Clarke went over the escape list one more time. Silly, it'd been years, but she couldn't help herself. Eight seasons of watching Polis had helped put the plan in place, but if she'd overlooked a step, they'd find her. She focused on the page.

Episode 21-Destroy credit and debit cards. Put cash into fake pregnancy bag. On the day she left, she'd strapped on the false belly, and pulled on an oversized sweatshirt.

Episode 18-Keep duffel packed for quick getaway. For weeks she'd camouflaged the bag by burying it in a box of old stuffed animals.

Episode 36-Get fake ID and cosmetology certification. Even after all this time, Clarke Montgomery still didn't sound right. She chose it by shorting her name into something she could answer by, and Montgomery after her mom's maiden name. If Dad could see her now, he'd frown. But with the bogus identity, she needed to fit the part. And she did. Right down to the blond and pink hair and nose ring.

Episode 74, transfer files to flash drive. Pour soda into computer; throw it in the lake, along with cell phone. Living on waterfront property had made this step easy. She didn't have to lug the desktop too far. Months before, she'd bought a burner phone.

Episode 13-Take the bus to Biloxi. Pick up the black metallic Chevy Cruze stored there, then double back to Arkadia, Louisiana.

The timer dinged. Clarke put the notebook away and stared down at the frail woman in the casket. "Did you know Miss Charamel?" She lifted the curling iron and wrapped the final silver-brown strand around the barrel. "I miss her. I'm still living in her house, but it's not the same without her." She fluffed the wisp. "I gave you soft curls around your face, added a little gray eyeshadow, some pink lipstick, and a hint of blush to your cheeks. That's what your son wanted. He gave me strict instructions. I think he was a little nervous because of my style. But no chopped hair, piercings, or black fingernails for you."

Even before Clarke heard the soft trill of Rose Byrne, the click of heels on marble announced her. "Excuse me, but are you finished with Mrs. Kane?"

"Almost."

"Great. Ms. Elliott is waiting." The secretary walked away.

Clarke pulled her leather notebook from her pocket again and opened it. "Have you noticed the euphonious quality of Mrs. Byrne's voice? That's another word for melodious. Or song-like." Not even noon and she'd already used her word of the day. Didn't always work out that way, but lately she'd been on a roll. She marked it off the list.

Myles Foster, heir to Byrne Funeral Chapel, interrupted her thoughts. "Hey, Clarke. My church is having a hamburger dinner tomorrow night, you wanna go?"

Myles was nice enough, but she wasn't interested. Not in the Methodists, hamburgers or him. He was a high school senior, and she was too old for him anyway. She lifted her head, looked him in the eye, and smiled. "No, thank you."

His weak chin dropped, and Clarke guessed what was coming next. Mind racing, she searched for a response. Dad's numerous warnings flashed inside her head. Keep your head up. Make eye contact. Think before you speak. Remember not to be rude. Smile. Say thank you. How could the truth be considered bad manners? But he'd said most people didn't want honesty when it came to personal questions.

The lanky boy leaned against the door jamb. "Why not? You got something else to do?"

"I don't like crowds. I don't like church."

"What you got against it?"

This was the trouble with Dad's instructions. She should have said she didn't find Myles attractive and the conversation would be over. But she had to play this ridiculous game. "Nothing against it. Just organized religion. I remembered I do have plans." That should do it and it wasn't a total lie. She had to finish the mural. Still needed to add the animal version of The Golden Girls into the picture. Clarke didn't think she'd ever seen the old woman happier than when she found out episodes were available online.

"Like what?"

Talk about not taking no for an answer. Clarke wanted to order the gangly, feeble-chinned, soon-to-be-graduate out of the room. She didn't like his persistence. Clarke sat straighter. "I don't date."

He blinked as if the statement shocked him. "Not at all, or just guys?"

That did it. If he only knew the hours she'd put in over the years conditioning herself to not speak her mind. The constant tutoring on how to handle social interaction. If he had a clue about what a freak she was, he wouldn't be interested. She sucked in a deep breath, then spit the words out like they tasted bad. "I do not want to go."

He took a step back and pushed his palms out. "Okay, okay. I get it." He didn't give her time to say anything else, which was fine with her. He spun and disappeared into the corridor.

Clarke turned back to Mrs. Kane. "Sorry about that. At your age, if you could, I'm sure you'd have some good relationship advice." Pulling out her notebook, she scribbled on a sheet of paper, tore it out and folded it. "When you get to Heaven, find my dad, Jake, and give him this." She tucked the note inside the woman's bra. "You can't miss him. He's a big guy. Handsome. Once word gets out you're from Arkadia, he'll probably look you up, if I don't see you again before you leave, have a wonderful trip." Rollers squeaked as Clarke shoved her chair away. She walked to the door and glanced one last time at her client. Yep. Ten years younger. No doubt about it. Mrs. K didn't look a day over eighty. Her son would be happy.

Gathering her cosmetic case, Clarke headed toward room three and referred to the next list: Blue eyeshadow. Blue-black mascara. Mauve lip gloss. Enhance beauty mark on upper lip. Lisa Elliott was only thirty-nine and although there would only be a graveside service, a viewing was planned at six.

She studied the woman's leather motorcycle jacket and low cut tank. Voluptuous breasts swelled over the top. Nothing like formaldehyde to pump up a woman's upper thorax. She removed the pencil from behind her ear, scratched out part of the notes, and rewrote them. Heavy black mascara. Frosted tangerine lipstick. Checking the woman's nails, Clarke grabbed her emery board and got to work.

By the time she finished, Lisa looked like a Harley Harlot. Clarke didn't wear makeup but knew how to use it. Proper shading and contouring made women appear pounds lighter and years younger. She regretted the client couldn't see the magic. She jotted another message, ripped it from her notebook and tucked it into Motorcycle Momma's pocket and zipped it. "Give this to my mother if you see her. You'll recognize her because I think we look alike."

With only a few pictures and Dad's word, she couldn't be sure about that. The older she got, the less she remembered about her mother. The day of her burial, Clarke stayed in the limo. She and her Aunt Jane, her father's only sibling, had played a game of I Spy with My Little Eye. A year later, Jane died. Most of Clarke's life, she'd buried loved ones. Mom, Aunt Jane, Gramps and Gigi, Dad, Miss Charamel. At least she was done with that. There was no one left to bury. Unless she counted The Golden Girls.

She should have given them away, but couldn't bring herself to do it. Miss Charamel had been so kind to insist Clarke keep living in the house, she'd felt obligated to care for the pets. She'd also continued to deposit rent payments each month because Charamel had willed the place to her only grandson, and Clarke didn't want him to think she'd taken advantage of his grandmother's good heart. But it probably wouldn't matter because he was serving a fifteen year prison sentence, and she'd be long gone by the time he showed up.

Bellamy Blake's biggest regret was that Alex Shumway died before he had a chance to kill himself. Son- of-a-bitch had to go and get cancer. With death looming, he'd found religion and admitted he'd framed Bellamy. Small consolation. At least in prison, with no distractions, Bellamy finished his business degree with a 4.0. But he doubted any major corporation wanted to hire an almost thirty- year-old with no work experience doing anything except summer construction jobs and bussing tables at The Dropship. Especially after being convicted for burning the bar down. Didn't matter he'd been exonerated, according to an article he'd read, twenty percent of people would still think he did it. That was the bad thing about lies. Once people made up their minds, nothing could change it. Not even the truth.

Nothing could give Bellamy back the seven years. Sure, the state had done their part with the annuity and cash settlement, but money couldn't replace lost youth.

Downing his second shot of whiskey, he eyed two leggy brunettes at the end of the bar. The one in the tight black skirt dangled a red stiletto from her toes and bounced it in time with the country tune blaring from the jukebox. The other wore leather pants and twirled a pink umbrella in her drink. Funny how he paid attention to details. When he'd started his sentence, he knew there'd be plenty of things he'd miss.

Like women.

How they looked and smelled and felt. Driving. The freedom to go anywhere he wanted. That's why he'd spent almost a year on the open road riding his Harley letting the wind, rain, and sun restore life to his body. He never imagined missing something as insignificant as color. But when everything is taken, you realize what you've taken for granted.

Both girls had hot pink fingernails, and their skin sparkled. He figured they smelled good, too. Skirt had the best ass, and leather pants had some killer tits. If he didn't make a move, he might have to add them to his misery. Bellamy had a backlog of good times waiting to happen, and he was behind in his count. So far, only forty-six women. The goal of one a week turned out to be harder than he thought. He could have pulled it off, but some nights he was too drunk to care. In four more days, his year of sin would end, and he'd be in Arkadia, Louisiana, at the property his grandmother left him and Octavia. Octavia had no use for it, always preferring the city to the farmhouse, claiming that being in a small town was akin to living under the floorboards. He had plans for the place. Two bedrooms and one bath would be plenty for a while, but he wanted one more of each.

Not that he intended on filling them. A wife and kids were not in his plans. Not by a long shot. In college, he'd fallen hopelessly in love but once his trouble started, she ended up in bed with his best friend. When it came to matters of the heart, women lied and cheated the same as men. He'd learned that the hard way. She didn't even return the one-carat engagement ring. He'd trusted her. He'd trusted Shumway. They'd both screwed him over.

His long-term goal was to get the farmhouse in shape and big enough to appeal to buyers. No need to keep it because it wouldn't be the same without his grandmother. His best memories came from spending time with her. He hated not attending her funeral and saying a proper goodbye, but the state lost the paperwork and didn't find it until it was too late.

The last time he'd visited, the house needed work and after sitting vacant for two years, it was probably more run-down than ever. That was okay. He needed something to fill his days, and he had plenty of experience to do most of the remodel. Once he finished, he'd wish the new owners well, move across the pond to the sixty-two remaining acres and build a small log cabin. Live out his life fishing and hunting answering to no one. Go to bed when he wanted and get up when he pleased.

After years of being told what he could and couldn't do and when to do it, he craved solitude. No more endless noise of inmates or cell doors closing. Wide open spaces and nothing but the sounds of nature waited.

Damn, he was bringing himself down. He needed to get back to the task at hand. Time was running out, and he still had slots to fill. He motioned to the bartender, swallowed another shot, and returned to the math problem.

Four days.

Six women.

Doable.

Tight skirt sent him a smile. If he doubled up, he'd make his quota. Hell, might as well get started.

He rose from the bar stool and ambled over to the ladies. He didn't have a pickup line, but during the past year, he'd learned women had evolved while he'd been out of circulation. Getting to the point was the best approach.

"I have a room across the street. You girls want to take the party over there?"

Tight skirt fiddled with a gold arrow pendant pointing to her breasts and other southern locations.

"You're a big guy. Are you big all over?"

"Nothing like a game of Show and Tell to find out."

She licked her lips. "In that case, I'm Roma, and this is Mel."

"Bellamy." He stuck out his hand and when Roma took it, she stroked his palm with her finger. His cock twitched.

The next morning he opened his eyes and scanned the room. The girls sprawled next to him, and he was tempted to stay an extra day.

The memory of last night's activities brought a smile. As soon as they'd gotten inside his room, the duo didn't hesitate. No small talk. No games. Just got to what they wanted. Roma started with his shirt, and Mel with his pants. He discovered having two women get him naked was something he liked a lot.

They'd kissed him, licked him, stroked him until he was so hard he thought his dick might rip apart. Roma mounted him first, then Mel, chanting like cheerleaders. Harder. Faster. Don't come.

At two a.m. they woke him with girl on girl action and he got hard quicker than the first time. He didn't think either of them had a purse big enough to carry a double-headed dildo, so he wondered where it came from. But watching them go at it imprinted his brain forever.

Bellamy eased out of bed and went to shower, and as insatiable as Roma and Mel were, he half expected them to join him. But that didn't happen. Shutting the water off, he wrapped himself in a towel. If they were still asleep, he wouldn't wake them. Check out wasn't until two o'clock.

When he returned, the girls were gone. He thought they'd at least say goodbye. His eyes drifted to the dresser and his wallet. Picking it up, he laughed. They'd made off with fifty-two bucks. He couldn't get angry. They were worth a hell of a lot more.

He ran his hand beneath the mattress and pulled out his stash. Two thousand dollars. Silly girls. Ex-cons trust no one.

Stepping outside, he smelled bacon. Just what he needed after last night's workout. Three rounds with the BFF's had taken their toll. He removed his last cigarette and tossed the package into the blue trash barrel at the corner of the building. He should give up the bad habit, and he would. Later.

It occurred to him, if he counted each round with R&M, then he'd already reached his goal. The pressure was off. With an early start and few stops, he could make it to Arkadia in one day. Grab a quick breakfast. Crank up the Harley. Hit the road. He couldn't wait to see the place. Enjoy the seclusion and relax in his grandmother's old claw-foot tub. That's what he loved about Arkadia. Everything remained the same.

Never any surprises.

From her workshop window, Raven saw dust billowing before the car came into view. Usually, her friend Clarke, walked through the woods, but today, she had groceries to pick up. Clarke had claimed she hated grocery shopping, but after seeing her reaction to crowds, she wondered if that was the case. As hard as Clarke tried to look the part of a rebel, she couldn't pull it off. More like a teenager playing dress-up. Even the ring dangling from her small straight nose, couldn't offset the big innocent blue eyes that dominated her face.

She revealed nothing, but Raven thought the girl was on the run from something or someone. She decided once they were friends for a while, Clarke would be more forthcoming, but it'd been over three years, and the only thing Raven had learned was that Clarke was unusual and had a good heart.

Didn't know what connection Clarke had to Miss Charamel, and the old woman never said, but when she got sick, Clarke cared for her until the end.

Once Raven discovered the gifted girl's artistic ability, she'd asked for help with packaging her soaps and lotions. All she needed was a break to get the attention of a major chain, and the right presentation could be the key. Making the stuff was fun and all, but she really wanted her own garage one day, and to do that, she had to save money. She was helping Jacapo Sinclair to restore his old '63 Buick Riviera, but she only had so much time to herself. At least with her own garage, she could afford a babysitter or a nanny.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Tommy as he burst through the trees, stick sword in hand, towel cape pinned around his neck, fighting an imaginary foe. The child was the love of her life and she was thankful he was happy playing with common things, but he wouldn't always be six. As he got older, he'd want what other kids had, and she wouldn't be able to afford them, unless she got her business off the ground—or accepted the marriage proposal from a man she didn't love.

Not a single thing wrong with Finn. He had a thriving insurance business and got along well with her son. Many in town speculated Tommy was his, but he wasn't. Finn had been interested in her since high school, but they'd never dated until six months ago, and he'd proposed on the first date. Wasn't fair to keep putting him off, but she couldn't accept. Not yet.

Clarke pushed open the door and strolled inside. She never wore anything but black, a harsh contrast to her delicate features. Despite being short, she was pretty, but didn't seem to care about her appearance, which was another incongruity since she worked at making others look good.

"What's up?"

Clarke shoved a folder forward. "Here are the drawings."

Raven thumbed through them and stared at her friend with tears in her eyes.

Clarke's shoulders drooped. "If you don't like them, I can do more."

Raven rushed from behind the table and threw her arms around the artist. "You're a genius. This is exactly what I had in mind."

Clarke stiffened for a second, then relaxed into her friends embrace. "Oh. Okay."

Raven pushed away and laid the sketches on the counter. "I can't decide which is my favorite. The goat in the bubble bath or the one rubbing lotion on her face. And the way you've put the Arkadia inside the outline of Louisiana is perfect." She gathered the pages and pressed them to her chest. "I knew they'd be great, but they're even better than I imagined."

The door swung wide, and Raven's lifelong friend, Harper, flew in like she was on her way to a shoe sale.

"I hate to break up this love fest, but I have something to show y'all." She stuck out her hand to display a bracelet. Raven tried to look, but Harper launched into an animated conversation. She rotated her hands in the air as if directing traffic "All this talk you've been doing about a home-based business got me to thinking I should come up with something. I thought about a calendar. They never go out of style and everybody needs one. You know, get some hunks to pose in the buff, but that's been done a hundred times two. Besides, I made a list and only came up with two hot guys in all of Arkadia."

Early evening light coming through the window glinted off the fake gems in Harper's creation. She shook her head, and golden curls bounced around her face.

"Then I had this brilliant idea to use animals instead of men. Everybody is a sap for furry creatures. I could capture pictures of dogs taking a crap and call it 'Shit Happens.' I'd only need twelve and there's way more than that in town."

Raven started to speak, but Harper waved her off. She was on a roll and when she got this way, there was no stopping her. "I know what you're going to say. There's a calendar app." She flapped both hands. "Sure there is, but I could get my own made and still make a ton of money. But then I thought, heck, I should find something like you have. You know. Connect it to my roots. Louisiana and Arkadia, so this is my original design."

She held her arm out again and dangled her wrist in front of them. Raven and Clarke inspected it.

"How do y'all like it? It's a beer bling bracelet, and it's just the beginning. I'll do rings, necklaces, belts, cuff links, key chains, beer openers, the list is endless." She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. "I can get the beer caps for free. I've already talked to Jasper at the Grounders. He said he'd be glad for me to have them."

Harper's excitement should have been contagious, but Raven wasn't sure how big a market was out there for bottle caps and rhinestones, but then again, no one could have predicted the success of Crocs, the ugliest footwear ever.

The perky blond widened her eyes and raised her voice two octaves. "Oh! This is the best part. I have the perfect name for my jewelry line. Are you ready for it?" She allotted a dramatic pause for their response. They both nodded.

Palms out, fingers spread, she announced it as if on a marquee. "Louisiana Harper's! Doesn't that sound awesome! It's destiny."

Clarke pulled her brows together. "I thought your destiny was to teach second graders."

"Well, that's what I went to school for, because they didn't offer a degree for entrepreneurship. Raven can tell you, I don't make much more than she does substituting. This jewelry idea could be big. Really big. I might end up on the Today Show. Just imagine, I, Harper Ambrosia McIntyre, could single-handedly put Arkadia, Louisiana, population 403, on the map."

The way she punctuated the air with her finger as she talked, proved she'd picked up some of her father's pulpit skills.

Clarke rolled her eyes.

Harper smiled at Raven. "Well, me and your Nanny Goat Soap line."

Her exuberance always made Raven feel better. "Thanks for including me. I think it's a great idea. Maybe you can convince Clarke to design your labels. Look what she did for me."

Harper studied the drawings. "Holy hell, these are fantastic." She gave Clarke her puppy dog eyes. "Would you do some for me?"

"Sure."

"I'll dance at your wedding."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't have a clue, it's just something my granny says when you do something nice for her. I gotta get going. While I was checking for hunks, Monty Green asked me out. We're driving over to Breaux Bridge to eat at that new Mexican place."

The jewelry mogul left with as much gusto as when she entered.

Reaching into her apron pocket, Raven removed papers, and handed them to Clarke. "I got your shopping and banking done. Here are the receipts."

"Thanks. I need to go, too. I want to clean out a few of the Ark bird houses before it gets dark. They'll be sending scouts out soon."

"Let me help get your bags."

A feeling Clarke hadn't felt in a while bubbled in her chest. Pride. Raven loved the drawings. Not since Charamel died had anyone praised Clarke's artistic ability. A compliment and recommendation from her friend meant a lot. The brown-eyed beauty worked hard as a substitute teacher and convenience store clerk. In what little spare time she had, she ran her goat milk business. All that, and raising Tommy. When Raven's mom couldn't babysit, sometimes Clarke helped out. He was a good kid and he liked to draw as much as she did.

She wondered about his dad, but Raven never mentioned him. It was as if the kid had been an immaculate conception. Any man who couldn't fall in love with someone like Raven must have a problem. Her long dark hair, olive skin, and high cheekbones, belonged on magazine covers. And the fact that she was a mechanic and could fix cars better than some of the best, she was downright marriage material.

By the time Clarke got home and put away the groceries and fed the cats, it was six o'clock. Still enough daylight left to get some boxes ready. Over the years, Miss Charamel had chaired the committee to promote building and mounting little Noah's Ark ships along every county road. Because of her efforts, this little hick town was the Bluebird Capital of Louisiana.

Clarke gathered her supplies and headed to the fence row. She raised the lid of the first box and found the hinge screws loose. She made short work of tightening them. If Dad could see her working with hand tools, he'd laugh. Until she moved in with Charamel, she hadn't held a screwdriver or pliers.

Clarke always thought you hung a birdhouse where you wanted. Turned out, Bluebirds were picky. The homes needed to be mounted in sunny, open spaces at least twenty-five feet apart. She dug out the old nesting straw and dumped it in her bucket, then lowered the lid.

By sunset, she had all but ten boxes clean but she'd save them for another day. Still had plenty of chores before she could lounge in a nice hot bath.

Just before midnight, she connected the iPod to the pill speaker and cranked up the music. That was a benefit of living in a secluded area. No neighbors to complain.

Sinking low in the water, she closed her eyes, inhaled a mixture of almond, coconut and honey, while Halsey crooned on about her demons.

The closer Bellamy got to Charamel's the faster he drove. He'd been on the road for fourteen hours and was ready for the hot bath and feather bed waiting. As he turned onto the home stretch, excitement filled his chest. He barreled over the narrow bridge where he and Octavia used to catch tadpoles, then past Marcus Kane's hayfield. The last few miles flew by. It'd be the first time he'd seen the old house in over nine years. Charamel'd always said she'd leave it to him, but he'd never anticipated when that would be, because he didn't want to think about her dying.

Silhouetted by the moon, the homestead looked eerie and an odd feeling passed over Bellamy. The bathroom light was on, and as he brought the motorcycle to a stop, he wondered whose car was parked in the drive. Maybe Charamel had hired a caretaker, but it was after midnight. Strange hour for maintenance duties. He removed his helmet, dismounted, unstrapped his duffel, and stepped onto the porch. He found the hidden hook holding the house key, then unlocked the front door and slipped inside.

Nothing seemed disturbed. Actually, the place looked neater than he'd ever seen. Charamel had a lot of talents, but housekeeping wasn't her strong suit. She'd rather be outside digging in the dirt. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed more changes. When did his grandmother get a big screen TV? And computer?

Music played from the bedroom. He edged down the short hallway and stepped to the open bathroom door.

A girl, who didn't look more than twenty, lay in Gran's tub with her eyes closed. Bubble clouds floated over her body, barely covering her breasts.

Shame thickened in his throat. He shouldn't be looking at her, but he couldn't turn away. He didn't know if it was the shock of seeing a stranger here, or that the intruder was just a girl. Whatever it was, he finally found his voice.

"Who the hell are you?"

FIRST OFF, I just want to say thank you to Tammy (yourmomshouse on ao3) who BETA'd the hell out of this. SERIOUSLY. If it wasn't for her, this story would be in my hard drive, or as I like to call it, my graveyard of unfinished stories. Thanks for listening to my rants and dealing with my cliffhangers at inopportune moments. Sorry. Also thanks to my friend, Emma, who read all 96k of this story to give me an opinion/fresh eyes without even being a fan of t100 (and for listening to me gripe about the show and this fic for the past couple of months). If I could, I'd make sure you'd both have Bellamy Blake under your Christmas tree with a bow... and nothing but a bow. (Okay, maybe King Arthur/Bradley James for you, Em).

AND, thanks to you guys for reading. As this story is already finished, I'll update once a week. Sometimes, more. This will have eventual smut in it, so if that makes you uncomfortable, you can still read this as I'll tag the chapter when that happens so you know to skim/avoid.