The couple is clearly worried. The woman's mascara is applied too strong on one side; her eyes are lined in irritated red. She's been crying. The man's jaw looks as though it's glued on, and his tie isn't tied right.

Mohinder has learned – he knows how to recognize the signs, now.

"Can I help you?" Mohinder asks, with a reassuring smile.

"I hope so," says the woman, and her hand emerges from her bag clasped around a photo.

When Mohinder looks, his heart breaks. The girl is sweet, pre-teen, shy in her school picture. "Is she missing?" Mohinder asks.

It's not so far out of the question, as assumptions go. The ad in the phonebook says private detectives – specialty in missing persons. Guaranteed to solve any case faster than the police.

"We heard you could find her," says the man. Suspicious. Mohinder's eyes pass over him without a glance; he focuses on the woman.

"Of course we can," says Mohinder, "we deal with this all the time. Can you tell me a little about what happened?"

----

Molly wakes up with a splitting headache.

"Augh," she groans, her fingers threading in sleep-tossed brown hair.

"Molly!" comes the call, again, from the top of the stairs. From the storefront, above.

Molly squirms out from under the covers, throwing on a pair of jeans. "Hang on, Mohinder!" she calls, through the door, and runs a brush through her hair.

It doesn't make any difference.

She emerges at the top of the stairs, blinking. "What's the case?" she asks.

Two people – two clients, a man and a woman. Sad, anxious. The woman looks to Mohinder – he nods, encouraging.

She holds out a picture, to Molly. Molly curls her fingers around it, studying the face inside.

"It's my daughter," says the woman, choking back a sob. "Amelia."

"Eames," adds Mohinder. "Amelia Eames."

"Amelia Eames," murmurs Molly, then she shakes her head. It's not enough. "Can you tell me anything about her? What she was like?"

"This is a waste of time," grumbles the man.

Mohinder gestures for silence.

"She-she was very bright," the woman tries. "She was in the writing club, at her junior high. Just quit the band – it was the teacher, she didn't like the teacher. And she drew things."

Molly cocks her head to the side.

Behind her, she can hear Mohinder pulling the map down.

"There's no such thing as clairvoyance," snaps the man.

"She drew this one picture," says the woman, "of a snowglobe–"

Molly holds up a hand. That, that's enough, she thinks, but her mind is already working. Reaching. Where are you, Amelia?

The thumbtack is in her hand almost without her conscious thought, her hand tracking, tracking. Highway, highway, motel. A strap over her shoulder – leather, her palms sweaty. Sound echoes around her, hard floor underneath. Feet sore.

Where are you?

Molly's hand stabs into the map. "Smaller," she says.

Mohinder pulls out the more complete atlas for Arizona, and Molly flips through it.

"Here, she's at this airport, in Phoenix," Molly decides. "Mohinder?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Mohinder is already at the computer, typing. "I have the phone number. If you like, I can call airport security."

"She's at gate A14," says Molly. "Waiting to get on a connecting flight."

"You just found her?" gasps the woman. "How—?"

"That's what you paid for, isn't it?" asks Molly, with a smile. "We're not frauds."

"Ah, yes, I need airport security. There's a runaway in your terminal." Mohinder pauses. "Yes. Amelia Eames. Yes, thank you."

"Mohinder," says Molly, "can I…?"

Mohinder shoos her away.

Alone in her room, Molly falls back on the bed. God, her head is pounding – finding that girl is worse than nails across a chalkboard. In fact, it's like nails across her brain. They aren't usually this bad – usually they fade an hour or two after she wakes up, and she can concentrate the rest of the day. Maybe it was the call the night before –

"Are you all right?" comes Mohinder's soft inquiry. "Molly?"

Molly opens her eyes, trying to ignore the sandpaper rasp of dry eyelids. "Just a headache, Mohinder," she says, forcing a smile.

His hand is cool on her forehead, comforting.

"I don't have a fever," says Molly, impatiently.

Mohinder ignores her, strokes her hair back from her face. "You're getting better, you know. Used to be you could barely find them on a map, now you can practically tell what they're wearing."

"Skirt," Molly says, "a full-length one, and one of those wrap tube tops that are in style these days. She had a leather backpack and three necklaces on."

Mohinder's hand stills. "You didn't say that."

"I see it, Mohinder," Molly tells him. "I see it all."

Mohinder takes a breath, and Molly steels herself. "Molly," he murmurs, "you're all right, aren't you? I mean, you're not abusing drugs, or anything—"

Oh, Mohinder. "The attempt at fatherly concern," starts Molly, "while amazingly awkward, is kinda sweet." She shakes her head. "The only drugs I'm in danger of abusing are over-the-counter painkillers."

"You're sure?" asks Mohinder.

"I'm sure." Molly sighs. "And the third member of our happy little family unit is home."

Mohinder looks at his watch. "But he shouldn't be back until tomorrow," he protests.

"Whatever," says Molly. "He's coming downstairs."

Molly follows Mohinder to the living room, in time to see Sylar take the last few steps to the ground floor.

"You're back early," challenges Mohinder, crossing his arms.

"I got an earlier flight," explains Sylar, unclipping the gun holster from his belt.

"Did you at least make the catch?"

Sylar glances up, to the set of Mohinder's eyes. "I caught up with him just outside the Canadian border." The jacket falls, next to the gun. "He didn't put up much of a fight."

"Were you careful?" asks Mohinder.

"Is anyone going to believe him if I wasn't?" challenges Sylar. "You of all people know how Petrelli's people swallow any story about 'unusual abilities'."

"I suppose it didn't occur to you that Petrelli's people are the very people we want to avoid," snaps Mohinder.

Molly slips around them, heads to the kitchen.

"Are you trying to pick a fight with me, Mohinder?"

Molly's headache throbs.

Mohinder sighs. "Of course not."

"Stop it," whispers Molly, but they both hear her, even though her voice is so soft she can barely hear it herself. "You're arguing like a married couple," she says, stronger.

"We're hardly a," begins Mohinder.

"Right," drawls Molly, taking the ibuprofen down from the shelf. "Sorry. You're arguing like a divorced couple, which is probably closer to the truth."

"We were never a couple."

"You hate each other like one."

That shuts them up. Too fast. The ibuprofen comes open with a snap – deafening, in the new silence – but when Molly shakes it, there's no rattle. The bottle is empty.

"Fuck," she blurts, without thinking about it, and lets her head fall into her hands.

"Here." Sylar's voice is quiet. "I went over the Canadian border when I was looking for the fugitive, picked up these."

"What is that?" asks Mohinder.

"Essentially, Canadian Tylenol," says Sylar. "There are differences in brand name, of course, and some in chemical composition."

Molly cups the bottle in her hand, scanning it. "Like what?'

"It has codeine in it," Sylar tells her. "It's illegal to sell over the counter in America. More effective than American painkillers."

Molly takes three.

"You shouldn't be taking that much," protests Mohinder. "Codeine is addictive."

"I shouldn't be taking so much," echoes Molly, with scorn. "Well, you know what, it shouldn't hurt to use my power. Life's not perfect."

"You can say that again," sighs Mohinder.

----

Once Molly is gone, back in her room, Sylar collapses back on the couch, wincing. "Ah," and he inhales, slowly as he can.

"Are you hurt?" asks Mohinder, his voice twisting in concern.

"It's not bad," but Mohinder already has the first aid kit.

"What happened? Where is it?"

There's probably no use in protesting; Sylar tugs his shirt over his head, showing the bandage over his ribs. "It's okay," he insists, even as Mohinder cracks the kit open. "He took a shot at me, I deflected instead of stopping the bullet, and I miscalculated."

"You miscalculated?" Mohinder raises an eyebrow. "That's not like you."

Sylar shrugs. "Everyone makes mista—ow."

Mohinder peels the rest of the bandage off, hissing in sympathy. "You thought you could take care of this by slapping a bandage on it?"

"Works sometimes," laughs Sylar.

Mohinder swabs antiseptic over the scrape, his hands maybe a little less gentle than they could have been. "Did you stop by the precinct to vote, on your way home?"

Sylar nods. "Yeah."

"Who did you vote for?"

"Who do you think I voted for?"

Mohinder pauses, bites his lip. "Well, you do have a choice, you know."

"You think I'd vote for Petrelli?"

Mohinder shakes his head. "No, of course not."

"Mohinder," Sylar starts.

"I said no," says Mohinder, firmly. "I don't think you'd do that."

"Okay," says Sylar.

"Okay," echoes Mohinder, and there's a short silence. Mohinder brings out a tube of antibiotic ointment.

"Made any progress on the list?" asks Sylar.

"When could I have made progress on the list?" Mohinder takes a breath, his irritation fading. "You were gone, Molly has her studies, and someone has to take care of the business."

"We have to find them," says Sylar, his voice a little too intense. "What are we going to do, wait for Petrelli's scientists to find the formula?"

"They won't," says Mohinder. "They're years away from it."

"Are you sure?"

Mohinder presses the bandage to Sylar's ribs, letting the adhesive take hold. "No," he says, "I'm not sure." He shakes his head, just barely. "There just aren't enough hours in the day."

"How's Molly doing with her work?" asks Sylar, pulling his shirt back on.

"She's very bright," says Mohinder. "It's too bad we can't risk sending her to school."

"Yeah," says Sylar. "It is."

----

Dinner that night is pizza and coke, ordered from the local Papa Johns. After it arrives, Mohinder raises his cup. "One fugitive arrested and one runaway found," smiles Mohinder. "Cheers."

"We're two thousand dollars up," offers Sylar. "Cheers."

Mohinder laughs. "I'll drink to that."

"It's just soda, Mohinder," remarks Molly.

"Soda has chemicals which alter human physiology," shrugs Mohinder. "It's a drug, same as alcohol."

"Right," says Molly. "Whatever. Can we watch the election results now?"

"I don't know," says Mohinder, passing Molly a paper plate. "Have you finished your biology reading?"

Molly raises an eyebrow. "Like it matters. I suck at bio anyway."

"You do not," chides Mohinder. "You're very good at it."

"How very Freudian of you," says Molly, sliding into a chair. "It's called 'projection', Mohinder."

"Have you finished?" Mohinder asks, again.

"I have." Molly takes a bite of the pizza. "Now someone turn on the TV."

The television flashes on, as though of its own accord.

The reporter, a blond woman, flashes a huge grin at her co-anchor. "Well, not at all, Scott, I think that Petrelli is a surefire winner."

"You have to admit that Petrelli's polling has been spotty, at best," denies 'Scott'.

"The tough-on-crime position has been very popular," returns the woman. "Not to mention the situation with his brother—"

"Ah, yes, he has a human-interest angle," says Scott, "but there's no real substance there, and the people are going to see it."

"All right, that's all for now," and the woman turns to the camera. "This is FOX election-night coverage, and we'll be right back after these messages."

Sylar mutes the television with a wave of his hand.

"You know," says Mohinder, slowly, "if Petrelli wins, we might want to leave the United States."

"Are you kidding me?" asks Molly.

"No, not at all," says Mohinder, "unfortunately. If he's in the Oval Office, there's no telling the resources he'll have – he'll find us, and when he does," Mohinder stops. "My research cannot fall into their hands, and neither can you, Molly."

"I wouldn't let that happen," says Sylar.

"You might not be able to stop it," snaps Mohinder. "You're not omnipotent, you know, no matter how hard you try."

Sylar's jaw works. "You know," he says, "there are a couple things we need at the store. Maybe I should go – go get them."

There's silence, until the door slams at the top of the stairs.

"I can't believe you," says Molly.

"Can't believe what?"

Molly crosses her arms, folding her legs underneath her. "Could you stop treating him like he's –"

"The man who murdered my father?" finishes Mohinder.

Molly leaps to her feet. "Don't you dare," she snaps, "don't you dare pull that card on me, Mohinder!"

"Molly—"

"How long has it been since your father died?" Molly cocks her head to the side. "And how long since we really let Sylar into our lives, and you still…" She takes a breath. "If you hate him so much, why is he even here?"

"Because he wouldn't take no for an answer," says Mohinder. "Because he said he'd protect us and he didn't leave, didn't ask for the list."

On the TV, it turns to election coverage again; neither of them make the move to un-mute it.

"Hiro's stabbing changed him," says Molly.

"Yeah, it changed all of us."

Molly sighs. "Maybe he doesn't deserve to be here, but we need him. You need him, Mohinder, and you hate that, and that's why you keep pushing him away."

Mohinder half-rolls his eyes. "Just because you've studied Freud doesn't mean you know everything about me."

"No," says Molly. "I know you because I've lived with you, for seven years."

Mohinder lifts his eyes to hers.

"You recover your trust by trusting people," says Molly.

"They're announcing exit polls from the East Coast," says Mohinder.

Molly takes her plate. "I'm going to my room."

----

"You and Molly had an argument?" asks Sylar, when he gets back.

Mohinder doesn't respond, his eyes fixed on the silent television.

"I'm sorry."

Mohinder shakes his head. "Don't say that."

"I am, though." Sylar crouches in front of Mohinder. "I'm sorry, Mohinder."

Mohinder closes his eyes. "You can't apologize for what you've done."

"It doesn't matter," Sylar tells him. "I won't stop trying." His hand rests on Mohinder's knee. "Mohinder. I won't."

Mohinder's hand slides over Sylar's. "I know."

----

"You know, he was different before Nathan died," says Mohinder. "He didn't want what he wants now. The extra powers were a burden to him – he didn't collect them."

"You've told us," says Molly.

"It's true," Sylar adds. "He was noble."

"Well, we see where that got us."

"Turn it up," says Mohinder, waving at Sylar. "Turn it up!"

Obediently, the volume increases.

"And from exit polls, we're ready to declare Ohio – that's right, looks like Petrelli is in the lead, at 57 percent of the electorate. And that – that puts him over the edge, with 293 electoral college votes. Yes, that data is correct, and we're ready to declare the election.

"The next President of the United States, ladies and gentlemen, will be Peter Petrelli."

"That's…not good," says Mohinder, delicately.

"No," says Molly, "it's not."