Author's Note:

I always thought the Lacey storyline was interesting- a flawed woman and a flawed man who brought out the worst in each other was an interesting take on the Rumbelle arc. I was a bit disappointed when they abruptly brought it to an end when Mr. Gold needed his Belle back instead of exploring that side of Belle.

You can of course argue that it was a nasty curse designed to bring up her worst attributes just like Snow was reduced to a meek lonely slip of a woman- the very thing the Evil Queen wanted her most to be- but what if the cursed persona was based on a small part of herself she hid away to survive? Doesn't that it make them even more interesting?

So, I decided to try and write a tale about Lacey who embraces her flaws as virtues to get what she wants and how her life changes when she stumbles into a world with very different rules.

So, please don't expect the exact OuaT Belle in this story, this is a different fairytale.

This chapter has been updated from its original posting to reflect some characterization changes.

XxXxX

It all started with a cup of coffee.

Well, the sludge that The Looking Glass passed for coffee at least.

Lacey had just raised the Styrofoam cup to her lips, carefully blowing to avoid scalding her mouth when- "There you are!" boomed over her shoulder.

At this unexpected sudden incursion in her personal space, Lacey involuntarily flinched in her seat, sending a river of molten coffee cascading into her lap. "For fuck's sake!" she yelped, already grabbing for the paper towels she kept in her lower desk drawer.

The black skirt she had worn today was absurdly thin for the late October day but it was one of her favorites. It cut across her hips just enough to be sexually enticing but long enough to keep the harpies from Human Resources from filing a conduct complaint. The coffee was already dampening her thighs, the hot liquid burning unpleasantly.

"My bad, Lace," drawled the intruder, not bothering to hide the amusement coloring his tone. "Did I get you-"

"Wet?" Lacey finished, glancing up at the speaker as she continued to pat down her thighs. She looked up through her lashes, offering a puckish smile. "You know, there are much better ways to go about ruining my skirts, Gaston."

True to form, the handsome men's health writer returned the teasing remark with a laugh. He leaned casually against the wall of her desk, watching her efforts with a smirk on his rugged face.

"Promises, promises," he rejoined. Picking up the roll, he tore off another sheet and handed it to her with an arched brow. She accepted it with thanks, tossing her current wadded mess of towels in the trash can next to her. "But you were looking particularly alluring this morning. I must say bare legs in October is a bold movie, Lacey, my girl."

"As much as I'd love to chat," Lacey murmured, "I really have a lot to do." She gave up on the attempt to save her skirt. She'd just have to go shopping this weekend for a replacement. "Run along now, go flirt with the interns."

He scoffed in response, "You know you're the only girl for me, Lace." He flipped out his phone and started to talk about his latest article, something about rock climbing and testosterone. His smooth voice grew monotonous as he droned on, reading her snippets from the online publication, oblivious to her disinterest.

Everyone knew Jack Gaston was considered the catch of the office- hell, she had heard of random girls on the street following him into the building like stray cats in heat.

With his jet black hair swept back with a perfect curl on his forehead, Jack's dark brown eyes with long lashes were devastatingly alluring. Add his pouty lips that were always pulled back in a rogue's smile and his lantern jaw, he was almost impossible to resist even though it was common knowledge he had slept with half the women at the city paper where they worked. It had been noted that most of his conquests tended to be more productive post coital than the weeks they spent trying to get his attention. So, management usually looked the other way.

Lacey had thought Gaston entertaining for all of two minutes- he had barely gotten her name before asking her out for drinks. An uneventful martini or two later, they went back to his place and had sex on his pool table.

While the sex had been adequate, Gaston himself was lackluster. A classic narcissist, he had spent most of the evening talking about himself. Lacey had found it easy to decline the next invitation.

Unfortunately, Gaston seemed to like the challenge. He became her very own personal shadow in the office, showing up at her desk throughout the day, asking her out to dinner, bringing her pastries from the cart downstairs. All which she allowed. After all, what girl doesn't like a little attention? Or free scones? So, Lacey flirted. The problem was Gaston didn't always understand the concept of flirtation as an art form.

Lacey twisted her chair around, fixing him with a pointed look as she asked, "Did you need something, Gaston?"

"I may have been asked to deliver a message for you," he admitted, moving to seat himself more firmly on her desk top. She rolled her chair back a few feet away from him, crossing her arms with a smile.

"And that would be?"

He grinned, his perfect teeth gleaming in the fluorescent lighting of the office. "Reese was looking for you." He shrugged, leaning down. "I covered for you being late this morning, told him you were running a story down to the editing department for me."

"Wait-what?"

If Reese was looking for her, it meant-

Lacey leaped for her notepad, tugging her skirt down as she stood. The coffee stain was still vivid on her skirt and she rubbed at it ineffectively.

"You are just-"she muttered through clenched teeth, trying to get around him and out her cube.

"Charming? Quick thinking? Your very own knight in shining armor?" He supplied, following her out.

"Unbelievable," she corrected, pulling her damp skirt away from her thighs as best she could. "I've been asking Reese for weeks to cover a story, and the first time he calls me to his office, you tell him I'm doing research for you? Typical."

"You're welcome," he replied, oblivious to her annoyance. Luckily for them both, he stopped short at the kitchen area where a new intern was bending over to clean out the dishwasher, her skirt unintentionally riding up. "Lunch? Italian?" He called out absently, already running a hand through his hair as he eyed his new target.

"In your dreams, Gaston," she purred over her shoulder, turning the corner.

After a quick stride down the main hallway, she arrived at the large closed door at the end of the hall. She paused, glancing down at her rumpled blouse and stained skirt. Reaching down, she flicked open two of the top buttons before shimmying her skirt down to fit neatly across her hips. She grinned, knocking neatly on the door before entering.

Sitting with his back to the large windows which framed his desk, an older man was bent, pouring over column print outs, holding up today's paper in one hand and comparing it to the one on his desk. The light streaming in the window behind him made his white hair glow in a translucent aura, giving him a hazy halo.

Mo Reese was the editor, owner and overall spiritual leader of The Looking Glass. He had started the paper as a young man and had lived to see it grow into a major paper of the city. His tendency to lean towards investigative reporting over the growing syndicated columns had made it popular but over the past couple years, slow news cycles and larger syndications had thinned out the paper's once prestigious numbers.

He glanced up. When he saw Lacey, he returned his attention to the columns, waving a hand at her to come in.

"Gaston told me you were helping him on a project, I figured he was either lying or you were desperate enough for a story that'd you'd do anything."

"You wanted to see me?" She asked, avoiding the question. She carefully held her pad in front of the large coffee stain on her skirt. He pointed her towards the chair in front of him without looking up.

She took the seat, careful to cross her legs discreetly, balancing the pad on top of the stain. It was freezing in Reese's office and she felt goose pimples start to rise along her legs.

Fighting the urge to fidget, she waited patiently as he continued reading. After a moment or two of uncomfortable silence, she started to doodle in the margins of her notepad, trying not to concentrate on how uncomfortable cold coffee was on one's skin.

Finally, Reese looked up. He blinked at her for a moment as if he had forgotten she was there before he cleared his throat.

"Ah, yes. French," She nodded, forcing herself to fix a firm smile on her face at the older man.
"You've been here for about five years now, is that right?"

She straightened her shoulders, sitting up a little more straight in her seat. "Yes, sir. In four months, it will be five years."

"Uh huh," he agreed, absently, checking a piece of paper as he continued. "And you started as an intern, worked in sales for a bit before moving over to work for the personal pages?"

"And then was promoted to the research desk, I work mainly with politics-"

"Yea, Heinz speaks highly of you over there. Told me you've been ghostwriting Stegall's columns since he's been out on sick leave."

"Yes, Sam approved the first few pieces –"

"Well written, paced and free of any liberal. Good pieces- but I've been reading them for three weeks and I didn't realize they weren't Stegall's."

She nodded warily, keeping her eyes locked straight ahead. Her pulse was starting to pick up speed and her hands were locked in balls in her lap. Reese was hard to read in most situations, in a private meeting like this, it was impossible to tell where it was going.

"Yes, well that was the idea…" she replied tersely, readjusting her legs and leaning forward slightly. She hadn't worked with Reese directly before but she was aware in most cases, a little décolletage worked to her advantage.

Reese waved his hand, seemingly oblivious to her now slightly gaping chemise, "Yes, well, I asked around. You've been writing for other reporters in a few other departments, and I didn't notice those either. You're a very talented chameleon, French. But I don't know if copying someone's writing style qualifies you for an actual writing desk."

She nodded, swallowing the angry words that rose to her tongue. Taking a moment to digest the comment, she ducked her head in what she hoped appeared to be coy embarrassment as she tried to figure out a response. To her surprise, Reese continued on regardless.

"But I've got a story that just came in and I need someone who isn't a fixture here- someone I can send on assignment and trust not to lose their head, resent the assignment or lose perspective and if you want it as badly as everyone seems to think you do- I figured you'd be a good choice."

"An assignment?" Lacey exclaimed, dropping the useless seduction tactic as she stood in excitement. "You're sending me on an actual assignment? Of course I'll go! When do I start? Is it for the opinions desk or-"

Reese interrupted her, "French, you have a lunch meeting with Greg Mendell at noon today, he'll fill you in."

She felt her excitement drain away as fast as it had appeared.

"The conspiracy nut from the TV series? Vanished or something equally banal?" Lacey asked, failing to hide the skepticism in her tone.

"The very one," Reese agreed, leaning back in his chair. It was a comical sight since he was short and round, his appetite for food being only second to his hunger for a story. "Mendell's been pushing a lead on a story, and it rang some bells in our research department. There's some town called Storybrooke- seems a few missing people over the years, couple unexplained homicides- feds have tried to get involved since the sixties but no luck. Small town, tight community- no outsiders have been able to get more than a few words from even the law enforcers over there."

"And you want me to…what exactly?" She asked, crossing her arms.

"Meet with this "nut", see what he has to say, sniff out if there's a story there like I think there is."

"If you don't mind me asking," Lacey edged, uncertainty coloring her tone. "What makes you think that the guy from Vanished has a credible story if he's not using it for his own syndication or book rights?"

"Because," Reese said, fixing her with his sharp blue eyes. "He wants someone to do what he can't do as a national television celebrity."

Lacey waited, biting the inside of her cheek in irritation and trying to reassure herself this could be a good opportunity and not just a fool's errand. "And what's that, sir?"

"Go undercover and find out why people keep disappearing from Storybrooke."

XxXxX

Three hours later, Lacey found herself sitting at a table at the Gas Light Café waiting on Greg Mendell. She had gone home to change out of her ruined skirt and was now dressed in a cream skirt suit and jacket that suited her rosy complexion. Her dark hair pulled back in a high ponytail with tendrils framing her face. Business like but feminine enough to be disarming. Her notepad and pen lay discreetly next to her, waiting for her source to arrive.

She picked up her water glass, trying to quell the growing irritation. Her first real assignment. And it happened to be with a guy who was considered a national nut job; a very famous nut job, sure, but a nut job regardless.

A little past noon, a commotion by the door caused her to shift slightly in her seat. A man walked in, taking off his sunglasses and talking to the hostess while a few light bulbs went off outside the main door. Lacey watched the exchange, recognizing the closely shaved head and watery blue eyes as Greg Mendell, host of Vanished.

The hostess pointed him towards Lacey, who stood to greet him. He thanked the hostess, checked behind his shoulder once more before making his way to Lacey, reaching out to take her hand.

"You must be Ms. French?" He greeted, firmly gripping her hand in his. She smiled, greeting him and offering him the seat across from her. She watched his eyes flash down to her chest and she grinned back at him, eyes twinkling in challenge. He smiled mischievously back and she inwardly cheered. It was ridiculous how easy it was to get men to relax with the right approach.

"Picked a spot in the back with high booth partitions and away from the windows," he noticed, ordering an unsweet tea from the waitress. "Smart."

She shrugged, her chest pushing out as her shoulders fell. He glanced down again, missing the slight roll of her eyes. After some small talk about their respective backgrounds, they ordered lunch before settling down to discuss the story.

"So, you've seen the show?" He asked, picking up a piece of bread and smearing it with butter. She nodded, picking up her pen.

"Seen the pilot episode?" He asked, taking a large bite, butter smearing his chin.

"Actually, no," she responded, trying to avoid staring at the grease spot. "But that's probably because it was aired on a local channel in Maine and the original recording was lost in a fire they had a few months later.'

'You know, if it wasn't for your third episode finding the supposedly lost housewife from New Jersey living happily as a man in Vermont, you probably would never have been picked up for syndication by the cable network at all."

He grinned at her, a sly smirk but it now held a hint of respect. "Okay, so you did your homework."

"What does the pilot episode have to do with your story, Mr. Mendell?" she asked, noting he had an absent minded habit of tapping the table with his fingers before he spoke.

"Well, it's actually the story of my father's disappearance," he shared. Lacey nodded, unsurprised. Most people with interest in the unknown had a trauma or mystery in their past.

"Can you share that story with me?" She asked with a smile, trying not to think about how good the bread looked as he went in for another slice. She kept her focus on him, reminding herself that she wouldn't be able to fit in her skirts if she ate too much bread every time she dined out.

"For you?" He asked with a wink," I'd be happy to.'

'I was about six; we went camping in the woods as an early Christmas present. It wasn't too long after my mom had passed and Dad didn't know how to hold a proper Christmas for a kid. So, he took me camping. We ended up a few miles out of a town- Storybrooke. We had missed the campsite somehow and Dad just decided to set up out in the woods instead of driving another couple hours back to the interstate."

She nodded, writing in shorthand the salient details.

"Well, short story- that night, I woke up to find Dad talking to some woman outside of our tent, a kind of park ranger I assumed so I just went back to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, Dad was gone. Naturally, being six, I didn't realize I should be scared or worried; I just ate all the chocolate we had left over from our s'mores the night before. When I started to get bored, I decided to go looking for him."

"In the woods? Or along the road?" She asked, looking up from her notepad.

"In the woods- I followed a trail I found nearby, just wandered along calling out for my Dad for a few miles," he grinned ruefully. "I remember being freezing and then getting mad at him for playing around; I didn't think to be scared until I realized I was lost. Got off the trail somehow and into the middle of the woods."

"Did you find a park ranger?" Lacey asked. She tried to place the self-assured man in front of her with a scared kid lost in the woods. So far the entire thing just seemed like publicity- Famous Host Orphaned. Likes Chocolate and Brunettes.

"No, those woods are basically empty. The only thing I found was- well it's odd what you remember but I found this odd, large ruin of a gate. I just leaned up against the column, freezing cold and hungry, lost and scared, calling for my dad."

"That's odd, isn't it?" She interrupted, looking up from her notepad. Greg raised his eyebrows at her in silent question at her interruption. But it was the first interesting thing about his story to Lacey- an odd detail in a mostly straightforward story. "Was the gate connected to a house?" Greg shook his head in the negative, looking slightly put out at her interruption.

"Just two big brick columns with an iron wrought gate between them- I just remember it- the first place that looked like civilization."

"But that's a bit weird, right?" She thought out loud, glancing down at her notes. "Just a locked gate in the middle of that huge forest?"

"Actually, to a kid it didn't seem weird. I walked around it in circles for a bit before I got hungry and decided to go back to the campground, but I couldn't find it again. Then, I tried to head back towards the gate but I couldn't find it either. I just managed to luck out and find the interstate, followed the flashing lights I occasionally saw and some folks coming back to Storybrooke from the city found me, middle of the night, blue fingers and red streaks on my face from crying."

"You shared that last part with your viewers?" Lacey teased, dropping the gate. While it interested her, he didn't seem to think about it much more than a random memory marker.

"No, but you're cute and I was hoping it would make you feel bad for me." He confessed laughing, waving his hands in surrender. She smiled invitingly in return, re-crossing her legs under the table, letting one brush against his pant leg. He eyed her across the table, leaning in closer as she pressed on.

"And then what? I'm guessing your father stayed missing which drove you to start a TV show about vanishing people- people with closure rarely keep going with their obsession."

"You're sharp, Lacey," he replied, nodding in approval. His attention was fixed on her, his male ego having been expertly stroked by her attentions he continued on, "I told Reese I needed someone fresh and wanting to prove themselves but I didn't realize I was going to get an actual real life journalist…"

Lacey avoided rolling her eyes, smiling warmly before confessing, "He seems to think there's some kind of story here, a possible deeper one than a boy's father going missing."

"There is," Greg enthused. The waitress brought out their plates, Greg's steak, bloody and rare and Lacey's salad.

Salads and interviews didn't go well, she had found out on her previous research assignments. But she knew men like Greg's type. A girl who ordered a burger and fries wasn't going to get him bragging or oversharing too easily. While Greg poured steak sauce on his plate, she waited for him to continue, toying with her fork.

"So, I got placed with a family out west of Storybrooke, nice folks, older. They didn't really approve of my fascination with disappearances, but I read all the books on aliens, mobs, anything to do with unknown conspiracy theories- I devoured it."

Lacey nodded along, letting him continue talking about his formative years, college stories about his fraternity, his dropping out and his working odd jobs in his early twenties, "And then when my adoptive parents passed, I was left with a decent nest egg- which I put into starting my show, and the rest's history."

"All that in the quest to find your father?" Lacey asked, her salad pushed around and wilting. Greg had had no such qualms and had aggressively devoured his steak and fries. He was leaning back, picking his teeth with a toothpick, comfortable and relaxed.

"My father is dead," he replied without hesitation. "I knew that when I got old enough to understand people's behaviors. Most of the people we find were unhappy, unfulfilled or with nothing to live for. They leave to start over or to protect someone. My father was a young single father with a good job who had promised his dying wife to take care of their son. He didn't leave me willingly, not out there in the wilderness in the middle of the night."

"And you are sure you heard him talking to someone?" Lacey asked, going back to her earlier notes.

"I was six but yea- I remember. There was definitely a woman's voice but I didn't see anyone outside the tent but my father's shadow. Whoever she was, she wasn't standing close enough to the fire for me to see her. And why would a woman be out in the woods alone at the end of December?"

"She wasn't a park ranger?" Lacey asked, spearing a carrot and raising it to her mouth. He watched her as she popped it in her mouth, eyes focused on her lips as she slid the fork out slowly.

"It's not a national park, just wilderness on the border of Canada. The locals that picked me up and the Sheriff of Storybrooke mentioned there being a lot of bears and wolves sightings in those woods- locals don't even go too far into them- too many disappearances over the years."

"Have there been any since your father's disappearance thirty years ago?"

"Not any that have been officially reported- but I'm sure if I had gone missing with my father, no one would have linked our disappearance to that area. We weren't even supposed to be around there. But there is one interesting thing I noticed in my few talks with Storybrooke's sheriff."

"Which is?" Lacey encouraged him, waving away the waitress who had just brought her a refill.

"That every single disappearance has been around the same time in December, around the Winter Solstice."

"Which is what you must have told Reese to get him to agree to investigate it," Lacey pieced together. Greg nodded, looking smug.

"Something is happening up in those woods, Lacey," He locked her with his eyes, the famous intensity of his gaze stronger in person than on TV. "Do you want to help find out what it is?"

She took a long drink, flicking her eyes to her notepad full of question marks and arrows. A story like this could either make a career or ruin it, following a journalist around their whole life as the crackpot story that was the biggest joke in publishing or the biggest cold case solved in recent history.

And yet, something in her was reacting to the story, just like Reese had. It was entirely possible this man's story of his lost father was just the tip of a much bigger iceberg.

She looked back up at him, slipping the check off the table, eyes burning in challenge. "Well, Greg, how do we begin?"

By the time she had made it back to her office, Lacey had four phone calls from Greg's business partner, Tamara. She had requested all of Vanished's files and records for Storybrooke as well as any important information or possible leads they had been following to be delivered to her before the end of day. Tamara had agreed, ironing out final details before calling and confirming everything had been delivered.

It was just past seven when Lacey returned from her errands, going up the elevator to her floor; she finally felt the adrenaline ebb away, leaving her a tired knotted mess.

When the doors slide open with a chirp, she took a deep breath to square her shoulders before exiting. She turned the usual corners to her space; stopping short when she realized her desk was completely empty.

Her laptop was missing; personal mementos stuffed in a cardboard box on her chair, and her notes and Tamara's files nowhere to be found.

Stepping out into the aisle, she glanced around, noting her fellow researcher's desks where exactly as they had left them before they left for the night. Only hers looked like it had been cleaned out. She was in the process of trying to think who she should call when she heard footsteps.

Reese turned the corner, carrying his briefcase, nose buried in the tablet he typically used to check the Looking Glass's online articles before they were published.

"Mr. Reese," she called out, hurrying towards him. "My desk-"

"French?" He remarked, glancing up at her in disbelief. "How did you get up here?" He asked, grabbing her elbow and hauling her towards the elevator. "You shouldn't be here!"

"But my desk-"

"I'll have someone store your personal effects for the time. Didn't Jacobs contact you?"

"Melody Jacobs? From Human Resources?" Lacey stumbled into the elevator after him, watching him jab the button down furiously. "I don't understand I-"

"You are on an undercover assignment, starting the second you agreed to meet with Mendell. Hasn't anyone been in contact to explain undercover protocol to you?"

She shook her head furiously, angrily fingering her satchel where her notes from that afternoon and her few cold calls to potential contacts were packed.

"Did you mean Melody Jacobs?" She repeated, moving to stand in front of him. The downward motion of the elevator was making her lightheaded with her nerves. "She's the one who's trying to get Jack Gaston to ask her out, right?"

"French, if you think I know what kind of depraved social experiments go on outside my office-"

"No, I mean, I think she may dislike me…due to his attention towards myself," Lacey managed, trying to be politically correct. "It may have… " She fumbled with a polite way to phrase this to the owner of the paper before deciding on, "…slipped her mind to call me with proper protocol for undercover assignments."

Reese nodded, glancing past her at their reflection in the metal of the doors before they slid open. He held his arm out for her to stay, exited the elevator, checked both ways and then motioned her out.

"Mendell called to say he approved of you covering the story but also mentioned a few photographers had followed him to the meeting. We were finalizing your backstory when his assistant called to finalize delivery of files for you. We had them sent to your apartment listed in your file before clearing you from our employee records."

"I don't-"she started but the older man paved ahead, walking a few steps in front of her and swerving his head as they exited the lobby towards the parking garage stairwell.

"If you were photographed with Mendell and then it was announced you worked here, you would have no chance of going undercover fully. We took the steps to be able to plausibly deny your employment here. No one should connect Lacey French, research and journalist from The Looking Glass as the same girl as Belle Ives, librarian and newest transplant in Storybrooke up in Maine."

"I already have a backstory?" She had been hoping to have a hand in it herself, give her the necessary tools she would need to delve into the dark past of unsolved cased like Greg's father-

"All at your apartment, which I believe is still under your father's name?"

"Yes…" she answered slowly, starting to wonder if she had not been picked due to her skill and ingenuity as much she had been picked due to convenience.

"Now, your car should stay here, out of the way. I've texted my usual driver, he's sending a man over to pick you up and take you back to your apartment. You will find your files, a new laptop, and a bus ticket to Storybrooke, and folder full of your new identity, including driver's license, birth certificate, credit cards, and a checking account that you will find has enough to get you through two months of hotel and board. A new cell phone registered to Belle Ives is also there, programmed to certain numbers including mine. Mendell is off the board for now, if you need to reach him, his assistant can help you."

"Sir," Lacey interrupted, taking a deep breath. "This is- I don't-... what I'm trying to say is- I don't think you had any intention of allowing me to turn down this assignment."

Reese looked at her over his glasses, texting quickly with his left hand before snapping his phone closed and throwing it in his coat pocket. He looked up at her with a glare that reminded her of her late father before sighing and looking back down.

"French, as I am sure is not news to you, the paper isn't doing well. Greg Mendell is offering a lot of money to bankroll us in advertising and his network is standing behind him with other programming advertising including print and online ads- the paper wasn't in a position to turn him down."

She nodded; she was all too aware the paper was having financial problems. She wrapped her arms around herself a little tighter, the cold air of end of October bracing even in her jacket. Reese seemed unfazed, but she noticed his ears were turning red.

"He wanted one of my best to go up to Storybrooke, do a few poking and prodding- problem was my best have all been nationally recognized as investigative reporters. He came in the office to meet Gaston-"

"You were going to send him?" Lacey exclaimed, casting a look of incredulity to Reese who shrugged.

"He's our senior journalist without any major awards- no one would place him as a writer for a paper- personal trainer cover story or something but Mendell came in, saw you arguing something with someone in the kitchen and asked for you. Liked your spirit, said he wanted someone with something to prove and while I was hesitant to send you- your work did speak for itself."

She brushed aside the uncomfortable feeling she had about Greg earlier; His pleasure at her being assigned had been less authentic than she had realized, she hated when she was outplayed but she acknowledged the TV show host had managed to play her rather well. She was slightly relieved she wouldn't be dealing with him for the majority of the story.

"But this story- it's- you know it's probably just going to be tilting after windmills," Lacey raised her arms in frustration. "There's no guarantee I'll find out what happened to all these people, and I'll have just been wiped off the face of this Earth until what- Mendell gets bored? I disappear? The Looking Glass closes?"

Headlights came swerving in from the upper deck as a green sedan pulled up towards them. They watched it approach and as it hummed to a stop, she sighed, shaking her head in frustration. The driver opened his door to emerge but Reese waved him back inside for a moment, turning to her.

She was breathing hard, heart beating rashly and her skin felt too tight. She didn't like the idea of going home now- now that she was no longer Lacey but some girl named Belle. Some girl no one knew because two days ago, she didn't exist. And a librarian? How was she going to get any information from anyone as some meek librarian?

"Lacey," Reese said calmly, and she focused despite herself. Mo Reese was infamous for never calling anyone by their first name- "You have my word, if you have found nothing substantial and you feel this is a fool's task, Christmas Eve I will bring you home, review a possible permanent move to a writer's desk, and make sure we tell this Mendell fellow where to stick his money."

She nodded, forcing a weak noise of agreement that she didn't feel. He nodded back, opening the door for her.

"Duckie, will you please get Fren-I'm sorry, Ives to her destination. She may also need to schedule a pickup to take her to the bus station tomorrow."

"Best of luck, Ives," he said quietly, shaking her hand firmly before heading down the dingy parking lot towards his usual spot.

She watched him for am moment, trying to swallow the dry ball in her throat before Duckie cleared his throat.

"Ma'am? You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," she replied, sliding into the car and shutting the door firmly behind her.

Author's Note:

First, I am sure some of you have a running tally of grammatical and spelling errors- please feel free to message me any. I am working without a beta and while I tried to catch them all- I am afraid I may have missed a few when I got caught up in tweaking the story instead of the structure.

Second, this story has not yet been completed. I posted a few chapters on FF but I am reworking these a bit as I publish over here.

Thanks for reading,

-B