For the second time in a week, Jake found himself sitting parked in front of the Lansing's home, only this time he wasn't alone.

Pop sat sullenly in the passenger seat, still grumbling about speed limits and the stress that Jake was putting on the truck's brakes. Della rode quietly between the two, a chocolate cake balanced precariously on the lap of her floral dress. She had spent the first half of their drive trying to reason with the old man but had given up when it became apparent he would not be denied an opportunity to wallow. On any other day, Jake would have humored him, but tonight he just hoped his grandad would get it out of his system before dinner. He was already nervous, and worrying about Pop being on his best behavior wasn't helping.

The trouble had begun this morning when the farm's seeder had refused to crank. Garrett had spent the better part of the day trying to repair it, with Pop hanging over his shoulder supervising. It had become obvious to everyone early on, that the outdated machine was beyond help. Even so, Pop refused to relent. A new seeder would be expensive, and that didn't sit well with him. He had more than enough money to replace it, but the old man was a notorious tightwad.

By the time he had conceded, they could no longer get in touch with Peter Collins, the man who sold Pop his farm equipment. He had gone out of town for a funeral earlier in the afternoon. The message on his voicemail stated that the shop would be closed until Wednesday. This news had done little to improve Pop's mood.

As the trio exited the truck, Jake watched him closely, still concerned that his foul mood might ruin the evening. As his grandfather stepped out onto the curb, he turned, offering a hand to help Della down. Jake could see by the set of his shoulders and the tension in his movements that Pop still hadn't let it go. He could just make out their silhouettes in the dim light as Della stepped out to join Pop on the curb. They made quite a picture, his grandfather's tall slender frame towered over Della's shorter, plumper one in the darkness. As he watched, she took Pop gently by the elbow and whispered something Jake couldn't make out. Pop relaxed visibly, and, although he couldn't be sure, Jake thought he heard the old man chuckle before starting down the walk. As uncomfortable as he was with the idea of Pop dating, Jake had to admit that he was happy that Della was here.

Starting around the truck after them, his own anxiety beginning to ease a bit, Jake felt an odd tingling sensation at the back of his neck. Suddenly on alert, he threw a quick glance over his shoulder, checking the quiet street for any sign of movement. Just a few feet down from the driveway, on the opposite side of the road, sat a dark-colored sedan. There was a large figure, decidedly male, positioned behind the wheel.

"Jake, are you coming, son?" Pop called from the top of the steps.

"Yeah, sorry, grandad," he answered, starting up the stairs to the well-lit porch where Pop and Della were waiting. He glanced back only once at the lone form in the driver's seat. Jake could feel his eyes on him, the hairs on his arms prickling at the uncomfortable sensation. If the person in the car was a reporter, he was the strangest reporter Jake had ever seen.

He turned back, dragging his eyes reluctantly from the car and its peculiar occupant, as Pop rang the bell. There was an unsettling moment of deja vu as Jake heard approaching footsteps, but the feeling vanished as quickly as it had come when Emily's father opened the door.

Dillon was wearing a light blue, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and black slacks. The pale blond hair that he had passed on to his daughter was short, and neatly styled. He appeared to have just gotten home from work.

He smiled and greeted them warmly, ushering them into the house as he did so, but Jake couldn't help but notice as they shook hands, that his smile, like Emily's, didn't quite reach his green eyes. It sent Jake back to the day he had found her and the haunted look that she had carried. No matter her facial expression, it had been her eyes that told the tale. Her beautiful blue eyes had seemed so dark and haunted when she smiled. The look on her father's face now, was a vivid reminder to Jake that Emily wasn't the only person in the Lansing home who was suffering.

Following Pop and Della into the kitchen with Dillon close behind, Jake immediately encountered the scent of warm bread and butter mingled with the aroma of garlic, sage, and lemon. The source of the smell was evident, as Rebecca was currently retrieving a large roasted chicken from the double oven. The smells were intoxicating, and Jake's stomach growled loudly in protest. He suddenly found himself very grateful for all the noise, as everyone said their 'hellos' and traded pleasantries.

After greeting Pop and Della with hugs and laughter, Rebecca's eyes met Jake's. She crossed the room to where he stood and hugged him warmly. "Thank you again, for doing this, Jake."

"You're welcome," he answered, hugging her back, "this is going to sound a little strange. But did you know there is someone parked outside, watching your house?" He asked quietly, pulling back just a bit to better see her reaction.

She nodded with a resigned look on her face, one hand still on his shoulder. "It's ok. It's an officer. He's supposed to be there for protection." The note of sarcasm that coated her last few words told Jake that Rebecca believed no such thing.

He was still trying to decide how to respond when he suddenly became aware of a strange noise from across the room. Rebecca's face lit up as she started toward the back hallway , where Emily was slowly emerging from the shadows. It took Jake a moment to make the connection between Emily's crutches and the odd noise he was hearing. As she hobbled into the room, he felt his breath catch. She bore very little resemblance to the girl he had last seen in the hospital.

Her long, pale blonde hair was clean and trimmed. It had been pulled away from her face and fell in long, thick waves down to the center of her back. She wore very little makeup, leaving  the faint circles under her eyes visible. A few yellowing bruises were still evident, but they seemed to be healing quickly. While still disturbing, they had ceased to have the same impact visually that they had previously possessed. She wore a casual white shift dress that fell to her knees, ending just above where the cast stopped. She was barefoot, and her toenails had been painted a dark red, the toes just barely peeking out where the plaster stopped.

Anxiously she scanned the faces in the room, eventually settling on Jake's. The last of his nervousness fell away as the tiniest smile appeared on her lips. It was just a small acknowledgment, but it put him at ease to see it.

With introductions unnecessary, the tiny group congregated in the kitchen continued their small talk, trying not to stare as Rebecca helped her daughter get seated at the end of the table, leaving plenty of room for her cast. Stowing her crutches safely against the wall beside her, Rebecca returned to the kitchen to grab the chicken and then beckoned for everyone to follow, while calling to her husband.

"Dillon, will you bring the rolls?"

"I'm on it," he answered, grabbing a tray that had been warming in the oven before following his wife into the dining room. She placed the chicken in the center of the table, among the platters and bowls overflowing with various sides as Della and Pop stopped by Emily's chair to give her a hug and say hello.

"Sweetie, you look just beautiful," Della whispered, her small round face inches from Emily's as she patted her hand, "it's just so good to see you back home and out of the hospital."

Emily looked up at Della with a soft smile, giving her hand a small squeeze.

"Thank you. It's good to finally be home," she answered.

They took their seats, Dillon at the opposite end of the table from Emily with Rebecca seated toherr right. Jake sat beside Rebecca, between she and Dillon and Pop, and Della sat across from him.

"Dillon, would you like to say grace, please?" Rebecca asked.

He nodded, and the people at the table joined hands and bowed their heads.

"Dear Heavenly Father," he started, his smooth, deep voice dancing easily over the words as they flowed off his tongue like poetry.

"Thank you for the food we are about to enjoy, and please bless the hands that prepared it. We would like to thank you for allowing us all to be here tonight, and for our friends who were able to join us, but most of all we would like to thank you for bringing our beautiful daughter home to us, Lord. In your name we pray, amen"

"Amen," Rebecca replied quietly as she raised her head smiling, her eyes shining brightly as she took Emily's hand.

"So, Jacob," Dillon said, referring to Pop by his given name, as he passed him a bowl of mashed potatoes, "how are things going at your place?"

Jake wanted to groan aloud. He tensed, waiting for Pop to launch into a stream of complaints about farming prices and the state of the economy, but, instead, Pop just chuckled as he passed the bowl to Della.

"Dillon, as a wise man once said, the farmer has to be an optimist, or he wouldn't be a farmer."

Dillon laughed, "well, I guess that's true."

Jake half listened to the conversations going on around him, nodding or smiling as necessary. Pop and Dillon discussed the price of farm equipment and produce, while Della and Rebecca chatted about the new family that had moved into town and the yearly bazaar that was right around the corner. Apparently, Rebecca was on one of the planning committees.

As he listened to the chatter, his attention remained subtly focused on Emily. She sat quietly at the end of the table, nibbling at her food, feigning interest in the conversations around her, but quite obviously distracted. Everyone tiptoed around the events of the last few weeks, not wanting to say anything that might upset her, so the small talk remained superficial.

When dinner was over, she slid her plate aside and leaned in to whisper something to her mother, as talk began to turn to the prospect of coffee and Della's famous chocolate fudge cake. Jake couldn't hear their conversation, but the concerned expression on Rebecca's face was easy enough to read. She nodded before giving Emilonce-over once over.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just a little tired. I could use some fresh air, is all."

Rebecca said nothing, but let her eyes run over her daughter once more. Seemingly satisfied, she stood from her chair and passed her the crutches leaning against the wall.

"You might want to grab your sweater. It's a little chilly out there."

"I will," Emily answered, awkwardly placing the crutches in front of her and beginning the tedious job of pushing and pulling herself to her feet, using the crutches and her mother as support.

"Thank you," she mouthed at her mother as she started for the door. As she disappeared into the tiny entryway, there was a second of silence and then the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Jake wanted to speak to her and hear her voice, to know that she was ok, but he was unsure of whether to follow after her.

Rebecca decided for him. She rose, Della standing with her, and the two ladies began to clear the table, laughing and chatting as they did. Jake grabbed the dirty plates, bringing them into the kitchen where they were already rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher.

"Jake, could I ask a favor?" Rebecca said, as Jake laid the plates on the island.

"Sure," he answered, shrugging amicably.

She slipped around the corner and came back with a thin white sweater.

"She thought she would get out of here without me noticing," Rebecca said, smiling, "will you take it to her? She's out on the front porch."

"Yeah, I can do that."

"Thank you," she said, putting a hand gently on his arm before going back to the sink with Della.

As he started toward the door, he caught Dillon watching him from where he sat chatting with Pop at the table. His eyes followed Jake's every move from across the room. It wasn't a hostile stare, but just intent enough to make Jake uncomfortable. He didn't meet Dillon's gaze but opened the door and slipped out into the night.

A cool breeze welcomed him onto the large open porch. The air smelled of honeysuckle and gardenias, scents that spoke to him of his childhood and the coming of summer. He stood quietly, taking in the familiar smells and allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were no streetlights here, and even the moon seemed to have gone into hiding.

Glancing to his right, he saw her sitting at the far end of the porch in one of the white rocking chairs, of which there were several. She had her back to him. He had no idea if she had heard him come out or not. As he approached, he quietly called her name so as not to startle her.

"Emily?"

"Hi," she said without turning, "I thought she might send you out."

"You did?" He said, coming to stand beside her, suddenly understanding as he did, why she hadn't turned. 

She was sitting at the corner of the porch, giving her a view of the street going back toward town and a section of the woods that bordered the field behind their house. Her crutches leaned against the porch railing in front of her, and her plaster wrapped leg was propped on the small white wicker table that she had pulled up to use as a makeshift leg rest.

"Yeah, my mother's nothing if not persistent."

"Would you rather I left you alone?"

"No, please stay. Have a seat," she said, motioning to the chair next to her.

"I didn't mean to sound rude. It's just, my mom's a bit predictable. I heard the two of you talking when you were here the other day."

Jake thought back to the day he had brought the food Pop had sent. He remembered the flash of blonde hair in the hallway and his own worries about whether she would want him there or not.

"I'm sorry," she said, apparently taking his wool gathering for disapproval, I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I didn't even know anyone had dropped by until I heard my mom talking to you."

"No, it's fine," he answered. She watched him closely, as if she were trying to decide if he was being truthful with her. Something she saw in his face seemed to convince her, and she continued on.

"I heard her telling you that I'm mad at all of them."

"Are you?" He asked.

She shook her head slowly in answer, "Not exactly. Try to put yourself in my shoes for a second. I can't remember anything from the past year. That's a huge chunk of a person's life to lose. My parents and my friends all have the pieces, but everyone is tiptoeing around me like I'm made of porcelain. They know more about my own kidnapping than I do. They know what I've forgotten, but no one will talk to me about it."

"Really? Why?"

"The doctor said that it wasn't a good idea right now. Something about planted memories. They want me to remember organically," she said, sarcasm dripping off the last words as she made overexaggerated air quotes.

She might not be angry with her family, Jake thought to himself, but she was definitely angry with someone. Frustration and defiance tinted every word. He could feel it coming off of her in waves.

"She wasn't wrong though, when she said, what she said."

"Who?"

"My mom. When she said that I'm more comfortable with you. She wasn't wrong. Everyone in my life is hiding something from me in one way or another. You didn't know me before this, so it makes it a whole lot easier to trust you."

"Really? I don't feel like anyone trusts me right now," he said, a little abruptly. He couldn't help but think of the people in town and the odd looks and whispers he kept receiving.

She rolled her eyes, and then amazingly, she snickered. "Why?" she asked, not bothering to hide her amusement. "Because the cops think we're the original Bonnie and Clyde?"

He had a sudden image of himself in a pinstripe suit with a Tommy gun. A large brown fedora, perched rakishly, on his head. Beside him, stood Emily in a flapper dress, complete with boa, headband, and large white cast. The picture was so absurd he had to choke back a laugh himself, and then he heard her giggling from the seat beside him.

"I know. It's ridiculous, right?"

"Yeah just a little," he said, getting himself under control.

A companionable silence fell over the porch, and they sat that way together, just looking out at the street. Emily was the first to speak.

"You know that's one of them, right?" she said, motioning discreetly in the direction of the sedan, still parked in front of the house.

"Yeah. Your mom said something along those lines. Do you know who it is?" He asked, thinking of Agent Simmons and immediately bristling at the idea.

"It's one of those FBI guys," she replied, "they said his name was Sully, or something like that. He's ok. Nicer than the first guy that showed up here."

He didn't miss the small shudder that ran through her as she referred to the Agent, and he felt frustrated for her. He partially understood their mistrust of him, but how could they look at her and think she could possibly be guilty.

"It's like San Quentin around here."

"Is it that bad, really?"

She rolled her eyes and shot him a look that asked if he was blind.

"Yes. I never leave here because my parents are completely losing it. They have apparently forgotten, that I was an adult with a house and a job before this. They're treating me like a teenager who's been punished. Not to mention, that they have armed police officers camped outside my house to make sure I don't flee for the nearest border."

"You're here all the time?"

"Ever since they brought me home."

"Would they let you out?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe. I imagine the goon squad wouldn't be far behind if I did." she said, once more gesturing in the direction of the sedan.

"It's ok. We could make that work."

"Make what work?"

"I'm not sure yet," he said, smiling, "let me talk to your mom. I might just have an idea."