.”

Paul snatched the phone and said to Alex, “Hey, thanks kid. Why don't you go back to bed?” Once Alex was gone, he said into the phone, “Hello?”

“Paul?” said Henry in a fearful voice. “Okay, normally I would wait until the morning to tell you this, but I just got a call from a Harry Ashburne.”

Drawing a blank at the name, Paul said, “Who?”

“From the New York police department. Remember when we met that Smith guy and we signed some forms to release Alex into our care? Ashburne was looking through Smith's things, and found out we were the last ones to see him before–.”

“Before what?”

“Before he was murdered, Paul!” Henry yelped. “Smith is dead, and Ashburne is investigating. He said he tried to call you at eight pm last night, but apparently you must have been in bed already.”

Paul's head was starting to hurt, so worn out that he barely understood a word that Henry was rambling. He said shortly, “I'll talk to you tomorrow about this. Okay, Henry? Good night.” He hung up the phone and went back to bed.

Emily was there waiting for him. “Hey,” she yawned. “What was that about?”

He yawned in turn as he crawled into bed, “I can barely remember. Love you.” He kissed her good night and rolled over, and they were both asleep within the next five minutes.

*************************************************************

Alex had been living at Fairwinds for only half a week when Emily realized that it did not matter to her whether Henry wanted to raise him with Vienna. She loved the little boy more than she had imagined that she could. It might have been how much he had in common with her son, Daniel at that age. Or it could have been the fact that he was so sweetly adorable to her. But Emily knew the moment she was won over completely was the next morning when Paul had gone to meet Henry Coleman and Millicent had started tormenting Emily with a taunt. “You know, Mr. Ryan showed the last Mrs. Ryan so much more affection and love. He doted on her hand and foot, so seldom leaving her a– aaaaah! ” she had shrieked before she could finish her sentence. Startled, Emily looked behind her and saw that Alex had fired a loaded water pistol at Millicent's backside.

In honor of their newfound friendship, Emily took Alex out for ice cream that afternoon. As they were walking home, Alex started talking about his love for comic books. Emily said enthusiastically to him, “My son Daniel–he's at boarding school right now–but I remember he was really into comic books. He has a giant stash of them at home.”

“I've got three collector's issues of Spiderman!” Alex exclaimed.

“Wow, those are really hard to find –,” her voice trailed off as they made it through the Fairwinds doorway. The front door was slowly creaking as it swung loosely back and forth. All of the lights were off. The hairs on the back of Emily's neck prickled with apprehension, and she shuddered. Could someone have broken into the house? “I don't think we should go in–Alex!” she panicked as the boy ran inside. Against her instincts, which were screaming not to follow, she knew she had to make sure Alex was safe. So she walked into the dark house with extreme trepidation, startling herself with the sounds of her own footsteps.

She swallowed. “Alex?” she whispered. “Alex…where are you?” Slowly, she made her way up the stairs, cringing with every noise her shoes made. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. The light was on in the living room. It's probably Paul, she thought with guarded relief. As soon as she was past the door frame, though, she stopped. Alex was standing by the sofa, petrified by something in front of him. The tips of his sneakers were dark red…Horrified, Emily inched forward, and saw that Alex was staring Millicent, who was lying on the floor a stiff as a log. The carpet was soaked the dark red substance. Her jaw dropping, she took two steps back and started to scream. Suddenly, a hard object struck her in the back of the head, and after a moment of shocking pain, her vision turned black.

***************************************************************

At Al's Diner, Paul noticed that Henry was visibly jumpy. “Make sure you lock all of the doors at night!” he told Paul during his break. “And in your case, my brother, you're going to want to get rid of that housekeeper. Have you noticed that she lets anyone in?”

Paul shrugged, “Yeah, but she's a sweet girl. Henry, I think you're just being paranoid.”

“No! I–am–not–being–paranoid! ” Henry sputtered. “Did you miss the part where I told you an autopsy was done?”

Paul shrugged, unsure of Henry's point. “Look, all that you told me Harry Ashburne said was that the body from the explosion wreckage didn't match Jordan's DNA.”

Henry shook his head. “Paul, Paul, Paul. Wake up, you moron! I'm talking about the autopsy done on Jude Smith–he was thrown out of a window! His body had Sinclair's fingerprints and DNA samples found on his suit.”

Paul was still very tired, but he strained to understand what Henry was talking about this time. Jordan's body wasn't found…he wasn't dead. It took a lot to kill a Stenbeck. He killed his lawyer, who had information on Alex. And conveniently, Alex's birth parents had been in the same explosion as a private investigator…

Standing up, Paul's jaw dropped. “I have to get home!” he exclaimed, at last understanding the full implication of Henry's panic. How could he have been so stupid? Had the lack of sleep he'd been getting really made him so dim that even Henry Coleman could figure the dangers of this out before Paul? Even Emily had sensed something was wrong with the story, but she had trusted Paul in the end.

For her sake, Paul hoped she hadn't been wrong to place her faith in him.

******************************************************************

Tearing through the entry way at Fairwinds, Paul yelled, “Alex! Em!” The way the lights were shut off terrified him, but he wasn't scared for himself. “ Emily! ” he shouted, dashing up the stairs. If he lost her now – no, he couldn't bear that. He couldn't even handle thinking about it…He reached the living room. It was empty. The lights were on, but nothing was in the room except for the furniture. That stain on the carpet…was that blood? God, he hoped not. He knelt down to inspect it. That was when he felt a shiver run up his spine. He wasn't alone.

He turned around to find Jordan Sinclair looking at him with a cocky sort of smile, and an evil glint in his icy blue eyes. “Hello Paul.”

“Where are they?” Paul asked, masking the fear in his voice with a softly threatening tone.

The corners of Jordan's mouth upturned playfully. “You need to be more specific, brother. Guessing games are boring.”

Paul gave a hollow sort of nod before finding his voice. “Alex. Emily. What did you do to them?”

“Well, Alex is definitely safe. Your wife is too, for now…can't guarantee she'll stay that way, though.”

“Why are you doing this?” Paul asked weakly. “All the people you've killed to get your hands on your son…you could have just asked if you wanted him. No one was going to keep him from you.”

Jordan tossed his head back and laughed. “You know, that's funny. Because people have been keeping him from me. First by making me believe he was dead, then putting him up for adoption. And I was supposed to trust that you, Rosanna, James, and everyone else weren't going to keep him from me?”

Unable to understand Jordan's motive for murder, it dawned on Paul what was going on. “You're insane.”

Jordan grinned. “Yup! Certifiable. The old man did a real number on me. Did you know some doctors found inside my head a chip with subliminal messaging capabilities? The only problem is, they can't remove it without causing an aneurysm to rupture.”

Having once been a subject to James's science experiments himself, Paul quickly realized that Jordan's mind-controlling device had probably malfunctioned upon their father's death. Which meant that his brother's rampage was most likely not his fault. “So…what now?” Paul asked apprehensively.

“Hmm…now, I think I'm going to get rid of you and the little woman, and take my son out of the country,” Jordan mused, pulling a remote control from his jacket. “All I have to do is set the timer for two minutes…” And without thinking, Paul rammed into Jordan, causing him to drop the remote that would set off a bomb. Jordan struck Paul across the face, and drove his elbow into his neck. Paul delivered a punch to Jordan's stomach that sent him sprawling across the floor. As he went to pick up the remote, Jordan caught him by the leg and caused Paul to fall as well. Sinclair gave Paul a painful kick in the gut before snatching the remote. His finger began to push the button for the timer–

Suddenly, a slender arm went around his neck holding a jagged sharp object, and drove through the jugular. Jordan's eyes widened as blood gushed out of his throat. He dropped the remote and fell to the ground. Emily, standing there with tears in her eyes, cried out and threw the piece of glass that she had cut Jordan's throat with to the ground. Paul got to his feet and ran over to his shaking wife, holding her tightly in his arms. Her bloody hands just hung there stiffly at her sides. “It's okay, it's okay, shh, ” he soothed her as she sobbed. To no one in particular, he breathed with a sigh of relief, “Thank you…”

******************************************************************

The next day, Paul walked into the Fairwinds living room to find Emily sitting on the sofa, just staring at the faded stain on the carpet below her. “Hey,” he said softly.

Looking lost in thought, it took her a moment to respond. “Where's Alex?” she asked, sniffling a bit.

“I let Vienna do the coaxing thing,” he explained. “Figured we'd traumatized the poor kid enough for one lifetime. He's going to be much happier with his Uncle Henry, I think.”

Sadly, she noted, “I'm going to miss him.”

“We still have Millicent,” he reminded her.

She groaned. “And to think, I was so close to missing her too. Why don't you fire her?”

Paul smiled. After the police had come to pick up Jordan's body, they had discovered that Millicent simply passed out while overdoing the Bordeaux while sitting on the couch. The stain on the carpet was merely spilled red wine. Of course, none of that mattered to Paul, who was just grateful Jordan hadn't managed to kill her before he'd died.

“After all the stuff Millie's been through while working here, she's like part of the family. Besides, where else are we going to find a housekeeper willing to put up with us?”

A small smile spread across her lips. He kissed her on the shoulder and said, “How about we go visit your mother?”

Surprised, she wondered, “Doth mine ears deceive me? You want to see Susan ‘The-Fate-Worse-Than-Death' Stewart?”

Paul nodded. “I think it's time we both get some sleep tonight. Let's go get those prescriptions…” He held out his hand. As always, Emily took it, and let him take the lead.

THE END