When an extra edition of the paper came out featuring pictures of Maes, Roy, and Maria Ross, Gracia's boss politely insisted that she take the afternoon off. Gracia had been trying to drown her worries in debits and credits, but too many of the bank's walk-in customers turned out to be photographers in disguise. To keep a peace that couldn't be her own, she agreed to leave.
Lieutenant Havoc waited outside, to escort her home and deliver a message. "Colonel Mustang requests you reserve judgment on his actions until such time as he can explain himself personally."
"Excuse me?"
Havoc ducked his head and repeated the same phrase verbatim. Years of jokes about Roy's reign of terror over the young lieutenant seemed not-so-funny. Gracia let it be.
At home, Elysia was napping. Gracia let the nanny go for the afternoon and sunk onto the couch. Havoc guarded the door and she heard him turn some people – journalists, from his tone – away. It might have been an hour or five before the door opened and Roy appeared. He looked haggard, hair messier than ever. Holding his uniform cap in front of his chest, he said, "I shouldn't have made you wait."
Gracia stood. "You shouldn't have done any of this."
"Explain your reasoning." Detached, like this was one of the parlor-mystery games Maes had loved to unravel.
"You shouldn't have killed that girl," Gracia said. "I've read the papers. The press isn't stupid, and I'm not either. The whole arrest-and-escape was a setup so you could get revenge without the inconvenience of a trial. I never wanted that."
"You never did? Never wanted your husband's murderer, wrapped up in a nice little bow? Think hard. If you want the gift, it's yours."
"No."
Roy mouthed the word, "Good." He crossed the room and turned on the radio. Swelling orchestral music filled the air, the kind Maes always liked. For a second, Gracia thought Roy was going to ask her to dance, but he took a pen and pad from her desk and started to write:
Ross is innocent. She isn't dead. We helped her escape.
Gracia met his eyes. Taking the pen, she wrote underneath his note. Is someone listening?
"Probably not," Roy said out loud, words barely audible over the music. "But I do like theatrics." He gave just the ghost of a grin, then snapped his fingers to produce a burst of flame. She had seen the trick before and didn't flinch, watching the note disintegrate in his hand. Roy closed his fingers around the ash. "We have to pretend this is over, but it's just starting. People are going to burn for this, but they'll be the right people. I'm not going to stop until I can give you that."
"No," Gracia answered, "I can see you won't." She said nothing more, but she knew it was only half a truth.
Whatever had turned Roy Mustang into an avenging angel, it had nothing to do with her.