The Artist Formerly Known as Nick had taken care of everything. He had been incredible. Commanding and calm, he made the right calls and talked to the right people. He and Sinclair had a private conversation. Then he talked to us in a comforting way and we were glad he was there to help us, we were glad he was our friend, he did everything right, he made it all easier.

He did everything except bring Marc back to life, and if he could have done that, he would have.

I had held Jessica while she wept. Pulled her away from his doorway (my screams, I'm sorry to say, brought everyone on the run) so she wouldn't hear him being zipped into the body bag, so she wouldn't see him get loaded into the ambulance like a sack of grain.

When she was cried out, I tucked her in the way her own mother never had. I calmly waited until she fell asleep. I left her room.

Nick had left with the ambulance. Laura had left also . . . I didn't notice when. That was a problem. Her rapid comings and goings, her scary-fast grasp of teleportation . . . I would have to deal with that, and soon.

Not right now, though. Right now I had something else to deal with.

Sinclair and Tina were in the kitchen speaking in low voices. They stopped when they saw me.

"Are you-" Sinclair cut himself off when he saw my expression. "Very stupid question, I apologize. Nick went to the hospital."

"I know."

"Jessica is asleep?"

"Yeah."

"Laura?"

"Gone. I don't know when." And I didn't know where. The future? The past? The Mall of America? No idea. "I'll worry about that later."

I picked up a kitchen chair and set it upside down on the table we all shared, except Marc because Marc was dead; Marc killed himself and he'd never share this table again, except he would.

Yes.

I snapped off one of the chair legs. Turned. Marched toward the basement. Went into the basement. Walked the length of the basement until I came to the securely bolted door. Marc, after he'd been programmed or mojo'd into killing himself, had still thought of our safety. Had locked everything nice and tight before heading upstairs to inject himself with a lethal amount of opiates.

He was beautiful in death. It was true what people said. Sometimes people really do look like they're only sleeping. Marc had taken care to leave a gorgeous corpse. This was good, because I wasn't going to let him stay dead for long.

Oh, and the letter. He left that behind, too. But I wasn't letting anybody see that. Not for a while, at least.

It seemed to take a long, long time to reach the wine cell. Tina and Sinclair had silently followed me. When I got there and shot the first of the bolts, they both automatically stepped forward to help me.

"No."

"What?" Tina was startled out of her usual deference. I think my tone surprised her.

"No. I'm doing this. Me. By myself. You two are not invited. I'm opening this door and going in. Then you'll close it and lock it. When I knock, open it back up and let me out."

Sinclair looked as distressed as I'd seen him. "Elizabeth, do not be silly, we can't-"

"I'm not asking, Sinclair. Don't make the mistake of thinking this is a discussion. Now. Unless you want a shit day to turn apocalyptic, do what I tell you."

They did what I told them.

Good thing, too.