this is your stepfather who came to visit you? that's the first time you admit it. it means you're finally past the denial stage. this is good, chloe. you only killed your stepfather as far as i know. i remind you of your mother? let's get back to your visitor last night. alright, the devil. why would the devil visit you? it's already hell in here, what would he have to gain? that's it until monday. try and get some sleep tonight, okay? i didn't say you were crazy. dr. graham. they walk along with the easy confidence of colleagues who not only respect each other, but enjoy each other. a lot. same here. you're not shrink appropriate and you're about to get promoted. everybody's afraid of something. yourself. at least you should be. what are you up to this weekend? doug wants to look at some real estate up at willow's creek. he thinks it's fun. chloe mcgrath -- talk about trying to empty the ocean with a tea cup. she's a mess. don't start with that. i already turned down the job. we're staying. he's stuck at a school board meeting. parsons looks through his appointment book. next wednesday it is, phil. he nods at her with a smile and returns to his phone call. anybody hurt, sheriff? if you say so. will do. wouldn't want him in trouble with the authorities. hi, it's me. are you there? pick up, pick up. i'm on my way but i just got detoured so i'm. a bump on the road makes her drop the phone on the passenger seat. she reaches for it and when she looks up we see: stay on the line. don't go anywhere. the weirdest thing just -- hello? hello? wonderful. she tosses the phone on the seat and hops out of the car. hello? are you hurt? hello? nothing. as we get closer we see she is covered in bruises. clearly something horrible has happened to her. were you in an accident? were you attacked? it's okay, i'm a doctor. my name is miranda grey. and now she turns. young, seventeen tops. busted lip, black eye. miranda pulls off her coat, wraps it around the girl -- you're in shock right now, that's perfectly natural. i'm going to get you to the hospital. okay? the girl suddenly grips miranda's arm. hard. don't be scared. it's going to be fine. now the girl is touching miranda's face. her movements desperate, smothering. like the movements of a drowning person. miranda tries to push the girl's hands back down. hands off me, okay? tell me your name, do you remember your name? the girl tries to speak but no words come out. instead she produces a strained, wettish sound. creepy as hell. and now she is prying miranda's mouth open and she's much stronger than expected and miranda is panicking -- what are you doing? i'm trying to help you --?! hello? somebody help me! peter, what the hell is going on? pete nods at irene: it's okay, he'll take it from here. how do you think i feel? is this a joke? peter is half-listening to her, half-signaling to the nurse with the meds to come in. miranda catches all of this, growing more agitated. she wears the uniform all patients wear: a white t-shirt and sweats. her wedding ring is gone. what are you doing? i don't need to calm down. what i need is an explanation pete grabs the meds from the nurse. irene and the attendant step closer to help. miranda feels them closing in on her. peter's tone is infuriatingly gentle: why here, why not in my office? she looks at the silent faces around her. no sympathy. or maybe too much sympathy. either way it's unnerving. i don't want an anticonvulsant, at least give me valium. jesus christ, you're gonna knock me out? ten milligrams. how would you feel if you woke up in a goddamn cell, dressed like this? okay. this better be good. pete motions for the others to leave them alone. one by one they file out and lock the door behind them. i want to talk to my husband. why would i pretend to be in any way relaxed? two massive understatements. he hesitates, unsure where to begin. what is this? why are you doing this to me? hi, my name is miranda grey. i'm a psychiatrist. i transferred here to the woodward forensic institute a little over a year ago. my job entails dealing with a ward of schizophrenic women between the ages of eighteen and fifty-fife -- i'm a doctor, yes? or was medical school just an elaborate dream? pete, how long have i been here? what? doug must be worried sick. i need to call him -- pete shakes his head emphatically. you're establishing my personality as fairly intellectual, you don't consider me impulsive or emotional. yes, that's fair. and following this pattern of analysis, we're about to discuss a traumatic event that rendered this psychological profile useless, correct? you think i'm in denial. that i'm putting on a brave show -- that this is a 'cover' for some unbearable emotion i'm hiding. why? i remember friday night after work, if you say that was five days ago -- anyway, i asked you what you were doing for the weekend and you said the usual and you made a joke about writing country songs and drinking yourself to sleep and i told you i was going to look at some real estate in willows creek with doug. then i drove home. i got home, i guess, and had dinner by myself because -- because doug had an alumni meeting at his school and he was going to get a ride back. he's the principal now, as you well know. she stops here. pete waits. the silence is deafening. she pushes on, but her hands shake a little. but wait -- there was an accident before that, wasn't there? a girl -- she had been beaten. i took her to the hospital, right? no, the cops weren't there. they were back on main road. a knocked-down telephone post, correct? pete nods. miranda is all foggy on the details: i saw the girl after that. she was bleeding. excuse me? my last -- ? tell me nothing happened to doug. i don't know. i might have. i might have called doug to tell him something. or checked my answering service. i beg your pardon? of course not. she shakes her head emphatically as we: no. there was no trouble in my marriage, i don't know what -- there is no trouble in my marriage. you just used the past tense; why? his face says he doesn't know how to tell her. did something happen to doug? this is preposterous. what's wrong with doug? no, he's not. don't tell me that. don't tell me that. are you -- sure? yes, mr. principal. special occasion -- i'm celebrating how proud i am of my husband tonight. he smiles weakly at the compliment. moves his hand towards her, in an affectionate gesture but instead fixes her bra strap. ever methodical. i'm sorry. the fact is i'm married and i -- this is not me, this is a mistake. first we hear our mystery man's voice, then we see him: pete. he places his hand on the door, blocking her. don't. we are hiding from the principal. he smiles. touches her face tenderly. torn. a person used to doing the right thing but not liking that at the moment. we spend time together every day. i have to go. i need time to think. not yet. but i want to. can i get some assistance here? hello?! irene?! anybody!? a beat. and now finally we hear footsteps approaching. a light is switched on down the corridor. the footsteps get closer. and closer. miranda tries to appear composed. wipes sweat off her forehead. fixes her hair. the footsteps now stop right out side the door. a key goes into the lock and jiggles it. miranda waits for the door to open but nothing happens. confused, she steps up to the glass partition and peeks -- the second her face touches the glass, she is met by a pair of piercing eyes. the eerie teenage girl. miranda jumps back, screams. and when she looks up again, the image is gone. a beat. rational thought kicking in -- wake up, wake up. you're dreaming. it's not real. an anxiety dream, that's all. that's all. this is dream logic. if it was real, they would have heard you scream. there are twenty employees on the night shift. fact. at least twenty. she props herself with her back against the wall. with a view of the whole cell. just in case. staring at the door. i'm just dreaming. and now, faintly at first, but growing louder -- footsteps can be heard approaching outside. just like before. i'm dreaming, i'm dreaming, i'm dreaming, i'm dreaming. i'm dreaming, i'm dreaming -- and now the footsteps pause outside her door like before and she holds her breath, horrified, when suddenly we are hit with the sudden glare of returning light. everything flashes white and then color returns -- i need to see peter graham. right now. doctor grey, if you don't mind. please. it's a bit different, wouldn't you say -- ? irene reaches out her hand and the nurse places a cup with meds on it. what do you think you're doing? i want to speak to my lawyer -- wait, what are you doing? c'mon, irene, don't do this. i'm calm now, look -- i'm calm -- ! she struggles as they hold her down and irene sedates her. how did you get this? no, shelley. i'm not undercover. that's good to know. but i'm not. i don't -- i think i'm alright. if it's all the same, i'd rather -- it isn't real. it isn't real. it isn't real. you're hallucinating. perhaps. but now blood drips by her ankle, drip, drip, drip. and the shooting pain she feels is coming from her arm. what the hell -- ? we see sharp slashes appearing on her skin, like some invisible knife is slicing her. hallucination or not, she bolts out of the showers -- shelley? shelley, can you do me a favor?? shelley fixes her with an intense conspiratorial look. can you go in the shower and tell me if you see anything on the wall? shelley doesn't respond. simply crosses over and heads for the showers. miranda gets dressed when a hand on her shoulder makes her jump -- yes. thank you, irene. but now irene notices the blood seeping through the towel. nothing. it's nothing -- you saw it? what did it say? did you see anything, shelley? shelley glances around to make sure no one can hear. thanks anyway. it was you i called that night. did you mention that to the cops? why? what does that mean? and did you? did i make it to your place? did i see you that night? why didn't you tell me this before? you're changing the subject. right now i don't trust anyone. she tries to read his face. reminds herself of who pete is and what he means to her. he points at her bandaged arm. i want to talk to my lawyer. i can't help what you think. i don't smoke, thanks. huh. jenna lights her smoke, blows out the match slowly. miranda turns and checks the building entrance as jenna rambles on. what did you set on fire to wind up here? phil. he keeps walking. headed to the parking lot beyond. phil! i wonder if i could talk to you. your staff meeting's done and thursdays you don't schedule sessions until the afternoon. this will just take one minute. promise. impressive. she remembers his schedule perfectly. it's about pete. perhaps he's not the most qualified person to be treating me. his tone is fatherly yet direct. what did he tell you? yes. 'we'? doesn't seem like the best choice of words when treating schizophrenics. hi. irene checks her watch. the warden hangs back, keeping watch. teddy, i know you knew doug well and this is an extremely -- like i'm crazy. other than me being crazy? no. wait, wait, wait -- teddy, you know me. i wouldn't raise a hand at my husband for the life of me. not even in self-defense. isn't it remotely possible a burglar broke in or some crazed high school student attacked doug and i went into shock? teddy shakes his head. you're telling me there's no other suspects in anyone's mind? because there is no motive. i'm not faking anything. the point is i'm the only person who doesn't believe i killed my husband. i never thought i'd say this, but i feel like i'm in the middle of a conspiracy. do you believe i'm crazy? an uncomfortable teddy takes too long before answering. miranda looks down, humiliated -- and now she sees it. perfectly carved into her arm, her scar reads: forget it. forget i asked. push into her face as involuntary tears roll down and we -- i didn't write this. why? then you know exactly how i feel. he starts to speak, stops himself. switches tactics. their banter escalates in speed as their terms get more clinical: as a doctor i agree with you. maybe -- and this is a big maybe -- all of this is just a deep epilepsy that extends to the limbic structures, but i'm telling you -- what about it? you tell me. but i do know what i sound like. paranoia is the ultimate awareness, right? no! goddamnit! no! he steps back at her blowout. she catches the look on his face and forces herself to sit down. i'm sorry. is there any way we can pretend that didn't just happen? i want to believe you. i do. so i'll take your word for it -- you're not involved in this -- but you take mine: i didn't write this and i didn't kill my husband. he studies her. finally nods. new tactic: number one: i'm right-handed. number two: i would have had to bring an x-acto knife into the shower to do this, wouldn't i? pete tries to reserve judgment. her argument has a certain loopy logic to it. he hesitates, then pulls a series of photographs from a manila envelope. no, i didn't. no, i didn't! oh god, oh god, oh god. she rocks back and forth. finally aware of what she's done. she is the killer. no more doubts. and now that she knows, everything is much worse. a long, harrowing beat. we push in on her devastated face. night turns to day. i didn't say a word. who is that? parsons pauses here. exchanges glances with pete. the girl in the picture. we see what she is talking about: a framed photograph on the desk is now facing us. eerie. it shows parsons, his wife dorothy and a young girl. our teenage girl. she's the girl i saw. i'm positive. she was hurt, bleeding. is she all right? pete and parsons trade uneasy looks. not about this. is she all right? how? i'm -- i'm terribly sorry, phil. parsons doesn't want to talk about it anymore. rises. this is not going to work. i'm sick of being watched, and i know this place well and it doesn't smell this bad. she paces around the room, feels the wall, taps her head. i'm awake, i'm not dreaming. i'm alive -- this is not some afterlife mumbo jumbo. so-called paranormal activity can be debunked a million different ways. so whatever you are, whatever it is i'm making up here -- i'm letting you go, i'm setting you free. i'm the wrong person. and i need to sleep. i'm not afraid and i don't believe and i'm fully aware that this is all in my mind -- fiction -- a concocted alternate reality -- and i acknowledge it. and now i'm done with it. i'm going to sleep now. the moment is as brave as it is ridiculous. she has psyched herself into verbally defeating the ghost. and now she climbs back in bed. besides, if you really were the ghost of rachel parsons, you would let me out of this cell. a beat. and now we hear the sound of the deadbolt slide open. the door opens quietly. push into miranda's face. properly scared now. holy shit. if proof is what she wanted, proof is what she got. from now on we'll refer to the teenage girl as rachel. alright. what happened to you? it's him! it's him! jesus christ, it's him! the man in the yellow shirt acts as if he has no idea what she's talking about. ho-hum, just another psychotic woman trying to escape. a nurse prepares a needle and we -- did you live here when rachel killed herself? phil must have been a wreck. and this is confirmed. there are hospital records and so forth? what about these other dates, was phil here when the other girls went missing and found dead? a disconcerted pete looks at the article with the pictures of rachel and the others: andrea white and jenny dixon. rachel parsons disappeared six years ago. a week later she's a suicide. andrew white, four years ago, same m.o., and jenny dixon, two years ago. don't you find that unusual? he regards her. maybe parsons is right: she's desperately grasping at straws now. skims the article: not one left a suicide note. in fact, how is anybody sure these were suicides? that's his story. i need to talk to the reporter who wrote that. frank something. i beg to differ. i know my visitation rights. you're telling me the one local investigative reporter who connected three highly-suspicious deaths, just happens to have conveniently died? don't be smug, pete. that's one thing you've never been. rachel is somehow connected to what i'm going through. i don't know how -- like you said, i'm not in a frame of mind to process the information without assistance. so i'm asking you for assistance. i know this lecture like the back of my hand! i saw what happened. i'm sorry. no reaction. have you told anyone? chloe? nothing. look, chloe -- the person who did this to you is not the devil. and if you can identify him, i'll make sure the motherfucker is arrested. now chloe looks at her, like something finally registers. do you know his name? maybe you saw a nametag on his uniform? think. chloe simply stares. finally shakes her head. what? i don't hate you. i don't hate you. and i don't feel embarrassed. forget it, alright? forget we had this conversation. i get the distinct feeling you're going to tell me. leave me alone. go away. just like a crazy person. she listens for any further noise, hears none and shuts her eyes. exhausted. i've lost my fucking mind. happy now? silence. but now the bedsprings creak behind her and she whips around and starts to scream as a big hand covers her mouth. her eyes open wide at the sight of simon, in his yellow shirt. he shoves her against the mattress and presses his full weight against her. she lets out a muffled scream as he uncaps a syringe with his teeth and brings the plunger to her throat. straight into her jugular. take that, son of a bitch. simon moans as the full dose hits his system and his body goes limp. miranda exhales, coming back to herself. a beat. rachel? no response. miranda grabs his keys, begins to undress him. thank you, thank you, thank you. she glances back, makes sure no one is following her. catches her own reflection in the rearview mirror: the scared eyes, the haunted face. the new version of herself. she flips the radio dial: bad new age muzak. bad country. bad disco. more bad new age muzak. she finds iggy pop's entirely appropriate "the passenger) and lets it play. no. the car sputters to a stop. miranda goes to turn the key but suddenly freezes. looks at the ignition oddly and notices the key is gone. why are you doing this to me? a dead-still beat. glancing around, she is even more startled to see the blue lighter key chain lying in the middle of the street. what do you want from me? no sign of rachel. miranda yells at the air, glancing over her shoulder, seemingly demented: what is it you want me to do?!! a moment. miranda stranded. the stolen car in the middle of the road. and now the squeak of a gate opening abruptly. miranda whips her head in the direction of the sound. it's the front gate to her house. and now the front door swings open. and now the living room lights switch on. i can't. please, please don't make me go back in there. but even as she's saying this her feet are moving towards it. she pauses, looks at the car in the middle of the road. looks at the fizzling puddle where she was almost electrocuted. no neighbors have come out to investigate yet, but how long can that last? she walks to the car. bear with me, i'm just parking it out of the way so it won't look suspicious in the middle of the road -- okay. she starts the engine and pulls over to the sidewalk. not alone. what happened to you happened to other girls. i understand. and i'm sorry. but there is nothing i can do about it now. it has nothing to do with me. shit. she looks at her foot. a big shard of glass is stuck right through the flimsy hospital slipper into her skin. blood already seeping from the nasty cut -- no. no. no. miranda walks slowly to the mirror. incredibly, the image reflecting back at her also grows bigger. as if the two versions of her are literally walking towards each other. from a side angle we see both their faces mere inches apart. miranda brings her fingertips to the mirror and touches it. immediately pulls her hand back. it's not shrink-appropriate to be afraid of the dark, right? abruptly there's a sharp click as she lights simon's key- chain lighter, and the wavery light illuminates the vast space. rats scurry for cover. it takes a second to orient ourselves. something metallic catches the lighter's reflection way in back. miranda walks towards it. hello? she takes a few more steps until her foot hits a bulk on the floor. she stops. kneels down and in the dim half- light we make out a backpack. she unzips it and rifles through it until she finds a wallet. opens the billfold and brings the lighter next to the id: the picture belongs to a teenager named is there anybody here? hello? the lighter in her hand is getting hot, so she lets it click off. when it comes back on we see she has wrapped a ragged t-shirt around it for insulation. miranda steps deeper into the room. up ahead, she can make out the metallic thing that reflected light before. it is a hook in the ceiling. and suspended from it are several heavy chains. like a meat rack. and now she catches a whiff of the terrible smell and sees the body of the teenage girl: hanging upside down, tied around the hands and ankles. medical training kicking in, miranda quickly lowers the girl to the ground, causing the angry rats to skitter away. go away! fuck off! she checks for vital signs, pulse, heartbeat -- miranda's adrenaline at full tilt -- c'mon, c'mon, c'mon -- she strikes the flint and brings the lighter to the girl's pupils. inspects them. slaps her repeatedly, clinically. the strobe effect also allows us glimpses of the immediate surroundings: household tools strewn about; wire cutters, pliers -- a pool of dried blood. wake up, tracy, wake up -- nothing. she unties the wires around the girl's ankles. the skin swollen grotesquely around them. she shakes the girl. slowly coming to the realization that it's too late. y-yes. yes -- i -- i just pulled over. i was -- looking for a bathroom. morning sickness, you know. i'll be on my merry way now. my husband will never forgive me if i get a ticket for trespassing. that word. nightmare. welcome to my life. mrs. parsons, you need a therapist. normally i would encourage you to schedule a session with me but as you can see -- dorothy shakes her head, determined to finish. she pulls out a folded piece of paper. october 22nd, 2001. it's my wedding date. she stares at dorothy, stunned. brain click-click- clicking. her wildest fears confirmed: doug is behind this somehow. that code belongs to a safety deposit box my husband kept in a bank up in newcastle, that's where his parents live. dorothy, i need you to drive up there and open it. dorothy stares at her, scared. and finally nods. i was wrong. it wasn't phil parsons. it was doug. that's why rachel picked me. it was doug. i'm so stupid. pete regards her now, has no idea what she's going on about this time. tries to remain professional. peter, i didn't believe in ghosts before this. and neither do you. pete is at the end of his rope. can't hide his sadness when he looks at her. still, he tries to get her back on track: chemical deficiencies can't get inside of you and make you do terrible things you don't remember doing! no, you're not. you're a close- minded academic, just like me. you told me once that i was the most logical person you knew, remember? well, everything that's happened has an explanation but it has nothing to do with psychiatry or science. rachel parsons was abducted and she was murdered six years ago -- tossed off the ashley bridge by my husband. my harmless, righteous 'community leader' husband -- that's how pathetically blind i've been. andrea white and jenny dixon were also abducted and murdered -- now this was before i met doug but i bet you anything that they both went to his school. then he obviously stopped for a while: fear, guilt, distractions -- namely me -- delayed him from reverting to his sickness. that's why i didn't notice anything. i believe he really tried to lead a normal life, for me. then along comes tracy seaver and he can't resist. locks her up and tortures her in some abandoned property -- she shows him the crumpled newspaper listing. here's doug's interest in real estate, pete. pete stares at the realty listing for willows creek. rachel parsons is a pissed-off ghost with an agenda, furious at her parents for giving up on her -- she's been trying to communicate with them for years but they're too goddamn logical to pay attention -- and she picked me, she sought me out that night and sent me home to fix her problem. made sure i killed doug because he was going to do the same thing to tracy seaver as he did to her. and she will get rid of anyone who stands in her way. pete takes all of this in. dumbfounded. to whom? to you? i'm telling you she nearly electrocuted me when i tried to leave town and she led me to that barn and if i don't do what she wants -- she's going to kill me. pete can see that she's petrified. he starts to speak, but she hushes him by gently placing her finger on his lips. the gesture is tender, almost romantic. a reminder of their very real connection. i need you to at least consider the possibility that i'm not insane. not as a doctor. as the only person i trust in this world. just fine, thank you. how -- how do you know? yes. rachel. yes, i -- you could say that. consuelo holds miranda's hands firmly, "reading" her. i'm sure that's meant to sound comforting but -- that may be so, but i want her to go away. and how exactly would i do that? look -- consuelo, i appreciate what you're trying to do, but i honestly don't think this ghost will go away if i pour some egg powder on myself -- consuelo holds up a finger, hushing miranda. she's receiving something here. shudders. yes. what are you doing? i'm trying to help you -- ?! rachel opens her mouth wide like a snake. and as miranda screams, blood starts leaking out of rachel's wounds. and now we see it. rachel's lips touch miranda's and breathe her spirit into miranda with a whoosh -- yes. i don't know how to do that -- i'm not qualified for it. you do it. consuelo crosses herself. a sign of respect for the situation. but it has a chilling effect on miranda. no. no. what do you want -- ? and now lightning streaks the room and we see rachel in the corner. staring with her dead eyes. moving towards her. i've done everything you've asked me to. my life is ruined. i can't take this anymore. i can't. you have to step into the light, rachel. you don't belong here -- you don't belong. but it doesn't work. rachel keeps walking towards her. miranda backs up against the wall. trapped. fighting tears -- into the light -- can somebody come in here? i need help. somebody, please! please don't. why are you doing this? it's over. over and done! rachel slowly shakes her head, places her hands on miranda's eyes and shuts them -- stop it! i don't want to see this! i can't help you anymore! stop it! let me out of here! let me out! there's a deafening sound like a thousand bells ringing at once and miranda covers her ears -- outside we hear murmurs, yells, instructions -- page irene asap. this patient needs her meds. turlington nods. miranda looks down at a grateful shelley, whose head is cradled in her lap. brushes the matted hair off her face. carefully removes the biting block, making sure shelley is alright. shh, shh, just rest. fine, phil. thanks for asking. suddenly all the policemen in the room begin to exit -- chloe. turlington is about to exit when parsons stops him: chloe? can i talk to you? you have to let him go. i'm sorry. chloe flinches at that. like all this multitasking is affecting her. she digs the gun deeper into the sheriff's neck, making him cower to his knees, execution style -- what are you going to do? put on his uniform and walk out of here? think about it, chloe. they know you have him. the place is crawling with cops. that's not true. you have less than a year left here. you're right, doctors never concentrate on the things patients are actually capable of. but i know you, chloe, you've been through things that most people don't survive. and you have a wonderful future in front of you if you choose it. it's up to you. this gets through to chloe. her grip loosens on the gun. no more guilt, no more hatred, no more unbearable sadness. you have no use for any of that anymore. your life begins this very second. it was you, wasn't it? 'not alone.' that's what rachel has been trying to tell me all along. doug was not alone. you were with him. this whole time it's been you. you covered up their deaths to look like suicides. the sheriff throws his jacket on, starts walking -- don't fucking move. the click! of a safety being released makes him pause. he turns to look at her. a tense beat. the girl in the hospital. pete locks eyes with her, nods -- as the cruiser leaves. you tell me. why wait this long if he had? maybe. but it seems to me that it's vital you know for sure. he studies her. takes a step towards her. miranda responds by stepping back. a slow motion semicircle, if you will. she eyes the open door. tempted. if you're looking for forgiveness, you came to the wrong place. she's stalling, trying to keep him talking and he knows it. be that as it may, you're afraid too -- because you know killing me won't solve your problems. what about parsons? and peter? they know. and that girl in the hospital will never forget your face. you miscalculated, now you pay. patience tested, he suddenly whacks her across the face. i sure hope that felt good because you can't afford too many more signs of struggle. can you? no, that's what you want me to do. so we're even. you left that door open so i'd try and run, it's what you get off on, isn't it? and yet you have to make me look like a suicide. with what, your belt? how would i get access to a belt? i don't think that's going to satisfy you. you won't be able to do this clean. you have too much guilt inside. smack! another slap across the face. miranda's knees buckle. but she remains standing. her lip trembles. you're losing grasp of the situation. it was different with those girls. i bet all they did was cry and scream. aren't i a little old for you? that's for show. you know you can't shoot me. rachel, where are you when i need you? clearly not here. sheriff ryan's voice getting closer: logic is overrated. dear pete. hope this finds you on both feet, preferably having been promoted to director after phil's retirement. not that you had much competition, but a big hug to you anyway. i was as surprised as anyone to read about sheriff ryan's suicide and the startling discovery that it was he who murdered my late husband. i wish i could personally thank certain people for their convincing testimonies in the case. as for myself, i have a new name now and a job working with teenage girls at a runaway shelter, trying to keep an open mind at the horrors they tell me. which reminds me: consuelo the cuban witch is a keeper, don't fire her. she knows things about the world you and i don't. well, gotta run now, i have some country songs to write and lots of social invites to decline. still pulling back through the lush cemetery, past several trees until we find rachel watching the serene scene. she turns to camera now and we push into her eyes, finally at peace, until it fills the screen and in it we see. p.s. and in case you're wondering what the chances are of me buying you a beer and maybe finishing something we almost started, the answer is: it's just not going to happen. especially not at mcsorley's next friday night. say around nine. so you probably shouldn't bother showing up. all my love, m.g. she turns at the light and gets lost in the crowd.