Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas rattling in my head!

Snow Falls has been at the top of the bestseller charts for weeks. If anyone had any doubts about Gwen Snow filling Derrick Storm's shoes, they're gone ("Gwen Snow does not fall into Derrick Storm's shadow. She eclipses it and stands firmly on her own, in charge and in control," is an excerpt from the Times' review). Jones is riding the high, full of inspiration and claiming to be halfway through the first draft of book number two.

Emma's own life doesn't change that much. She takes colleagues' good-natured comments in stride and shuts down the other kind because she has no patience for them. Being someone's muse (she still cringes at the word) doesn't make her less of a detective or indeed, a person. She's rarely recognized and any excessive disturbance to her work due to the books is not tolerated.

It's still pretty darn cool though, and if she traces her finger along the spine of Snow Falls and has a bit of a giggle to herself every once in a while, well, there's no one to give her away.

"Can you tell me anything about my dad?" Henry asks over ice cream cones one lovely spring day in Central Park.

Emma's hoped to avoid this question. Even after all this time, his father's name dredges up a volatile combination of betrayal, rage, and hurt. She contemplates lying to him – after all, what's wrong with giving him the dream of a kind and perfect father who would have wanted both of them? A fireman, maybe, who ate pie and flirted with her while she waited tables and died tragically on the job?

However, the fact remains that it would be a lie. She won't add to the list of things she owes him and she certainly cannot stand the idea of him idolizing a man who doesn't deserve it.

"Emma?" He's staring at her expectantly.

She gives herself a mental shake. "I'm…I'm sorry Henry. It's just a difficult subject."

The look he gives her is long and contemplative. "That bad, huh?" he says finally.

"Well…yes," she admits, briefly attacking her ice cream before it melts all over her fingers. "Let's sit, okay?"

They settle on a park bench and Emma gathers her thoughts. "Henry, I don't think I can tell you the whole story – at least not right now," she confesses, holding his gaze with hers. She desperately wants him to understand that she's not deliberately trying to keep this from him. "It's a part of my past that's difficult to face, to say the least. Let's just say that things didn't end well between the two of us."

Henry's silent for a long time after that. He looks away and Emma fights the urge to bend down and peer at his face, to get an idea of the thoughts that are surging through his brain right now. Is it selfish of her to want to remain blameless in this instance? He has enough to condemn her for already. "Did he hurt you?" His voice is small, uncertain.

"What?"

"Did he hurt you?" he repeats, and when he turns back to her he's brimming with ferocity and overprotectiveness. It's touching because it's so rare for someone to go to bat for her.

"Oh Henry." She shakes her head. "Not physically, no."

"Scars don't have to be physical," he informs her.

For once, she's oddly grateful for those long ago circumstances because this boy? He's a treasure. "That's true. You're a wise one, Henry."

He shrugs, bashful, and finishes his cone. "I'm sorry, Emma. I won't ask again. And you don't have to tell me unless you want to."

"Someday," she promises, relieved that he understands and that she doesn't have to say any more. "And in the meantime, I think there's a zoo calling our names."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?"

Emma ducks under the tape, nodding absently at uniform who points her in the right direction. "What's the situation?" she asks David and Leroy as they fall into step with her.

"Where's Jones?" David asks in reply. "Because this one's going to be right up his alley."

"Henry slept over last night. He needs to arrange for someone to watch them."

Both men thaw visibly at the mention of the two boys. It's sweet, how much they adore them. Especially Leroy, who pretends to be so gruff and aloof but keeps candy in his desk to sneak to them when they drop by the precinct. "How are they?" David inquires.

She shakes her head and smiles, remembering the spate of enthusiastic text messages she received from Henry. "Apparently they built a pretty epic blanket fort in the middle of the loft. I'm sure Jones regrets introducing them to Community." And because they still have a job to do, she snaps back to professional mode. "So, why's the scene Jones' cup of tea?"

Leroy grunts. "Trust us, Swan, you have to see it to believe it. Construction workers called it in when they got to the site an hour ago."

The trio rounds the corner and are caught by a flurry of uniforms adding rigging to-

Emma blinks. "Is that a wall?"

"Yep. A precast concrete wall, if you want to be exact. Probably from right here." Leroy jerks his head towards the unfinished walls of the site around them. "Looks like whoever killed our vic just tipped one of these over."

David rolls his eyes. "It probably took a little more finesse than that. Especially once you have a look at the guy." He motions for Emma to follow him. "Over here."

Mary Margaret is crouched on one side of the wall, her eyes intent on the work in front of her. "I don't think I need to tell you cause of death," she comments as the three detectives close in on her.

That was probably true, but Emma was never one to skip over the details and she certainly isn't going to start now. "Why don't you tell me anyway?" She adopts the same stance, her movements smooth despite the height of her heeled boots because hey, she's had plenty of practice.

"Massive internal bleeding from the slab pressing down on him." She tilts her head and frowns. "You're seeing what I'm seeing, right?"

"Yeah. It definitely wasn't just dropped on him," Emma confirms. She sees the creases on the victim's clothing (a really nice suit, from what she can see of it), the abrasions on his hands from where he struggled with the slab, and most of all his expression, frozen in a rictus of terror and pain.

Running footsteps echo behind them and Jones skids to a halt behind them. "I apologize, I came as quickly as I - dear God," he utters, taking it all in. He's at Emma's side in an instant, absently handing her coffee. She accepts it without question and misses the smug smile Mary Margaret tosses at a scowling David. "It's like when you trod on a slug in the garden, isn't it?"

"Seriously? A little sensitivity, Jones," she scolds as Leroy smacks him upside the head.

"I'm plenty sensitive, love, as the back of my head can attest." Jones rubs the spot in question. "So, who's our man?"

"No ID yet, we're waiting on the wall to come up so that we can check his pockets for a wallet, anything," Leroy answers.

"What are we waiting for, then?" Emma stands up. "Can we get this thing up now?"

As they move back to let the uniforms raise the wall, Jones leans over to Emma. "I saw his hands and his face."

"They're hard to miss."

"Peine forte et dure." She turns a quizzical expression on him and he switches on scholar mode. "French for 'hard and forceful punishment.' It was a type of torture reserved for those who made no plea. Heavy weight after heavy weight was placed on the accused's chest until they confessed or died. One of the men in your Salem Witch Trials was killed that way."

She inclines her head, interested despite herself. "You seem to know a lot about it."

"Love, I'm a mystery writer. Torture is always a good plot device to have on hand, wouldn't you say?" He tracks the movement of the wall with interest. "Someone wanted his information so badly that they tormented him over it."

She nods decisively. "We'll find them."

"I have no doubt about it, Swan."

"I have a wallet!" Mary Margaret calls out, motioning to David.

"Well, the first step to finding that information is to find out who the vic is." Emma inclines her head towards the scene. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

"Our vic's name is Jeremy Cahn, 28, junior investment banker at Goldman Sachs." Emma slaps the photo on the board and steps back. The man in the photograph is handsome and confident, a far cry from the body they saw only minutes ago. "He received his MBA with honors at Stanford and was employed by the firm immediately after."

"I can see where this is going," Jones predicts. "Wall Street. He's a young stallion, desperate to make a name for himself and pull in the big money. So he starts playing fast and loose. Insider trading. Straw purchases." He warms to his subject and immediately starts pacing back and forth, his hands flying in the air as he theorizes. Emma settles back to watch him work, her expression tolerant. "But Jeremy gets in too deep. Clients get hurt. The SEC starts noticing, and even worse, the higher-ups do. He pisses off the wrong person and as payback they literally press him until he confesses to his crimes." He turns back to them expectantly.

Leroy looks skeptical. David's nodding slightly. Emma turns to the board before anyone can see her smile. "The theory's not half bad, Jones. But we need more than that." She sees him beam out of the corner of her eye, looking far too pleased with himself. "Leroy, where are we on any security cam footage from the construction site?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing internal. Cameras were on every entrance but that's it. I'm having the foreman bring them in anyway so that we can see if anyone went in."

"Do that. Afterwards, I want you and David to go to his apartment and start looking into his life. I want interviews with neighbors and friends, phone records, and financials. We need to know everything that he was into. Jones, you're with me."

The two men nod and walk off, bickering over whose turn it is to drive.

"Where are we going, Swan?" Jones asks as he throws his coat back on.

"Goldman Sachs Tower. We're going to see if your little theory holds up."

"This is disappointing," Jones comments in an undertone as he and Emma wait to meet with Jeremy's boss. "Where's the debauchery? The lines of cocaine across desks, exotic animals padding around ages, models parading around in skimpy bikinis-"

"Do you really think bankers do that?" Emma asks incredulously. Where the hell does he get these things? She's seen Wall Street too, but it's a movie.

He shrugs. "Don't you?" But then he winks and she just knows he's pulling her leg. She flicks his ear and ignores his indignant yelp.

"Detective Swan, Mr. Jones? Mr. Gold will see you now."

"The COO of Goldman Sachs' name is Gold," Jones chuckles as he follows Emma. "That is the best kind of coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences," is the whisper-soft comment behind them. Jones jumps behind Emma, who tenses because she didn't hear a thing, even on the highly polished wooden floors. "I apologize, I startled you. Please." He opens the door to his office himself and ushers them inside.

Jones recovers quickly and immediately walks over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to admire the view over Lower Manhattan. "You don't believe in coincidences, Mr. Gold? Do you believe in fate, then?"

The man known as Kieran Gold does not fit Emma's image of a banker. He's short and slight, with mousy brown hair that is certainly longer than fashion (and indeed the business world) dictates, brushing the collar of his tailored suit jacket. And even though the suit itself is almost certainly bespoke, it hangs on his frame in a way that doesn't inspire much intimidation.

That is, until Emma gets a good look at his eyes. They're flat and brown, like chips of glass. His gaze is sharp and calculating, accustomed to weighing and measuring and deciding in an instant. He's a shark in human clothes and suddenly the case has taken a very interesting turn. "You could say that, although I am also firmly of the belief that one is the master of one's own fate. Please, have a seat." He waits until Emma and Killian sit down before he seats himself behind a dark, heavy carved oak desk that looks like it would be more at home in a chateau than a top-floor executive's office.

"Mr. Gold, I'm Detective Emma Swan, and this is my colleague Killian Jones. We'd like to ask you a few questions about one of your employees."

Amusement flickers faintly in those eyes and Emma realizes that he knows exactly who they are. "Of course, anything for New York's finest. And Mr. Jones, of course. I'm a fan of your work." Jones simply inclines his head rather than resort to his usual gracious excitement, which speaks volumes about the sudden shift in tone.

"Are you acquainted with Jeremy Cahn?"

He nods. "Ah, Jeremy. Yes, I approved his application myself. He's one of our most promising hires in recent years. His floor manager informed me that he did not report to work this morning. Is he all right?"

"Unfortunately not. He was murdered some time last night."

His eyebrow ticks upwards ever so slightly. "Oh dear. That's terrible news."

"Did you know Mr. Cahn well?"

"I'm afraid not. As I said before, I only approved his application." Gold leans forward, palms up in a gesture that Emma thinks is meant to be open and supportive, but it just makes alarm bells go off in her head. "But we will help in every way we can. I assume you would like to see records of Mr. Cahn's clients?"

Emma's eyes narrow ever so slightly. Open and supportive, indeed. "Yes. We'd also like to speak to his co-workers."

"Of course. All I ask for is discretion in regards to our clients."

She favors him with a smile every bit as bland as his, with a slight edge of teeth. "This is an ongoing murder investigation, Mr. Gold. We'll be as discreet as we have to be."

He inclines his head in seeming acquiescence, but Emma feels as though he's mocking her. "Of course. My secretary will provide you with the relevant files and lead you to the right people. Do let me know if you require anything further."

Jones says nothing until they step into the elevator. "Well, that was unsettling."

"You got that too?"

"Do you know what he reminds me of, Swan?" He turns towards her, for once utterly serious and intent. She turns to face him because let's face it; she wants to know what he thinks. "He's a spider. He sits in the middle of webs of his own making and snares his victims, innocent or otherwise."

It's a rather apt description. "He knows something about Cahn's murder," she says grimly as they reach the correct floor. "I want to know what it is."

"He's dangerous, Swan," Jones cautions.

This time, the smile that curves over her lips is entirely real. "When has that ever stopped me, Jones?"

He grins back and it's a relief to see some of his levity leaking back in. "Point taken."

They're in the car driving back to the precinct when Jones' phone buzzes. "Huh," he says aloud. "Regina's had to take care of something and won't be able to pick Henry up for another few hours. Do we need to be back at the precinct right away?"

Emma glances at her watch. "I suppose we can take lunch. Why?"

"That's perfect. Why don't we swing by the penthouse and have lunch with the boys, and I can make sure that someone's watching them until Regina's finished."

She immediately brightens at the thought of seeing Henry. "That sounds great."

The first thing she's greeted to when they get to the penthouse is Henry's sleep-tousled head emerging from the entrance of a truly impressive blanket fort. It looks like every single pillow, cushion, and bed set has been raided for the endeavor. "Emma!" he exclaims when he sees her, scrambling up for a hug.

"Hey there kid," she says affectionately. She's never been one for hugs (never really one for being touched, period), but Henry's are like a balm to her cracked heart. "That's a great fort you have there."

"Yeah, Liam and I definitely gave Abed and Troy a run for their money."

Liam's next to crawl out, blinking sleep from his wide blue eyes. He also grants Emma a hug before he shuffles to the kitchen, where Jones is already prepping lunch. "Hey Dad."

"Ah, he finally wakes," Jones observes, ruffling his curls. "It's about time you started taking after me, usually you're up at some ungodly hour."

"That," Liam informs him, "is because I have Very Important Things to Do." He takes out a small cutting board and knife and begins halving oranges for orange juice.

"And I don't?"

He shrugs and throws a dry smile at Emma. "Come on Dad, you clack away at a keyboard the entire day. At least you're catching actual murderers now." It's all tongue in cheek though, since everyone knows that Liam is Jones' biggest fan.

"Ungrateful heathen," Jones declares over Henry's giggles. "Now, I assume that the lads want breakfast? Not a full Irish, sadly, Liam cemented his heathen status by rejecting the heavenly concoctions that are white and black pudding – " He pitches his voice over Liam's exaggerated gagging noises. "But we compromise with a full English. What do you say, Swan, breakfast for lunch?"

"What's a full English?" she asks curiously.

"You're in for a treat. Liam, when you're done with the oranges halve some tomatoes for me, will you?" He reaches into a cupboard and retrieves a can, sliding it across the counter to Henry. "And toss Henry the can opener while you're at it."

Henry inspects the can curiously. "You eat baked beans for breakfast?"

"Aye, it's not a full English without them!" Henry makes a face and he laughs. "It's all right if you don't like it, lad. I can always leave them off your plate."

"I'll eat his," Liam pipes up.

Henry pulls a stubborn face that, to Emma's horror, looks exactly like hers. "No, I'll try it," he insists, handing Jones the open can of beans. "Can I do anything else?"

"When the time is right, you can start making toast. You can also set the table, if you like." Henry immediately makes a beeline for the open shelves on the side of the island.

Emma in the meantime drifts over to where Jones is stationed. The domestic side of Killian Jones is endlessly fascinating. Almost every burner has something going on – the beans are now in a small saucepan heating up, back bacon and some kind of sausage are happily crisping away on a skillet, a pile of mushrooms is frying up on another skillet, and one more is waiting for the eggs that Jones is cracking into a small bowl. "Makes it easier to fry up eggs, rather than cracking an egg at a time," he says when he notices her hovering. "There's an art to the English breakfast, love. It has a lot of components and they all need to be ready at the same time. Lucky for you, I mastered this at a young age."

"Lucky me," she echoes and returns to her stool. She thanks Liam when he places a glass of orange juice beside her. She feels uncharacteristically content watching the entire scene. It's a welcome change from the sense of unease that sprang up inside of her at Goldman Sachs.

"Henry, the toast! And Liam, get the plates ready for me, that's a lad."

In no time at all, she's facing a plate of beans, toast, a fried egg, two sausages, a slice of back bacon, a pile of fried mushrooms, and half a tomato, also fried. "I'm supposed to finish all of this?" she asks in dismay. It's a truly monstrous amount of food. The boys are inhaling it with gusto, though Henry's poking at the beans with a look of intense distrust.

"It'll give you energy, Swan!" Jones says cheerfully, sitting down. "So, what do you think?"

"It's not bad," she admits. Jones is definitely talented in the kitchen. "I still say that eggs, pancakes, hash browns, and proper bacon are better, though," she adds mischievously.

Both Joneses look piqued. "This is proper bacon!" they chorus.

"No it's not! It's not crispy!" Henry retorts.

Any escalation is forestalled when a tall, gorgeous woman sweeps into the kitchen clad in a short silk robe, her hair twisted up in a towel. "I thought I smelled an English breakfast!" she exclaims delightedly, planting a loud, smacking kiss on Jones' cheek before grabbing an extra plate that Emma failed to notice. "Ah, my little hellions are awake!" She favors the boys with a wide, movie star type smile. Liam rolls his eyes good-naturedly while Henry stares and turns slightly pink.

Emma realizes three things. One: her stomach is burning with something perilously close to jealousy and no, she's not going to examine or even acknowledge that any further. Two: the woman now sitting next to Liam looks oddly familiar. Three-

Liam leans over and sniffs the woman. "Did you use my shower gel again, Aunt Ruby?"

Ah yes. She came out of the upstairs bathroom, not Jones' bathroom (not that it matters what bathroom she uses, not at all).

"What can I say, Liam, you have good taste in bath products. And stop calling me Aunt Ruby, I'm not that old!"

The expression on the teenager's face is comically resigned. "You have your own bathroom, Aunt Ruby."

Aunt Ruby. Suddenly it twigs. This is Ruby Lucas, Granny Lucas' granddaughter and the Jones' next-door neighbor. And the reason why she's so familiar is-

"Detective Swan! It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Because she helps run Granny's and has poured Emma many a cup of free coffee. Emma beats her churning feelings into submission and manages a genuine smile. "Ruby. Yes, it has been a while."

"I can't believe that you're still working with this guy." She punches Jones in the shoulder and he merely rolls his eyes and keeps tucking in. "Please tell me you've locked him in a cell or handcuffed him or something. He's so damn annoying."

"Now, that's not fair-" Jones begins.

Emma smiles into her orange juice. "I've certainly been tempted to."

"Excellent. Take pictures when you do."

She ignores his splutters. "Of course. It'll make for excellent blackmail."

"Swan!"

"So, what did you guys get from Goldman Sachs?" David asks when they finally return to the precinct.

Jones answers before Emma can. "The man was a good worker and well-liked at work – hard to believe, considering the profession, eh?" He slouches comfortably in his chair (and it really has become his chair) and tips his head back to look at Emma. "The COO was a piece of work though. The man's an…imp."

"Imp?" Leroy crosses his arms skeptically.

"Let's just say I have a feeling that he's someone we need to keep an eye on." Emma holds up a flash drive. "Goldman Sachs was obliging and gave us a copy of his files. What did you guys find at his place?"

"Nothing overly suspicious, but we're waiting on phone records and financials."

"Family? Friends?"

David shakes his head. "No family. His mom died in high school, dad in college, no siblings, aunts, uncles, or anything. Neighbor mentioned a possible boyfriend, though."

Jones nods. "Aye, co-workers said the same thing."

"Well then, track him down. In the meantime, let's start looking."

The only file that stands out is the one belonging to Seamus McNally, a low-level member of the Irish mob. Some of the numbers don't match up, and Emma sends David and Leroy to investigate.

However, it's the vic's boyfriend who gives them their first clear lead. He's a wreck, eyes red-rimmed and currently going through a box of tissues like nobody's business. "Jeremy was doing really well at Goldman Sachs," he sniffs. "Too well, I guess."

Emma and Jones lean forward at the same time. "What do you mean, Sean?" Emma asks softly.

"Well, they moved him up. Bigger cases, more high-profile clients. I think he even said he was working on some of the big man's stuff. Amazing, right?" He hiccups. "But I guess it wasn't. He started getting scared. I don't know if it's things he heard or things he read, but…"

"But what?" Jones prompts curiously.

"He wanted out. He started talking about leaving, about getting a job where he didn't feel quite so dirty." Sean laughs hollowly. "I used to tease him about it at first – I mean come on, a broker wanting to be less dirty? But Jeremy had integrity. I realized how much of a toll it took on him. Something over there really messed him up."

"Can you give us any more specifics about what Jeremy was looking in to?" He begins to shake his head, but Emma pounces. "What about this 'big man'?"

"Oh, him." Sean shudders. "I met him once at one of the work parties there. Short guy, long-ish brown hair. Dead brown eyes-"

Emma glances at Jones. The man he just described is Kieran Gold.

Kieran Gold is a cipher. There's no record of him anywhere before the late 70s, when he started working in the mailroom at Goldman Sachs. The rest is history, with the man slowly climbing the ranks until he ended up in the corner office. His record is squeaky clean (again, unbearably so), even though Organized Crime has a file on him.

The detective who created the file can only shrug helplessly when Emma inquires about the file. "I'm sorry, Detective Swan," Detective Belle French sighs. "It's there for form's sake, really. We get hints every now and then that Gold may or may not have dealings with the Russian Mob. Then we hear about involvement with the Irish, the yakuza…you name it. If he really is involved with any one or all of them, with all of his connections...it will be difficult to bring him down, to say the least."

"It has to be Gold," Jones exclaims. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Cahn moves swiftly through the ranks at Goldman Sachs – just like Gold. It stands to reason that he'd take an interest and get him working on some of his projects."

"And during the course of that, Cahn stumbles across one of Gold's shadier moments, and can't stomach it," Emma muses.

"Precisely. He tries to make a break for it, but Gold gets wind of it. He tries to figure out what Cahn knows, then when he realizes he knows too much, he kills him."

Emma rubs her forehead. "Except that this is all speculation. We need proof. Besides, you saw Gold. Could he really shove a concrete wall onto Cahn? He had to have had help."

Captain Tracy shakes her head when they present her with what they have so far. "I will support you in anything, Detective Swan, you know that," she says seriously. "But accusing Kieran Gold? He's a major political backer in the city. He's friends with the commissioner. Give me something concrete, then we can proceed."

Leroy knocks then pokes his head into the room. "Hey, I think we got something on the security cam footage."

The footage from one of the entrances shows Seamus McNally leaving the construction site just after Cahn's estimated TOD. He confesses to Cahn's murder easily enough once Emma confronts him with his case file from Goldman Sachs and the security camera footage.

"I didn't like what he was doing," McNally says with a smirk. "I thought he was stealing from me and…persuaded him until he told me the truth."

It's all incredibly convenient and so tidy that Emma wants to scream. But they have a confession, so McNally is taken away and charged with the murder of Jeremy Cahn.

"I don't like it," David mutters as they watch uniforms escort him down to holding. "Gold obviously hired him and bribed him to take the fall."

"He wouldn't confess to that," Emma reminds him, frustrated. She tried everything, but it seems like whatever Kieran Gold promised Seamus McNally was more than anything she could.

"Well, we got one party in Cahn's murder," Leroy admits grudgingly.

"It's not enough." The sheer injustice of it all sets Emma on edge. She can't bear the thought of Cahn's real killer remaining free while some patsy goes to jail, no matter how guilty he may be. She gets the feeling that they've only scratched the surface when it comes to Kieran Gold. How deeply are his roots embedded in the city? She wonders. What would it take to see if the rumors are true?

Jones comes up beside her, his presence solid and oddly comforting. "Don't worry, Swan. We'll get him. Not today, but we'll get him."

"Yes. Yes we will."

She creates her own file on Kieran Gold that very night.

Emma walks over to where David and Leroy are staring down a manhole. "What's up?" she greets them, privately amused by the way that they mirror one another, legs solidly braced and arms akimbo with heads tilted to the right.

David turns around with a welcoming smile that quickly drops. "No Jones?"

She kind of misses the coffee, herself. And she won't comment on David's developing bromance with Jones, even if it is endearing. "He wasn't answering his phone. I left a message."

Because Jones has that kind of timing, he arrives on the scene while the ME's van is pulling away. "Was that the body?" he pants, looking hilariously disappointed.

"It's too bad, too. It was your kind of case," David remarks.

"Yeah?"

"Yep. The body was found down that manhole half-eaten," Leroy says with a straight face. Emma starts walking away before Jones can see her expression.

"Eaten?"

"It was covered in some kind of green slime."

Jones' brow furrows. "Um, all right…"

David nods. "It was creepy. It's as if someone or something is down there."

Jones scowls at them as they burst out laughing. "Very funny, you two." He wheels around and calls after Emma. "Was there a body down the manhole?"

"Yup."

"Thank you." He gestures after her. "An adult."

She turns around, still walking. She's a little ticked off that he never answered his phone and can't exactly figure out why – he's not exactly obligated to come every time she calls him. A horrifying thought crosses her mind – is she getting used to him? "You should have seen what else was down there. Two metal canisters with biohazard stickers and yellow powder inside."

"You opened-" His face is a picture. "All right, will someone please enlighten me with the truth, if you please?"

"We're checking the nearby trash cans for the murder weapon," Leroy admits.

"What was the murder weapon?"

"Some kind of death ray," is the immediate response.

"Turns your insides out."

"Swan, make them stop!"

Seriously, they're like a pack of preschoolers sometimes. "Maybe you should consider turning up on time, Jones. Don't make a habit of it, all right?"

"Ask my why I'm here," Jones says as he drops into his chair.

Emma doesn't bother to look up from her paperwork. "You know, I ask myself that question every day."

"My agent has news about Snow Falls. Care to guess?"

"Guessing would imply caring."

It looks like Snow Falls is being optioned for a movie. Emma leaves Jones, David, and Leroy to happily speculate about which actors they'd get to play themselves when her phone rings. "Swan."

"Yes, I'd like to report a murder."

She reaches for her pen. "Do you have an address?"

There's something like a soft laugh on the other end. "Where's the fun in that?"

Emma deliberately puts the pen down and snaps her fingers at David, pointing to her phone. He immediately reaches for another phone to start a trace, while Jones leans forward, straining to catch anything from the receiver. "Right. Who is this?" Her voice is hard.

"Oh, a fan."

"Tell me more about this murder."

David mouths at her. "It's tracing."

"Well." The voice gives her the creeps. "I did it. And that's all you need to know." The line goes dead before she can respond.

"Got it. 42nd and Lex."

Jones straightens. "That's Grand Central Station."

"Time to go."

The victim total goes up to two, the bullets from both vics spell out GWEN WILL, and the FBI is crawling all over the place with their fancy technology. They're edging in on her territory and it sets her back up like nothing else. Emma's had precious little to call her own and this town is hers. This case is hers. That's clear enough, with the killer's creepy obsession with Gwen Snow and her by proxy.

Jones certainly isn't helping with his incessant fanboying over Special Agent Jordan Shaw. Emma gets it, really she does. Agent Shaw's record is impressive. But does he have to be so obvious?

She's sitting in the passenger seat of Agent Shaw's SUV waiting to take down a potential suspect. "Yes, just pulling up now. Yep, got it," she says, getting off the phone with Agent Avery. "The suspect lives in that brick building. His supervisor says he left work an hour ago, so he should be here by now. When the others get here, we'll take him." She catches sight of Jones fiddling with equipment in the backseat. "What is he doing?"

Emma rubs her forehead. "He, um, touches things."

"Night vision goggles! I think I have the newer model though," Jones remarks through the bulky black goggles. "You know, maybe in my third book, Gwen Snow will tangle with a cold-hearted FBI profiler. It could be called Agent Snow." Emma and Agent Shaw swing around to glare at him. "Perhaps not. At the very least, the title needs work," he mutters to himself, contemplating alternative combinations.

Agent Shaw exhales slowly and faces forward. "So, how long have you two been sleeping together?"

Emma discovers that it is possible to choke on air. "I'm-we're-we're not sleeping together. We…he just observes me."

"Yeah, I've seen the way he observes you."

"No, she's correct," Jones pipes up. "Aside from my first girlfriend, this is the most sexless relationship I've ever been in. Do let me know if you want that to change though, Swan." Unfortunately, he's too far away for Emma to smack.

"I've been profiling people for a long time." The FBI agent's gaze flicks from Emma to Jones' reflection in the rearview mirror. "I'm hardly ever wrong."

Emma grits her teeth. "Well, this time you are wrong."

She concedes for the moment. "So, if you're not sleeping together, why do you keep him around?"

"I can hear you!" Jones objects.

"He's actually proven to be surprisingly helpful."

"Have to take your word on that," Agent Shaw scoffs. There's a crackle from the backseat as Jones charges a taser. "Put. The taser. Down."

Of course, Jones and the taser come in handy when he takes down the suspect. "See? I'm helping."

"Yeah, I'll buy you an ice cream later," Agent Shaw replies, grudgingly impressed.

The web unfolds further. The guy they've nabbed is just a lackey who, disturbingly enough, sliced off his pinky finger to give to the actual murderer. Cryptic numbers written on the bandage reveal a threat written from words taken from the pages of Snow Falls: "I will kill someone else before midnight tonight unless you stop me." Traces from the bandages covering the suspect's finger are formaldehyde, leading them to a dead end with mortuary workers. That's when Emma's phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Gwen. You were supposed to stop me." The voice on the other end is shaking with rage. "I wanted you to stop me."

"Tell me where you are."

"Will you come alone?"

Emma glances at Agent Shaw to confirm. The agent nods. "Yes, just you and me. We can figure this out. I can help you." Like hell. She's putting him behind bars and will relish every minute of it. "You just need to trust me."

"Tell me something." The sneer is clear in his voice. "How does it feel to know that you have failed?" There's a soft thud as the receiver is placed down. Gunshots ring out and Emma jolts backwards, her lips pressing into a thin line.

They miss him by a mile and the game has changed. The victim's body is gone now, not on display where they were killed. Everyone goes home, though Jones turns up at Emma's with a bottle of wine.

"What happened to your security detail, Swan? I didn't see anyone outside," Jones inquires as he pours the wine. Emma's settled on the couch, poring over the case files.

"I sent them home after I got in." She catches his disapproving look. "What? The windows are locked, the door is locked. I'm armed." She'd pulled a gun on him when she answered the door. "So, our guy killed the others where they were found. Why not this girl? Why didn't he just leave her in the garage where we'd find her?"

"He's changing it up."

"Or this victim is special." Jones comes over with two glasses of wine and offers one to Emma. "No thanks."

He forces her to take the glass. "Agent Shaw said we need to decompress, Swan. Nothing decompresses like a 2000 Châteauneuf-du-Pape."

Emma can barely contain the snort. "Well, if Special Agent Shaw said so." That comes out way cattier than she means it to and of course Jones picks up on it. He cocks his head at her.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." She pauses, and then relents. "I just see the way that you listen to her, the way that you look at all of her fancy equipment. My murder board's not enough for you? Now you need a smart board?"

A grin flashes across his face. "Are you jealous?"

She wants to smack that look off his face. "I'm not jealous. I'm just embarrassed the way that you act like a ten-year-old all impressed by her data matrix. 'Oh, it collates information so quickly, Agent Shaw. Tell me all about it.'" She manages a good approximation of his accent and is pretty proud of it.

"You're ridiculous, Swan." Jones looks more than a little annoyed now, which is good because she's spoiling for a fight.

"And then to top it off, you're building theory with her!"

"So?"

"So, you're supposed to be building theory with me. You're supposed to be on my team."

Comprehension flashes in his blue eyes and Emma wished she hadn't been so transparent. Her face gets hot and she takes a sip of wine to cover it. "I thought we were all on the same team," is the soft reply.

"We are. It's just…I think that if you have an insight, you should run it by me first." She felt like such an outsider watching them trade theories and she hated that feeling.

"Fine, I will." He motions to her glass. "Drink more wine, Swan."

Emma knocks it back and ignores his wince. Too bad, she just needs to get away from him and the confusing feelings rising up inside of her. "I'm tired. I need to go to bed." She jerks her head towards the door, a clear indication that it's time for him to move out.

"Oh no, Swan. I'm not leaving. I'm here to protect you."

Unbelievable. Emma crosses her arms. "What, with your vast arsenal of rapier wit?"

"I did leave my sword at home," he muses. "Seriously. There is a madman gunning for you because of me. I am not going to leave you alone."

They stare each other down and Emma wonders if this is his way of trying to make up for the Agent Shaw thing. "Okay, fine. I am too tired to argue." She marches over to her linen closet and hands him a blanket and an extra pillow.

"You're my partner, Swan, not Agent Shaw," he says quietly as she walks over to her bedroom. "You're not going to lose me."

Emma stops at her door, but doesn't respond. "Good night, Jones."

The next moments of the case fly by in a dizzying set of flashes. The victim is found on Emma's doorstep the following morning. The connection between the three victims is found – Ben Conrad. The bullets spell out the message GWEN WILL BURN. The NYPD and FBI descend on Conrad to stop him before that threat proves true for Emma.

Conrad takes himself out in a blaze of defiance and it looks like they were just in time. Bombs are never pretty. The FBI packs up.

But something's not right.

Jones sits in the loft later, frowning at the files in an echo of Emma the previous night. Liam shuffles in dressed in his pajamas. "Lad? I thought you went to bed an hour ago."

"I couldn't sleep." He settles beside his father but doesn't look too closely at the files. "I thought the case was over."

"It is." He frowns. "Wrapped up all nice and neat."

"That's a good thing, right?"

"In a book that's a good thing. In real life, nothing is that tidy."

Liam sighs. "Are you sure you're not overthinking this, Dad? It's out of your hands now-"

The light bulb goes off in his head. "Hands."

"What?"

"The bruising pattern on the second victim. The killer used his left hand. And see his handwriting? The slope on the four and the loop on the six?"

"The killer was left-handed?" Liam ventures slowly, not understanding.

"But Ben Conrad shot himself with his right hand." It's all becoming clear to him, as clear as words on a page. "If he was the real killer, he would have shot himself with his left hand. Ben Conrad was murdered. He's not our killer. The killer was just playing with us."

"But the evidence-"

"It was planted to lead us to Ben. He wants us to think it's over. He wants us to drop our guard. He wants to make a scene." Jones eyes widen. "'Gwen will burn.' He's after Swan." He grabs his cell phone and motions for Liam to follow. "Captain Tracy took the detail off her place. She'll be alone."

Emma's phone rings and rings. He grabs his jacket and shrugs into it. "Go to Gran's now and make sure you stay there until I come back. Call the precinct. Tell them to get over there and that we were wrong. Swan's in danger. You got that, Liam?"

Liam nods and tears down the hall. Jones sprints in the opposite direction, praying he's not too late. "Come on, Swan, pick it up. Pick up the phone!"

He's on the street outside her building when she finally picks up. "What, Jones?"

"It wasn't Ben Conrad! He's not the killer! The killer is still alive! Swan, you're in danger!" He hears it then – beeping in the background. "Emma!"

There's a horrific bang and the world is nothing but red and heat as Emma's apartment goes up in flames.

Please review!

Random tidbit: Liam uses the Dirty line from Lush. And now I'm trying to lay down the groundwork for events that of course culminate in the end of Season 4. I realized that I sort of shot myself in the foot by not giving Emma the exact same storyline as Kate, but ah well. Let's hope I come up with something as compelling!