Previously…
– Brent requested that Natalie participate in a police lineup regarding Loretta’s murder. Natalie again enlisted Conrad as her attorney.
– Spencer and Elly slept together, but he overheard her and Travis talking about keeping a secret. When he pressed her, Elly insisted it simply had to do with the fact that they had patched up their differences without Rosie’s approval.
– Bree reacted harshly to Marcus’s comments about Natalie’s possible involvement in Loretta’s death.

The scent of freshly ground coffee dances in the air as Elly Vanderbilt steps up to the counter and grabs her order. The interior of Cassie’s Coffee House, with its cozy vibe, mismatched furniture, and soft indie music playing, feels perfectly aligned with the gray drizzle of the weather outside. Coffee in hand, Elly tucks her phone into her purse and turns — nearly bumping right into Spencer Ragan.

“Spencer. Hi,” she says, instantly taking note of the dark stubble on his jawline and shadows beneath his eyes. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

“What? No,” he replies, his tone less than convincing.

“The one-word text responses would say otherwise. I thought we had a good time, Spencer. I certainly didn’t think it would be a one-time thing.”

“I’ve got a lot going on,” he says as he idly scratches the back of his head. He wears a navy windbreaker over a light-blue checked dress shirt and olive-colored slacks. 

She softens her tone. “I know you do. Is there any other news about Loretta‘s case?”

He hesitates, then says, “Natalie‘s being questioned again. Or something. She had to go down to the station.”

“They really think she…?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, his windbreaker crinkling audibly as he does so. 

“When you have some time — or when you want to blow off some steam — maybe we could get together again.” She takes a tentative sip of her still-steaming coffee as she awaits a response.

Spencer sighs. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I don’t really have space in my life for people I can’t trust,” he says, his eyes now landing squarely on hers.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Why can’t you trust me?”

“I don’t know where you stand in all this. That’s all.”

She recoils, incredulous. “Where I stand? Why are you putting me in the middle of all this?”

“Because.” He takes a step back. “I’ve got to get to the office. I’ll see you around, Elly.”

Before she can say anything else, he’s already stepped up to the counter to place his order, his focus so sharply on the barista that she can feel him ignoring her. With a huff, Elly makes her way to the door and braces for the light rainfall.

Natalie Bishop folds her arms across her chest, as her foot taps an impatient rhythm against the scuffed linoleum floor inside the King’s Bay Police Department headquarters. The overhead lights cast a dull, slightly eerie vibe over the waiting area, as the backdrop is filled with the chirping of phones and buzz of conversations that have nothing to do with her or her situation. She exhales sharply and glares at her ex-husband, who stands nearby with the same infuriatingly composed expression he has always had, both in and out of court.

“This is ridiculous,” she declares. “I have an alibi. An airtight one. I was with Spencer and Peter the entire time! There are witnesses who saw me at the gala. I couldn’t have doubled back and gone back home to do whatever they think I did.”

“I know,” Conrad Halston replies, and Natalie cannot help but hear a slightly patronizing tone to his words. “But someone poisoned one of the hairdresser’s products.”

“Then they can bother the hairdresser about it,” Natalie scoffs. As she glances across the large, open space, filled with cubicles and lined with meeting rooms, she sees Brent Taylor watching them like a hawk. “But he’s already made up his mind anyway.”

“And that’s why we’re doing this,” Conrad reminds her. “The fastest way to put an end to this is to get in that lineup, let the witness say it wasn’t you that they saw, and this is all over.”

“I hope so.” 

A young officer in uniform approaches them. “Ms. Bishop? We’re ready for you.”

Natalie clenches her jaw. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

—–

Christian Taylor stands in front of the narrow mirror above the chest of drawers in his dorm room, tilting his head slightly as he runs his fingers through his hair. It’s stubborn this morning, refusing to sit the way he wants it to. Lady Gaga’s vibrant track “How Bad Do U Want Me” plays from the portable speaker on the table beside his twin bed; with his twin brother and roommate out of the room for an early workout, Christian feels free to play whatever music he wants.

He has just gotten his hair to stay the way he wants it — he hopes — when there is a knock on the door. Without much thought, he turns and pulls the door open, revealing Marcus Gray on the other side.

“Hey,” Christian says, immediately scrutinizing Marcus for clues as to why he might be here. Usually they just meet at their morning Biology class.

Marcus stands in the dim hallway, hands stuffed into the front pocket of his hoodie, his face tense. “Can I come in?”

“Definitely.” Christian steps aside, now quite aware of the shift from Marcus’s usual energy. He is normally laidback and full of easy confidence, but something seems very different today.

Christian closes the door and then uses his phone to silence the music mid-lyric. “Did something happen?”

“It’s Bree,” Marcus says, the statement coming out in an exhale like he has been waiting all night to get it out. “We got into a– a thing last night.”

“What kind of thing?”

Marcus groans and shakes his head. “We had dinner at her dad’s, and he got a call from her mom about needing a lawyer.”

“Because of the Loretta Ragan thing?”

“That’s what I said,” Marcus explains. “Not, like, in a dick kinda way, but it’s not the most surprising thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Same. But I’m guessing Bree didn’t like that.”

“No. She shut down on me. When we got back to campus, she pretty much jumped out of the car before I could put it in park and told me she didn’t want me to come up to her room.”

“Jeez.” Christian glances at his reflection in the mirror and sees that his hair has flopped out of place again, but he decides to ignore it for now. “Did you call her? Not just text?”

“Both. A bunch of times. No answer.”

“Give her some time. It’s a lot to process. And I bet she’s hyper-sensitive to it. Her mom has put her through a lot — divorcing her dad, moving her all over the place, the stuff with my uncle and Peter, marrying Spencer…”

“I know. But we never fight or anything. It has me all worried.”

“Like I said, give her time. It’s only been, what, 12 hours? She won’t ignore you forever.”

Marcus looks up at him, wounded. “What if she does?”

“She won’t. Because I’ll talk to her, too, if I need to. I’ll get through to her.”

“Thanks, man,” Marcus says, and he throws his arms around Christian to pull him into a hug. The move surprises Christian — for as close as they are, Marcus isn’t usually the most affectionate — but he accepts the embrace, breathing in the scent of Marcus’s body wash, which has a hint of spice to it. 

“It’s all going to work out,” Christian tells his friend, as he reminds himself not to enjoy the contact too much.

“Well, that sucked,” Bree Halston declares as she steps off the ice, putting the plastic guards over her skate blades effortlessly. 

“Not every day is going to be perfect,” Jason Fisher says sympathetically. He stands beside his student as he puts on his own skate guards. Out on the ice, the morning freestyle session is still in high gear, with several skaters practicing their own moves as a younger girl skates a routine to Tchiakovsky’s Swan Lake. 

“I guess,” Bree says. “Maybe I should’ve just stayed in bed today.”

“You got out there and tried. Every day counts.”

She shoots him a dubious look in return.

“Is everything okay?” Jason asks. “You’ve been on-edge all morning. Did something happen at school?”

“No.” Bree smooths out her black fleece jacket. “Not school.”

“What, then? Is it something with Marcus?”

She lifts her eyes but not her head to look at him. Jason knows the look all too well, not only from coaching Bree, but from the time when he was practically her stepfather. She was never a particularly bratty or defiant child, but he always knew exactly what that look meant.

“Let’s go sit down,” he suggests, indicating a bench against the opposite wall, away from the immediate traffic of people getting on and off the ice. Jason moves toward the bench and is pleased to realize that Bree is following him.

“So. What happened?” he asks softly as they sit down.

“He annoyed me, that’s all.”

“Annoyed you? And you’re this torn-up over it?”

Bree adjusts the headband that was been keeping her blonde hair out of her face while she practiced. “My mom is in trouble again. And when Marcus found out, he was just like, ‘Yeah, of course she is.'”

For a few seconds, Jason simply bites his lower lip and stares at the activity out on the ice. Then he ventures, a little hesitantly, “At the risk of also annoying you… I can’t say I’m 100% surprised that your mom has gotten herself into a bind again. What is it this time?”

“Something about Loretta Ragan. I don’t really know. My dad is with her at the police station this morning.”

“Bree, I know you love your mom — she’s your mom — but she does have a habit of getting herself into tough situations. Look at the way our wedding blew up. That was all her doing.”

“I know. I’m not saying she’s perfect,” Bree says. “But she’s never done anything to Marcus.”

“No… but he’s had a front row seat to all the chaos that she’s caused in your life. From lying about Peter’s paternity to eloping with Spencer to moving Loretta into that house… Marcus has been there for all of it, Bree. So even though your mom hasn’t directly hurt him, she’s hurt you, and Marcus cares about you.”

“I guess you might have a point.”

“I just think you should consider Marcus’s point-of-view, too,” Jason continues. “He isn’t some stranger trying to be glib about your mother. He’s worried about how her actions affect you.”

“I wish he didn’t even know,” she says, suddenly sounding on the verge of tears.

Jason slides around and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Do you think maybe the one you’re upset with is your mom, and not Marcus?”

She lets out a little groan. “Maybe. How’d you know?”

“Because I was your age once,” he says. “Emotions are confusing and complicated. But here’s the thing, Bree: you’re on the verge of adulthood. Your mom will always be your mom — but the choices she makes don’t have to shape your life anymore.”

“I know. But sometimes I wish she could just be normal.”

“Here’s another piece of wisdom I’ve picked up: no one is normal.”

She chuckles and lifts her head to look at him. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Jason tells her. “For now, try and remember that it’s your mom you’re frustrated with, not Marcus.”

“Then I should probably respond to one of the texts he sent me, huh? Or one of the calls I missed?”

“That would be a good start, yeah.” Jason withdraws his arm from around her. “And tomorrow we’ll nail that practice, okay?”

“That sounds great,” Bree says, her usual bubbly energy seeping through again.

—–

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

Brent Taylor stands with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, beside the delivery driver who claims to have seen a redheaded woman outside the Ragan home on the evening that Loretta was murdered. The two of them are in a small room, gazing through a two-way mirror at a lineup of five women between 30 and 50. All five of them stand as still as they can, save for the occasional transfer of weight from one foot to the other.

“You don’t think any of these women are the one you saw that night?” Brent asks.

The driver, a middle-aged woman with peroxide blonde hair pulled into a short ponytail, shakes her head. “Nope. It wasn’t any of these women.”

Brent studies the lineup again. His attention is drawn to Natalie, who is positioned second from the right. But he knows that he cannot direct attention specifically to her, or do anything that could be seen as coercing the witness.

“Okay, thank you,” Brent tells her as he moves for the door.

—–

Moments later, the uniformed officer announces to the women in the lineup, “That’s a wrap, ladies. You’re free to go.”

“Thank god,” Natalie says, a little too loudly. The other women glare at her as they file out of the room. She resists the urge to sneer at whoever is on the other side of the two-way mirror — Brent, she presumes.

—–

“Uncle Brent!” the voice calls out as the police commander stands by the wall, waiting for his witness to return from the restroom so that he can discuss next steps with her.

He looks up and sees Elly hurrying toward him.

“El. Hey,” he says, smiling in spite of their austere surroundings. “What brings you by?”

“I have a couple of questions for you,” she says. She waits until she is right in front of him to add, in a quieter voice, “About Loretta.”

Brent tilts his head. “You know I can’t talk about the case.”

“I know, but…”

“That’s her!” another voice says. Both turn to see the delivery driver standing there, hands at her side and mouth agape. “How’d you find her?”

“What? What do you mean?” Brent asks.

The driver points at Elly. “That’s the woman I saw. The redhead.”

END OF EPISODE 1255

Was Elly really the woman whom the witness saw?
Will Natalie actually be cleared of suspicion?
Can Bree and Marcus patch up their relationship?
Discuss all this and more in the comments below!