This was not the ending Tate had been expecting for this evening. She had assumed she would make small talk, maybe get a little tipsy, then go back to the hotel and try and find a way out of this troublesome dress – hell, a part of her had hoped that maybe a tall, dark and handsome detective would be providing able assistance. She had maybe, in the darkest recesses of her mind, considered the possibility that she might end up murdered tonight, providing her stalker had overcome his shyness and actually showed up. What she had not considered, however, was her best friend being arrested and accused of being said stalker.

Since Josh and her bodyguard had both bailed on her, Tate decided to leave the party early and went outside, hoping to hail a cab. In this dress, how hard could it be?

Before she had barely raised her arm in the characteristic New Yorker way (which she seemed to have picked up quickly), a familiar silver Honda pulled up alongside her.

"You need a ride back to the hotel?" Don asked.

"Your CSIs took my purse – and my keycard – as evidence."

"Since Josh isn't being charged, we can go pick it up. Come on," he said, opening the passenger door for her while she tried to navigate her long dress.


He led her through the parking lot and into the rear entrance of the precinct, directing her to one of the interrogation rooms – the same one Josh had been in, in fact. He hadn't said a word on the drive over; at first Tate thought it was because he knew she wouldn't want to talk about what had transpired that night – hell, she was still trying to work out how to process it, let alone coherently verbalise it – but when he turned and fixed her with a cold look, she realised that his silence had been for a different reason.

"Did you know?"

"What? Of course not! And I can't believe Josh would really do this." She held her head in her hands, trying to make sense of the whole evening – Flack showing up out of nowhere, Josh being carted away… And now she had the distinct feeling that she was being interrogated.

"You know, I always found it a little weird how concerned you were with what your PR people have to say about everything – all they care about is what looks good for you and what will sell more books. Is it so crazy for me to think they were pulling the strings for this, too? You had to have known! I mean, you write mystery novels, right? Hell, maybe you even masterminded this whole thing!"

"You sound like you've already made up your mind. I can't believe you think so little of me!"

"Come on, you said it yourself, hype and publicity are the only ways to make money these days. Never mind the people you screw over on the way, huh?" he replied, slamming her purse down on the table by way of punctuating his accusation.

"Are you insane?! You honestly think I'd waste your time and mine, and Lord knows how much money…"

"Oh, that's right," he interrupted. "Money is all it comes down to – I wouldn't worry about it, I'm sure you'll be raking it in when the tabloids hear all about your assistant betraying your trust. I wonder if they'd want to hear the other side of the story from an 'anonymous source'."

"Screw you. I don't have to listen to this crap," she replied, getting up to leave. "Trust is a two-way street, Don. I put my trust in you for the past two weeks, the least you can do is give me the same courtesy." She wiped at her eyes, snatched up her purse and stormed out the room, slamming the door behind her. Don watched until she left through the front entrance of the precinct, then loosened his tie, deciding he'd go and collect his wages from Klein before that slimy bastard had chance to think up a reason not to pay him for pissing off a client.


Don arrived at the lab the next afternoon, tail firmly planted between his legs, with the intention of going directly to Mac's office to apologise for taking off from the scene – what seemed like a good idea at the time had turned out to be a colossal waste. He'd rather have kept the wool over his eyes than find out he'd been played for two weeks.

He passed Danny, who was on his was out to a scene. After idly exchanging pleasantries and small-talking about the Rangers' score the previous night, the blonde detective steered the conversation towards another event that Don would have rather forgotten.

Don sighed in disapproval. "You know what, I wish I could arrest them all for wasting police time, but unfortunately that doesn't apply, even though I was still a cop through all this."

"So what now? Go back to work and pretend none of it ever happened?"

Don sighed once more, thinking it wouldn't be that easy. Truth was, he missed Tate. And he couldn't shake the image of her tearful face, protesting her innocence, from his mind. But then he remembered how she'd played him and thought bitterly about how, if her writing career didn't pan out, she could always make it as an actress. "Exactly. We go back to fighting real crimes, with real victims, and she can go on with her promotional circus. So, let's never speak of it again, right? To anyone," he added, wanting to avoid any further humiliation from their co-workers.

Danny eyed his friend suspiciously, sure his anger and resolve were masking something else. "Right," he replied, taking that as he cue to carry on out of the lab.

Don was interrupted on his way through the corridors by Lindsey. She came up to him with a look that made him certain that Danny had told the whole sorry story to his dearly beloved, and almost apologetically asked him how he was.

"Great!" he replied with a harsher tone than the purely sarcastic one he was going for. She gave him a look that implied she understood why he was being short with her. "Whatcha got there?" He nodded to the beige file she had tucked under her arm.

"Results from the testing on Tate's letters." She watched as Don grimaced at her name.

"Toss 'em. No crime was committed, so there's no need for any of it."

He began to walk away towards his intended location, but Lindsey called after him. "I think you should hear this…"

Don turned on his heels reluctantly; if he was just going to get confirmation of what he already knew to be true, then he'd rather just get on with grovelling to Mac, thank you very much. Sighing in exasperation, he motioned for Lindsey to continue what she was saying.

"Josh's prints were found on the letter he had in his possession at the party. Those same prints were also present on the other letters Tate received."

"So I was right, he was behind the whole thing."

Lindsey looked at him with unease, then proceeded slowly. "Maybe. Tate's prints were also on the letters, but she already said she and Josh had read all of them."

"And the postmark?"

"Boston."

"So Josh and Helen sent the letters from home. It still doesn't help us."

"Or maybe her stalker is from there…" Lindsey replied, trying to help.

"But you don't have a test for that, right?"

"Sorry."

"So we've got nothing?" Don clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to slam his fist into something – for a moment, he'd been certain Lindsey was trying to give him something they could use to prosecute Tate and her whole PR circus. He was hurt and angry, and dammit, he wanted someone to pay. It was bad enough that he found himself developing feelings for a woman he was supposed to be protecting, but to find out she was a fraud? He didn't know if he'd ever trust himself on the job again. And that was the worst part, because this job was all he had. He felt his anger growing and turned to leave, before Lindsey called out to him to stop yet again. Part of him wanted to just keep walking – keep on out of the lab and into the street – after all, it was her damn husband who got him into this mess in the first place. But the small part of him that was still relatively calm prevailed, forcing him to stop and face her again.

"I looked closer at the first letter Tate received. There was an unidentified set of prints on it – she swears that no one else touched it but her and Josh. So I went back over all the letters. The same unidentified prints were on all of them, except the one you found on Josh."

"Someone else touched the letters," Don eventually managed to say, suddenly feeling like he had run a marathon – all the air had gone from his lungs and his legs felt like they were made of rubber.

"Yes – the person who wrote them."

"And he's still out there…"


A/N I very nearly forgot to upload this chapter tonight; all day I've been convinced it's Tuesday, so I'm a little confused, obviously! Hope you all had a restful Easter, and once again, thank you so much for reading and reviewing!