Pacey blew on the top of a box, sending a puff of dust into the dry air of the attic. This was the last box up there, and he seriously doubted he'd find Joey's papers in it. But he planned to leave no rock unturned. He dug through the box of old baby toys. Since when had his search been about Joey, anyway? He was supposed to be looking for his father's will.

With a grunt he pushed the box away. He was letting his renewed attraction to her mess up his plans. He was supposed to be there and out, will in hand so his father's solicitor could handle the whole mess. It was time he buckled down and found the will so he could get out of there and away from Joey Potter. That was the safest route.

He stood up and wiped his dirty hands on his jeans. There was really only one place the will could be...his father's room. Slowly, he made his way down the stairs and looked at the door that had stayed firmly shut since he'd come home. The last time he'd seen his father was six years ago. When he'd found that his father hadn't changed in the least, he was still self-richous, bitter, and adamantly discusted with his youngest son. John Witter didn't consider acting a job, no matter how much money he made or how successful he was. The ex-sheriff was the only person in Capeside not proud of Pacey's fame. It didn't seem to Pacey that John would never express pride and love in him, and it had taken him years to realize that he'd deserved it.

He pushed open the door to the room and stepped inside. It was just as cold there as his father had been. He took in the dishevled covers, the pale squares on the walls where paintings used to hang. His mother must have taken them with her when she left. He wasn't suprised when he saw the pictures of himself, Doug and his sisters still sitting on the dresser and night table. Mary Witter never was much of the mothering type. Aside from the bed, the room hardly looked lived in. That too, didn't surprise him, his father had spent the last weeks of his life drunk in the living room.

Spotting the closet door slightly ajar, he decided that was as good a place as any to start looking. Opening the door he found that most his mother's clothes had been taken from the closet, leaving dozens of empty hangers behind. A muscle in Pacey's jaw twitched, the single artical of clothing hung among the hangers, his father's suit. It was a horrifyingly lonely sight.

Pushing that emotion away, he pushed the hangers and suit aside to get to the shoe boxes stacked together at the bottom. With a sigh, he got to work.

Two hours later, he'd gone through all the boxes, every little insignifigant piece of paper or little knick-knack his parents had ever decided to hold onto had passed through his fingers. Nothing even remotely like a will. Frowning he stacked the boxes back up and looked around the bland room again.

He picked up a picture frame on the dresser and looked into the photo of he and Doug on Christmas morning. Doug could only have been about thirteen, and he was just barely six. They were both grinning at the camera, holding out presents Santa had brought them. Doug had a brand new Nintendo in his hands, and Pacey held a new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunch box--and he'd been happy about it. Even then his parents had shown favoritism.

Angry, he threw the picture at the wall, the sound of shattering glass was satisfying. He'd put all this behind him years ago. All the hurt, the anger, the bitterness. He'd gotten over his rocky childhood in a house where he was nothing to the people who were supposed to love him. Yet, even in death his father still managed to drive a stake through his son's heart.

Worthless.

The word hung in his mind. Worthless. How many times had he heard his father utter that word in discust. It haunted him for years. Worthless. Well, he wasn't worthless anymore. He'd proven his worth to the entire country. Strangers he didn't know cared about him. Even if his own father didn't.

He wanted to drag his father back from death and rail against him. Tell him how little he cared that he'd died. Show him how worthless he had been, how his sons and daughters hadn't bothered to come to his funeral.

Pacey stared at the mess on the floor below the wall, his blood aching in his veins. He was gone. John Douglas Witter was dead. Raging against the dead would kill him eventually. He needed to learn to let it go.

He walked to the picture frame, broken shards of glass still clung to it. The back fell away, and the photo fell to the floor. Bending, he picked it up, and found another piece of paper, folded and faded to yellow stuck to it. His brow furrowed, he pryed it away from the picture, it looked like it had been stuck there with an old piece of scotch tape. Not even sticky anymore.

Letting the photo fall back to the floor, he put the broken frame out of the way before unfolding the aged piece of parchment. He scanned over the words 'Birth Certificate' until he reached the name printed below: 'Josephine Lillian Potter'.

What were his parents doing with Joey's birthcertificate? He turned it over, the back was blank, and then scanned the paper more thoroughly. 'Date of birth: April 24, 1983. Time of Birth: 12:56 am. Place of birth: Winotka, Connecticut.'

Winotka? Pacey could have sworn Joey had been born in Capeside, he'd known her since they were babies. He never remembered hearing anything about Connecticut. 'Father: Michael Christopher Potter. Mother: Sophia Susan Johannson.'

Pacey blinked and read the name again. Who the hell was Sophia Johannson? He stared at the words as everything came together, Lillian Potter wasn't Joey's mom. And she didn't know it. How could she not know after almost three decades...how had they managed to hide it from her? Wouldn't Bessie have known?

He stared down at the piece of paper where a strangers name betrayed everything Joey had thought about her family. Her mother. The paper shook, and it took him a moment to realize his hand was trembling.

He couldn't let her find this.