Episode #341

Previously ...
- The police informed Katherine that the Espositos had her mansion burned down as retaliation against Nick. When Katherine confronted her husband, he attempted to cover, but she wasn't sure if she could believe him.
- Nick realized that Esposito confessed to the arson as a warning to Nick about following orders.
- Paula, Bill, and Claire stood by Ryan's side during Stan's burial. Ryan finally felt acceptance from the Fishers.
- Molly investigated the Heritage Clinic but was unable to learn anything about it. She ran into Brent, who was busy conducting his own investigation. After realizing why Brent had come to Vermont, Molly snuck back into the clinic to do some exploring.


The clinic's lobby is quiet--and not just quiet, but dead silent, precisely the sort of tense emptiness that the stark, sterile furnishings seem to demand. Brent Taylor and the two federal agents with whom he has been working stand before a plain white door. A minute ago, the receptionist disappeared into it, locking the door behind her. All the men can do is wait.

"Something is very wrong here," whispers Devereaux, the agent whose tall, slender body looms several inches over the other two men. He speaks through clenched teeth, and the stillness of his face makes it nearly impossible to see that he is talking at all.

Brent keeps his voice low as he responds. "You don't think she's just gonna stay in there until we go away, do you?"

"She'd be in there for an awful long time, then," Devereaux says.

The men continue waiting in silence. Brent strains to hear something, anything, through the door, but he cannot make out a single sound. He eyes the receptionist's desk; unsurprisingly, there is very little on it, and the computer appears to require a password for access.

A clicking sound rattles the quiet, and a moment later, the door opens. The receptionist finds herself confronted by a wall of law enforcement officers.

"Dr. Domingo is occupied right now," she says curtly.

"He can take a short break to speak with us," says Lockhart, the other agent. He sounds firm, even insistent, without coming across the least bit desperate.

"No, he really can't be disturbed." The receptionist cuts a quick path back to her desk. "I'll have to ask you to step back around to the other side of the counter. This area is for staff only."

The men follow her back to the desk, but neither of the agents even appears to consider returning to the other side. Brent follows their lead.

"I'm afraid you don't have much say in the matter," Lockhart tells the receptionist.

"And I'm afraid that I can't help you if you don't have a warrant." She attempts to busy herself with what looks like an appointment book, clearly her way of instructing the men to go away.

They don't budge.

Several seconds pass, and then Devereaux crosses back to the other side of the desk. "I suppose you won't mind if I have a look around," he says.

Before the receptionist can respond, Devereaux strides toward the hallway that connects to the opposite side of the lobby. She rises from her seat, but the other two men follow quickly behind Devereaux.

She waits only a moment, long enough for the men to disappear into the hallway, before picking up the telephone and dialing a four-digit extension.

"Doctor," she says, "they're wandering through the building. You need to do something immediately."


With delicate confidence, Nick Moriani enters the bedroom he and Katherine share. Opening the slightly ajar door quietly, he finds her sitting upright on her--their--bed, reading. She has regarded him with an alarming amount of indifference since their confrontation about his past shady dealings.

There's too much going on right now to have to keep track of her emotional outbursts. This was the last thing I needed.

His thoughts run concurrent with his short, still-silent walk across the room to his wife, who hasn't looked up or acknowledged his entrance in any way. He sits down next to her and places a hand on the nape of her neck.

"Yes?" she asks, not looking up from her book.

"I just wanted to talk. You haven't been yourself lately."


"You've been so … distant."

She lowers the book slightly, cranes her neck so that she wriggles from his touch, and glares at him. "I've had a lot to think about."

"We've been over this," he says soothingly. "I already told you the truth about my past. And why I wasn't fully forthcoming with King's Bay's finest at the time of the incidents in question. You have to believe me."

"I don't know what I believe anymore." She sets the book down and rises from the bed.

"Katherine," he says, "we have to talk about this. Together."

"I don't want to talk about it with you," she says.

There's a slight defiance in her tone that sparks a flare of rage within Nick, but he keeps his ire in check on the surface and remains seated as she bustles about the room. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"Out," she says matter-of-factly. "I have something important to do."


The lobby was anything but misleading. As far as Molly Fisher can see, every inch of the clinic is as stark and anonymous as its entrance area suggests. While she could not help but notice the overly bright lighting in the lobby, however, Molly finds that the rest of the building is lit dimly, as if to shroud whatever secrets it holds.

She has no idea where she is going, but after realizing why Brent came all the way here, Molly realized she had no choice but to search the clinic. Salvatore Domingo, whoever he is, cannot get away with this.

If this even is what she thinks it is.

After passing a series of unmarked doors, she reaches the end of the hallway and pauses. To her left is a stretch of hallway almost identical to the one she just came through; to the right is a shorter corridor, leading to what appears to be an emergency exit.

She goes left. Her body braces for the inevitable moment when some doctor or nurse will emerge from a room and evaluate her carefully, perhaps with alarm. Her encounter with the receptionist proved that they don't take kindly to uninvited visitors here.

The doors in this corridor, Molly realizes, have small windows cut into them. The panes are small--she has to make any effort to get a real look at what's inside the room--but at least they allow her some idea of what she is passing.

Glancing around to make sure that the hallway is still empty, she stops in front of one door and moves her eyes to the small window. She is surprised by what she finds. The room stands in sharp contrast to the rest of the clinic. Its decor is rich, lush, more of a hotel suite than a hospital room. The room is carpeted in a soft beige, and there is a sitting area with a deep green sofa and matching pair of chairs. The only sign that this is a medical facility and not an inn is the young woman asleep in the bed, her skin almost eerily white and her hands folded gently over her stomach.

Molly forces herself to move along. The pieces are beginning to come together in her mind, but she isn't sure if she should accept them. It's all too strange.

In an instant, though, all that is shoved out of her mind. Panic floods her body as a hand clamps down over her mouth and yanks her backward.

In another part of the clinic, Dr. Salvatore Domingo lifts his phone from its cradle. The fifty eight-year-old man brushes a hand across his beard, its once-striking black now dulled with gray. He draws a deep breath to calm himself and to summon his energy for what very well could lie ahead.

As much as he hates to admit it, he isn't as young as he once was, and he lacks the energy to deal with this sort of situation. He will do it, of course; he has built his career upon his reliability and his willingness to accomodate such scenarios. But one day--someday soon, he hopes--he will have amassed all the wealth he needs, and he will no longer need to concern himself with these sorts of cases.

Domingo exhales and moves his fingers quickly over the keypad. A single ring later, a voice answers on the other end.

"This is Dr. Domingo," he says. "Tom Clayton has to be dealt with immediately. We have trouble."


"Hold that thought," Claire Fisher says, setting her knife down on the kitchen counter. She is glad that she started cooking early, because at the rate she keeps getting interrupted, this meal won't be ready anytime before midnight.

As Claire exits the kitchen to respond to the doorbell's call, Ryan Moriani takes a momentary pause from chopping the vegetables that she has assigned to him. "I guess I'll stay here and keep dicing."

"Of course you will," Claire says through a grin. "It hasn't been five hours yet. You haven't earned your fifteen-minute break."

Ryan gives a fake sigh and lowers his head. Claire hurries to answer the door. She hopes it is just a package for Paula or Bill; she wants to get everything ready for dinner before Diane drops off Samantha for the weekend.

When she opens the door, however, she realizes that this isn't going to be a quick distraction from her cooking.

"Hello, Claire," the older woman standing before her says. "I'm not sure if you remember me--"

"Of course I do." How could I forget a character like Katherine Fitch?

This is by far the most casual Claire has ever seen Katherine, who is dressed in a dark sweater and slacks, her red hair pinned up much more loosely than Claire remembers ever seeing it. Deep creases line her face, and there is an air of humility about her that seems new and uncomfortable.

"Do you have a few minutes?" Katherine asks. "I was hoping I could speak with you ..."

"Yeah. Come on in. Have a seat." Claire lets the older lady into the house and closes the door. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asks, feeling that she is supposed to offer,

"No, I'm fine, thank you." Katherine lowers herself awkwardly onto the living room sofa, as if she isn't quite sure of sitting down on this strange piece of furniture in such a regular house. "Claire, I really do apologize for dropping in on you like this. I didn't know what else to do, and I need to have some questions answered."

Claire nods. Clearly, something has gone wrong, and she is almost positive that it has something to do with Nick.

Katherine's next question confirms that. "When you and Andrew were trying to keep me from marrying my husband, what ..." She trails off, as if unsure how to proceed. "What compelled you to do that? You certainly didn't have anything invested in whether or not my marriage was successful."

"Well, no." Claire looks to the seat beside Katherine on the couch but decides to sit down in one of the armchairs instead. "But Andy was concerned about you, and he was a good friend."

"But you were concerned about Nick, correct?"

"Yeah." Brushing her hair back behind her ears, Claire attempts to turn her thoughts into some type of articulate statement. "Nick was a close friend of my father. I know for a fact that my father was involved in some very shady business--"

"The mob, you mean."

Katherine's straightforwardness stuns Claire, and she wonders what exactly happened to bring all this to the fore after it has been dormant for so long. "Yeah, and I'm fairly certain that your husband is--or was, at some point--involved in the same thing."

"Do you have any proof of that? Something concrete?"

"No." Claire hesitates, then spits out what is really on her mind: "Not to be rude, but why are you suddenly so concerned about this? You didn't seem to have much interest in what your son or I had to say when you were engaged to Nick."

Katherine lowers her head, and before she has the opportunity to respond, Ryan enters the room. Claire turns at the sound of his footsteps, in time to see the surprise that washes over him when he spots Katherine.

"Katherine," he says carefully. "What brings you by?"

Claire can tell that Katherine doesn't want to reveal too much--she's obviously concerned that Ryan might say something to his father.

"I had a few things to discuss with Claire," Katherine says. "How have you been? I haven't seen you at the house in quite some time."

"I haven't been there. I probably should go visit my father sometime soon." Ryan pauses and then looks uncomfortably to Claire. "I'll go back in there and finish chopping everything. When is Samantha supposed to get here?"

Claire checks her watch. "In about an hour. I'll be back in the kitchen in a minute."

Ryan returns to the kitchen, leaving the women to talk. Why in the world would Katherine want--or need--to speak with Claire, of all people?

There's only one possible answer, and even the thought of it fills Ryan with a terrible anxiety.


"Shh," Brent whispers roughly. The sound of his voice rushes to Molly's brain, and she tells herself to relax. But adrenaline is surging through her body, making every last nerve jump with fear.

She turns quickly and widens her eyes at him, as if to ask how he could scare her like that.

"Shh," he warns again. He pulls her closer to him. "Stay quiet."

Nodding, she touches his hands, his wrists, his shirt, trying to calm herself. She glances nervously around the corridor. Still no one, thank God.

"What are you doing here?" Brent asks, his voice a gravelly whisper.

Molly closes her eyes and grips the front of his shirt tighter. "I'm sorry. I was worried that something was wrong--that you were sick, or--"

"I'm fine." He pauses, his gaze moving over her, making sure that she's okay. "Mol, you shouldn't be here. This is way too dangerous ..."

"I know. I'm sorry, I just got worried, and I thought maybe I could help."

"You need to get out of here."

She nods again, faster this time. She would be more than happy to stay safe, as long as ... "Brent, what's going on here? Domingo and Clayton--who are they? Where are they?"

His eyes drift upward; his touch tightens against her.

"I'll explain later," he says. She wants to tell him that she saw the picture and that she knows--thinks she knows--what it is, and that she doesn't think she can just walk away.

As if anticipating this, he presses a finger softly against her lips. "Go. Get out of here. I'm going to figure this out. I'll explain it all to you as soon as I can."

She holds onto him for a moment longer but finally forces herself to separate from him.

"Good luck," she says, trailing her hand down his chest. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

She takes a step away from him but pauses to watch him for a moment longer. Now he nods, as if assuring her that everything will be fine, that it's okay to leave him here.

"I wanted to find you," he says, "but I need to catch up with those agents. Get out of here."

"I will." She heads back down the hallway, toward the direction from which she came. Brent goes the other way; he obviously has a better idea where he is going than she does.

When she comes back to the junction in the floorplan, she turns back toward the lobby--but freezes when she spots a nurse turning down the corridor toward her. The nurse has her head down, her attention focused on the chart in her hands.

I shouldn't let her see me, Molly thinks. Before the nurse looks up from the chart, Molly darts across the hall, into the short, dead-end wing that leads to the emergency exit. She presses her body against the wall and listens to the approaching footsteps. A few seconds later, the nurse rounds the corner, not even glancing in Molly's direction.

Allowing herself to breathe a sigh of tentative relief, Molly steps away from the wall. Before she can step back out into the hallway, though, she realizes something she didn't even notice earlier: a single door, exactly like the ones she saw in the other corridor, with a small pane of glass in the middle of it.

But before she can even look through the window, she spots the file sitting in the chart rack beside the door. The name on the file tells her that she can't leave. Not yet.

Tom Clayton.

Inside the room, the patient known as Tom Clayton groans. He has been running for what feels like an eternity. Every fiber of his being is weak from the effort, but the end of his path seems so near. He can make it. He knows he can.

But the darkness is closing in. It's getting tighter and tighter around him, blacking out his surroundings until he doesn't even know where he is anymore. His destination is fading, becoming more and more difficult to see.

Suddenly he realizes he doesn't even know where he is running.

His legs stop moving. His heartbeat pounds, echoing in his throat, his mouth, his ears. He'll never get there.

The darkness recedes, slowly, reluctantly. The light is weak; there is a certain fuzziness to everything now. Suddenly he becomes aware that he is in a room, some room he doesn't recognize, and even though his body aches, he hasn't been running.

For the first time in nearly four years, Tim Fisher opens his eyes.


Will Molly realize who "Tom Clayton" is in time?
What is really going on at the Heritage Clinic?
Is the full truth about the Morianis finally about to come out?
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