Harold Finch moved slowly up the back stairs, keeping his footfalls silent.

The security officers on the first floor knew he was there, of course, but the residents of the second floor – Will Ingram and his wife Julie – did not. They likely assumed he'd gone home after their dinner. If they'd known he was here, they would have asked questions.

They could find out that Christine Fitzgerald was home in the morning. For tonight. Finch assumed she needed time to get settled.

He climbed to the third floor and knocked very softly on the brightly-painted steel door. When there was no response, he looked up at the tiny camera mounted above the door frame. "Alan," he said quietly, "please let Miss Fitzgerald know that I'm here."

There was a five-second pause, and then the electronic lock on the door ticked open.

"Thank you, Alan." Finch stepped inside. It wasn't necessary, he knew, to thank a computer for providing basic service. It was only responding to its programming. But Christine spoke to her system as if it were her roommate and friend, and it felt natural to Finch to treat it accordingly.

"Miss Fitzgerald?" he called as he closed the door behind him.

There was no answer.

Mildly perplexed, Finch moved further into the apartment. Her office was in the front of the building; if she was there she might not have heard him. But the computer would have announced his arrival. Perhaps she was in the bathroom, the shower. He listened, but could hear no water running. "Christine?" he called again.

He walked down the hall to the living room. It was empty; her adjoining office was dark, her computer screens shut down. He retraced his steps. The door to her bedroom stood open. A large suitcase stood at the end of the bed, and a carry-on sat on the dresser. The bed was undisturbed.

There were three neat stacks of books on the dresser, a mix of new and used, twenty-seven in all. Beside them was a postcard. Finch picked it up and turned it over, but there was no writing on it. He flipped it again and studied the picture. The ruins of a watchtower, in a grassy green field, with the ocean beyond it. There were sheep in the field. He frowned and put it back where it had been.

He allowed himself to scan the titles of the books, but he didn't let himself be distracted enough to pick one up.

The bathroom door was open; the room was empty. One of the bath towels hung neatly on the bar, visibly damp. The others were still folded on the counter.

He opened the door to peer into the large, unfinished space on the other side of the hall. She had intended to turn it into an emergency apartment for his use, and John's, but they'd convinced her that they only needed a small storage space and a back-up computer room. The vast empty space was still bare studs and an unfinished floor. It was currently empty, the only light coming in from the street lamps beyond the windows on the far wall.

Finch checked the hidden rooms, but they were unoccupied.

He tapped his earpiece as he returned to the kitchen. "Mr. Reese?"

"Hey, Finch," his partner answered immediately. "New Number?"

"Not as yet. How is Miss Fitzgerald?"

"She's … re-acclimating. Tired. I fed her a steak and let Fusco drive her home."

Despite his choice of words, Finch didn't hear undue concern in his partner's voice. "I see."

"She has enough chocolate cake to hold her until morning."

Finch opened the refrigerator. Reese had used the afternoon to restock the basics – milk, eggs, butter, apples and oranges. There was a white carry-out container on the top shelf. He peeked inside. One bite of the chocolate cake was missing.

"How was dinner with the in-laws?"

Harold sighed and closed the refrigerator. "Challenging. But necessary. And now, blessedly, behind us." He considered. "Get some rest, Mr. Reese."

"You, too."

After he clicked off the link, Finch looked toward the ceiling. "Alan, where is Miss Fitzgerald?"

"She's not here," the computer replied, in the sonorous, bored voice of actor Alan Rickman.

"But she's been here."

"Yes."

"And she went out again?"

"Obviously."

Harold pursed his lips. Programming sarcasm into a voice-responsive computer interface was tricky, but Christine had managed it painfully well. "Do you know where she went?"

"No idea."

"Thank you."

He looked around again. She wasn't here, or downstairs at the office. The park where Chaos had stood was fenced and locked up, though he supposed she could find a way in. She wasn't with John. He could think of only one other place she might be.

He drew out his phone and logged into his own security system. The library was dark; none of the entrances had been used since he'd left that afternoon.

He considered calling Reese back and admitting that they'd misplaced the young woman again. But for the moment he was curiously unalarmed. As much as he would have liked to find her here, unpacking or updating her systems, he was somehow unsurprised. Re-acclimating, John had said. Finch was suddenly fairly certain he knew where she'd gone.

If she wasn't there, he would most certainly invoke his partner's aid.

She'd gone alone, Finch reflected, because she wanted to be alone. He probably should allow her that solitude, call her in the morning. Perhaps ask her to breakfast before Will and Julie latched on to her. Trust her.

But he was mildly concerned for her safety. Her frame of mind.

And that, he assured himself, motivated him more than his own desire to see her.

Certainly. That was absolutely the case.

He was lying to himself and he knew it, but he set out anyhow.

The water cascaded into the footprints of the Twin Towers, gleaming under the many surrounding lights. People milled about despite the hour, some of them hushed and reverent, some indifferent, just trying to get home from late meetings. Christine stood motionless, with her back to him, both hands on the railing. She was wearing a man's shirt, white, and dark jeans, exactly as she had been the first time he'd seen her again, back when Chaos was still a café.

Her hair was shorter, cut just below her collar now.

Harold was thirty yards away when he saw her flinch. He smiled wryly to himself. He'd known she'd stolen his app. Her phone had just told her he was approaching. But she didn't turn.

Her shoulders hitched upward.

He walked closer and put his hands on the railing next to hers.

Christine glanced at his hands, but didn't look up. She took a long breath and exhaled softly.

Finch had hoped she would turn to him, that he could put his arms around her. That they could just be as they were before. But she was watchful, tense. She reminded him of a young doe at the edge of a meadow, ready to flee at the slightest sound. He'd had no right to expect anything else.

He had built a supercomputer that could anticipate a person's future behavior by observing them. But this woman, whom he had known for most of her life, eluded his understanding. He could not begin to know what she was thinking or what she might do next.

His lack of knowledge was agonizing.

"I thought I might find you here," he said quietly, carefully.

"I always come back here to reconnect." Her words were careful, too. "It's like … touching home plate."

"Who would have thought it would ever be so peaceful here?" he mused. "With so many lives lost."

"And so many begun." Christine glanced over, very briefly. Her voice remained expressionless. "No one who survived this went on with the same life. Everyone got turned in a new direction, for better or worse. Everyone began again."

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Then he didn't know what to say. The distance between them was so palpable that it hurt, and he didn't begin to know how to get past it.

It was easier when she was an ocean away. At least then I could pretend everything was the same.

Nothing was the same.

She'd offered to stay away. Had she hoped he'd allow her to do so?

Did she think she needed his permission?

"Did you ever go to Windows on the World?" she asked abruptly.

Finch blew out the breath he'd been trying not to hold. A nice safe topic. Good. Unexpected, but good. Thank you. "A few times."

"Was it wonderful?"

He shrugged. "It was really rather over-rated —"

"Lie," Christine interrupted quickly. "I want to know it was wonderful. Glamorous. Elegant."

"Oh." He smiled and lied obligingly. "It was magnificent. White linens, impeccable service, incomparable wine list. Very elegant."

"Thank you."

"You never went?"

"Kinda out of my reach at the time," she answered. "It was the elusive ivory tower in my mind. Where the very best of the best had their Very Important Lunches. Where everything was genteel and lovely." She nodded to herself. "I'm sure my vision had very little basis in reality, but it was warm to hold on to."

"I could rebuild it," Harold mused.

"What?" She finally fully looked at him.

"I could commission an exact replica," he continued. The idea caught hold of his imagination as he spoke. "Well, not quite exact, but very close. So close that you wouldn't know the difference, since you never saw the original. White linens are easy enough to come by. So is surly wait staff. Overpriced, over-cooked steaks, slightly wilted salads, pretentious businessmen wearing too much cologne … it could be done. I could recreate the entire experience for you."

Christine stared at him. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"I would," Finch promised serenely.

"Please don't," she said, in a tone which said she completely believed he would if she didn't stop him. "I'm sure you could, but please, I would rather keep my fluffy warm fantasy than be jaded by the reality."

"'After a time, you may find that having is not so pleasing a thing after all as wanting,'" he quoted. "I suppose that's true of a great many things." Like knowing everything about an elusive friend.

"No," Christine answered. "Only Vulcan wives and restaurants. Oh, and roller coasters. Roller coasters are never as cool as they looked from the ground."

It was better now. She was still distant, but it was a bridgeable gap. "What did you think I would do?" he asked carefully.

She shuddered and dropped her eyes away.

Or perhaps not so bridgeable after all. "Christine. What is it? Did you think I would harm you?"

"I thought …" She stared at the water again. "I thought you'd … ghost. That you'd change your locks. Change your phone numbers. Shut me out. And if you're going to do that …" Her eyes came up, dark and haunted. "… then I'd rather be on the other side of the world."

"You thought I would abandon you because you read Nathan's journals."

"I thought … yes." Suddenly she was talking too fast. "It's a defense mechanism. Inoculation against the inevitable. I always expect the worst. People I care about go away. They always go away and I didn't want …" She shook her head. "I know better. I misjudged you. I'm sorry. I just got … scared."

Harold looked at her for a long moment. Her blue eyes were filled with contrition, but they were still bright, discerning. She could still look right through him, as she had since the first. But she was seeing what she wanted to see, rather than the truth. Willing to believe in him over her own instincts.

She was worried that she'd hurt his feelings.

It was the most generous possible interpretation. He should have expected nothing less.

He could let her go on believing in him. Let her think that he would never abandon anyone that he truly cared for. She would never know any different. But her apology cut him to the core. He couldn't accept it. She knew so much, and she had still returned to his side. He couldn't let the lie stand between them. "I know you must be tired," he said. "But I need to show you something. If you're willing."

Christine nodded, puzzled. He led her back to his car without a word.

It had been years since he'd been inside the townhouse.

It echoed weirdly them, their footsteps amplified in the empty space. Grace had left the place immaculately clean, of course, and not a single personal item remained. But Finch could hear the memories whispering around him.

Christine paced across the front room slowly, then turned. "Okay," she said, instinctively reverent, "what's here?"

"Nothing, now." Harold's heart felt like a stone in the center of his chest. Christine was standing precisely where Grace used to stand when she was painting in the morning. She'd loved the brightness of the natural light through the front windows. "I used to live here," he managed to say. "With my fiancée. Her name was Grace Hendricks. She didn't make it into Nathan's journal. I didn't tell him anything about Grace until very shortly before his death."

"Where is she now?" she asked carefully.

"She recently moved to Cape Cod. She married an artist, a photographer. Quite a gifted one. She's a painter, herself. Also quite gifted." His words sounded clipped in his own ears.

Christine stood absolutely still, attentive, waiting. The doe at the edge of the meadow again.

"I was with Nathan, at the ferry. As you must have guessed. I was with him when he died. I was badly injured. And Grace …" He took a deep breath. He wished those blue eyes would look somewhere other than straight into his soul, but of course they did not waver now. "Grace came looking for me. She found a … book. A book that she knew belonged to me, that she knew I'd had with me." He stopped again. "I hid from her. She thought I was dead. And I … let her."

Realization began to dawn on Christine's face, but with agonizing slowness. Her mind was as quick as his, but she wouldn't allow herself to understand what he was telling her.

"Nathan was going to expose the Machine. The government needed to stop him. There were agents there, right beside him, when he died. And Grace was there ... I knew … I knew they'd killed him. I knew they'd kill me and anyone with me. So to protect her, to save her life …"

She knew what he was going to say now, but the full horror was still dawning.

"So I left her," Harold continued swiftly, ruthlessly. "I loved her with all my heart. And I left her in that room, thinking I was dead. I walked away and I never looked back. She searched for my body, for a while. Then she had a memorial and set a headstone over an empty grave and she grieved and she … eventually, she moved on."

He took a step closer to Christine, and then another. She flinched and he stopped. "You wanted to apologize for misjudging me. But you haven't, Christine. I am exactly the kind of coward you thought I was."

She was pale, her breathing shallow. She stared at him, her eyes bright with tears.

"Christine …"

She looked around wildly. He could see her seeing the room as it had been, full of furniture and books and Grace – and him. The happy home. The loving home.

And he had abandoned it.

People I care about go away.

"I need some air," she said as if she were choking. She strode to the front door and out.

The stone in the center of his chest felt heavier than ever. Harold looked around again himself. Christine had seen it. Understood it. Understood him. And she was running from him, just as he'd run from Grace. Leaving him before he could leave her.

He couldn't blame her. Godspeed, he thought. Run to the forest, little doe. Run and live, sweet Deirdre.

He'd forgotten, until she'd gone away to Ireland, that beloved Deirdre had died in the end. That she'd thrown herself into the abyss to save her family.

If Christine left, she would live. That was the best possible outcome.

And if it broke his heart – well, it was only a stone anyhow.

He wished he'd gotten to hug her one last time.

Finch sighed heavily. He remembered the last time he'd been in this house. The last morning, with Grace. She'd been painting. There'd been a spot of paint on her cheek, rich yellow. He'd wiped it away gently, then kissed the spot. Told her that he'd take her to dinner that night. He'd planned to introduce her to Nathan over dinner, but he hadn't mentioned that. Too many things in the air still. But he'd see her for dinner, either way …

Suddenly the room was too close, too still.

He hurried out.

Christine was sitting on the top step.

The relief hit so hard it made him gasp. He paused to close and lock the door. Then he sat down beside her, careful to leave a few inches of space between them.

She wouldn't look at him. Again. "Why did you bring me here?"

To scare you away, Finch thought. "Because I couldn't let you think better of me than I really am," he said. "I am … actually the monster you were afraid I was. I am capable of exactly the kind of cruelty you fear the most."

Christine flinched again. "You want me to go."

It wasn't a question.

Perhaps, he thought, he did. Certainly his life would be simpler if she did. "If you stay, your life is at risk. You know that."

She glanced sidelong at him, then returned to gazing out across the park. Her body was rigid.

He looked out over the park with her. How many times had he stood on the far side, looking toward this house? How many afternoons had he sat on that bench and waited for Grace to arrive or to leave? How many times had he second-guessed his choice? How many times had he considered just crossing the park and knocking on the door and …

Grace was gone. She was happy and she was safe. He would never knock on this door now.

"She never knew me," he said aloud. "Grace. She loved me, but … she never knew who I really was. What I did. Not about the Machine, not about Nathan … he was my best friend, and she never even knew his name. She never knew more than a fraction of what was going on in my head, what I was thinking about. I kept her out of everything. Kept my lives separate. I thought it would keep her safe. And in the end …"

He stopped.

"I want you to stay," he finally admitted. "I want very much for you to stay. But I recognize how selfish that is." He took a deep breath. "So if you do stay … I want you to do it with your eyes wide open. No half-truths. No illusions. No deceptions. You deserve that. At the very least."

Harold looked over at her. Christine was very still. He could see the muscles in her jaw work as she ground her back teeth. She would not look at him.

"Christine …" he finally began.

She raised her hand, just a little. "I need to think."

"All right."

She didn't move again. Harold wondered if he should leave her alone with her thoughts. He could leave the car with her, take a cab or simply walk. But to leave her alone on the street, vulnerable, seemed impolite and unwise.

He hated the whisper in his head that suggested she might go in search of heroin if he left her alone.

He waited.

There was a large clock in the park. Harold watched as the minutes ticked away. Three minutes. Five. The heat of the day seeped out of the stone stairs through his trousers. Seven minutes.

"I could …" he finally began.

Christine's hand shot out and grabbed his. Her fingers were icy despite the heat. He wrapped his around hers. She didn't turn her head, didn't speak.

He waited.

Fourteen minutes. "If I stay," she said, very quietly, very firmly, "I need to know … I need you to promise."

She turned her head. Her blue eyes caught him, pinned him, and Harold felt himself breathless in her gaze. "Promise what?"

"That you'll never do this again." She gestured vaguely toward the door behind them. "That you won't vanish on me. Send me away and I'll go. Tell me you're leaving and leave. But not this. I can't … I can't live with the doubt."

Harold covered her cold hand with both of his. "Christine …"

"The day that John or Lionel or someone I don't even know comes and tells me that you're dead … I need to not doubt. I need to not have any hope." She looked out over the park, then back at him. "The hope would kill me. It would destroy me."

"I can't … "

"Please." One word, full of desperate need.

Finch nodded. "I don't think I could survive it again. Leaving like this. I'm sure I couldn't."

"Then promise me."

"I promise." He squeezed her hand. "I promise."

Then, of course, he immediately had to amend the promise. "If they tell you I'm dead … if I'm not, I'll contact you, somehow, within forty-eight hours. If I don't … then I am truly dead."

Christine blinked. "That should have been so straight-forward."

"I am not a straight-forward man, and my life … "

"I know." She shifted enough to put her shoulder against his.

For the first time the stone in his chest seemed to soften enough to beat. "I promise," he said again.

She put her head on his shoulder, put her other hand in his.

Six more minutes passed, by the clock.

"I am so tired," Christine finally said.

"I'm sorry," Finch said sincerely. "You must be exhausted. I'll take you home."

She nodded, but neither of them moved.

"I'm glad you're staying," Harold said.

"Me, too."

She sounded like she was half asleep. He stood up, pulled her to her feet. "Come on."

He didn't let go of her hand until they got to the car.