Deciding that she should make every effort to rest, she climbed out of the car. She had complained to Mulder once that they spent their entire lives in cars or airports running or searching for the next big thing. Couldn't they simply step off of the speeding train wreck that was their lives and rest for a while?

Now she had time to rest. There was no one stopping her from stepping off the train but without that someone there was no way she could do so.

She opened the door and turned on the light. . .and stopped. One thing about living one's life in the midst of a dark sense of paranoia was that you learned tricks to keep yourself from going crazy. Ways to decide whether it was only freak foreboding when you thought you were being watched and ways to tell if you really were. For instance she always left her laptop computer parallel to the edge of the table. She always left a pencil at a forty-five degree angle across the notepad, and she never ever allowed housekeeping into a room she occupied.

Her computer had been moved. So had the pencil. She didn't have that moment of doubt that most people would have had-- that "Did I do this? Did I forget?" moment. She had spent so many endless nights in motels, so many hours looking over her shoulder that it was second nature to her.

No, there could be no doubt. Someone had been in her room searching. Whoever it was had been neat, careful, and precise, but someone had been there.

Scully checked the door. No sign of forced entry. She turned and visually surveyed the room. There were no obvious changes. If she hadn't been the sort of compulsive person who kept track of the exact placement of a computer she never would have noticed a thing.

Systematically she began searching and on the upper left hand corner of the television cabinet she found a miniaturized camera. She examined it, but forensics was her specialty not electronics. Pulling a cell phone from her pocket she dialed a familiar number.

"Frohike," she said, "This is Scully. I need you to do something for me. . ."

* * *

Maria unlocked the back door to hers and her mother's apartment. She heard voices in the living room. The light, cheerful cadence of her mother's voice and the deeper rumble of Valenti's mingled together in a sound that had become fearfully familiar. Maria still wasn't sure what to make of that situation, but on more than one level she feared it. How long before Valenti told her mother the truth about what was going on?

She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of juice and hoped she could make it to her room without being seen. She tip-toed quietly down the hall and opened the door to her lavender and lilac painted bedroom which faced a rather unattractive alley. She gazed without interest at the stack of papers in her hands.

A personal journal. Liz kept one too. Frankly, Maria was glad she had never had the urge to write one. It's title probably would have been something like "The Life of Maria DeLuca" subtitle "How to Have Your Heart Ripped Out Bleeding Then Stomped On by Michael Guerin."

Hearing the rustle of the wind chimes she had placed outside her window, she glanced through the beads that acted as a drape and saw that it had begun to rain. Strange, she hadn't noticed a storm brewing.

Dropping the papers on the bed she sat on the window sill and remembered a rainy night when Michael had stood outside her window looking like nothing so much as a drowned puppy. Determined to be strong, she had ignored his sad appearance and said, "No, you can't come in. I know why you're here. I know what your plan is, but it's not going to work this time, mister. No matter what you say. No. No, no no, no, no."

Of course moments later she had let him in. She had led him into her bedroom, lay down beside him, and wrapped her arms around him as he desperately tried to not to make a sound or let her see he was crying.

The alley was empty tonight. Just rain that was already beginning to slow and to disappear. Things were different now. That was before he had discovered the truth he had so desperately sought, a truth that seemed to leave no place for Maria. His destiny.

She stood and stripped off the quartz bracelets she wore. One for love and one for strength. She knew people thought she was silly , even superstitious, with her beads and herbs and potions--mystic things in a concrete world. If any of the group had been inclined to believe in 'fate,' it would have been her. She was the one who talked about things like auras and karma. She would have been the first to believe something like reincarnation.

She looked at the pink quartz bracelet in her hand and tossed it across the room. It hit the papers she had laid on the bed, skidded and tumbled to the floor spilling the papers with it. Sighing she crossed the room to clean up the mess that now fanned across the carpet and a phrase caught her eye:

Sunday, April 9, 2000

"How rarely do we stop to examine our path, to see the reasons why all things happen? To consider whether the path we take in life is of our own making or simply one into which we drift with eyes closed. . ."

Maria blinked and with her finger traced the words written by Dana Scully. Gathering the papers, Maria sat on the bed and continued to read:

"But what if we could stop? Pause to take stock of each precious moment before it passes. Might we then see the endless forks in the road that have shaped a life and seeing those choices, choose another path?"

The words seemed to echo in Maria's mind. Were there choices? Different paths? Different destinies? Was fate a single thing or just an alternative, an option? Leaning back against the headboard she turned through the pages that Scully had written.

November 7, 1999
The Ivory Coast, Africa

Maria arched a brow. Agent Scully certainly got around.

Is there a plan? A purpose? A reason for our existence? Or will we pass as those before us into oblivion...

Someone knocked and Maria squeaked. Her mother peeked around the door and smiled cheerily, "Just wanted to check that you were in, hon."

"I'm in."

"What are you reading?"

Maria glanced down at the pages littering her bed. "Oh. . . um. . . nothing much. Just. . .stuff. I take it Valenti is gone?"

"Yeah, Jim left a little while ago. He wanted to apologize for canceling our date."

"I'm sure it couldn't be helped," Maria added.

Amy asked, "Are you being sarcastic?"

"No!" At her mother's doubtful look Maria said, "Honest. I'm sure he was working tonight. I'm certain of it. No joke."

Amy nodded. "Well, good night, sweetie."

"Goodnight, Mom."

After her mother left, Maria returned to the pages. Damn, the things were in no order at all. It must have happened when she had dropped them. She flipped through the entries.

Monday, February 3, 1999

I believe in fate. To be precise I believe we are fated to be the people that we are. Good, bad, or indifferent. It is our character which determines our fate. Mulder argued--and of course in our perpetual game of ying and yang he must argue--that there can be no fate. There are too many variables, too many choices. Free will. With every choice we make, we change our fate. . .

Well, Maria thought, I'd prefer to agree with this Mulder guy. Strange that someone who looked so much like Michael thought so differently.

Dropping the pages off the side of the bed she reached to turn off the light but before she flipped the switch her eyes caught one last journal entry.

Monday, April 10, 2000