Previously…
– Samantha underwent a procedure to donate bone marrow to her younger half-brother, TJ.
– Travis was placed under arrest for Loretta Ragan’s murder.
– Rosie brought in Conrad to represent Travis. She was shocked when Travis admitted that he had been at the Ragan home on the night of Loretta’s death — and that Elly had been there, too.

Footsteps echo off the linoleum in the hospital’s waiting area. Many of them belong to Tim Fisher, who paces in front of a row of plastic chairs, hands jammed into his pockets. Sonja Kahele sits nearby, her purse in her lap, staring so intently at the pattern of the floor that she doesn’t notice when Claire Fisher comes through the swinging doors.

“Is it over?” Tim asks urgently, rushing to her side.

Sonja stands uneasily.

Claire’s voice is steady but laced with fatigue: “The transplant went as planned. Samantha‘s marrow is in TJ now.”

“Thank god,” Sonja says as she presses a hand to her chest.

Tim grips the back of a chair. “Does this mean he’s going to be okay?”

Claire hesitates just long enough to remind them that this is not a miracle fix. “It means he has a fighting chance. The next few weeks are critical. We need to see if the marrow engrafts and if his counts start climbing.”

“Right,” Tim says woozily. “So we wait.”

“Thank you for everything,” Sonja says, overcome with emotion. She springs forward, wrapping her arms around Claire. “For being there with TJ through this, for letting us stay in your home…”

Claire allows the embrace but then steps back gently. “He’s being moved into recovery now. You’ll be able to see him soon. But we need to be really careful about warding off potential infections.”

“I’ll make sure we follow all protocols once he’s back home,” Sonja says confidently. “Oh, I can’t wait to see my boy.”

With an encouraging smile, Claire tells her, “You will. Very soon.”

Tim’s gaze now flicks to the floor, the weight of another crisis dragging him down. “I know I should be elated, but I’m thinking about how Travis is… sitting in a jail cell, or some interrogation room…”

Sonja stiffens, the mention of Tim and Claire’s son breaking through her haze of relief.

“One thing at a time,” Claire tells Tim, taking his arm. It is clear that Travis’s troubles are gnawing at her, too. “Things look good for TJ. That’s huge. And I don’t believe for a second that Travis could’ve done what he’s being accused of. I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out.”

The three of them stand together in that waiting area, caught between the relief of one battle and the looming threat of another.

—–

The glow of monitors, tracing steady lines across their screens, helps to illuminate the otherwise dim recovery room. Samantha Fisher stirs against the pillows, her eyelids heavy from the anesthesia. Diane Bishop waits impatiently at her daughter’s bedside.

“So, kiddo,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

Samantha lets out a breathy laugh, her voice scratchy. “Like someone sucked the marrow right out of me.”

Tempest Banks, who is lingering right behind Diane, joins her girlfriend in laughing. “Hate to tell you, but that’s kinda exactly what happened.”

“They said you did great,” Diane relays. “Everything went as planned.”

“That’s good.” Samantha blinks up at them, groggy but alert enough to track their faces. “Are they still doing TJ’s transplant? Dad must be losing his mind.”

Diane and Tempest exchange a fleeting look of concern. The room is quiet except for the rhythmic beeps of the monitor. Samantha shifts, trying to focus through the fog of the anesthesia.

“You’re not telling me something,” Samantha says, pressing a hand to her temple. The movement is sluggish. “What is it?”

“They’re still doing the transplant on TJ,” Tempest says. “That’s all. We don’t have news.”

“Your dad is tense,” Diane adds. “It’s a tough day for his kids. But you’re giving TJ the best chance that he has.”

Sam exhales. The tension drains out of her shoulders. “Good. Then this was worth it.”

“Totally worth it,” Tempest says, moving to take Samantha’s hand.

Diane strokes her daughter’s dark, unruly hair; her relief is tinged with unease. Samantha looks pale and weak, and the image dredges up memories of that awful summer when Sam wouldn’t awaken at all. The last thing Samantha needs is the stress of learning that her brother managed to get himself arrested.

“Just rest for now,” Diane tells her, and Samantha’s eyelids flutter as sleep starts to pull her back under.

The gray walls and stale air of the interrogation room feel like they are closing in on Travis Fisher. He sits hunched at the table, Conrad Halston beside him, calm and upright in his suit. Across from them, Detective Suppo taps a pen against his notepad, his mustache twitching with the faintest hint of amusement.

“So all you did that night was take a little field trip to the Ragan house,” Suppo says, “but you left without even talking to Loretta Ragan? That right?”

“That’s what I said,” Travis replies, arms folded across his chest. “I swear it’s what happened.”

“But you did go into the house.”

“Yes. And I left because I realized Loretta wasn’t alone.”

Suppo glowers at him for a long moment, then leans forward, elbows on the table’s edge. “And your wife only learned that tonight? That you were there. Funny thing to keep from your spouse.”

Conrad straightens. “Detective, my client has been completely forthright since I arrived. If you want to discuss family dynamics, maybe we should bring in a counselor instead of wasting taxpayers’ money.”

Suppo lets the jab slide. He sets down his pen and opens the folder resting at his elbow. Inside is a clear plastic evidence bag with a small vial inside.

“And what explanation does your client have for this?” he asks.

Travis stares at the vial, bewildered. “What is that?”

“That, Mr. Fisher, was found in your gym bag when KBPD conducted that search,” Suppo explains. “Tests show it’s part of a compound called Varicore. Maybe you’ve heard of it. Perfectly useful if you’re treating a horse or cow. Not so much for people. In fact, it can be fatal in even small doses.”

“That was in my gym bag?” His throat dry, Travis shakes his head and looks to Conrad. “I don’t have any idea how that got there.”

“Of course you don’t,” Suppo says. “Funny how no one ever has any clue how incriminating evidence wound up among their personal possessions.”

“What’s incriminating about it?” Travis asks.

Conrad works his jaw. He already knows where this is going.

“Toxicology on Loretta Ragan shows traces of a Varicore derivative in her system at significant enough levels to have been fatal,” Suppo says. “That’s what the M.E. ruled was her cause of death.”

Travis goes white as a sheet.

“Detective, with all due respect,” Conrad interjects, “you’re going to need a lot more than circumstantial evidence to make a murder charge stick here.”

Suppo sits back in his chair. “That’s why we’re building a case. You’re going to be arraigned either way, Fisher. Might as well save yourself a whole lot of trouble and admit what you know.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Travis says, his pulse hammering in his temples as he watches the vial intently.

—–

Rosie Jimenez sits stiffly in the sterile chairs in the King’s Bay Police Department’s waiting area. The low hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant chatter of officers  on the radio feel suffocating. She should be walking the halls, asking questions, chasing leads — anything but sitting here, powerless.

Her mother perches beside her, short legs extended in front of her.

“All we can do right now is pray,” Juanita says.

“I don’t know if prayer is gonna fix this,” Rosie replies with a huff. “Not after what I found out in there.”

“What?” Juanita asks with deep concern.

Rosie swallows hard before coming out with it. “Travis was there the night Loretta Ragan was poisoned. He went into the house.”

The diminutive middle-aged woman gasps. “He admitted that?”

“Only because he had no choice. Someone saw him there. That’s how the police found out.”

“Who was it?”

“Elly. The lawyer.”

“That woman who dared bring up your poor father’s name when you were on the stand?” Juanita questions, her ire building. “The one who got mixed up with your brother?”

“She does seem to keep popping up in the worst ways,” Rosie says. “Brent had a witness who could place Elly at the scene, and Elly told Spencer that she ran into Travis coming out of the house. They’ve been keeping that from everyone — me included.”

Juanita stays quiet, letting the information land. Rosie hates this feeling of being vulnerable, hates the way her pride stings at being caught so off-guard.

When Juanita does speak, her voice is low but firm. “Travis made choices. So did Elly. None of that is your fault.”

“I don’t even know what else he’s hiding,” Rosie admits.

Juanita rests a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Then you watch. You stay sharp. Travis is a good man. I know that much.”

Rosie feels herself nodding along, but her cop instincts are twitching for action, for answers, for control — but all she can do right now is still here, useless, in the gray hum of the station.

The Wild Lady is alive with weeknight evening noise. Laughter rises and falls from the small but boisterous crowd, and twangy music emanates from the jukebox. Elly Vanderbilt sits hunched at the bar, the news alert burning into her retinas: Local Man Arrested in Murder of Loretta Ragan.

Jimmy Trask watches her from behind the bar, a rag in hand. “You’ve been glued to that thing for ten minutes. What’s the story?”

Elly thrusts the screen toward him. A crisp digital photo of Travis, taken from social media, is right there.

“They arrested Travis?” Jimmy asks in disbelief.

She nods. “And you know what bastard fed them the lead? Spencer. Because I slipped and mentioned something to him. He went straight to Brent with it.”

Jimmy sets the rag down on the bar. “You knew Travis did it?”

“No! I don’t know what Travis did. But I saw him coming out of the house that night.”

“That doesn’t sound too hot for Travis,” Jimmy says with a sigh.

“But Spencer completely betrayed me,” Elly bemoans. “I should’ve known better. Or expected less.”

“El, you can’t sit on something like this forever. It gets into, what, obstructing justice.”

She stares at the article on her phone for several more seconds, then places the phone on the bar, face down. “Now I look like the bad guy.”

“You’ve gotta keep your nose clean, that’s what,” Jimmy tells her. “The police are already gonna be asking why you didn’t mention Travis being there when they questioned you.”

“They didn’t ask. No competent lawyer would just give that up.”

Jimmy eyes her curiously, as if trying to read the inside of her mind.

“I’ll tell you what not to do next,” he says. “Don’t go running to confront Spencer over this. Don’t blow up his phone. Sit back and wait.”

Elly’s nostrils flare. “I want to smack him in the face, if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah, don’t do that.” Jimmy grabs the water glass in front of her. “How about I fill this up for you and bring you a glass of wine — on the house?” He winks playfully.

She rolls her eyes at his corniness. “Thanks.”

He moves off down the bar to get her beverages. Elly picks up the phone and scans the article again, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

—–

The cemetery is still. Traces of nighttime are starting to bleed over the calm blue sky. Spencer Ragan stands alone before Loretta’s ornate headstone. The granite marker — monument, really — looks obscene and ridiculous now.

“I thought you’d like something like this,” he says. “Grand. Especially since you weren’t going to have some big, dramatic funeral.”

A faint breeze stirs the leaves overhead, a miniature version of the tornado whipping around inside him.

Spencer’s voice is rough against the evening air. “They’ve got Travis in a cell now. Which I’m sure you know, because you see everything, always. But if he did this to you…”

He trails off, his stare fixed on the stone, waiting for an answer that will never come.

END OF EPISODE 1272

How should Rosie feel toward Travis now?
Does the evidence make the case against Travis?
Is TJ almost out of the woods?
Discuss it all in the comments below!

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