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  “Hello, Harry? It’s Mary Jane. Would you… like some company?”

  Harry Osborn tucked the tail end of his shirt into his pants, having sprinted from the bathroom to grab the phone. Nearby in the great room, a small easel had been set up. On it was a reasonably professional looking depiction of the view of Manhattan through Harry’s window. It had been ages since Harry had painted; he’d forgotten how much it relaxed him. Of course, his father had never thought much of it.

  “You and Peter?” he asked, cheered at the prospect. “Just me,” came Mary Jane’s voice over the phone. Harry paused, taking in that little fact and its implications, then said, “You kidding? Sure. C’mon over.” “You sure I wouldn’t be intruding?” “No, you’re not intruding.” He laughed, considering the thought absurd. “I’m just hanging out. Come over.” “Okay then. See ya.”

  He hung up the phone, then called, “Bernard!” He moved toward the door and shouted, louder this time, “Berrnaaaard!” As if he’d materialized out of nowhere, Bernard appeared at the doorway. “Yes, Harry?” Upon the passing of Norman Osborn, Bernard’s inclination had been to address him as “Mr. Osborn,” but Harry had quickly put a stop to that. As far as Harry was concerned, Mr. Osborn was his father… and the associations that implied were more than he cared to consider.

  “We’re having a guest. We need…” Harry thought fast and seized upon the obvious. “Food.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Harry nodded in approval, confident that Bernard had everything in hand, and stepped back into the great room. As Harry moved back to his cityscape, his gaze rested upon his father’s portrait looming above.

  Then, for some reason, he glanced toward the chaise lounge in the corner of the room.

  Norman Osborn was lying on it.

  Harry gasped.

  His father was there on the chaise, and he was clearly dead, a vicious wound evident on his chest through the huge red splotch discoloring his shirt. And Spider-Man was there, laying him out, neatly arranging the corpse…

  Harry staggered back, holding his head. He slammed shut his eyes, and when he dared to open them again, the chaise was vacant. Terrified that some other vision would reoccupy it, he turned away and found himself staring at the large mirror hanging on the wall.

  Something was drawing him to it. Something that was there but not there, something that he felt he should know, but didn’t.

  “You’ve taken your eye off the ball.”

  The voice, soft and disturbing, was spoken from just behind his ear. It was his father’s voice, and a disoriented Harry stumbled forward toward the mirror. Unable to stop himself, he fell against it, putting his hands against the glass at the last second.

  A circuit connected… a dizzying array of images flashed through Harry’s mind. He cried out, remembering, not wanting to, needing the information, fearing it, and there was Spider-Man lying bound and helpless, his unmasked face gazing up plaintively at Harry, and it was Peter’s face, and his father’s body, and Harry standing in a large capsule, wallowing in green gas, and in combat with Peter, hurtling through dizzying heights, trying to kill him, and being slammed backward off his Sky Stick, and Peter looking down at him with all manner of mock sympathy, and Harry heard his own voice asking, “My dad. He died, didn’t he?” and Peter was just nodding sympathetically, the bastard, he knew, he knew, he had done it, he—

  Harry sank to his knees, sobbing, except the sobs were intermingled with choked laughter, and once again his father’s voice came to him: “Where’ve you been?” With tremendous effort, Harry raised his head and saw Norman Osborn, likewise on his knees, staring back at him from the mirror.

  “Remember me?” his father purred.

  “Yes, Father,” Harry said with the voice of the damned. “I remember everything.”

  “You haven’t killed Peter Parker.”

  Never in his life had Harry stood up to his father. Never. But Norman was no longer in his life, and Harry defiantly told him, “Things are different now. Peter and Mary Jane are my friends.”

  His father’s face twisted in contempt. “You have no friends. She’s Peter’s girl. He’s always taken everything away from you. He took me from you.”

  At that, something within Harry Osborn snapped. It was the part of him that had spent a lifetime trying to make his father happy, to live up to his demands, to maybe, somehow, win his approval. But it was never going to happen. His father was insatiable, and if Harry killed Peter, Norman would want Mary Jane dead, and once she was gone, his former business rivals, and then more and more, and it was enough, dammit, enough. Like a drunk who had hit rock bottom, Harry Osborn had a moment of clarity, bellowing, “I won’t listen to you anymore!” Doubled over, he pounded the floor in frustration, like a child having a tantrum, and demanded, “I have a chance for my own life! Let me be!”

  He hit the floor until his knuckles were bleeding… and when he looked up into the mirror, he saw his own reflection. Norman Osborn was gone.

  “I’m free,” Harry whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “I’m free.”

  He could not have been more grateful.

  Or more wrong.

  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  FAMILY REUNION

  MARY JANE WAS SO happy to see a smiling face that she nearly cried with joy. She warned herself that would be something of an overreaction, though, and so nodded gratefully as Bernard opened the elevator door that led to the entrance hall of Harry’s penthouse.

  Perhaps it was her imagination, but Bernard looked far more relaxed than in the days when Norman Osborn was holding court here. She summoned the image of Norman to her mind, thought of things he had said, and decided she was very likely not imagining things.

  Harry walked up, a wide grin on his face and a lightness in his step that she hadn’t seen for many a month. “Hi! Hungry?”

  “Starving,” she replied.

  He bowed and gestured for her to precede him. She fully expected that they were going to head straight to a dining table decked with some sort of impressive feast. To her surprise, Harry guided her into the kitchen. It was immaculate, stainless steel. She could see her reflections in the countertops and cabinets.

  She turned to Harry, nervousness in her voice. “If you’re expecting me to cook dinner, this isn’t going to end well, unless you’re really hungry for boiled water.”

  He laughed at that. “If you want to pitch in, feel free, but I”—he affected an amazingly ghastly French accent—“am zee chef for zis evening.”

  “Really,” she replied skeptically, one eyebrow arched almost to the top of her forehead.

  “Mais, oui.”

  “May we what?”

  Harry sighed as if greatly put upon. “Yes. Really.”

  “Okay, well… sure, I’ll be happy to help, if you can come up with something that I can’t possibly burn.”

  “You can help with the salad. No one can burn salad.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s never seen me make salad.”

  A small table was already set in the center. Harry pulled out the ingredients for the salad, steered a nervous Mary Jane over to them, then pulled an impressive array of ingredients from the refrigerator. Deftly he cracked several eggs into a mixing bowl. That alone caused Mary Jane to marvel at his culinary prowess; every time she tried to break an egg, there were yolk and whites all over the place and shell in the mix.

  Harry finished beating the eggs. While he did so, a pan was heating up on the stove top. Putting down the egg mixture, he sliced off a pat of butter and tossed it onto the pan. “I hope you like garlic,” he said as the butter started to sizzle.

  “Love it.”

  “How about some music?”

  He pushed a button on a nearby wall unit. Chubby Checker singing “The Twist” filtered through the kitchen.

  Mary Jane started singing along, doing the Twist in the middle of the kitchen. Harry promptly joined in. Each of them had a long wooden spoon in
hand, and they started “fencing” with them as if they were swords, never missing a step or a word in the song. They continued doing so until Mary Jane suddenly saw smoke rising from the pan. “The butter!” she shouted in alarm.

  Harry never missed a beat. He slid gracefully over to the stove and slowly poured the eggs in. While Chubby Checker was singing about his little sis, Harry gestured toward the array of ingredients and looked at her questioningly. “All of ‘em. Go for it,” she urged him. With an approving nod, Harry expertly mixed in mushrooms, ham bits, tomato, chopped onion, and garlic. The pan was wide enough that he was actually making two omelets at the same time. Mary Jane was amazed at his confidence; in fact, she couldn’t recall having ever seen Harry Osborn really confident at anything. This was a wonderful change in him.

  It’s because his father is gone. I’m probably going to go to hell

  for thinking this, but if that’s what it took for Harry to become the man he’s capable of being, then it’s for the best.

  He flipped one omelet and then the other high in the air. She let out a delighted squeal of alarm, certain an omelet was going to wind up on the floor. Harry caught them on the pan with such dexterity that she would have thought him a chef trained at Le Cordon Bleu.

  The meal was a blur of laughter, music, and reminiscing about things that were pleasant while blissfully ignoring things that weren’t.

  Eventually discussion turned to Harry’s having mentioned that he had written a play for Mary Jane, and she insisted on seeing it. Harry demurred, trying to convince her that it wasn’t worth the time it would take to dig it up, but she persisted and wheedled, and eventually Harry was seated next to her with an old composition book balanced between them. The song “It Had to Be You” was playing in the background.

  “Well, I’m embarrassed,” said Harry, sounding chagrined that he’d given in to Mary Jane’s pleas. “It’s kind of I corny. I was in the eleventh grade. You say to this guy, Richard”—he adjusted his voice to a feminine pitch—“‘I’ve been everywhere, Richard.‘“Realizing that it would be better if Mary Jane did the speech, he slid the composition book more over toward her. “Here, you read it. I wrote it for you.”

  She read slowly, trying to make out the handwriting. As she progressed, it became easier for her to understand, and she spoke with more confidence.“‘I’ve been everywhere, Richard. The mountains of India, the open plains of Africa, the isles of ancient Greece. What’s wrong with dreaming? Nothing like a little self-deception to get you through the night.’ “

  “Oh, God,” moaned Harry, slumping back in the couch and covering his face in mortification. “Did I write that?”

  “Harry, it’s beautiful,” she insisted.

  He looked at her in surprise. “Would you like the part?”

  “Thank you. I’d love to be in your play.” They warmly regarded each other, and then Mary Jane leaned toward him. “You know,” she said, gently touching the top of his head where the bandage had been, “there’s not even a scar, barely.”

  Her hand rested there a moment, then she moved in closer. Harry responded immediately. Their lips together. Warm. Pleasant. She kissed him again, trying to project everything she wanted and needed onto him, and she was transported, and she was back to that night in the alley, the rain coming down…

  She was back with Peter… And ashamed.

  She pulled away, knowing that what she was doing was wrong. Not out of a sense of loyalty to Peter, but because she was trying to force herself to feel something for Harry that—dammit—just wasn’t there. It had never been, not even when they had been dating. Hell, it had been one of the reasons they’d stopped seeing each other. It wasn’t just the ruthless unpleasantness of Norman Osborn. It was that, then and now, she was making the huge mistake of trying to make love happen. It didn’t work that way. And using Harry in a pointless attempt to make it happen was cruel and unfair, as if the poor guy hadn’t been through enough already. “Oh… sorry,” she said. “Don’t be.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s okay. Please,” he insisted, and moved toward her again.

  “I should go.”

  He gently put a hand on her shoulder. “Please don’t leave.”

  As delicately as she could, she removed the hand from her shoulder. She held it firmly away, although there was compassion on her face. “Harry, it’s been lovely. I didn’t mean for you to think…”

  Harry was trembling with… what? Passion? Rage? Confusion? All of those and more. “What am I supposed to think?” he demanded, his voice rising. “What am I supposed to feel?” His eyes narrowed, his tone was accusatory. “You’re thinking about Peter, aren’t you.” Not a question.

  Mary Jane could have lied, but Harry deserved so much better than that. “I… guess I am.”

  Harry’s head snapped around. Then he shook it as if something painful were rattling around in his skull. Desperately, like a man lurching after a life preserver, he cried out, “No! Don’t go! Mary Jane, please!”

  She was on her feet, grabbing her coat. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t leave me alone!”

  Mary Jane was never more torn. Harry’s desperation was painful, but she couldn’t stay. Things were spiraling out of control; it was her fault, not his, and if she didn’t leave, she’d just be leading him along. As bad as this moment was, remaining would be far, far worse.

  His voice echoing behind her, she made it to the elevator. Harry was still crying out behind her, but the door closed, cutting off all sound. Mary Jane sagged against the elevator wall and piteously sobbed.

  She was surprising herself with her capacity for feeling terrible. Every time she thought she hit bottom, she found new lows.

  They say that misery loves company, but Mary Jane realized at that point that it simply wasn’t true—misery liked to be alone in a small dark room where no one could see it.

  As it turned out, Mary Jane was not alone in her misery. It was being shared by Harry Osborn, and it would not have cheered her to know that Harry’s situation—as unlikely as it might have seemed—was far worse than her own.

  “You’re thinking about Peter, aren’t you.” Harry Osborn snapped at her.

  “I… guess I am.”

  She looked ashamed, confused, and then before Harry could speak again, the voice was back. His father’s voice, echoing mockingly in his head. So much for friendship, chuckled Norman Osborn. Time for old friends to meet again. Suddenly the prospect of Mary Jane leaving him paled in comparison to the prospect of being alone with his father’s voice in his ear. “No! Don’t go! Mary Jane, please!”

  But he was helpless to stop her. Norman’s voice thundered in his head, “Let her go!” and Harry, desperate, frantic, begged for her to stay. She ignored him. She fled from him.

  Harry trembled in the middle of the great room, and when he turned and faced the mirror—

  There he was.

  Norman Osborn, the man who despised him. Norman Osborn, who scorned him as a weakling and as useless.

  Norman Osborn, the only one who was always there for him.

  Always.

  Not Mary Jane. Not Peter. None of them.

  Just him.

  “There, there,” said Norman in what he probably fancied was a consoling manner. He put his arms out. “Come to me, son. Come to me.”

  And Harry did.

  Feeling like a dish towel just put through the wringer, Mary Jane stumbled into her apartment later that night. Shell-shocked, listless, at her wit’s end as to which way to turn, she noticed that her answering machine was blinking. She reached over and pushed the button.

  “Hi, MJ, It’s Peter,” came his voice. Tears started to roll down her face. She had never been so happy to hear it before. “Listen, I just want to talk to you about us. I know I’ve—”

  The message suddenly stopped. Huh? Peering more closely at the answering machine—

  The phone line was no longer jacked into the wall. It must have come
out during Peter’s call, cutting off the message. But why would that be?

  The only possible answer: someone had broken into her apartment to pull the jack out… and might well still be there. She turned to leave and let out an alarmed shriek.

  The Goblin was standing right behind her.

  At least it looked like the Goblin, although his costume and mask were different… the top of his head, hair and everything, was exposed and…

  Harry?! But how… ?

  He clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened in horror, and he spoke in a low, soothing voice that was terrifying just because it sounded so friendly. “Since you love him,” he told her with an easy familiarity that almost made her ill, “I think you should call him back… and do just as I say… or Peter Parker will die.”

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  ENGAGEMENT ON THE ROCKS (TAKE TWO)

  Peter stared at his various science texts and then tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. He leaned back from his desk and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts in turmoil, it was little wonder that he couldn’t concentrate on his studies. He wondered if Dr. Connors was any closer to finding out what was up with that weird bit of black goo. Almost against his will, he found his gaze straying toward the trunk. That way lies madness, he thought, and even toyed with the idea of just finding a furnace somewhere, tossing the thing in, and being done with it.

  There was a knock at the door. He was certain for the first time in a while that it wasn’t going to be Ditkovitch.

  Granted, he hadn’t fixed anything in the apartment yet, but neither had he been hassling Peter for rent, so that was a wash.

  Opening the door, he saw Ursula standing there. He noticed immediately that she was looking at him differently. Typically she had that sort of puppydog-crush air about her that Peter had always found sweetly amusing. Now she was looking at him guardedly, apparently afraid that he was going to take her head off with another outburst. He felt bad about that. She must have known deep down that Peter would never unleash on her the way he had with Ditkovitch.