"I'm so sorry, Harold," Tasha apologized quickly, and scooted away from him.

Finch didn't respond. He exchanged a long look with John before he got off of the couch, and went into the kitchen. He knew John was following him though his footsteps were silent.

Tasha had caught him completely off guard, and that rarely happened. Before he knew it, she was there, and it took him even longer to react and think to push her away. But, the damage had been done. If 'damage' was the applicable word, however. Finch wasn't quite sure of that.

"That's not really your color," John sniped, tossing a dish towel at him.

Finch wiped his mouth leaving red lipstick that had rubbed off from Tasha stained on the checkered towel. "She instigated it, Mr. Reese."

John raised his eyebrows. "Of course she did. I know you wouldn't be the man to take advantage of an emotionally vulnerable prostitute."

His words were cutting, and Finch suddenly had the urge to wash his face. "Judging someone by what they do for a living is a mistake that you of all people should not make, Mr. Reese."

The message was received and understood from what Finch could tell. John glowered at him, but didn't say anything further.

"Excuse me," Tasha said.

John and Finch's eyes snapped to Tasha, standing in the kitchen doorway. Finch had a some difficulty looking at her.

"Um, Harold, I think your computer found something," she said, pointing over her shoulder into the living room.

The video was accessed once Harold worked his way into the feed, and the three of them watched the sped up surveillance video at a bus terminal yesterday afternoon.

"Stop," John said. "Back it up."

Harold did so. Tasha sat next to him on the couch, John hovering over them from behind.

"There! That's me," she said. The footage was at an angle to the bench Tasha was sitting on. But her face was almost in full view. Her legs were crossed, and her hands were busy with her phone as another man sat down next to her, and got up again soon after.

"He does something there, what's he doing?" John asked, thinking out loud.

Finch backed up the footage again. The three of them leaned in closer, watching every detail of the pixilated video.

"He touched my purse!" Tasha said.

"One more time, Finch," John instructed.

On the third viewing, Tasha leaned in even further, squinting at the screen and saw the man's hand slip into her purse and back out again. Nothing was in his hand.

"It was a plant," John said, standing up.

"Where is your purse, Miss Murphy?" Harold asked without looking at her.

Tasha went into the kitchen, grabbed her purse from the island and brought it back out, considering what was in it. After a little, helpless shrug, she upturned the purse and dumped out all of its contents onto the seat of an easy chair.

John walked over and looked through the pile with his eyes only as Tasha sat on the floor and began picking items up one by one and placing them back in the purse.

"You must be preparing for an attack that the rest of us don't know about," he said.

Tasha glanced at the pile again. Amongst the tampons, flavored condoms, prescriptions, and other items, there was the tazer, a fog horn, a can of MACE, and another, smaller tazer.

She shrugged and looked up at John. "I've had to use all of them except for the fog horn."

"Why didn't you try it out earlier?" he asked.

"I've been told that it can cause permanent hearing damage." Though he gave the impression that he was kidding with her, Tasha bristled at him anyway. "What was I supposed to do? You could have been the Long Island serial killer for all I knew!"

"The what?" John asked.

"Since two thousand and seven there has been a string of murders linked to one person who has not been identified by police yet," Finch explained without looking up from the computer. "The bodies of the victims were found several months later, if that. All of them were young women of Miss Murphy's occupation."

He'd stopped calling her Tasha. She noticed the second time and beat herself for it. The nicest man she'd ever met, and she went and scared him away like chasing after a little bird.

"Jack the Ripper," John said.

"A lot of the girls keep close tabs on each other because of him," Tasha said. "We always tell someone where we're going to be, how long we'll be there, stuff like that." She continued sifting through the pile of crap that she dumped out of her purse. "All of this mine, guys. Maybe he didn't put anything in it." She stuffed her wallet back in and slipped her phone into her pocket.

"Check it again," John said as his phone rang. He stepped into the kitchen to answer it as Tasha rolled her eyes, and dumped her purse out again onto the floor this time.

John swept back into the room. "Finch, send that video to me. Carter and Fusco just arrived at a homicide that looks fishy."

"Fishy?"

"That's how she put it. I asked her to watch out for any strange calls or reports that might have to do with our girl," John nodded to Tasha before he went out the door.

"So, there are more of you guys? It's not just you two?" she asked as she filled up her purse again.

"Mr. Reese was referring to two NYPD detectives who assist us when needed." Harold's explanation was short and clipped.

"Cops? He told two cops about me?" Tasha said angrily.

Harold looked into her eyes for the first time since she kissed him. "They are trustworthy, Miss Murphy – "

"Tasha," she demanded. "I'm sorry, Harold. You are the nicest man I've ever met. I didn't mean to... freak you out like that. I don't want to scare you away."

"It's all right, Tasha," Harold said quietly.

Tasha rubbed her eyes and yawned.

"You've had a long night," Harold said. "There are a few bedrooms upstairs if you'd like to sleep for a few hours."

Tasha nodded and got awkwardly to her feet as she took her hair down. Her eyes were beginning to cross and her limbs felt heavy at the very mention of sleep. She stepped out of the room and found the staircase, but stood at the bottom landing as she looked up to the second floor.

"Harold?"

A moment passed and Harold poked his bespectacled face around the corner. "Yes?"

"Will you come up with me? Just stay with me until I go to sleep? I won't come near you, I promise," she smiled sheepishly, ashamed that she was asking for anything at all, especially something that a four-year-old would ask for.

Harold went away for a few seconds. She heard the uneven footsteps move away, then come back towards her. He carried the closed laptop in one arm as he joined her at the bottom of the stairs.

She stifled a yawn with some effort, and brushed a few loose strands of hair out of her face as she squatted down next to the body. One of the forensics officers handed her a pair of blue, rubber gloves.

"What have we got?" she asked.

The forensics officer squatted down next to her, looking much too bright eyed for as late as it was, or early depending on how you looked at it.

"Single gunshot wound to the left temple, with burns around the entry point. Very little blood, though."

"Point blank, and it wasn't done here," Carter mumbled to herself.

"What's it look like, Carter?" Detective Fusco approached and stood next to her, looking down at the body.

"Like a dead person," she said without thinking. "Sorry, Fusco," Carter stood up next to him. "I'm a little cranky."

"Aren't we all?" he asked. Carter couldn't figure if he was being ironic or not.

"Single shot to the head, point blank. But he bled out somewhere else. There's hardly any blood here."

"Any ID?"

"Not even a piece of lint in his pockets."

"A hit?"

"Looks like it. And a clean one too. Whoever did this knew what they were doing," she lifted her eyes past the flashing lights of the now useless ambulance and saw a familiar face. "And speak of the devil…"

She and Fusco approached the strange paramedic, lingering in the shadow of the ambulance, away from everyone else.

"Should I arrest you, or are you just picking out your Halloween costume a little early?" she asked, the crankiness back in her voice.

John smiled. He seemed to like it when she got testy with him, and it bugged her even more. "Who is the victim?"

"We don't know," Fusco answered before Carter could snap at him again. "There was no ID. Looks like a hit."

"Tell me," John pulled out his phone and handed it to Carter. "Does this guy look like your vic?"

Carter watched a surveillance video of a city bus terminal. A woman sat on the bench, waiting, as a man, short, but broadly built, sat down next to her. Carter held the phone closer to her bleary, tired eyes and watched every detail. He slipped his hand into the woman's purse, and went away.

"It sure does," she said, handing the phone back to John.

"How did you know?"

"I'm a good guesser, Lionel," John said vaguely. "The woman at the bus terminal is now hiding from some people who came after her earlier tonight. We don't know why yet, but I'm guessing," he looked specifically at Fusco, "that this guy is involved somehow."

"The guy is dead now, in case you didn't notice." Lionel said. Carter's crankiness seemed to be spreading.

"That's where your job comes in, Lionel, Carter. When you find anything on him, let me know. Sooner rather than later, if you can," John backed further into the shadow of the ambulance, took off the jacket and hat, tossing them into the back of the ambulance, and walked across the street.

Tasha lay on her side, sound asleep in her clothes, on the bed in the master bedroom. Finch sat in a chair close by, his eyes on the computer monitor as she breathed evenly.

Her lovely red hair spread out on the pillow like a frozen wave on the sand. Finch continued to force himself not to look at it, or how it curled around her neck in a strange, protective way.

"I'm coming back, Finch," John said through the earpiece he wore.

"Any new developments?" Finch whispered.

"Maybe. Carter's latest homicide is the guy in the video with Tasha at the bus terminal. It was a hit. One shot, and they left no ID. We're dealing with some muscle here."

"Perhaps we should move Miss Murphy just to be on the safe side," Finch suggested, glancing over to the sleeping woman on the bed.

"I think that can wait for another few hours. I'm on my way right now."

Finch didn't respond, his attention back on the computer when a muffled sound pulled him back. He glanced over the monitor at the doorway, to the hall that led to the stairs. He waited.

A soft thud reached him, sounding like it came from downstairs. Harold closed the laptop and set it down as he moved quietly to the doorway and listened.

A louder crash, and the distinctive sound of splintering wood came from the downstairs front entry way. Harold sprung into action. He stepped into the hallway and shut all of the doors on the second floor, then moved back into the master bedroom.

He shut the door, locked it, and wedged the chair he was sitting in against the doorknob.

"Tasha," he whispered as he turned off the lights. "Tasha, wake up!"

"Finch?" John said through the earpiece. "What's going on?"

"What? What time is it? Oh Lord, did I miss our date again?" Tasha slurred.

Harold stepped over to the other side of the bed and helped Tasha sit up. "Tasha! Are you awake?"

In the little light coming through the window, Harold saw Tasha's lovely eyes refocus and blink at him. "Harold? What's wrong?"

"They've found us."

"Hide yourselves as much as you can. If you can get her out, Finch – "

"I understand, Mr. Reese," Finch said in frustration.

"I'm coming. Stay hidden."

Tasha's eyes widened in fear and she gripped onto his arms. "Where's John?"

"He's on his way," Harold said. "Come on." He took her hand and they moved to the window.

Crashes and loud footfalls came from the floor below them as the intruders searched the downstairs. They only had a minute at the most.

Finch opened the window and leaned out of it, looking on either side. "There isn't a lot to hold onto in order to climb down."

Tasha leaned out next to him. "I might as well let them shoot me if I tried this."

"Just hide then," John said in his ear.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs and stopped, reaching the second storey landing.

"Get in the closet, Tasha."

"What about you?" she asked.

"I have an idea."

Tasha allowed him to shove her into the small closet and close the door. "Stay as quiet as possible."

"Now is not the time to be the hero, Finch," John warned.

"You can't be the only one to know when those moments are appropriate, Mr. Reese," Finch kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed where Tasha had been. He took off his glasses, setting them on the bedside table just as a loud bang hit the door to the bedroom.

Gunshots went off and the door burst open as Finch reached up and turned on the lamp.

"What are you doing?" he asked as a few men entered the bedroom. He fumbled for his glasses, looked at their guns and put his hands up. "I don't really have anything worth stealing," he said in a shaky voice.

"Where's the girl?" One of the men said.

"I don't know who you mean. I live here alone."

"She's here, foureyes. You are going to tell me where."

Finch had to physically control his reaction to the dumbest insult ever to be uttered in the English language. "There is no girl here. Just me. Perhaps you have the wrong house?"

"I'm almost there, Finch," John said.

Finch's offhanded, yet hopeful suggestion had a couple of the men lowering their weapons a little, questioning if they really had burst into the wrong place.

"If you leave now, I won't call the police."

The self designated spokesmen for the group of outlaws stepped forward. He grabbed Finch by the necktie and yanked him up to his feet. Finch resisted the urge to look to the closet in order to reassure Tasha.

The gunman pressed his weapon against the center of Finch's forehead. "I'm going to count to three. Tell me where she is and you live. If you're still quiet when I'm finished counting, you die. Makes no difference to me."

"One."

Finch closed his eyes and held his breath.

"Two."

A loud fumbling came from the closet, and the door opened. Tasha jumped out. "No, don't! Stop! Don't hurt him!"

She pushed Finch aside and stood in front of the gunman. Her hair spilled over her back and shoulders, and her face was flushed with fear, but she held her ground next to Finch.

"Tasha, please," Finch said, pushing her behind him. "This woman is innocent in all of this," he said. "She has no idea what you're after."

The gunman took a step away. He smiled a little at the picture of two apparently helpless and desperate people standing in front of him like frightened children. "We don't know exactly what it is either, friend."

Now Finch was his friend. What a drastic change of opinion in such a short time!

"We only know that it's very important to an employer of ours. That's what matters."

Finch swallowed back his questions. "But she knows nothing about it, do you understand? She would be of no help in finding whatever it is."

"We've heard otherwise," he reached for them, but Finch backed away with Tasha behind him.

"I'm already tired of you." The gunman lifted his weapon and fired. Finch fell back into Tasha. "Harold!" she screamed as she lowered him gently to the floor. "No! Harold."

"Take her."

Finch's breath turned shallow. He saw a red blur overhead as Tasha hovered over him. Her hands moved to his face. "You'll be okay, Harold. Look at me, come on. You're gonna be okay – "

She screamed when she was ripped away from him. "Harold!" she screamed his name as they hauled her out. "No! Let me go! Harold!" Helpless, Finch heard them move her all the way down the stairs until they muffled her screams and took her out.

The pain was astronomical. Each breath was painful, moving would be worse. Finch lie alone on the floor, blood coming through his shirt. He wasn't sure if he blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he saw was a dark figure looming over him.

John's face came into focus above him. It was lined with worry. "Stay awake, Harold," he said. Finch felt the pressure of John examining the wound.

"They took her," Finch wheezed.

"I know." John lifted him gently, and pulled him off of the floor.

"Come on, I've got you."