The air, flowing through the open window was cool with a hint of chill. But the sun was high in the sky and it spilled gallons of yellow light on the school building, pavement, grass and trees. Everything around her was so full of life. Life, that went on. Days flew by, then months and years. She noticed how cold and shaky were her hands. She wished she could say it was this day. But it was every day.

Her past life was long gone.

She had new friends and she kept in touch with some old ones. In the end, she thought she did it. She got out. For good. She kept herself busy and she made herself happy. Her dreams got better with time. She stopped seeing the exit from the parking garage of New York hotel and waking up screaming, as she felt the jolt of dozens of bullets hiting the armored SUV. She stopped seeing him, pale and bloody, his head fallen to the side, his eyes closed forever. His lifeless face, finally looking so peaceful. So goddamned peaceful. She stopped dreaming that she was running through Berlin metro tunnel, her flashlight lost, creeping darkness around. She never seemed to remember how she got there, but she would always know what she was looking for. She would wake up still calling his name. Soaked with sweat. Paralyzed with terror.

Months went by, but tears didn't come. She felt that if she started crying, really crying, she would never be able to stop. Ever. Because, how many tears was he worth exactly? How many tears would be enough to mourn that life?

Her past life was long gone.

Two years passed and her dreams changed. Breathing was easier. Getting out of bed in the morning made more sense. And smiling became less of a challenge. And now (and it had been for some time now) she dreamt him walking up to her. In a supermarket, in a parking lot, at work, in a park… All of a sudden, she would see him walk towards her - his back straight, his face shaven, his hair short, his left leg and arm undamaged. And he would smile. And she wouldn't be surprised. Because, for some reason, in that dream he was never gone. She would wake up from this dream and stay still for a while. Holding on to the feeling of blissful escape from regret and emptiness, which shadowed her days. She never remembered what else happened in the dream. Just the image of him walking towards her. And for a tiny moment, just before the reality would assert itself as she'd fully wake up, on mornings like this, she would feel truly, incandescently, breathtakingly happy.

But her past life was long gone.

As an analyst, as case officer, as station chief, she always had to answer to someone. Not anymore. Not since one day, when Franny was at a sleepover, she took out the key for the little room upstairs, unlocked the door and stepped in. The white board was clean. On the little corner table there was a box with colored strings, some scotch tape and pins. She tore in a piece from the scotch tape and held a photograph to the top of the board. It was an old one. Not the best one, too. But she didn't care. She attached the photograph in the middle of the board at the very top and stepped back.

"All right," she said, placing her hands on her hips and stretching her elbows behind her back, "I really need you to turn off that 'light-on-the-headlands- beacon' thing of yours for a while, Quinn. I'll be heading for some rocks now. And I need you to let me. "

She remembered now, how in that moment something changed inside her. And she knew it changed forever. Just like that, the dull pain in her chest was gone completely. Her mind became cold and rational. And she could almost literally see all that was tender and fragile about her memories of him dissolving into the past. If there was an actual threshold, separating the light from the darkness, that moment was when she stepped over it. And she never looked back. A part of her welcomed the darkness and felt almost at home. In the gloom of her darkest thoughts she felt his presence. As if, unescapably, she was always meant to follow him there. She remembered knowing that this quest would claim her life. Such as it was, anyway. She never expected to find closure and move on. She knew how it would end. All she wanted (needed, really) was to rain hell on the heads of people responsible.

Her therapist (what a disaster THAT idea was) told her once, that, as hard as it was to believe, eventually and inevitably, she WILL get past the pain and she will find comfort in her love for Franny. That grieving was a storm, that people had to wait out. Right, she remembered thinking, because I am SOOO good at waiting out the storm.

But she did try. For two years she lived the moto-fucking-shit of 'taking one day at a time' and 'concentrating on everyday tasks' and 'spending more time outside' and 'limiting the times she was alone with her thoughts'. She might had not been a super-mom to Franny, but she never gave up on trying. And on that front, she really did ok. Well, maybe 'ok' for someone who clearly had no business becoming a mother in the first place.

Was she thinking about Franny, standing in front of her strategy board and swearing to avenge his death? Carrie knew the answer was simply – no. She had tried for two years. And, boy, had she failed. That life had to go. If they ever had any chance for some normality, if there was even a glimmer of happiness for her little dysfunctional family, she had to shed the last nine years and bury the remains. She couldn't bring him back, true. But she could and she would make this right. Well 'right' might not had been the proper word for what she was doing. On the other hand, what was ever right about the world they both lived in? It took some time, but she finally realized, that she wasn't grieving. She didn't go through denial or bargaining stages. She was being consumed, eaten alive, by guilt. All things unsaid, all actions not taken, all chances missed… they hunted her dreams and her waking hours. Until her guilt turned into rage. Her pain burst into hatred, white and hot, and it burned a hole where her heart had been.

It took her over a year of relentless work and sleepless nights. No agency resources, no team, no friends. She would be damned if she risked one more life. She had to do this one on her own. She ran her own investigations and installed her own surveillance equipment. She traveled all over the world on her own time, carefully planning her missions to coincide with her work trips. The white board became a story. The story developed characters. The characters got names. Locations. Pictures. She was thorough, as never before. And she didn't care if it took ten more years or twenty.

When it was time to move forward, she didn't hesitate. She slept well the night before. She woke up in the morning and drove Franny to school. She made plans for her to be picked up by Max, as she did every time when she had to travel for work. She got on a flight to Milano and slept through it. When she stepped behind her first target in a dimly lit restaurant bathroom and took a Glock with a silencer out of her purse, she didn't feel anything. He seemed genuinely surprised and caught off guard for a trained operative. His eyes widened slightly, when, zipping his pants, he turned around to find a beautiful woman in short cocktail dress standing behind him. Carrie raised the gun to his forehead and fired. He went down like a deflated bag. She stepped over him, opened the door, placed an 'out of order' sign on the doorknob, and walked away. She remembered wondering if that was what Quinn felt, crossing off names on a kill list. Because she felt nothing. Her walk was steady, her smile genuine, as she rejoined her date at their dinner table. "Desert?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm. One down. Sixteen to go.

The next day she was back home. One of the characters in her story had been written off. She crossed over his picture with a red marker, but left it on the board. She raised her eyes to Quinn's picture on top of the board and felt a wave of nausea squeeze her stomach. He would have hated this. He would have hated her. He would have dreaded the person she had become. But then again, he wasn't too fund of the person she was before, either. And she was, as always, too late to change his mind. I have a friend, she recalled her conversation with Otto, Peter Quinn. I didn't take care of him. Not like I should have. Not like he took care of me. Well, she was now. She looked at Quinn's face again and raised her hand, barely touching the tips of her fingers to the paper.

Her past life was long gone. And so were so many things that she once held dear. The darkness had her now.

Carrie parked two blocks from her office and checked her watch. She had a little over 5 hours. It seemed symbolic that the last one would be dealt with on this day. She didn't plan for it. But it gave her a great deal of satisfaction to think about it. This one wasn't even a challenge to get close to. She already made contact and set up a meet. He agreed immediately. He had known her for years. The others were taken out assassin style: she'd get in, deliver the blow and walk away. If anyone was trying to make a connection between their deaths, it would lead nowhere. But this one was different. She will look him in the eye and he will know what he is dying for.

A phone ring startled her into a violent jerk. "Jesus…" she muttered and swiped the answering button across the screen. "Hey, Max. I was just about to call you."

The voice, coming from her Bluetooth speaker was more than skeptical.

"Sure, let's go with that theory. Are you coming in today? We got a call from Meyer's Pharma. They sound interested in drafting a preliminary contract."

"That's fantastic. Thanks for handling it, Max. I owe you, really."

"You do. Big time. So, you on your way?"

"Not yet. Need to pick up some stuff from Jerry and meet with Jenkins&Porter in about an hour. I'll pick some lunch and we'll talk when I get there."

"Sounds like a plan. How's Franny?"

"Just dropped her off at school. And Max… if you ever give her ideas like the carpet picnic again, I will make you bleed. Slowly. I barely woke her up this morning."

"I never agreed to do it on a school night. That one is on you, Carrie."

"You have a point," Carrie laughed, "Listen. Franny wants to join us tonight. Do you think we can meet somewhere less…" she was searching for the right word.

"Boozy?" Max suggested.

"Well yeah. Can you think of some place and let everyone know?"

"I'll take care of the logistics. Don't worry. I have an idea."

"You're the best. See you at noon."

"Hey, you still want me to have a look at Franny's computer?"

Carrie raised her eyebrow, "Didn't you fix it already?"

"Mmmmm no. Was gonna do it tomorrow."

"Well, she said it's working fine again. So, I guess there's no need."

"Have you been cheating on me with another handy man, Carrie? First your fridge gets mysteriously better, then your backyard camera, then there was your front door lamp, now Franny's computer. All just fixed themselves?"

Carrie scoffed and pulled up her shoulders, "What do you want me to tell you? I guess they just glitched. But hey, my garbage disposal is shorting again. You're welcome to it, handy man."

She heard Max laughing, "I'll fix it tomorrow. Ok. Give me a call when you're on your way to the office. I'll have Frank draft the contract for Meyer's."

"Deal. See you soon, Max," Carrie pushed the end call button and removed the phone from the dashboard cradle.

She walked several blocks down the street. The silver Toyota was parked exactly where her contact said it would be. She passed next to it, without stopping, and pushed the remote unlock button twice. She heard a click of doors being unlocked and locked again. She was all set.