Matt was sprinkling cheese on top of the frittatas when the doorbell rang. Considering that it wasn't his house, and also considering that Elena hadn't mentioned that she was expecting anybody, he ignored it. Just as he was putting the skillet under the broiler, the doorbell rang again. Twice.

Matt shut the oven. "All right, all right," he grumbled. He cut through the dining and living rooms and headed to the front door. It was when he reached to unlock the deadbolt that he realized he was still wearing the oven mitts. He took one off and opened the door. He found two guys on the doorstep, staring at him in surprise.

Matt's eyes passed over the man in the tailored suit and rested on the other guy, the one wearing jeans and a blazer.

Well, well, well…if it wasn't Special Agent Damon Salvatore in the flesh.

Matt straightened up. It may have been three years, but no introduction was necessary. He knew exactly who the guy was from all the media coverage surrounding the Lockwood investigation and the subsequent fallout with Elena. Not to mention, Damon Salvatore was not a man who was easily forgotten. With a lean, muscular build and a face that was just almost too handsome, Damon Salvatore was one of those men that made other men wish they weren't standing on a doorstep wearing red-checked oven mitts.

But just as he was starting to feel a bit territorial and defensive, Matt noticed that Damon was similarly studying him. And maybe the scrutinizing once-over was simply the instinctive reaction of the FBI agent, but a man could usually sense when he was being sized up.

Feeling good about having the upper hand, Matt smiled. "Gentlemen. Can I help you?"

Damon's eyes lingered on the oven mitts. What he made of them was tough to say.

He pulled a badge out of his jacket. "I'm Special Agent Damon Salvatore with the FBI, this is Agent Alaric Saltzman. We would like to speak with Elena Gilbert."

"She is in the shower. Been in there for a while, so I don't think it will be much longer." Matt gestured inside the house. "I have got something in the oven. You guys want to come in?"

Leaving the door open, Matt turned and headed back to the kitchen to check on the frittata. As he took the skillet out of the oven and set it on the counter, he watched out of the corner of his eye as the two agents stepped into the living room and shut the front door behind them. He could see Damon was doing a quick survey of the house.

Matt pulled the oven mitts off. "Why don't you come in—I will go check on Elena and let her know you're here."

He felt Damon's eyes on him as he made his way up the wide, open staircase that led to the upper floors. On the second floor, he entered the first room on the right, the master suite. The shower was still running, so he knocked and opened the door a crack.

"You have got visitors, Elena," Matt said, trying not to let his voice carry. "FBI wants to talk to you." He shut the door and went back downstairs, where he found the two agents waiting in the kitchen. "It shouldn't be much longer. Can I get either of you a cup of coffee or tea?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr…." Damon cocked his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Matt Donovan."

A look of recognition crossed Alaric's face. "You are Matt Donovan. That's why you looked familiar when you opened the door."

Damon's eyes darted between them. "I'm missing something here. Do you know him, Alaric?"

"He is Matt Donovan," Alaric emphasized. "The sportswriter."

Damon shook his head. No clue. Matt tried to decide how offended he was by this.

Alaric explained. "He does a weekly column for the Sun-Times where he writes directly to the teams—you know, 'Dear Manager,' 'Dear Coach So-And-So'—and he makes recommendations on trades, what players to start, how to improve the team, those kinds of things." He turned back to Matt. "I read your column every week."

Matt smiled. "Thanks for your support. I really appreciate it."

Damon turned to Matt. "Sorry I didn't recognize the name. I have been out of touch for a while."

"Oh? The Sun-Times doesn't deliver to Nebraska?" Matt quipped without thinking.

He saw the flicker in Damon's eyes and could read the agent's thoughts as clearly as if there was a cartoon bubble above his head. So…he knows where I have been the last three years. She has talked about me to this joker, then. Who is he, and how much does he know? Except on the issue of sports, a subject on which he clearly is all-knowing.

"Actually, I meant that I had been working undercover the last time I lived in this city and didn't have much time to read the paper." Damon eased back against the counter and took in the kitchen, a room much higher on Elena's totem pole that recently had been remodelled. His gaze fell to the hardwood at his feet. "The floors turned out great. You have a very nice place here."

"I will be sure to pass your compliments along to Elena," Matt said.

"Oh, I assumed you lived here as well."

"Nope, just visiting."

A smoky, feminine voice interrupted them. "And apparently letting unexpected visitors into my house."

The three men turned and found Elena standing in the doorway. She wore jeans and a dark blue T-shirt that hugged tight to her chest, and she had her long hair pulled up into some sort of ponytail/bun-type thing. She looked adorable in a fresh-faced, kicking-back-on-the-weekend kind of way.

Matt stood farther from the doorway, where he had a view of Damon. And although it was subtle, he was pretty sure he saw the agent run his eyes over Elena before resuming his guarded expression.

Interesting, Matt thought.

Elena folded her arms across her chest. "Agent Salvatore…this is a surprise. I wasn't aware we had an appointment this morning." She peered around Damon and her expression turned warmer. "Hello, Agent Saltzman. Nice to see you again. Sorry if I kept you waiting."

"No problem—we were just catching up with Matt here," Alaric said.

Elena turned her attention back to Damon. "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk," Damon said as he glanced briefly at Matt. "In private."

"Are you sure, Elena?" Matt asked as he eyed Damon with caution.

Alaric patted Matt's shoulder. "Don't worry. We will take care of your girlfriend."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Elena and I aren't dating."

Elena watched as Damon and Alaric processed the meaning of Matt's remark. Alaric blinked. "I didn't realise the two of you aren't…"

"We used to date in college," Matt explained. "But we are best friends now. I treat Elena like my sister." He turned his attention to the two men. "Alaric—it was a pleasure; it is always nice to meet a fan. And as for you Agent Salvatore—man-to-man, don't ever try to insult my friend here again. You have no idea how much hard work she has put into her work."

Everyone in the room was silent. Damon was not sure what he should say or do.

Elena cleared her throat after a moment. "We can talk in the guest room."

"How long have you known Matt Donovan?" Alaric asked after Elena shut the door behind them.

"Since college. We lived together our senior year, along with our friend Caroline. He gets a little protective sometimes," Elena said as she walked towards the single bed she had put in the guest room. "I assume this has something to do with the Whitmore investigation?"

"Yes," Damon answered.

"Do you have a lead in the investigation?" Elena asked as she sat on the edge of the bed.

"Not yet," Damon said. "We are waiting on the lab reports, and we are going to interview Senator Whitmore's staff over the next few days. The purpose of this visit is to discuss some security issues related to you."

Elena's eyes widened, not liking the sound of that. "What kind of security issues?"

"We would like to place you under protective surveillance."

She felt her stomach tighten into a hard knot. "You think that is necessary?"

"Consider it a precautionary measure."

"Why? Do you have a reason to believe that I'm in danger?"

"I would put anyone who witnessed this high-profile of a murder under surveillance," Damon said vaguely.

"That is not an answer." Elena turned to his partner. "Come on, Alaric—you are the good cop. Level with me."

Alaric smiled. "Surprisingly, I don't think Damon is trying to be the bad cop this time. He is the one who suggested that you be protected."

"If that is the case, then I must really be toast."

Shockingly, Elena could have sworn she saw Damon's lips twitch at the corners.

"You are not toast," he said. "If it makes you feel better, there are politics in play here. Wes isn't going to let anything happen to a federal prosecutor who is assisting an FBI investigation."

"You are still skirting around the issue. Why is it even theoretically possible that I would be in danger? The killer never saw me."

"We have a couple of theories about what went on in that hotel room," Damon said. "My instinct is that someone was trying to frame Senator Whitmore for murder. If that is the case, when that someone realizes that the FBI hasn't arrested Whitmore, he is going to start wondering why. And although your involvement in this case is being kept confidential, we would be foolish to ignore the risk of a leak. I would like to be prepared for that possibility."

"But I barely got a look at the guy," Elena said. "He could walk right up to me on the street and I wouldn't recognize him."

"That is exactly why you are under protective custody."

Elena fell silent. Sure, she had always known the situation was serious—someone had been smothered to death, after all—but in the hours that had passed since Friday night, she had been hoping, perhaps naively, that her involvement in the mystery surrounding Mandy Robert's death and the blackmailing of Senator Whitmore was primarily over.

She reached up and pinched between her eyes, feeling a headache coming on. "I could have stayed at any other hotel that night, but no—it had to be the Peninsula."

"We will keep you safe, Elena."

She peered up at the unexpected words of reassurance. Damon seemed about to say something else, then his expression turn impassive once again. "You are our key witness, after all," he added.

"So will it be just you two watching me, or will there be other federal agents involved?" Elena asked.

"Actually, since the Bureau has primary investigative responsibility, CPD will handle the protective custody," Alaric said.

So, it wouldn't be Damon guarding her. "Oh. Good." The idea of being in continual contact with him unnerved her. Not because she couldn't handle him, but because she didn't need him glaring at her all day long. Those dark, watchful eyes were enough to put anyone on edge.

"How will this protective surveillance work?" As a prosecutor, she'd had cases where she had placed a witness in protective custody—usually, as Damon had said, merely as a precautionary gesture—but she had never been on this end of things.

"There will be a car posted in front of your house whenever you are here, and the officers will follow you to and from work. When you get to your office, you will be protected there by building security," Damon said.

Elena nodded. The U.S. attorney's offices were located in the Dirksen Federal Building, along with the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of Illinois and the Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals. Everyone entering the building had to pass through metal detectors, and anyone wanting to access her floor needed proper identification. "What about when I go places other than work or home?"

"Such as?"

"I don't know, all the places people usually go. To the grocery store. To the gym. Or to meet my friends for lunch."

"I guess you will just have to get used to having a police car outside the grocery store, the gym, and wherever it is you go for lunch with your friends," Damon lectured. "And this goes without saying: you need to be careful. The police surveillance is a precautionary measure, but they can't be everywhere. You should stick to familiar surroundings, and be vigilant and alert at all times."

"I got it. No walking through dark alleys while talking on my cell phone, no running at night with my iPod, no checking out suspicious noises in the basement."

"I seriously hope you are not doing any of those things anyway."

"Of course not."

Damon pinned her with his gaze.

She shrugged one shoulder casually. "Okay, maybe, sometimes, I have been known to listen to a Black Eyed Peas song or two while running at night. They get me moving after a long day at work."

Damon seemed wholly unimpressed with this excuse. "Well, you and the Peas better get used to running indoors on a treadmill."

Conscious of Alaric's presence, and the fact that he was watching her and Damon with what appeared to be amusement, Elena bit back her retort.

Thirty thousand hotel rooms in the city of Chicago and she picked the one that would lead her back to him.

When she went back into the kitchen after Damon and Alaric had left, she saw Matt gazing at her.

"What?" she demanded.

"What's with you and Agent Hottie?"

Elena snorted. "He is Agent Asshole, remember? You shouldn't let him in."

"There was a badge. And some mildly intimidating gazes. I felt it was best to cooperate."

She made a face. "I don't want him in my house."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you would get this flustered over Damon Salvatore."

Elena scoffed at this. "I'm not flustered. I just prefer to handle him on my terms. As in, at my office, at a time when I'm more prepared for a business meeting."

Matt's gaze fell to her bare feet. "You are losing clothing every time you see him. At this rate, you will be naked in front of him before you know it."

Then the strangest thing happened.

Elena blushed.

"I'm perfectly capable of keeping my clothes on around him, thank you," she said, her cheeks tinged rosy pink.

Matt was intrigued. He couldn't recall the last time he had seen Elena blush because of a guy.

The plot thickened. She liked Damon Salvatore, Matt said to himself.

"He is even better looking in person," Matt said, seizing the opportunity to probe deeper. "No wonder you nicknamed him Agent Hottie."

Elena threw him the evil-eye as she dropped into a chair. "I'm hungry. We are so not going to have this conversation right now."

Matt grinned. "You seem pretty tense. Are you getting any sex these days?"

"My God, Matt…time and place."

"Fine. We will continue this conversation later. Breakfast is ready. I need to get going soon. By the way, I make frittatas instead of omelette. "

She picked up her fork. "It smells fantastic."

x x x

How would he know when Ink Man logged on?

Trevor sat in front of his laptop computer, waiting patiently for The Ink Man to appear online. Ink Man - that was all his contact had told him.

Was he in the wrong place? He had logged on around seven o'clock, wanting to be there when Ink Man arrived. But it was after eight now, and there was still no sign of the Ink Man.

His contact had told him to log on to this chat room and wait for Ink Man to add him as a friend. Ink Man had been notified that someone was looking for information.

What if Ink Man had changed his mind about coming? Trevor thought. But his contact told him that Ink Man would appear once he had been notified.

Ink Man: Hi, I heard you are looking for me.

Trevor blinked at the blue box that had suddenly appeared on his screen. Ink Man had sent him a message. He felt a moment of panic because he wasn't sure how to respond.

Ink Man: I hear you are looking for information about an FBI investigation, Mr Lombard.

Lombard: Yes.

Ink Man: How can I help?

Lombard: I heard that Richard Lockwood might be able to assist me.

Ink Man: Mr Lockwood doesn't assist people, Mr Lombard. People assist him. Tell me something—does Senator Whitmore know you are here?

Lombard: How do you know I work for Whitmore?

Ink Man: We have contacts. We know everything.

Trevor swallowed hard as he read the message. He couldn't let Ink Man know that he was nervous. He had to play this game carefully.

Lombard: Since you know that I work for Whitmore, helping me will be a great opportunity for Mr Lockwood. Having a connection to Senator Whitmore could be useful to your boss one day.

Ink Man: Maybe.

Lombard: Perhaps you would be more interested to learn that Senator Whitmore and Mr Lockwood share a common enemy/

Ink Man: Lockwood has many enemies. You will have to be specific.

Lombard: Damon Salvatore.

Ink Man: What is it you want, Lombard?

Lombard: Salvatore is the lead agent in a murder investigation that implicates Whitmore. The FBI is hiding something from us. The senator's chief of staff has asked me to find out what that something is. He would, of course, be very grateful for your help with this matter. As the senator's primary advisor, he would hope to be able to return the favour someday.

There was no reply from Ink Man. Trevor held his breath.

Ink Man: This man will help you. Meet him at this address at eight o'clock on Saturday night. You now owe us, Lombard. Not some chief of staff or anyone else—you. So, I hope whatever information this man has, it is worth it.

A jpg file was sent to Trevor. He clicked on the download and waited nervously for the image, then couldn't believe what filled his screen.

This can't be right, Trevor thought. He wanted to ask Ink Man what the hell was going on but Ink Man had already logged off.

Trevor glanced at the image in front of him. This was a surprising turn of events. He didn't know the man personally, but of course he recognized the name. Anyone connected to U.S. politics and law enforcement, especially in Chicago, would recognize it.

Nathan Silas.