"Oh hi, Mr Yewett. Yeah, turned out I found your most dangerous enemy's spy, and he's someone I almost became friends with. Then I let him into my apartment and he almost killed me. I could have killed him but I didn't, and then he used a small electric shocker, made me drop my knife and I watched him patiently as he walked out of my apartment and I lost what's probably my only chance to get rid of him. So how's your day going?" Jack threw himself back onto his couch and put his head in his hands. "Who am I kidding? He'll fire me. He'll make my life hell. Dear God, what have I done?"

If Mr Yewett wasn't in New York right now, he genuinely thought he might have a heart attack. At only 26, too. But it was okay, it was alright - all he needed was a plan. He was going to find Scott Ayelle and bring him down.

That's not much of a plan, he realised, and his heart sunk back into his stomach. But he could start in the Town Hall - there was usually something there.

Dressing himself casually - although white shirts and vests were most of the clothes he owned - Jack made his way across town to the Town Hall on foot.

"Newspapers, death notices, events," he mumbled to himself as he passed the boards littered with bits of paper. There was a little corner devoted to missing persons. Heather's name was there, alongside someone named Richard Wilton. Jack made a mental note to find information on him.

"Job openings?" he suggested to himself. There wasn't much here - although there was an open position as receptionist for Yew Hotels. Jack spotted the words 'Hiring Private Investigator' and smirked. There was nothing else here, though, and he was impatient to move on.

For just a moment, his eye was drawn to a flash of red at the corner of his vision. He turned his head quickly, a sense of deja vu hitting him.

It was just a woman's scarf. Jack let his breath out slower than usual. He'd almost thought it was… a red flannel shirt.

But it wasn't, he reminded himself crossly. Although he was less focused on the notices afterwards.


He came up with nothing, and walked home, defeated. All he had was a name now, and who knew if Richard Wilton had gone missing under the same circumstances as Heather Taylor? It's a lead, though, he thought optimistically.

A few soft, small raindrops hit him on the face and he shoved his hands in his pockets, his speed quickening slightly. Weather here changed swiftly, and he hated rain. The street around him was mostly empty. He glanced across the road at a man pulling his newspaper stand to cover, a woman and three children ducking into the safety of a cafe, and a man with his head already hidden under an umbrella. Jack's focus drifted to his feet and he stared blankly for a moment.

Don't think about last night.

Warmth and nerves radiating off Mark's body.

Don't think about last night.

The fabric of his tie under Jack's fingers.

Don't think about last night.

With an uncomfortable new feeling of eyes on his back, Jack quickened his pace again. A man in a blazer brushed past his shoulder with a "Hey, careful!" Jack glanced up, apologised, and his gaze was drawn back to the other side of the street.

The man under the umbrella had tilted it up, clutching it behind his head with gloved hands. Jack stopped so abruptly he nearly slid on the wet sidewalk.

His hand slid behind his back, fingers pressing against the knife hilt.

Mark looked at him with a hard expression, and as the rain thickened, they stared at each other for a long moment.

The other spy angled the black umbrella so it covered the top half of his face again, but he made no other movement.

Jack felt his hair flattening and his shoulders getting damp. He wasn't going to stand here. With new resolve, he turned and resumed his walking pace, eyes steadily ahead.

Jack turned the corner and started to run.