Previously… – Spencer was upset to learn that Natalie told Elly that he and Natalie were sleeping together again. Later, Elly found Spencer outside the courthouse, and he broke down, admitting his conflicted feelings over Loretta’s death. – Rosie hit another dead end when she discovered that Finn had an alibi for the window during which Loretta was poisoned. – Travis secretly met with the District Attorney, Lois Kam, and asked for a plea deal that would guarantee him a shorter sentence.
“You asked for what?!”
Rosie Jimenez stares at her husband, as if she might be able to will what he has just told her to make sense. But the explanation never comes.
“A plea. Manslaughter,” Travis Fisher repeats, arms folded across his chest, as he leans back against the kitchen counter of his parents’ home, like he might need more support than he is willing to admit.
She lets out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head as she turns away from him. She paces a few steps before swiveling back.
“No. No, that’s–” She gestures vaguely, as if reaching for a shape that she cannot quite conjure. “You don’t do that. You don’t just ask to be convicted of something you didn’t do.”
“I didn’t say I did it.”
“Then why would you–“
“Because I could lose. Because I’m going to lose.”
The words land heavier than anything he’s said so far. Rosie blinks at him, thrown — not just by the idea, but by how plainly he has stated it.
“I see how this is going,” Travis says, pushing off the counter. “I’ve seen what they have, and I see what they’re doing. They’re going to bury me. And I’m not doing life in prison for first-degree murder. I can’t.”
“But fifteen years for a murder you didn’t commit is okay?”
“It’s tolerable. I can be out in ten, if I’m a model prisoner. Which I will be.”
“Prison is dangerous, Travis.” She lays it out with such gravity, such conviction, that for a moment, she thinks she’s got him. “Come on. Think about this. We can still find something to establish reasonable doubt.”
He shakes his head. The spell is broken. “I don’t think we can. And I’m… I’m worried about what could happen in the process. To you, and…”
He steps forward and places his hand on her pregnant stomach. Rosie inhales sharply at his touch. She cannot fathom going without it for ten years. Fifteen years.
“What happened in New York,” he says, “it could happen again. Worse. I need you and this baby to be okay.”
“So you’re gonna leave me to raise a baby on my own?”
The kitchen falls quiet, the weight of that settling between them.
“You’ll be on your own if I go to prison for life,” he says at last. “This way, I have a chance of getting to know my son or daughter before he or she is even a teenager. And you have support. You have your mom. You have my mom and dad. My grandma. Sam, Tempest, Sebastian…”
“They’re not you.”
From elsewhere in the house, they hear the sound of the front door opening. Voices drift in, indistinct but growing.
“This is why you called everyone over here?” she asks. “To tell them you’re giving up?”
“I’m not giving up. I’m accepting reality and making the best choice for my family,” he says. “Rosie, I need to do this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry we wound up in this situation. I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it in a better way. I’m just… I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head — once, twice — and then throws her arms around him, like it might be the only way to keep him from walking out that door.
—–
The front door swings open before the knock fully lands.
“Mom.”
Tim Fisher pulls it wider, stepping back to let Paula inside. But she freezes at the threshold, concern etched into her face.
“What is going on?” she asks, eyes shifting between her son and Claire, who is right by Tim’s side. “The trial is postponed? And then you call me over in the middle of the day? Is Travis okay?”
Claire manages a small, apologetic smile as she takes her former mother-in-law’s coat. “He’s okay. At least for now. We’re waiting for him to tell us what’s going on.”
Tim closes the door, the click a little louder than it needs to be.
“He and Rosie are in the kitchen,” Tim says. “But we’re waiting for a few more people: Sam, Tempest, Landon, Tori, Sarah, Matt…”
“What in the world is happening?” Paula asks, knotting her fingers together in distress.
From deeper in the house, faint voices drift in: Travis and Rosie, impassioned but indistinct.
“Well,” Paula says, “I suppose we’re about to find out.”
—–
Natalie Bishop kicks the front door of her own home closed behind her with a stiletto heel.
“Natalie?” a voice calls out. But she doesn’t answer right away, instead taking a moment to set down the numerous shopping bags that have been clutched in her hands.
“Yeah, it’s me,” she says. “And before you come out here and freak out, I needed a little retail therapy. Frankly, I deserve it. Things have been–“
She stops short when she sees Spencer Ragan arrive in the hallway that links the foyer to the kitchen. He crosses his arms as he takes in the bounty of shopping bags.
“It’s barely noon,” he says.
“Well, I stopped for an iced coffee after I dropped Peter off at school, and one thing led to another.” She shrugs and moves to place her camel-colored Birkin Kelly bag down on the console table. “Like I said, things have been stressful. I just thought–“
“They’ve been stressful for you?” he cuts in.
Her smile falters. Her hand slowly releases the strap of the Birkin. “I didn’t say they haven’t been stressful for you. Obviously they have. But I’m allowed to–“
“What? Blow my money like none of it matters?”
Her eyes narrow. “Where is this coming from?”
Spencer exhales loudly and then gestures at the bags. “Might as well enjoy it while you can.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“I’m done,” he says, straightening his posture. “I want a divorce.”
—–
By now, Tim and Claire’s living room is full. It doesn’t feel crowded, just tight, like everyone has instinctively given each other a little more space, without fully understanding why. Voices overlap in low conversations:
“–a trial doesn’t get stopped just for nothing–“
“–there has to be a reason–“
“–maybe there’s finally another suspect–“
The questions and theories circle, unanswered.
Claire hovers near the edge of it all, hands clasped. Tim is a few feet away, arms crossed and jaw set, listening without really engaging.
Sarah Fisher Gray sits on the couch, elbows on her knees, already in problem-solving mode. Her husband is right behind her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder, grounding her — or maybe himself.
“You really don’t know what this is about?” she asks.
Landon shakes his head, his black hair still rumpled from the brief nap he managed after his and Sarah’s all-nighter. “Not a clue. I was asleep for probably 45 minutes when Travis called me.”
Sonja Kahele is huddled on the staircase with TJ, who is occupied with her phone as she listens. She has the sleeves of her sweater pulled over her hands.
“Because.” Tempest looks at her fiancée, not really sure what else to add. “Travis didn’t do it.”
Samantha narrows her eyes. “You suddenly have faith in the legal system?”
Tempest sighs. “I have faith in Rosie, Sarah, and Landon.”
A hush falls over the room as Travis and Rosie step in from the kitchen.
“Thank you all for coming,” Travis says. His voice is steady but not loud. He glances over at Rosie for security, but she diverts her eyes in anguish.
No one else fills the silence for him, so he continues.
“I’ve made a decision,” he says, “and I wanted all of you to hear about it before it’s announced publicly.”
Paula grips Tim’s shoulder — firm and steady, like she is bracing for impact.
“I’ve decided to, uh, accept a plea deal,” Travis continues.
Sarah lurches forward. “What?”
Landon shakes his head. “Dude. That’s not — no. You can’t do that.”
“What do you mean, a deal?” Claire questions. “For what?”
“Manslaughter,” Rosie interjects, with a sharp look at her husband.
Samantha turns fully toward her brother, eyes wide. “You can’t do that.”
“Are… are you saying you did it?” Sonja asks softly from the stairs.
Travis seems almost grateful for the opportunity. “No. I did not kill Loretta. But we’ve tried every angle. The prosecution has me up against a wall. I want to get ahead of this — minimize the time I’ll serve.”
“You can’t go to prison for something you didn’t do,” Tim protests.
“We’ve been fighting,” Travis says. “It isn’t enough.”
Rosie looks at Travis, her eyes pleading: See? We will.
He draws a deep breath and turns away. “I don’t see any other way out of this.”
“Travis,” Sarah says, “this is a permanent decision.”
“Not as permanent as the alternative,” Travis replies. “I’m sorry. I know everyone is… disappointed. I just don’t know how else to ensure that I’m not behind bars for the rest of my life. And frankly…”
He sucks in another breath.
“Loretta deserved to die for what she did to all of us,” he says. “If I have to do time on all of our behalf… then so be it.”
“You cannot do this,” Rosie mutters, but all Travis does is grasp her hand as the room again erupts into flurries of pleas and whispers.
—–
A few moments later, the sliding door eases shut behind Sonja, muting the noise of the ongoing family discussion continuing in the living room. For a moment, she simply stands on the back patio, taking in the gray Pacific Northwest day around her.
Then she takes out her phone and dials. It only rings once before he picks up.
“Hi.” Her voice is low, measured. “I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“So you heard.”
“Travis just told the family, yeah.”
Conrad sighs a muffled breath into the phone. “I can’t believe he’s going forward with this. I tried to advise him not to.”
“He’s doing what he thinks is best for his family,” Sonja says. “That’s admirable.”
“And crazy.”
“Sometimes those two things go together.”
“I feel like I’ve failed my client.”
“You haven’t. He’s making this decision on his own. You haven’t even gotten to mount your case in court.” She hesitates before adding, “I just want you to know that I’m here for you. If you need anything.”
“Thanks, Sonja. I appreciate it more than you could know.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’ll check in later, okay?”
“Sounds good.”
She ends the call and lowers the phone, eyeing her faint reflection in the glass door.
—–
The living room is still buzzing, but Paula doesn’t raise her voice to cut through it. She doesn’t have to.
“Travis.”
It’s quiet, but it lands. She tips her head slightly toward the far side of the room, bordering the entryway of the house. He doesn’t hesitate before crossing to her.
“Well,” she says quietly. “You’ve certainly gotten everyone talking.”
A faint, humorless grin flickers across his face. “That wasn’t really the goal.”
“No. It never is.” She studies him a few seconds longer. “I don’t like this.”
“I didn’t expect you to. I don’t like it, either.”
“But I understand it.”
That gives him pause. She reaches out, brushing something from his sleeve — a move so small and automatic, so full of care, that it causes his emotions to spike.
“You aren’t doing this because you think it’s fair,” Paula says. “You’re doing it because you see it as the only way to take care of everyone.”
He exhales. “Right.”
“That’s who you are. That’s who you’ve always been. And your grandfather–” She stops, something catching in her throat. “He would be very proud of you.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“That’s because you think of strength only as fighting,” she says. “Sometimes it looks like standing there and taking the hit so that nobody else has to.”
He nods, as if attempting to convince himself.
“What happens next?” she asks.
“I have to meet Conrad and the D.A. to sign some paperwork. Then I get a little time, to get things in order, before I turn myself in. But we need to get the paperwork filed.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. At the same time, he glances back toward the living room.
“Is that new?” Paula asks, studying his keychain.
“This? No. Rosie got it for me a few Christmases ago.” He holds it up, the bright red tomato catching the light. “She said it ‘fit my brand.’ As a chef.”
Paula smiles. “Very cute. And another way that you carry your grandfather’s legacy.”
“I know I need to do this,” he says. “But I’m so scared.”
She reaches up and cups his cheek.
“I’m so sorry, Travis. You’re a wonderful man. We will be here, every step of the way.”
With another nod, he goes to the door. Paula watches him go, her expression composed, but her eyes linger a moment longer than they need to, as if hoping he might burst back into the house to report that there is some other way.
“Oh, Bill,” she says under her breath. “Please protect our dear Travis.”
—–
Natalie simply stares back at Spencer, like if she waits long enough, he will take it back, or his statement will evaporate into the air. Finally, a hollow laugh slips out of her.
“No,” she says with a shake of the head. “No, that’s not how this works. You can’t just decide you’re done and file some paperwork like you’re cancelling a gym membership.”
“At least I get something out of the gym membership.”
“Don’t do that, Spencer. I know this hasn’t been a conventional marriage, but it hasn’t been some nightmare, either. Look at how well we’ve raised Peter together.”
“And we can parent him as a divorced couple just as well.”
She can see the coldness behind his eyes. It’s that icy armor that he puts on when he has made up his mind about something. She folds her arms, mimicking his posture, and changes tacks.
“I can put up a fight,” she says. “I can make your life a living hell.”
“Why? What for? This was never supposed to be a real marriage.”
Natalie scoffs. “I’ll go into that courtroom and tell everyone how you kidnapped Peter when he was little. The thing you married me to cover up?”
“Peter’s old enough to decide if he wants me in his life,” Spencer says. “And it’s been years. You’ve trusted me around Peter that entire time. That little bombshell isn’t going to be one-tenth as explosive as it would’ve been back then.”
She rubs the sole of her stiletto against the floor in frustration. Something bubbles up from within her, and suddenly she cannot hold it in any longer.
“This is about Elly, isn’t it? You’re leaving me because you want to be with her?”
“I’m not leaving you for Elly. I’m putting an end to a sham that’s gone on way too long.”
“But you do want to be with her.”
He groans. “I don’t know. But life is too short to waste any more time in… whatever this is.”
“Oh, so being with me has been a waste?”
“You know what I mean. This was never the end goal for either of us. You can still get out there, meet someone else, have something real.”
When she doesn’t respond, he flicks his head toward the pile of shopping bags at her feet.
“This is about the money, right?” he says. “I’ll give you a generous divorce settlement. Especially once Loretta’s whole estate is sorted out, whenever that is. You won’t have to get a job, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She tries not to show the ripple of relief that moves through her. Although it is reassuring, it doesn’t quite soothe her jangled nerves in the way that she would have thought.
“Do whatever you want,” she says, quickly snatching up the shopping bags. Part of her hopes that he will call after her, but the house remains silent, save for the clicking of her heels on the stairs, as she carries her haul up to the bedroom.
—–
The sound of the front door closing settles over the house. In the living room, Tim runs a hand over his face, turning away as Claire reaches for him.
Across the room, Sarah is already talking, fast and focused, pulling Landon into it.
“We can go back through everything,” she says. “Every piece of evidence, every timeline — there’s got to be something we overlooked.”
“We’ll… we’ll find something,” Landon says, more force than certainty.
Samantha shakes her head, stunned, while Tempest keeps a steady hand at her back.
Rosie stands at the center of it, unable to move. She knows that Travis will be back later, to tie up loose ends, to say goodbye, but this feels so final. Unable to take the chatter all around, she slips through the wood-framed doorway into the kitchen.
The kitchen is quieter, removed. Rosie braces her hands against the counter, her head dipping with exhaustion.
Behind her, the sliding door opens.
“Are you okay?” Sonja asks.
Rosie looks up. “Yeah. I’m fine. I mean — I’m not fine, but I’m not having some… medical incident.”
“Okay. Let us know if you need anything, please.”
Rosie manages a grateful nod as TJ comes hurrying into the room.
“I want a snack,” the dark-haired little boy declares.
“Why don’t you have some fruit and cheese?” Sonja suggests to her son. She goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a container of cut fruit and a string cheese. “Here, sit.”
TJ stations himself at the kitchen table. Rosie watches the scene with curiosity as Sonja sets out the food and lovingly brushes her son’s hair out of his face. She tries to imagine herself doing the same in five, six, seven years, raising her own child by herself, counting the days until Travis is finally free. The gulf of time seems unfathomable, and the loneliness even worse.
“Ew!” TJ declares, shoving the plate away.
“What’s wrong?” Sonja asks.
“That’s tomatoes!” the boy says. “I don’t want tomatoes!”
“That’s not a tomato. It’s a cherry. Look, it’s purple–“
“It looks red!”
Sonja holds up a piece of the cut fruit, trying to reason with him, but he wags his head in outrage.
“I hate tomatoes!” TJ says again, resolute.
Sonja exhales loudly. “I’ll pick them out. But they’re cherries. I promise.”
She takes the plate to the counter and lays out a paper towel. She begins to pick the cherries from the assortment.
“He’s been in this I-hate-tomatoes phase for over a year,” Sonja says, almost apologetically, to Rosie. “He won’t even eat pizza because he found out the sauce is made from tomatoes. These are the kinds of battles you need to prepare for.”
Rosie is about to react as politely as she can when something shifts. It is small, nearly imperceptible, and Rosie stills as she tries to get a grasp on it.
Then it hits her. A different night, a few months ago, in this very house…
“My keys,” Travis declares. “I can’t find my keys.
“I’m sure they’re around here somewhere,” Rosie tells him.
“I had them,” he insists. “I drove here–“
“I know,” Rosie says, suddenly feeling helpless.
Just a passing moment. Another time when she and Travis felt like things were spiraling out of their control, like they were barely holding on to sanity.
“Do these belong to someone?” Sonja asks as she enters the kitchen, a set of keys in hand.
“Those are mine,” Travis says, as Sonja passes them to him. “Where’d you find them?”
“TJ must have picked them up when we came in from our walk,” Sonja explains. “I was getting him ready for bed and found them in the pocket of his shorts.”
“He hates tomatoes?” Rosie asks.
“Yeah…” Sonja looks over at her, and something about her demeanor changes. Her posture stiffens, her eyes narrow.
“Kids are picky,” she says.
“The keys.” That’s it. That’s all she says. Sonja goes completely still. And Rosie sees it in her eyes:
You know.
“TJ wouldn’t take Travis’s keys,” Rosie says. “He has a tomato keychain. That means…”
“Rosie, you’re overwhelmed. Your mind is playing tricks on you”
“No, it was you. You took Travis’s keys. You — you put that vial in his bag.”
“Rosie–“
“It was you!” Rosie exclaims, her eyes flaring wide as her heart thuds, the room closing in around her.
END OF EPISODE 1300
Did you see this twist coming? Can Rosie expose the truth before it’s too late? Will Natalie grant Spencer the divorce? Talk about it all in the comments below!
