DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of these characters, or the show. Forgive me for a little bit of liberty I've taken with creating some backstory that isn't exactly known yet. What can I say? I'm impatient!

The clicking of Gillian Foster's heels against the Lightman Group's hallway floor did not help with her intention to slip in unnoticed at the beginning of the day. The clicks were a little irregular, which probably made her all the more noticeable. They were bright cobalt blue satin pumps, with just enough heel to be practical, yet enough to draw admiring looks. And, they hurt like hell. Actually, it was just the right foot. Had it suddenly gotten larger?

"Oi, Foster!" she heard bouncing off of the walls from the interiors of Cal's office. It never ceased to amaze her how often he managed to beat her to the office whenever she decided to get out of the house extra early. Cal appeared in his doorway and leaned against the jamb. He looked her over as briefly as he could, but his eyes got stuck on her shoes. He kept his mouth shut, but was clearly thinking something, and was just waiting to be asked.

"Yes?" she said, crossing her arms.

Cal squinted at her and drove his hands into his pockets, "Well, since you ask, what are those?"

Gillian shifted her gaze a bit, and her weight, too. Her right foot, if it could speak, would beg for mercy.

"I'm torturing myself. It's something that women like to do, from time to time."

He raised a brow. "Hmm. Well, Foster, I had no idea that you were uh, into such things."

Gillian rolled her eyes.

"If you don't mind, could you, uh... could you torture your way into my office? I've got somethin' to show ya'."

As some early arrivals to the office walked past, she gave them a nod as she tried to be graceful while walking into Cal's office. Gillian loved Cal's office. She thought that her office was better, due to the ready availability of candies, but there was something to hanging out in Cal's office.

"What are we looking at?"

"Just watch, love."

On the projector, there was a man—maybe 32-years-old—looking pale and shifty. He had just sat down from turning on the camera, and was clearly filming himself. Gillian saw the light mist of sweat at his hairline, watched his pupils, amongst other indicators. His breathing was fast.

"My name is Owen Hardwick," he said, seeming to have some difficulty with even his name. "and I know... I know more than I should about some very dangerous people. I'll tell you what I can, but first, please tell my sister Jenny that I love her. Tell her I'm sorry that I had to leave her alone. I... Don't let her see me like this. Don't tell her what was at stake."

"Wait, wait, wait," Gillian jumped in to interrupt. Cal put the video on pause. "Where did this come from? Who is this guy? Is he about to blow the whistle on something?"

Cal was quiet, and looked back at Gillian with his silent eye communication which he reserved for the privileged few.

"Did he... did he kill himself?"

Cal took a deep breath. "It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?"

"What do we know about it?"

"We got it in the mail yesterday. It was addressed to me, in a padded manila envelope, with some very feminine-looking handwriting on the front." Cal pursed his lips and crossed his arms. "I just got to it this morning. Didn't find anything with it. No note or anything."

"Well, what does he say?"

"He claims that he is... was a staff scientist at Peneagle. They make that proprietary weedkiller which somehow manages to kill every plant except for the crop, the seeds for which are specially tailored by Peneagle."

Gillian uncrossed her arms and stepped toward the projection and to get a better look at the man. On pause, his face was frozen—full of fear, uncertainty, stress—his mouth was in a grimace, and his eyes said...

"Is that guilt?" she asked, turning back to Cal, who leaned against his desk, wholly absorbed.

Cal didn't respond. He was completely absorbed, and in protective mode. He snapped out of it after a prolonged moment of private contemplation. Gillian knew what it was. She knew it from the moment she saw the video. A suicide.

"Yeah. Yeah, it looks like it is."

"Are you thinking of pursuing this?"

He frowned slightly. She knew that there was a low likelihood of dissuading him.

"I'm sure we can right it off, or something."

"Cal, why'd you bring me in here? You know that I can't stop you."

"Can't, or won't?" he asked, his brows turning up with that look he gave her when he wanted her to say something more. She could never be sure how many steps ahead of her that he was, but was sure sometimes that he knew her thoughts before she did.

"How about both, Cal?" she asked with a sigh. "What can I do?"

"Watch the video," he said, "Look, I'm gonna get some uh, something to drink from the place at the corner. Do you want one of your coffees?"

"Sure," she said, while he grabbed his jacket to head out.

On his way out the door, he snuck in, "Foster, do you think that we can make it to Blacksburg by lunch?"

Before she could respond, he was out the door. "Are we changing our business model TO NON-PROFIT!" she yelled after him.