Music Of Change #7: Mid-Life Crisis free porn video

Music of Change #7: Mid-Life Crisis By Valerie Hope "We're in," Hope Wells announced triumphantly as the screen on her computer changed from the dark text-encrusted screen of her self-written intrusion software to the slick-looking company intranet of Global Ventures, Inc. Grace leapt up from her desk where she was going over the same file she'd been going over for the last week and ran to Hope's side. "Their anti-intrusion is pretty sophisticated," Stacey Walters, Hope's partner and lover announced from another terminal. "There's only the one access point through the firewall and it's pretty heavily regulated. I figure you only have about ten minutes before you're booted out." "Any chance of detection?" Grace Kincaid, the beautiful police detective in charge of the investigation that Hope and Stacey were assisting with, asked. Hope gave the lopsided half-grin which was the last vestige of her former masculinity. "Be serious, Gracie," she said. Hope and Stacey were the best in the business at security, after all. Both keeping out and getting in. Grace narrowed her eyes through her lightweight and stylish eyeglasses at the list of options on Hope's monitor. They'd had a break in the case a few days earlier - Marcie Harrison, the wife of a hired assassin, had come into Corporate Rewards with a piece of vital evidence from the man Arturo LaPaglia, an assassin who'd been sent to murder their employer Dr. Karl Renfro. It had been a phone bill with a listing of calls - LaPaglia had called the number of a private office at Global Ventures several times during the billing cycle. Grace had been unable to get any kind of information from the assistant who answered the line, and the chances of getting any kind of warrant from a judge were next to nil - the case involved the Music of Change far too much for any judge to believe Grace's story, and there wasn't technically a crime to solve. Dr. Karl Renfro, Arturo LaPaglia and Kyle Harrison, the other assassin, were all alive and well - in a room just down the hall from Grace, as a matter of fact. Not that it did her any good. The Music of Change, the good doctor's magnum opus, had changed all of them past the point where Grace could piece together any sort of solution to why Renfro had been targeted for death. Karla Renfro, Annaliese LaPaglia and Kylie Harrison were of little help these days, far more interested in their new lives and desires. So it fell to Grace to pick up the pieces and see how they fit together. She had help, of course - only the best - but it was still her deductive power and unparalleled mind, which was running the show. Hope Wells and Stacey Walters were only two of the aces Grace kept up her stylish sleeve. She also had Danielle Royal of the local fire department and Taylor Beauchamps, a CIA operative who'd been assigned to watch Hope and Stacey to make sure their abilities to hack through computer security didn't fall into unclean hands. "Ten minutes," Grace said. "Just start downloading everything, Hope. We can sort through it later." "Roger," Hope said, her long-nailed hands dancing across the keyboard. The computer began a download of the entire company network. Even with the lightning-fast connection that Hope and Stacey had insisted on to do their work, the progress bar crept along entirely too slowly for Grace's liking. There was a light tap at the door as Taylor Beauchamps entered the cramped room just ahead of Marc Harrison. The petite little Chinese girl, dressed in a very revealing halter-top and blue jeans that must have been painted on, was absolutely dwarfed by the massive presence of the new co-director of internal security for Corporate Rewards. Marc Harrison was dressed in khakis, a white dress shirt and a sport coat, which strained across his superb physique. He raked a hand through his baby-fine chestnut hair and smiled his disarming smile. The stubbly growth of beard - Marc wasn't quite used to having to shave daily - only served to make his ruddy skin look more rugged. Grace found herself touching up her hair unconsciously even as she saw Hope and Stacey do the same out of the corner of her eye. There was no other word for it - Marc was gorgeous. From the dancing blue eyes and the long, oh-so-soft hair, the crinkling smile, the shoulders and arms, the washboard stomach and the business casual dress which did little to hide his impressive musculature - no woman in the company didn't have a raging itch in her middle to jump Marc and do her worst until his eyes rolled back into his head. But the statuesque man only had eyes for his wife, unfortunately. No one would know by looking that Kylie, the little redhead with the mop of unruly curls and the sparkling green eyes had been Kyle Harrison, an assassin and a tyrant who'd beaten his wife Marcie mercilessly for nearly a year. And now that the stick-thin and timid Marcie Harrison was Marc, no one would ever beat her again. And now he was free to love his wife the way he'd always wanted to be loved as a wife, and he was busily showing Kylie the way it should have been done in the first place. No doubt about it - Kylie Harrison was one very lucky woman. Not that Marc wasn't as lucky as she was. Having a sweet, gorgeous redhead wife who wanted to make up for several years of bad treatment wasn't altogether a bad thing. "How goes it?" Taylor asked in her breathy accent. Grace smiled. "Better. We got into Global Ventures. We're downloading everything we can get our hands on now." "Gracie, can I talk to you for a second?" Taylor asked, motioning outside. "Sure," the detective replied, patting Hope's shoulder. "Excuse me, guys." Marc moved into the room, interested in the very complex computer setup that Hope and Stacey had put together. He bent over to look at Hope's progress on the monitor, and behind him Stacey was mimicking grabbing his tight buns in both long-nailed hands and making "oh-my-God" faces and licking her lips. Grace stifled a chuckle. Taylor pulled the door closed as they stood out in the hall and leaned against the doorjamb. "How long have you been a detective, Grace?" the Oriental girl asked. Grace fished a long white cigarette from her pocket. "A long damn time," she said, fumbling for her lighter. Taylor reached forward with a light and then applied the flame to a cigarette of her own. "Have you ever used... 'unconventional' methods in a case?" "Define 'unconventional,'" Grace said. Taylor looked a little nervous as she scanned the hallway in both directions. "This is classified information, and it has to stay just between us." "You know I won't leak it," Grace said. "Have you ever heard of Project Ultraviolet?" "Nope," Grace said. "Group of Department of Defense studies back in the mid- to late- 'Seventies. Researching nationwide reports of extra-sensory perception." "You're talking about psychics?" Grace said, chuckling. "You've got to be kidding me." "I know it's a long shot, Gracie, but I've seen some of these people work before," Taylor said. "It's not like the tabloids. I don't know how it happens, but they just... know things. It's more than a little spooky." "Taylor, we can't publicize what we're doing to the government. Uncle Sam would be in here in a heartbeat and grab all the Music research for their own. Dr. Renfro was very clear about his stand on that, and we have to respect his wishes." "I'm not talking about that," Taylor said. "Project Ultraviolet was shut down in 1983 and the test subjects released into the population. Some stayed to work for the DOD and the CIA, some for NSA and some in the military. But there were two or three who walked away and didn't look back. Contrary to pop culture, once you quit the Agency they do tend to leave you alone. We've kept tabs on their locations, but we didn't bug their houses or anything like that." "Are you saying you think you can get a retired psychic to help us out? Taylor, I think you need to start getting a little more sleep," Grace chuckled. "It's not that far-fetched, Gracie," Taylor protested. "Police departments all over the world use psychics in investigations. And there are several who have a very good track record. I say we should give it a try - it couldn't hurt and it could give us a break." "What the hell brought this on?" Grace asked. "That woman we changed the same day Kyle Harrison showed up. Colleen Wilson." Colleen Wilson had been an anorexic workaholic who'd been referred to Corporate Rewards through Jenna and Heather. She'd driven herself to the extremes to be the person she imagined in her head - successful and thin, for the most part. She wanted these things so desperately that she was killing herself by inches to achieve them. Once the Music had opened her to her own desire to be free of that, to stand up on her own and be what she considered beautiful and successful, she'd been able to shake off her demands on herself and live a much healthier life. Colin Wilson was now a very up-and-coming photographer who was making good money with the newspaper and getting ready for his first gallery showing. Corporate Rewards was even going to buy some really tasteful black-and-white photos of Keri, Vikki, Heather and Jenna for the lobby. "What about her?" Grace asked. "She was big into past lives, if you remember while she was under the Music. That got me to remembering a friend of mine from the Agency, and then Project Ultraviolet." "So you think it's a good idea? Don't we have enough people who know about this?" "If I can find the person I have in mind, I'll vouch for him personally," Taylor said. "I worked with him once in Atlanta. He was good, and trustworthy. I have to explain a little about the case to him to see if he's interested, but I'll keep the particulars quiet until I'm sure he's game." "Okay," Grace said, sounding unconvinced. "Trust me on this, Gracie," Taylor said, bouncing on her toes like a teenager. "You won't be sorry. I'll be back in three days." *** Four years. Grace looked over the records she'd gotten from the police and the CIA both on Joshua Little and raked a hand through her lush blonde hair. Four years of the man's life simply couldn't be accounted for. It was as if after his residency and doctoral thesis he simply ceased to exist for four years. A parking ticket in New York City in 1997 and then nothing, except for a lease under the name of J. Little in Houston, Texas until he joined up with Dr. Renfro earlier this year. But people just didn't disappear. There should have been a credit card receipt, a tax return, something. But there was nothing at all. Grace growled in frustration. Not even the CIA could find anything on those four years. She sorted back through all the documentation she'd compiled. Even Dr. Renfro's personal journal, which she'd found in a forensics sweep of his office. The doctor had been more than impressed with Joshua when they'd first met. Joshua had met him at some conference in Miami and they'd struck up a conversation. Apparently, Joshua had followed a great deal of Renfro's early work with trance therapy and the use of music to regulate and change mood and had read the few papers that had been published in the early days of Renfro's research into the Music of Change. Renfro had trusted him enough to give a little more information on the Music and had written about how quickly Joshua had taken to the idea and how much intuitive insight he had into the uses and benefits of such a thing. Renfro had written that Joshua had possessed an almost uncanny understanding of the Music for someone who wasn't even aware of its existence. Grace tapped her bottom lip with a long fingernail. When she'd first read that she hadn't thought much of it. It seemed only an observation by a man excited by a potential kindred spirit. But Renfro had been exacting about his secrecy. How could anyone have known anything about the Music who hadn't been a part of the original research? Wasn't it a little strange that Joshua, this relative unknown, had such intimate instinct about the workings of a science that wasn't supposed to exist? It bore looking at a little more closely. *** He'd seen them all as he left the building that afternoon, and he treasured them all even though he knew - somehow - that they weren't interested in him. He didn't know their names, nor did he want to. Names were too powerful. So, to him, they were only Girls. There was Worries-About-Everything Girl; there was Doesn't-Like-Anyone Girl and Tall Girl, Black-Haired Girl and Cool Shoes Girl. They were the constant entertainment in his otherwise boring life; the people he watched like others might watch a hamster in a cage. They were so happy with their lives, so content just to fit in where they'd been placed at birth. He envied them. He wished he had never glimpsed the hint of something better, so that he'd never know what he was missing. No, the Girls had it all figured out. Ignorance truly was bliss. Timothy Dayton shut down his computer and walked towards the front of the office, giving a timid smile to the receptionist, Too Much Perfume Girl. She didn't even notice him going. Timothy doubted, personally, that anyone had noticed him go. And honestly, that was the way he wanted it. If he could live the rest of his life without ever being noticed by anyone ever again, then he would consider himself a very lucky fellow. He threaded through the sleeping vehicles in the parking lot until he found his nondescript Toyota - a typical car for a typical person - and fumbled the key into the lock. He froze, more than a little shocked, when he heard a high soprano voice hailing his name. "Timothy! Timothy Dayton!" He turned slowly, watching the slender and very beautiful Chinese girl thread her way through the parked cars towards him, waving wildly. Timothy felt distinctly uncomfortable, trying to get into his car before she got to him, but it was no use. She quickened her stride and was at his side before he could get the key in the lock. "Can I help you?" Timothy mumbled, trying not to meet her eyes. "I'm Taylor Beauchamps. I tried to call you today, but I kept getting your voicemail." "I was very busy today. I'm sorry." "It won't take a second. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" Taylor insisted. "I don't think so, Miss. I'm in a hurry." She narrowed her eyes. "Not even for a fellow spook?" Timothy's jaw dropped. "How did you... the Agency said that I was free to go, Miss. I don't want anything more to do with..." "Relax, cowboy," Taylor said with a sultry, teasing smile. "I'm not here to draft you. I just want to ask you some questions. An hour. Surely you have an hour to spare." He looked at the car, the pavement, the light pole - anything but her. She was devastatingly attractive, and that made Timothy distinctly uncomfortable for a reason he couldn't quite pin down. "All right," he said finally. "You have one hour." *** Grace looked around at the pile of stuff she'd recovered from Arturo LaPaglia's apartment. In the other room, she could dimly hear the sounds of Hope and Stacey working through the Global Ventures intranet information and beyond that, the atonal and soothing sounds of the Music of Change as they worked their healing power on yet another client of Corporate Rewards. She tapped an ash from her cigarette into the tray beside her desk and took another swig of Diet Coke. So strange that she'd stopped even noticing the things like the print of her lipstick on the rim of the can. At first, she'd been completely freaked by the smallest trappings of her feminine life - lipstick marks on coffee cups. Long strands of blonde hair escaping her hairstyle to float across her eyes. Looks from men in supermarkets. But now they were second nature to her - just part of the everyday, overlooked as easily as brushing her teeth in the mornings or fastening her seatbelt. The little details were the ones that got filtered out the easiest, and it was to those tiny little details that Grace was attempting to return in her investigation. LaPaglia, for instance. The man had been a shifty character all around, with a list of priors as long as Grace's arm and a surprisingly small number of convictions for his crimes. But he was largely stationary, which was odd for an assassin, according to her information from the Organized Crime Unit. And his jacket didn't mention much violent crime. Mostly fraud and other paper crimes. He'd worked for Dr. Renfro for several months procuring new documentation for the transformed men and women of the Music of Change so that they would have evidence of their new lives. That meant birth certificates, drivers' licenses and Social Security and credit cards. Grace had examined the identification for herself and Heather and Jenna very carefully, and they were of the highest possible quality - the birth records were flawless and they were used to establish the drivers' licenses. Grace knew that LaPaglia had employed several insiders in federal offices around the country to assist him in changing Social Security numbers and tax information. The transformed men and women entered into their new lives completely legal and above-board. Grace took another drag of her cigarette and began pacing. So then what happened? Changing someone's identity was a very complicated and involved process. Dr. Renfro signed death certificates in all cases of gender transformation, so that past debts would be handled by any life insurance and the old identity would effectively be wiped away. That's what had happened for Grace. It cut a lot of red tape for LaPaglia to do his job. It was all built on the birth certificate. It was the first and primary thing for all the rest, and the thing that had to be forged more or less from scratch. It's where LaPaglia earned his money. Grace's dummied-up birth certificate was a masterpiece, and it had been one that LaPaglia had done. The footprints were the original ones from Gray Kincaid's original so that the print patterns would even match. The name, gender and birth date had been changed, making Gray David Kincaid - born male on the twenty-sixth of March, 1938 - into Grace Diane Kincaid - born female on the same date in 1968. Grace snapped her fingers. There it was. LaPaglia had to get those footprints from the original birth certificates. Which meant that he had to have some kind of a cover - Bureau of Vital Statistics, perhaps, something having to do with the Department of Health and Human Services. It didn't matter; he had to have a way in to get certified copies of birth certificates so that he could implement his forgeries. With renewed purpose, Grace began to attack the pile of clutter on her desk. Somehow Arturo LaPaglia had caught the eye of someone important, someone who figured he could be used to get to Karl Renfro. All she had to do was find out why a corporation like Global Ventures would take an interest in him. *** "I don't do that anymore," Timothy protested for the hundredth time. "I told you." "It's not for the Agency," Taylor said. "It's independent. People's lives are at stake. We can pay you well, and you'll be helping us in more ways than I can explain. Please, Timothy. It's very important." Timothy deflated over his cup of coffee. "I don't know." She covered his hand with her warm, soft one. "I know it was rough on you, Timothy. I've read the reports - the Agency drove you guys into the ground. We're not going to do that to you. We just want you to come in, do a reading or two on some people, and then tell us what you felt. After that you can go home and I swear we won't call you again." She paused for a breath. "I know how you feel, I really do. The Agency got its pound of flesh out of me, too. It burns you out. I know you don't ever want to feel that trapped again. I promise I won't even let my supervisors know you're a part of this operation. They'll never even know you were there." "They always know," Timothy said. "Please," Taylor said again. Timothy looked at his watch. "Your hour is up." She sighed heavily and laid down a few bills on the table to pay for the coffee. "I guess it was worth a try," she said to herself. He turned back towards her. "The Agency won't know," he said - half-statement and half-question. "That's the only thing I'm completely adamant about." "The Agency doesn't know a lot of things about this investigation," Taylor said. "Promise me," Timothy insisted. "I promise," Taylor said readily. "When can you leave?" Timothy shrugged. "Tonight. I don't think my boss would even notice if I didn't show up tomorrow." *** Grace regretfully let the last of the water drain out of the tub and stood up to pat her skin dry. The scent of jasmine and lilac still hung in the air from the bath oil she'd used. Once her skin was dry she dusted herself with a rose-scented powder (something her late wife, Joyce, had always used) and wrapped herself in a towel. She let her hair down and brushed it out until it shone like burnished brass. She looked briefly at the tangled mass of her bed and remembered the long night before of almost frenzied lovemaking she'd spent with Joshua. She liked to consider herself urbane, and genteel and well in control of her life, but something about that man just brought out the animal in her. Every single touch, kiss, caress and stroke was absolutely perfect. Although she'd only had experience with female sex from him, she was perfectly willing to believe that it couldn't get any better than she already had it. She just hoped her neighbors weren't going to complain about the noise. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and lit a cigarette, looking out the window at the oak trees lining her street. A slight beep snatched her from her reverie. Her cellphone was beeping its voicemail announcement - she'd left it on 'silent ring' for the evening with Joshua and had forgotten to take it off. She dialed into her voicemail system and found that it only had one message, which had been left for her while she was in the bath. "Hey, Grace, this is Stacey," the message stated. "We ran that pattern search you asked for. All the original birth certificates that LaPaglia used were requested by the same office - the North Carolina Vital Records Office in Raleigh. Requested by our old buddy Arthur Page. They're faxing us a list of all the records he's pulled for the last ten years, we'll have it for you at Rewards when you get here. Also, Taylor called and she needs you to pick her and her friend up from the airport at 10.40. Delta Flight 1442. See ya." Grace set down her cup of coffee and took a long last look at the trees. The clock was showing 7.30 a.m. Just time enough to do her face and hair and get dressed before she'd have to get going to the airport. *** Grace only had time to tuck the lengthy fax document under her arm before she'd had to scoot off to the airport to pick up Taylor and her new "psychic friend." She waited in the airport lounge over a cold beer - it was nice not to be on duty, if only because she could wear her blue jeans and cowboy boots. She waited idly for the plane to arrive, leafing through the four hundred or so birth certificates that LaPaglia had pulled through the office in North Carolina. Many were the names of people that Corporate Rewards had transformed, but others were just people who'd needed to skip the country or change their identities for whatever reason. She flipped past yet another page, then hissed a quick indrawn breath and flipped back. It had been there, just in the edge of her peripheral vision, but she'd seen it. She followed the list with a long-nailed finger, down past a row of names. Down, down, until... J. Little from Richmond, Virginia. It couldn't be possible, Grace thought wildly. Some amazing coincidence. Joshua - her Joshua - couldn't possibly have changed his identity by using LaPaglia. Her rational mind warred with her heart for an eternity of seconds before she blinked unnoticed tears from her brilliant blue eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. She fished her phone from her purse and speed-dialed, touching keys to navigate through the back-door of the automated voice system. Finally, the phone rang and a familiar voice picked up. "Homicide, Detective White," the voice said. "Hey, Ned, it's Grace." "It's your day off. Don't you ever stop working?" "You know me," Grace said, trying not to let the distress show through in her voice. But she couldn't fool Ned White. "You okay, Gracie? What's up?" "Need you to run something for me - could be important." "Shoot," Ned said. "I need a listing of all the death certificates signed by a Dr. Karl Renfro during the past four years. Especially if he'd signed any of them in the Houston area," Grace said in a rush. There. It was out. Now she'd get her answers. "Sure, Gracie, no problem. I have a buddy in HPD who can help me out. Want to tell me what this is about?" "It's all a part of that Corporate Rewards case I'm doing," Grace said. "Gotcha," Ned said. "I'll put a list together for you - shouldn't take too long." "Do me a favor, Ned? Call me the minute you get something, will you?" "Sure, Gracie. You sure you're okay?" Ned said, concern tinging his voice. "Yeah, I'm just a little shook up right now," Grace explained. "I may have just discovered that a... friend of mine is messed up in all this." "Oh, shit," Ned said. "I know how that feels, buddy. Look - take it easy. Try not to think about the case for a little while if you can manage it. I'll give you a shout the second I hear anything, okay?" "I appreciate it, Ned. I owe you one." "You owe me squat, Gracie. Anything for a friend, you know that. And if you need somebody to talk to - off the record, and all that - you know where to find me, right?" "Are you hitting on me, Ned?" Grace asked slyly, trying to salvage her humor. "Every second of every day," Ned said. "I'll be in touch." "Thanks, Ned. I appreciate it." "Anytime." She broke the connection with a wistful smile - Ned White had been one of Gray Kincaid's best and closest drinking buddies. They'd helped each other move and Gray had been the one to take Ned's wife Lydia to the hospital when their first son was born because Ned was investigating a case. Miraculous stuff, that Music. A fifteen-second exposure to it and Ned was convinced that he'd never known a gray-headed man named Gray Kincaid but had known a stunning blonde named Grace Kincaid his whole life. And besides, he was right. She upended her beer and began to search around for a place to grab a quick smoke. There was nothing more she could do until she got that list from Houston, so there was no use worrying herself over something she couldn't control. She made a vow not to think about the case until Ned called her back. It worked for all of about twenty seconds. *** Timothy Dayton was a shifty little bugger, Grace finally decided after the third time the man refused to meet her eyes when he was talking to her. Taylor seemed more than a little bit protective of the nervous, twitchy little character, so Grace didn't press the issue. But something about him made her sad. He wasn't 'dangerous' twitchy, like so many of the unstable individuals she'd come in contact with working homicide. It was more like he was terrified of everything. Everything about him gave the impression of wanting to run away. Grace piled his lone suitcase into the back of her car and left the airport. Taylor was happily smoking a cigarette - her first after the non-stop flight - in the front seat and Timothy was busily trying to be very small in the backseat. "Mr. Dayton," Grace said. "How much have you heard about this case already?" "Only what Taylor told me," Dayton said in a nervous, wavering voice. "There was an attempt on a young girl's life and she doesn't remember anything. I'm supposed to read her and see what I can piece together that might help your investigation." "I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than that," Grace told him. "We know who tried to kill her. We're trying to find out why. And for that, we're going to need to dig into her past a little bit, and that's where you come in." Timothy shook his head, raking a hand through his limp brown hair. "It doesn't work like that," he explained. "I can't go fishing for anything in particular. I can only see events that are foremost in a person's life, or in their mind at the time." "Any help you can give us would be greatly appreciated," Grace said doubtfully. She didn't notice Timothy's eyes narrow and his left hand massaging his temple in a slow circle. "You don't believe I can do what Taylor says I can do," he said. "No, I don't," Grace said. "But as I said, any help is welcome." Timothy smiled an enigmatic smile. "Well, Detective, perhaps it might make my job easier if you told me a little bit about this Music that, as near as I can tell, changed you from an aging male into a young, beautiful female. Is it the same Music that changed Taylor from an overweight man into the little Oriental beauty I see beside you?" Grace had to fight to keep from swerving the car out of the lane as she looked around her shoulder in shock. "How did you..." "Perhaps you should place a little more faith in my abilities, Ms. Kincaid," was all Timothy Dayton would say. *** Grace answered the clamoring cellphone in her purse shortly after she called down to the front desk to tell Jenna that they were ready for Karla and Annaliese as soon as they were available. "Hey, Gracie. It's Ned," was the reply to her greeting. "Got something for me?" "Possibly. Karl Renfro signed a shit-pot full of death certificates for those four years, and most of them were in the Houston area. I have a list of about two hundred names here. D'you want me to fax them to you?" "Yeah, Ned. You have the fax number here at Corporate Rewards?" "Yeah, you wrote it down on your desk here. I'll get them to you right away." Grace smiled. "You're a lifesaver, Ned. Thanks." "Anything for a friend," Ned said warmly before breaking the connection. Timothy Dayton was pacing worriedly in the room occupied only by Taylor and Grace, as if they were some threat to him. Grace had never seen anyone so nervous and who tried so hard not to be noticed. But then, if she could hear the thoughts of everyone around her, Grace would probably want to make herself very small as well. The door opened to admit Karla Renfro, wearing a skimpy halter- top and skin-tight Capri pants, which set off her luscious young curves to maximum effect. Her shiny blonde hair was done in a multitude of long, tight braids, which swung around her face whenever she moved along with the huge gold hoop earrings, which almost brushed her shoulders. She plopped unceremoniously in Grace's chair and fished a cigarette from the pack on the desk, crossing her legs to let one platform sandal dangle from her pedicured toes. "Wazuuuuuuup?" she asked cheerfully, her infectious smile gleaming as she aped the recent Budweiser commercial. Grace couldn't help but return it. "Got somebody who wants to talk with you a while, Karla," Grace said. "This is Timothy Dayton. Timothy, this is..." Timothy had both hands at his temples and his eyes were squeezed shut as tightly as he could manage. His breathing was ragged and he leaned heavily against the wall. "Timothy?" Grace said. "Oh, God," the man groaned. "Not again..." *** It wasn't happening. It wasn't happening. It wasn't happening. They'd been fighting again, he knew. Their loud screams had been the last thing he'd heard before sleep finally took him. He tried to stay out of it - Claudette was adamant that she knew what was best for their daughter and that he would only muddy the waters if he got himself involved. Sarah, for her part, didn't seem to care who was involved. She was sixteen, she was independent and smart and she was in love. She would fight with whatever target presented itself right now. Best to let it burn itself out, Dr. Karl Renfro knew, but his wife wouldn't listen. Claudette was a sweet woman, but she had very definite ideas about what was right and proper. It wasn't until the final, different scream that he'd awakened, snapping out of strange dreams about Cheyenne tribal ceremonies and Bach concertos and the human capacity for want and how they all seemed to be somehow tied together. This was no fight. This was the sound of someone in terror and anguish. He'd rushed down the stairs. Claudette was hugging herself, whimpering, tears leaking down the sides of her face. Karl took her in his arms and tried to find out what was wrong, but she could only whimper pitifully and stare into the square of light that was Sarah's bedroom door. There was so much blood. So impossibly much blood. He'd driven to the hospital in a daze, trying to look at the road in front of him and in the rearview at the pale face of his daughter, wrapped in blankets. The sharp, coppery scent of her blood was everywhere. His hands were sticky with it, from where he'd lifted her off of the bed - how light she was, like a feather - out of that cooling pool of blood and into the light of the bathroom where he'd tried to figure out what was wrong. A long, vicious slash along her left wrist, from the base of the thumb nearly to the hinge of the elbow. The little utility knife from his workshop lay beside the bed. His wife was in shock beside him, whispering to herself in a vain attempt to convince herself that nothing was wrong, that it was all some sort of demented and horrible dream that she would awaken from any moment. They stayed close to the doors of the emergency room, trying to see anything through the little wired-glass window in the large oaken door. Minutes stretched on and on and on into millennia. Claudette was in his arms, crying bitterly against his chest, but he couldn't feel it at all. He couldn't feel anything at all. The little brunette doctor came out, her hair in the little blue plastic cap and the mask dangling down her chest. Her brown eyes were desolate. "I'm sorry." Karl pushed past the doctor as if she were nonexistent and into the trauma unit, avoiding the orderlies and doctors and nurses trying to find his daughter. The doctor and Claudette were behind him, tugging at his clothes and his arms, trying to hold him away - he wasn't allowed back here, he shouldn't look, he shouldn't see her like this. He ignored their pleas like the buzzing of flies. How small and tired she looked, on the table soaked with her blood and sweat. Her hair was plastered against her forehead and her skin was pale and waxen-looking. He walked to her side, carefully, and took her delicate hand in his own. It was cold. He closed his eyes. The doctor and his wife were saying something to him. His lips parted and he drew in a breath. Her hand was so cold in his. So much blood. So young, so beautiful. She'd only been in love. She'd only been trying to be happy. There was no crime, no sin, in that. So cold. He wailed. The sound that left his lips was one of purest grief, an embodiment of all things lost and painful. All the things he wanted to say and do and never would, washed away in all that blood issuing from the horrible wound in his little girl's wrist. The sound, somewhere beneath the level of hearing, began to change. In only a few seconds it sounded almost like Music. *** Timothy slumped against the wall, shaking. Taylor and Grace moved to his side instantly. Karla could only stare, the unlit cigarette dangling from between her red-lacquered lips. "Like, what happened to him?" she finally asked. "He's a little shaky from the trip," Taylor finally managed. "We should probably get him where he can rest a little bit. Sorry to call you up here for nothing." Karla shrugged and smiled. "No big," she said. "I was just on my way to the gym. See you guys later." She leapt up and half-bounced out of the room. Grace looked down at the shaking, twitching man at her feet. "What the hell happened?" she asked Taylor. "He must have seen something intense," Taylor answered. "Here, help me get him onto that table over there and try to find something to cover him up with." "What is he saying?" Grace said, trying to tune into the whispered murmuring. Taylor leaned close, and her eyes got big. "I'm not sure," she said, "but it sounds like he's repeating 'The Music.' 'The Music.' 'The Music.'" Grace stood back from the shaking form. "Goddamn it," she hissed. "Not again." *** "Where am I?" the man asked the darkness. You're where you've always been, the darkness responded. The darkness hummed a tune which the man couldn't quite describe, something that resounded in his bones with the cries of a thousand thousand babies screaming with their first breath and the rattling breaths of a thousand thousand dying men. It was the sweetness of the virgin's first loving kiss and the bitterness of her first broken heart. "I'm afraid," the man said. You always have been, the darkness told him. You live in a sea of fear. "I know." Tears leaked from unfelt eyes. And you know why. The man lowered a head he wasn't sure he had anymore. "The sounds. The words. So many. It makes my head split in half." It is like music, the darkness said. "No. Music is beautiful. It calms. It makes me whole." Music makes you whole, the darkness repeated. "No," the man corrected himself. "No. Nothing makes me whole." You are incorrect, the darkness told him in its rumbling voice. You make yourself whole. Your own foolishness keeps you from being one with yourself. "My foolishness?" Yes, the darkness told him. You keep yourself separate from the mother that succors you. You strive to be apart. To be alone. You will not drink from the well even though you are dying of thirst. "You're saying I should be more like 'them?' The mindless ones, the ones who walk smiling through their meaningless lives never knowing that the thoughts of everyone around them spit poison at their existences? I can't live that way! I can't go through my life thinking that everything's just peachy when I know full well what everyone around me is thinking. It's living a lie!" It's only a lie if you let it be one, the darkness said. "How would you know?" the man demanded. Because I know the thoughts of the whole world. The same as you do, Timothy Dayton. The only difference between us is that I know the truth. "And what truth is that?" he half-shouted. That the only life worth living is the one you've already been given. Whatever anyone else thinks, says, does... it's all immaterial. You have one life, Timothy Dayton, and it's your purpose on this world and in all the other worlds you might dwell to make the best of that precious life. That life that you've been wasting because you are too afraid of the thoughts of others. "I am afraid. It's so much." Is it any more than any other human being sorts through in any other day? Human infants are able to learn to filter through the noise and the light and the spectacle around them and focus on what's important. Why should Timothy Dayton be exempted from learning the same lessons as an infant? Why are you so special? "I'm not," Dayton said, defeated in the face of the truth the darkness threw at him. "I'm not special at all. Sometimes I wonder why I'm even alive at all." Because life is a precious gift, the darkness explained. And only a soul worthy of it will ever receive it. There is something in you, Timothy Dayton, which merits a life. You just have to find out what that thing is and use it to live. "It's not that easy." It is only that easy when you stop making it so difficult, the darkness said. Stop excusing your own weaknesses and laziness. Either live your life or let it live you. There is no other choice. You have chosen a path of loneliness and misery; you have chosen to despise your abilities and to use them to set you at a distance from your fellow humans. You have no one to blame but yourself, Timothy Dayton, and your excuses are the marks of a pitiful and weak soul. "I don't want to be this way," Timothy nearly sobbed. Then stop. "How? How do I stop?" The darkness seemed to consider for a moment. Perhaps there is hope for you yet, Timothy Dayton. Perhaps you are not as weak as you seem. "Please help me," Timothy begged. I will, the darkness said. But it is you who will do the work and suffer the pain for it. In that I cannot interfere. "Anything," Timothy said. Somehow, imperceptibly, the darkness seemed almost to... smile. Suddenly the lack of light and warmth around him didn't seem so foreboding and chill around him anymore. The darkness seemed almost like a friend. The first step, the darkness spoke, is to learn about the nature of the fight you have taken up. And to know the truth about fighting. "Which is?" Timothy asked. In order to win any fight, one must first lose it. To be victorious in anything, one must first surrender to it utterly. Out of the no-perception around him, the humming throbbing darkness, a tune arose. A simple tune, one deep and rich and capricious and skirling at the same time. As Timothy listened, it gained complexity and layers, becoming a vast, organic symphony, which seemed to enfold him in a moving, silken embrace. "One must surrender to it utterly," Timothy murmured. Closing his unseeing eyes, he let himself fall backwards into the velveteen motion of the Music around him, losing himself in the vast sweeping chords, which made his blood warmer, and his heart beat faster. The flow of purest life swallowed him whole, to his smallest atom, and the matter and patterns of force, which were the soul of Timothy Dayton, ceased to have any real meaning. *** Grace leaned her head against the glass of the window looking into the room where Timothy Dayton was laying very, very still under a heavy blanket. It was like she was being thwarted at every turn. She felt a warm hand on the back of her neck, beneath the thick ponytail she was wearing. She turned to see Heather MacGowan, the lush blonde who was the first of Dr. Renfro's transformees, instrumental along with her wife Jenna in starting Corporate Rewards as a front to help the lost souls who came to the Music for help. "It's going to be okay, Grace," she said warmly, giving her a little hug. "It's just so goddamned frustrating," Grace half-growled. "Every time I think I'm getting somewhere, it's like the gods conspire to block me." "Should we call Joshua?" Heather asked. "No," Grace said adamantly. "We have to see how this turns out without him. If he's messed up in all of this somehow, we can't let him interfere. Dammit! Why does this all have to be so complicated?" "You'll get it," Heather said. "You're the smartest person I've ever met. If anyone in the world can piece this thing together, it's you." "I don't feel very smart right now," she said. "Being jerked back to Square One by the scruff of my neck like this doesn't lend itself to feeling very intelligent." "Maybe this will help," Heather said, handing her a thick sheaf of papers. "It was just faxed to the back office. It's from somebody in Homicide." Grace took it. "Ned White," she said. "I've been expecting this." "Listen, you want a cup of coffee or something?" Heather said, gesturing vaguely towards the break room. "No, thanks, sweetheart," Grace said warmly. "Just a little wallow in self-pity. I'm over it now." "Call me if you need anything," Heather told her. "Even if it's just to borrow a well-cried-on shoulder or something." "I will," Grace said, sitting down on the chair in the observation room and opening the thick fax to the first page. She spun a pen between long-nailed fingers and let herself become absorbed. Heather left the room unnoticed, smiling a very friendly smile. *** What do you want? The darkness bade him. "I just want some peace," he said. "I just want to be happy." And what does that happiness entail? "I don't know," Timothy said. "I've never really been happy. I don't even think I know what happiness is." If misery is your life, then happiness, being the opposite of misery... "Would be the opposite of my life," Timothy said. He thought for a moment - what was his life? Drab, for one thing. Predictable, ordered and overmanaged. A constant struggle to not be noticed or picked out. Small and quiet, lackluster and joyless. Which meant that to be happy, he would have to be out in the forefront of everything, spontaneous and joyful. Without schedule or timetable, unsupervised, free of entanglements and encumbrances, loud and large and full of laughter and lightheartedness and desire. Just the thought of it - never taking anything too seriously, never overthinking anything to the point of bleeding the enjoyment out of life, being free to at long last want - made him feel like he'd taken a deep breath for the first time in his life. But it also scared him, to the core of his being. So much time devoted to being one way, one couldn't just decide to be another. Wasn't the small, shy and nervous man who the world knew as Timothy Dayton truly who he was? The Music seemed to say 'no.' You are who you wish to be, the darkness told him. If a difference in your life is what you truly desire, then you must begin by making the choices, which will lead you to that difference. It may not be the sum total of the change, but without that decision in place and committed, the change will never take place. Timothy felt a hard knot of resolve stiffen in his chest, forcing his heartbeat in the midst of the fear, which gripped him to the marrow. "I want out," he said. "I want the change." So you do, the darkness said. But do you have any idea how to get from where you are to where you long to be? "Not in the least," Timothy said. Then you need a model, the darkness told him. You have to pattern your change on someone you know, someone you've seen. Who do you know, Timothy Dayton? An image popped into his head. "The happiest person I know." Tell me about this person, the darkness said. As he spoke, an image formed in the darkness before him, like a shimmering mirage of light in the heart of lightlessness. "I don't know her name - I call her Cool Shoes Girl. I've never seen her down, or even serious. Her life is a game. I've tried to hate her - called her frivolous, airheaded, flighty - but I can't hide the way she really makes me feel." And how does she make you feel? The darkness asked. "Jealous," Timothy Dayton said. The image before him - the smiling, wide-eyed woman from his life - offered a hand to him, gazing at him encouragingly. Swallowing hard and wondering what awaited him next, Timothy Dayton reached out and took her hand in his. *** "It's happening," Hope Wells said, pointing through the glass at the still form in the observation room. The air was almost electric with the unheard power of the Music. Grace laid the thick fax down on her desk and stood, walking over to stand beside the statuesque Hope to witness the transformation. Timothy Dayton's body writhed once, strongly, kicking the blanket aside to expose long, shapely legs with dainty and slender feet. Evenly tanned skin spread from the minimal bikini line that had formed around the flaring hips and slender pubic delta, up the flattening belly and over the ribcage. The tiny, hard male nipples swelled enormously, becoming wide pink peaks crowned with lovely pert points which stood erect in the chilly observation room, roughly the size of the caps on toothpaste tubes. The dimpled areolae nested in a creamy triangle of flesh surrounded by tan, as if he'd tanned for months in a bikini top. The arms were slender and well-muscled, with elegantly slim hands and fingers capped by long, square-cut fingernails, which overlapped the edges of the fingers by a good three-quarters of an inch. The skin beneath the stiffened nipples swelled and rounded, becoming an impossibly-soft looking expanse of lovely, spherical breast. The neck was long and smooth, eminently kissable. A narrow, heart-shaped face with a long, aquiline nose and a patrician chin, full and expressive lips and smooth, unblemished skin which needed no foundation or powder to appear flawless. Thick, dark brows over large, guileless brown eyes. And a sable-soft cascade of dark brown waves with red highlights tumbled down her back and across her eyes. With a girlish sigh, the newborn woman lay back, running a hand through her thick, soft hair with a practiced motion. She smiled at the other two beauties, showing even, white teeth. Hope pushed open the door and stood at the woman's feet. "How are you doing?" The girl looked around the room as if she were seeing it for the first time. "I feel wonderful," she said with a half-giggle. "Absolutely incredible." "Do you remember anything?" Grace asked without much hope. "Everything I need to remember," she said. Her doe-brown eyes narrowed as she stared a little more intently at Grace. "And everything you want to remember as well, Grace Kincaid." *** The woman finally made herself comfortable, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe with a can of Diet Coke and a cigarette. She took a deep drag and blew the smoke in a long plume towards the ceiling. "It's not something that's fabricated," she explained. "The Music is, like, something that's existed for a very long time, as far as I can tell. Dr. Renfro and the others, they only, y'know, tapped into it." "That's something he always suspected," Jenna told the assembly around the woman. Heather, Grace, Taylor, Hope and Stacey surrounded their newest transformee closely, hanging on her every word. "It takes a, like, major emotional event to be able to call on the Music," the woman went on. "Dr. Renfro was totally close to it with his research. He'd been in a whole lot of Cheyenne purification rituals, so he was, like, as close to it as he could get without actually touching it." "What put him over?" Grace asked. "His poor daughter," the woman answered. "The night she killed herself. When he took her hand in his after it had happened, the Music appeared to him." "Why didn't he change?" Hope asked. "Because he cried out," the woman said. "He let it out. His wife was standing three feet from him and hearing it - while feeling the guilt of her daughter's suicide - is what changed her. See, like, the Music makes you evaluate yourself. She was totally beating herself up over what had happened to her daughter, so she changed into what she is now." "I see," Grace said, still sounding a little skeptical. "You're thinking about Joshua," the woman said. "He wasn't there. At least no one who looked like him was, not in the doctor's memories." "Wait a second," Grace said, standing. She snatched up the fax from Ned White and began paging through it frantically. "The date of Sarah Renfro's suicide was what?" "April 27th, 1995," Taylor responded, looking in her notebook. Grace flipped pages wildly. "So any of the death certificates that Dr. Renfro signed after that date would be..." She stopped dead. The pages dropped from limp fingers. "What is it, Grace?" Jenna asked in the thunderous silence. "April 29th, 1995," Grace whispered, her face a mask of pain and confusion. "Dr. Renfro signed a death certificate." "Who?" Jenna pressed. "Jocelyn Little," Grace said. "Doctor Jocelyn Little." *** "The doctor in the trauma ward," the woman said once Jenna had taken a very shaken Grace into the next room to compose herself. "I remember it from Dr. Renfro's memories. It seemed so insignificant at the time." "So, Jocelyn Little hears the Music and changes into Joshua. Joshua needs a new identity, so either he or the Doc hires Arturo LaPaglia to forge him some documents. It works so well that they decide to keep LaPaglia on as a resource," Taylor said. "Makes sense," Stacey said. "No it doesn't," Hope interrupted. "All our research up to this point has told us that LaPaglia worked pretty much exclusively out of the Eastern Seaboard, from roughly the Charleston area to around Boston." "So?" Stacey interjected. "Josh - I mean Jocelyn - was from Virginia. That's right in the big middle of it. Maybe they knew one another." "It still doesn't add up," Hope went on. "Look here." She walked up to the whiteboard where Taylor and Grace had put the gist of their exhaustive research into the case along with their most promising leads. "In order for them to make contact with LaPaglia they would have had to know exactly where he was. At this point in time, he was all over the Eastern coast as well as back-and-forth from Italy at the time of his sister's wedding. And both Joshua and the Doc had squeaky-clean records. Not so much as a parking ticket. There was no reason for either of them to know LaPaglia, much less be able to contact him directly for this work." "So one or the other of them needed a static location to contact who'd know where LaPaglia was," Grace said from the door. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, and she looked a little shaky, but the look on her face brooked no nonsense. Jenna kept a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Right," Taylor said, deciding the better of asking Grace whether she was up to this. Hope was already at the computer, the sound of her long nails on the keys a peculiar rhythm to the overwhelming tension in the room. "Way ahead of you," she said. "Figure the only people who'd know where LaPaglia was would be the people who sent him there." "Global Ventures," Taylor concluded. "You're still, like, missing a piece," the nameless woman spoke up. Grace nodded. "The other player in that night," she said. "Claudette Renfro." "Would you mind doing a reading of her, Timothy?" Taylor asked. "Sure," the lovely brunette giggled. "But it's, like, 'Tiffany' now. If you don't mind." *** Grace stood in the middle of the burgeoning chaos that was now Tiffany Dayton's apartment, watching the moving crew from Corporate Rewards as they brought in the furniture and appointments, which she'd chosen to fit her new life. Grace threaded her way through stacked boxes and movers into the bedroom. Tiffany was directing the traffic there, clad in a bright pink crop-top with a little heart nestled between her generous breasts and high-cut 'Daisy Duke' cutoff jeans. Her hair was in a long, lustrous ponytail and she was waving her pink- polished nails excitedly in an attempt to dry them. The movers were busily trying to assemble her black-lacquered headboard and bed frame while stealing looks at the gorgeous beauty who stood there. Tiffany ate up the attention, Grace could tell, being sure to bend just a little too far to get things from the floor to give them all tempting glimpses of cleavage and derri?re. "Hey, girl," Tiffany said brightly when she saw the somber detective. "Hi," Grace said, trying to keep out of the way of the busy movers. "How are you doing?" the playful quality of her voice slipped a little, showing genuine concern. It made Grace feel a little better, somehow. "I'm managing," Grace said. "Concentrating on the job. You got a minute?" "Absolutely," Tiffany said, half-bouncing through the thick and onto the little cedar balcony outside her bedroom, which overlooked the pool and the hike-and-bike trail. "We have to make this quick and quiet," Grace told the new woman. "Claudette can't know what you're doing, it's better if she never even sees us. We know she has reservations at Gambio's for lunch at 11.45. We should probably try to get her once she goes in." "Got it," Tiffany said. "I only need about five seconds and I need to be, like, close. She doesn't know me, so that won't be hard. We just need a way to keep her still for about five seconds." Grace smiled and started dialing her cellphone. "I think I can arrange that." *** There was something so innately sexual about presentation to her, something that sparked those delicious little twinges down deep in her middle when she swung her long, silk-clad legs out of the door of her Jaguar convertible and stepped out, passing the keys casually to a slack-jawed valet as she pulled the designer sunglasses off of her elegant nose and did a model-on-the-catwalk strut into the upscale bistro for lunch, her long blonde hair billowing behind her like a lustrous curtain. Pulling off her kid-leather gloves and drinking in the lascivious stares of the men and the jealous stolen glances of the women. There was nothing quite like feeling desired, she decided. It was the most intoxicating of liquors. And the way she was feeling today, she might very well choose one young man out of the crowd for a very exciting afternoon. What good was desire, after all, if she wasn't able to feed her hungers? "Claudette? Hi!" a familiar voice said from behind the hostess. Mrs. Claudette Renfro looked up to see Danielle Royal, the firefighter transformee of Karl's, walking towards her from the coat room, dressed to the nines in a tailored charcoal-gray suit which showed off her miles and miles of long legs to maximum effect. "Danielle! What on earth are you doing here?" Claudette asked. Danielle wrapped her in a friendly and tight hug for a second or two before holding her at arm's length to say, "I just finished lunch. A friend of mine decided to treat me to something nice instead of my usual. Claudette, this is Bruce Bennett. Bruce, this is Claudette Renfro." The tall, scrumptious man with the sandy-blonde hair and the warm smile shook her hand warmly. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Renfro." Claudette gave him a smile, which could have melted steel and a very frank once-over-lightly, drinking in the flat stomach, tight butt, long legs and broad shoulders. "Just Claudette," she said in a voice that was all sex and silk and suggestion. "You are so bad," Danielle said with a bright smile. "None of that. He's all mine." Claudette smiled with genuine amusement. "All right. I was just looking." "You two are well on your way to making me blush," Bruce said. "I should go." Danielle checked the watch on her slender wrist. "Yeah, it's getting to be that time. Claudette, it was really nice to see you again. Hope I bump into you sometime when we're not in a rush." She kissed Danielle's cheek fondly. "I'd say that's possible. Bruce, a pleasure." She offered a slim hand, which he took warmly. Claudette allowed herself a long, appraising look at Bruce's better side as he left before the hostess led her to her table. *** "How was that?" Danielle asked outside, sitting in Grace's car. "Perfect," Tiffany said. "I got it." "Gracie, you want to tell me what this is all about? Not that I mind being in a car with three gorgeous women," Bruce said from the back seat. "Just checking up on some leads," Grace explained from the driver's seat. "I appreciate it, Bruce. I owe you one. Can I drop you someplace?" "No need," he said, opening the door. "I have my car. I have to go to the station anyway. I go on patrol in an hour." "Thanks again," Danielle said. She passed him a business card. "And call me if you want to do this again, for real." "Seriously?" Bruce asked. Danielle blushed a little. "Seriously. I had a really good time." He smiled at her and shut the door. Danielle blew out a long breath, slumped in the seat and began to shrug out of her jacket. "Damn, he's cute," she breathed. "Somebody give me a cigarette." Grace laughed. "You have a real winner, Dani. If I couldn't remember bouncing him on my knee when he was still in diapers, I'd make a play for him myself." Danielle lit the offered cigarette and blew the smoke out the window as Grace put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. "What did you get from her, Tiff?" Grace asked. "She sure does think about sex a lot," Tiffany said, checking her makeup in the little vanity mirror behind the sun-visor. "I think I need, like, a cold shower or something." "Did you see anything important?" Danielle pressed. Tiffany twirled a lock of sable hair around one long-nailed finger. "Yeah. Her sex drive is on overload because the Music allowed her to indulge in the one guilty pleasure she had before the change." "You mean Claudette had a lover before the change?" Grace asked. "I thought she was God's own prude." Tiffany giggled. "She was. The lover she had consumed her thoughts. She took it out on their daughter and it all came to the surface the night Sarah took her own life." "So you think the lover has something to do with it?" Grace asked. "I picked up on a fight she had, shortly after the change," Tiffany went on. "She was really getting in to the, y'know, ?ber- slut thing and stuff. Her lover was really pissed. He, like, kept saying that she wasn't like the woman he fell in love with anymore. The memories she had of him were fond, but, like, I don't think it was as rosy as she remembers it. He seemed kinda, y'know, scary. Obsessed." Grace tapped her bottom lip. "So here we have Claudette Renfro's lover - easy enough to understand, seeing how hard the Doc was working in those days. This guy is completely obsessed with her, all innocent and pure like she was. She hears the Music and changes into what she is now, the woman she secretly wanted to be, and now the mystery lover doesn't want anything more to do with her." "Right," Tiffany said. "Do you have a name for me, Tiff?" Grace asked. Tiffany closed her eyes. "I think so. Aaron something. Aaron... Kenner? Kensit?" "Aaron Kendall?" Grace supplied. "Yeah," Tiffany said brightly. "How did you know?" Grace smiled a winsome, sly smile. "Because he's the CFO of Global Ventures, that's how. And now I'm gonna nail him to the goddamned wall." *** Hope waited outside the side door of Corporate Rewards, smoking a cigarette as she waited for Tiffany's 'Grand Entrance.' The brunette had been on and on about her 'new baby' (which couldn't be the obvious, since she'd only been a woman for a few weeks) and couldn't wait to show it to someone, particularly someone she was rapidly coming to consider as a friend. Hope had been a wallflower like Tiffany had been, and they found they had a lot in common both as the men they'd been before and the women they'd become. Hope couldn't begin to imagine the stress that an ability like Tiffany's could place on someone, but the bubbly brunette seemed to be coping nicely. She had gained the ability, in her change, to not take the world quite so seriously and be able to blow things off a little easier. Instead of the deep, reflective depressions that had earmarked her life as Timothy Dayton, now her nights were full of Quake games and sci-fi movies with Hope and Stacey, clubbing and barhopping with Vikki and Keri and running and aerobics with Danielle. Her tastes tended to the flamboyant - bright reds and magentas and greens, revealing clothes designed to show her off to best effect. Instead of the narrow futon and alarm clock on the floor of her old apartment, now she slept in a brass queen-size overflowing with stuffed