Island of Death

by Tarawhipped

Copyright © 2006

tarawhipped@hotmail.com

Rating: R
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Joss Whedon/Mutant Enemy.
Distribution: The Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net
Sure, just tell me so I can visit.
Feedback: I live for it!
Spoilers: None.
Webhost's Note: Special thanks goes to Chris Cook of Through the Looking Glass, MKF and Artemis for the graphics and source coding. Thanks, Chris!
Pairing: Willow/Tara

Rupert Giles walked slowly through the labyrinthine halls of Meson de Manco Capac, straightening odd bits of furniture and paintings and running his feather duster over the chair rail. His movements were precise and attentive, but he did not dawdle. His employer's guests would be arriving soon, and he was anxious to ensure that all preparations had been attended to. Although his highly controlled exterior revealed nothing but calm, Giles was filled with apprehension.

Just a few more days and I'll be back in England where I belong. No more of this bloody debt hanging over my head. Just the quiet country life for me from here on out.

Giles continued his ministrations with increased urgency, winding his way around the west corridor until he reached the cavernous central gallery. Setting his duster down on the small foyer table, he took in the full expanse of the room. When he was satisfied that nothing appeared awry, he crossed to the far side of the enormous fireplace, framed on either side by a large tapestry. Pausing out of habit to look around, he reached up and gently tugged on the iron sconce hanging several feet above his head. The faint scraping sound that followed made Giles' nose twitch, and he made a mental note to find the oilcan. Stepping quickly to the other side of the fireplace, he pulled back the tapestry, and disappeared into the darkened passageway.

At the end of the dank corridor was a large steel door, it's polished surface anomalous with the bare stone walls and brick floor. Giles looked up at the security camera and softly cleared his throat. The door slid open at once, and he proceeded into the room. The modern furnishings, fluorescent lighting, and plethora of machinery never failed to put Giles on edge, and he stood as near to the door as he could without seeming disrespectful. The figure sitting behind the spacious Lucite desk faced away from the door, concealed within the large leather armchair. The chair never turned in Giles' presence, but he was acutely aware that his employer was cognizant of his every move – throughout the entire mansion.

"Is everything in order?" the familiar voice rasped.

"Yes, quite," Giles replied, uncomfortably conscious that, as usual, he could not ascertain the age or gender of the figure behind the desk.

"And they have all accepted their invitations?"

"Yes, the last confirmation came this morning. They should all be arriving in Lima tomorrow morning, and I took the liberty of arranging transportation to the island. The boats will be here at noon."

"That will be all Giles."

Giles hurried out of the room, but before the door slid shut behind him, he distinctly heard the sound of a low chuckle.

The figure waited until the butler was gone before spinning around to face the desk, on which lay a number of file folders. Fanning out the stack as if they were a hand of cards, the figure brushed a hand over each name printed in bold black ink across the margin: Cordelia Chase, Riley Finn, Alexander Harris, Anya Jenkins, Faith Johnson, Tara Maclay, Daniel Osbourne, Willow Rosenberg, Dawn Somerset, Buffy Summers.

"Soon," the voice murmured without the slightest hint of emotion. "Soon you will all get what's coming to you."

Before:

Tara Maclay stood leaning against the counter top in her cramped kitchen, a half empty coffee cup loosely held in one hand. She stared at the opposite wall, seeing nothing, her mind replaying the events of the previous week.

Her boss had considered the invitation a godsend – an assurance that the shelter would be able to operate for years to come, even without any other donors. Tara's unease stemmed from the invitation being addressed specifically to her. As Assistant Director she was fully qualified to meet with potential benefactors, but the Donations Administrator or Managing Director usually handled the larger gifts. The letter had been clear, however. Either Miss Maclay agree to come, or another shelter would be the beneficiary of an extremely generous sum of money.

Tara took a sip of her coffee and rushed to the sink to spit out the lukewarm sludge. With a resigned sigh, she went to her bedroom to pack.

Dawn Somerset looked in dismay at the contents of her dresser, then back to the small suitcase lying open on her bed. Opening her closet, she shoved aside a row of hanging clothes and pulled out another – larger – suitcase. With a satisfied nod she began filling both.

Riley Finn turned off his hall light, locked his front door and pocketed the keys, hefted his large olive green rucksack over his shoulder, and strode purposefully to the cab waiting in his driveway.

Cordelia Chase waited for the chauffeur to open her door and offer his hand before stepping out of the limousine, never pausing in her phone conversation. She glided into the airport, not bothering to check that her bags were being attending to because she knew that they would be.

Xander Harris smiled at the ticket agent as he handed over his driver's license and placed his suitcase on the scale. Within a few minutes he had his boarding pass and was directed to the gate.

"This is the final boarding call for flight 333, non-stop service to Lima, Peru."

Anya Jenkins hurried down the ramp as the announcer's voice faded behind her. She took her seat moments before the door was sealed and the plane began taxiing back from the gate.

Willow Rosenberg frowned at the readout on her laptop. Careful not to disturb the computer perched on the fold-down tray, she twisted around it to reach for her briefcase under the seat in front of her. With her upper body leaning halfway into the aisle, she had just felt the handle when a pair of shapely legs stopped inches from her face.

"Need a hand?" the flight attendant asked, and without waiting for a response knelt to pull out the bag.

"Uh…thanks," Willow replied, blushing.

"How 'bout a drink?" the bottle blonde inquired.

"Oh…that's really…but I just got out of a relationship, and I'm not…are you supposed to be drinking on the job? Cause I know you're not the pilot, but-"

"I meant can I get you a drink."

Willow looked at the woman, horrified, but the stewardess seemed amused by the redhead's embarrassment.

"Scotch…rocks…please."

Daniel Osbourne sat glued to the window as he had for most of the flight. The salesman next to him continued to try to interest him in some insurance, oblivious to the fact that the young man had said nothing to him for the past several hours. As the wheels bounced and screeched on the tarmac, Oz turned to his neighbor and tilted his head toward the small window.

"Hey…Peru."

Buffy Summers tried to remember the little Spanish she'd learned in high school as she wandered through the airport in search of the baggage claim. Once she was reunited with her stylish luggage, she looked around for an information desk when she noticed a man holding up a sign with her name on it.

"Right this way, Miss."

Faith Johnson gladly allowed the driver to carry her bag to the waiting car, and smiled broadly when he opened the door for her.

"Thanks, Jeeves – love the service."

Now:

Ten black sedans, carefully spaced, idled along the waterfront as each driver awaited the signal to proceed. Once received, each car in turn approached the assigned pier, where its occupant was guided to the waiting yacht. For their trouble – and discretion – each driver was handed an envelope with enough cash to cover the fare a hundred times over.

When the last of the ten passengers was aboard and firmly told to remain in their stateroom for the duration of the voyage, the Eind van de Lijn sounded its horn and pulled away from the dock.

The Eind van de Lijn pulled out of the bay and headed due west for its two-hour voyage. The ship's small crew was doubled for this journey, the extra men easily distinguished by their black clothing and blank expressions. As the boat got underway, the additional men quietly moved to position themselves in front of the ten occupied staterooms.

Exhausted from their late night flights, Buffy, Oz, and Dawn slept soundly as the gentle rock of the boat soothed them into dreamland.

"MAXWELL! CAN YOU HEAR ME?" Cordelia shouted into her phone, but only static reached her ears. She threw the phone into her overnight bag with a squeal of frustration. Propping up a stack of pillows, she flounced down onto the bed and pulled out a stack of fashion magazines.

Faith completed her search of the cabin and climbed onto the bed to look at her haul: two ashtrays, four matchbooks, a set of stationary, a set of towels, six small bottles of various toiletries, and a Bible. Picking up the last item, she tossed it into the trash and began stuffing the rest into her backpack.

Xander lunged for the bathroom just in time to throw up what little remained of his breakfast after his first two episodes of seasickness. Giving up on any attempt to sleep, he placed a cool towel on the back of his neck and slumped against the side of the tub.

Realizing she was well out of range of a signal for her wireless connection, Willow pulled up a page she had previously downloaded to her hard drive and began to read, her forehead creasing noticeably as she scrolled down the page.

"Eind van de Lijn…Eind van de Lijn," Anya repeatedly muttered as she paced around the cabin, chewing her nails as her eyes darted nervously.

Despite the crewman's request that he remain in the room, Riley had fully intended, after stowing his bag in the small closet, to investigate the rest of the ship. When he found the door securely locked, he was first puzzled, then outraged. For the rest of the voyage he pounded on the surprisingly solid door, demanding to be let out to see the Captain.

When Tara heard the banging and yelling from the room next to hers, she tried her own door and found it locked as well. Sitting down in the stuffed armchair, she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins. Despite her best efforts to calm her nerves, her concern grew with every passing moment.

Shortly before noon local time, Giles made his way down the narrow path to the dock. He waited at the top of a steep flight of stairs for the passengers to disembark. One by one they climbed to the top while the crew unloaded their luggage.

He watched as the passengers eyed each other for the first time. A plethora of emotions was evident: curiosity, trepidation, disdain, fear. As the last of the guests reached the crest of the staircase, Giles smiled and opened his mouth to speak.

"I demand to know why we were locked in our cabins – are you in charge here?"

"Mr. Finn, I presume?" the butler asked, not bothering to conceal his irritation.

"Officer Finn. And you are?"

"My apologies, Officer Finn. I am Mr. Giles, but you may all call me Giles-"

"You're not the one who invited me here," Anya interrupted, looking the man up and down critically.

"No…Miss Jenkins, is it? My employer could not be here to greet you, but if you would follow-" Giles had turned to continue to the house, but was again stopped by Finn.

"I still want an explanation for the ship's crew."

"Well, you see, the passage can be quite treacherous, and it was for your own safety that you were asked to remain below deck."

"They didn't have to lock us in like criminals," Finn insisted indignantly.

"So you weren't trying to leave your cabin, Officer Finn?" the Englishman inquired. Finn looked away and clenched his jaw. Giles allowed the tiniest smug smile to grace his lips.

"If you would all follow me, we'll proceed to the Manor. I'd like to welcome you to Supai Island."

Five miles away, on the other side of the island, another boat floated at dock, the crew unloading its cargo. As the island's guests made their way up the winding footpath, ten identical rectangular pine boxes were laid out side by side on the pier.

Willow looked anxiously around the hall before knocking softly on the door. Leaning forward a little, she could hear shuffling feet approach and pause. The redhead held her breath as she waited. After a long moment, the door opened a crack, and Willow found herself staring into troubled blue eyes.

"Willow."

"Tara…I just wanted to see if you were okay."

"I'm f-fine."

"Good – that's good. I just thought, if you, you know, wanted to talk at all…" Willow trailed off, looking at the blonde hopefully. Tara made no move to open the door, and looked sadly at the redhead before dropping her eyes to the floor.

"I'm fine," she repeated. "I'm just going to try to get some sleep. Goodnight," she said, her voice wavering slightly as she closed the door. Willow's shoulders drooped when she heard the lock click, and she turned toward her own room.

Settling down at the large oak desk, the redhead pulled out her laptop, intending to document the disturbing events of the day. She looked at the blank screen as her mind drifted, recalling in detail everything that had happened since her arrival on the island.

The walk from the boat had been pleasant, with Giles pointing out the local foliage, the hiking trails, and the bike path that circumnavigated the island. The narrowness of the path made it difficult to get much of a look at her fellow passengers, but Willow's attention had immediately been drawn to the shy blonde who walked behind Giles, listening attentively to his commentary.

As the jungle gave to way to carefully manicured lawn, the guests got their first view of the mansion sitting atop a gently sloping hill and Giles gave the group a moment to take in the impressive sight before encouraging them on. The grey stone walls topped with turrets looked more like an English castle than a tropical resort, an impression that was only magnified upon entry into the house. The rich paneling adorning the Great room and halls was clearly not from native trees. Oriental rugs, antique tapestries, and huge wrought iron chandeliers adorned the interior. Directly across from the entry hall, a ten foot wide, red carpeted staircase led to the second floor, where it curved and branched to the left and right galleries.

Giles showed the guests to their rooms, the three men to the West wing, the seven women to the East. After informing them that their bags would arrive shortly, and that the lunch gong would sound in half an hour, the butler retreated to the kitchen.

Willow had waited for her luggage before heading downstairs, intending to locate Giles and ask him about the island's history. However, when she reached the ground floor and was unable to find the man, she wandered into the library to wait for the others. The room was well stocked, but the redhead was annoyed to find all of the bookcases locked. Despite the beauty of the island and the luxurious accommodations, Willow felt decidedly ill at ease, not least in part from learning that she had unknowingly been locked in her cabin on the boat. At the sound of voices, she walked back into the hall, unconsciously pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket as she looked up at the paintings gracing the walls.

"I'm sorry Miss Rosenberg, but there's no smoking in the Manor," Giles spoke from behind the redhead, who spun around at the sound of his voice.

"I'm not smoking," she snapped irritably.

The butler nodded curtly before moving to sound the gong for lunch. Willow frowned and turned away, bumping directly into the blonde, who smiled warmly at her.

"Trying to quit?"

"Uh, yeah," Willow admitted, "five weeks already and it still sucks."

Tara moved closer, causing the redhead's breath to hitch as she took in the piercing blue eyes.

"Do you want to know what helps?" the blonde asked, and at Willow's nod moved in to whisper, "you just have to find something else to keep your fingers and mouth occupied."

Willow stood frozen as the woman walked away to the dining room, turning once to wink at the redhead, who regained her senses and followed a moment later.

Lunch was served buffet style, with a wide assortment of delicacies from around the world represented. As the last of the guests took their seats, Giles began filling their wine glasses.

"So where exactly is our host, Giles?" Riley asked, as several others murmured in agreement.

"I am to inform you that my employer will contact you in the Great room following your meal."

"You keep saying 'my employer,'" Cordelia pointed out. "Don't you know his name?"

"No, actually, I don't," Giles replied, avoiding the stunned expressions directed at him while he concentrated on pouring. "I've never met him…or her."

"You don't even know if you work for a man or a woman?" Buffy asked in disbelief.

"It's a man," Anya insisted. "My invitation was signed by a man – a Matt Sekhmet or something. Otherwise I certainly wouldn't-" the woman cut herself off abruptly while the others nodded at the familiar name.

"This is ridiculous," Riley declared, pushing himself back from the table and standing to confront Giles. "You tell your 'employer' to show himself, or I'll-"

"You'll what, Officer Finn?" the butler snapped, staring down the larger man. "There are no phones on the island, nor will your cell phones work – Miss Chase," he directed pointedly. "The next boat will not be arriving until Friday, and it's a bit of a swim back to Peru."

"Just what the hell are you telling us, Jeeves?" Faith interjected.

"I'm saying that we are all stuck here, my employer will appear when he or she sees fit, and there's no point in getting huffy with me over it. Now if you'll kindly sit down and finish your lunch, Mr. Finn, you may get some of your questions answered shortly."

Giles stalked out of the room, slamming through the swinging door to the kitchen as the guests stared mutely after him. They remained silent for some minutes, their food ignored as the full impact of the man's words sunk in.

"Huh," Oz stated after a moment.

"Well," Xander offered, clearing his throat. "As long as we're all stuck here-"

"I'm not stuck anywhere, pal. I'm gonna get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing I do."

"Okay…settle down…Finn, is it? All I'm saying is that we're all in the same situation, we might as well introduce ourselves, maybe figure out why we're all here, okay"

Various sounds of assent greeted the suggestion.

"Fine. Officer Riley Finn, Cedar Rapids Police Department. I was offered a position as head of security for this…well, they said it was a hotel."

"Security?" Willow inquired, sitting up straight.

"Yeah, why? Don't tell me that's why you're here too," Riley sneered, looking the diminutive woman up and down dismissively.

"No – well, yes – not like rough people up security…computer security…you know, safeguarding networks. I have a business in Seattle, but I was invited here for a freelance job. I'm Willow…Willow Rosenberg…is me."

"T-Tara Maclay," the blonde began, catching Willow's eye and smiling shyly. "I work at a battered women's shelter in Chicago. Mr. Sekhmet wanted to make a donation."

"You came all the way here for a check," Cordelia stated rather than asked.

"Um, well, it's a really big donation," Tara explained, ducking her head under the withering stare of the brunette.

"Whatever – I'm sure you all know who I am, but for the benefit of anyone living under a rock for the last few years, I am Cordelia Chase, and I'm here to shoot my new calendar."

"Xander Harris," the young man hastily jumped in, smiling at the model. "I'm in construction – I was asked to come out and take over the renovation of this place. Though there doesn't seem to be any going on, or in need, so now I'm just confused…and a little scared."

"Hi, I'm Buffy Summers from Sunnydale, California, and I won a vacation on some radio contest thingy…that I don't remember entering."

"OH! Me too! Oh, I'm Dawn Somerset, and I'm going to UCLA…go Bruins!"

Faith smirked at the enthusiastic coed.

"Faith…I just needed a place to crash."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cordelia demanded archly.

"It means it's none of your business why I'm here, Princess."

"Oz," the spiky haired man uttered, sensing the growing tension. "Daniel Osbourne, actually, but people call me Oz. I'm here about a recording deal, but it's starting to not seem like such a good idea."

"I'm Anya – Anya Jenkins…I got that 'win a trip' thing too," she hastily added, nodding her head once at the sound of it.

"Well," Riley stated, "now that we know who we all are and why most of us are here, I say we go find out what the hell is going on."

"Shouldn't we w-wait for Mr. Giles?" Tara asked hesitantly.

"He's been gone a while," Buffy commented with a frown.

"He'll figure it out. He told us to go to the Great room after lunch, so I say we go," Riley decided, standing up and looking at the others, who one by one rose to follow him.

Upon entering the room, all eyes were immediately drawn to a large easel placed in front of the fireplace.

"That…wasn't there before," Willow commented.

Pinned to the back of the canvas resting on the easel was a large scroll, with carefully lettered calligraphy forming what appeared to be a poem. As they moved en masse to stand in front of the easel, Cordelia began to read aloud:

Willow looked at the blank screen on her laptop, sighed, and shut it off. Moving to the bed, she curled up fully dressed, facing the door. The poem had been unsettling enough, but when they'd turned the painting around, all had been shocked to see a surprisingly accurate group portrait of the ten of them. Willow shuddered at the image and pulled the bedspread around her, feeling only a minimal degree of comfort in her makeshift cocoon. The uneasy stillness after viewing the painting had only lasted a moment before they were startled by a voice behind them.

"Now that I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen…let's talk about why you're here."

Tara closed and locked the door, lingering a moment with her palm flat against the wood as she listened to the redhead sigh and walk off down the hall. She waited until she'd heard Willow's own lock click before she returned to the bed, where'd she'd sat lost in thought for the past several hours. Leaning back against the headboard, she stared warily at the door as her hand unconsciously twisted and crumpled the note card she didn't realize she still held.

A part of Tara wished the redhead would come back. Despite her better judgment, she found the woman's presence comforting, and it had been difficult to turn down the offer of conversation. In the brief moment they'd stood looking at each other, the redhead's words from before rang in Tara's ears, and she'd had to look away.

"I'm not like you people," she'd said. How can I talk to her if she doesn't understand? How can I trust her if she hasn't been through – or if she has and she's lying about it.

Tara looked down at the mangled card in her hand as though she'd never seen it before. She carefully smoothed it out against her thigh before leaning over to place it face down on the nightstand. Returning to her seated position, she again focused on the door as if she could, by staring at it long enough, will the redhead to return. To say that the day's events had been upsetting would be an understatement of astronomical proportions, and at this moment Tara wanted nothing more than to forget – even if just for the night – the situation she was in.

What the hell is wrong with me, she chastised herself. I'm trapped on an island in the middle of nowhere, brought here under false pretenses by at best a delusional eccentric, at worst a homicidal maniac…and all I can think about is how nice and distracting a little one-night comfort sex with a beautiful woman I hardly know could be. "Stupid," she muttered as she stood, walked to the desk, dragged the heavy oak chair to the door, and firmly wedged it under the handle.

The ornate clock on the dresser showed it wasn't even 9:00 yet, but realizing her only options, NOT counting going to Willow's room, were joining the others getting drunk downstairs or going to sleep, she opted for the latter. She hastily went through her preparations before reconfirming that the door and windows were secure, then climbed into the large bed. As she lay waiting for sleep to come, she again heard the strange voice echo in her mind.

"Now that I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen…let's talk about why you're here."

Ten bodies turned in unison at the sound and found themselves looking at a reel-to-reel tape player set on the sideboard near the door.

"Allow me to introduce myself…I am Maat Sekhmet. I apologize for not greeting you in person, but I trust Giles has adequately attended to your needs. I assume that by now you have all introduced yourselves, and read the verses I left for you. I further surmise that you are all wondering why you've really been brought here. The answer is quite simple. You are all guilty of causing the death of one or more people, and you have all escaped the hand of justice. You will not be so fortunate here. There is a stack of envelopes on the mantle – one for each of you – that outline the specifics of your crimes. I will leave it to each of your consciences to determine what you reveal to each other, but I will read off the names of your victims for all to hear."

As the tape played, the guests formed a semi-circle around the machine, staring at it transfixed as the reels spun. As the eerily androgynous voice droned on, several moved to sit, while others leaned against the walls or furniture for support. No one spoke.

"You are hereby found guilty of the murders of the following:

Cordelia Chase…Justine Barlow;
Riley Finn…Anthony Gomez;
Alexander Harris…Robert and Caroline Shaw;
Anya Jenkins…Herbert Emerson and Ralph Jenkins;
Faith Johnson…Karl Eckley;
Tara Maclay…Donald Maclay and Donald Maclay, Junior;
Daniel Osbourne…Veruca Wolfe;
Willow Rosenberg…Christopher Hewitt;
Buffy Summers…Grace Peterson;
Dawn Somerset…unborn child.

I assure you all, you will not escape punishment again."

The voice cut off as the tape ended, the tail end whipping around with a rhythmic thwacking sound before Riley stepped forward and turned the player off. Silence hung heavy in the room as the guests snuck uneasy glances at each other.

"This is ludicrous!" Riley's booming voice finally broke the stillness, his face red with rage.

"MURDER? What's he talking about? I'm no murderer, I'm a model."

"Whoever this guy is, he's in for a world of pain when I get my hands on him," Faith threatened.

"OH! The boat!" Anya exclaimed.

"What about it?" several voices asked in unison.

"The Eind van de Lijn?!" the woman stated, sighed in exasperation at the blank looks she received. "The End of the Line."

Oz furrowed his brow and walked to the fireplace, where he found the envelopes, each one neatly addressed, looking as innocuous as a stack of party invitations. He proceeded to hand them out, noticing that no one appeared in a hurry to open them and discover their contents.

Tara sat on one of several sofas, her face a deathly pale as she took her envelope. Next to her, Dawn sobbed into her fists, but when Tara placed a comforting hand on the distraught girl's shoulder, Dawn jerked away and stood up, her eyes darting wildly around the room.

"I didn't kill my baby!" she shouted at the stunned onlookers. "I had a miscarriage – there's a difference."

"Dawn, calm down…none of us is accusing you," Willow soothed. "This is some sort of sick joke. I never killed anyone – I've never even heard of that man. And I'm sure no one else-"

"I did it," a soft voice murmured, and all eyes were immediately turned to the blonde, her head bowed, her face hidden behind a curtain of hair.

"Tara?" Willow breathed, feeling the air rush out of her lungs and hoping she'd misunderstood. The blonde lifted her head to meet the redhead's quizzical eyes.

"I killed them…my father and brother…but it was self defense," she insisted, her eyes pleading with Willow's as her lip quivered. "It never even went to court."

"Neither did mine," Buffy quietly remarked. Looking around nervously, she swallowed before continuing. "I was working at a tanning salon. Mrs. Peterson was a regular. I should have been watching the time closer, but I…when I finally went to check on her, the bed had malfunctioned…I guess she couldn't get out. She was dead. But the investigators said it wasn't my fault, and they didn't prosecute me."

"I didn't even get investigated," Oz started, frowning as though surprised. "She was in my band. I begged her to get help, but she said she could handle it. She asked me to get her some clean needles, and I figured she was gonna do it anyway, I could at least…she OD'd that night."

"I'd like to know what 'Little Miss Perfect' did to get in here," Faith commented from her perch on the arm of a sofa. Her smirk only increased at the cold glare she received.

"You're the poster child for the pathologically unstable – why are you here?"

"Oh, I see…I'll show you mine if you show me yours? Okay. I knifed a guy."

"W-was he attacking you?" Tara asked, her nervousness curiously calmed by hearing the others' stories.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Blondie…I'm sure he would've tried, I just didn't give him the chance." Turning her attention back to Cordelia, she raised her eyebrows. "So? Spill."

"Justine was pledging my sorority. She couldn't handle her alcohol and she drowned. But none of us were ever charged, although those bastards in administration put us all on probation for a year."

"You really are heartless, aren't you?" Buffy accused.

"I felt bad, I did," Xander stated, seemingly to convince himself as he walked to the bar and poured a large shot of whiskey. "They were on their way home from the airport…their son had just gone off to college. They ran a stop sign…I couldn't stop in time…even if I hadn't been-," he threw back the shot and grimaced.

"Drunk?" Anya finished sarcastically. His eyes blazed out at her before he turned away with a nod and poured another drink.

"So what about you?" Cordelia directed at Anya, who instantly regretted calling attention to herself.

"It's tragic, really. Herbert and Ralph were my second and third husbands. They both had weak hearts, poor dears. I certainly can't be held responsible for their deaths. If anything, I'm the victim here."

"So that's why you were so sure our host was a man," Riley noted angrily. "What, were you trolling for number four?"

"Hate to break it to you, Officer Finn, but you're on the list too," Faith commented with a laugh. "Now what could a member of Iowa's finest have done to land in here?"

"I was doing my job," the man replied through clenched teeth. "The suspect was believed to be armed and dangerous. It…it looked like a real gun."

A silence once again descended over the room, as each person struggled with their memories.

"Wait a minute." Faith's sudden remark brought questioning eyes to her, while her own were directed at the one person who had not offered an explanation for her presence. She tilted her head slightly. "We've all admitted to at least knowing who we supposedly offed. Wanna change your answer, Red? Or are you gonna stick with that bullshit 'I didn't know the guy' story?"

Willow's eyes widened as her gaze drifted over the others. Some looked at her inquisitively, some with anger. Her eyes met Tara's briefly, which held a mixture of worry and curiosity.

"I…I'm not like you people," she finally stammered out, instantly regretting her words as she saw pained blue eyes turn away from her. "I mean…I really don't know what he was talking about. I've never done anything to anyone. I'm very seldom-" unlawful, she meant to add, but refrained as she realized that wasn't exactly true. But that was a long time ago, and it's not like anyone was hurt by it. Or at least, not physically.

The sound of paper ripping drew Willow out of her thoughts, and as several people began silently perusing the details of their cards, she looked down at the envelope in her own hand. Dawn had begun crying quietly again, her small frame shaking as she gripped her paper. Buffy and Tara watched sadly as she ran upstairs, the sound of her door slamming shut echoing back down the hall.

"I think I'm going to try to talk to her," Buffy commented to no one in particular, pushing herself off the couch and leaning heavily on the banister as she ascended the stairs.

Riley, Anya, and Cordelia joined Xander at the bar.

"I'm gonna go look for that Giles guy," Oz stated, crooking his thumb over his shoulder.

"I'll come with," Faith offered, jumping down off the couch arm. "Anyone else?"

Willow locked eyes with Tara. Both women's thoughts drifted back to the casual flirting in the hall, which seemed a lifetime ago now. As Tara's gaze faltered, Willow looked to where Oz and Faith stood.

"I'm in…let's go."

Faith, Oz, and Willow retraced their steps to the dining room and through the swinging doors Giles had passed through several hours before. They found themselves in a small, immaculately maintained butler's pantry, the shelves filled with neatly stacked dishes and cups. Another set of swinging doors led to the spacious kitchen, fully outfitted for use by a hotel or restaurant. The trio found numerous storage rooms, walk-in refrigerators and freezers, but found no sign of Giles. Ignoring the door that led out to the rear patio and gardens, they instead passed through a short corridor, off of which they discovered a large laundry room, and several empty servants' quarters. The last room on the hall was locked, but when Faith pounded repeatedly on the door, no answer came.

The three went back through the kitchen to continue their search of the ground floor, walking slowly through the library, sitting room, trophy room, ballroom, and finally the game room.

"Ooh, a pool table – who wants to take me on?" Faith enthused, throwing a ball hard against the bumper and watching it careen around the dark red felt.

"We're looking for Giles, Faith," Willow snapped. "We're not here to play games."

Faith placed her hands wide apart on the mahogany rails, leaning forward as she regarded the redhead. Despite the smile on the brunette's face, Willow felt an undercurrent of danger in the woman's stare.

"See, that's where you're wrong, Red," Faith teased, pushing herself away from the table and walking around it, trailing her hand over the polished wood. She circled it completely before coming to a stop in front of Willow, who thought uncomfortably of the documentary she'd watched several days before of the snow leopard stalking the lame jackrabbit. "I think games are what this place is all about. And I think you're playing us all."

"I already told you-" Willow started, trying to remain calm as she felt her face flush.

"Yeah, right…only I'm not buying it. Why don't you drop the innocent act. I notice you haven't opened your envelope, Red. Scared of what's in there?"

Willow felt unbridled rage rearing up inside her, and fought to suppress it in the wake of Faith's taunting. Oz stood silently throughout the exchange, not liking Faith's tactics, but fully recognizing his own curiosity to find out what the redhead's story was. When he saw the look of panicked anger on Willow's face, he stepped in.

"It's going to be dark soon. Should we look outside or wait til morning?"

Relieved by the interruption, Willow exhaled the breath she'd been holding.

"We haven't checked the rooms upstairs-maybe we should do that, and if he doesn't turn up by morning we can search the grounds."

"Sounds like a plan," Oz concluded softly, motioning for Willow to lead the way as he placed himself between her and Faith.

Upstairs they found another, smaller library and sitting room, as well as ten rooms on each wing. They went through each of the ten unoccupied rooms-three on the women's wing, seven on the men's-opening closets and bathrooms, but again found no evidence of Giles' presence. Upon returning downstairs, they noticed that the Great room was empty, and heard voices coming from the kitchen. Expecting to find the missing butler, they hurried to the room, but instead discovered the other guests, minus Dawn, preparing the leftovers from lunch for dinner.

"Any luck?" Xander inquired, his mouth full of reheated roast duck.

Willow simply shook her head. The hopeful faces of the others drooped and darkened as they returned their attention to their meals. No attempt at conversation was made as they half-heartedly picked at their food. As each finished eating, they drifted back into the Great room to congregate at the bar. Willow noted with chagrin that Tara retreated upstairs to her room, leaving the redhead and Buffy standing at the threshold of the dining room alone.

"I'm gonna go take some food to Dawn," Buffy stated suddenly, moving back to the kitchen.

Willow followed behind her, leaning forward over a counter top as the blonde loaded up a plate.

"How is she?"

"Really upset," Buffy sighed. "She wouldn't talk about it much, only that it happened a couple of years ago. Poor kid was only seventeen."

"None of this makes any sense," Willow exclaimed with a frustrated grimace. "Most of those things couldn't possibly be considered murder. Faith, maybe…and I don't know about Anya…and Riley."

"The cop?" Buffy asked, turning around with a chicken leg in her hand, her eyes wide with incredulity. "But he said-"

"I know what he said," Willow whispered, glancing over to the door quickly. "But I remember hearing a report of an unarmed suspect being gunned down in Cedar Rapids a year or so ago, and the cop being investigated for racial profiling. Then all of a sudden the story just disappeared…like it was hushed up."

"And you think-"

"I'm just saying there could be more to it than what he told us."

Buffy eyed the redhead warily before turning back to her task.

"I guess none of us can really know who's telling the truth and who isn't," she murmured as she picked up the plate and walked out of the room.

Willow did not miss the clear inference in the seemingly casual remark. She unconsciously reached into her back pocket and felt the folded envelope there.

"I guess not," she spoke to the empty room.

Tara closed the door softly behind her and sat down at the desk. She opened her envelope with shaking fingers and pulled out a single card of heavy stock, completely filled on both sides. As she read through the single-spaced typescript, tears formed and silently fell to the page, smearing the ink slightly. The "facts" of her case were laid out as bullet points, and while no source was listed for the information, Tara immediately recognized the insinuations and half-truths as those made by a particularly vindictive reporter. Entirely absent from the report were the years of abuse suffered by Tara and her mother at the hands of Donald and Donald, Junior. Also missing was any mention of Tara's mother's death, ostensibly from a fall down the basement stairs. Tara had seen the "accident," however. Several months later, when they came for her, she knew the murderous look in their eyes, and was prepared. That their mysterious host chose to include only the most damning information filled Tara with a dread she hadn't felt since the split second before she fired the first shotgun blast into her father's stomach. Moving to the bed, she curled up against the headboard, clutching a pillow and rocking nervously.

Willow stepped out the back door off the kitchen and breathed in the fresh, cool air. Strands of party lights hung around the patio, unlit and unnecessary under the light of the full moon. She extracted the envelope from her pocket and opened it hesitantly. Stepping away from the shadows of the house, Willow tilted the card and held it close to her face in order to read the small print. The redhead's forehead creased as she read the card, her eyes darting over the words that barely registered in her mind.

Oh my god…if this is true…I have to find out…

Willow hurried back inside and up the stairs before she realized she had no access to the Internet. Hesitating at the top of the stairs, she listened to the laughter and clinking glasses from downstairs.

Okay, Willow, you can go back down and join the drunken revelry, or you can try to talk to the one person who's really been nice to you, and who you totally offended, and should therefore apologize to…and hey, if she wants to talk, commiserate, maybe snuggle, well that's okay too. Her decision obvious, the redhead tread quietly to the door.

The antique grandfather clock struck midnight, making Xander jump and stare bleary-eyed in its general direction. The last of the others had retired to bed an hour ago, physically exhausted after their long journeys, mentally exhausted by the events on the island. Swaying toward the staircase, Xander instead veered off through the front door, barely making it off the front steps before he vomited violently into the bushes. Standing unsteadily, he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and walked further onto the lawn, taking in huge gulps of oxygen. Deciding that the fresh air would do him good, he staggered around the side of the house and found a rack of bicycles. Pulling out the first one, he struggled to climb onto the vehicle, ripping the cuff of his pant leg on the chain. In the full moon light, he could make out the dirt bike path leading away from the mansion, back down the hill toward the dock. He pedaled slowly, closing his eyes as the cool breeze washed over him, clearing his head. The bike picked up speed on the downward slope, and as he entered the woods, Xander blinked into the darkness, frantically seeking out the path's course. He barely noticed the fork in the path until it was on him, and he realized with horror that a person was standing in the junction, blocking the left lane. He jerked the handlebars to the right, narrowly avoiding a collision with the hooded figure and chuckling at his own panic as he felt the ground level off. His relief at seeing the wide-open expanse before him turned to confusion as he felt the bike fall away below his legs. His alcohol- soaked brain had little time to process that he was falling as well, and he was barely able to choke out a sharp cry before he smashed into the rocks at the bottom of the sheer cliff.

Two hundred feet above, a hooded figure leaned over the edge of the precipice to look at the tangled mass of limbs lying several yards from the mangled bicycle. When there had been no sound or movement after several minutes the figure moved silently away, remaining hidden in the trees until approaching a carefully camouflaged door at the side of the house.

Tara lay on her side, her head propped up by one arm as her eyes roamed over the naked expanse of Willow's back. As tempting as it was to run her fingertips over the smooth surface, she refrained, unwilling to disturb the woman's much needed rest. Instead she contented herself with studying the sleeping redhead, whose face seemed almost as expressive in slumber as when awake. When the blonde first heard agitated mumblings coming from her bedmate, she thought Willow was having nightmares stemming from what they had discovered earlier, until she caught the phrase "don't warn the tadpoles." Tara surmised that it was merely some mundane childhood anxiety reasserting itself, and so she simply watched over Willow, etching every expression into her memory as she fought off her body's own urge for sleep. Impulsively she got out of the bed, peeled off her tank top and pajama pants, and crawled back in, scooting as close to the redhead as she dared without waking her.

Earlier that day:

Willow mumbled a sleepy good morning to Dawn and Oz as she passed through the dining room on her way to kitchen. Halfway down the stairs she had smelled coffee, and after a restless night's sleep, she was in dire need of caffeine. As she pushed open the swinging doors, she spied Tara at the enormous stove, flipping pancakes while Cordelia and Anya hovered on either side of her. Willow made a beeline for the giant coffee urn, filling up a mug and breathing in the hearty aroma before casually shuffling over to the other women. Tara turned and gave her a half smile as she approached.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

"Hey!" Willow pouted in mock indignation. "I'm not the last one up…am I?"

"No, Xander hasn't made an appearance yet either. I would have waited on breakfast, but SOME people were getting anxious," Tara explained, looking pointedly at Anya.

"Well, SOME people are hungry…and didn't sleep half the day away," Anya countered, literally pointing at Willow.

"Anya, it's only 8:30, and we did all have a long day – "

"How about we have a little less talking and a lot more cooking," Cordelia suddenly interjected over Tara.

"HEY!" Willow yelled, startling herself as much as the haughty brunette. "Tara doesn't work here, so why don't you back off or make your own damn breakfast!"

"Excuse me, butch," Cordelia mocked the furiously blushing redhead. "Come on Anya, let's go wait in the dining room before Ellen here challenges me to a duel."

Willow cringed as she watched the retreating figures leave the room. She turned to see Tara gazing back a her quizzically.

"Sorry about that. I don't usually shout at people, I just…well, she didn't have to treat you like some kind of servant," she finished with a defiant nod.

"I appreciate your concern," Tara replied seriously. "The Cordelia Chases of the world are used to people behaving a certain way around them, but maybe she's learned her lesson." Tara paused before adding in a whisper, "I think you scared her."

Willow looked horrified at the thought, but as a huge grin formed on Tara's face, she rolled her eyes and laughed.

"I guess I should apologize to her. Actually, Tara, I owe you one too," the redhead shyly spoke, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Last night…I didn't mean what I said…about not being like…I think I may have done someth – "

Willow abruptly cut herself short as Faith and Riley noisily entered the room from the servants' wing. Tara quickly explained to Willow that they'd decided to try to break into the locked room at the end of the hall.

"Any luck?"

"We got in, but he wasn't there," Riley stated. "The closet and dresser drawers were full, though, so if he cleared out, he must not have taken anything with him."

Tara finished loading up two platters with neatly stacked pancakes, which Riley quickly stepped forward to carry for her. As the four filed out of the kitchen, Tara paused to squeeze Willow's hand.

"We'll talk more later, okay?"

Willow looked around at the seven other guests seated at the table, mentally ticking off faces and names as she tried to figure who was absent.

"Where's Buffy?"

"At the beach, if you can believe that. I guess she still thinks she's on vacation," Riley said with a contemptuous snort.

"She left a note," Oz added.

Willow looked at the young man, expecting him to continue, but he had apparently said his fill. After he finished eating, Oz offered to rouse Xander so that the group could begin checking out the rest of the island.

"He's not there," he told the others as he came downstairs. "Doesn't look like he slept in his bed last night, either."

"He probably passed out on the couch," Anya surmised.

"Maybe he went out with Buffy this morning?" Dawn speculated.

"Well, I guess it's just the eight of us, so here's what I suggest" Riley spoke up, clearly stepping into the role of leader. "Someone should stay here, while the rest of us split up into pairs and search different segments of the island. One group can head back toward the dock the way we came, then skirt back up along the western ridge. Another can head southeast from the house, and the third can go north out the back. Any questions?"

"Who's going to stay here?" Dawn asked tentatively, looking around the imposing room and visibly shivering.

"I figured you would," Riley stated, observing the teenager as though the thought of her conducting a manhunt was ridiculous. His manner softened somewhat as he took in her apprehensive expression. "But if you want, maybe someone else can stay too."

"I will," Cordelia quickly offered. "What? I didn't bring any hiking shoes."

As soon as everyone had dressed appropriately and arranged to meet back at the house by 2 pm, they set out. Riley and Anya set off across the lawn towards the southeast, Willow and Tara walked down the slope to the west, while Faith and Oz passed a rack of bicycles on their way to the back of the house.

"I think you disappointed someone," Tara stated, looking back over her shoulder at the retreating forms of Faith and Oz. Willow followed her gaze with a frown.

"Who? Him?"

"Uh-huh. You didn't see his expression when you told him you were with me?"

"Oh please, he is so not my type," Willow scoffed, grinning at the blonde as she added, "but then, you already figured that out, didn't you?"

"I had a hunch," Tara conceded, ducking her head shyly. "That's not what you wanted to talk to me about though, is it?"

"No, it's not," Willow admitted, briefly looking back at the house as they reached the footpath and the entrance to the woods. "I looked at my card, and I think I may have done something…something that made that man – Christopher Hewitt? – kill himself."

Tara made no verbal response, assuming none was necessary, but she squeezed Willow's hand in silent encouragement for her to continue. She loosened her grip slightly, but the redhead firmly held on as she continued.

"I was kind of a hacker in college, and I got involved with this group of…well, they called themselves ‘Social Avengers for Truth.' We would hack these big corporations, find out who was hiding illegal profits, screwing over their shareholders, using child labor…that kind of thing…and then we'd sort of…leak it to the press. It seemed like a good thing at the time, though I got involved for the technical challenge as much as anything. It even led to my career. Once my name got out, some of the very companies I hacked started offering me huge sums of money to protect their systems…so long as I ceased and desisted in any unlawful activities, of course."

Willow paused to gauge Tara's reaction, but the blonde's face was an unreadable mask.

"According to the card I got, Hewitt was the head of research and development for a pharmaceutical company. We discovered they were taking in loads of money from the government and private sector, but most of it was NOT going into research. If I remember correctly, Hewitt and the rest of the execs were all living pretty large – and I mean LARGE – while one of their drugs was being rushed through to market before it was ready. It turns out several people using the drug had died, but the company wasn't initially held responsible. That changed when we released our information and the Feds started investigating. Hewitt was one of the first ones brought up on charges, but he killed himself before…"

Willow's voice broke off as she contemplated the consequences of her actions. Tara dropped her hand and grabbed the redhead by the shoulders, dipping her head to catch Willow's eyes.

"Willow…it wasn't your fault. Yeah, so maybe it was mildly illegal computer trespassing or something…but you didn't force that man to steal from people, and you didn't kill him."

Tara emphasized the last few words, cupping the redhead's quivering chin as Willow tried to bow her head again. Willow exhaled sharply, her tense body seemingly deflating as she spontaneously wrapped her arms around the blonde in a tight hug.

"Thank you," she rasped, burying her head in Tara's shoulder. After a moment they parted self-consciously and continued toward the dock, stealing sideways glances at each other all the way. Upon reaching the pier they found nothing, and retraced their steps to where the footpath and bike path intersected. They walked slowly, conversing some, pausing every now and then to call out for Giles, and enjoying the beautiful day despite their strange circumstances. Before they began to ascend the hill, they reached another fork in the path. Willow began to continue forward until Tara reached out and stopped her.

"Tara? What's wrong?"

"What's that on the ground?"

Willow walked over to where Tara had pointed and picked up a hand- painted wooden slab that had seemingly fallen off of a tree.

"Danger…steep cliff," she read aloud, leaning the sign against the nearest tree.

Tara frowned as she looked to the left of the path, where the wall of trees was breached by a twenty-foot wide empty span. The blonde looked down at the dirt and followed the almost imperceptible indent that led from the bike path to the edge of the cliff.

"Tara?! What are you doing?!" Willow frantically asked.

"It's okay…just wait there."

Willow held her breath as she watched the blonde walk carefully to the edge of the cliff, staying close to the trees and holding on with one hand as she leaned over. Tara stood perfectly still, only her rapid heartbeat betraying her calm exterior until she jumped back from the edge and dropped to her knees. Willow rushed over to the pale, shaky woman.

"Tara?! Tara, what is it?!"

The blonde's eyes were closed tightly and she repeatedly shook her head, unable to reply. Willow inched over to the edge and craned her neck over the side. She did not at first understand what it was she was looking at, but when it registered, her hand flew to her mouth. She threw herself away from the edge and doubled over as she heaved into the dirt.

"That…that was…that was…"

"Xander," Tara stated.

"This is seriously fucked!" Faith shouted as she paced back and forth like a caged animal near the entrance of the Great room.

"We have to get out of here," Anya stated with flat certainty. "Find a phone, a radio…flag down a passing boat…or a plane…we could build a signal fire…or a really big raft."

How can she be so calm? Tara thought, looking curiously at the woman, who suddenly burst out giggling uncontrollably. Ah…hysteria. That's better. Hysteria I get.

"A raft?!" An incredulous Riley yelled, oblivious to the woman's mental state or the manic look in her eyes. "It took us two hours to get here by yacht, and now you want us to attempt some Gilligan stunt? On the open ocean?"

Anya's demented laughter only increased at the man's tirade, however. Tears flowed down her face and her entire body convulsed. Faith abruptly ceased her pacing, took several long strides to where the woman sat, and slapped her hard across the face. Anya's facial expression barely registered any acknowledgement of the blow, but her demeanor altered instantaneously. She slumped down in the chair, her eyes staring vacantly into space, rocking slowly as the room erupted around her.

"What the hell did you do that for?!" Willow charged angrily.

"You saw her! She's totally lost it!"

"That doesn't give you the right to hit her."

"The RIGHT?! News flash, Red. Nothing here is right, and I'm not really interested in your opinion."

"What, are you gonna slug me next?"

"Oh, just give me a reason."

"You need to back off right now," Riley threatened, marching up to loom over Faith, who roughly shoved him away from her.

"You are not in charge here you son of a bitch," she hissed through clenched teeth.

"W-we need to stick together," Tara stammered weakly, trying to diffuse the situation.

"The fuck we do, Blondie. I trust one person here – me. The rest of you can-"

"Can what?" Cordelia demanded. "Die a slow, painful death?"

"Better you than me."

"That's just great, psycho bitch…only it's not really a matter of either/or, is it?" Cordelia raved. "It's more of a who's next and when!"

"This isn't helping," Dawn's clipped, bitter voice spoke up from the corner of the room, where she sat huddled against the wall hugging her knees.

"We have got to get out of here," Tara quietly repeated Anya's sentiment as much to herself as to anyone else.

"HOW?!" Riley bellowed and threw up his hands.

"ENOUGH!" Oz shouted, shocking the others into silence with his raised voice. "We are NOT going to do this. It's late…we're all freaked…and there's nothing we can do tonight."

A collective sigh filled the room as an uneasy acceptance of their current situation seeped in.

"He's right," Riley finally agreed. "We should get some sleep. Tomorrow we can tear this place apart, try to figure out our options."

"Sleep. Sleep is good. Restful. Sleep." Anya jerked her head up, looking in surprise at the stares directed her way. "What?"

"Maybe we should all stay together? You know, safety in numbers?" Cordelia hesitantly asked, forcing a smile as she hopefully regarded the others.

"No chance, Princess," Faith forcefully stated. "No way in hell I'm locking myself up with you people."

"It'll be okay, Miss Chase," Riley quickly spoke before another argument could break out. "Just lock your door and push something heavy in front of it."

After recovering from the initial shock of finding Xander's body, Willow and Tara briefly searched for a path to reach the rocks below. Both were intensely relieved when they found no way down the cliff, and decided to instead head back to the house and inform the others of their gruesome discovery. It was not yet 2:00 when they burst through the front door, but the other two groups were already back, milling around the Great room with matching grim expressions.

"Xander's dead," Willow blurted out breathlessly. When no one responded, her gaze passed over each of the forlorn faces looking back at her. "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, it's just," Oz frowned, "so's Buffy."

"What??" Willow whispered, her voice breaking and desperate as she again searched the faces, finding a mirror image of her own shock and confusion reflected back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Tara sink down into a chair, and it was only through sheer force of will that she was able to remain standing.

"She was on the beach…Anya and I found her," Riley explained in an uncharacteristically shaky voice. "She was…I've never seen anything like it."

"What happened to Xander?" Cordelia quietly asked.

Willow glanced at Tara, who appeared dazed beyond speech. After several deep breaths, she told them what they had found. It was only at the end of Willow's address that Tara voiced the unpleasant realization that had been forming in her head.

"He didn't see the sign," she stated softly, looking at the others for evidence of understanding. "At first I thought it m-must have been an accident…cause he'd been drinking? But if Buffy…" she paused and closed her eyes. Willow stepped closer and placed a comforting hand on the blonde's shoulder, which Tara covered with her own before elaborating. "The p-poem."

Eight pairs of eyes turned in unison to the easel, reading over the lines that confirmed their worst fears.

"How did Buffy…" Willow swallowed and shifted uncomfortably, unable to complete her question.

"She…we couldn't even tell it was human at first," Riley shuddered and ground out the words. "She looked like she'd been…burned…her skin…it was…"

"Like she 'slept the day away' under the sun," Anya concluded. "But she couldn't have been out there that long."

"There's no way that was an accident," Riley stated. "And what Faith and Oz found confirms it as far as I'm concerned."

Tara and Willow exchanged worried looks, both afraid to ask what else had happened since they'd left that morning. Finally unable to stand on her trembling legs, Willow perched on the arm of Tara's chair. Tara pulled the hand off of her shoulder and into her lap, where she nervously kneaded the redhead's fingers.

"What did you f-find?"

"Beyond the garden behind the house, there's a hedge," Oz relayed. "On the other side someone dug what look like graves…ten of them."

"Someone's doing this…and I think we all know who that someone is." As the others looked at the cop quizzically, he stood up and exclaimed "Giles! He's our mysterious host…he has to be. Otherwise, why haven't we been able to find him?"

"He could be dead," Anya offered.

"Yeah, for all we know you're the killer," Faith directed at Riley.

"There were ten of us brought here – ten graves – 'ten little murderers,'" Riley argued, maintaining an admirably cool exterior in light of Faith's charge. "Giles is the only other person we've seen, and I don't remember seeing his face in here."

As he spoke, Riley had moved to the easel, where he turned the canvas around to reveal the painting. A collective gasp made him turn back to it, and he froze. Xander's and Buffy's faces were each obscured by a giant X in blood red paint.

"We're all going to die here," Anya stated with finality, her voice strangely emotionless.

Unconvincingly assured of their safety for the night, the eight remaining guests drifted upstairs. Despite their overwhelming loss of appetite, the group had briefly congregated in the kitchen to pick through the refrigerator. On the way back through the main hall, several detoured to the bar to grab bottles. Oz and Riley turned left at the top of the stairs, looking back to offer weak smiles of encouragement to the women as they went their separate ways. Six doors closed, followed by the sound of six locks clicking, as Willow and Tara stood mutely by Tara's room, close enough to feel each other's presence but avoiding eye contact. The blonde half twisted away from Willow and laid her hand on the doorknob, but did not turn it. She was unaware of her shoulders shaking until she felt Willow's hands grip them, stilling the motion.

"Tara? Will you be okay?"

Tara closed her eyes as she leaned back into the redhead's body and felt Willow's forehead rest against the back of her head. She abruptly opened the door, spinning around as a startled Willow fell slightly forward into her waiting arms. Tara pulled the redhead into the room, maintaining her hold on Willow's hip with one hand while the other closed and locked the door. Willow stood perfectly still just inside the door, her gaze locked on Tara, who brought her freed hand to the back of the redhead's neck.

"I don't want to be alone," the blonde explained as she drew Willow to her and their lips met in a rough, urgent kiss.

Willow's initial shock at being dragged into the room dissipated the moment Tara kissed her, and she brought her own hands up the blonde's back to her shoulder blades, pulling her in closer. The moment she parted her lips Tara's tongue entered, hungrily exploring her mouth. Tara slid her hands down Willow's hips to her ass, firmly squeezing the taut muscles. Willow let out a stifled gasp and dropped her head back, allowing Tara access to her neck, which the blonde enthusiastically latched onto to, sucking hard on Willow's pulse point. When Tara suddenly pulled back, the redhead raised her head and wildly sought out Tara's eyes, which stared back at her intensely as the blonde raised her hands to grip Willow's shirt collar.

"Do you want-"

"God, yes," Willow managed to sputter, and with a satisfying rip Tara had the redhead's shirt open, leaving it to Willow to untangle the torn material from her arms as she moved on to the button fly on Willow's pants. The redhead frantically used her toes to pry off her shoes as Tara dragged jeans and panties down slim hips, tossing them aside before rising to reach around for the clasp of Willow's bra. Pushing the redhead down onto the bed, Tara dropped to her knees and without preamble captured one nipple in her lips as she pinched the other one to attention. Willow threaded her hands through long blonde hair and arched into Tara's mouth. When lips were replaced by teeth lightly nipping and pulling at the engorged bud, Willow felt a shockwave shoot straight to her clit, and her hips jerked needily. Spreading her legs further, she ground herself against Tara's belly, whimpering at the inadequacy of the friction. Recognizing the sound of the redhead's desire, Tara descended Willow's body, covering it with wet kisses as her hands moved to caress trembling thighs. Licking once up the length of Willow's slit, Tara attacked the redhead's clit without hesitation, flicking her tongue rapidly and clamping down on Willow's thighs as she bucked wildly. Tara easily inserting two fingers into the redhead's dripping pussy and pumped a steady rhythm. Willow's moans soon degenerated into an increasingly high-pitched keening, and Tara added a third finger, pistoning hard and fast as Willow's entire body shuddered through her orgasm.

Willow finally untangled her hands from Tara's hair and scooted back up the bed, closely followed by Tara, who crept sensually over the redhead, trailing her lips over flushed, sweat-slicked skin. Draping her body over Willow's, Tara rested her weight on her forearms, placed on either side of Willow's head, and buried her hands in rumpled red hair. Leaning forward to capture the redhead's parted lips, Tara was surprised when the smaller woman easily flipped her over and reversed their positions. Willow sat back on her heels, straddling Tara's waist, breathing heavily as her green eyes searched blue. Willow began slowly unbuttoning Tara's shirt as the blonde writhed underneath her, kneading the bare thighs on either side of her.

"Sit up a sec," Willow commanded, removing the blonde's shirt and bra. Tara shut off her mind to everything that had happened over the last several days as Willow stripped her. She reveled in the feel of the redhead's hands moving over her in long firm strokes. Willow kissed her hard before raising herself to kneel, straddling one of Tara's thighs.

"What do you want?"

"Fuck me, Willow," Tara urged, and Willow quickly found her entrance, spreading her lips and burying two fingers in deep.

Tara wasn't sure when or how it happened, but at some point the redhead moved to lie next alongside her, snaking one arm under Tara's neck and cradling the blonde's head in her shoulder. Willow's soft warmth pinned her in place as the redhead's fingers slowly stroked her inner walls, and Tara became aware that it had ceased to be fucking and had become something more. She wasn't sure if the tears streaming silently down her cheeks had started before or after her realization, only that for the first time since she'd arrived, she felt safe.

Some time later Tara extricated her limbs from Willow's and swung her legs over the side of the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress with both hands. Willow inched closer, running a hand soothingly over Tara's back.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine, I'm…" Tara suddenly stood and walked over to the suitcase lying open on a small table near the door. She pulled out a tank top and pair of pajama bottoms and dressed slowly, her back to Willow. "I just…I hope you don't think…I don't usually…"

"Hey…it's okay," Willow whispered in her ear.

Tara jumped slightly as she felt the redhead's arms encircle her waist, not having heard the woman's approach. Tara hesitantly turned, fear and doubt evident in her eyes. Willow cupped the blonde's cheeks in her hands and kissed her softly before resting their foreheads together.

"Do you want me to go?"

"Um…no? I'm just feeling a little…I don't know…"

"Vulnerable?"

"Yesss," Tara exhaled, drawing out the word. "But, I would like it if you um, stayed."

"You sure?" Willow asked, tilting her head back to look into Tara's eyes, seeing a hint of relief amidst the uncertainty. The blonde bit her lip and nodded. "If it would make you feel any safer, you could tie me to the bed," Willow quipped, then cringed at the expression she received. "Oops…too early in the relationship for bondage humor, I guess?"

Tara crinkled her nose and grinned at the redhead, who furrowed her brow in confusion.

"What?"

"You, um, said 'relationship.'" The blonde explained.

"Um, err, various sounds of hesitation," Willow backpedaled, blushing furiously. "I know we just met…and we live in different time zones…"

"And we may not get off of this island alive," Tara added ironically. Willow immediately grabbed her hands and squeezed tightly, their eyes locked together.

"We WILL. We're going to figure this out, Tara," Willow insisted. "I just found you, and I'm not going to let some crazy person stop me from taking you out for mochas and getting to know you better. Deal?"

"Deal."

In a darkened room two stories below, a figure leaned back in a large leather chair, feet propped up on a Lucite desk, eyes fixed on a bank of security monitors, each labeled underneath with a piece of masking tape. Most of the screens showed sleeping forms lying in their beds, while two of the monitors had been turned to other parts of the house. The one marked 'Finn' revealed the officer sitting at his desk, cleaning his service revolver. The one labeled 'Johnson' showed Faith pacing her floor, smoking a cigarette from the pack she'd taken out of Willow's room earlier that day. But the figure's interest was currently focused on the monitor marked 'Maclay,' where the two women there had just propped a chair under the door handle before climbing into bed and each other's arms. The figure smirked before swiveling the chair toward a heavy marble chess table next to the desk. On the board were ten carefully arranged chess pieces, the queen and nine pawns, two of the latter lying on their sides. Stroking a hand over the remaining upright pawns, the figure carefully picked out two and swapped their positions.

Falling…

Tara woke with a start, her heart beating rapidly as her eyes and mind struggled to make sense of her surroundings. She hadn't intended to fall asleep; had only closed her eyes for a moment, but that was enough for physical and mental exhaustion to overcome her. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she surmised it was still the middle of the night. Not a sound could be heard save the quiet, agitated mumbling coming from behind her, where Willow lay spooned against her back. Tara smiled lazily and shifted to turn over, but the arm draped over her middle tightened and held her in place.

"Mmno…Tare…don' go…there's frogs."

The blonde bit back a giggle at the sleep-slurred words. Relaxing into the redhead's embrace, she sighed and let her eyes flutter closed, resigning herself to sleep. Her repose lasted a scant few minutes before the hand wrapped around her waist began moving over her bare skin, soft fingertips gliding across her stomach and chest, caressing down her right arm and thigh. Visions of their earlier lovemaking assaulted her, rendering all of her senses fully conscious of one thing.

"Willow?" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Willow, are you awake?"

"Hmm," came the redhead's muffled reply, her warm breath on the back of Tara's neck sending a pleasant shiver down the blonde's spine.

As the wandering hand made its torturously slow way back up to Tara's breasts, the blonde exhaled loudly and reached behind her to grip Willow's thigh. The redhead flexed her hips and Tara let out a ragged gasp.

"W-willow," she repeated, her voice rising both in volume and pitch. "Willow, wake up."

The redhead grumbled in response, her right hand kneading Tara's breast, her hips slowly grinding against the blonde's ass. Tara felt on the verge of screaming in frustration or flipping Willow over, pinning her to the bed, and kissing her awake when she felt the other woman suddenly go still.

"Tara?"

The blonde sighed with relief at the sound of the confused, but clearly awake voice. When she felt the redhead begin to pull away, she quickly brought her left hand up to hold Willow's arm in place across her chest, and squeezed the freckled thigh with the other for good measure.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked, her voice low and sultry. She smirked into the darkness at Willow's audible gasp.

"I, um…going? Er, not going anywhere…'cause where else would I want to be than right here with you, all awake and naked and – hey, weren't you wearing jammies before? Not that I'm complaining of course…I'm all with the not complaining here…cause waking up to naked Tara…wow…and – oh my god, was I molesting you in my sleep? Oh, god, Tara…I am so sorry."

Tara didn't have to turn around to envision the look of horror on the redhead's face. She chuckled softly as she brought Willow's hand to her lips and nibbled on the fingertips, quieting the redhead instantly.

"It's okay, sweetie, you were dreaming. I think you were protecting me from…frogs?" Tara felt a shiver pass through the redhead's body, whether from the mention of amphibious creatures or the fact that Tara had moved Willow's hand back to her breasts, she wasn't sure. "That was very gallant of you. Who knows what those mean old frogs might have done. I'm sure I must have been very…appreciative…of your bravery."

Willow's lips curled into a grin at the base of Tara's neck, just above her shoulder. The redhead's hand again began to move, but with greater pressure and purpose, lingering only a moment on the blonde's erect nipples before proceeding down to Tara's already damp curls and hardening clit.

"Appreciative? As in…I get a reward?"

Tara groaned and dug her fingers into Willow's thigh. The redhead had managed to snake her left arm under Tara's waist and held on tightly as the blonde writhed.

"Let me turn over and I'll give it to you," she panted, her throat constricting as Willow's forefinger teased her opening.

"Hmmm," Willow mused. "As nice as that sounds, I think I'd like something else for my reward."

Willow dragged her lips up Tara's neck to her ear, where she licked the lobe before whispering, "I think I'd rather fuck you senseless, so that when I make you come hard all over my hand, my name will be the only word you can remember to scream."

With that, the redhead plunged three fingers into Tara, who thrust desperately against Willow's hand. It didn't take long for Willow to get her reward exactly as she'd asked.

I'm falling…

The figure pushed away from the desk and stood in front of the television screens, opening a labeled metal drawer beneath one, collecting several items and carefully stowing them in the front cargo pants pockets. From the desk a pair of night vision goggles were retrieved and situated in place. The office door glided silently open then shut, and the figure moved down the hall, stopping about halfway along the passage, where another steel door was built into the rock walls. With the push of a well-concealed button, the door slid open, revealing a steep staircase leading up.

Even without the goggles, the figure could have traversed the darkened passageways with the ease born of familiarity. Having designed the house for just this purpose, every secret corridor and room was embedded in the fevered brain of the home's owner. Two years of planning, building, and waiting had finally come to fruition, and the figure was methodical enough to know that it was better to wear the goggles than to risk an ill-timed trip or sound, inadvertently alerting someone to the presence of movement within the walls. The successful play of events so far had made the figure giddy with delight, but ever cognizant that any imprecise action could result in failure. The earlier surprise had made it abundantly clear that despite all of the effort put in, there were always unforeseen variables.

Moving with an almost inhuman patience, it took forty minutes to silently climb the two stories and cross to the East side of the manor. The figure paused at the threshold of a small wooden panel, lifted up the goggles, and pulled a hand-held monitor from one pocket. As the screen glowed to life, a woman appeared, still pacing restlessly. The figure's eyes never left the monitor while reaching into the other pocket for a remote control device. Pressing of one of several dozen buttons, the figure watched as the subject jumped, then moved to shut the French doors that had suddenly swung open. The figure waited for the subject to grab a cigarette and attempt to light it with shaking fingers before again pressing the button. This time the figure activated the switch that slid open the wood panel, and stepped silently into a half-filled wardrobe. The third time the doors flew open, the figure could hear the woman cursing as she stepped out onto the small balcony to peer out into the blackness. Quickly pocketing both devices, the figure passed through the wardrobe door and with extraordinary speed crept up to where the subject stood at the precipice, and shoved.

I'm fucking falling…

…was the last thought that went through Faith Johnson's brain before she jerked to a stop seven feet off the ground, her limbs twitching for several seconds before dangling limp around her. The figure looked down and smiled at the body impaled on the iron fence, one spear-shaped finial thrust through her midsection. The figure disappeared back into the walls, thinking that it could not have been a more precise hit if it had been a knife wielded by hand.

"Tara? C'mon baby, it's time to get up."

The blonde groaned and attempted to drag her pillow more fully over her head, but it was easily snatched away from her sleepy grasp. In her half conscious state she made no effort to protest but simply reached for another.

"Hey!" she exclaimed grumpily as the pillow connected soundly with her sheet-covered ass. Flailing one arm behind her to swat her attacker, her wrist was easily caught and returned to her side. The soft, warm weight on her lower back shifted forward, and Tara sighed deeply as she felt Willow's breasts against her naked back, the redhead's hair falling forward to tickle the blonde's neck and shoulders. By the time Willow's lips began their nibbling ascent along Tara's neck to her ear, the blonde was fully awake, but with even less desire to get out of bed.

"I heard the others downstairs," Willow explained, continuing her oral exploration over Tara's shoulder blades and down her spine. "We should join them."

"Mmmhmm…I seem to be pinned in place, right now," Tara teased. A moment later she felt the redhead shifting off of her. "Hey, I wasn't telling you to move," Tara complained.

"Sorry, baby, but we really should get down there. I'm going to go grab a shower…do you want me to meet you back here or downstairs?"

"Downstairs is fine," Tara replied, rolling onto her back and stretching luxuriously, fully enjoying the redhead's reaction to her show. Willow leaned in for a quick kiss, which was well on its way to becoming more when the redhead finally pulled back. Tara looked at the woman seriously for a long moment before dropping her gaze to their entwined hands.

"If it's alright with you, Will, I'd prefer it if we d-didn't mention anything about last night to the others. I'm not sure h-how they'd react."

Willow silenced the blonde with a kiss. "It's okay, I get it. It's none of their business anyway."

Tara sighed with relief. After several more kisses Willow managed to make her exit, and the blonde got up to shower. She stood motionless under the hot spray, letting the warmth cascade over her as her thoughts lingered on the previous night. What had started off as needy and carnal had turned into something quite different, and she found herself craving the redhead's presence and wary of it at the same time. She had shocked herself with her behavior, and tried to rationalize it as the result of the situation, but a part of her wondered if the same thing would have happened if she had met Willow under normal circumstances.

Yeah, cause I meet so many women hiding out in my apartment and burying myself in work, she thought wryly, reaching for the soap. Her thoughts wandered to images of Willow's hands as she rubbed the rich lather over her arms and chest, inhaling sharply when her thumbs tripped over her erect nipples. She shook her head sharply to clear her mind and briskly finished her shower.

You don't even know her, she chastised herself. There's a big difference between fucking and a relationship. Chances are even if we do get out of here, you'll never see her again.

Tara's stomach tightened at the thought, and a frown creased her brow as she turned off the faucet and reached for a towel. She was getting dressed when a scrap of paper on the floor caught her attention. When she picked it up, she realized it was the details of Willow's alleged ‘crime.' The blonde was about to tuck it into her pocket to return to the redhead when her eye fell on the date of Christopher Hewitt's suicide.

Oh my god…that's…that can't be a coincidence…can it?

Five minutes later she was hurrying downstairs when she heard a commotion. Rounding the corner of the elaborate staircase, she first saw Oz, Anya, and Dawn, standing in a cluster with their backs to her. She approached the group with trepidation, her eyes immediately landing on the sight of Riley crouched down, his knee planted squarely on the back of a form lying on the floor. All hesitancy evaporated when she spied a shock of red hair.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" she shouted. The trio watching the scene all jumped and spun around to stare at her in shock. Riley did not so much as flinch as he finished clamping a pair of handcuffs around Willow's wrists, twisted behind her back. He slowly stood, dragging the irate redhead to her feet by her arms. Willow's face was flushed with rage, but she seemed unable or unwilling to speak.

"What…is…going…on…here?" Tara demanded through clenched teeth. Finn turned to face her, never relinquishing his grip on one of Willow's upper arms.

"We nabbed our murderer, that's what's going on," he snapped, jerking his head once toward Willow.

A sharp burst of laughter escaped Tara's throat, and she stared incredulously at each of the others in turn. One by one they dropped their gazes, until her cold eyes met Finn's equally stony expression.

"And how did you come to this brilliant conclusion?"

"Faith's dead," Oz supplied in monotone.

Tara exhaled and nodded slowly. "Okay, but why do you think Willow had anything to do with it?"

"Simple," Finn sneered, squeezing Willow's arm and roughly shaking her. Tara clenched her fists as she saw the pain on the redhead's face. "Faith was killed sometime late last night or early this morning, and Anya and Dawn here heard a woman screaming "Willow" in the middle of the night. She obviously got a look at her assailant before she was pushed out the window."

Tara blushed to her roots and covertly glanced at Willow, whose similar reaction told Tara the redhead was hearing the "evidence" for the first time herself. The blonde took a deep breath, stood up straight, raised her head, and looked directly at Riley.

"That wasn't Faith they heard. It was me."

"Oh my god!" Anya gushed with concern. "Willow tried to kill you too?"

"Helloooo!! I didn't try to kill anyone!" the redhead interjected angrily.

"You?" Riley asked with a dumbfounded expression, clearly not understanding.

"You were having sex," Oz stated flatly.

"That's right," Tara admitted, letting her unapologetic gaze travel over the faces of each before settling at last on Willow. They smiled warmly at each other before Anya's voice broke their reverie.

"So she's scream-worthy?" she inquired of Tara, but without waiting for an answer turned to Willow. "And you own your own business? That's very interesting."

Tara brushed past the woman and stalked up to Riley, who had seemingly been embarrassed into silence. When she demanded the keys to the handcuffs, he turned them over without comment and walked to the opposite side of the hall.

Willow rubbed her freed wrists and smiled gratefully at the blonde.

"Thank you," she whispered sincerely. "I know you didn't want them to-"

"Hey," Tara soothed, taking the redhead's hands in her own. "I didn't exactly want to advertise it, but my modesty is hardly as important as them knowing you're not a killer."

The redhead grinned and squeezed the Tara's hands before leaning in for a quick kiss. The blonde sighed, leaning her forehead against Willow's, content to savor the moment until she remembered why she'd rushed downstairs in the first place.

"Oh! I almost forgot! I may have an idea why-"

"Hey guys…where's Cordelia?"

The sudden question caught everyone off guard. Five pairs of eyes turned to look at Dawn, who fidgeted and wrinkled her face up in semblance of an uneasy smile.

"I was just wondering, cause we've been down here a while, and well, she hasn't."

Riley was the first to react, sprinting up the stairs three at a time. The rest of the group stood in wary silence, straining their ears to identify the sounds echoing through the unnaturally quiet house. Riley pounded on the door, calling Cordelia's name. The solid wood shuddered with every blow, but no answer came from within the room. He jiggled the knob, but it was locked. Taking several steps back, he threw his shoulder against the door.

Downstairs, a sudden thought caused Willow to jerk her head, and she shuffled into the great room, followed by the others. They moved in a cluster to the easel, where none were surprised to see the now familiar red 'X' over Cordelia's face in the painting. They heard wood splinter and heavy footsteps circling upstairs, the sounds tapering off to normal when Riley appeared behind them.

"The door was locked from the inside, but she wasn't there," he reported, his eyes following the gaze of the remaining guests. "Guess she's number four."

"Shouldn't we l-look for her?" Tara asked.

"What good would it do?" Anya snapped. "Clearly she's dead."

"You don't know that," Willow argued weakly, her words lacking the force of belief.

"We have to do s-something," Tara said, pausing before turning to Willow and Oz. "When you were looking for Mr. Giles, did you notice a phone, radio…anything?"

Oz furrowed his brow and shook his head.

"But we weren't really looking for any," Willow conceded.

"So we do another search," Riley stated. "I suggest two teams of three. One upstairs, on down."

"Split up? Is th-that a good idea?" Tara said, her worried eyes seeking Willow's. Her fears went unspoken, but after the accusations against Willow earlier, the implication was clear: one of the six of us could be the killer.

"Everyone who's been picked off so far has been alone, so we should be fine," Riley replied.

No one debated the argument, but furtive glances and a lack of movement revealed the level of unease all were feeling.

"I just don't understand…why us?" Anya raged.

"I think I know."

Everyone turned at Tara's quietly spoken words, and she self- consciously ducked her head and pulled two folded cards out of her pocket.

"Willow dropped her c-card…and I w-wasn't going to r-read it-"

"It's okay, baby," Willow soothed. "What did you find?"

"The date," Tara stated, handing the papers to Willow, who looked at them curiously for moment before her mouth dropped open in shock.

"They're…they're the same!"

She passed the cards to Riley, and one by one each person confirmed that the crimes each was charged with had occurred on the exact same day, two years prior. A date that was now two days away.

"Both your husbands died on the same date?" Riley interrogated Anya. "That's quite a coincidence."

Anya sneered at the cop's sarcasm but said nothing.

"So we have a single date serial killer," Riley continued, retreating fully into a mask of professional aloofness.

"That's fairly freaksome," Oz stated.

"Or just, you know, insane," Willow muttered.

"Insane or not," Tara mused, "Someone's spent two years planning this."

"Someone with a lot of vengeance," Anya agreed.

"Justice."

The others looked quizzically at Dawn, who had largely remained silent, standing off to the side.

"That's what the voice on the tape said, right? Justice? Maybe we deserve it."

Before any of the others could angrily reply, Tara held up a hand.

"I know you're upset Dawn, and things seem really bad, but no one deserves this."

"Those people didn't deserve to die, either, but they did," the teenager countered, crossing her arms defiantly. "And it's not like anyone's coming to rescue us."

"Well, then we'll just have to rescue ourselves," Willow suggested, receiving a smile and nod of encouragement from Tara.

Oz turned the painting around and inspected the poem.

"Be a lot easier if we knew who was next," he intoned.

"The manner of deaths so far do seem to be patterned after each so- called murder," Riley speculated. "That first guy-"

"Xander," Willow interjected. "His name was Xander."

Riley clenched his jaw and continued.

"His was a car accident, right? Only here it was a bicycle. Not the same, but still a mode of transportation."

"Buffy was burnt…like in a tanning bed!" Anya added, smiling happily at her contribution.

Willow was about to chastise the woman for her lack of human feelings when Tara's hand entwining with hers stilled her nerves, and she took a breath.

"And Faith?" she asked.

"Fell on a fence, stabbed through the stomach."

Willow didn't know which was worse: Anya's inappropriate cheerfulness or Oz's perfunctory summation.

"Cordelia's sorority sister drowned…" she recalled.

"She wasn't in her room," Riley said again. "And if she left the house…we might not find a body. The fountain out front is empty, and I haven't seen a pool."

Oz had remained staring at the poem, and began reading the next passage.

"Six little murderers poking at a hive, one got stung to death and then there were five. Huh."

"It's probably not real bees," Anya helpfully provided. "Stung…maybe a gunshot?"

Tara paled at the suggestion, and even Riley's collected demeanor faltered. Willow moved behind Tara and wrapped her arms protectively around the woman.

"It might not mean that," she insisted. "It could be a…a…"

"A needle."

A long silence followed Oz's words, as each person scanned the remaining lines for any hint of their fate.

"Swept away is k-kind of vague…bitter brew sounds like…p-poison?" Tara said.

Anya's eyes widened and she chewed nervously on a manicured fingernail. Her reaction went unnoticed by all but one of the group.

"The second and third to the last don't give any clue," Riley remarked. "Just 'found the evidence' and 'joined the other team.'"

"Who finds evidence?" Oz inquired softly, turning compassionate eyes to Riley, who nodded once.

"Cops. Me."

"'Joined the other team'…that's a sports term, right?" Anya guessed. "Like turning traitor or betraying someone?"

"Could be," Oz frowned. "But the last one…no one was strangled, or hung."

"Yes they were," Willow murmured, and Tara held on tighter to the arms crossed over her stomach. "My guy…Christopher Hewitt…he hung himself."

"What did you do to him?" Anya asked, eyeing Willow with overt curiosity.

"Nothing!" Willow replied defensively, her agitation rising.

"You must have done something," Anya insisted. "You wouldn't be here otherwise."

"She's got a point," Dawn said, shrugging nonchalantly and steadily meeting Willow's incredulous stare.

"I…made public some information that he was hiding."

"And he threatened you?" Anya guessed. "So you forced him to hang himself?"

"No! As far as I know he didn't even know who I was. I never met the man!"

"Interesting," Riley murmured, peering at the redhead.

"What?" Tara asked, protectively tightening her grip on Willow.

"We're all accused of murder, and whether that's the case or not, we all at least had contact with our alleged victims. Except you."

"One of these things is not like the other," Oz deadpanned.

"So I'm thinking there's three possible explanations for you being here," Finn continued, acknowledging Oz's statement with a nod. "One: you're lying through your teeth. Two:" he said, raising his voice to quell the expected protests, "you're the primary target and the rest of us are just a smokescreen-"

"What do you mean?" Tara interrupted.

"Whoever did this went to a lot of effort. Think about it…someone had to find ten people responsible for a death on the same exact day, and bring them all here. Why go to all that trouble? Why not 'exact justice' as they see it, on the spot? This is personal, so one of us was chosen first, the rest were added after. And the one person who deviates from the pattern is her."

Willow slumped heavily against Tara's back, her chin digging into the blonde's shoulder.

If that's true…then I'm to blame.

As if reading her mind, Tara turned and cradled Willow's face in her hands.

"This is not your fault," she insisted.

"What's behind door number three?" Oz asked, looking away from the private moment.

"Option number three is she's the killer."

Willow shook her head sadly, too exhausted to protest her innocence again. Tara pulled the redhead into her arms and glared at Finn.

"She isn't! I already told you-"

"And we're just supposed to believe it…take your word, even though you've admitted sleeping with her. Lady, that doesn't make me trust her more, it makes me trust you less."

"Dawn?"

All eyes turned at the sound of Anya's voice, then proceeded to look around the Great room with mounting unease. The teenager had disappeared.

Willow and Tara moved apart slowly, maintaining a comforting link through entwined fingers as they scanned the room.

"Dawn!" Oz called out, and the remaining guests held their breath in the silence that followed.

"Dawn! This isn't funny!" Riley shouted, marching over to the double doors leading out to the hall, the others close on his heels.

"Dawnie!" Tara echoed. "Please answer us!"

The rapidly dwindling group moved into the hallway, their voices bordering on panic as their repeated cries went unanswered. Not a footstep could be heard in the house. The manor's front doors were securely shut, allowing neither sound nor air to disturb the deathly stillness.

The barest movement down the hall drew five pairs of eyes, all widening in wonder and trepidation as a tapestry hung between the staircase and the library undulated slowly, the rich red cloth seemingly being sucked into the wall itself before billowing out again. Riley crept toward the panel, drawing a revolver from under his jacket and walking sideways with his back to the wall. The others followed hesitantly in an unconsciously formed cluster. Riley reached out with his free hand and grabbed hold of the swaying fabric, drawing it back slowly. Tara could not contain a startled gasp, but quickly covered her mouth to muffle the exclamation.

An entire section of the paneling had slid into the wall, revealing a darkened passage and stairs leading down.

"Dawn!"

"Shh!" Riley hissed at Anya's shout. "We don't know what's down there…or who!" he whispered.

"One way to find out," Oz commented, his discomfort at the idea plain despite his stoic demeanor.

"W-we need a flashlight," Tara muttered automatically, maintaining an air of calm despite the growing pit in her stomach.

"Oh! I think I saw one in the kitchen," Willow said, taking a step in that direction, but halted by Tara's hand on her arm.

"We all go," the blonde stated, looking to the others for confirmation. "No more splitting up."

Willow easily located the flashlight she'd spotted the day before, and a quick ransacking of drawers unearthed two more. Anya grabbed a large butcher's knife that the others eyed warily, and only after much coaxing did she relinquish it in exchange for a heavy rolling pin. The group moved back down the hall and Riley motioned for Oz to pull back the tapestry.

The passageway was narrow, slightly more than two feet wide, and the bare concrete steps led down fifteen feet to a small, enclosed landing, where a plain wooden door was slightly ajar. Riley led the way, stepping carefully down each step, his eyes, flashlight and gun trained on the door. Anya followed, clutching the rolling pin to her chest. Behind her, Willow aimed her flashlight down at the steps and descended slowly, never relinquishing her hold on Tara's hand. Tara's heart pounded in her ears as she gripped Willow's slim fingers. Oz brought up the rear, carrying the last flashlight above his shoulder, its light merging with Riley's.

The officer held up a hand when he reached the bottom and the others halted, ready to race back upstairs if necessary. Riley glanced over his shoulder and nodded quickly to them before nudging the door forward with the toe of his boot. The heavy wood groaned against the rusty hinges, which let out a prolonged screech before the door swung t a stop. A moment passed in silence as each waited for something to happen, but all was still.

A hallway lay ahead, twice the width of the stairwell, and opening on one side about twenty-five feet from where they stood. The sound of lapping water echoed down the bare stone corridor, and they hardly dared to breathe as they tiptoed toward the unknown source. With every step the air turned colder and damper, though a fine bead of perspiration was visible on more than one worried brow.

They drew together in a bunch at the edge of the gap, and Riley raised three fingers. Willow and Oz flanked the officer while Tara and Anya lingered a half step behind. As he dropped the last finger, Riley pivoted into the empty space, the beam from his flashlight dancing wildly around the room, joined a split second later by Willow's and Oz's.

They faced a room thirty feet wide and fifty feet long, lined entirely with smooth white bricks, save for a black lacquered steel door in the wall across from them. The gently curved ceiling arched down from a height of twelve feet at the apex to a claustrophobia- inducing six feet on either side. At first glance the room appeared to be empty, until all three flashlight beams fell to what should have been the floor.

Under different circumstances, they might have marveled at the sight of the sunken swimming pool. As it was, none gave much thought to the pool itself. All were too focused on the body floating face down in the middle of the clear water.

They'd found Cordelia.

Twelve steps down…through the door…thirty steps times five…tip- tap, tip-tap.

Their footsteps echoed down the hallway, announcing their approach through the numerous microphones embedded in the walls long before they came into view of the hidden cameras lining the pool room. Flashlight beams flared the lenses for a moment before dropping down. I admit I held my breath in anticipation.

Their reactions were as expected: Rosenberg's eyes bulged and the beam from her flashlight wavered in one shaking hand. Finn holstered his gun and passed his flashlight to Maclay before wading into the pool to retrieve Chase's corpse. Osbourne stood still as a statue, seemingly with less expression, though his eyes glanced rapidly around the room.

Look all you like…you won't see me.

I felt giddy, and couldn't help but grin at Jenkins, who seemed to be lapsing back into catatonia.

Useless. You could at least cry or scream or do something entertaining.

I'd barely finished the thought when the rolling pin slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. My finger twitched on the remote control.

Not yet…patience.

"Help me!"

Finn's strained voice sounded tinny as he struggled out of the pool. The cascade of water on tile threatened to drown out their voices, and I hastily made an adjustment to the sound feed. Osbourne passed his flashlight to Maclay, who relinquished her hold on Rosenberg to receive it, and grabbed Chase's legs, while Finn twisted his grip on the body's torso. I could hear them grunting under the strain, but my attention was somewhere else.

With her one free hand, Rosenberg continued to clutch at her hussy, pulling her back toward the doorway with shuffling steps. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. Jenkins appeared next to them, her hands grasping out and locking solidly on Rosenberg's left forearm. My finger jerked again, and I didn't dare blink.

"We have to get out of here," Jenkins whined.

"We will, but we have to-Anya, let go!"

Jenkins' grip on Rosenberg must have been strong; the moment the murderous bitch let go of Maclay to confront Jenkins, both women were propelled through the doorway. I pressed down hard on the button.

As much as I wanted to watch-and I so did, I refrained.

Time's a wasting, things to do, tick-tock.

I double-checked the monitor strapped to my wrist and retrieved the gun and vial from the Osbourne drawer. I tapped out a series of digits, opening all the interior doors in corridor B-28. The sounds of their panic were music in my ears as I flicked the switch on my goggles and stepped out of the control room.

Showtime.

Willow spun around to bark at Anya, releasing Tara's arm in the process. Before she could protest the rude woman's behavior, she felt herself forcefully dragged from the room. Yanking her arm free, she turned toward the arch just in time to see a steel plate drop into place with a resounding boom, narrowly missing the toes of her right foot. Her shock dissipated with the echo from the door's landing, and she pounded on the solid metal, anger and desperation driving her fists again and again. After a moment an answering assault from the other side of the door joined hers. Tears burned her eyes and blurred her vision, and she screamed at the top of her lungs.

No sound but the dull banging from the opposite side met her cry, but even that faded after a few minutes.

They were cut off.

Willow frantically cast her flashlight beam around the perimeter of the door, desperately seeking a switch or panel, but there was nothing but solid stone.

Closing her eyes tightly, Willow leaned her forehead against the cool, smooth metal and silently sobbed. She could hear Anya behind her and off to the side, her breathing quickening into hyperventilation. Willow pressed her lips to the steel wall.

"I'll find you, baby" she breathed. Taking a deep breath she turned and gently took Anya's arm, leading her back down the hallway.

Tara's face contorted, but she would not let herself cry. She shouted in frustration and smashed the butt of the flashlight against the metal plate one last time. The repeated blows had not left so much as a scratch on the solid steel, and the soft thumps from the other side had ceased. Oz and Riley gently lay Cordelia's body on the floor and stood, neither moving nor speaking.

Tara pressed her left ear to the wall and closed her eyes. She raised her right hand to her mouth, the pads of her fingertips brushing against the metal as she whispered into her cupped palm.

"I need you, Willow."

By the time I got into position and silently withdrew one of the bricks, they'd apparently recovered from the surprise, and were predictably poking around the only other door in the room. I was sorry to have missed the panic and anger that had been so entertaining over the past several days, though Osbourne and Maclay seemed less inclined to hysterics as some of the others. It was very disappointing.

Shouldn't have skewered that psycho Johnson so soon. She'd be beating the crap out of someone by now. Oh well.

Finn pulled out his gun and I had to cover my mouth to muffle the laugh.

He can't be that dumb.

"Stand back."

"Riley, no!"

I slid the brick back in place just as I heard the bullet ricocheted off the lock. The shouts ripped through my head and I yanked out my earpiece, counting to five before carefully removing the brick again.

If that idiot killed someone…

Luckily it had missed them all, lodging in a wall of the pool to judge by their gazes. There was no chance of them noticing the missing brick in the shadowy recess of the far corner, but still I waited for them to turn back to the door before moving. My fingers were trembling with anticipation as I took out the vial and removed the dart by its feather. A bead of liquid dripped from the hypodermic tip while I hastily discarded the glass and reached for the gun. I placed the dart in the pistol's breech, slid the cylinder shut, and opened the compressed air valve all the way.

Maclay and Finn were arguing heatedly, but Osbourne remained aloof, standing motionless several feet away. I sighted along the barrel. For aesthetic reasons I would have preferred the hit to be in the inner arm, but I couldn't wait all day for that opportunity to possibly present itself.

Tight schedule, beggars can't be choosers.

This would have to do. I squeezed the trigger.

"You could have killed someone!"

"You think I don't know that?"

"We're in enough danger without you shooting up the place," Tara continued.

"By all means, let's just stand here and do nothing!"

"Hey!"

Riley and Tara turned at Oz's exclamation, thinking the young man was trying to halt the argument, but he was staring down at his own arm. Their eyes followed his as he plucked a dart out of his left bicep and dropped the projectile to the floor.

"I…I'm stung."

His agony was intoxicating. From the looks of it the headache began almost immediately.

Yes! I got the vein!

Finn and Maclay rushed to his side, standing impotently by as the arsenic coursed through his body. Within minutes he was doubled over, howling in pain and clutching his stomach. He fell to his hands and knees, vomiting violently, his back arching with the effort to purge the poison. He looked like a rabid dog in its final desperate throes, tearing at his shirt and clawing at his gut.

The sight was so disgusting I almost left right then, but I placed my earpiece back in just in time to hear his pitiful whine:

"Kill me."

I held my breath. Maclay and Finn just gawked, at Osbourne then at each other. Finn looked dumbly at the gun he'd unconsciously drawn moments before.

"Kill…me," Osbourne repeated, his voice sounding tight and weak.

Tears streamed from Maclay's eyes. Finn raised the gun to Osbourne's head. Osbourne's body twitched uncontrollably on the floor. My heart thumped as the seconds ticked by. It was unexpected, but in this instance I didn't mind the improvisation. The scene was absolutely riveting.

Should have brought popcorn.

"I can't, I can't do it."

Loser!

I had to bite my tongue to suppress the shout when Finn shook his head and dropped his arm, but couldn't withhold the guffaw when Maclay grabbed the revolver from the cop. The gun was steady in her hands, though the rest of her body was visibly trembling.

Well, well. It's always the quiet ones.

"Please."

At Osbourne's plea, Maclay wiped the tears from her face and aimed.

"Close your eyes," she whispered.

Too bad Rosenberg didn't get to witness that. Wonder if she knows what her mousy little tart is capable of. There's always the video replay…no…no time. The look on Finn's face alone was priceless.

I could see Giles pacing when I approached the cave.

Excellent, punctual as always…well, almost always.

I'd run most of the way; who cared about the noise now, if they even noticed? I took a minute to catch my breath and ensure the hood obscured my face. He'd be seeing it soon enough.

Willow and Anya sat on the concrete steps, matching expressions of dejection marring their features. They'd rushed down the passage, away from the blocked pool room, only to find that the door they'd originally entered was closed. No amount of effort had forced it open, and several trips back and forth between the two barred exits had revealed no other escapes. They'd been sitting for what seemed like hours, though it was barely thirty minutes after they'd given up when the door at the top of the stairs slid partially open with a click.

Anya shot to her feet.

"Wait!" Willow hissed. "We don't know what's out there."

"Well, what are we supposed to do, hide here in the stairway forever?" Anya snapped back.

"No, but maybe if this door is open, the other one is too, and we can get Ta-get the others."

"And what if while we're checking the other door, this one closes again?"

Willow frowned at the thought, her mind instantly puzzling through their options. She could wedge the flashlight in the opening, but then they wouldn't be able to see their way back down the dark hallway. She glanced at her canvas sneakers and Anya's Manolo pumps…either would easily be crushed by the steel door.

"You go; I'll guard the door."

"Are you sure?" Willow asked, hesitant to separate. As little comfort as Anya was, her presence was still preferable to solitude.

"Just make it quick," Anya replied.

Willow nodded and sped down the stairs before pausing at the bottom. With a last glance back at Anya, who was peeking through the open slit in the doorway, she turned the corner. Halfway down the hall she could see the steel plate still firmly in place, but she crept up to it anyway and tapped out ‘hello' in Morse code with the flashlight. She waited several minutes and repeated the call, but no reply came.

Maybe they got out and are waiting upstairs, she hoped; the comforting thought not quite reaching her stomach, which churned with worry as she retraced her steps to Anya.

"No luck," she called out from the bottom, but when she looked up, Anya was not in sight. "Dammit!"

Willow took the stairs two at a time, slowing only when she reached the top, where the door had been slid halfway into the wall. She pulled back the tapestry slowly and inched her way out into the manor, which now seemed blindingly bright after the darkness of the basement. The sunlight streaming in through the front windows was almost comforting in its cheerfulness, but the silence that greeted her filled her with dread.

"Willow? Is that you?"

The redhead laughed out loud at Anya's voice, coming from the Great Room. She wiped the tears that had sprung to her eyes and joined the other woman, who was standing behind the bar inspecting bottles.

"The door could have closed. You were supposed to wait," Willow argued, but her happiness at finding Anya diminished her anger.

"You're fine," the blonde replied distractedly, her eyes lighting up as she found what she was looking for and triumphantly set the bottle of amaretto on the bar top. She sniffed an empty shot glass and filled it to the brim with the amber liquid. "I just realized the time; I need to take my medication."

Willow absently glanced at her watch, which read 11:45, and back to Anya. "That's your medication?"

"Don't be silly," Anya said, waving a prescription bottle at the redhead and palming two pills.

"Are you sure you should be mixing those with alcohol?" Willow asked, even as she decided that a drink wasn't such a bad idea and joined Anya at the bar. "Any ice back there?"

Anya nodded, leaning down to open the mini-fridge and scooping several cubes into a tumbler that she placed before the redhead. Willow grabbed a bottle and splashed a generous amount of scotch into the glass. Anya slipped the pills onto her tongue and raised the shot glass.

"Cheers," she slurred, tossing back the drink.

"To your health," Willow toasted in response before taking a more modest sip of her beverage and turning back toward the hall. "Do you think we should look for the others or wait here in case they get out on their own? I guess we could write a note and leave it, but then they might come looking for us and we could keep missing each other. What do you think?"

Willow looked back when Anya made no reply. The blonde had a hand raised to her forehead and was clutching the bar with the other.

"Anya? Are you okay?"

Anya swayed, nearly toppling over before Willow got to her side and guided her to the couch. The redhead raced to the bar and read the label on the prescription bottle.

"You mixed Valium with alcohol? Are you insane?"

"I don't…feel…," Anya mumbled, her voice thin and wavering as she tried to stand. She clutched her chest and fell to the floor in convulsions.

Willow was crouched at her side in an instant. Anya gasped for breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, panic etched on her face.

"You're going to be fine," Willow soothed unconvincingly. "Anya, you need to calm down and breathe."

Anya's eyes rolled back in her head as she slipped into unconsciousness. Willow grabbed the prone woman's shoulders and shook her forcefully, but Anya lay limp. Willow tilted the blonde's head back and began CPR. She lost track of time as she alternated between blowing breaths into Anya's mouth and pumping her chest, counting out each push. Her throat was raw with suppressed sobs when she finally sat back on her calves in defeat.

Willow gently closed Anya's lifeless eyes and struggled to her feet, grimacing as tingling pain shot down her cramped legs. She looked nervously around the cavernous room and sniffled, her lips trembling as she hugged her arms around herself. She heard a heavy muffled sound, like metal scraping against stone, from the bowels of the house. Glancing in the direction of the front door, she contemplated making a break for it.

Giles said there'd be a boat on Friday. I could hide out in the woods until then. It's only one night. Or is today Wednesday? No, it's Thursday, I'm positive.

Willow took a shuffling step toward the door and stopped.

I can't just leave. I promised Tara…and she wouldn't leave me. Unless she's already…no. Not gonna think that. She's fine. I just need to find her.

The redhead grabbed the flashlight she'd placed on the bar and steeled her resolve. She walked back to the hall, ripped the tapestry from the wall and started down the steps. It came as no surprise when she found the barrier to the pool room again raised and little more when her flashlight beam fell on Oz's body, lying next to another open door. She focused on crossing the room, eyes locked on the door, looking neither right nor left, afraid of what else she might see.

Shining her light down the darkened passage, she stepped inside. The door predictably slammed shut behind her, and she did not so much as twitch at the noise. However, in the next breath came a sound that chilled her to the bone.

A single gunshot reverberated through her ears.

Willow ran toward the sound.

"Close your eyes," Tara whispered, but before the last words had slipped from her lips, she realized he was already gone.

Oz slumped forward onto the concrete floor, his hands still clutched against his stomach. Tara's arms trembled from the heft of the revolver, but she felt frozen in place, crushed under the weight of what she'd almost done.

Almost had to do, she told herself as a shudder rippled through her body. The thought gave little comfort.

A shoe scuffled against the floor, and she looked up in a daze to see Riley gaping at her with bald shock…and something else. Appreciation, or fear? She wasn't sure. She didn't like either option, and moved to hand to gun back to the officer. Riley flinched.

Fear, then, she mused with sadness, turning the weapon in her hand to offer it grip-first to the man. He recovered quickly and looked immensely relieved to have the gun back in his possession. Still eyeing Tara warily, he returned the weapon to its holster and tilted his head toward the dark corner to the left of where they'd first entered the room.

"I think the shot came from over there," he said. Not waiting for a response, he crossed the room, careful to avoid the two dead bodies, and began running a hand along the bricks, shining his light on each crevice.

Tara absently looked at her watch, which read 11:30. She stepped back to the wall by the other exit and let her weary legs fold underneath her, her back sliding down the cool, damp walls. Her shirt soaked up some of the moisture and clung halfway up her back. She listlessly tugged it down and looked at Oz. The flashlight she'd dropped when she'd grabbed Riley's gun still lay on the floor, pointing directly at the young man's face, where his lifeless eyes were glassy and wet.

"You would have done it, wouldn't you?"

Tara started at the sound of Riley's voice. Her eyes darted to where he stood, his back to her as he continued to inspect the walls. There was more curiosity than accusation in his voice.

"Yes," she rasped.

"Have to say, I'm surprised," the cop continued from across the room. "I'm usually pretty good at reading people. Never would've pegged you for a killer."

Tara didn't answer right away, but even in the darkness she could feel Riley turn to appraise her. She thought back to the hours spent in a suffocatingly small locked room, interrogated for hours. Something in Riley's tone reminded her of the detectives from back then: their words carefully chosen to elicit a response; their deceptively conversational air seeming to say 'go on, tell us everything, you'll feel better.' In the cavernous enclosure of this room, Riley's voice sounded unnaturally loud, and Tara wished he would speak softer. It already felt like a tomb even without the bodies, but with them…well, Tara's mother had always taught her to show respect for the dead.

Back then, with the vision of her father's angry face still fresh in her mind, the detectives had reduced her to a sobbing, quivering wreck.

She'd sworn no one would ever make her feel that way again: small…terrified…guilty. She closed her eyes and took several long, deep breaths. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper, but still it echoed off the white bricks.

"One day when I was nine, my mother and I were driving home from the store. We lived out in the middle of nowhere and the road was really winding through the woods. There'd been a snowstorm several days before-completely unexpected-but it had cleared up enough to run into town for supplies.

"I guess the road was still pretty icy, 'cause when we came around the bend past the Martin's orchard, there w-was a deer, and my mom braked, but we started skidding. It was like…time stopped…just for a minute, and the next thing I remember was the b-bump-like driving over a speed bump too fast, you know? Except I knew it wasn't a speed bump."

Tara closed her eyes as she recounted the memory in a soft monotone.

"She got the car stopped by the side of the road and jumped out. She was yelling for me to 'stay in the car, stay in the car, oh goddess no, stay in the car!' But I'd already gotten out and seen. It-she, it was a she-wasn't making a sound, but she kept thrashing her head around. S-she looked right at me for a second, and her eyes were so big and afraid."

The images behind her closed eyes were too much, and Tara snapped open her eyelids to see Oz, his wide, vacant eyes staring through her. Tears clouded her vision.

"Her hind legs w-were crushed, her whole back half was all…twisted and she w-was trying to crawl away, but…her front hooves kept sliding on the ice. I just stood there…just…I couldn't move. My mom had walked over and crouched down next to her, and I remember thinking 'Mom'll fix it! We'll take her home and wrap her legs with sticks and gauze, and keep her as a pet.'" Tara laughed bitterly at the memory and roughly swiped a tear from her cheek. "That's when she stood up and told me to bring her the jack handle from the trunk."

Riley had stopped all pretense of searching the wall, which had proven useless anyway. He looked to where Tara sat on the floor, her knees bent to her chest, her upper body rocking slightly. He didn't make a sound or move, lest he startle her, but just stood still as she spoke, her voice regaining its even timbre even as she physically seemed on the verge of collapse.

"I started screaming my head off…pleading…I called her every bad name I knew. She waited for me to stop and just came over and hugged me. She put me back in the car and told me to close my eyes and cover my ears. I felt the trunk open and close, and I started humming as loud as I could.

"When she got back in the car, I was afraid to l-look at her, afraid she'd have that deer's blood all over her. I just sat there hoping she'd start the car…I just wanted to go home, but she didn't do anything. I looked over out of the corner of my eye and I could see she was crying. As soon as she looked back at me I turned my head and stared out the window. She said 'some times things are beyond saving, and it's less cruel to put them out of their misery than to let them suffer needlessly.' And she asked me if I understood."

Her eyes still locked on Oz's, Tara uncurled her legs and crawled on her hands and knees to the dead musician's side.

"I think I probably nodded, but I didn't understand. Not then."

With a silently mouthed word of prayer, Tara passed her hand over Oz's face, drawing his eyelids closed. She pushed herself to her feet, and looked at Riley, who was staring down at the floor.

"I should have-," he started, his voice unusually hesitant.

"Neither of us should have had to make that decision," Tara insisted, quietly adding "and it doesn't matter now. Now we just need to figure out-"

Tara's voice was drowned out by the sudden roar of sixty thousand gallons of water draining from the pool in a matter of seconds. Riley trained his flashlight at the source in time to see the last of the water disappearing through a trap door at the deep end of the now empty pool.

A trap door that remained open.

Tara and Riley looked at each other, matching expressions of surprise and trepidation on their faces. The seconds ticked by as both strained their ears for a voice, a cry…anything that could be interpreted as a man-made sound.

There was nothing but the distant lapping of water on stone.

Riley jumped into the pool, drawing his gun as he edged closer to the opening.

Tara retrieved the discarded flashlight and followed. She peered into the breech and saw a long tunnel like a drainage pipe, four feet in diameter. The unspoken question hung in the space between them, but they both knew the answer. There was light at the end of the tunnel…sunlight. Whatever danger lay on the other side, they had to take the chance. It was a way out.

Tara looked back at the steel door blocking the room and wondered if Willow was still on the other side.

Maybe she's found a way out too, she hoped. Maybe she'll be waiting at the end of that tunnel.

They stepped inside.

Sunlight streamed into the cave from the East end. The cave had been the selling point for this particular island; the name of the place a coincidental and fortuitous bonus. The tide obscured the cave's presence for all but a few hours of the day, during which it was possible to navigate a small speedboat under the natural arch. At anchor near the entrance to the cave was just such a craft, its keel brushing the muddy bottom visible at low tide.

A metal grating ran halfway around the cave's perimeter, its handrail parting at several intervals for three staircases leading up to doors and one leading down to a small wooden pier. Each door opened on a tunnel that led to a different section of the house. Five feet above the center door was a circular opening, the terminus of a drainage pipe. Giles stood below it, pacing. He was too busy eyeing the speedboat to notice my presence.

Dad had seen the cave's potential, and had purposefully built the house above it, linking the two through a tunnel cut into the rock. I had seen to the others, expanding the underground system as my plan took root. Converting the wine cellar onto a command center had taken little effort. The servants' passages within the walls were also in Dad's original design, and it had been remarkably simple to hide them; replacing the doors into each room with silent sliding panels, camouflaged with heavy drapes or hollow-backed armoires.

I spared no expense, and suffered no delays. Dad would have approved. Dependability, punctuality, responsibility: these were virtues not to be taken lightly. Giles was punctual, yes. He had also proven dependable. Now he would get the chance to atone for what he was responsible for.

I took several steps toward him, stopping on a thick rubber mat and sparing a quick glance to the electrical box mounted on the rock to my right. A thick cable stuck out of the bottom of the box and my eyes followed its path down, to where it disappeared in the murky water below.

"Giles."

I startled him, and when he spun to face me, I could see he was angry. Not at being startled, no doubt. This wouldn't take long. I looked at my watch, which read 11:40, and pressed a button on the doorway remote that would let Rosenberg and Jenkins back into the manor's main floor.

"I won't be a part of this anymore."

I laughed. I couldn't help it, really. He seemed so sincere, so shocked. It was funny.

"You never said anything about killing them!"

"I never said I wouldn't, either."

"It's sick, brutal. Those people are-"

"Are what? Innocent?" I chewed the word and spat it out. I could see he thought it…thought they didn't deserve their judgment-my judgment. I felt my blood rise. He deserved judgment. "So now you're the champion of innocents, are you, Ripper? Did you claim that title before or after you and your friends murdered Randall? At least Thomas, Deidre and Philip paid for it, didn't they? While you and Ethan ran away, left the country."

He didn't even have the sense to appear contrite.

"That's not what happened! If you've told anyone-"

"You'll what? You're complicit in the deaths of five more people now." Well, seven, if you're counting, which I am. "Are you going to blame that on 'demon possession' or 'multiple personalities' or some other nonsense too?"

"You killed them, not me! You forced me to help you, but I'm done."

He started to walk down the stairs to the dock. He could easily wade out to the boat, push it through the cave entrance, make his escape. I raised my hands and peeled back the hood covering my head.

"My father had so much faith in you, but you failed him too."

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned at the sound of my unaltered voice. I curled my hand around the remote control in my pocket; my fingers poised on the proper buttons.

"Your father?"

"You were supposed to be there. You were his 'trusted servant.' But no, you were off fucking some school teacher while my father was tying a noose around his neck and killing himself!"

"Miss Hewitt?"

I'd never seen him scared before. Granted, I'd been off at boarding school for most of the time he'd been around, but still. It was a fitting picture, and I took a mental snapshot of it to savor. I pressed two buttons at once, and 60,000 gallons of water roared out of the pipe. He grasped desperately for the rail, but the deluge ripped him away from the staircase with no more difficulty than plucking the legs off of a spider. I reached behind me for the switch on the side of the electrical box, and pushed it up. I counted to ten to be sure, and dropped the switch back down. Giles' corpse bobbed face-down, the surge of water slowly washing him out to sea.

I covered my head again and moved to the far left door. My watch read 11:51, and after a quick glance at the pipe, I pulled out my hand- held monitor. The tiny screen glowed to life just in time to see Rosenberg crouched over Jenkins, shaking her violently. A scuffling noise coming from the pipe announced the imminent presence of Finn and Maclay. I passed through the heavy door and held it open, waiting for the sound of shoes hitting the walkway before I let it slam shut and squeezed myself into a narrow crevice just inside and behind the door.

I knew Finn would take the lead. I was counting on it. His ill- advised shot at the poolroom door had proved his nerves were starting to fray, and Officer Finn's file had revealed a series of questionable decisions under tense situations. I felt along the rock in front of me for a cubby hole. My fingers found the butt of the revolver I'd stashed there, and I let my hand curl around it as the door swung open. Finn's flashlight skipped over the walls for scant seconds before he was running down the hall. I could hear Maclay yelling at him to wait, and recognized the sound of her just dropping down to the metal platform. I let go of the gun and reached for the bottle of chloroform, quickly unscrewing the cap and grabbing the cloth.

When I peered out of the crevice, Finn had already entered my control room. I typed the code into the remote that would unlock every door in the manor and inched out of my hiding spot. The steel door opened slowly, and I upended the bottle against the cloth. Maclay tiptoed into the hall, her unlit flashlight raised above her head as a weapon.

She never had the chance to use it. I slipped the bottle into my cloak and kicked the door closed, plunging the passage into darkness, save for the weak light emanating from the end of the hall. She jerked toward me at the sound and I shoved her against the wall, pinning her raised arm and pressing the soaked cloth against her mouth and nose. She clawed at my head with her free hand, pulling the hood further down my face, but I felt stronger than I ever had before. In moments she was slumping heavily against me, but I held the cloth in place as I let her slide down the wall to the floor. I replaced my tools in the cubby hole and retrieved the gun.

Officer Finn had his back to the door, staring at the wall of monitors as I crept into the room. I glanced up and saw Rosenberg enter the passage to the cave, the door automatically closing behind her. Finn stood in front of my desk; one hand holding the file I'd left for him. In the other was a framed snapshot.

He'd better not bleed all over it.

I raised the gun to the back of his head and fired. He fell face first across the desk, the file contents fluttering to the floor. I kicked them under the desk and laid out another file. I found his revolver tucked into the back waistband of his pants, set it on the desk by his right hand, and hurried back to Maclay. The rush of adrenaline surging through my veins served me well as I dragged her down the hall and hefted her into a chair behind Finn. I curled her fingers around my gun and placed it on her lap. She was already beginning to come around when I slipped out the back entrance of the room.

After passing through it, I pulled the tapestry by fireplace off of the wall, folding it neatly and setting on the coffee table. I removed my cloak and draped it over a chair, which I dragged to the middle of the room. I found the rope under the couch cushion where I'd left it, and stood on the chair to throw one end over a beam. After adjusting the noose height, I hopped down to tie off the loose end.

I picked up a napkin from the bar and took a small bottle of paint thinner out of a vase on the mantle. Wetting the cloth lightly, I dabbed at my face in the painting until the color washed away, leaving Giles' in its place, slightly smudged. I used my red marker to cross out Oz, Anya, and Giles. Minutes ticked by, and I sat on the couch, my leg jiggling, my stomach fluttering.

I knew the waiting would be difficult. So far everything had gone more perfectly than I could have hoped, and I hated leaving anything to chance. Not that there was much…not really. My gun had only had the one bullet, after all. Finn's still had five. Maclay would be defenseless, unless she somehow managed to get the other gun from Rosenberg, but that didn't seem likely. She wouldn't even consider it until it was too late.

I stared at the second hand sweeping around my watch face and began to pace.

Something should have happened by now.

12:15, 12:20, 12:25.

At 12:30 I'm going-

A shot rang out. I resumed my place on the couch and waited, my body trembling with anticipation. It would be over soon.

I looked at the snapshot frame, cracked when Finn had dropped it, and peeled out the photograph of me and Dad in front of the car he'd given me for my high school graduation. A drop of Finn's blood had seeped through the glass, and I wiped it off with my thumb. I kissed the picture and smiled, tracing my finger over the green ribbon wrapped around the car, reading 'Congratulations Dawn.'

Willow paused before leaving the darkness of the hidden passage and walking out into the Great room. She took several deep breaths, and tears began to swell in her reddened eyes and stream down her face. With a final look over her shoulder, she stepped through the doorway. Her wide eyes immediately met Dawn's.

The teenager sat calmly on the sofa, a smug smirk on her face as she watched Willow shuffle listlessly into the room, her right arm hanging limp at her side, a revolver in her hand.

"Dawn?" the redhead breathed, her head slowly pivoting to look at the passage before snapping back toward the young woman. "It was you?"

"Yuh huh," the girl cheerfully replied, practically bouncing in her seat. "Fooled you, right? That note I left for you made Tara look pretty bad, didn't it? Sorry you had to kill your little girlfriend. Well, not really."

"So Tara didn't-"

"Oh please," Dawn scoffed. "She couldn't even put a bullet into someone who was begging her to pull the trigger. You really think she could have orchestrated all this?"

Dawn raised her chin proudly and watched the hacker's shock dissolve into anger.

"Why did you do this? How did you do this?" Willow demanded, her voice trembling with quiet rage. Almost as an afterthought, she raised the gun and pointed it at Dawn.

The teenager smiled patronizingly. From her seat, she could see that the revolver pointed at her was the empty one, but apparently Willow had not bothered to check.

"Let me guess, you want the full 'bad guy soliloquy'? Why not, I've got some time to kill, and I know how much Willow Rosenberg has to figure things out. That, by the way, is how I did it. You were all so easy…your reactions, your weaknesses…you all did exactly what I expected."

"So you knew Xander would get drunk and go for a bike ride?" Willow challenged, her voice incredulous. She moved to the side of the bar and let her arm rest on the surface, the gun still pointed at Dawn.

"Get drunk, yes. The bike was a guess. Once a drunk driver, you know? It was habit for him to get wasted and get in a vehicle, so I simply provided the fully stocked bar and the vehicle."

"And if he hadn't taken it?"

Dawn picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "Then I would have waited for him to pass out and chucked him over the cliff. Not as poetic in the justice department, but whatever gets the job done."

"But how could you-I mean, you're so-"

"Small and weak?" Dawn spat. "I could have managed on my own, but I had Giles to help with the heavy lifting. Buffy didn't exactly walk to the beach, and Cordelia couldn't have found the pool with a map and a guide dog."

"So Giles was in on it." Willow stated.

Dawn narrowed her eyes at the redhead and glanced at the passageway.

"Then I guess he set this up?" the hacker hastily asked, trying desperately to goad the girl to keep talking. "Planned it all out, got you to go along with it?"

"It was my plan!" Dawn shouted, all her attention returning to Willow, who managed to smother any visible signs of relief. "Giles was just my lackey," she huffed dismissively.

Willow kept perfectly still and silent, waiting for Dawn's bruised ego to settle so the girl could continue. She didn't have to wait long before the teenager haughtily continued.

"Faith was simple, I just had to push her over the balcony. As for the others, well, my Daddy was in the pharmaceutical business. It's amazing what you can do with creative chemistry and the right poisons."

"Buffy's skin?" Willow confirmed, receiving an eager nod in reply.

"Yep. Cordelia had a little paralytic that kept her still while I drowned her in her bathtub. Giles carried her to the basement for me. Oz got arsenic, Anya got the strychnine."

"Her pills, or the Amaretto?"

"Both," Dawn replied with a grin. "I figured she'd probably wash them down with her favorite drink, but I didn't know who would get stuck in the pool room, so last night I slipped into her room and replaced her pills with my own special batch."

Willow bristled at Dawn's arrogant tone, but willed herself to keep calm and let the girl talk. The teenager did so happily, relaying with relish how she electrocuted Giles, shot Riley, and set the scene for Willow to find Tara, the proverbial smoking gun in her hand. Willow shuddered, her mind flashing back to the moment she'd entered the dimly lit office and found Riley lying across the desk in a pool of blood. She'd remembered the poem then…one found the evidence…and sure enough, there was a file under his arm; a file that contained a single sheet of paper: Tara's confession. Willow closed her eyes as fresh tears spilled out over her cheeks.

"But…why?" Willow gushed, her body shaking anew.

Dawn rose from the couch and walked toward Willow, who raised the gun and stepped behind the bar. The teenager rolled her eyes and held out the photograph she still had in her hand. Willow did not take it, but she craned her neck to peer at the snapshot.

"That's me and Dad," Dawn said, withdrawing the photo to look at it herself. "He was so proud of me that day." She smiled down at it before ripping it in two and tossing the pieces aside. "He wasn't so proud two months later when I told him I was pregnant. The first fucking thing he did was take back the car. Then he said he'd cut me off if I didn't get rid of it," she fumed, her hands rising to cradle her abdomen. "I knew he'd do it, too. If he hadn't been such a bastard, Mom never would have left."

"Dawn, that's horrible," Willow said, uncomfortably allowing the small bit of sympathy for what had been done to the killer.

"I refused of course," Dawn continued, not acknowledging the redhead's remark. "I threatened to call the DA and confirm all those charges you and your hacker friends had exposed. He was furious," she laughed. "He 'summoned' me home from college, and I knew he was planning something, so I made a little plan of my own."

Willow held her breath and watched as Dawn strode back to the couch to sit. With the teenager's back turned, Willow allowed herself one quick glance at the painting above the fireplace, and the camera she knew was hidden there. She nodded once.

"It was supposed to look like a break-in," Dawn said, resuming her story. "Poor Daddy killed during a robbery. Only 'poor Daddy' had given his trusty manservant Giles the day off, so I didn't have my convenient witness. No witness equals suspicion, which equals insurance investigators, which equals my inheritance put on hold for who knows how many years."

"This was all about money?" Willow accused.

Dawn stared daggers at the redhead, her nose flaring in contempt.

"When I confronted him, he laughed-laughed!" she continued, her voice rising to an hysterical shout. "I followed him down the hall, and when I tried to-he pushed me down the stairs! My own father!"

Dawn's hands again found her belly, which she kneaded through her shirt.

"I could feel the blood pouring out of me, and heard him running down the stairs, calling for an ambulance. When I woke up in the hospital the next day, I knew I'd lost the baby. That was bad enough, but then Daddy's lawyer came by to break the news about his suicide. Oh yeah, and that the insurance company wouldn't pay on his twenty-five million dollar policy since he offed himself!"

"But what does that have to do with us? None of us-" Willow began, but Dawn interrupted, her voice once again flat and cold.

"While I was recuperating in the hospital, I had a lot of time on my hands. Did a lot of surfing on the internet, reading the news…you know how it is. Funny thing, but the same day Daddy's conscience got the better of him, some sorority girl drowned, and some old lady got fried in a tanning booth. Just two of the thousands and thousands of people who die every day, right? I started following the ones that got off-I still can't believe they let your girlfriend go-and moved down here, since Daddy's house was being sold off to pay reparations to the families of the people who died from his company's 'criminal negligence.' All those killers getting off scott free, just like my Daddy did. I decided that they-you-would get what you deserved, and so would I."

"You're insane," Willow whispered.

"Whatever. I'm also about to be very rich." Dawn waved off Willow's confused expression and continued before the hacker could pose a question. "You weren't the only people who killed someone that day and didn't go to jail, you know. There were plenty of others: random thugs, lovers' spats gone violent. No, you all have one other thing in common- money."

Willow laughed despite herself, a guffaw ripping from her chest.

"Don't believe me?" Dawn raised her eyebrows. "I'm not even going to go into how much that model was worth, but it's a lot. Anya had scored big time on her two dead sugar daddies. Giles came from a wealthy family that's anxious to keep an unpleasant teenage indiscretion of his under wraps. Buffy: trust fund baby. Oz…well, you know who his dad is right?"

Willow stared blankly.

"Oh come on! Daniel Osbourne…musician? Ring any bells? Anyway…Finn had dirt on half the politicians in Iowa, who are willing to pay a hefty sum to keep him-or his information-quiet. Harris worked for the biggest construction company in California. And you-you've been doing quite well yourself, haven't you? Ever since you sold out and starting enhancing the security of Fortune 500 companies instead of hacking it."

Willow looked at the floor. Her shoulders slumped as she tried to wrap her mind around the circumstances that led her and a seemingly random group of people to this place. Her forehead crinkled when she realized Dawn had neglected to mention one name.

"What about Tara?"

Dawn smirked. "That women's shelter that your precious Tara worked for? Along with a dozen others, it's funded by the Somerset-Hewitt Charitable Trust. My mother. My extremely wealthy mother, who abandoned me when she left my father. While you were all flying to Peru, I was sailing over from here and wiring ransom notes for all of you, each tailored to suit to your individual bank accounts. As of this morning, my untraceable account had passed the seventy-five million dollar mark. Of course, when the police arrive, they'll find nothing but dead bodies, and a surprisingly large amount of evidence pointing to Willow Rosenberg. They'll be here in an hour. So, if I were you," she said, rising and walking over to the chair placed in the center of the room, "I'd make sure I wasn't alive to take the blame."

"I'll tell them the truth," Willow countered, shuddering at the noose hanging from the ceiling rafters. "They'll believe-"

"Believe what? That you're innocent? Yeah right. I'm not the only killer here. I would have loved to see the look on Tara's face when you shot her."

Willow at last let her façade drop and smiled coldly. She stepped out from behind the bar and sidestepped over to the fireplace, keeping the revolver pointed at Dawn, who waited patiently, unfazed by the weapon aimed at her chest.

"Speaking of, you're awfully cocky for someone with a gun pointed at you," Willow said.

"Yeah, well, if you were half as smart as you think you are, you'd know that gun isn't loaded," the teenager countered.

"I don't think she meant that one."

Dawn froze, her skin prickling all over. She backed up, refusing to tear her eyes away from Willow to confirm the obvious. When her legs hit the coffee table, her gaze faltered, and she jerked her head to the right.

There, standing in the doorway, the other gun in her hand, was Tara.

"Did you get all that?" Willow asked.

"Audio and video," Tara confirmed, keeping her eyes and gun firmly trained on Dawn, who quivered with rage.

"Oh, come on, Dawnie," Willow sneered, "you didn't think I'd really fall for that 'I'm so guilty. Love, Tara' letter, did you?"

When Willow entered the office and saw Riley sprawled across the desk, she rushed to his side, naively thinking she could do something despite the ever-expanding pool of fresh blood spreading out from his inert form. She lifted his wrist to check for a pulse, hoping against all evidence that he was still alive. The obvious confirmed, she set his hand back down gently, eyeing the gun resting next to his arm, which she picked up after a moment's hesitation.

That's when she saw the manila folder, and moved closer to the desk lamp to inspect its contents. She was on her second incredulous reading of the letter within when she heard a sound behind her-a startled gasp- and turned to see Tara staring at her, confusion and fear on her face as she stared at Riley's body and Willow standing next to it, a gun in her hand. Willow's eyes widened, realizing how the situation must appear.

"Tara, I didn't-" she stopped when she noticed Tara's eyes were still on the revolver, which she hastily set down on the floor and kicked away before holding out the letter. "Read this."

Tara stood up to accept the page, jumping slightly when the gun that had been resting in her own lap fell to the floor with a thud. Her eyes snapped up to meet Willow's, but the redhead merely nodded.

"Just read it."

While Tara moved closer to the light, Willow inspected the wall of monitors, stepping up to one that showed a view of the front hall and curiously changing the channel, which flipped to an image of the kitchen. She kept going until she reached one of the Great Hall, her fingers stilling on the button as she gazed in shock at seeing Dawn moving around the room.

"Willow, I swear it isn't me. I didn't write this, you have to believe me!"

"Shh, baby, I know it wasn't you. I think she wanted me to find that, find you here with Riley and the gun and…kill you."

"She?" Tara murmured in a daze, following Willow's nod to the monitor. "Dawn! But…why?"

"I'm not sure," Willow replied, scampering around the desk and randomly pulling open drawers.

Tara shuffled over to a chessboard, where a queen and a single pawn were placed side by side. Shifting her attention back to the monitor, she watched Dawn move to the couch and sit down, fidgeting anxiously and checking her watch.

"How long do you think she'll wait there?"

Willow had a handful of wires and cables in her hands when she looked up to check the monitor.

"I don't know," she answered absently, pulling the screen out slightly and turning it. She plugged in a cable and ran it down to the VCR on the bottom shelf. She rummaged through several more drawers before finding a cassette and ripping off the cellophane wrapper.

"The boat! The one in the cave-we can take it and get out!" Tara whispered excitedly.

Willow turned to face Tara, who was already standing by the door through which they'd entered the room.

"But what if it doesn't work? Even if it does, I don't think it could get us back to the mainland. Hell, for all we know it could be booby-trapped." Willow held up the video cassette before popping it in the VCR. "We already know the last death is supposed to be a suicide. I just need to stall and get her talking, admit what she's done."

"It's too dangerous," Tara stated, pleading with her eyes, though she could see the redhead's resolve.

"Not with you watching on the monitor. If anything goes wrong, you can be out there in a few seconds…with this," she said, stooping to pick up Riley's gun, which she confirmed still held 5 rounds.

Tara shook her head and refused the weapon. "You should take it with you."

Willow picked up the other revolver and opened the cylinder, letting the single bullet inside fall to the floor. To Tara's astonishment, Willow again held out the loaded gun to her.

"She'll be more likely to talk if she doesn't feel threatened," the hacker explained. "Believe me, I don't relish going out there, but we need her to confess or else it really will look like one of us did all this. Okay?"

Tara pursed her lips and wracked her brain for an alternative-any argument to dissuade Willow-but came up blank. At last she nodded and accepted the revolver. Willow hit the record button on the VCR and headed for the door that led to the Great Room.

"Wait!" Tara hissed. "She's expecting a gunshot."

Willow paused in the doorway. Tara looked around the room before taking two steps towards an overstuffed chair and firing into the deep cushion. Puffs of cotton batting flew into the air and drifted back down. Tara wrinkled her nose at the thick smell of gunpowder filling the room. Willow left the doorway to envelop Tara in a tight hug and kiss her lightly.

"I'll get as much from her as I can, and I'll try to give you a signal when you should come out, but be ready."

"I will," Tara nodded. "Be careful."

Rage was pouring off of Dawn in waves. Her face reddened and contorted; her limbs twitched and trembled until her entire body shook and a piercing shriek erupted from her throat. She snatched a hunting knife from its sheath, hidden against the small of her back, and lunged at Tara.

"No!" Willow screamed.

Tara saw the girl rushing towards her and automatically raised the gun, but Dawn didn't hesitate. Neither did Tara. The bullet hit the girl under her right collarbone, spinning her around violently. The knife fell from her hand and she fell backwards, smashing her head against the corner of the coffee table in a sickening crack of bone.

For the second time in her life, Tara found herself in a small room, surrounded by suspicious faces rattling off question after repetitive question. The difference this time was that she was not alone. Willow sat next to her in the control room, rubbing the back of Tara's neck as they went over the events of the past week yet again.

When the FBI team had first arrived, the pair was still in the midst of futilely trying to staunch the flow of blood from Dawn's head, but the young woman died without regaining consciousness. Both women had been handcuffed and searched while half a dozen agents kept their M16s trained on them. Willow had repeatedly pleaded with them to go to the control room to see the tape they'd recorded, and eventually the entire group had moved through the small hallway.

The 'surprisingly large amount of evidence' Dawn had referenced amounted to little more than another version of Tara's 'I did it' letter, but once the FBI agents-with Willow's assistance-had breached the security of her computer system, Dawn's culpability was laid plain. The girl had taken a great deal of delight in becoming the sole owner of Supai Island, so named for the Incan God of death. She had only clumsily hidden her identity behind the fictitious Matt Sekhmet, a combination of two Egyptian Goddesses: Maat, for justice, and Sekhmet, for war.

It took another five hours of statements, leading the agents through the mansion to each of the bodies, and waiting for an evidence retrieval team before Willow and Tara were finally loaded onto a helicopter and flown back to the FBI team's base at Santiago, Chile. They moved like automatons from one meeting to another: the Division Head, the U.S. Ambassador, a psychiatrist. They'd been awake for almost 24 hours when they'd at last been driven to the Crowne Plaza.

Their personal Marine escort had informed them that they would be flown back to the U.S. on Sunday, giving them a day and a half to recover from the physical exhaustion of their ordeal. They lay down on the king size bed, not bothering to pull down the bedding or undress, and were both asleep in minutes.

They awoke Friday evening and ordered room service after relaxing in the large whirlpool bath. Sitting at the table in their fluffy white robes, they picked at their food listlessly. Willow pushed her plate away and sighed heavily. Tara set down her fork and reached across the table for Willow's hand.

"I feel guilty," the redhead whispered.

"Willow, we've been through this-it's not your fault. Dawn might have focused on you, but it's only because it suited her twisted needs."

"That's not what I meant," Willow said, lowering her eyes to their joined hands resting on the tabletop. "I…I know I should feel bad that the others are dead-and I do-but right now all I feel is happy that you and I are alive."

"Oh, sweetie, that's normal," Tara insisted, squeezing their joined hands.

"I'm a horrible person!" Willow wailed, sobs wracking her body.

Tara never let go of Willow's hand as she walked around the table to embrace the distraught woman. They stood clutching each other, letting the burst damn of tears flow unchecked onto each other's shoulders.

"It's called survivor's guilt, Will, and trust me I feel it too," Tara said. She cradled Willow's face in her hands and looked her straight in the eye. "Being happy to be alive does not make you a bad person."

Willow sniffled away the remnants of her crying jag and nodded.

"I trust you. I just, I don't know what to do now. I want to know what to do."

"What do you want to do?" Tara asked.

"Well, not go to another island ever again, for starters," Willow admitted. She laughed along when Tara barked out a hearty guffaw. "Then I was thinking I could take you out for that coffee I owe you."

"Hmm, what was that line in Speed about relationships that begin under intense situations?" Tara smirked.

"Please tell me you don't get your love life advice from Keanu Reeves movies," Willow deadpanned.

Tara chuckled and shook her head, but a moment later she was pensively biting her lip.

"Seriously, Willow, you live in Seattle and I'm in Chicago. How can this work?"

"We'll find a way," Willow said, smiling warmly and taking Tara's hands in her own. "There're these newfangled contraptions called 'phones' and 'airplanes' that I hear are all the rage now-a-days."

"Smartass."

"I mean it, Tara," Willow said seriously. "The only thing I know for sure right now is I want to be with you."

"Right now?" Tara asked, a gleam in her eye as she kissed Willow softly and led them to the bed.

"Right now," Willow whispered against Tara's lips.

One year later…

"That's the last of it," Tara sighed, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm. She leaned over with her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

The move to San Francisco had gone surprisingly well. They had found the apartment on a weekend trip down from Seattle. Willow had packed up and shipped all of her belongings a few weeks prior, then flown out to Chicago and together they'd driven the U-Haul loaded with Tara's possessions to their new home.

Craning her neck over the mountain of moving boxes, she finally spied a shock of red hair and quietly crept towards it. "Have you been setting up your computer all this time?"

Green eyes popped up guiltily. "Err, no? I mean, well, yes you maybe made one or two more trips than me, but I just wanted to get the utilities set up for the shelter."

"Uh huh. One or two?"

"I'll make it up to you?" Willow suggested with a grin.

"Yes you will," Tara concurred, squeezing through two piles of boxes to embrace her girlfriend. "As soon as we take a shower and find some clothes in all this mess, you're taking me out for dinner."

"Hmm," Willow hummed against Tara's neck. "You had me up 'til the 'finding clothes' part."

Tara arched her neck to allow Willow's lips free reign. "Well, we could always, ohh, order in?"

Willow caught Tara's lips and kissed her deeply. Both were breathing heavily when they finally withdrew.

"I'll get the phone," Tara said, idly wondering if her shaky limbs were the result of exertion or Willow-kisses.

"I'll find a restaurant," Willow offered, turning back to her computer.

Tara retreated into the kitchen to retrieve her phone from her purse, pausing at a bundle of letters sitting atop one of the boxes in the hallway. She touched the top envelope and smiled, closing her eyes to whisper a silent prayer for those that were gone. It was coming up on a year, and she would have to remind Willow to buy the money orders.

The previous year, they had agreed to make seven annual, anonymous donations:

To the San Diego Alcoholism Treatment Center, in memory of Alexander Harris.

To the Sunnydale Girls' Empowerment Society, in memory of Buffy Summers.

To the Boston Youth Outreach Program, in memory of Faith Johnson.

To New York University, in memory of Cordelia Chase.

To the Austin School of Music, in memory of Daniel Osbourne.

To the Walter Jenkins Home for the Elderly, in memory of Anya Jenkins.

To the Cedar Rapids Police Department Widows and Orphans Fund, in memory of Riley Finn.

And while it would not bear their names, the memory of Dawn Hewitt and Rupert Giles was the impetus for the shelter for troubled teens Tara and Willow would be opening the following week. In the heady days of planning the shelter, both women had expressed a desire to make some good come of their experience on the Island of Death.

As Tara looked across the room at Willow, she realized…something already had.

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