Whatever evil spirit had possessed Callen to invite Jocelyn Hart into his home, he had no idea. The sight of Hart in distress was more than the typically guarded agent could bear. And now she would be in his house for three whole days. When he took her in, Callen convinced himself he could take her presence. After all, he'd survived a fake engagement, if barely.

Their wager the previous night endangered that stipulation. It was refreshing-and confusing-to see her outside her role of police detective. As long as he reminded himself she was a cop, Callen could keep whatever impulses toward her in check. The sight of her in pajamas, eyes sultry with sleepiness, hair mussed and begging for his hands to comb through it, was another story.

She'd handled her weapon with practiced precision. The familiar metallic clicks kept his mind from wandering too much. He focused on winning. He did, of course, but she was a surprisingly adept student. That, he suspected, was the reason she'd survived on the force as long as she had.

The morning, on the other hand, was a rude awakening. He shouldn't have walked around shirtless or let her see the scars scattered across his torso. Then she'd reached out slim, soft fingers, and traced those jagged edges as if he was a masterpiece sculpture whose contours she studied. The thought of this sent involuntary shivers down his spine; he could still feel the paths her fingers had followed across his skin.

Callen mentally shook his head and steeled himself for three more days of the divine torture of Jocelyn Hart's presence.

"G, you okay?" Sam asked.

Callen schooled his face into a detached expression. "Yeah, why?"

"You seem distracted. Anything to do with your most recent near-death experience?"

"Nope, I'm good."

He was saved from further questioning when Deeks walked in.

"Lady and gentlemen," Deeks announced, "you are all invited over for a housewarming party!"

Kensi sat forward at her desk. "I'll be there as long as you aren't the one cooking."

"No need to worry on that account, Kens; Kayla's doing the cooking."

Kayla was an exceptional cook; the whole OSP knew it, waiting on the days she sent test recipes to work with her husband. Her "sammiches" were also legend, but she had yet to share the secret-and Deeks had yet to share the sammich.

"Then I'm there," Kensi confirmed.

"Good!" Deeks exclaimed. "You guys have been so great, helping with the move and all, she wanted to thank you."

"She should be thankful," Callen teased. "We don't want you straining your back too early in the marriage."

Deeks rounded on him. "Says the man who nearly dropped the oven down the stairs."

"If you'd been holding your side properly, that wouldn't have been a problem."

"I'll have to talk to Quinn," Sam interrupted the banter. Quinn, Sam's wife and former partner at the CIA, was a fiercely private woman-and probably the reason Callen hadn't known about Sam's kids for a large part of their NCIS partnership.

The team turned to look at Callen. "So?" Deeks prodded.

"What?"

"Will you come?"

There was no escape from the question. Callen liked Deeks, even enough to help him move, but he usually drew the line at house parties. The idea was a bit too white picket fence for him. "I don't know."

"He'll be there," Sam declared.

"Excuse me?"

"G, we all know you do nothing on Thanksgiving but rearrange your armory."

Callen couldn't contradict him-because it was true.

With the negative pregnancy test, Jocelyn was desperate to find any evidence against Pryor. She awoke the next morning determined to visit Jackson Pryor's wife before work.

Jocelyn took a deep breath before ringing the doorbell. A little misuse of government property had informed her that the man of the house was away on business, creating the perfect opportunity to talk with Mrs. Pryor. There was little doubt in Jocelyn's mind that Jackson's wife was as mistreated as Sophie was; she just had to prove it.

At the last second, Jocelyn had decided to leave her badge at home. Victims of abuse often shied away from law enforcement, and the last thing Jocelyn wanted to do was scare her off. Instead, she'd dressed in slim-cut pants and a simple top, lending herself the ambiguous look of a middle-class professional on her day off.

Aside from the goal of gaining an audience with Mrs. Pryor, Jocelyn was without a plan. She had no idea how far she'd get in the first place, and even if she could get through, the wife might throw her out. Squaring her shoulders, she rang the bell.

An elderly woman, most likely the housekeeper, answered the door.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes!" Jocelyn smiled politely, "Is Mr. Jackson Pryor in?"

"May I ask who is calling?"

"Camille Bowers," Jocelyn pulled the name out of thin air, "from the homeowners' association. I just have some zoning questions regarding the gardens."

"Well," she replied shortly, "Mr. Pryor is not in at the moment."

Jocelyn was well aware of the fact, choosing to ease into her true purpose. "Then may I speak to Mrs. Pryor?"

The housekeeper raised a brow at her, giving Jocelyn the impression that Mrs. Pryor didn't receive too many visitors.

"Mr. Pryor handles all matters of the house."

"But as lady of the house, I'm sure Mrs. Pryor can answer my questions," Jocelyn persisted.

She hesitated before opening the door. "I'll check if Mrs. Pryor is available for visitors."

"Thank you," Jocelyn offered a winning smile and stepped into the foyer.

"Wait here, please."

The detective heaved a sigh of relief as the housekeeper scuttled off to find Mrs. Pryor. The elderly woman was formidable, but Jocelyn couldn"t tell if she played the role of jail keeper or protector. Only time would tell.

The hallway was immense, decorated in stark black and white with floor-to-ceiling marble. A wide staircase curved upward to the second floor where a slim woman now descended.

Jocelyn's breath caught in her throat at the sight, for the lady was the spitting image of Sophie. She was taller and thinner, but the blonde hair and blue eyes were unmistakable. Did she know she was a copy? Did she know she was just one in a long line of blondes used to decorate Jackson's arm?

She was elegant in every sense of the word, from her impeccable posture to her perfect hair-and yet there was something off about her. The blue eyes looked weary, heavily concealed bags beneath each. Jocelyn wondered if the purple coloring was from lack of sleep or something even more painful. Her thin mouth held a determined line, as if holding on to the remnants of her dignity. Every feature was a warning sign she'd missed with Sophie. Jocelyn was now positive the woman was abused, and the detective vowed it would not go unpunished.

"Mrs. Pryor, I presume," Jocelyn greeted, pushing aside her grim thoughts.

"Please, call me Anne," she replied with practiced poise. "Evelyn mentioned you had some questions about the gardens?"

"Is there someplace private we can talk?"

"Of course."

Anne led her to a sun room at the back of the house. It was cheerier than the rest of the mansion, the colorful flowers a sharp contrast to the rest of the dismal decor. The shadows on Anne's face were filled with sunlight; she looked younger here.

"Now, Ms. Bowers, how can I help you?"

Jocelyn took a deep breath. "I have a confession to make."

"Oh?"

"My name isn't Camille Bowers; it's Jocelyn Hart, and I'm not from the homeowners' association."

Anne's eyes went frantic, but Jocelyn continued before she could protest.

"I'm sorry to deceive you, but I had to speak with you."

"Whatever for?"

"I know your secret."

"What secret?" Anne looked genuinely confused; Jocelyn wondered if she'd made a mistake.

Nevertheless, she pressed on. "I know what Jackson does to you."

"What does he do to me?"

"I know he beats you around, makes you feel worthless, and treats you terribly."

Anne searched for any trace of familiarity to explain Jocelyn's bluntness. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

No denial, that was good. "No, but I knew a girl like you."

"I don't understand."

Jocelyn cursed inwardly. Of course she didn't. "I had a friend, growing up. She was the sweetest, most unaffected girl in school until she met this one boy. At first, he treated her like gold. He showered her with gifts and compliments, whisking her away to Paris and New York or Hawaii. But he could never get her into bed. So he told her to prove her love...and after months of denying him, she gave in. He didn't even use protection, and she got pregnant. Then the abuse started. He became a monster. He told her that if she loved him, she'd get rid of the baby."

"I'm sorry for your friend," Anne began, "but I don't see what this has to do with me."

"But it does." Jocelyn inched closer. "That man was Jackson Pryor."

The bombshell visibly affected Anne, but the emotion was gone as quickly as it registered. Only years of experience with Sophie and Kayla allowed her to read the micro expression.

"That's not possible," Anne replied finally.

"I know that it's hard to believe, but it's the truth. Jackson and I were in high school together. I know him well."

At that moment, a small blonde girl bounded into the sunroom. "Mama!" she squealed, leaping into her mother's lap. "Dolly lost her shoe!"

Anne turned to the little girl who looked no more than five years old. "Is that so? Here; let me help." The mother patiently slid the shoe onto the doll's foot and buttoned the strap. "There. Good as new."

An exasperated-looking woman Jocelyn deduced to be the nanny came blustering in. "Now, Miss Sophie, what have I told you about interrupting your mother?"

Sophie? Jocelyn nearly choked. He wouldn't be so bold.

"That's all right, Clarice," Anne smiled at the nanny then back at her daughter. "A missing shoe is no small thing. How would Dolly walk to school without it?"

Still, the nanny gathered up the child and exited the room quickly.

Jocelyn turned to Anne, undisguised horror on the detective's face.

"Anne," she asked slowly, "who chose Sophie's name?"

"Jackson. He was quite insistent, and I thought it was such a beautiful name. Sophie Harmony."
It took all of Jocelyn's composure not to vomit.

"As I was saying," Anne continued, "that's impossible because Jackson allowed me to keep the child. He even married me for it."

"Did he ask you to abort?"

Anne took a moment to respond. "Yes, but when he saw I was determined..."

"How could you do it?" Jocelyn was done being nice. The pain was unfathomable. "How could you marry him knowing what he was—is—capable of? Why would you marry a monster?"

"Because I loved him!" she exclaimed. "And I'll ask you not to insult my husband in his own house. In fact, I'd like you to leave now."

Jocelyn knew when she'd been beaten. "Fine." She raised her hands in parley. "But please, just read this letter."

Even as she reached into her pocket, she wished she didn't have to do this. The letter was too personal for anyone but Jocelyn. It was also evidence, but even Sophie agree it was for a good cause.

"My friend, Sophie, wrote this before she killed herself and her baby. I'll leave you alone, but please, just read it. There's a photo inside, and I'll leave my name and number in case you do want my help."

Anne stood to receive the letter, squeezing Jocelyn's hands in the process.

"I'm sorry about your friend, truly."

"Thank you." Jocelyn bequeathed the letter and found her way out.

The smell of scotch assaulted Callen's senses as he entered the house. He paused long enough to hear the clink of ice against a crystal tumbler.

"Another bad day, Hart?" he called.

A hollow laugh echoed from the kitchen. "They seem to be common as of late, don't they?"

He rounded the corner to see Jocelyn in all her scotch-swilling glory. "You do enjoy trends."
She was dressed in leggings and a loose-fitting sweater; the same one she'd worn to give him the peace offering. That grey top, innocently slipping off one shoulder and ending just below the curve of her bottom, held a special place in his heart.

He watched as she pulled out another glass. The crystal wasn't from Callen's own collection; Hart had likely retrieved them from her collection…along with the scotch.

The amber liquid swirled as she poured it into the glass. Three perfect cubes of ice plinked into the glass and she handed it to him. In one sip, Callen remembered just how much he loved scotch.

"Macallan, 25 year single malt," she elaborated. "Cure for the worst of bad days."

"Oh, I am familiar with it. Hetty keeps a few bottles around."

"Hmm," Jocelyn took another sip. "I knew I liked her."

"Yeah, she's pretty great." Callen pulled himself up to sit on the island. "So what made today a bad one?"

"I visited Anne Pryor."

The agent nearly choked on his liquor. "You what?"

"I visited Pryor's wife."

"Oh, I heard you. Hart, I knew you were crazy, but that's suicide."

"It's not like he was home," Jocelyn offered the weak justification.

"You don't think he'll find out?"

"Anne won't say anything."

A wistful look glazed over her face.

"What?" he prodded.

Jocelyn swallowed. "Anne has a kid."

"That's not so uncommon," Callen allowed. "Married people are allowed to have kids."

"Named Sophie?" Jocelyn cut him off with an exasperated gasp. "What sick bastard names their child after the woman they as good as murdered? What is it with these people anyway? Pryor Is clearly an abusive psychopath. His wife is the spitting image of the original Sophie."

Callen knew better than to speak. Jocelyn was headed toward a very long rant and the agent knew better than to get in the middle of it. It became very clear after their time together that the detective was a verbal processor. At first, the chatter had irked him, but time, or madness, had endeared the oft-beleaguered detective to him.

"Why won't anyone take this seriously? It's so obvious."

"Do you want help, or do you just want to talk?"

She grinned appreciatively at him over her tumbler. "You may speak."

"You need to break it down. What proof of the crime do you have?"

"I have a letter from Sophie dated the night she died."

"So, a suicide note."

Jocelyn sighed in annoyance. "It is not a suicide note."

"What did it say?"

The handwritten note, written on Sophie's personal stationery, was forever emblazoned on her memory. "That she couldn't live with herself if she had to give birth to Pryor's kid."

"So, a suicide note."

"NOT a suicide note!" She threw her hands up. "Fuck, I know it seems crazy, but have you ever felt something in your gut so strongly that it is fact to you? Did anyone listen to you, but you knew in your heart what truly happened? Did you let it go? Would you let it go?"

"Yeah, I think you're crazy."

Jocelyn's face shot up to look at his, eyes rimmed with murder.
"But you're a special brand of crazy—one that I understand even more than you know."

"What?"

"I believe you, but as long as you pursue this headlong without any regard for the rules or your coworkers, no one will take you seriously. Look at you!" he laughed. "Your appearance alone sets you at a disadvantage."

"How so?"

He leaned toward her. "When I saw you for the first time, I thought you weren't human. I mean, no one on the force looks like you. Your hair—" he reached out to touch a strand. "I've never seen hair like yours except in Disney movies."

Red blush crept up Jocelyn's neck to color her pale cheeks. She'd been told before she was gorgeous, but Gabriel Callen rarely gave out compliments. He was analyzing her...and she'd never felt more beautiful.

"Seriously!" he confirmed. "Then, when I saw you again, I was so determined to hate you. But even when you were trying to seduce me, I was a hair's breadth from taking you up on your offer."

Jocelyn's face threatened to turn into a tomato.

"Why do you think I call you Princess?"

"Because I'm a rich, selfish, spoiled brat?"

"Well, yes," the agent acknowledged, "but also because you look like one. You should live in dresses like the one you wore that night at the gala. You were born to wear them."

"But that look isn't helping me. No one will look at me twice."

"You can fool them," Callen suggested. "Fool them into believing you fit the mold. You're smart, I've seen it. It's just like going undercover. Every time I'm given a new alias, I strip away everything that I am and put on a different identity. If I were to ask a terrorist where he keeps his bomb as Special Agent G. Callen, he'd lie. But if I were to go undercover as a recruit, he would tell me where it is, strap it to my chest, and send me on my way. Sometimes you have to become who other people need you to be. Adapt."

"Adapt," she repeated, taking another sip of scotch. "I can do that."

"Here's what I don't understand." Callen readjusted himself to a safe distance away from her. "Why do you feel the need to do this yourself? Do you need to prove yourself that badly?"

"This was never about me."

"Then who? Because you spent a lot of time justifying your presence on the force. You'd be so much happier doing something else."

"It's about Sophia."

"Are you sure Sophia isn't just a pretense? I know better than to believe a suicidal girl would spur you on to such drastic lengths."

"It's the truth," Jocelyn sighed. "I was so wrapped up in my parents' divorce that I didn't see the signs. Trust me, if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be here."

"Where would you be?"

"I-" It was a simple question, but Jocelyn was stumped. She chose to dodge the question. "Well I wouldn't be standing here talking to an inquisitive asshole."

"Think about it," he prodded.

"I don't know," she admitted. "What I do know is I can't rest until I've paid my atonement. Pryor needs to come to justice."

"What then? Will you go on saving the world from every abusive relationship? Because that sure as hell isn't going to happen." He made sure to catch her attention before dropping his voice to a whisper. "You can't save everyone, Hart."

"I can try."

Despite her stubbornness, all Callen wanted to do was wrap her up in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. That he would handle it and no one would ever hurt her or her friends again. Instead he stood, fists balled to suppress the impulse to take her hand.

"When you figure it out, let me know."