Previously…
– The paternity test confirmed that Isaac is the father of Sienna’s daughter, Noelle.
– After learning that Loretta Ragan is dead, Sonja agreed to return to King’s Bay with TJ. Once there, she confided in Tim and Claire that she believes TJ is sick with aplastic anemia.
– Sabrina discovered the word ‘WHORE’ scrawled on her car. She and Jason realized that Robbie, the classmate whose advances she rejected, could be behind the vandalism and prior arson at her apartment.

The hallway hums with flickering fluorescent lighting, throwing pale strips of white against the scuffed linoleum floor. Police Commander Brent Taylor walks with measured steps, his brown-leather sneakers leaving damp marks as he goes. The precinct’s usual perfume — a mixture of old paper and burnt coffee — is thick in the air.

When he reaches the interrogation room, Brent pauses. He looks through the two-way mirror and observes his suspect inside the room. It is a small space, with cinder-block walls, a folding table, and four mismatched chairs. In one of them sits Robbie Wimbiscus, a man whom Brent has never actually met but has yet has had many a thought about confronting. He didn’t expect it to be under these circumstances, but he is going to have his chance regardless.

Robbie has his chair pushed back and balanced on its back legs. His arms are folded, and he wears what almost looks like a smirk across his face. Unbelievable. He looks both older and younger than Brent expected, though his long, lanky frame might account for the youthful aspect of that.

The knuckles on Brent’s right hand tighten around the notebook he is carrying, but he puts on his best poker face and uses his other hand to twist the doorknob. The door groans on its hinges. Robbie turns toward him, not with a start but rather with a slow-motion pan of his head.

“Commander?” he asks.

“Commander Brent Taylor,” Brent says brusquely. He moves to the opposite side of the table and pulls out a chair, though he does not yet sit down. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Robbie shrugs. “I really don’t.”

“No idea?”

“None. I was told I was only being questioned, but if I need an attorney–“

“You’re only being questioned,” Brent says. “But if you’d like an attorney, you’re within your rights to call one.”

“I guess that depends on what I’m being questioned about.”

“Someone you know has been receiving threats, and I need to know if you know anything.”

“Who?” Robbie asks, his smarmy face contorting.

“Sabrina Gage,” Brent tells him, and he stands back and watches as Robbie’s smirk falters.

—–

Her hands stiff against the steering wheel, Sabrina Gage steers her sedan into Jason Fisher‘s driveway. The car gleams under the midday sun, the hateful word now scrubbed away, but she can still see it in her mind — bold, accusing, dripping down the driver’s side doors like an open wound.

Jason steps out onto the porch as she quiets the engine and opens her door. In just a few long strides, he is at her side.

“It looks good as new,” he says softly.

Sabrina exhales and then nods. “They did a good job cleaning it.” Her voice is small, as if she is afraid to take up too much space.

Jason cups her elbow to help her out of the car, although she doesn’t need the physical assistance. Still, she is so grateful to have him here, supporting her however he can think to do so.

“We’re gonna catch the person who did this,” he says. “Brent is already working on it.”

“I know,” she says with a forced but grateful smile as she locks up the car. A resounding beep pierces the air to confirm that the vehicle is secured. “If it really is Robbie… why does he hate me so much?”

Jason’s jaw clenches as his hand slides downward to lace their fingers together. “Because you committed the crime of not giving him whatever he felt entitled to. Guys like that — they’re not operating in reality. They’re sick. And now he’s gonna pay for it.”

Sabrina wants to believe him. She leans into his warmth, hoping to absorb some of that fire and certainty. But the ghost of that word still lingers, etched in her memory, and she knows it will take much more than soap and polish to erase it.

Tim Fisher sits stiffly in the hard plastic chair, his jaw tight. The hospital room smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. Sonja Kahele stands near the row of cabinets containing supplies, her hands wrapped around herself as if she’s holding something in — fear, guilt, probably both. TJ lies on the bed, looking so normal, like such a regular toddler, that it is hard for Tim to process that his son might be seriously ill.

Still, though, when the boy yawns with exhaustion, Tim recognizes a weariness that goes beyond a child overdue for his nap.

Tim’s voice is low but edged as he asks, “How long as he been like this? Really?”

“I told you, it was a lot of little things that added up,” Sonja says. “After a few months, I started realizing… he wasn’t just catching colds all the time.”

“You should have let me know,” Tim says.

Sonja’s gaze cuts toward him, her dark eyes flashing. “I wanted to. But you know I couldn’t.”

“You could have–“

They are interrupted by the opening of the door. Claire Fisher, in her pale blue scrubs and sporting a stethoscope around her neck, steps into the room. She offers a reassuring smile as she approaches the bed.

“TJ is in great hands today,” she says. “The biopsy is a quick procedure, and we’ll make sure he doesn’t feel a thing.”

The boy looks up at her from the bed with a grimace. “Do I have to take medicine?”

“Not the kind you don’t like,” Sonja tells him lovingly. To Tim and Claire, she explains, “He doesn’t like the taste of cough medicine.”

“Neither do I,” Claire says to TJ, making a face. “It’s yucky.”

“It’s yucky,” TJ repeats with a laugh.

“He feels comfortable with you,” Tim comments as Claire comes to his side.

“I’ll be with him the entire time,” Claire assures Tim. By TJ’s bedside, Sonja stands, cradling her son. Tim watches them, and he can see the tension in Sonja’s body. As angry as he is at her for keeping TJ away from him for so long — and he really is angry — he hardly has the energy for that right now. All he can focus on is TJ.

As if reading his mind, Claire whispers, “He’ll be okay. He will.”

“I really hope so,” Tim says quietly.

The clatter of silverware and distant bursts of laughter fill 322 Bar & Grill. With the lunchtime crowd humming all around them, Sarah Fisher Gray and Diane Bishop sit across from one another in a booth. A slanted ray of sunlight catches in the condensation on Diane’s water glass as she lazily flicks a crouton across her plate with her fork.

“So,” Sarah says as she finishes chewing a bite of her own salad. “Isaac‘s a dad.”

Diane lets out a sharp, dry laugh. “Yep. To a little girl I’m told is genuinely adorable. Which ties him to a woman who strikes me as a complete nightmare.”

“And we certainly wouldn’t be familiar with that.”

“That’s how I know. I could see it in her eyes at that gala. And the fact that she just happened to move to King’s Bay and become pals with Tempest? I’m not buying the Little Miss Innocent act.”

Diane stabs a cherry tomato as though it has personally offended her.

“How’s Isaac handling it?” Sarah asks.

“I think he’s still in shock. He thought Sienna was out of his life forever. He cut her off and ran away.”

“She slept with his best friend?”

“Yeah! And then tried to blame it on Isaac being too busy with work.” Diane pops the  impaled tomato into her mouth and chews.

“I bet he’ll be a great father,” Sarah offers. “Alex is always talking about how easily he slipped into a rhythm with Chase.”

“He’ll be a great dad. It’s just… a lot. And it makes me question how I fit into things.”

“Isaac loves you, Diane.”

“I know he does. And he’s going to love that kid, too. I just didn’t really see myself becoming stepmother to a toddler at this point in life. Or…”

“You’re worried this is going to change your relationship,” Sarah finishes for her.

Diane frowns and takes another bite of her salad. As she finishes chewing, she says, “I can handle it. What’s going on with you? Distract me. Any batshit cases lately?”

“I don’t know if anything rises to that level,” Sarah says, “but Landon did manage to track down Sonja and TJ and get them back here.”

“Samantha mentioned that. I don’t envy Tim, trying to make sure that nutty nurse doesn’t run off with their kid again.”

“Apparently she is more willing to stick around now that Loretta Ragan is dead. That’s why she was on the run.”

Diane shrugs and sets down her fork. “Well, you did manage to raise my spirits a little.”

Sarah lifts an eyebrow. “Really? How?”

“Sounds like I’m no longer Tim’s most problematic babymama,” Diane says. “Only took a few decades, but that’s something.”

With a snicker, Sarah resumes eating her lunch.

—–

The interrogation room feels even smaller now, as Robbie seems to have seized up and shrunken into his chair. Brent drops his notebook onto the table with a slapping sound, then takes a seat himself. His palms lie flat against the table, his jaw tight.

“When was the last time you had contact with Sabrina?” Brent asks, his voice steady but with a serrated edge to it.

“Last summer. When our photography class ended. We avoided each other most of the semester.”

“And who led the charge on that?”

Robbie exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Both of us?”

“Because she rejected you,” Brent continues, answering the question as if Robbie hadn’t responded at all. “Maybe this is your way of getting back at her.”

“What kind of threats are we talking about, Commander?”

Brent considers his next words carefully, not wanting to give away information that could taint this conversation.

“Serious ones,” he says at last. “How about I give you some dates and you tell me where you were on those days?” He flips open the notebook.

“I can assure you that I was probably at home, doing non-illegal things,” Robbie cuts him off.

“You’ll have to forgive me for needing more confirmation than your word.”

“Why’s that? You’re obviously biased here.”

“Look, I don’t like the way you treated my son,” Brent says, “but I can do my job just fine. I’m a professional, Mr. Wimbiscus. Now how about you take a look at these dates?”

He slides the notebook across the table.

“How about I call an attorney before you coerce me into anything else?” Robbie replies with another challenging smirk.

—–

Steam clings to the mirror as Sabrina passes through the opening that connects the en suite bathroom to the large primary bedroom, a fluffy towel wrapped around her. The shower should have helped. The hot water, the scent of Jason’s soap, the illusion of washing it all away. But she still feels it: the tension coiled beneath her skin, the uneasy whispers at the back of her mind.

She crosses to the window, arms holding the towel tight, and peers out at the driveway. The car sits there, now pristine as ever, as if nothing ever happened at all. But she knows better. The fear crawls back up her spine.

And then — out of nowhere — pain. Blinding pain.

The sharp, searing ache tears through her skull. It is white-hot and merciless. Breath hitching, she staggers back from the window. It’s been so long since she felt this; she thought it was over. But it transports her right back to the days and months after she awoke from her coma. The crushing pressure feels as if something is trying to claw its way out of her head.

Her knees threaten to give, and she grips the side of the dresser. The room tilts as shadows thicken at the edge of her vision. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears.

Please. Not again, she thinks, her own thoughts battling for space within her head.

Stumbling to the bed, she barely makes it before the next wave crashes over her. She clenches her teeth and presses her palms against her temples.

She really thought this was over. But as the pain roots even deeper, Sabrina realizes how wrong she was.

END OF EPISODE 1252

What is happening to Sabrina?
Will Robbie come up with valid alibis?
What will TJ’s biopsy reveal?
Talk about it all in the comments below!