He'd been the one to set their meeting point. She was surprised at how willing he was to see her at the drop of a hat. No condescending bullshit. No "I'm busy, sweetheart," or, "I'd like to keep my carotid artery intact, thanks." Just four words: "Jefferson Memorial at 6."

So here Liz was, sitting on the memorial steps, nursing her Earl Grey tea, and wondering why circuitous answers from a sociopathic criminal were so vital to her peace of mind.

As dusk rolled in, her eyes followed a distant schooner as it cut through the placid waters of the Potomac. She pulled her pea coat tighter and watched her breath swirl before her and waft gently away. Liz couldn't remember the last time she'd been here – only fleeting sensory details snuck into her conscious mind. That day was sunny, she recalled, and slightly breezy. She'd been taking pains to avoid a group of rambunctious eighth-graders. She'd been with Tom, before she had ever questioned their love or his involvement in any illegal affairs.

And she'd never met Raymond Reddington.

"I suppose I should be thanking you, Lizzie," a voice behind her purred.

Liz didn't flinch. The way he slinked predator-like into conversation was already second nature to her. And she found that highly disconcerting.

Red exhaled as he stooped beside her and made himself comfortable. "It's been a while since I've stopped to admire the beauty of a crisp fall evening." The brim of his fedora cast a shadow across his face, accentuating every sunken pocket and every world-weary wrinkle. But his eyes, as always, were bafflingly calm.

Liz didn't beat around the bush. "Where's the photo?"

"What photo?"

"The photo you removed from the Stewmaker's album," she replied. "If you expect me to believe the man who dissolved people in chemical baths randomly skipped a slot, you're underestimating me."

"Good girl," Red muttered, smiling. After a few tense moments of silence, he added, "It's my business."

For the first time since he'd arrived, Liz turned to him. "No."

Red raised an amused eyebrow. "Beg pardon?"

"No," she repeated. "The minute you walked into FBI headquarters, the minute you dragged me into your twisted idea of a partnership, your business became my business. Don't patronize me by pretending your personal life isn't relevant."

Red peered at her over the top of his amber-colored sunglasses. His look seemed to say: Do go on.

"You were eager to direct our attention away from the subject of the photo," Liz continued. "Presumably he or she is deceased and meant a great deal to you. And since we've already established that you think relationships make you vulnerable, this had to be someone from prior to your criminal life."

Red carefully removed his sunglasses, folded them, and slid them into his breast pocket. Nothing in his expression betrayed an answer. The man was a perpetually closed book, and it infuriated her.

"Look," Liz said, training her eyes on the river once more, "I may not know why you chose me. But if I can find your weak spot, some old wound to put pressure on, I can get you to tell me whatever I want."

Red laughed. "You're rather endearing when you're making threats, Lizzie."

"Not threats. Promises. The agency owes you nothing. I owe you nothing. You recommend me for operations I'm not remotely qualified to handle. I put my life on the line and you're the only one who reaps the rewards. You wanna talk 'camel-trading like a Bedouin'? What the hell's in it for me?"

"Experience," he replied. "Contacts. Answers to questions you never thought to ask. I sense your frustration, and I share it. I felt the same at your age –"

"For Christ's sake," Liz breathed. "We are not the same, Red."

"Yes, you're right," Red said sardonically. "Forgive me for merely identifying a fellow wanderer on the same trail."

His words rang true in the pit of her stomach, but she urged herself to ignore them. He possessed an uncanny ability to chip away at her resolve. "I just wish – "

"You wish you could go back to before it began."

She dared to meet his gaze, and found a flicker of sympathy.

Red removed his fedora and held it in his hands. "We are all born blind, Lizzie. As we move through life, our eyes open a little wider. You have the unfortunate privilege of being fully cognizant now where most people are still being fed fairytales into adulthood." He paused for effect, then deadpanned, "Still think I'm the Big Bad Wolf?"

"You're a killer. You trade information to protect your own assets, and you don't give a shit about who gets caught in the crossfire. No one really matters to you." I sound defeated, a nasty little voice in her head whispered.

"You matter to me," he said guilelessly.

The raw heat that rose to her cheeks was difficult to mask. His honesty around her was unsettling at times.

It was Red's turn to sigh. "Maybe, one day, you'll understand why."

Liz nodded. "If you'll let me."

He turned and studied her face for a few seconds, his lips set in a grim smile. His hand lightly brushed against her lower back. No extended contact; just something to remind her that they were occupying the same space in the same moment, and a connection had been made.

Red stood, donned his fedora, and started down the steps. "The picture is back at my . . . current residence," he called back. "You're welcome to come scrutinize it."

Liz moved. She actually moved. Desperate to believe him, her legs had acted of their own accord. But as she watched his retreating figure, she sat down again.

Rule number one: Raymond Reddington lies.