Scout and George almost came to blows over the clean up. Scout hadn't been thinking about that part of things, to be sure, she'd only been thinking of ending Jess's pain; doing it with a shot gun, however, had been an incredibly short-sighted and messy way to do it. Scout didn't want George to have any part of what came after, but George, of course, felt the same about the person carrying his child.

In the end, they silently did it together. George got a tarp and they lifted what was left of Jess onto it, putting it into a wheelbarrow. George then wheeled it to the edge of the yard, where Jess liked to lie and sun herself. He began digging a hole while Scout got the hose and power attachment and began hosing the mess off the terrace. George didn't want her to, but she assured him that she'd be okay, and she was, just barely.

They finished burying her in the misty twilight of the winter evening, with Bandit howling mournfully as George tamped down the last shovelful of dirt. He refused to let Scout help with any of the digging, and his hands were a blistered and bleeding mess.

"I'll plant something pretty here in the spring," Scout said thoughtfully. "Maybe a hydrangea from the front. She liked the blue ones, you know? She liked to lie under them and keep cool.

"Come on, I'll run you a bath, and I can tend to your hands, okay?" Scout said softly, leading him to the house. He let himself be led, trying to stretch out the kinks in his back.

"How are you?" he asked, looking carefully at her face. "You have circles under your eyes, darling, you should put your feet up and have some tea or something, I think."

"Don't be ridiculous, George, I'm fine," Scout said. "Let me take care of you a little bit, please." She turned to look at him as they climbed the stairs. "And we need to talk, I think. About a lot of things."

He blinked at her, finally nodding soberly.

She drew a warm bath and helped him undress, piling his filthy clothes in a towel, wrapping them up so she could carry them straight to the washing machine. He lay back in the water, and she cleaned him, helping him wash the horrible, awful day off his body, washing his hair and piling it on top of his head. She scrubbed at his fingernails, using a brush to remove the dirt that was packed into them, while trying not to aggravate the abrasions and blisters on his palms any more than they already were.

When he was getting out, he began to cry, saying over and over, "Did you hear her? Did you hear her Scout? She was in so much pain." He grabbed on to her, and she held him firmly, hand on his neck, soothing him as best she could.

"She was happy for twelve years, George," she said. "She was only in pain for three or four minutes. That's not a bad ratio by any stretch. Think of that, okay? She had a wonderful life, a really great life with you." She released him. "Now come on, let's get you dressed."

She got him in fresh underwear, and left him lying in bed while she took a quick shower, getting the grisly day off herself as well. She quickly put on fresh pjs and went back to George. She had him roll over on his tummy and worked on his back muscles for a while, pressing firmly with her long, strong fingers as she straddled him.

She finished up by applying disinfecting salve to his hands and making them tea. They finally both sat, facing each other in the lounge, next to a fire Scout had built, looking at each other with exhausted, reddened eyes.

Scout sighed.

"Oh, George, I'm so sorry," she began. "I know what it's like to lose an animal member of the family. People who don't have pets don't get it, but believe me, I do."

He looked at her. "But you know there's more to it, don't you? You know this is my fault?"

Scout bit her lips together and looked around the room. She took a deep breath.

"I'm in a funny position here," she finally said. "On the one hand, I'm descended from my people, you know? Real no-nonsense, down-to-earth, sensible people. Santa, the tooth fairy, the Easter bunny, all that garbage was out the window by the time we were three. We're supposed to be Catholic, but no one in my family's even been in a church in, like, a hundred years or something, because everyone thinks it's crap." Scout smiled at George.

"We're just not whimsical or imaginative people, you understand?" She made a stern face. "Everyone's very strong." She tilted her head. "On the other hand, I had ancestors at the Salem witch trials. And there are some Brahmins back there, somewhere, too, I think, who believed in being naked and communing with nature and all that? Walt Whitman? The Alcotts?" She shook her head.

"So yes, I know some weird shit's been going on, almost since the day I arrived here." She looked frankly at George. "At first I assumed I was imagining it. Then, I kind of didn't want to know about it. Now, I think I have to know about it." She took a deep breath. "So, are you ready to tell me?" She took a swallow of her tea.

George began to cry, like really, really cry. He shook his head.

"I'm afraid to tell you," he admitted, wiping his eyes with his hand.

"What?" Scout sat up, setting her tea aside, reaching for him. "George, why? What could you possibly be afraid of telling me? You can tell me anything, anything, you must know that--"

He shook his head. "Not this, not this," he said miserably. "You won't love me anymore, you won't, you'll leave, you'll take Alis before she's even born and you'll go away, I'll never see you again--"

What?

"George, listen to me. That's just not possible, it's not! There's nothing you could tell me that would make that happen, you hear me?" Scout leaned forward, shaking him. "Dear heart, I love you, George, I love you as much as I love this baby I have inside me!" She put her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. "You have to believe me. Now talk to me, George."

He stared at her, finally nodding.

"It's Tessa," he said in a low voice. "My first wife."

Scout sat up. This wasn't what she'd been expecting to hear. She waited, but he didn't continue.

"Are you saying that Tessa's haunting Farraway Mist?" she finally asked doubtfully.

"No, she's haunting me," he burst out, fresh tears appearing. "After what happened in London in the toilets with Kelly, and what happened with Grace in Connecticut with her nightmare, it should be obvious that it's not this place, it's fucking me.

"It's me," he repeated softly. "You can never get away from it, Scout, as long as you're with me. I was hoping that, since Alis is a girl, she might be safe, but we'd never know for sure, you know? I mean, what an awful way to live. Or maybe after what she did to Jess, she'd be satisfied, but again, it's the not knowing that would be unbearable..." he trailed off, staring into the fire.

"What are you talking about?" Scout asked. "What does Alis' gender have to do with it? Or what happened to Jess?"

George took a deep breath. "I need something stronger," he said. He rose and poured himself a drink, tossing it off and pouring himself another before sitting down to continue.

"So? What does Tessa want?" Scout asked. Even knowing George as well as she did, Scout wasn't entirely sure that they weren't dealing with some strange neurosis of George's.

"Revenge," George breathed.

Scout stared.

"For what?" she asked. Kelly's words came back to her. "Oh god, George, did you--did you hurt her baby?" She swallowed.

He shook his head.

"She did," he whispered. "Our baby," he continued, in the same, horrible, breathy voice.

"What?" Scout asked again, but she was pretty sure George didn't hear her.

"You should've seen her when we got married," he said, his voice carried away by the past. "She was beautiful. So fun, funny, clever. She became exactly what I wanted, for just long enough, you know?" He looked at Scout, but she didn't think he saw her, either.

"And after we were married for a year or so, I found out that all she wanted was my fucking money, my image, my 'lifestyle'," and he used the dreaded air quotes as he smirked. "All she wanted was for me to make movies and tour with the band, so we could go to premieres, parties and fashion shows, awards ceremonies, do drugs and meet rich and famous people." He snorted.

"She hated it here. She was furious when I bought it, made fun of me. She hated my family." He stared at Scout as fresh tears spilled over. "Everything about my life was a joke to her, you know?"

"But--but you loved her--" Scout began.

"I hated her!" George thundered. "I hated everything about her! I thought I loved her, for about a year, when I first met her, and by the time I realized I didn't, I was already married to her, tethered to her forever and ever. She said she'd never divorce me, she'd never leave her ticket to the best party in the world." He sniffed, and tossed off the rest of his drink.

"George, I've seen the attic," Scout said, beginning to cry herself. "I've seen the magazines, the scrapbooks you made? It's okay, you don't have to lie to me--"

George looked at her, dark blue eyes luminous in the firelight. "Oh, my darling Scout, she made those herself. During the boring months when I made her stay here with me, when we were fighting so much we were barely speaking." He reached out and touched Scout's cheek. "You thought I created some kind of memorial up there in that awful room to my beloved dead wife? Oh god, how long have you thought such a terrible thing? And you kept that to yourself? My poor darling--" And he pulled her into his arms, giving her a warm, scotch-scented kiss.

"So that's why she wants revenge?" Scout asked uncertainly. "Because you hated her?"

Slowly, George shook his head. "I hired someone to follow her on one of her many trips to London. I knew she was fucking someone on the side, and I got proof. I confronted her, and told her I was getting a divorce, no matter what. I didn't see why she'd care. She'd have my money, I wouldn't fight her, and in this day and age, it's not like it would matter, you know? She wouldn't lose her partying lifestyle or anything, so what was the problem? But she cried, she begged me to try one last time." He shrugged.

"So we did. We went away for a week, alone, and I really tried. And it was awful, it was over. She was truly superficial in every way. But she got pregnant." And he looked at Scout. "And I was happy, you know?"

Reluctantly, Scout nodded. She could imagine George's joy.

"I really thought that this could be the one thing that could save us. So I told my parents, but no one else, because Tessa didn't want me to, and I didn't care, I was so happy that I didn't mind to indulge her." And there were more tears, which George swiped away angrily, with the heel of his hand. "And we found out it was a boy, Scout, can you imagine? We were going to call him Oliver." George closed his eyes. "I felt him move," he whispered. "God, I was so happy.

"Then, one weekend, when Tessa was up in London to do some shopping with Kelly, she had a miscarriage. Kelly was the only friend she'd told, you know? And it was awful. I offered to come up right away, but Tessa said no, and she stayed there in a private hospital for a few days, then came back here. She looked awful, very pale and listless and sad. It was very late for a miscarriage, nearly eighteen weeks, which is just terrible."

Scout put her hand on George's arm, unable to bear seeing his face like this.

"And then, five days after she came home, I got a phone call from the hospital in London." George's voice had gotten strange. "They'd tried her mobile, they said, but service here was so dodgy that they'd been unable to reach her. They just wanted to make sure that she was well after her voluntary termination, they said. This was their standard follow up telephone call, but someone had bollocksed it up, they were supposed to only speak to her, you see, not me." George was taking huge, deep, breaths, looking unblinkingly at the fire.

"George, look at me," Scout said loudly, pulling his face so he was looking in her eyes.

"You okay?" Scout asked, waiting for him to nod. His words made her feel sick inside.

He nodded.

"So what happened then?" Scout asked, swallowing.

"I went in our room, where she was, um, resting, 'recovering', you know? And I asked her about it," George went on.

"She said she didn't want it," he said softly, disbelievingly. "That it would muck up her life or something."

"And then what?" At his continued silence, she prodded him. "And then what, George?"

"I, um, left the room," he said. "I yelled that I was leaving, that I was leaving her, and I ran out of the room.

"And she chased me," he continued. "She caught up to me at the top of the stairs, and grabbed me, and said she wouldn't let me leave her or something like that, I don't remember exactly."

"And then?" she prompted.

He stared at Scout, dark eyes bright and unblinking. "Don't make me say," he implored her.

"George?"

"I was so angry," he said. "So angry."

"Was it an accident?" Scout asked.

George shook his head firmly. "I'm not going to lie to you, darling.

"She killed our child, and I killed her. I pushed her down the stairs, over the banisters, actually. She fell, headfirst, onto the marble floor, and died, right there in the front hall."