Her voice didn't falter.

But her expression did. For the slightest moment, a kind of frantic terror crossed her face, before suddenly she closed her eyes and belted out the last few lines of the song with a blank face. Finn frowned. What was the matter? He looked for Karofsky he probably had his eye on Rachel, and he'd freaked her out. But Finn spied Karofsky at his usual table, and his head was bent in conversation with Billy Glasson.

Finn looked back at Rachel. She stood stiff as she slowly started another song, and it was all wrong. What had happened?

"She's good," someone said.

Finn glanced to the side, and the man who had sat down beside him only moments ago now met his gaze and smiled lazily. "The singer," the man said, nodding at Rachel. He was leaning against the bar on his elbows, and with his brown striped suit and styled hair, he looked like some sort of nancy fellow. Finn looked at Sam who was this guy? but Sam only shrugged.

"Yeah," Finn finally said. "She's good."

The man's eyes flickered to Sam, telling him, "I'll have a whiskey, dry," before he turned back to Finn. "Good, yes," he went on, "but she doesn't have the emotional depth Ira Gershwin intended for this song to portray." He took the drink Sam slid him. "I'm Jesse, by the way. Jesse St. James." He offered half a smile.

"Finn Hudson," Finn said shortly, watching as the new man's eyes turned back to Rachel.

"Please to meet you, Mr. Hudson," he said, and then he nodded once more at Rachel. "Is she a regular around here, then?" St. James looked back at Finn with a calm, expectant face, and Finn felt his hackles rise. Why did this guy care about Rachel?

"She's the Friday night singer," Sam provided, drawing the man's attention to him before he added curtly, "and she's taken." Finn had always liked Sam.

"Taken?" St. James repeated lightly.

"Has a fellow," Sam clarified, his mouth a thin line. He topped off Finn's glass.

"Does she now?" St. James said, chuckling. "A daddy, I'd suppose, huh?" He smirked as he took a sip of his whiskey.

Finn glared at the man. "She's mine, actually," he said.

"Really?" St. James said, his eyebrows flying up. "Well, then, lucky you. She's a looker and a right bearcat, I'd bet." He grinned a little, as if he were in on a good joke with Finn, and then downed the rest of his whiskey in one go. "Hell, take a look at that face of yours. She get you into that mess?"

"I'm a boxer," Finn said gruffly. If this guy said one more word about Rachel, Finn'd pop him then and there. Try him. Just try him.

"A boxer? Fancy that!" He had a kind of patronising gleam in his eye as he nodded at Finn. "I myself am a performer, as you might have guessed. You'll see me on Broadway one day."

"Sure," Finn said, gritting his teeth.

See, Rachel could make declarations of future stardom cute. And she would be famous someday. This man only made an ass out of himself when he spoke of Broadway. Finn turned to face Rachel once more, determined to ignore the jerk. But he glanced briefly at Karofsky and saw that he, too, had now put his attention on Rachel. Finn's frown deepened.

Honestly, he couldn't catch a break in this place.

Rachel smiled a little, her hips swaying slightly as she sang, but there was still something stilted about her movement, still something guarded in her gaze, and he could see it even from the back of the club. She must have seen or thought of something that had upset her.

"How long have you two been together?" St. James asked.

Finn glared at him.

"You're not a very personable fellow, are you?" St. James asked, his lips twitching. "And not too verbose, either, it would seem."

"And you're not from around here, are you?" Finn replied tersely. This guy was probably harmless, but Finn just didn't want to deal with him. Finn had enough to deal with. Couldn't the man see that?

"No, I'm not," St. James said. "I'm from Ohio, actually."

Rachel was from Ohio, too. But Finn didn't say anything.

"I've been here in Detroit for several months now, however," St. James went on. "But this is the first I've been to McKinley's. I heard this place had excellent entertainment and I had to see for myself, of course. I can't say I'm disappointed. She has excellent range, if nothing else. Has she had formal training?"

"No," Finn said, unable to help himself as he added, with a smidgeon of pride, "she's a natural."

"She would be better with formal training," St. Berry said matter-of-factly. "And perhaps with a little more experience. How old is she, anyway? And she's not from here, either, is she?" He looked sideways at Finn.

And Finn realised he didn't know old Rachel was. He'd never asked, and in all her chatter she had never mentioned her age. It didn't much matter, though. And this jerk certainly didn't need to know. "She's from out west," Finn answered finally, glaring a little again.

"My, you know her well, don't you?" St. James teased.

Finn said nothing. He tried to catch Rachel's gaze from the stage. She had closed her eyes and clasped her hands, though, as she poured herself into the last verse of the song. She looked gorgeous up there, and he smiled a little. He would talk to her about whatever had upset her, and they would work it all out.

He had to believe that. He had to.

"Mmm," St. James said thoughtfully. Finn's jaw tightened. "You know," St. James said, frowning slightly with his gaze on Rachel, "she really shouldn't attempt notes that she can't reach." He nodded, as if to confirm the fact to himself. "If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: some people simply don't have the talent for "

Finn slammed his drink down and stood, glaring down at St. James.

"I'm really not interested in what you've got to say," Finn told him.

The man raised his hands up in defence. "Pardon me if I've somehow offended you, Mr. Hudson. I didn't mean to start something, really," he said. "Please. I'll hold my tongue." He smiled, as if to assure Finn of his peace offering, but Finn only shot him one more dark look and then sat back down and nodded down the bar at Sam for another drink.

Moments later, Kurt arrived. "Good evening all," he said, sitting on the other side of Finn. He slammed down his notebook and told Sam he needed something, anything, "and quick!"

"Bad day?" Sam asked.

"Always," Kurt replied, giving an almighty sight. "Ah! But Rachel's on stage. How much have I missed? Did she perform that number by Cole Porter I talked her into a few days ago? It took me ages to convince her to try something by him, and I'd hate to have missed it. But so my life always seems to go!"

"She's only been on for a few songs," Finn said. "And I . . . don't think she's sung anything by, um, your fellow —"

"Cole Porter?" Kurt said. "Good!" He watched Rachel for a few minutes, before he took a sip of the cocktail Sam handed him and opened his notebook. "What's the latest, then?" He lowered his voice slightly. "I heard Turner came across Israel this morning and brought him by. What happened?" But he didn't give Sam the chance to answer. "Rats! I forgot my pen. You have one, Finn?"

Finn shook his head. Before Kurt could ask someone else, Jesse held his arm out past Finn. "Here you go," he said, passing a pen to Kurt.

"Thank you," Kurt said. "Mr. . . .?"

"St. James. Jesse St. James."

"Jesse St. —St. James?" Kurt repeated, his face momentarily frozen.

"That's right," St. James said. "And you are?"

"Kurt . . . Hummel. Kurt Hummel." Finally, Kurt smiled at Jesse. "I'm a McKinley's regular, like this one." He thrust his thumb at Finn, who frowned into his drink. Couldn't Kurt not be friendly and all that for once? But then Kurt went on, and his voice took on that reticent tone he only used when he spoke to people like Karofsky.

"Where are you from, Mr. St. James?"

"Ohio," St. James said.

"Really?" Kurt said, but he didn't sound the least bit surprised. He went on, his voice still somehow off despite his casual expression. "Our Friday night singer is from Ohio. Have you ever heard of Lima?" He added a kind of emphasis to the word.

"Heard of it, yes," St. James said. "I've never been there, though. I'm from Columbus."

Kurt smiled, and he turned to write something in his notebook, but Finn watched in confusion as Kurt's smile stayed plastered on his face in an odd way, and his pen simply hovered over the paper. First Rachel turned all funny, and now Kurt, too? "You okay?" Finn asked quietly.

"Me? Oh — oh, I'm fine!" Kurt said breezily before he scribbled something in his notebook. And then he looked at Fin with a broad smile. "Anyway, what about you? I heard you finally made Rachel your girl."

"I think it went more like Rachel made him her guy," Sam said, razzing. "Doll wore him in."

"Dry up," Finn muttered, and both Sam and Kurt chuckled.

"But what happened with Israel?" Kurt asked again.

Sam didn't look nearly so amused, then. "Got taken care of," he said grimly.

Finn looked at him, and Sam looked at the counter. Finn swallowed thickly. He hated that Sam had to do that sort of thing, like Puck did, like Karofsky expected Finn to do. How could it be helped? He tried to nod reassuringly at Sam, but when he caught his gaze again, Sam told him, his jaw tight, "Rachel saw."

"What?" Finn said. Had she gotten even more mixed up with it all?

"I tried to send her to the back, and she was outta the way, but I know she must have seen something, 'cause she . . . she just . . . she saw something." Sam didn't look much interested in sharing any more than that, and he moved down the bar to help someone else.

Finn turned around in his seat to face Rachel on stage again, and he realised that St. James had an eye on him. Had he been listening in on their conversation? He scowled at the lump. "You need something?" he asked.

"No. No, not at all." But St. James smirked as he too turned to face the stage.

Rachel spun a little, and then sort of pranced across the stage, and she winked theatrically at everyone as the song came to a close, and Finn clapped. She looked over at him and smiled slightly as he caught her gaze, but then her eyes flickered to the side for an instant before she focused on the band as they started up yet another song.

"It's a little chilly in here, isn't it?" Kurt asked suddenly. "Excuse me," he said. "I think I could use my coat." He stood and started towards the checkroom, only to stumble and fall onto St. James, who knocked into Finn. St. James's glass fell to the floor and shattered, Finn's drink spilt across the counter, and Kurt pulled back, apologising profusely.

He didn't look nearly as embarrassed, however, as Finn would have been.

"Do you mind?" St. James hissed, rubbing his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, really — so sorry," Kurt said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "Is your shoulder okay? Did I hurt you? Or is that an old wound?" He spoke conversationally.

"I'm fine," St. James snapped.

"Me, too," Finn volunteered.

Kurt shot Finn a grin, but he took on a playfully serious expression as he faced St. James. "Again," he said, "so sorry." And then he nearly skipped off to the coatroom.

Finn looked at Sam, who merely raised his eyebrows as he started to mop up the counter. Finn didn't know what, exactly, Kurt had meant to accomplish with that, a clear not accident, but apparently he had been successful.

When he returned, he had his coat on, but he slipped it off moments after he sat down again. And when Finn looked at him, Kurt merely smiled, pleased with himself, and started to write something in his notebook. He glanced at St. James more than a few times over the next couple of hours, and he never looked very pleased in those moments.

A girl came by and brought Finn and Kurt dinner — he thought her name might be Liz, but he could never keep track of the various waitresses; he really only knew Mercedes — and Puck stopped over at the bar a little after nine. "You got Karofsky's money?" he asked Finn.

Finn shoved the twenty-five dollars at Puck. He didn't want to go sit with Karofsky if he could help it. He knew Karofsky had his eye on Rachel, and Finn didn't know how it would all play out, but he'd put it off as long as he could. And, to his relief, Puck didn't protest. He even handed ten dollars back to Finn. "Take Rachel out someplace nice," he said, grinning, "compliments of Karofsky." His grin faded a little, and he looked at Finn as he had earlier.

"Don't start," Finn said. He stuffed the money back into his pocket. He'd send half to his ma, and, well, maybe he would spend half on Rachel. She deserved more, but he'd still take her out some place nice, and to the movies, and maybe he'd buy her something pretty, too.

"Just as long as you're still thinking about it," Puck replied.

"Thinking about what?" Kurt asked, glancing between them.

"Mind yours," Puck told him easily, before he took the beer Sam offered, clinked the bottle with Finn's glass, and then sauntered back to Karofsky's table.

"Thinking about what?" Kurt repeated.

"Nothing," Finn said, sighing.

But Kurt never gave up on anything that easily. "Karofsky wants you to work for him, doesn't he?" Kurt asked quietly, speculatively, his gaze unrelenting on Finn.

Finn shrugged. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't even want to think about it.

"Does Rachel know?" Kurt went on.

"Leave it, Kurt," Finn finally said, and slowly, eyeing Finn still, Kurt nodded, and at last he turned once more to his notebook — but not before his eyes flickered inscrutably to St. James again. Finn almost asked him what it was all about, but Rachel had finished her song, and she said a heartfelt goodnight to the club, apparently finished for the evening.

A few people shouted for another song, at which Rachel looked rather pleased, her face already flushed pink, but she still stepped off the stage, and the band started something slow. Finn's gaze followed Rachel as she went to Karofsky's table. She spoke with Mr. Schuester for a moment or two, and then Karofsky said something, and he reached out to rest his hand on Rachel's arm.

Finn started to stand.

But Rachel laughed a little and pulled back. She nodded at something Puck said, and then she was on her way back to the bar, back to him.

"Rachel!" Kurt greeted happily.

"Hello Kurt," she said, smiling briefly at him.

But she didn't pause until her arms were around Finn, surprising him as she clutched him and pressed her face into his neck. He hugged her, running a hand over her back. He started to tell her she'd been good up on stage, but she didn't give him the chance. "I want to go home," she whispered to him. "Can we go now? Please?"

He knew something had upset her.

"Sure," he said, and she pulled back slightly from him, but not too far — her hip stayed pressed to his side; his arm stayed around her waist.

"Rachel," St. James said.

Rachel turned to him, even as she took a shallow breath, and Finn felt her hand curl into a fist around the material of his shirt.

"I heard Mr. Hummel say your name," St. James explained, smiling. "I'm Jesse St. James." He held out his hand. Finn looked at him and looked at Rachel, at her strangely blank expression as she slowly took the offered hand. And then, grasping her hand firmly, St. James swooped down and laid a kiss on her knuckles. Rachel nearly recoiled into Finn.

"It's a pleasure," Rachel said, pulling her hand back. "But I'm afraid I have to go."

Finn took his cue. He stood, keeping an arm around Rachel.

"Already?" Kurt asked.

"That's fine," St. James said, as if they needed his permission. "I live in town, and I plan to come by McKinley's again. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon." He smiled again.

"Yes," Rachel said simply. "Finn?"

"Come on," he said, nodding.

But she paused. "Sam!" she called. Sam looked over at her. And Rachel pulled just far enough away from Finn to lean up on the bar and kiss Sam's cheek. She murmured something to him quickly before she drew back. Finn frowned, unsure what that was about, but, then again, he was pretty unsure of everything tonight.

Rachel gave him a small smile, though, as she looped her arm through his. She said goodnight to Kurt, but she didn't even acknowledge St. James when he wished her the same, and Finn almost felt a kind of satisfaction. He helped Rachel into her jacket, and they left. She sighed as soon as they were outside, and he glanced down at her as he squeezed her hand.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?" she said, blinking up at him.

"What happened?" he repeated. "Something's got to you. Up on stage, you — I mean, you were great, really, but you seemed a little rattled at one point, and . . . we made tracks outta there as soon as you were finished. Is it Karofsky, Rachel? Did he say something to you when you were dancing?" His own alarm seemed to grow as he spoke.

"No, no," Rachel said quickly, stopping and turned to him so as to grip his arms and look up at him properly. "Karofsky only tried to charm me when we danced, I promise. And I purposely avoided his gaze up on stage. Really," she said, stroking his arm. "I'm fine."

He didn't believe her. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "Because I'm with you." She smiled a little, and he found he did, too.

"But . . . but something did upset you," he insisted.

She bit her lip. "I saw . . . some of Karofsky's men brought in this small man, and they beat him up, and I didn't see much of it, because Sam sent me into the kitchen, but I did see — accidentally, I did see — Sam — Sam killed him as he tried to run." She said the last few words quickly, as if to soften the blow.

"He mentioned that to me," Finn admitted. "But . . . but that's what Karofsky expects of us."

"Of us?" Rachel repeated. "Finn, you don't . . . I mean . . . have you — have you ever . . .?"

"No," Finn said, and he took a kind of pride in that fact. "No." He repeated, looking at her with wide, honest eyes. She smiled and stepped forward to hug him. But now how could he tell her what Puck wanted of him? She would surely tell him he couldn't, but did she even understand . . .?

"Karofsky," he said, "he . . . everybody around Detroit knows what he's about. He got all his money from bootlegging, and a few bank robberies, and from taking bets. He still does the last one, and he pushes people around, too, but he . . . I try to stay out of it, but. . . ."

But what?

"I know," Rachel said gently. "I know . . . I really do. I understand that Sam . . . I understand his position. Sometimes we do things we aren't proud of because we don't think we have a choice. I know that. I told him — before we left — I told him that I knew he was still a good person."

Finn smiled a little to himself. Rachel really was the sweetest, honestly.

"So . . . that's all? That's what upset you?"

"That's all," Rachel said, smiling softly.

"Why'd you want to leave so quickly?" Finn asked. "Did — did that St. James guy make you uncomfortable? I hope he doesn't come around again." He couldn't help it. And maybe Rachel had only met him for a moment, but she didn't seem to like him any more than Finn did.

"He didn't leave the best impression on me, either," Rachel said. "But aren't we turning here?" she asked him, pausing in the street again. "To go to your apartment?"

"You want to — I thought you wanted to go home?" he said.

"With you," she told him, nodding.

Slowly, he smiled. "Okay, then," he said, and they turned down the street.

"I was thinking, actually," she said. "Mrs. Baxter's house is so far from the club, and I pay an awful lot to stay there, and I don't think I'll even want to be there all that often in the future. It might be better, really, financially, even, for both of us — and I honestly see it as an inevitable future, anyway, I mean, let's be honest — and, as I said, it would make good sense if I were to — to move in with you."

He needed a moment to process her words. "You want to move in with me?" he asked, taken aback.

"That doesn't seem too terribly forward, does it?" she asked, glancing up at him timidly. He stared at her. How had this all happened? A few weeks ago, he'd never have imagined that so soon, that so quickly, one person, one tiny broad, would become so much, and — "It is too forward," Rachel said, her cheeks flushing. "I'm sorry, Finn. I'm —"

"No," he said, his eyes going wide. "No. I want you to. Move in with me, I mean. More than anything. I want you to move in with me." He didn't care how long he'd known her. He smiled, reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Really?" she asked, biting her lip.

"Really," he said.

And she beamed. She started in on how they would have all day tomorrow, as Mr. Karofsky had given her the night off, and she would need to go by Mrs. Baxter's to pick up her things and explain everything to her landlady, because, at the very least, Rachel owed her some sort of explanation.

"Really, I should give her notice before I leave, but I'll pay for the rest of the month, if she wants," Rachel said. "Besides, I doubt she'll want me there anymore now that I have a lover — that's far too scandalous for her!" She giggled in delight.

He only laughed a little. Rachel sounded as if she thought it scandalous to say the word scandalous.

She asked about his fight, then, and he told her that it hadn't been too bad, but he'd lost again. He felt a little bad at the admission, because he was a boxer — it was what he did, it was his job, his livelihood, and he didn't want her to think he couldn't even hold his own in his job. But she only told him she wished she had been there to cheer for him, and she laced their fingers together.

They reached his apartment, and she led the way up the stairs. "Rachel," he started, the question coming to the front of his mind again as she pushed open the door and reached for her heels. He closed the door behind himself. "How old are you?"

She looked over at him in surprise. "Does it matter?" she asked.

"No — I just realised I didn't know." He shrugged a little sheepishly. "I'm twenty-four, if you wanted to know."

She smiled. "It's funny, isn't it?" she said. "I feel like I've known you forever, but we haven't even told each other who old we are. I'm nineteen." She came over and reached up to rest her hands on his shoulders. "I was born December 18th, 1914."

He nodded. They stood there, then, and she gazed at him sweetly, all traces of her earlier unease gone, and he wondered suddenly how long he would have to wait before he bought her a ring. That kind of thinking was crazy, of course, completely crazy, because he had really only known her a matter of weeks, and they'd been together for, what, a day? Hell, he had only just now learned how old she was, but — but what, maybe a month? Should he wait a month to buy a ring?

Two? Two and a half? That seemed about right. He could wait two and a half months.

"Finn," Rachel said, her thumb tracing the collar of his shirt. "I'm going to kiss you now, okay?"

He laughed a little, even as she stood on her tiptoes to press her lips to his. His hands went to her waist, and he pulled her flush to him. She giggled into his mouth as he ran his hands down until he reached the hem of her dress, and then he let them slide back up beneath her dress and over her stockings until his fingers felt skin. He kissed her harder, then, unable not to, and she pressed still closer to him, her own hands coming to hold his face, her thumbs stroking his temples.

"Rachel," he said, "I'm going to take you to bed now, okay?"

She spoke breathlessly, but she still managed to reply with a prim "Yes, please." He laughed as he hoisted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as she lightly bit his ear and then kissed her way down his jaw and to his throat.

Maybe he couldn't wait two and a half months. Crazy, sure, but he kind of loved a little crazy.


"It's all I could do for him! It's all I could do! I'm so sorry, sweetheart, so sorry, but I had to, don't you see? I had to! It's all I could do, sweetheart, it's all I could do. . . ."

She could still remember it all so clearly, remember the way he clutched her arms, his eyes wide and despairing. She could still remember how she had talked him down, and how she helped him, because it was all she could do for the man she loved most, too, and . . . and what was done was done, and that's how it went. She helped him.

And when the town turned on her, as if they knew everything when they could barely begin to know anything, she simply left, and she took the blame with her.

How could she explain that to Finn?

She looked over at him, sprawled across the bed on his belly. He looked like a little child, his hair messy and a little drool on his chin. She smiled and traced her hand ever-so-lightly across the planes of his back. If she told him the truth, he wouldn't care, would he? He would love her still, and he would understand. But, still, to tell him everything . . . but she would have to, wouldn't she?

Because Jesse was alive, and he was here, and even if he wanted to pretend they didn't know one another, he had still made his intention to see her again clear. Did he mean to pay her back for what she'd done? Did he mean to turn her into the police?

But she'd turn around and turn him in. And she hadn't even done anything wrong, not — not really. She swallowed thickly. Sam could say the same, couldn't he? It all depended on what a person called wrong. But — but she had only meant to protect — to help — to . . . Jesse was the one to blame for everything, really. And her mother, too — they were really the ones at fault. But —

She had the night off today. She forced her mind to that thought. She could have a whole day with Finn, a whole day and a whole night. They could go to the movies, and they could practice the Lindy Hop, and they could lie in bed and, oh, it could be a very good day.

She simply wouldn't think about Jesse, or about Karofsky, or about anything wrong or bad.

Maybe she would even gather the courage to tell Finn the whole story. She trusted him, after all, and he would understand. She frowned a little, though, because the last man she'd trusted had been Jesse, and look how that had all ended.

But she had never trusted Jesse like she had trusted Finn. She had never trusted anybody like she trusted Finn.

She watched him for a moment. She would go out to the market, and she'd make a big breakfast for them, and she'd find time to worry later. "Finn," she murmured. "Finn, wake up for a moment, darling."

He grunted, his arm circling her and dragging her clear across the bed so that she lay crushed right beside him. "Finn," she protested, giggling. "I need to go to the store, but I'll only be gone an hour or so."

"Mmm," he muttered, and he placed a wet, sloppy kiss on her shoulder, probably because his lips found that patch of skin first. She giggled again and then untangled herself from him. "Where're'ou going?" he asked sleepily as she sat up.

"To the store," she repeated. "Stay asleep. I'll be back soon, I promise."

"Stay," he muttered. "Store's stupid."

"Sleep," she said again gently, and then she stood from the bed. Again, she watched him for a moment. He looked so . . . so perfect. She did trust him. She loved him. She sighed a little happily to herself and then dressed.

It only took her a few minutes to compose herself, and she still had a few dollars left in her coat from last week. She tried to save two dollars every week, if she could, and she had so far managed (though it hadn't been long, of course). She would try to save two again this week, but she thought she ought to go all out for this breakfast. Who knew when she'd have another night off?

She knew she should be more sensible, she really should, but something about Finn made her lose her senses entirely.

Half way to the store, she changed her course and returned to Mrs. Baxter's house. She packed her things quietly. She didn't have much — two bags that held clothing, a few books, and some records she had brought with her, though her mother had sold her dad's phonograph. She had to pack her toiletries, too, and her father's small grandfather clock, one of her most treasured possessions.

She changed into a sensible pink smock and floral skirt, too.

She would drop her bags back off at Finn's and then head to the store. She passed Mrs. Baxter as she left, and the woman only watched her with narrowed eyes. Rachel started to say something, but Mrs. Baxter crossed her arms over her chest, as if she dared Rachel even to try.

Rachel sighed. "Thank you very much for everything," Rachel told her. "Here — instead of notice." She held the dollar out to Mrs. Baxter, but the older woman turned up her nose and stalked out of the hallway and into the kitchen.

She didn't need to act like that. And how could Mrs. Baxter's life have possibly been so wonderful that she didn't understand when everything wasn't so simple? Had Mrs. Baxter ever been in love? She was a widow now, sure, but she had once had a husband. Had she forgotten that kind of love?

Rachel decided she ought to feel bad for poor Mrs. Baxter.

Half an hour later, when Rachel dropped her bags off at Finn's apartment, the boy was still asleep, although from the doorway of the bedroom, she saw that he had flipped onto his back. She blew him a quiet kiss and then hurried off to the market. It was nearly eight in the morning now, and it was always best to go to the store early.

She felt particularly good all of a sudden, as if the rest of her day would surely go well now that she had managed to accomplish something. She bought a dozen eggs, but only half a pound of bacon, which always cost a fortune. She picked up a few other things as well, though — like ingredients for bread, some juice, some fresh peas at an absolute steal, and some corn flakes, too, because Finn had once mentioned that he loved them.

She had her bag of groceries in hand and was already out of the shop when someone called out to her. "Good morning, Rachel!"

She spun around, her bag slipping as her eyes went wide. Oh, God. Why did this have to happen? Why? She glanced around, but there was hardly anyone around at all, except for her and him.

"Here," he said, "let me give you a hand." But she stumbled back from him. He only chuckled. "Goodness, Rachel, there's no need to act that way." He straightened and smiled his familiar condescending smile.

"What do you want?" she asked sharply. "How did you find me?"

Jesse sighed. "I take it you aren't happy to see me. And, alas, here I'm absolutely thrilled to see you." He smiled again, and she gripped her groceries tightly, glaring at him. He hadn't changed at all — still so confident, still so self-assured, still so very arrogant. She had once mistaken that arrogance for a kind of charm and talent. She wouldn't again.

"Why have you come to Detroit?" she demanded, speaking more bravely than she felt. "I don't want anything to do with you."

Again, he laughed. "I'm afraid I came to Detroit long before you did," he said. "I've been here for nearly six months, sweetie."

"Don't call me that," she replied.

But he only stepped closer to her. "Really, Rachel," he said, "keep up talk like that and you'll break my heart." He reached out to brush her cheek, but she turned her face stubbornly away from him. She hated him. She hated him. There didn't exist a soul on this earth that she hated more.

"Always turning away," he said, sighing dramatically yet again. "Do you remember when we went out to that lake last summer, and we sang together? I'll never forget. I nearly kissed you that night, but you turned away. Always away, but how could I blame you? You are — were — far too sweet for anything else, far too innocent." His expression turned somehow sour, somehow almost malicious. "But now you go home with a boxer?"

"I don't know what you want," Rachel snapped, "but I really don't care. Stay away from me."

"Or you'll do what?" he asked, sounding amused. He smirked. "Tattle to Daddy?"

"Don't," she breathed, her heart suddenly thudding again her chest painfully. "Don't you dare." She held his gaze, refusing to let him talk down to her. "If you don't leave me alone, Jesse, if you don't stay far away from me and my boxer, I'll call the police. I will."

"And what will you tell them?"

"I'll them you're a murderer," she said, "that's what I'll tell them. I'll tell them you shot a man in cold blood." She glared furiously at him. She wouldn't be afraid of him. She wouldn't.

He stepped even closer to her, though, his face calm as he tilted his head at her. "And I'll tell them," he replied softly, "that you have, too."

"I've — I've never killed anybody," she said. "I've never. . . ."

"Never?" He grinned that terrible, terrible grin, and she wanted to turn point blank and run. "Funny," he went on coolly, "I seem to recall quite clearly the gun in your hand."

"I've never killed anybody," she repeated, trying not to let her voice tremble. "Never."

"Ah, but you thought you had, didn't you?" He said, wagging his finger at her. "After all, you wouldn't have been nearly so startled to see me if you knew I was still alive. And, let's be honest, sweetie — it's the will to kill somebody that really matters, isn't it?"

She took a shaky breath, but she didn't tear her gaze from his. "I'd do it again if I had to," she said coldly. "I would. I wish I had done it right the first time. I wish you were dead. And if you don't stay away from me —"

He laughed. "You're adorable, sweetie, the most adorable girl I've ever met."

"Don't call me that!" she said.

"Oh, fine, then, have it your way," he said, sighing. "I'll be honest with you, Rachel. I really didn't come to Detroit for you. I came to make my name famous, to receive the praise my talent deserves — to go on Broadway, just like I always told you I would." He smiled slightly. "But I heard mention of a new canary at this club, a pretty, petite girl who could really sing, and I couldn't help my curiosity."

She didn't know what to say. He went on without any prompt, however.

"I must admit," he said, smirking, "I took a kind of delight in your surprise. But I don't mean you any harm; really, I don't. I wish you wouldn't be so angry with me, of course, but I suppose I understand. You needn't worry. As far as I'm concerned, you and I are even."

"Even?" she repeated.

"That's right," he said, nodding. "I killed the person you loved most, and you tried to kill the person I love most — myself." He grinned, displaying his beloved white, even teeth, and she looked away, clutching her bag even closer to her chest, as if her groceries could ward him off.

"Then you'll leave me alone?" she asked. "You'll stay away from McKinley's?"

"I never said that," he told her.

She looked back at him, frowning. "But —"

"I don't mean you any harm, but can you blame me for wanting a little more of your company? I've never met a girl like you." He reached out, probably to tap her nose fondly like he used to do, and she angrily swatted his hand away.

He laughed, and she wanted to scream. "I asked your fellow about you. He didn't seem to know much — about you or anything, in fact. I must say — I always imagined you with someone who had, if not talent, at least actual brains."

"I'll have you know," Rachel said, indignant now on top of everything else, "that Finn has both — in spades!"

Again, Jesse only chuckled. "If you say so, swee —"

"I said don't call me that."

She glared at him, he smiled, and finally he nodded and stepped back. "I'll be on my way, then. I merely wanted to assure you that you needn't worry. I've forgiven you, and your dark secrets are safe with me." He winked.

For goodness' sake, couldn't he and Karofsky wink at each other and leave her alone?

She watched him walk away and then disappear around a corner. She took a few slow, calming breaths. He claimed he meant her no ill, but he didn't intend to leave her alone? What did he expect? She had once thought perhaps she might fall in love with him, but he had long since corrected her of that mistake, and she never wanted anything to do with him again.

She really did wish that she'd killed him.

No. No, that wasn't true. She had always told herself that she didn't really kill him, that he died by his own hand, that he brought it on himself, and she had only meant to protect the last person around who still cared about her. But now she could be honest with herself. She had been the one to shoot him, but she hadn't killed him.

And she had Finn now, and he'd help her, and before long Jesse St. James would be nothing more than an awful, awful memory.

"Rachel?"

For a moment, her heart nearly stopped. But Kurt smiled cautiously as he approached her, and she forced herself to smile, too. "Good morning, Kurt," she said. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm lovely," he replied. "But how are you?" Concern shone in his eyes.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Really? You seem a little shaken." And he lowered his voice. "If it helps," he said, "I thought he was dead, too."

Her heart did stop. "I'm sorry?" she said, her words more breathless than she intended.

"Jesse St. James," Kurt replied.

"I don't —" She shook her head. "I don't know . . . what — I don't know what you mean —" What should she say? What could she say? He must have seen her with Jesse, but —

"It's okay," Kurt assured gently, "I heard everything."

"You . . ." She only stared at him.

"Rachel," Kurt said, and he touched her arm. "We can help each other."

tbc

a/n: a little shorter than the last few chapters, I know, but the next chapter should be a whopper (at least in length). Also, I hope you liked this one-it's the last chapter until the epilogue (I think, I may change my mind) from Rachel's POV. Finn kind of takes center stage from here on out. Anyway, what'd you think?