(Thanks to demonchilde!)

SOUNDLESS, BOUNDLESS, I'LL SURROUND YOU

Sam blew out a frustrated breath and leaned her head back to rest against her comfortable desk chair. She was in the middle of reviewing the ten cases John and Marcus had weaned for her inspection. She had discarded four cases completely, but something about the murder of Marie Deak of Owatonna, Mn, was off. It wasn't the work of the killer loose in Tuscaloosa, that was certain. The modus operandi and signature of the Owatonna killer were far too different.

She decided to go talk to Marcus and John about the Deak case and stretch her legs in the process. She spotted her coworkers at their joint desk and approached them.

"Hey, guys. I've been reviewing the cases that might be linked to the Tuscaloosa killer. What made you select the Marie Deak case?"

"Deak was dating a copper from Rochester at the time of her murder. The boyfriend was adamant that the chessboard found at the scene didn't belong to her. He got wind of our enquiry and sent us the case files," Marcus explained.

"Doesn't the Deak killer fit the profile?" John asked.

"No, he doesn't. The way he got access to Deak, how he killed her, doesn't match the profile."

"So where does that leave things?" John wondered.

Sam rubbed her forehead. "Beats me. Alright, thanks." She retreated back to the serenity of her office, put the radio on a classical music station and decided to chill for a while. Maybe she'd divine the connection that way. She grabbed her glass sphere and rolled the heavy object from one hand to another, letting her mind wander where it wanted.

She'd been relaxing for ten minutes when she heard a knock at the door. She smiled when she saw that the intruder was Bailey.

"Hey. You reviewing the case files John and Marcus have selected?" Bailey stepped closer to the desk and noticed she was handling her sphere. "Getting nowhere, huh?"

"Afraid so. Have a look, yourself." She placed the globe on the desk and handed the Deak case file to him. "After all, you taught me. If I come up short, it's on you," she added with a mishievous grin.

"Unassailable reasoning, right there," he quirked his eyebrow, sat down on the chair on the other side of the desk and started reading.

Minutes passed with the classical music playing softly in the background. Sam observed the man in front of her. Her thoughts flew to her brief introspection from last night. She'd qualified her relationship with Bailey as a deep, yet platonic friendship.

She knew she loved him. As a friend. Angel was simply imagining things.

She breathed deeply, her eyelids growing a bit heavier. Her gaze softened, as if she were about to fall asleep. But she didn't really feel sleepy. Her foggy vision landed on the strong fingers of Bail's left hand. For some reason, he was flicking his thumb against his index finger. The curious sight amused her.

She kept her gaze on Bailey for a couple of minutes, until he'd skimmed through the file. "Okay, I see what you mean," he remarked without looking at her. His words snapped her out of her groggy state. "But I assume the chessboard didn't belong to Deak." She replied by shaking her head.

"You've been reading up on chess. Do you have any insights you could share?" Sam asked.

"Well, it's got quite an extensive history. Its predecessor games originate from the sixth century AD. The version we play now was established in Europe in the fifteenth century. It's a game of strategy and finesse."

"Do you know how to play?"

"A little. When I was a recruit, my roommate played chess and tried to teach me. He gave up quickly." Bailey laid the case file on Sam's desk.

She thought it time to grasp at straws. "Let's try to brainstorm some more. What else can you tell me?"

"Well, let's see. The chessboard is eight by eight spaces. Each player gets sixteen pieces, eight pawns, two rooks, bishops and knights each, a queen and a king. The white player gets the first move, then the black player, then back and forth until there's a checkmate."

She considered the way the chessboards had been used in the crimes. "The thing is, the chessboards are props, but they have a very specific reason."

"But the killer doesn't make the victims participate in the game."

"No, the victims are like chess pieces..." She froze, finally starting to see why the chessboards were a part of the killer's signature. "They are the chess pieces. We're dealing with two killers, who are matching their wits in a deadly game of chess."

"Two killers? Are you sure?"

"Yes. That's why the Deak case doesn't match with the profile of the Tuscaloosa killer. Deak was murdered by the other killer."

"So you think the unsubs are killing people connected to the opponent?"

"Exactly."

"Okay. Go through the other cases John and Marcus selected, then get started on a profile for the second killer."

Frances drove up the street to home when she spotted a white and pale green car again, parked a couple of houses down from the house. She gripped the driving wheel tighter, slowed down the velocity and cast a look over the view. No sign of Danny on the front yard. She figured that she'd make it safely inside if she parked quickly and hurried. No time to drive the car into the garage.

Frances didn't know that Danny was stationed in the passenger seat in his car, slouching low so as to not attract unwanted attention. When he noticed Frances turning onto the driveway, he instantly opened the door and jogged across the lawns, catching up to Frances before she reached the front door. He halted her progress and turned her around with a hand on her shoulder.

She eyed him indignantly. "You got a lot of nerve, staking out a federal agent's house."

"Federal agent's house. Are you trying to scare with your big shot G-man daddy? I remember a time when you weren't so taken with daddy dearest," Danny uttered with a sleazy smile gracing his handsome face. Frances rolled her eyes and averted her gaze.

"Besides, I have fond memories of all the times I dropped you off here," the young dark-haired criminal continued.

Frances didn't rise to the bait. "Leave before I scream and someone calls the cops on your ass."

Danny looked nonplussed. "I'm shaking in my boots. I've come to collect what is mine. Cash, what you owe me," he clarified.

Frances huffed. "What I owe you? That'd be zero dollars, numb nuts."

He shook his head ominously. "I figure you owe me at least three hundred for the gas. Let's add another hundred as interest and leave it at that."

"I paid my fair share of everything, food, motels and, oh yeah, gas!" she spat out.

He didn't look too interested in squaring things off in a fair manner. "Well, let's call it car rent, then. Either way, I want my money."

"What makes you think I'm just gonna give it to you?"

"Old times' sake," Danny moved his right hand toward her, and she blocked it swiftly and took a step back. "I'm thinking that daddy doesn't know that I have his gun. Thought so," he commented snidely after Frances blanched.

"I'll find come you in a couple of days. Make sure you have my money then." He turned on his heels and headed down the street. Frances shot daggers at his back and watched him get inside his car. She then got quickly inside.

She paced the living room, waiting for her dad to arrive home. He should get home shortly. She'd tell him everything, she would have to. She wished that after this, they could finally put the shooting behind them, once and for all. No more stark reminders of the worst day of their lives.

Twenty minutes later, Bailey opened the front door to find his daughter sitting on the sofa, twitching her feet.

"Hey, sweetheart. Why is your car on the driveway? Did you lose your keys?" He turned silent when he noticed her anxious state. "What is it, what's wrong?" He closed in on her.

"Don't worry, daddy, I'm fine. But I do need to talk to you." She waited until he'd sut down on the armchair.

"You remember that when I went on the lam, I hitched a ride out of town with a guy called Danny, Danny Bohanon?" After his nod she continued: "Well, I spent the two months more or less in his company, driving up and down the south. I think he's wanted on some charge here, breaking and entering or something."

Frances drew a deep breath. "Well, he's back in Atlanta. He was waiting outside the house when I drove home."

Bailey's expression darkened to a dangerous black. "Are you okay?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes, I'm fine. Really."

He searched his daughter's face for a while. Then he asked: "What did he want?"

"Money. Four hundred bucks. For the use of his car."

"Why does he think he can shake you down like this?"

Frances looked at her hands, ashamed of what she was about to reveal. "Because he has the gun. The one I..." her voice strangled up.

Bailey realised what she couldn't manage to say out loud. For a moment, he thought the scar was acting up again, a fleeting pain searing through his chest. He realised Frannie was talking again. "I had it with me, the whole time, but we went our separate ways after a fight, and I left the bag where it was on the backseat. That's how he got it."

He comforted his daughter. "It's alright, sweetheart. I'll ask the Atlanta pd to put an APB on him and his car. He'll be in custody in no time."

"Okay," Frances nodded her head, tears in her eyes.

"Come here." Bailey stood up and pulled Frances into a bear hug.

He would call on John to use his contacts in the local police force to shake up former accomplices of Bohanon, check out places where he could lay low while in Atlanta. For the time being, he wouldn't let Frannie out of his sight.

On Saturday morning, Sam dialled the number of her former in-laws. She'd called them last week and left a message on their answering machine, but they hadn't returned her call. It seemed like she would have to be the one to reach out to them. In a way, she was pissed off. She wasn't thrilled to be the only one making in the effort in this situation. She'd had her fill of one-sided trying in the relationship with her own dad.

But, she had to concede that something had broken in her relationship with Helen and Charles. Actually, two things had broken the bond. First, Tom had died, leaving a strained relationship. Second, Tom's parents had sued for Chloe's custody, and had taken their defeat hard.

Sam had never really gotten the feeling that Helen had accepted her completely. That subtle rejection had stung her, but she'd brushed it off, for she'd had Angel's mom Rose to fill the mother role in her life. However, her relationship with Charles was, or had been, different. He'd welcomed her with open arms from the get-go.

The call kept on ringing and ringing. Sam was beginning to think that she'd have to leave another message when someone picked up at the other end.

"Hello?"

The voice belonged to a woman, but it wasn't Helen's. "Emma, is that you?"

"Yeah. Sam?"

"Yes, hi! So nice to hear your voice. How are you?" Out of Tom's two sisters, Sam had always gotten along with the laid-back Emma. The older sister, wilfull Margaret, was a whole different story.

"I'm fine, thank you. Just visiting for the weekend. How's it going with you?"

"We're all good. Listen, I was just calling to ask if there are any plans for your dad's birthday. It's the big one this year, isn't it?"

"Well, yeah, there'll be a small gathering on the day here at the farm. Haven't you been invited yet?"

Sam bit her lip to keep back a tart reply. "No... Not yet."

"Well shit, you are invited, I'm inviting you on dad's behalf. I know he'd love for you and Chloe to be there."

"Okay, thanks, but I'd love to hear it from the man himself."

"I'll take care of it. Listen, both of them are just now in the stables, but I'll let them know you called. I'm sure they'll get back to you soon."

"Thanks. It was nice talking to you."

"Yeah, you too. See you in a couple of weeks."

"See you, bye."

Sam hung up, her head fuming a bit. So Helen hadn't planned on inviting them to a family celebration. She might have to give the older woman a little talking-to at one point or another. This time, it looked like her grandmother wasn't the one putting Chloe first.

During Sunday night, at around 3.30 am, Bailey got a call from the police force. Danny Bohanon had been arrested on a KFC drive-in lane on the outskirts of Atlanta. A police patrol had spotted his unique-looking car and had made the arrest on the spot. A Glock had been found underneath the driver's seat. The pd would run the serial number on the gun, since the arrested suspect didn't have any documentation for the firearm.

Bailey almost told them not to bother; he was sure it was his gun. He laid awake in bed after the call, restless. So now he knew what had happened to it. His Glock. He grimaced and shifted onto his other side.

He wasn't like John; he hadn't kept the bullet that had almost killed him. If he had the choice, he would have the damn gun melted down to a smoldering puddle of polymer. But, the pd would run the serial number, and then would let it gather dust in the evidence box linked to his shooting.

He wondered if he should go see it. He'd thought he'd made his peace with the events, but now this gun business was trudging up unease, quite unexepectedly.

Bailey realised that Sam was still in the dark about what had happened to him and Frances since Friday night. He decided to visit her during the day. He wanted to catch her up with everything.

He wasn't any closer to catching sleep again. He got up to get a glass of water. As he was heading to the kitchen, he spotted a light streaming from under the door in Frances' room. He tiptoed to it, opening the door slowly. The desk lamp beside the bed was still on, but Frances seemed asleep. He turned off the lamp, which woke up his daughter, who'd been sleeping on the covers.

She sprang up quickly, the book she'd been reading before falling asleep sliding to the floor in a loud thump. "Whuh?"

"Shh, it's okay, Frannie, it's me." He turned the lamp on again.

"Dad?" Frances rubbed her sleepy eyes.

"Yeah. You'd left the light on. I came in to turn it off."

"Um. Okay. Why are you up?"

"I got up to drink some water." He decided to inform her of Bohanon's arrest. Put her mind at ease. "A call from the police woke me up. Bohanon was arrested a few hours ago."

Frances sat up on the bed. "Really?"

"Yeah, he's in custody as we speak. We won't be seeing him for a long time."

"And... the gun?"

He took pains to reply instantly. "They found it in the car."

She let her eyes fall down to gaze at the bed cover. She stroked it gently, gathering her courage. "What's going to happen to it?"

"It's gonna go into the evidence box," he told her gently.

She digested the news, then sighed deeply. "Oh, okay. Good, I guess?" Frances was unsure how to react at the moment.

He smiled at his daughter. "Good, sweetheart. Let's go back to bed, both of us."

"Bail, what are you doing here?" Sam greeted her unexpected guest with a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"Just took a chance. I'm not interrupting, am I?" He knew he was making an unannounced visit.

"No, I was just fixing myself something to eat. Angel and Chloe went to buy some pet food for Denzel. Come on in."

"Thanks." Sam retreated to the kitchen. He took of his black leather jacket and hung it on the frame of one of the dining table chairs. Then, he joined his friend in the kitchen.

"So, what's up? Can I get you something?"

"No, I'm good." He'd been planning on going on a long ride on his Harley, to clear his head, then bring Sam up-to-date about everything. But somehow he'd ended up straight at her doorstep, before the ride.

"I actually came here to tell you something."

His grave tone of voice had her stopping her task at the kitchen counter and turning to face to him.

"What?" She gazed at him, worry in her eyes. He sat down at the round kitchen table.

"Well, long story short: on Friday, the guy Frances was on the lam with, showed up at our house to extort some money out of her. His leverage was... the gun she'd used," Bailey hedged. "He had it in his possession. I put an APB on him, and he was arrested last night."

"Friday? You say this started on Friday?" she applied special emphasis on the day of the week. "Any reason you didn't tell me right away?"

"I don't know. I guess I didn't want to worry you."

So, he'd decided go at it alone, like he always did. He didn't apparently know that the shooting hadn't happened to him alone; it had also happened to her. "Well, I would have liked to have known," she chided him gently, letting go of the impulse to ream him a bit.

"How are you feeling?" She sat down beside him.

He didn't have an answer to that one. "I have no idea. You would think that knowing where the gun is would give me a sense of closure. That isn't out there in the world, wreaking havoc on someone else's life. But..."

"Sometimes closure isn't that obvious. Let me ask you something. When Frances first brought up the gun, did something happen?" She observed him closely.

How could she know that? "I thought I could feel the shot all over again." She covered his left hand with her right one.

"But you didn't feel like that when you told me, right? The impact had faded?" He nodded silently.

"There, you see." He didn't look too comforted, prompting her to prod further.

"What about nightmares? Did you have those?"

"Maybe. I did sleep restlessly," he added to his reply.

"If you have any more, ones you remember, you can always call me, night or day."

"Thanks."

She suspected that despite her offer, he wouldn't trouble her in the end. She wanted to drive home her point. "You do realize that the shooting didn't happen to just you, don't you?"

She saw his moment of realization. He didn't utter a word, but raised her hand to his lips, kissing the back of her hand gently.

On Monday afternoon, Sam, Bailey and George were sitting in the command center. The resident computer whiz had had a few weeks to comb through thousands of bytes of data, looking for suspicious occurrences of the name Jack and variations thereof, coupled with last names associated with Sam.

"I have preliminary results. I prioritized the names in running the algorithm, giving a higher value to a combination like Jack Waters than a name like John Lawson. The algorithm also took into account significant dates in the investigation, such as dates of his kills, messages he's sent to Sam and so forth."

"What did you find?" Bailey was impatient to get to the point.

"No hits on tax records or hospital patients. I'm still combing through the DMV and the records of the criminal system. Any tips on how to prioritize those?"

"Look for petty stuff, like parking tickets. Jack's kept a tight leash on his actions so far. Nothing indicates that he's messed up even in the slightest," Sam pointed out.

"But he isn't infallible. He has been on the run a few times now. If nothing comes up otherwise, focus on those time periods," Bailey advised George.

"You mean the time when he escaped from the convent and the time Sam shot him?"

"Exactly. Those times, he was improvising and fast. He might have left a trail somewhere."

"The post office box lease in Sandy Springs expires tomorrow," George reminded his boss and the profiler. "An agent from the Columbia field office has a court order at the ready. He'll stake out the place for one more day and then confiscate any items in the box."

"A lot of good that'll do us. There's probably only Samson's last letter there," Sam sighed.

"Still, it'll be good to have it in our possession. See if it squares with what she's told us," Bailey commented. "Thanks, Georgie. Good job."

On Tuesday night, the phone call Sam had been waiting for finally came in. When the phone rang, she abandoned cummings' poetry collection which she'd started to read again to find a particular stanza that was stuck in her mind.

"Hello?"

"Hello Sam, it's Helen." Sam's former mother-in-law's voice sounded a little strained.

"Hi Helen, how are you?" Sam asked out of pure courtesy, being careful not to let her pissed off state of mind seep into her own voice.

"Thank you, we're all doing good. How about you?"

"Just fine. Emma told you I'd called, did she?"

"Yes, she did. Of course you're welcome to attend Charles' party. I just figured that with that job of yours, you might not be able to make it." Sam gritted her teeth at Helen's poor excuse.

"I'm on holiday that week and we don't have any special plans. While we're up there, we could discuss Chloe spending a week or two at your place during her summer break," Sam suggested magnanimously. "I know she'd love it."

"That would be very nice, Sam," the older woman replied graciously.

Having broken the ice, Sam got to down to business. "So, when is the big party, then?"

"It'll be on June 14, here at the farm."

"Okay. What about gifts, is there something you're all getting?"

"No, Charles doesn't want anything. If you insist on getting something, make it small."

"Will do. Would you like to talk to Chlo?"

"Of course."

"I'll get her on the phone then. See you in a couple of weeks. Bye." Sam laid the handset on the table and walked to get her daughter on the phone.

As Chloe chatted with her grandmother, Sam started thinking about a present for Charles. She came up with and discarded several ideas before remembering that she probably still have some negatives from Tom's college graduation. She should go through those and see if there was a photo worth developing and giving to Charles.

Angel emerged from her room to plop down onto the sofa, armed with one of her favorite books: Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day. It occurred to Sam that she hadn't asked from Helen whether Angel was invited or not.

"Angel, I just made plans to go up to Richmond for Charles' 60th birthday in a couple of weeks. Do you want to tag along?"

Angel took a moment to consider the offer, then shook her head. "Nah, not really. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, of course not. They're my in-laws, not yours," Sam responded in a breezy but hushed tone, taking care that Chloe not hear her.

While she loved Sam like a sister and had thought the world of Tom, there was no denying that Angel plainly disliked the elder Waterses. She had never made her opinions known, but she avoided them whenever she could, and when that wasn't in the cards, she was determined to kill Helen with kindness.

Charles treated her with respect, but Helen would always manage to make a little racist dig at her. So no, she wasn't keen on spending an evening in the woman's company.

Sam seated herself on Melinda's comfortable, plush leather chair. This time, the session was taking place at Melinda's home office. The red-haired woman had worked from home for a week, putting the finishing touches on an article she planned to publish in a psychology journal. Melinda was sipping tea, but Sam had declined her offer of a beverage.

"How have you been since we last spoke?"

"I've been good. I've started exercising, that's a change for me," she chuckled out loud. "I converted a closet at the house into a dark room. I've been taking more photos as a result. Of Angel's sculptures, my friends. No landscapes so far," she made a gesture with her head to the direction of Melinda's living room, where an enlarged photograph by Sam was hanging.

Melinda smiled mildly. "What about work?"

"We're making some progress with Jack's case. We're now waiting to see how much of it pans out."

"Have you met Lesher again?"

"Yes, I interrogated her. And," she continued before Melinda had the chance to ask herself, "she didn't reveal anything horrific. That was a relief."

"So, what else is new?"

"Ah... This man I met during an investigation last year contacted me. You're gonna laugh," Sam added pre-emptively, thinking that Melinda, like Bail, would discount Wykoff's gift right off the bat.

"Why do you say that?"

"He claims to be psychic. Empathic, actually. And I believe him," she asserted in a firm tone.

Melinda's face didn't reveal what she thought, one way or another. "You said he contacted you. Why?"

Sam took a beat, her gaze shifting down to her hands. "Well, the reason I believe him is because he held my hand for a while. He could tell that I used to play all kinds of puzzles with my mom. He also knew about Jack. He wants to help in catching him."

"I see."

"We, I mean, I met him in connection to a murder investigation. Elliot's, he's the psychic, Elliot's friend was killing people connected to murders he couldn't help solve. Elliot was his ultimate target."

"But he's still alive," Melinda remarked with a questioning tone.

"Yeah, we caught the killer in time. Not before Elliot's wife was murdered, though. When Elliot realized who'd killed his beloved wife, he slipped into a non-pathological catatonia. I was there when it happened," she added.

"Oh my."

Sam nodded her head repeatedly. "He fell into the abyss," she remarked in a tiny voice.

"The abyss?"

"A depository of all human evil. That's where Elliot believed he was headed. His last manuscript had countless drawings of it."

After a moment, Melinda pointed out: "You seem to recall a lot about this man."

"Like I said, he contacted me. That got me thinking about him again."

Melinda gave Sam an evaluating look. "That's it? That's the extent of your connection to him?"

"To be honest, I was very stressed out during that period of time. Bailey would say that I came very close to a burnout."

"Oh?"

"I was losing things, having trouble profiling, snapping at my coworkers," she revealed to Melinda.

"I once suggested quitting to you. Did you consider leaving the Bureau during that time?"

Sam was silent for a while, thinking back to the events. "A friend quit the FBI at that time. He later came back, but anyway, he also said that I should quit, that I'd seen too much."

"But you didn't quit."

"It was never an option," Sam stated resolutely.

"And you didn't burn out. How did you avoid it?"

Sam got to pondering why she hadn't burnt out all those months ago. The thing she remembered the best was Bailey's unrelenting presence. "I guess Bailey helped me through. He didn't really do anything, but... He was just there."

"Ready to make sure that you didn't fall into the abyss?"

"Yeah."

Silence spanned for a while as Sam thought about Bail but didn't give voice to the workings of her mind. Finally, Melinda picked up the subject again.

"So what do you think about this Elliot's offer?"

"I neglected to tell you that Elliot has a degenerative heart condition. He has about a year to live. Obviously, that makes the situation even more fraught," Sam bit her lip.

"I understand."

"A part of me wants to decline and let Elliot live out his remaining days in peace. He once said that he's died a hundred deaths. How can I impose any further suffering on him?"

"And the other part?" Melinda prodded.

"Wants to jump at his offer. I want to know everything, anything, that might lead to Jack's capture," Sam sighed and ran her hands through her hair.

"Have you considered that your conflicted feelings may be caused, in part, by your identifying with him?"

"I haven't wanted to consider that," she confessed.

"You're going to have to. The similarities are there. Both of you have had loved ones killed by someone who thinks he's acting for your good. You both have a gift that is sometimes a burden, and you both feel compelled to help people to the best of your ability. At the time when you came close to a burnout, he fell into catatonia."

The similarities seemed stark even to Sam herself, and yet, she didn't utter a word.

"You can't ignore that, Sam. Promise me you won't."

Sam tilted her head slightly, signaling her intent to listen to Melinda's advice.

Sam poked her head into Bailey's office at the end of the day on Thursday. "Hey you, going home any time soon?" she asked, observing the high pile of case files he seemed to be wading through.

"I'm giving this another hour, then calling it a day," he made easy of his long work hours.

"Make it half an hour."

"45 minutes."

"I can live with that," she smirked, making her way into his office. "What are you working on, anyway? Are we getting another active case?"

"No. I've been actually meaning to tell you... I asked the Atlanta pd and the district attorney's office to send me information about the cases Wykoff worked on."

Her eyebrows shot sky high. "Really?" She approached the armchair stationed in front of his desk. "To see how the evidence he helped find held up in court?"

"Yes."

"And?" She sat down on the chair.

"The evidence held up fine. There were one or two cases that didn't secure a conviction, but that may have been down to other factors."

Sam pondered his reply. "Are you saying that you might be open to Wykoff helping us?"

"I don't know about that, Sam. From what you told me, he's very sick. And he seemed fragile during the investigation over a year ago. I wouldn't want to compound his suffering."

"Yeah," she breathed out. "He's been on my mind a lot. I talked about him to Melinda yesterday."

"What do you think? About Wykoff?"

"I'm still no closer to knowing," she sighed and let her hands dangle over the arm of the chair. She'd tried to sort out her feelings before going to sleep last night, at Melinda's behest, but had gotten nowhere. She might have to go and visit the empath again before she could arrive at any decision.

Her thoughts turned to the man in her presence. He hadn't told her any news about Bohanon, even though she was sure he was keeping a close eye on the case. He'd left soon on Sunday for his ride; he'd declined her offer to make him something to eat, professing that he needed some time to clear his thoughts.

"What's going on with Bohanon?"

Her frank question didn't surprise him. She would know that he was keeping tabs on that. "He's in custody, awaiting trial. He didn't make bail."

"That must be a relief for Frances. How is she doing?"

"Frannie seems fine. She's a trooper."

"She's a chip off the old block. But how about you? Any nightmares you might have forgotten to share with me?" she bestowed a meaningful look upon him.

"I haven't had any." She shot a challenging gaze at him. "Scout's honor," he attested.

She observed him for a moment, then was satisfied that he was telling the truth. "Somehow, I can't quite see you as a boy scout," she grinned at him and stood up. "Would a boy scout throw rocks at an old man's house?"

"I plead the fifth," he shot back.

"No use in pleading the fifth after you've shared your criminal youth," she teased him. Then, she checked her wrist watch. "You're on the clock, Malone. 36 minutes, then you go straight home," she quipped and headed for the door.

"I think your watch is a little fast, Kid."

She smiled to herself but didn't stay to quibble with him. "Good night," she wished him from the door of his office.

"Night."

Chloe was sitting at the kitchen table, munching on her snack before bedtime: grilled cheese and carrots. She was leafing through one of her many animal books. This one focused on the young of the animals.

"Mom, did you know that some animal babies are called whelps, yearlings, joeys and kids?"

"I knew some of those, honey. Which one's a kid?" Sam enquired, filling the dishwasher.

"A baby goat!"

"Really?" Sam laughed out loud.

Chloe stopped reading her book. "What are you laughing at, mom?"

"Not at you, sweetie. I was laughing at kid. Uncle Bailey calls me that." She was surprised that Chloe didn't know that already.

Chloe looked positively puzzled. "Why does Uncle Bailey call you that?"

"It's his nick name for me," Sam stated, offering no further explanation. She set the dishwasher to wash a fast cycle, then grabbed a cloth and started wiping the counter tops clean.

"But why kid? You're not a goat," Chloe insisted.

"No, that I'm not. I guess... He calls me that because I'm younger than he is."

Chloe scrunched her face. "How much younger are you?"

"Eleven years, give or take."

"Shouldn't he call me kid? I'm a lot younger than you," the little girl pointed out.

"Well, he came up with his nick name before you were even born, and old habits die hard."

Angel had been stretching in the play area adjacent to the kitchen, and she'd heard the discussion between mother and daughter. She walked to the kitchen to fill up her glass of water.

Chloe thought about the canine in the house. "Angel, have you had Denzel since he was a pup?"

"Uh huh. He was just eight weeks old when I got him. He was the tiniest thing I'd ever seen. Before you, I should say. You were the teensiest little baby," Angel leant down to tickle Chloe's right side, making the little girl laugh.

"I'm gonna go watch pictures of Bourbon. Grandma sent some new ones today," Chloe announced.

"No, Chloe, it's too late for that. You can look at them tomorrow. What do you say we play some Candyland?"

The little girl's face lit up. "Angel, too?"

"Sure, why not. It's been a while," Angel agreed.

"Cool! I'll go set up the game," Chloe announced and dashed off to the living room, where they usually played.

Angel watched Sam finish wiping the kitchen counters clean. Now that Chloe wasn't around, she couldn't resist commenting: "You know, you hear 'kid' a lot in Humphrey Bogart movies."

"Bail does have an old-fashioned air about him," she smiled. He even wore a hat some days, just like men in the forties and fifties used to.

"In the movies, Bogie uses that nick name for his leading ladies. Just sayin'," Angel finished and held her hands up in the air to excuse her point.

Sam rolled her eyes and remembered something she'd once heard in a quiz on television. "Bogie only said that in Casablanca. One film, that's it."

"And he said goodbye to Lauren Bacall with 'kid'. At least that's what I've heard," her friend added.

"Fine," Sam sighed, rinsed the and left it to air dry on the faucet. Sam hadn't divulged her conclusions about her friendship with Bailey to Angel. True to her word, her friend hadn't even mentioned the topic again, before her "kid" remarks. It was starting to seem like Angel had already drawn her own conclusions, and Sam doubted that she'd be able to make her friend change her mind. Still, she wanted to see an end to any oblique remarks in the future.

She looked Angel square in the eyes. "I'll have you know that I did what you suggested. I thought about it, and I concluded that Bailey and I are just friends. Happy now?"

Angel stared at Sam for a moment, contemplating her friend's words. She stopped herself from disagreeing and insisting to Sam that she was in the wrong. Angel was pretty sure where her friend was headed, but for whatever reason, Sam herself was oblivious to it. Maybe she really didn't see it, maybe she refused to see it. Angel let the matter go. Sam would come face to face with it sooner or later.

Angel nudged Sam. "Come on, Candyland awaits."

Before the game got under way, Sam decided to bring up this kid business with Bail at an opportune moment. See if she could ruffle his feathers a little. That would be fun.