Important note: For the first time, I'm breaking the Finch, Reese, Finch, Reese, etc. pattern in my chapters. This one will be from the perspective of our cryptic person of interest…whose mystery may finally be revealed!
He maintained a nervous silence as the woman John had referred to as Grace began to drive. Despite her amiable attitude when he was shoved in the car, he could tell she was wary to trust him. Who wouldn't be?
"So, what's your name?" she asked after a few minutes of the stillness.
"You can call me Peter," he said, "and you're Grace?"
"Correct," she said, looking in the mirror to give him a small smile, "how did you find yourself under the protection of John and company?"
"Well," he sighed, "I'm not entirely sure. It would certainly appear someone wants me dead."
"Been there, done that," she said with a chuckle as he let a surprised expression cross his badly scarred face.
Looking around him, he took note of the luxurious interior of the car. Everything was in pristine condition, and it even smelled new, although he got the feeling it wasn't. Noticing one imperfection, he leaned down and plucked a button that looked to be from an expensive suit cuff off the floor.
"I take it this isn't your car?" he asked as he examined it.
"Technically not, why?"
"Button on the floor," he said with a half-smile, "you don't look like the suit type."
"I'm not," she said with a grin, "but I'm sure whichever of my associates lost that will be happy you found it."
"The one John talks to on the phone, Finch is it? Is he the only other one?"
He felt a bit bad for prying, but his curiosity really was getting the better of him. Plus, he was already in a car with a strange woman taking him to an unknown location as killers hunted him. He probably couldn't make the situation worse.
"Yes," she said hesitantly, as if she wasn't sure what to share, "they have some friends on the police force as well."
"They aren't police, though," he said, "I got that vibe."
"No, but they're good men," she answered honestly.
"Do they get their intel from the police?" he asked, still puzzling over how John had found him.
"Sometimes," she said ambiguously, "when I asked a question similar to that, the only answer I got was 'a little birdy told me.' Don't count on too much enlightenment."
"You work with these men because you're indebted, then?" he asked, going out on a limb trying to piece the endless puzzle together.
"Oh, it's more by choice," she said, "they've helped plenty of people who never see them again."
"Does that mean you're secretly taking me to an obscure place where they are going to dump my body?" he said with a grin.
"Correct," she laughed, "you never should have gotten in the car."
"Where are we going? If you can answer, that is."
"Well that one isn't confidential – we're going to my apartment. It's not exactly one of their usual safe houses, so John must really trust you."
"Well," Peter said with a small shrug, "we had a little talk and he seems to. He didn't when he came charging in with a gun. Although most don't take it that far, people aren't generally inclined to trust someone who looks like he was sent through a paper shredder then lit on fire."
Grace kept quiet after that, and he almost felt bad for saying it. It was true, though. Everyone wanted a pretty face and a strong posture. He wondered if she was romantically involved with John. That could explain why she was helping him.
Soon after the talking ceased they were turning into a parking garage, located underneath a clean and somewhat regal looking apartment building. Whoever Grace was with had some serious funding, that was becoming clear. Unless it was just Grace – perhaps she was "Finch," the key to the whole operation, the rich one standing behind John.
"Do you live alone?" he asked as he awkwardly got out of the car.
"Yes," she answered with a nod, locking the car, "and between you and me, the apartment is much too spacious for my liking."
"Are you trying to come on to me?" he said, giving her a look to let her know he was kidding.
He could remember days when he didn't have to give a look to assure a woman he was kidding. Those were times before his hair was all gray and his frame was all bent and his face was all disfigured. Sometimes he wished he could go back to those times, and he thought of the weak efforts he made to grow closer to them. The dye in his hair that didn't really belong there – the jumping from job to meaningless job. Nothing he did brought him closer to the times when he had had a purpose. He couldn't find a new one.
As they moved into the building and toward an elevator, he became grateful for how slow she naturally walked. It was nothing like trying to keep up with John, and he wondered if the man ever became angry with her slow gait. Then again, she was probably adjusting her pace a little. She did it so fluently, though, it was like she practiced.
The apartment turned out to be just as spacious as she had mentioned. A wide foyer opened into a living space with impeccable décor and a scheme of bright colors that somehow all fit together perfectly.
"See what I mean? Roomy," she said with a smile as she threw her keys onto a table near the door.
Limping in and studying the space carefully, his eyes were drawn immediately to the paintings hanging on the walls. Each was unique and quite beautiful, and the layout of the room seemed to reflect everything he saw in them.
"Did you design the apartment yourself?" he said, the awe seeping through his words.
"No, I have a very good designer," she said with a chuckle, "I do the paintings myself, though."
"Really?" he asked with surprise, "they're fantastic – do you sell them?"
"Sometimes," she said with a nod, "I do art for magazines and things, but mostly it's just a hobby."
"Impressive hobby," he chuckled as he got closer to study one.
"Thank you," she said graciously as she kicked off her shoes, and he took note of how relaxed and open she seemed even though there was a complete stranger in her apartment.
Could she really be the one behind John's earpiece?
"You can make yourself at home, take a look around if you want – my studio is through there," she said as she began to pin up her hair, "I'm going to see what kind of food we have. I don't know about you, but I'm starving," she said with a big grin before moving toward a kitchen area.
He decided to make his way down the hall like she had permitted, and he began to wonder how the apartment didn't take up the entire floor of the building. Peeking his head through a door that was ajar, he quickly confirmed it was her studio. Paintings, some complete and some half-finished, were stacked helter-skelter across the left side of the room. Easels and brushes lined the yellow wall until they hit a wide window that faced the city. As he moved closer he noted how breathtaking the view outside was – plenty of inspiration for an artist. Turning to face the right side of the room was a bit more perplexing. A few finished paintings hung on the wall, but the primary focus was a cluster of computer monitors that seemed out of place. He wasn't sure what she would need them in the studio for, perhaps more inspiration. The only thing spotting the cluster of technology was a worn picture frame, and he limped over and picked it up.
It was still clenched between his shaky hands when he hobbled back into the main room, and he could hear Grace talking on her phone.
"Yes, I promise everything is fine – will you stop worrying? I'll call you when John gets here, OK?"
She noticed Peter reentering the room then, and gave him a smile.
"I'll talk to you later – bye," she put the phone down on the counter, "sorry about that."
"It's fine," he answered simply, "when was this picture taken?"
Noticing the picture frame in his hands, she seemed surprised for a moment but quickly answered to cover it.
"2009," she said.
Looking down at the picture he furrowed his brow; he had already stared at it for a long time.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"He was my fiancé," she said, but the sadness in her voice sounded forced.
A man with little circular spectacles and a wide smiled stared from the frame up at him, Grace kissing his cheek. He looked so happy.
"Was?"
"He was killed in an accident a few years ago," she answered, fidgeting uncomfortably with the phone she plucked off the counter.
"You're lying," he said with a laugh, shaking his head.
"What?" she said, taken aback.
"This is him, isn't it? This is the one John calls Finch."
"No," she said uncertainly, "no his name wasn't Finch, it was-"
"Harold," he finished, "his name was Harold – is Harold."
"How…" she began, looking at Peter with an expression caught somewhere between fear and shock.
"Is he Finch?" he asked, more forcefully this time.
With alarm in her eyes, Grace succumbed to the question.
"Yes, he is," she said reluctantly.
Moving closer to her, he set the picture frame gently on the counter next to her. He felt tears begin to slip from his eyes as he produced a wallet from his back pocket. She had shirked from him as if he was about to pull a knife on her, and he could feel the panic radiating from her. Not dialing that cell phone was taking a lot of restraint, and he appreciated her hesitancy to call for help.
"Does he still look like the picture, or does he look like me?" he asked sadly.
"He has new glasses," she said, shifting uncomfortably.
Peter let another laugh escape him as he looked down at the open wallet. A picture of a young brown haired boy standing next to a bespectacled man stared back at him. The boy was holding a high school diploma, and had his arm wrapped around the neck of the man who was laughing despite the awkward position he was being pulled into. A tear hit the plastic covering over the picture as Peter stared down at it thankfully.
"Are you alright, Peter?" Grace asked in a tone that was almost a whisper.
He looked up at her slowly, letting a grin spread across his mutated face.
"Yes," he said assuredly, "and please, call me Nathan."
