Elliot sat before the large office windows staring out on the gray day. She took a sip of her coffee as the door opened and Beck stepped inside. He glanced at her before tossing his satchel onto the couch and grabbing a cup for himself.

"The window washer has changed his pattern," Elliot said. "Instead of washing vertically, he is washing horizontally." She scowled. "I don't like it."

"That's because it's a new window washer," Beck said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "I'm sure you could make a call to get him to wash vertically."

He moved over to Elliot and settled on the stool beside her. She didn't look over.

"No," she said. "People can't change. He will have to go."

Beck took a sip of coffee, staring out the window.

"Gun to the back of the head in a dark alley or a drop from the top floor?" he asked. 

"Top floor. Best to make it look like an accident." 

"What will his family say?"

"That he should have washed vertically from the start," Elliot said.

Beck nodded and took another sip. Curls of steam floated from their cups as they sat studying the world outside.

"Did Marilyn leave?" he asked.

Elliot turned to him with a look of surprise.

"How'd you know she was leaving?" she asked.

"Last week at the Cape she told me about her musical opening in Chicago."

Elliot shifted back to the window. Water droplets hit the glass before rolling away.

"She left yesterday," she said. "Not sure when I'll see her next. Most likely at Michelle's wedding."

"That's coming up soon, right?"

Elliot nodded, unable to hold back the frown that slipped onto her face.

"Yes, the dreaded day of doom will soon dawn."

The world seemed to darken in Elliot's mind. She scowled at the gray clouds as if they were to blame for the future event.

"What makes the day so dreadful?" Beck asked, looking at her.

Elliot didn't respond right away.

"It's not just one thing," she said. "It's a million little things. Having to go back to California. Having to see that other part of the family. Having to pretend life is fine. And we all ignore the pink elephant in the corner, crappy on the carpet."

The edge of Elliot's lips curled upward.

"Wow, my alliteration is on point today," she said.

She looked over at Beck, but his face was unreadable, except for an intent look in his eyes. Elliot took a sip of her coffee and looked back to the Common.

"Don't worry," she said. "This isn't something new. Life goes on. With any luck Cece and I will pull off our plan of destroying the wedding and slip out of the country before they can discover we were to blame."

She shrugged, still not looking at Beck.

"We're still missing a helicopter, twenty gallons of orange paint, three original paintings and a paper clip but it should be fine. I hear it's easy to come by a helicopter. Paper clips on the other hand, that might be trickier."

"Have you tried Staples?"

"We would, but we've been banned from every Staples branch in the U.S. Apparently setting up your office and holding conferences in their stores is frowned upon."

"Naturally."

"Lost me a big deal too." 

Elliot stared intently out the window, knowing Beck was studying her.

"Do you find it easier to deal with difficult subjects by making jokes of them?" he asked.

"Why? Is there an easier way than sarcasm?" Elliot asked, looking at Beck. "Because if there is, I'm all ears."

She smiled, but Beck did not respond. Turning away, she chuckled.

"Sometimes you think too hard about things, Beck. You should crack a joke every now and then or sky dive without a parachute. It might help you blow off some steam."

Beck nodded and took a sip of coffee.

"I'll take it under advisement," he said.

"You won't but I appreciate you saying so, makes me feel like I've made a difference."

A smile peeked out of the corner of Beck's mouth.

"Should we get to work?" he asked.

"Probably," Elliot said.

She didn't move. Instead she took another drink of her coffee. After a few minutes passed, she stood and moved to the couch, Beck following.

"Alright," she said, looking over the index cards they had laid out over the coffee table. "We seem close to getting Tess and Weston together. They've hit their bumps but now they are hunky-dory and all should be good."

The room fell silent as Elliot studied the cards, reading over the snippets of information written out in her cramped hand writing. She glanced up and found Beck, resting his arms on his legs, his gaze on her.

"Thoughts?" Elliot asked, meeting his light blue eyes.

Beck hesitated for a second.

"I have a question for you," he said.

Elliot raised her eyebrows.

"Wow, even with the phrasing changed the effect is just the same," she said.

She laughed and Beck managed a quick grin, but it never reached his eyes.

"What is it?" she asked, the affects of the laugh still sitting in her expression.

"Why do you write this?" he asked.

Elliot leaned on the arm rest, her head propped on her fist.

"At first it was for money but now I do it to torture teenage girls by giving them unrealistic expectations of guys."

Elliot smiled, but Beck didn't respond, his face taking on a serious expression.

"Why are you writing this story when you could be writing something better?" he asked.

Elliot flinched as if she had put her finger too close to a socket and got shocked.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice lacking the carefree tone it had held a moment ago.

"You write well, Elliot," Beck said. "I've read your stuff. You have a strong voice and an excellent writing style, but the stories are meaningless."

Any last trace of amusement vanished from Elliot's face.

"Are you seriously saying what I think you are?" she asked.

"You could be writing something worth reading," Beck said.

Elliot's expression hardened. 

"A story that people would love," he continued. "A story that could move people. I've heard enough to know you've been through struggles in your past that could give your writing some substance." Beck motioned to the index cards. "Not this shallow fluff stuff."

"My books are shallow fluff stuff?" Elliot said, an edge to her voice.

"Yes, but I know you could be writing something more mature. Real."

For a moment, Elliot felt as if she had dropped out of reality and into an alternative universe. Her face was expressionless. The camaraderie from a few minutes ago felt miles away. Beck's remarks bounced around in her head, as silence slipped into the room filling every crack and expanding between them. Elliot's quiet voice cracked the silence.

"I could be writing something real," she said.

There was a hardness to her tone that was echoed in her face. Beck leaned forward as if suddenly aware of how what he said affected her.

"Look I'm not saying anything you probably haven't already thought. The few days at the Cape gave me a glimpse into the world you're in. I met the people who are real artist. Who have real integrity about their work. They do something meaningful. Which is why I believe a part of you wants that."

Something pricked at Elliot's chest and hatred coursed through her veins. For a moment, she felt completely frozen and speechless. His words gripped her and squeezed her so tight she couldn't move.

"Elliot, I see that you have so much potential to write something worth while. But you seem to shy away from it." 

"I do not shy away from it," Elliot snapped, breaking from his words.

"Yes, you do. I've witnessed you mock your work and put yourself down. I don't understand why you do that, unless you are ashamed of what you do."

"I am not ashamed," she said, though the statement felt hallow in her mouth.

"Be that as it may, what I'm trying to say is you have the potential to be a real writer. Why aren't you trying to be one?"

Anger spurred Elliot to her feet. She stared down at Beck, her gaze as hard as steel.

"Where the hell do you get off telling me I'm not a writer, Beck Daniels?" she said, fury laced through every word.

Beck stood, his hands raised.

"Elliot, I was just-"

"No! You don't get to say anything," she said.

She leveled him with a hard glare.  

"Do you want to know something Beck," she said. "I looked you up before I hired you and do you know what I found under your name?"

She paused, her lip curling into a condescending smile.

"Nothing."

Beck clenched his jaw as he struggled to keep his expression under control. Elliot pointed at him.

"How dare you judge me on how I run the race when you're the one still sitting on the sidelines."

Elliot turned around and grabbed her satchel and moved to the door.

"We're done for the day," she said.

She looked back, one hand on the open door.

"Don't bother coming in tomorrow," she said. "I'll let you know if I'll still be needing your services."

She walked out, slamming the door behind her. For a moment, she stood there breathing hard, fighting his accusation and fighting the truth that lay behind them. The truth that she felt gripping her chest. With a renewed scowl, she forced his voice out of her head.

She pounded down the stairs and stepped out into the foggy day. Her mind was a tangle of enraged thoughts. But by the time she reached her house her flash of anger had dimmed. She pushed the door open and stepped into the entryway.

"Cece?" she called out.

"Present!" Cece said.

She raised her hand, not bothering to look up from her computer. She sat on the couch in the living room. Elliot dropped her satchel and collapsed into an arm chair, her arms flopped over the side.

"Is murder legal anywhere?" she asked.

Without looking up, Cece answered.

"No," she said. "I've checked."

"Pity."

Cece looked up from her computer and studied Elliot's annoyed expression.

"I do have two fake passports, burner phones and a guy named Pacho who can get us out of the country as well as doing our taxes."

Elliot looked at her.

"You have a guy named Pacho?" she asked.

"Don't you?"

"My guy's name is Randolph. Is Pacho a hot Italian guy?"

"No, beefy Samoan."

Elliot nodded and looked away.
"Right."

"Who are we murdering?" Cece asked.

Elliot shrugged.

"The usual suspects," she said. "The guy who says he can taste the difference between Coke and Pepsi. The girl who stops in the middle of the sidewalk to take a picture of her shoes. And of course, there's always Beck."

"He's probably the easiest to locate."

"Yeah, probably."

Cece's watched as her younger sister's face fell, her gaze trained on the far window. Putting the computer aside, Cece shifted to face Elliot.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked.

"No, I'd rather bottle up my emotions so then one day they explode in one dramatic outburst. I have Michelle's wedding in mind. But I might need to get into another fight to make it really worth watching."

"Good choice. I've found life always goes better that way."

Cece stood and placed her computer on the couch.

"Want ice cream?" she asked.

Elliot nodded, but didn't break her gaze with the window. As Cece walked away, Elliot was left with her thoughts and the truth in Beck's words that held on to her.

**********************************************************************

Tello tilly ooh! (Umm...yeah, I have no idea what that's about either. I apologize)

People! We have things to discuss! Fine, if you want to tell me what you thought about the chapter go ahead, but make it quick we have bigger things to talk about.

First date! Okay what would be the ultimate first date?!
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