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1. Murder on Memory Lane

"Each man has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title." – Virginia Woolf

With a pang of desperation, Don realized he couldn't breathe; eyes watering, he gasped for air as his tormentor looked on, smiling. His apartment spun in slow circles around him, a bright smear marking the entrance to the kitchen and the only source of light in the living room besides the quietly murmuring TV. When at last he had managed to gather enough breath to properly sustain him, he wiped at his eyes and let out an impressed whistle.

"You have to be kidding," Don insisted, riding out the last of his laughing fit.

"No," answered Liz, suppressing a giggle. "Dead serious."

"What did your parents do?"

She shrugged. "Nothing, at first. I don't think they had a clue what to do with him, but a few days later, my dad took him into the living room and asked outright."

"He didn't!" jeered Don, feigning horror.

"He did," Liz corrected. "Come on. What would you do if you found an issue of Playgirl in your son's room?"

Laughter knocked the breath from him again; it took a little longer to regain himself this time. "Man, I wish I'd thought of that. Charlie would have been humiliated."

Liz's eyes twinkled playfully. "Were things really that bad between you?"

"Well, yeah," admitted Don. Lifting her off his knee, where she had been perched, he rose, depositing her on his lonely love seat before bending to gather their dinner dishes. "He was the youngest and a kid genius; what older brother wouldn't be jealous?"

Setting the dishes on the kitchen counter, he turned on the faucet, plugging the drain in preparation for dishwashing. Liz's head popped up, watching him over the back of the sofa.

"You know, I talk about myself a lot," she began.

"You can say that again," he joked, and had to fend off the pillow she threw at him.

"What I mean is, we don't talk about you that often," she observed. She thought a minute. "Or rather, you don't talk about you that often."

"Oh?" he challenged lamely. "What is it you want to know?"

"Well, nothing in particular," she lied, joining him in the kitchen area. "There are just some things I noticed you don't talk about."

"Like what?" He didn't like where this was going, but to end the conversation now would only prove her point.

"Like when your mom got sick," she said, looping her hands around his waist only to find him awkwardly tense.

"Some things you just want to forget, you know?" He slipped a plate dirty with teriyaki sauce into the sud-filled sink, working away the remnants of their Chinese take-out with a soapy sponge.

"Even before that," she suggested. "The office in Albuquerque, tactical at Quantico, fugitive recovery…" She listed the last with a note of sarcasm, complete with air quotes. "It's like you graduated from high school and didn't start living until you came back to L.A."

"That sounds about right," replied Don curtly, reaching for the remaining plate.

"Well, do you want to talk about it?" she prompted hopefully. "Any of it?"

"All right, look," he said, ceasing his furious scrubbing with a sigh to meet her eyes. "It's not that I don't trust you; I like you, Liz, I really do. And there are some things about my life back then that I don't want to get in the way of that. Okay?"

Staring, she noted the defensive tone of his voice.

"Okay," she answered, letting go of him hesitantly and moving off towards the darkened living room. Watching her go, he reached into the sink blindly and felt something trace a hot line across his finger.

"Shit!" Withdrawing the stinging digit from the water, he cradled it in a dishtowel. Wispy red streaks dispersed the bubbles, revealing the guilty paring knife at the bottom of the sink. Any further expletives that came to mind were scattered by the telltale emotionless ring of his cell phone. Having heard the commotion, Liz popped her head in, eyes falling on his finger as, free of the dishcloth, a red line appeared on it as if by magic.

"You got something to fix that up?" she asked, nodding towards it.

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the bathroom, sending crimson drops to splatter on his otherwise colorless kitchen wall before he realized he'd used his bad hand.

"Medicine cabinet," he called distractedly, ignoring his Pollock-esque redecoration of his kitchen as he dove for the coat he'd flung over the counter. Fumbling in his pocket awkwardly, he at last found his ringing, vibrating cell and flipped it open.

"Eppes," he answered, peering intently at his finger in the dim light and only half-listening to his caller. "Murder? That's for L.A.P.D. Sounds like a suicide to me. What's this got to do with the FBI?"

Liz reappeared, laden with a box of band-aids and a disinterested expression.

"What?"

The tone made her stop; turning, she caught a glimpse of Don's face and didn't like what she saw. The last time she'd seen him this floored, Colby Granger had been confessing to being a spy for the Chinese. His eyes flicked to his watch, and she grudgingly considered their date officially over.

"Yeah, yeah. No, thanks. I'll be there in, like, 20 minutes."

Apparently eliciting a response, he flipped his phone shut, returning it to his coat pocket before slipping the garment on. Patting his pockets with his one good hand, he snatched up his keys, which had been lying hidden under his coat, and made for the door. Liz grabbed her own jacket and followed him down the stairs and out to his car, still clutching the band-aids.

"What happened? Do you want me to come with you?"

Sliding into the driver's seat, he had the engine started in a second, swearing again as his grip on wheel provoked the cut on his finger. Taking the band-aid he was offered, he ripped it open, applying it haphazardly while Liz buckled herself in on the passenger side.

"You said you wanted to know about my past," said Don sarcastically. "Here's a fact; when I was working fugitive recovery, I had a partner. Billy Cooper."

"Okay," she said, unsure where he was taking this. Convinced his finger would hold up, Don revved the engine, hastily checking the rearview.

"Well, Billy Cooper's dead."