NB: If you haven't read the first part of this series, It Catches Up With You, I STRONGLY recommend going back and reading that first. This story will deal heavily with events and characters mentioned in the first and generally be a bit confusing if you haven't read part one.

Further author's notes at the end of this chapter.

"There's something that you need to know before we go any further. No - don't go to sleep. Not yet. I know, I know - you're tired. You're hungry. Everything hurts. I know. But I just need you to stay awake for me so I can tell you something very, very important.

You don't have to understand. You don't even have to listen all that hard. But you need to be told.

All of this? It's not an adventure story. The heroes aren't going to come crashing through that door to save you and make some daring escape. Because life doesn't work like that. Oh they'll come for you. I know they will. But there will be no daring escapes and justice served. Not for me. Not for you. But there will be blood, and death, and there is nothing you can do to stop it, and I will make you watch. Believe me. You are just the beginning.

This isn't an adventure story, Miss Denham. But I think you knew that already didn't you?

My God. I hope you did."

Los Angeles, 1935

California heat was oppressive in a way that he couldn't ever remember the New York summers being. The constant artificial whir of the ceiling fan above did little to alleviate his discomfort, wherein no sitting position was comfortable, or even sustainable. There was a dryness to the heat, at odds with the perspiration it bought on, leaving him feeling constantly parched, despite the steady supply of drinks he'd fetched for himself.

"You don't have to do that, son." One of the old boys on the board had rumbled good-naturedly to him on one such quest to the studio cafeteria "That's why ya got yourself a secretary."

Yes, the ever industrious Ruth. A woman so utterly impervious to the Hollywood heat that he sometimes wondered if it had been bred into her through generations before, like a prize race horse was bred for speed. California born and raised, he'd never seen her with so much as a hair out of place, let alone break a sweat. The unshakeable Ruth Roberts, whose organisational skills and near-flawless memory made her a far more valuable asset to the movie studio than he'd ever considered himself.

Honestly, he couldn't quite get used to the fact that he had someone now whose job it was to run around after him. As someone who had done all the running (and more besides) for the majority of his working life, he still felt somewhat of an impostor.

He removed his glasses and pinched the sweat from the bridge of his nose. He had a whole heap of memos to get through by the end of the week, but he really wasn't in the mood. Something else had taken up residence in his priorities and was refusing to shift. He glanced down at where the glasses had landed, his vision slightly blurred - he could have sworn it had gotten worse in the last year - on a folded newspaper, creased back on itself to keep one particular piece on top.

MISSING: $2,000 Reward.

Miss Cora Rose Denham, aged 20.

Underneath was a photograph of a young woman, her dark hair carefully coiffed, teeth meekly exposed in a demure little smile. The picture was over a year old, and taken during the promotional work for the ill-fated Eighth Wonder of the World. Even after this long people still talked about it. One studio was even rumoured to be working on a movie based on the story.

There were all the standard details - her hair, eyes and height, as well as where she'd last been seen. The reward was being offered by entrepreneur Theodore Farwell - all reports suggested that her family were desperate to find her after a full week of absence. For the circulation of the news to have reached the opposite coast, they must have been.

He picked the paper up once more, slipping the glasses back onto his nose. In all honesty, he'd read the article so many times now that the words were practically imprinted on his brain, tattooed on the insides of his eyelids every time he blinked. Yet he couldn't stop looking, as if he'd missed some vital detail that would reveal itself on a revisit. As such, it took him several seconds to register the disturbance taking place outside his office door. Voices - raised voices, talking over each other. He recognised one as the always reliable Ruth, but the other was new.

"I need to talk to him." The newcomer demanded.

"Do you have an appointment?" Ruth, trotting out her spiel as always.

The tone grew rapidly more aggravated "Do I look like I have an appointment?"

"You'll have to book an appointment." Ruth replied "He's a very busy man-"

The reply sounded like it came through gritted teeth "I understand, but this is urgent."

"You can come back next week." Ruth explained shortly.

"Next week!" Her voice rose "Next week could be too late!"

"He's busy, I'm sorry-"

"It's about Cora Denham!" The woman blurted out in a rush.

He froze, newspaper clasped in hand.

Ruth fell silent for a moment, before; "Excuse me?"

He must have imagined it, he swore he must have imagined it, until the woman's voice spilled over again - "Tell him that I've come about Cora Denham, I know he'll talk to me about her-"

In a second he was on his feet, at the door, wrenched it open to the hallway outside. Ruth spun round, flushed and guilty looking and for the first time he'd seen it, looking ruffled "Sir, I'm so sorry, she just barged in here, I told her you were busy - do you want me to call security?"

"That really won't be necessary," He waved a hand to silence the fuming secretary and looked at the new arrival, a young, chicly dressed woman. "You know something about Cora Denham?

"I do. At least - I want to." She took a deep breath "I'm her sister." Something dawned in her face. "Are you Preston Howard?"

Preston nodded. "I am."

New York City, three days later

"Jimmy's takin' his time." Alex Morgan commented from his spot in the corner of the mess. The dirty dish in front of him indicated the end of his breakfast, and now he idled a little, silently bargaining for some more time inside. The morning had dawned with heavy rain, the wind off the river blowing it practically horizontal and rendering all wet weather wear borderline useless. As such, Alex was reluctant to get to work.

"He is out? In this? He is probably drowned." A heavily accented voice called from the galley with a lightness of tone that wasn't entirely appropriate.

Alex glanced over to where Englehorn was sat, reading the newspaper, a cigarette clamped in the side of his mouth, but the captain didn't react. The new chef, a morbidly-humoured Frenchman, had only been with them a few weeks, but already the skipper had grown accustomed to his jokes. He'd also already learnt to ignore them completely.

"Morning all." Joliffe hailed, grimacing at he stepped into the room. For all the chef's jokes, the Brit looked half-drowned himself, sodden from head to foot. "Glorious day." He remarked. He took another step in, shaking his shoulders like a dog and sending drops of water cascading to the floor.

"I JUST mopped!" Came the outraged cry from the galley "You could not have done that outside?"

"Sorry Reynaud." Joliffe replied, brushing off his sleeves and looking nothing of the sort.

Reynaud leant out of the hatch and jabbed a spatula in his direction "If we were in France I could have you shot."

Joliffe pulled a face "God you talk some absolute rubbish - if we were in France - if we were in France you'd have been arrested ten seconds out of the harbour."

Alex looked at the new chef "Is that true?" he asked with a grin.

Reynaud rolled his eyes "He exaggerates." He scoffed, disappearing back into the hatch "It would have been five."

Changing the subject, Alex turned back to Joliffe "Did you see Jimmy on your way here? I dunno if he came back last night."

"Jim? No. Though I was so busy trying not to get a face full of rain, Garbo herself could've wandered by in her altogether and I'd be none the wiser." He laughed "I wouldn't worry. Wherever he is, in this weather he won't dally back."

"Any news on Cora?" Alex added quietly.

Joliffe's smile faded "I'm keeping an eye and an ear out lad, but nothing yet. Spoke to the lads on The Raleigh, but they don't know much more than we do."

"The papers are full of it." Englehorn finally deigned to speak. "Two thousand dollars for any information."

"She'll turn up." Joliffe said firmly "Girls like her usually do." He glanced down at the newspaper "Although. Two thousand's not bad. Do you reckon she could come here first when she turns up, and then we take her back and claim the money?"

"This isn't like her." Alex replied sternly. "She's not that kind of person, she doesn't just… disappear." He turned back to the table and fell into a thoughtful silence.

"By the way Captain…" Joliffe reached into his coat and drew out a slightly damp envelope "I was handed this on my way back." He held it out to Englehorn "S'for you."

Englehorn took the envelope suspiciously "Who gave it to you?"

"Dunno. Never saw his face." Joliffe wiggled out of his raincoat and slung it over the end of the table "Short. Wiry bloke. Ran right into me, but I could've knocked him down with a finger. Said 'this is for your German captain'." He ruffled his fingers through his sodden hair, sending droplets flying "Well, he didn't say German, as such, but…"

"Hun? Fritz? Bosche scum?" Englehorn guessed wryly, holding the envelope to the light.

Joliffe shrugged "Along those lines. The sentiment's the same."

"You still get all of that?" Reynaud asked, raising his thick eyebrows.

"Every so often. People remember." Grabbing one of the kitchen knives, Englehorn sliced open the envelope "And with Herr Hitler's antics in Europe, it is only going to get worse." He was suddenly still and silent as he scanned the letter inside.

"Cap'n?" Joliffe looked up sharply "Who's it from?"

Englehorn glanced up and Alex was startled to see the look on the man's face - even by his standards it was grim. "It's Rivers." He muttered darkly, with a degree of effort.

Joliffe struck the tabletop and swore quietly, before both of them fell silent.

Alex looked between the two men, and an equally perplexed Reynaud "Who's Rivers?"

"Ned Rivers." Joliffe grumbled with disgust "That old devil. I thought he was dead." His gaze flickered to Alex "We knew him. Once. Thought he was a good man." He sniffed, shaking his head "Went and proved us wrong, didn't he." He turned back to Englehorn "What does he want this time?"

"To meet." Englehorn said, re-reading the note "He wants to meet. The both of us, tonight. He says he has important matters to discuss."

Joliffe shook his head again, with no trace of his usual jovial humour "Rivers. Christ. What's it been, five years?"

"Let us hope that time has improved him." Englehorn replied. The envelope tipped in his hand and a small, slim package fell onto the tabletop, wrapped in a torn sheet of newspaper.

All four of them stared warily at it. For something so small it lay too ominously between them.

Tensed, Englehorn tentatively nudged it with the edge of the envelope until the paper shifted to reveal its contents. A lock of chestnut brown hair, tied with a scrap of twine. It was then they noticed that the page chosen as wrapping featured a missing person's report.

Missing. Cora R Denham. 20. Manhattan.

Alex's heart sank as he reached forward, fingers closing on the hair. The men looked to him as he slowly picked up the lock and held it to the light.

"Well?" Englehorn snapped.

Alex nodded "Yeah." He said grimly "Yeah, that's hers. It's her. Whoever this Rivers guy is - he's got her."

And we're back, because apparently I don't know when to let this lie!

So a few things:

1. This story will be up quicker than It Catches Up With You. That I'm pretty set on (in before 'lol nicely it literally took you nearly 7 years to upload ICUWY who are you trying to kid')

2. This story is set to be noticeably darker in tone and subject matter than ICUWY. Please consider this an advance warning for the following: verbal and physical abuse, mentions of PTSD, depictions of violence/gore, derogatory language and general sustained threat.