NOTE: I do not claim to be part of the Deaf community. I do not intend for the content of this chapter to be offensive. If I've written something incorrectly and it offends you, please send me a message and I will fix it. I am not here to attack your community. Teach me, and I will learn to know better.

Potential trigger warning for gun mentions and intended violence, which is canon-typical.

.                  .                 .

"Look inside my heart and find a perilous ravine

Carved within the beauty, the darkness in between

Standing in the balance of complete and incomplete

I identify the echo of what is and what will be"

HALF.ALIVE - 'Creature'

.                   .                  .

Of all the people to barge into his office and raise a gun to his chest, Malcolm did not expect it to be his own daughter.

To her credit, Cali's hand didn't shake, the gun didn't dip or sway, her focus never waivered. She just stood there, watching Malcolm watch her, the gun a stagnant threat between them. Something in his chest tightened - an emotion that he was unfamiliar with crept in and twisted around his heart.

Ah, perhaps an emotion that wasn't his at all then.

"Daughter," he greeted calmly, barely glancing at the weapon that could so easily end him. Cali's eyes glinted dangerously. "Are we sure the gun is necessary? I've just had the carpets cleaned, and I would hate to get blood on them."

"You know why I'm here."

He sighed, shuffling his papers nonchalantly and setting them off the side. "If you're here to kill me, please allow me the courtesy of getting my affairs in order first. I have several meetings scheduled for today, and I would prefer to cancel them politely instead of condemning my business partners to seeing my dead body."

His keen eyes picked up on the finest tremor travelling up Cali's arm as his casual attitude threw her off balance. Just as he'd known it would. She might try to play the tough girl, but she was too gentle for it really.

Michael had beaten any cruelty right out of her.

Not that Malcolm approved of the man's methods, but there had been several advantages to Michael's training that he'd taken shameless advantage of.

"I have to stop you," Cali said, and the gun lifted until it wasn't pointing at Malcolm's heart, but rather his head. He barely even blinked. Cali licked her lips nervously. "You have to pay for-for killing Robert and Sara. For almost killing Oliver. You have to pay."

"Really," Malcolm pointed out mildly, "I don't have to do anything. It's ultimately up to you, daughter mine, You're in control of the situation right now." A calculated assessment, worded specifically to ease doubt into Cali's mind.

The gun tilted away. If she pulled the trigger now, she'd probably shoot his ear off, but that was all. He'd known from the beginning that there was no real danger. She was too soft-hearted, too caught up in family and love.

Plus, the serum that was zinging around her bloodstream connected them. She couldn't kill him without killing a large part of herself.

Malcolm settled back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.

Cali shook her head, readjusting her grip on the gun. Where she'd gotten it from, he had no clue. "You've done terrible things," she breathed, voice shaky and uncertain. "Someone has to hold you accountable."

"And that someone has to be you?"

"Yes." The answer was immediate, but the conviction was weakening. "If it isn't me, then it'll be the Hood."

Hm, an interesting tidbit of information. To threaten him with Starling City's vigilante was a bold move, and it hinted at connections that he hadn't suspected. Surely Cali didn't know who was under that atrocious green hood. Surely she hadn't gotten herself caught up in such a vast spiderweb.

Malcolm hoped with all his heart that he wouldn't have to lock her away before he could set the Undertaking in motion.

"I see," he said lightly. "Well, does Tommy know about this? Surely not, else he'd be here with you. Besides, he wouldn't let you do something so rash. No-" he paused, and peeled his lips into a small smirk as Cali flushed, "-your brother would insist you go to the police. Tell me, daughter, if you were to go through with this, what would you tell him?"

The gun dipped again, Cali's caramel eyes filling with unexpected tears. So steely her resolve had been when she'd marched into his office. How broken she was now. Malcolm almost felt bad for her. But the gun wasn't all the way down yet. He wasn't quite in the clear.

Cali's breathing hitched. The gun wobbled. "I have to do this," she told him, voice breaking. "I have to."

"Do you?" Malcolm questioned quietly. "Do you, Calico?" The gun lifted again. He raised both of his hands. "Think about what you're doing, baby. If you pull that trigger, you'd be murdering another human being. Is that what you want on your conscience?"

Cali exhaled carefully, her teary eyes hardening again. "You've hurt so many people," she whispered. "You've killed people, and for what? Tell me why!"

"Are you going to kill me, Calissa? Is that the last image I'm going to have of you? Holding a gun to my face?"

"I should kill you. I should-"

"What would you tell Tommy? You've already lost your mother. How would you tell him that you're the reason he lost his father too?"

Cali's stance widened. The gun dipped again. "You don't love him. You cut him off-"

"I made a mistake," Malcolm said. "All fathers do. I'm not perfect, Cali. It's not fair of you to expect me to be."

"You've killed people-"

"And if you pull that trigger, you'll be no better."

A heartbeat. Tension crackled in the air as Cali struggled visibly with herself. Whatever hyper-focus she'd entered his office with had withered away in light of his persuasions. Her once-steady hands trembled violently.

Apprehension slowly built its way up Malcolm's throat - an emotion of his own, for once. He'd expected this to be easier. He'd thought that he would've talked her down by now, had believed her too weak to battle his will for too long. But the gun was still still pointed at his chest, and if Cali were to pull the trigger, he likely wouldn't die, but he would be severely injured.

Keeping his hands raised in surrender, he slowly inched his way out of his chair, rising to his feet as smoothly but as non threateningly as possible. Cali was a tall girl, so he didn't tower above her, but there was still definitely a height difference that he tried not to draw attention to.

"I love you, Calico," he murmured, moving around his desk and taking small steps until he was in front of her. The gun dropped away, Cali's grip slackening and the weapon falling limply to her side.

There was no resistance when Malcolm reached forward and gently drew the pistol out of her hand.

Inhaling sharply, he clicked the safety back on and settled it on his desk, wiping his palms on his slacks as if to rid himself of the touch. "I'm sorry," Cali said miserably, and her tears fell freely now that her arms weren't weighed down by the gun. "Oh my god, I don't-I'm so sorry-"

"Oh Cali," Malcolm sighed and drew her into a hug. "It's alright. It's alright, darling."

And Calissa, who'd sworn never to crawl back to him, sworn that she didn't love him and that he was a monster, sworn that she didn't ever want to see him again, renounced him as her father - Cali latched her hands onto his shirt and buried her face in his shoulder, the sharp creases of his suit softening under the dampness of her regret.

They'd never held each other like this. Not even when Rebecca had been murdered. Malcolm had pushed both of his children away, pushed Cali away when her only crime was having Rebecca's features on her small face. He'd kept Tommy away for having her eyes.

And then he'd left, for two years, and when he'd come back, neither of his children had forgiven him enough to give him a hug.

"I'm so sorry, Dad," Cali sobbed into his shoulder, her entire body shuddering in his grip. "I almost shot you, oh my god. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Oh my god-"

"Shh," he soothed, using one hand to smooth down her hair. "It's okay. Shh."

.                    .                  .

There was something about Felicity Smoak that Oliver Queen couldn't ever forget. He couldn't put his finger on it - something to do with her smile, or her lipstick, or the pen she'd held between her teeth - but it was bright and warm whenever he walked into his office.

Like today. "Hey," he greeted warmly, after watching her study her tablet for several moments without noticing him standing there.

She startled, tipping the tablet away from him like she was watching something she shouldn't have been. "Don't you knock?" She demanded, and then that weird thing about Felicity Smoak kicked in and Oliver smiled without meaning to.

"Felicity-" her name sat just right on his tongue "-this is the I.T. department. It's not the ladies' room."

Her nervous huff of laughter didn't mask the quiet click of her tablet turning off. "Right. What can I do for you?"

And oh, if Oliver had ever loved lying to someone, he loved lying to Felicity. "My buddy Steve is really into archery," he started innocently. "Apparently it's all the rage now."

Felicity shook her head slightly and set her tablet down, looking suitably unimpressed. "I don't know why," she said. "Looks utterly ridiculous to me."

Okay, ouch. Oliver only stared at her for a moment, because what he did wasn't ridiculous. It was justice, it was righting his father's wrongs. "Anyway," he continued, shoving aside the mild indignation and starting to uncap the large cylinder containing the other archer's arrows that Lance had given him. "It's Steve's birthday next weekend and wanted to buy him some arrows. Thing is, he gets these special, custom-made arrows-" he pulled the arrow out into view, taking note of the way Felicity shrank back, "-and I have no idea where he gets them."

"I don't-"

"I was hoping you could find out where this came from," he finished, holding out the arrow to the blonde girl.

There was a pause, in which he held his breath. His cover stories were absolutely horrendous, he knew that. But there was a difference between logging into a busted laptop and handing oer a suspicious arrow that was literally a murder weapon in an on-going investigation.

He did not Felicity well enough to trust that she wouldn't dob him in to someone.

She reached forward, though, her fingers barely brushing the shaft before Oliver jerked it away and breathed, "careful."

Felicity rolled her eyes. "Yeah." She gripped the arrow a little more firmly and Oliver relinquished it with less hesitation. "The shaft's composite is patented," she muttered, already switching on her tablet and working away. She studied the screen for a moment, before smiling. "And that patent is registered to a company called Sagittarius." She held the arrow out to him. "That's latin for 'the archer."

Oliver took the arrow gently, sliding it back into the tube he carried it in. "Could you find out when and where this was purchased?"

The tight smile Felicity gave him told him that she wasn't buying a word of his bullshit story. She knew he didn't have a friend named Steve. But for some reason, she didn't question him. She didn't turn him away. She didn't call for Walter.

She was a bit like Cali, in a way.

"According to Sagitarius company records, that particular arrow was part of a bundle shipment-" she scribbled down an address and held the sticky note out to him, "-two hundred units sent to this address."

"Felicity," Oliver breathed, taking the note and studying the address, "you are remarkable."

Her smile loosened, solidified into something a little more genuine. "Thank you for remarking on it."

Oliver rose from his seat, giving her one last smile and heading for the door, tube gripped tightly in his hand. "And Merry Christmas," he added, a little sheepishly.

He was almost out of her office when she called out, "I'm Jewish."

He hid his grin. Of course she was. Of course this wonderful, strange, smart woman was something special. He ducked back inside. "Happy Hanukkah," he said quietly, and then disappeared out of the door, feeling strangely giddy, like he was some dumb teenager again.

It was nice.

.                   .                  .

Everything was so still and so quiet.

Her breath rasped out of her, cracking through the stuffy air like a bullet, only to be swallowed up by the oppressive silence. Her dress was pressed tight to her skin, wrapping around her ike a second skin and hiding the rapid inflation and deflation of her lungs. Her perfectly styled hair made the back of her neck itchy. Her ruined makeup felt heavy on her face.

Oliver was having a party tonight.

Cali had almost killed her father today.

How could she possibly be trusted to be around other people? She was a monster, a would-be murderer. She'd almost killed her father today.

Would that have been her Christmas present to Tommy? A funeral for the only family they had left. She would have stranded them both without any parents, when Tommy was already without a trust fund, already without a support network.

What would Oliver think of her? What would he do - would he condemn her? Would he understand? No, surely he wouldn't - Oliver knew the terrible things that Malcolm had done and he'd not made a move against him. Why should Cali have been the one to do it?

Where did her violence come from? Michael? No, it was bred into her, at birth, when her mother died, when their father went away and then never really came back.

She was a monster by design. By blood, by fate. She was the daughter of Malcolm Merlyn and it showed in every action. Michael had been right to control her, to try and train the darkness out of her.

He'd seen her for who she really was. And he'd tried to love her anyway. Why had she hated him so?

It was so still and so quiet in her apartment.

A gun sat on the table in front of her.

She'd thrown up for hours when she'd gotten home, her shame and fear wriggling around her stomach as she'd heaved and sobbed and shaken. She still felt like that now, but her sickness had been replaced by weakness, her wild hysteria replaced by quiet tears.

There was a party tonight, and she was supposed to be going. Thea was expecting her there. She'd gotten dressed up. She'd invited Janet too, but her lovely waitress was working, so Cali was condemned to go alone.

Maybe she wouldn't go at all. She wasn't safe to be around.

She'd threatened to kill her father.

It had seemed so right at the time, so just and righteous and absolute. Because she knew that Malcolm wouldn't stop, knew that he would continue to sacrifice lives and continue to not care. The only way to stop him was to stop him.

But she'd waivered.

Because Malcolm Merlyn was a bad man, but he was also her father. He was Tommy's father. And he loved her, in his own twisted way.

She couldn't kill him. She should've but she couldn't, and he'd known it and she'd known it too, really.

That person - the girl who held a gun to a man's heart and told him she was going to kill him - that wasn't her. But it was. It was her, and she didn't know how to fit that into her fractured identity. She was already so many different people, crammed into one body. To add another broken being? She was going to fall apart.

She couldn't go to the party tonight. She'd tried to kill her father today.

The gun sat pretty on the table in front of her.

Her fingers danced across her phone screen, and she held it up to her ear, keeping her eyes trained on the weapon like it might kill her there and then. She might want it to. The call connected almost straight away. "Diggle."

"I don't think I can come to the party," she breathed through the phone. "Sorry John. Apologise to Thea for me. And Tommy."

"Are you okay?"

"Bye John."

He was still saying her name when she hung up, the phone falling from her hand and landing on the table with a sharp thunk. It sat next to the weapon.

Cali was crying - she hadn't stopped since she'd not-killed Malcolm - and chills were rippling across her skin. Shock, a distant part of her recognised. She was in shock, and had been for hours.

She should get a banket. She should move. Get away from the gun. Go to the party. She should go to the party. Thea expected her to be at the party.

She couldn't bear to see Tommy. Not Tommy. Not now. How could she ever look at him again? He would never forgive her for what she'd done today. Never ever. He didn't support their father, but he loved Malcolm. Cali had almost taken that away.

Her phone trilled on the table. She answered it. "Hello?"

"Cali, what's going on? What's wrong?" John sounded a bit frantic, and more guilt built up in Cali's chest. "I'm on my way over. Are you hurt?"

"No John." She wasn't hurt, she wasn't. She was just a bad person. Like her father was, like Michael was supposed to be. "You should go back to the party. Won't Oliver miss you?

John huffed. "Oliver is busy doing other things. He's gonna be late to the party anyway. Besides, it hasn't started yet."

"I can't go to the party," she told him, and a fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks. Her voice caught in her throat and choked her words. "My-My makeup is ruined, John. I can't go with ruined makeup."

He was silent for a moment, and Cali twitched in her seat, her tears falling faster as shame burned hotter in her stomach. She didn't deserve a friend like John. She didn't deserve anything but eternal damnation.

John let out a heavy breath, bringing her back to the current phone call. "It's lucky that Carly taught me a few tricks. I'm sure I can patch you up just fine, Miss Merlyn. You'll make it to the party, I promise."

Yeah, okay. She could handle that. "That sounds nice, John," she croaked. "That sounds really nice."

She hung up after a few more exchanged words, wiping uselessly at her eyes and looking away from the gun that sat innocently in front of her. John was coming. She had to hide it, because if he knew, he wouldn't fix her makeup or take her to the party. He would walk away, and she'd lose him, and then it would all be over.

Her body moved in agonising slow motion, like the air around her was made of molasses. The cold metal of the gun bit into her palm as she picked it up and slid it into the bottom drawer in her kitchen. Even when it was out of sight, she was so painfully aware of its presence.

Pressure was assaulting her temple, her headache a steady presence behind her eyes. A result of crying for so long - which was almost laughable, when you really thought about it. How was it that a twenty-nine year old woman could cry for so many consecutive hours like she was a child again.

She was supposed to have her life together by now.

Shaking her head, Cali dug out heer half-empty bottle of Advil, downed a few tablets, and waited for John to arrive.

.                   .                  .

Having Cali live with him was troublesome in ways that Tommy should have expected.

Her nightmares, he'd expected. He'd already braced for the screaming, the thrashing, the crying. Laurel and Thea had both gone through something similar when the 'Gambit' had gone down and they'd learned that their siblings would never be coming home.

He hadn't expected the silence, still and cold and unbreakable. Cali never said a word, only made noise when she was trapped in the throes of her dreams. She didn't cry when she was awake - in fact, Tommy never saw a flicker of emotion in her other than fear if he moved too quickly, spoke too loudly.

Michael had broken her so completely that he wasn't sure he could ever fix her.

Until the day that Cali bumped into her brother in the kitchen, and the bottle of milk in Tommy's hand toppled to the ground and splashed over their feet.

"Oh," Cali whispered, finally, her voice breaking and cracking and aching with disuse. "Oh, it's just spilled milk."

And then she collapsed into Tommy, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and started crying uncontrollably into his shoulder. He gripped her tightly, whispering whatever words came to his mind, because he'd been waiting for so long to be able to hold her like this. To be able to touch her.

He'd been waiting for the moment when she realised that he wasn't Michael. He was just Tommy.

He was just Tommy and that had to be enough, because he had nothing else to offer her but that.

.                   .                  .

John's movements were careful and controlled as he gently worked a damp towel over her face, abducting her smeared makeup into the fibres of the towel and leaving her plain-faced and quiet in her seat. He didn't talk while he worked, which was nice. Cali didn't think she could handle the rough stimulus of hearing a voice right now.

Finally setting the damp towel aside, John relaxed back into his seat and took a moment to just take her in. He was looking for something in her expression - something that would give him answers to half-formed questions. Cali stared back, deadened and listless and tired.

"C-A-L-I," John finger-spelled, unexpectedly, and Cali snapped to attention, narrowing her eyes at the familiar, but rarely used language. John's hands were steady and sure, confident in his conversation without vocals. "Something happened. Tell me?"

Cali lifted her own hands to respond, dismayed to find them trembling. "I'm bad," she signed weakly, her fingers feeling clunky and slow. She hadn't used ASL in so long. "Did a bad thing. Can't forgive myself, J-O-H-N."

With a smile, John gently threw his fist down into his palm, knuckles level, like he was knocking on his palm, and moved it in a circle. "J-O-H-N," he spelt, and then did the motion again. Cali repeated the motion back to him, understanding the callsign for what it was.

She;d expected something that more reflected his military past, something with a more targeted and specific meaning. But no, he'd chosen instead to portray his name as something simple, common, steadfast and unchanging.

The first hint of a tentative smile played around her mouth, and she shrugged at him before fingerspelling her own name. She didn't have a name sign. She wasn't Deaf, and wasn't part of the community. Her knowledge had been scraped together, bound by interest and bleak wanting.

She frowned at him and waved her hand. She knocked her closed fist into her palm and made a circle, and tilted her head. "How?" she signed, curious. It was rare for a hearing person to have a name sign. It was usually gifted to someone by a member of the Deaf community.

John shook his head and grinned. "Army," he signed back at her. "One of my men was Deaf. He taught me, gave me name sign." Again, John demonstrated the gentle closed-fist knock into his palm and circle. "His name was R-A-X-E-R." He fingerspelled the name and then made the sign for song. "He liked to feel music."

A bittersweet memory, Cali was sure. It was hard to remember people who meant much to you, once, when they were dead and gone. Her mother was like that too.

"I went to clinics," she said finally, wincing as her raw throat flexed around the words. "Got members of the Deaf community to teach me properly. They only ever called me 'girl'."

John reached forward and grabbed one of her hands in his. "I'm not Deaf," he said, "but I can give you a name sign, Cali. Just for between us. Just for right now."

"Yeah John," Cali whispered. "Okay."

Her name sign should be murderer. Should be monster. Should be abomination. It wouldn't be, though, because John was a sweet, naive fool who was so blind to her true potential. She'd almost killed her father today, and oh-

John had named her with a variation of 'Princess'.

"C-A-L-I," he fingerspelled, and then made the sweeping motion again, eyes twinkling. "Princess."

Cali's entire body was cold, flushed by chills, by shock, by relief. Another name by which to call her, and it turned out to be a name she didn't deserve. This was friendship, pure and simple, and the vastness of it terrified her more than the darkness inside of her did.

How could she be trusted with this wonderful thing? She couldn't nurture a bond like this. It would wither and die, decay over time and rot her insides until she was nothing more than a living corpse.

John's mouth slanted downwards slightly, and his grip on her hand tightened. "It's okay," he said softly. "Let's just get you ready for the party."

Cali sniffed and lifted her chin. She could do this. She had to do this.

She'd almost killed her father today, and as a result she'd been named Princess, and she was going to the damn party.

.                   .                  .

Oliver didn't want to admit that he was worried, but he was worried. He'd been late to the party, as was to be expected when you lived a double life as an archer vigilante, but he'd seemed to beat Diggle here. Which was unheard of. John always made a point to be punctual and present.

But he wasn't at the party, and Oliver didn't want to admit that he was worried, but he was.

A hand brushed against his shoulder and he whirled around, startled to find himself face-to-face with the very bodyguard he'd been desperately scanning the crowds for. "Diggle," he hissed under his breath, eyes flickering over his friend's body, searching ro injuries. "What the hell? Where were you? You're later than I am."

Diggle shook his head and leaned in close. "Cali's with me," he said lowly, and Oliver's entire body tensed. "Something's happened, but she won't tell me what. I talked her out of whatever headspace she was in, but she's not safe yet. You've gotta watch after her tonight, Oliver, or we're going to lose her."

Oliver glanced over Diggle's shoulder, immediately finding Cali by the front door, her makeup plain and her body language closed off and nervous. He nodded, once, and Diggle backed up a step or two, signing something at Cali through the crowds.

Oliver cursed his inability to understand ASL. Of all the languages he knew, one of America's most important was not one of them.

"Oliver," Cali greeted warily after gliding through the ayhered people to meet him. "Sorry that John and I outdid your fashionably late arrival. I had a...makeup dilemma."

An oversimplification, Oliver was sure.

But he put on a smile, and he didn't push, and when Cali's shoulders relaxed and her deadened eyes were flooded with relief, Oliver felt just that much worse for it. "Glad you could make it," he said easily, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Merry Christmas, Cali."

Her smile melted into something genuine and soft. "Merry Christmas, Oliver."

John cleared his throat and gave Oliver a pointed look. "You sure you want to do this, man. Maybe now isn't the best time for you to be playing Martha Stewart's elf."

The reference was completely lost on Oliver, who'd been on an island for the past five years and was thus missing some pop culture knowledge. He chose not to point it out, though, and carried on the conversation as though he had every idea what John was talking about. "My family needs this party, Diggle. Which means that I need it."

With a nod, John began to lead him and Cali through the crowds, on the lookout for familiar faces and family members.

Which was when they ran into Shane.

Oliver's lips automatically curled at the rattish boy in front of him, underdressed and out of place at a Queen party. Something about him made Oliver's skin crawl - how Thea felt safe around him, Oliver had absolutely no idea.

Upon seeing him, SHane's eyes widened almost comically. "Hey dude," he said, and Oliver wanted to shoot him with every single arrow he had just for that. "Thea invited me. I hope that's cool." He glanced down at the flowers he was carrying and held them out. "These are for your mom."

Oliver snorted dismissively and turned to Diggle. "Smooth," he whispered and then gently looped his arm through Cali's and led her into the lounge, where the table had been moved to make room for gatherings of people.

Her skin was cold against his, and he startled for a moment. Five years ago, Cali had always run almost too warm. "What?" Cali asked, frowning at him. Clearly, she'd noticed him shifting about. "You're the one who grabbed onto me, so if you're uncomfortable, it's entirely your fault."

"No, no, no," Oliver rushed to assure her. "I just wasn't expecting your arms to be so cold. You're literally an ice-cube right now. Are you okay?"

Anyone else would have missed the way that Cai's eyes shuttered, the false emotions disappearing under a sheet of blankness and bleak surrender. Anyone else would have missed the way her wrist flexed, as she changed from a bland flatness to a sallow sadness.

Oliver was not anyone else, and worry hit him so hard he was blindsided, and for a few moments, it was really hard to breathe.

"Are you okay?" He repeated, a little firmer this time. "Cali, what's wrong? What's going on?"

She exhaled sharply. "Nothing," she said tiredly. "John's already fixed it up. I just had a spaz out over ruining my makeup. John fixed it, Ollie, I promise." Her smile was wobbly and paper-thin. "I'm fine."

Another vast understatement. There were already too many of those tonight, from Cali.

He wanted to ask, but they'd just stumble across his mother, Thea, and Walter, and Cali was already letting go of him and engulfing Thea in a tight hug. "Killer dress, Critter," she said brightly when she pulled back, eyeing the fabric appreciatively. "That Shane boy isn't gonna know what to do with you."

"You know about Shane?" Oliver growled.

Cali rolled her eyes at him over her shoulder. "Of course I know about Shane. Who do you think told Thea to invite him here?"

Moira chuckled, interrupting Oliver before he could start shouting. "Well, I'm glad that everyone here has a date tonight, at least." She eyes Oliver keenly, and he straightened his shoulders, even though he had absolutely no idea what she was looking for. "Calissa," she said, without taking her eyes off her son, "I'm sure I saw Tommy and Laurel just now. I'm sure they'd love to see you."

A clear dismissal. Oliver's jaw worked as he bit back his angry words at how blatantly rude that had been, but Cali was already giving Thea a kiss on the cheek and slipping away into the crowds. Clearly, she'd been expecting nothing less.

"Mom," Oliver said scoldingly. "That was rude."

"Oh please, Oliver, she's clearly uncomfortable being here. You really think that Merlyn Media Smile was fooling anybody?"

Oh. Well, that was slightly more valid then.

.                   .                   .

In her defense, Cali had every intention of going to her brother and sticking to him like glue for the rest of the night.

His face flashed through the people, his mouth stretched wild as he chatted about something with Laurel, his hands moving animatedly while he talked. He looked happy, content, settled. And Cali just...couldn't.

She'd almost killed her father today, and her brother was finally happy, and she couldn't go to him now. Not at a party. Not with Laurel right there. Not with second-hand makeup plastered on by a gentle ex-soldier who called her a princess.

She couldn't.

Maybe that made her a coward, or a bad person, or maybe it just made her soft, but Cali would die before wrenching that happiness away Even if she managed not ot tell him, she couldn't bear to watch him, engage with him, knowing what she knew. Remembering what she'd done. What she'd almost done.

Tommy would just have to have Christmas without her, this year.

Seconds before Tommy looked out in her direction, she let the crowds swallow her up again as she cut a line for the front door. She was already dialling Parker, pressing her phone to her ear as she escaped from the cloying pretence of girlish humanity.

"I'll there in five minutes, Miss," Parker said immediately after he answered, and Cali let him be the one to hang up, because if there was one person she could trust herself with right now, it was Parker.

She sat on the curb, not caring about the dampness that immediately soaked into the hem of her dress, and waited for her friend to take her away from there.