"Another Number, Finch?" Reese grumbled as he came back into the library. He knew there wasn't really any point in complaining. Harold didn't determine how often the Machine dumped cases into their laps. But it seems like they were back-to-back lately, followed by days of uninterrupted downtime. It was irritating. He wished the all-knowing AI was better at time management.

Harold sighed and gestured to the board. "Esmerelda Hanover. Widowed, eighty-five years old. In the past five years she has lived in three different countries, but most currently she's residing in …"

"Brooklyn," Reese pronounced, "with her son Dutch."

Finch blinked at him.

"Mother Hanover and I have met," John continued, more happily.

"Well, good," Harold snorted. "Then perhaps you can tell me why someone's trying to kill her. Because whoever it is used her credit card to order ammunition for a handgun, which will presumably be used in her murder."

"Don't know that, but I know someone who might." He pulled out his phone and clicked the speaker button.

Finch stared at him. Reese enjoyed it a little too much.

"Hey, John," Christine said over the phone. And then, "Ow, shit, quit!"

"Kitten issues, Kitten?"

"Just picked them up. Puck thinks I'm a tree. Owww! What do you need?"

"Your friend from the airplane."

"Esmerelda."

"Any idea why someone would want to kill her?"

Christine sighed. "Really?"

"Yes."

Harold moved closer to the phone. "Did she say anything about any enemies, threats, anything of that nature?"

"Her daughter-in-law hates her," Reese supplied.

"The feeling's mutual," Christine added. "They've hated each other for thirty-plus years."

"And perhaps the mother moving into the son's house has set off the daughter-in-law?" Finch mused.

"Well, maybe," she answered. "But, uh, one of the things we talked about was Esmeralda's husband left her quite a lot of money – she wasn't even sure how much – and she hadn't changed her will since he died. Fourteen years ago. So I, um, gave her my attorney's phone number."

"She's changing her will and Peggy found out." Reese nodded grimly. "We're going to need you to talk to her."

"Okay. Oww."

"I'll come pick you up."

"I'll go," Finch said. To Reese's raised eyebrow, he continued, "If you recognize her from the airport, she'll likely recognize you."

John sighed. "I'll wait in the car. On the way, I need you to find out where Peggy is."

Reese was used to driving while Finch coaxed data out of the ether in the passenger seat. But having Christine in the back seat with her own laptop was new. He understood about a third of the technical crosstalk between them; he was pretty sure they were showing off for each other. Geek flirting. He stayed out of it.

By the time he got his brilliant passengers to Brooklyn, Finch had determined that Peggy Hanover was at work at the front desk of a used car dealership, and that her husband Dutch was also at work. Christine had learned that while Esmeralda had met with her attorney, she had not yet updated her will. The lawyer's office was executing asset discovery for the elderly woman. "They need to find out what money she had," Finch interpreted, "and where."

"Which probably means that she had quite a lot of money," Reese added.

"She travels extensively," Christine provided, "and she said she never worries about paying."

"So Peggy wants to bump her off before she loses her cut."

"Perhaps." Finch leaned to peer past Reese at the utterly unexceptional frame house across the street. He produced an earwhig from his jacket pocket, handed it to Christine, and then installed his own. "Harold Rooke. Private investigator."

"Working for Farrar?"

"Yes."

They got out of the car.

"I'm right here," Reese reminded them. "Any sign of trouble, just speak up."

Christine smirked. "Do we have a safe word?"

"Chrysanthemum," Finch provided, "but you have to spell it correctly."

She laughed. As she crossed the street, John could hear her muttering over the comm. "C-H-R-Y-S-A-N … shit."

"Close enough," he assured her.

The wood planks for the porch were freshly painted, but they creaked with age as Harold and Christine crossed to the door. She rang the doorbell. Finch looked up and down the street as they waited. It was a nice-enough neighborhood, crowded and a little down-at-heel. The houses were old, but there were little lawns, chairs on porches. People likely knew their neighbors here.

Inside the house there was movement, quiet and slow. "Coming!" a female voice called.

He glanced at Christine. She was alert but calm, her hands loose and open at her sides. He wasn't sure if she was deliberately mimicking John's ready stance or if it was subconscious. Either way, he hated it. Entirely irrational. On Reese it was reassuring. On Christine it only served as a reminder that he was leading her into a potentially dangerous situation.

But the situation was only potentially dangerous. He knew their most likely suspect was at work, miles away. He had hacked into the office's cameras and seen her at her desk. Logically, there was nothing to worry about.

Logically, he was reasonably certain there was only a little old woman behind the door, shuffling softly toward them.

Logically, he knew that John Reese could cross the street and the lawn, climb the stairs and be in the house in ten long strides.

Illogically, he wanted very badly to send Christine back to the car, away from even the remotest potential danger.

Harold took a deep breath, checked his cuffs, exhaled.

"Coming!" a woman called again. The doorknob rattled, and then the door cracked open. "Hello?"

"Esmerelda. It's Christine. From the airplane."

"Oh." The woman opened the door fully. "Oh, hello, dear. Hello. How nice! Did we plan to get together today? Did I forget?"

"No, I'm sorry, I should have called. But there's something we need to talk to you about, right away."

Esmeralda frowned at her. "You're not going to ask me for money, are you?"

"No. I promise." Christine gestured. "This is Harold Rooke. He's a private investigator. He works with Farrar."

"My attorney?"

"Yes. He needs to talk to you."

"Oh." The elderly woman still hesitated. "I paid him his retainer. I'm all current."

"It's not about money," Harold assured her. "Not about any money that you owe, at any rate."

"Oh. Well. Come in, then. Come in. Would you like some lemonade? It's not quite cold yet. I just made some fresh. That selfish cow drank all the batch that I made yesterday. And she didn't even bother to wash the pitcher. That woman!"

"Thirteen million," Esmeralda said, when they were settled around the kitchen table with beverages. "Can you imagine?"

"That's a lot," Christine answered.

"And he's still counting. So it's more than that. My goodness. I knew there was money. But I never dreamed it was quite that much. I can't thank you enough for recommending that young man. He's very young, for an attorney, isn't he? And of course he's, you know, dark-ish. But he's very nice, and he seems quite thorough. I'm very pleased."

"That's good to hear. He's always done good work for me."

"He's getting a list together, finding all the money – the assets – and then we'll work out a new will. Or a … trust, he said. Something newfangled like that." She looked at Harold. "Is that what you're here about? The trust? Or the great money treasure hunt?"

"Neither, actually." Harold sipped his lemonade. "This is very good. Thank you." He put his glass down. "Mrs. Hanover, do you know if anyone in this household owns a gun?"

"A gun?"

"Yes. Specifically a handgun. A .32 caliber. That would be somewhat smaller than …"

The older woman bristled. "I know what a .32 looks like. Why would you ask a thing like that?"

"Since you met with Farrar and talked about changing your will," Christine said, "someone in this house ordered ammunition for a handgun. With your credit card."

"Oh, yes." Esmerelda seemed unsurprised but puzzled.

"We're concerned for your safety."

"We thought, perhaps, with the animosity between you and your daughter-in-law …" Harold began.

"Oh, I see. Aren't you sweet? But there's nothing to worry about. I know all about handling a handgun. I'm quite a crack shot, actually. I'll be just fine."

"You ordered the ammunition?" Christine asked.

"Yes, dear."

"And you have the weapon?" Harold prompted.

"Well, goodness, what good would the ammunition do me if I didn't have the gun?" Esmeralda shook her head. "It's Dutch's gun, actually. He had it hidden away in the basement. I doubt he even remembers he has it. But I knew where it was." Esmerelda shook her head. "But I couldn't find any ammunition. I looked everywhere. I don't think he has any. So I ordered it. On the internet. Who knew you could do such a thing? Of course they won't ship it to the house because we're in the city. I had to arrange for a delivery. And I had to buy a whole box, even though I only need two or three bullets. My goodness, to think of paying for that whole box just to have most of it go to waste. But they were quite determined that there was just no other way. They're not even supposed to deliver it, you know. But I explained that I was an elderly woman and they said they would – for a fee, of course. I don't know what this world is coming to. Charging a poor old woman for such a simple thing."

"So you … plan to use the gun to defend yourself?" Finch asked. "From Peggy?"

"If I need to, I suppose. But I can't really imagine that simp raising her hand against me. Poisoning my son's mind against me is more her style."

"Then why …"

"Once my will is all settled, I'm going to shoot my useless daughter-in-law."

Reese was out of the car before he heard Finch say Oh dear over the comm. But he slowed when he reached the sidewalk, and stopped with his foot on the bottom porch step. The old woman might have the intent to harm – but she didn't have the ammunition yet. He didn't need to break down the door. At least not right this minute.

Before he could retreat, a small white pick-up truck slowed, then stopped in the street in front of the house.

Reese kept his hands down at his side, but he flexed his fingers and roll his neck just a little as he walked toward the truck.

"Help you?" John said.

"You live here?" the driver of the truck asked. "Looking for Esmeralda Hanover."

"My grandma. You got a package for her? She said I should keep an eye out for one."

"Yeah." He started to hand Reese a small white box, then pulled it back "Forty bucks. We're, uh, we're really not supposed to deliver. But she said she was home-bound, so ..."

"She is, pretty much." John fished three twenties out of his wallet and handed them to the driver. "Get yourself some lunch. You just saved me three hours of driving around with Grandma in the car."

The driver handed over the package and drove off.

Reese watched him off the block, then walked back to the car. He put the ammo on the seat beside him and tapped his earpiece. "I've got the package," he said quietly.

Finch grunted in response.

"Now see if you can get the gun."

"… you'll go to jail, for one thing," Christine argued.

"An old lady like me? I don't hear very well, you know. I was afraid she was a burglar. I got confused." Esmeralda shrugged, her eyes deliberately wide and vague. "And even if they do send me to jail, my dear, I'm so old. It would only be a year or so anyhow. And I would enjoy every minute of it, knowing that that witch won't get my money."

"And what about Dutch?" Finch countered.

"Oh, he'll be fine. Maybe he'll even meet someone who actually keeps a nice house for him." She looked around dismissively.

"And the boys? Your grandsons?"

"They're nearly grown. They'll be fine."

"They won't," Christine said firmly. "They will live their whole lives knowing that their grandmother murdered their mother."

"To protect their inheritance!"

"Doing it for money just makes it worse. Esmeralda, listen to me." Christine leaned forward. "If you do this, you will wound them more deeply than you can possibly imagine. And they won't have anyone to help them through it. Dutch will be just as wounded, and you'll be in jail. They'll be on their own. They will have to grow up right there on the spot, and whatever's left of their childhood will be gone. Gone."

Finch dug his fingers into his own thighs to keep from reaching for her. He had worried about physical danger, but he hadn't anticipated this: That she would have to summon the memories of her own childhood to protect these boys. The wounds of her past, so recently torn open, had only just begun to heal, and now she was unhesitatingly tearing them open again.

He could hear Reese's distressed breathing in his ear.

The old woman was unconvinced. "Oh, I don't know if …"

"I know," Christine said firmly. "I have been there. I have been exactly there. When you lose a m—a parent in your teens, it rips your whole life apart. And when it's by violence – I know, Esmeralda. If you love your grandsons as much as you say you do—"

"Of course I love them!"

"Then let them have their lives the way they're supposed to be. Let them have their parents. Their mother. Because if you do this you change everything for them. And none of it in a good way."

"But they'll have money. Lots of money."

"There are ways to protect your money," Finch said quickly. "You can set up a trust so that the money's held until the boys are twenty-five, or thirty-five, or whatever age you decide."

"I want them to go to college."

"That can be provided for."

"And I watch Dutch to have some …"

"It can be arranged," Finch assured her. "There's probably nothing that can keep Dutch from sharing his money with his wife, but it can be a set amount, an allowance, so she can't get to all of it. I promise you, there are things that Farrar can do. Legal ways, that your daughter-in-law can't undo. You can be certain that the people you care about are taken care of."

"But if you kill Peggy," Christine said, "then nothing good happens for any of them. Even if they get the money, every dime they spend they will think, this is the money that my grandmother killed my mother for. It's not worth it, Esmeralda."

The old woman stared at her half-empty glass, her mouth in a tight unhappy line. "I don't see how it's any of your business," she finally said.

"We're trying to stop you from making a terrible mistake," Finch answered.

"But it's my mistake …"

"It's a mistake that you won't pay the consequences for," Christine snapped. "If you kill Peggy, your son and your grandsons will pay for it for the rest of their lives."

There was silence for another moment. "You are a dear, but I don't think you really know …"

"Esmeralda. Listen to me. My father was killed when I was fourteen years old. And when we met this summer, I was coming home from finally being able to spread his ashes and let him go. Everything I've done, my whole adult life, every choice I made, every mistake, was because of his death. I know what I'm talking about. You do not want this for your grandsons. Not when there's a perfectly legal option. You do not."

"You certainly are bossy."

Christine nodded. "I'll be as bossy as I have to be to stop you."

"I suppose you want the gun."

"Yes, please," Finch said quickly.

The old woman sighed. "I doubt Dutch will miss it. I think he forgot he ever had it." She gestured to the cupboard under the sink. "There. In the dish cloth, on the left."

Christine went and opened the little door. She took the weapon and the floral towel and stood up. "Not much of a hiding place."

"There's nothing under there but cleaning supplies," Esmeralda answered. "I knew Peggy would never look there."

"Thank you."

"If your Mr. Farrar can't set things up the way you said, I'm going to want that back."

Christine cradled the gun against her chest. "We'll talk about it."

Reese opened the back car door for Christine as she crossed the street. She handed him the towel-wrapped weapon. He gave it a quick glance. Old, dull, probably traceable. He was generally in favor of holding weapons in reserve, but this one needed to be permanently lost. He got into the driver's seat and tucked it down next to the unopened ammo.

Finch got in the passenger side. "Nicely done," Reese said. "Not a wounded kneecap in sight."

"True. I'm glad Ms. Hanover was willing to be reasonable. Eventually." He turned to look over the seat at Christine. "Chocolate? Liquor? Both?"

"Actually, I need to get back. The Solar Sunflower people are coming in for a meeting." She spoke as if she were perfectly fine, as if explaining the great grief of her life to a virtual stranger had been simple and painless. As if she were unaffected.

"The what?" John asked.

"Solar Sunflowers. They're pretty much exactly what they sound like. Only big. Six to twenty feet across. Experimental. But interesting."

Reese met her eyes in the rear view for a second. She opened her laptop and looked away. He glanced at Finch. The genius raised a single eyebrow, just a fraction. He was unconvinced, too. But there was nothing to be done. John swung the car out of the parking spot. "Okay."

He dropped his hand onto the hard steel wrapped in floral terrycloth and reminded himself that they'd done good.