"For fourteen years," Jack McCoy said, wringing his hands as he paced the small room in the corner of the ER, "I believed that if Claire's mind hadn't been preoccupied, if I'd just acknowledged that she was a thirty-two-year-old woman who was ready to have a child, if I wasn't so afraid of making a complete commitment for the second time in my life, she'd have swerved out of the way and the car wouldn't have T-boned her." He took a deep breath and stood over Eames' bed. "So now we know for certain that Claire was killed by a hitman who'd have killed her regardless of whether she was on her way to pick up me or the King of Spain, and still, it still feels like my fault."

"Jack," Eames said, "you're leaning on my catheter."

McCoy quickly backed away from the bed, and then, noticing the absurdity of the situation, offered her a warm laugh. Eames shrugged, overly relaxed thanks to the painkillers being pumped into her body. "Hey," she said, half-breathless, "I feel responsible for my sister and for the officer who was killed on my front steps this morning. What can you do?"

"Absolutely nothing," he said, providing an unnecessary answer to her rhetorical question.

"So are you going to answer my original question?" she asked. "What did Claire Kincaid and I have in common?"

"I don't know. One of your guys at the precinct told one of my ADAs that you were dead. Alex, I'm so glad --"

"Jack. Listen to me. Now, why would Mala have told me that I was just like Claire Kincaid?"

"She'd have been about three years older than you if she'd ... if ... I haven't talked about her this much in years. Maybe Mala Marsden was messing with your head."

"I think there may be more of a connection between Claire's murder and" -- she held her arms out as if to indicate her own situation -- "this. She said I was just like Claire. Those were her words."

"This is eating away at you, honey," McCoy said, immediately wincing at his own term-of-endearment-slip-of-the-tongue. "What I mean is, Mala's in custody and you have nothing to worry about. It's my office's job to argue motive."

When Goren returned to the room seconds later, he and McCoy wound up facing each other across Eames' bed. She hadn't felt awkwardness hang this thick in the air since high school.

"I, uh, Mala's still in surgery," Goren said.

"You have to ask her what she meant," Eames begged. "Then we'll have motive for both --"

"I hope I'm not hearing you suggest that a retired detective question a suspect who's just come out of surgery," McCoy interrupted. "You wouldn't hand a defense attorney a way in like that, would you?"

"No," Eames promised, and she saw Goren's eyes widen, half-annoyed, half-amused. "Wheeler will take care of everything according to procedure."

And then, as if he wanted to add to the awkwardness, McCoy offered Goren his hand. Goren shook it firmly, and Eames couldn't help let out a small laugh in response to Goren's confused expression, even though she'd spent the last six hours in a hospital bed, attached to a catheter, four IVs, and heart and breathing monitors, waiting for a room to open upstairs.

"Alex, I'll see you soon," McCoy said, making his way to the door. "Keep me posted."

When McCoy left, Goren stared up at the ceiling for a while, pacing a small sector of the room. "Whatever it is you're planning to do, Bobby," Eames said, "I know nothing."