I pushed open the doorway and moaned. The office was a positive disaster area, and this was just the secretary's area. Files were piled everywhere, in chairs, on the abandoned desk, and even on the waiting chairs. I knew that in the end, Bailey hadn't used a secretary. Just an answering machine, and a tightly kept schedule. I tried not to think about the office, just pushed through the mess, and opened the door to the lawyer room, and braced myself for the worst. It looked surprisingly good. There was a fine layer of dust over everything, and a few lost files here and there, but it was a rather clean place otherwise. I clicked on the light and made my way to the old, creaky leather wing-back behind the desk. Plopping down, I surveyed the scene in front of me.

Book shelves line both the walls behind me, and to my right. The door was directly in front of my desk, slightly to the left, and there was a bookshelf with a TV and VCR on top of it to the right of the door. A chair stood to the left. The entire wall to my left was a window, with simple, cream Venetian blinds. It seemed the whole theme of the office was natural. Oak furniture, cream and brown walls, cream blinds. Tasteful, yet distinctly Bailey. Three pictures stood on his desk. One of him, my mother, and their brother, John. The next picture was a family portrait of me, my two sisters Anastasia and Tatiana, my mother and my father. Finally, there was a family portrait of Bailey and his two children, Cynthia and Quaid. Their mother had died during childbirth. His children, looked nothing a like, even though they were twins. Cynthia had inherited her mothers light looks, blond hair, light brown eyes. Quaid could have been his father, only 20 years younger. The picture was at least 20 years old, taken at their graduation. His desk held nothing of particular interest, pencils, pen, paper. Business had not been booming when Bailey died. Poor, old Bailey.

I shoved away from the desk, and marched to the door, surveying the mess in front of me. I needed the phone. I found the cord in the wall, but there was no phone attached to the other end, so I tried to find another phone. There simply wasn't one to be found. Hopeless. I weighed my options, and headed out to the car, hoping John was still in his office this late.

The light was on, so someone had to be home. I pulled my car to a stop outside the office, and stepped into the twilight air surrounding the world in a warm blanket of color. I side stepped many tiny, icy puddles with my black pumps and made my way up to the door. I knocked loudly, and quickly pushed the door open to avoid hitting the man walking out of his office. John's smile lit up the room, and still lit up my heart after fourteen years. I turned to close the door, and took off my jacket, hanging on the coat rack next to the door.

I turned around. The office was quiet, John was the only one working late, which was surprising, because usually he was anxious to get home to Donna.

John had gone back inside his office, and I followed his lead, entering the lit up portion of the sheriff's offices. I chose a slightly more comfortable chair in the back corner of the room, slinging my legs over one arm rest, and leaning against the other. I sighed deeply and shoved off my shoes, glad to be rid of the squeezing pressure to my toes. John laughed at me, and leaned against his desk, arms crossed. "What can I do for you, Miss Attorney?"

I smiled. "I need to use your phone. There aren't any connections at my house yet, and I can't find the phone at Bailey's." John nodded.

"Who do you need to call?"

"Cynthia. I need a place to crash for a few days. I have clothes and stuff, just not a couch, or a bed. Those are coming later on." I smiled at him, giving him my best, 'I love you because you have what I need' look. John laughed at me and said, "Why don't you stay with me. I've got some . . . extra room." I was taken back. I couldn't believe John would trust me under the same roof with him, alone. Well, I dwelled, we wouldn't be alone. There would always be Donna and the Boys. "What abut Donna, do you think she'd mind?"

His face darkened instantly and I knew that I said something wrong. Pain flashed in those beautiful blues, and he looked away, blinking tears. "That's cold Natalya, even for you."

My mouth dropped open. "Huh?" He didn't answer, and I got up, walking to him. "What are you talking about John?" He turned his back on me. "JOHN! What's WRONG!?"

He turned then, his tearstained face inches from mine, "You can't tell me that you didn't hear about that as well."

I shook my head, and his right hand came up to cup my cheek. "God Nat, you're so innocent." I gave him a crazy look. He tipped his head to one side. "Nat, they're dead. They're all dead." His hand dropped, but I caught it between both of mine.

"Who's dead John?"

"Donna and my children. My wife and my poor boys." His head fell forward, and he started to cry again. I didn't really know what to do, so I let his forehead fall to my shoulder, and I held his body as sobbed wracked his frame, causing me to shake as well. I didn't understand any of this, of course. You'd think that if his wife died, he'd at least write a note, and call or something.

I moved in a trance, pushing his forehead back up, and smoothing away the hair. "It'll be alright Johnny Boy. Everything will be fine." I had never, ever seen John cry before, and this was affecting me pretty hard as well. All I could think was that I wasn't sure if I was glad Donna was gone.