Author's Note: There are mild references to the pilot, "6 AM", "The Man in the Killer Suit", and "The King of Columbus Circle".

Chapter 14

Henry stepped out of the elevator and walked toward his office. The silence of the corridor greeted him this morning instead of yesterday's light chatter, squeaky shoes, and rolling gurneys. Then again, fifteen minutes' difference evidently mattered.

Henry sighed as he crossed his office's threshold and entered the room. His early arrival was necessary. When he had left the shop, he had told Abe that he wanted to get a head start on the day's autopsies. In reality, he decided to take a long walk to work so that he could clear his head. He went to the subway station and used its map to find the way to his destinations. He then walked through East River Park to see if something there would spark a memory. After his futile attempt, he had decided to enjoy the view of the river before going to work.

He quickly changed coats, sat down at his desk, and looked toward the morgue. The clock's ticks marked the seconds until his imminent arrest. Deep inside, he knew that he wasn't a murderer. Still, the gaps in his memory suggested otherwise. If only there was a way to prove his innocence to himself and to Detective Martinez…

He bit his lower lip in thought. Then, he reached over and pulled the stack of folders to him. He opened each one, read the front page of the report, and then placed the closed folder to the side.

About halfway through the stack, he found what he was looking for, the record of the man whom he had found last Saturday. According to the report, the man was Gene Tomberlin, a 39-year-old man who used prescription pain killers. Henry noted Tomberlin's—Gene's—core temperature at the time that Wahl had taken it. Henry wrinkled his eyebrows. The measurement was too high for that specific time of death.

Henry closed his eyes and remembered how he had found Gene. Henry noted every detail of the man and of the room. He paid careful attention to the room's layout and temperature. He seemed to recall that the room felt warm. He wasn't sure, though. He had noticed the room's temperature just as he had found evidence of Gene's struggle with an unknown assailant.

His eyes flew open. The man's clothes, medication, and pre-mortem exertion would increase Gene's body temperature. That would explain the discrepancy between the time of death and the post-mortem changes that Henry had observed. Somehow, Wahl had miscalculated Gene's time of death.

Henry found a notepad and a pen and began to write. He surprised himself with the ease of his calculations. He assumed that it was a part of his training.

When he was finished, he looked at the new estimated time of death. His jaw dropped when he saw it. If he was right, Gene died at 11:30 last Wednesday morning. Henry suddenly remembered his and Abe's conversation at breakfast this morning. Henry had wanted to know exactly when he was found. Abe told him that Lt. Reece had called the shop about 11:05 AM last Wednesday and that she had learned that he was found only a few minutes before.

Relief began to overwhelm Henry as he stared at the victim's estimated time of death. Henry had found a way to prove his innocence in at least one murder. He wondered if he should mention the error to Wahl. He started to think of what to say to the young man when, suddenly, a hazy image flashed in Henry's mind. He and another man leaned over a desk. Two women stood nearby and watched them.

He wanted to bring the hazy image into focus to see if it was a memory. A loud knock, however, caused the image to vanish. Expecting Wahl, Henry quickly closed the folder and placed it and the notepad aside.

He looked up and was surprised to see Detective Martinez. A black-haired, brown-eyed woman clothed in a light blue dress coat and skirt stood to the detective's right. Her clothes and posture suggested an upper-middle-class background, but a callous on her left index finger hinted at a recent attempt at carpentry.

The woman shifted her weight. Apparently, he had been staring at her. To remedy the situation, he rose and extended his hand. "Dr. Henry Morgan."

She reached out and enclosed her hand around his. "Margaret Ashbrooke."

He looked over at Detective Martinez, who was stepping to the side of his desk, and realized why they were there. He swallowed as he released Margaret's hand and gestured toward the chair. He wasn't expecting to meet a widow. Whose body was she there to claim?

Margaret appeared to have sensed his thoughts. As she sat down, she reached into her purse and pulled out a photograph. "As I had mentioned to Detective Martinez, I've been attempting to ring up my husband, William, since the twenty-second of March, but I've been unable to reach him. I came to New York to see what has become of him."

She reached across the desk and gave him the picture. He studied it for a minute. A casually-dressed couple stood in front of a window; the woman was clearly Margaret. He wished that he could identify the city that was behind them; he knew that it wasn't New York.

Henry's eyes then drifted to the man's face. A cold chill ran down Henry's spine, and he felt as though he wanted to breathe faster. The widow of the man whom he had killed sat before him. Henry quickly reprimanded himself as he returned the photograph to her. He could prove his innocence in one death. Maybe he was innocent in this one also.

To distract himself, Henry looked through his files. "What was your husband doing here in New York?"

"William and I own a women's apparel label in London. We manufacture the clothes in Spitalfields and have stores there and in Charing Cross. Recently, we had desired to expand our operations into the American market. William had come here and search for a flat and a space for our production facilities. I was to join him as soon as his search was complete."

Henry opened another folder. Charing Cross and Spitalfields. Why do they sound familiar?

"You're originally from Chelsea?" The words immediately escaped. How did I know that? He looked at Margaret and hoped that she didn't detect his uncertainty.

Margaret looked at him, a slight smile on her face. "Yes. Are you a Londoner yourself?"

What makes her think that I'm from London? Margaret's assumption and the surprising similarities between their accents pointed to the possibility of his upbringing there. He tried to remember his life in the city, but he couldn't.

He had to tell her something. "I hadn't been back since my father's death." He willed himself not to look at Detective Martinez for confirmation. If he were wrong, then he had no idea what would happen next.

"I'm sorry for your loss." Margaret paused. "Which area are you from?"

Before Henry could think of a plausible story, he heard Detective Martinez clear her throat. He wanted to sigh with relief since she had saved him from a potentially embarrassing situation, but he again forced himself not to act as he desired.

He opened another folder and resisted the temptation to express any emotion. He gently pulled the photograph that Dr. Washington's assistant had taken from under the paperclip and placed the document on his desk. "I regret to inform you of your husband's passing."

Margaret took one look at it. Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes before spilling over onto her cheeks. Henry watched her shake as he took the photograph off of his desk and placed it back in the folder.

When she finally took a minute to catch her breath, she looked at him. "What happened?"

"He was shot last Monday morning." He decided to spare her the details of his involvement in the case. "Of the moment, we don't know who his killer is." He returned the stack of folders to their place on the desk.

Henry heard the start of Detective Martinez's voice beside him. "Margaret, did William have any enemies?" Adrenaline rushed through Henry as he anticipated Margaret's response.

She looked down, almost as if she wanted to steady her emotions. "Andrew Georges. He was William's chief business rival in Charing Cross. A few years ago, Andrew had called the authorities and informed them that we were engaged in forced labor. An inspection of the facilities proved otherwise."

She used the past tense. "Was?"

"Andrew died last year in a traffic accident. He had been engaged in drink driving. His car crossed over into the outside lane on the other side of the road, and he hit another vehicle. According to the authorities, he was killed instantly."

Henry nodded and felt himself relaxing. He finally looked over at Detective Martinez. She stared at a place beyond Margaret, almost as if the detective was processing the information.

Detective Martinez directed her attention back to Margaret. "Did he have any plans to visit the Lower East Side while he was here?"

Henry turned back to Margaret, in part to maintain his own emotions. The new widow shook her head. "No." She then thought for a second. "During our conversation before he disappeared, he stated that Kenneth Lanham had suggested that they meet at Clancey's and sample the restaurant's breakfast food. I believe that it is near Houston Street and Avenue B. William said that he would have to take the underground to get there from his hotel in Lower Manhattan."

Detective Martinez's voice caused him to turn to her again. "Who's Kenneth Lanham?"

"The real estate agent who is assisting us with our search for the space for our facilities. William had fancied a warehouse near the corner of West 41st Street and Seventh Avenue. He had hoped to speak with Mr. Lanham about the purchase of the place whilst they were eating breakfast."

Detective Martinez nodded. It seemed as though she didn't have any more questions for Margaret at the moment.

Henry looked back at Margaret. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Tears began to form in her eyes. She inhaled to stop them. "Thank you."

Detective Martinez walked around Henry's desk and toward the grieving widow. "I'll get a taxi for you." Margaret rose from her chair, and the two women began to exit the autopsy room. Detective Martinez laid her hand on the other woman's shoulder. "Trust me, it's hard losing a husband. You have to deal with it eventually, but now isn't the time. When the time comes, you don't have to go through it alone." She wrapped an arm around Margaret, who allowed herself to accept the detective's gesture.

As the two women stopped at the elevator and chatted as they waited for the car, Henry began to contemplate Detective Martinez's words. Maybe the advice about not going through a tragedy alone could apply to him as well. He hadn't lost anyone recently, but he could feel the emotional toll that his hospitalization had on him. He wished that he could tell Abe, Detective Martinez, and his colleagues about what he was experiencing.

The memories of his psychiatric evaluation while he was in Bellevue and his promise to himself that he would seek out a psychiatrist's assistance if his amnesia didn't resolve itself flashed in his mind. He sighed. He would have to wait another week before he could even begin to talk to anyone about his memory issues. Maybe the psychiatrist could give him some ideas of how to share the information with the people he was starting to care about.

A few minutes later, Detective Martinez strode into Henry's office. "At the rate Dr. Washington is going with his autopsies, you'll wind up doing all of his work. Do you care to join me in visiting Lanham's office before you get swamped with bodies?"

He studied her for a minute. It would give him a chance to gather more information to prove his innocence in the murder of William Ashbrooke. It also was an opportunity to spend some more time with Detective Martinez.

"Let me get my coat." He rose from his seat and proceeded to exchange coats. "Did Margaret mention where Kenneth's office is?"

"NYC Business Realtors near Seventh Avenue and West 47th Street." She stepped aside to allow him to pass by her. "And, yes, you have her permission to autopsy William's body." He looked at her in confusion. "I asked."

The pair walked out in silence. Henry found his thoughts drifting back to Detective Martinez's conversation with Margaret. He was surprised to learn that the detective had been married once before. Her loss easily explained how the two women could bond so fast. He longed to remember if Detective Martinez had told him about her husband's death and how Henry had comforted her in her time of need.

"Hey, guys!" Wahl's voice jerked Henry out of his thoughts. Wahl wore his tan coat, his Metro card, and his messenger bag. He had just arrived at work. "Got a lead on the case? Which one?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry could see Detective Martinez turn to Wahl. "Yeah. William Ashbrooke's murder."

Wahl gave the pair a blank stare. "Who?"

Henry placed his hands in his pocket. "The John Doe who was brought to our table yesterday."

"Oh. Have fun. I'll be here minding the morgue while you two go gallivanting through New York." Sarcasm dripped in Wahl's voice. He then grew thoughtful. "Seriously, how can I help?"

Henry smiled; he appreciated Detective Martinez's quick thinking. "You can begin to prepare William's body for autopsy." He nodded his head toward Detective Martinez. "She secured permission from William's widow Margaret while she was here earlier. I had already removed a couple of white fibers from his body, and Dr. Washington's assistant had taken a photograph of it. From what I could tell from the report, it was all the assistant was allowed to do."

Wahl rolled his eyes. "When will human resources fire the guy? Tori told me yesterday that he caused another one of us to quit." Wahl inhaled. "Yeah, I'll get started as soon immediately."

Henry felt Detective Martinez's hands around his bent elbow. "We have to get going." She nudged him toward the door. His body immediately complied with her tactile order. As he resumed his walk, he hoped that their interview would provide them with the information that they would need to prove his innocence.

The drive to the warehouse was quiet. Every time that Detective Martinez tried to speak, she stopped herself. A worried expression crossed her face with each instance. Henry could tell that she was concerned about something.

It seemed unfair that fate had drastically altered the detective's youth, that death had taken her husband, and that Henry's memory issues had stolen her friend. He longed for the ability to take the pain that she felt away from her. He instinctively reached his hand out to place it over her free hand that rested on the seat between them. When he realized what was happening, he withdrew his hand and returned it to his lap; the caring gesture might come across as too forward.

After they arrived at the parking lot near the corner of Seventh Avenue and West 44th Street, they got out of the car. Henry walked around and joined Detective Martinez. He wanted some way to break the silence. He looked around and studied the people in the distance. Some pushed carts and carriers while others carried briefcases. As he watched the people, he felt something break free in his mind.

"Most people blame the decline of life in garment districts, such as Spitalfields and Manhattan's, on mechanization and the importation of cheap fabrics. People's desire to be in style, however, necessitated the changes as the supply of clothes was frequently inadequate to meet the rising demand. For instance, in the United Kingdom before 1750, guilds produced clothes made from the more expensive silk and satin. Only men of means could afford large wardrobes for themselves and their families.

"Beginning in 1750, fashion trends set by Marie Antoinette, the upper classes' gravitation toward outdoor pursuits, changes in children's clothing, and the rise of the fashion-conscious dandy led to an increase in the demand for clothes. Garment makers who wanted to work with silk found a less expensive source from French silk weavers. Other makers began to use inexpensive, durable, washable fabrics such as wool, linen, muslin, and calico for their clothes.

"As a result, Irish and Huguenot silk weavers in Spitalfields saw their wages decrease as garment makers began purchasing the more inexpensive cloths. Price controls helped to stabilize silk weavers' wages, but the demand for inexpensive clothes drove the industry out of the area. The silk weavers who stayed eventually became impoverished, and, by the late 1800s, Spitalfields had become known as a slum area." How do I know that?

Hoping that he didn't bore her with his comments, he looked over at Detective Martinez. She stared at him. "Dandy could be used to describe you."

He wasn't sure if he should be offended by her remark. Her smile, however, indicated that her comment was tongue-in-cheek. He momentarily lowered his head and then returned the smile. "Fair point. Given my occupation, however, fashion consciousness prevents me from ruining my clothes."

"Says the guy who can perform emergency surgery in a suit and manage to keep it clean."

He changed his tone of voice to match hers. "I'm certain that I'm not the only one who desires to be fashionable."

Detective Martinez's jaw dropped. "If you're referring to my shoes…." She paused. "May I remind you I'm armed?"

He knew that he should had been frightened by her last comment. Her playful tone of voice, however, caused his smile to return and to widen. He realized that he enjoyed seeing her in a more lighthearted, if not impish, moment.

As much as he delighted in their banter, he knew that they needed to stop to focus on the task at hand. He extended his hand and gestured toward the street. "Shall we?"

She walked ahead of him. He started to follow her when a passing truck caught his eye. It stopped a few yards down the street, and the driver jumped out of the cab. He walked around and opened the back. A couple of moments later, the man rolled a cart stacked with boxes down the ramp and toward the building's back door.

Henry felt drawn to the Paul Stuart label on the boxes. He imagined the cardboard containers' contents of suits and casual clothes. He wanted to walk over to the delivery person and ask him about the store. Maybe he could find something that he would like to wear when he visited the retailer.

"Henry?" Detective Martinez's voice startled him. He turned to face her. She had a smile on her face.

His cheeks flushed. He had just proven her right. "I'm sorry. I…"

"Planning your next shopping trip?" She smiled as she passed him.

Grinning, he quickly joined her side. He studied her features. Her focused gaze and fading smile, however, stopped him from wanting to see more of her playfulness. She appeared to be contemplating the case. Perhaps it was for the best. They had a murder to solve, and they couldn't afford his distraction, no matter how pleasant it was.

They continued their walk in silence. After a moment, Detective Martinez spoke. "How did you know that Margaret was from Chelsea?"

"There were some slight differences in her accent." His answer surprised him. He looked at the detective; she waited for more information. He mentally reviewed their conversation with Margaret and noted her speech pattern. "The English spoken in Chelsea is more clipped and utilizes more glottal stops at the end of sentences. Furthermore, the pronunciation is more drawled as compared to other variants of British English." As he spoke, he felt as though his knowledge on the topic was incomplete.

He looked over at her. She stared at him. He couldn't tell whether she was bored or whether she somehow agreed with his assessment.

"I figured. Only you can pick up on something like that." She smiled at him before turning her attention to the busy intersection.

Remembering his close call from last Saturday, he followed her lead. If there was one thing that he didn't want to happen, it would be his death in front of her. William Ashbrooke's murder was traumatic for him; he could only imagine the grief that seeing his death would cause her.

Fortunately, the traffic lights held the cars back until the pair safely crossed West 47th Street. Henry scanned each building for the real estate office's sign. A second later, Detective Martinez stopped. She opened the nondescript high-rise's door. He reached out as it swung toward him, caught it, and held it open for her.

She looked slightly disgruntled as she stopped. "I could have gotten it myself." She stepped over the threshold anyway.

He let the door close behind them. "I thought that a chivalrous act would be pleasant, especially for a beautiful woman such as yourself."

Her sudden smile indicated her thanks. He returned the smile with one of his own.

Together, they found the directory and followed the signs to NYC Business Realtors' office on the eighth floor. Henry quickly opened the door and allowed her through the entrance. Once he entered the room, he looked around and observed the few people that cubicles didn't hide. The agents were either on the phone or busy at their computers.

Detective Martinez pulled her badge out of her pocket and showed it to the receptionist at the front desk. "We're here to see Kenneth Lanham." The self-confident woman directed them to a cubicle in the back right corner of the office.

The pair wove their way through the desks. As they neared the cubicle in question, Henry heard a pair of masculine voices coming from it. Henry could hear the words "price" and "warehouse". He wondered if they were discussing the warehouse that William was interested in. Then again, it could be just a coincidence; he and Detective Martinez passed one on their walk here.

A few steps later, Henry saw two men on opposite sides of a desk. The one closest to him made Henry think of a soldier in a dark grey business suit. On the other side of the desk, an impeccably dressed man in an expensive-looking suit noticed them.

Detective Martinez immediately removed her badge from her pocket again. "Kenneth Lanham?"

Kenneth rose from his seat, and the other man followed suit. "Oscar, we'll talk again later." Oscar turned around after shaking the realtor's hand. He gave Henry an askew glance as he left the cubicle.

Kenneth gestured to the chairs in front of his desk as he returned to his seat. "What can I do for you?"

The two sat down. "I'm Detective Martinez from 11th Precinct homicide, and this is Dr. Morgan. We're here because one of your clients has died."

"Which one?"

Henry felt the urge to speak. "William Ashbrooke. He was interested in a warehouse near West 41st Street and Seventh Avenue."

Kenneth's reaction was emotionless. "What happened?"

Detective Martinez spoke next. "He was shot last Monday morning."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. I don't understand why you are here."

Henry glimpsed at Kenneth's desk. As he read the realtor's open appointment book, he heard Detective Martinez. "You were scheduled to meet with him at Clancey's that morning. Am I right?"

Henry looked up. Kenneth seemed puzzled by the remark. "Yes, but he never showed. How…?"

Henry remembered his walk from earlier in the morning. It was a couple of miles from Delancey to East 23rd Street. "Houston Street and Avenue B is quite the distance from here. Why did you select that particular restaurant?"

Kenneth straightened his posture as he grew slightly agitated. "Everyone keeps mentioning how wonderful the breakfasts are there. I thought that I would treat an out-of-town client to one of their meals."

Henry glanced over at Detective Martinez. She looked around the cubicle. "This isn't my idea of a corner office. I pictured something more luxurious, like an actual office."

Kenneth leaned back in his chair. "Well, we're looking for a larger space ourselves. We've grown in operations over the past couple of years, and, as you can see, we're cramped in here."

Henry studied the man. Kenneth picked up an ink pen and twirled it around with his fingers. Henry wasn't sure if the man was agitated by the line of questioning or if he was nervous because of the police presence. Henry wished that he knew more about human nature to make an accurate observation.

The detective spoke again. "How many buyers have expressed an interest in the warehouse?"

"It's been on the market for a few years now. Mr. Ashbrooke has been the only one who seems interested in buying it."

Detective Martinez grew silent and looked down toward the floor. Once she finished her thoughts, she then rose from her chair. The two men followed her lead as she extended her hand to Kenneth.

"We'll be in touch." She then turned and walked toward the door. Henry followed her, and they wove their way through the building.

Once they exited the building, Henry turned to Detective Martinez. "Kenneth knows more than he's letting on."

"What do you mean?" She looked at him. "I agree, but what's tipping you off this time?"

"First, the man has an impeccable taste in suits. How can he afford expensive suits on a realtor's salary?"

"Maybe he's saved up over the years." A sense of familiarity washed over Henry, almost as if their conversation had happened once before. Detective Martinez's gaze drew his attention back to her. "What else?"

"I overheard Kenneth and Oscar Cushing discussing the price of a warehouse when we arrived. It seems as though Oscar is interested in it as well."

Detective Martinez wrinkled her eyebrows. Henry continued. "Kenneth's appointment book was opened to March 22, and he was scheduled to meet Oscar at the warehouse later that day."

She rolled her eyes and slightly opened her mouth in frustration. He recognized that it was the same look that she had given him when he had told her that he had broken into Gene Tomberlin's apartment. He needed to give her something to work with. "I think that you might need to investigate Oscar as well."

Detective Martinez gave him a perplexed look. "Why?"

"I believe that he might have recognized me." They stopped at the intersection and waited for the traffic light.

Detective Martinez's eyes widened, and her mouth opened fully. She looked both ways before closing her mouth. "In that case, we might have a second witness."

"What do you mean?"

"We have one, Tim Ledford, but we can't use his testimony. When we questioned him last night, he was drunk and had mistaken you for his boss."

"That explains why he had run from us." He paused as his thoughts immediately turned to his rejection of her request to accompany him back to the shop. He should had accepted the offer, but he had thought that the short walk would clear his head of the day's events. "About last night…"

"Don't apologize. You're going through a lot right now. When you're ready, I'm here if you want someone to talk to."

She began to lay her hand on his shoulder. He felt his shoulder starting to pull away from her, but he willed himself not to move it. To his surprise, his body obeyed his order. As her hand finished closing itself around his shoulder, a sense of comfort and relief flooded him. He stared at her, and he lost all power of speech. When he recovered it, all he could say was, "Thank you."

They continued their walk with her hand on his shoulder. He marveled at the power that she held over him. With every interaction between them, she always found a way to make him want to do anything for her. He wondered if he was starting to feel as though they could become more than close friends.

He, however, should know more about her for that to happen, and he needed to remedy that. So far, he hadn't given her much of a chance to speak about herself. "Why do you believe that Kenneth might be involved in William's death?"

"Aside from the expensive suit and the cheap corner office?" Henry nodded. "Realtors usually don't take their clients out to breakfast. I haven't told anyone this before, but when Sean and I were house-hunting…"

Sean. The name sounded vaguely familiar. Henry wondered if he met the man before.

Detective Martinez's voice continued. Henry wanted to listen to every word that she said. He smiled as they walked back to the car. Maybe this was the start of something that he hoped would last.

Henry walked through the antique shop's door and quickly wove his way through the antiques, stopping only to open the door leading to the living area. He hadn't felt this energized since his hospitalization, and he couldn't wait to tell Abe about his day.

Henry jogged up the stairs. The smell of warming chicken parmesan filled the air. He had lost his appetite last night, but he had one now.

He slowed down as he entered the kitchen. "The chicken parmesan smells good."

"Yeah." Abe stood next to the island and wiped his hands on the dishcloth. He laid it down on the counter. "How did your day go?"

"It was excellent." Grinning, Henry entered the living room and hung up his coat. "Detective Martinez and I learned the identity of the John Doe who was shot near here last Monday."

Abe leaned on the island. "So, who is it?"

"His name is William Ashbrooke, a British citizen looking to expand his business into New York. His widow Margaret had come here and identified his body this morning."

"What else happened?"

"Detective Martinez and I went to see the real estate agent who was handling the sale of a warehouse. Afterward, Mr. Wahl and I autopsied the body and proved that William definitely died from a gunshot wound. That was before we received two more bodies from Dr. Washington." He decided against telling Abe about the instances of déjà vu and about his and Detective Martinez's trips to and from the real estate office. The familiar feelings could had been just a figment of his imagination. As for the trips, they were far too personal to tell his roommate about them.

Abe stepped away from the island. "That's great!" He paused and inhaled. "Listen, I want to talk to you about something." He sounded serious.

A cold chill unexpectedly began to flow through Henry. "What?"

"I found three introductory forensic pathology books in your room last night."

"What were you doing in there? You have no business invading my privacy." Henry was surprised by his angry tone.

"That doesn't matter." Abe narrowed his eyes. "Don't think for a minute that I haven't picked up a few things from the resident Sherlock Holmes over the years. Henry, you're an experienced forensic pathologist. With all of the deaths that you've seen over your long life, you don't need the books."

What does he mean by "long life"? "I don't know what you're talking about." He heard the tension in his voice. Henry turned and walked toward the bedrooms so that he could change for dinner.

Henry could hear Abe's footsteps behind him. "Look, you always talk to Jo and me about what's going on in your head. Okay, almost always. Over the past week, though, you haven't mentioned anything about what happened to you when you disappeared. Now, what's going on here?!"

Henry stepped into the hallway's entrance. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"Dad!"

Henry couldn't believe his ears. He stopped, spun around, and looked at Abe. "What did you just call me?"

Abe's eyebrows rose, and his mouth momentarily dropped open. He looked away for a minute before turning back toward Henry. Sadness and shock filled his eyes.

Henry glanced away to maintain his composure. He wished that he knew what was going on. Abe was behaving normally, so his calling Henry "Dad" wasn't age-related. Still, nothing explained why the older man thought that Henry was his father.

Henry looked back at Abe. He still wanted to consider the older man as a member of his family. He should offer Abe some form of an olive branch.

He sighed. "I thought that I needed to look up some information about one of the cases. I brought the books home so that I could have more time to research what had been bothering me. As it turned out, I really didn't need them. I haven't gotten around to taking them back to the office." He hoped that Abe would accept his explanation—even if he didn't address his physical symptoms, his memory issues, or his whereabouts last week.

Abe still looked worried. He nodded, almost as if he was processing it. "Just researching a weird case. Okay." He took a couple of steps back. "I'll get dinner ready." As Abe walked back to the island, he looked as though he didn't fully believe Henry's excuse.

Henry looked at the food before walking toward the bedroom. He suddenly lost his appetite. His stomach growled, and he realized that he needed sustenance.

He quickly walked to his bedroom. He hoped that, by the time that he returned to the dining area, both he and Abe would be calmer. In his case, Henry knew that he would have to ignore their unusual argument for the time being. It might be his only hope for any form of a relationship with Abe.

Stunned, Abe stood at the island and watched his father disappear into the hallway. Tears began to well, but the young man willed himself to hold them back. His father would be back any minute. To distract himself, Abe began to set the food on the table.

Last night's events and the quick, quiet breakfast this morning had bothered the younger Morgan all day. Dad had always confided in him about anything, but, lately, he was refusing to let Abe in.

Now, he might know why. Abe inhaled as the image of his father's confused face after hearing the familiar name flashed before him. It was almost like Dad had no memory of the moment that Mom had placed him in Dad's arms…or of any event from Abe's life. Abe knew that somehow Dad's reaction was tied to his hospitalization, but he longed to know what had caused them.

Abe began to hear his father's footsteps coming from the hallway. Abe sighed. He now had the evidence that he needed for Jo. He couldn't wait any longer to talk with her; his mind wouldn't allow it.

As Dad entered the room, Abe planned to see her first thing in the morning. He hoped that she had seen the changes in Dad's behavior. If so, maybe, together, they could determine what was wrong with Dad and what they needed to do to correct it.

Author's Note: I know that Abe alternates between "Dad" (in the episode "6 AM") and "Pops". Since I have been using "Dad" to describe Henry from Abe's point of view, I decided that I should let Abe verbally use it here and in the remainder of the story to maintain consistency.