Author's Note: Just a reminder: If a character mentions past events, keep in mind I've taken liberties with the time-setting of the story – it is present day.

[Chapter 36: Blood]

Rain pounded the tiny hatchback as they crept through the crowded streets, Annie clutching the steering wheel with both hands and leaning forward to see through the storm washed windshield. The wipers were on full speed, slinging sheets of water back and forth across the fogging glass.

She cleared her throat. He shifted and felt the pain renew in his leg.

Red lights blurred through the white haze. Annie was following closer than she should have, and barely stopped in time. They both looked down at Murphy's hand covering hers on the steering wheel. Dark scabs dotted the first three knuckles.

She resumed driving, saying nothing.

He removed his hand and adjusted the air to defrost. "Take a right at the next light."

She flipped on the blinker. "Are you still friends with Seamus Callaghan?"

Murphy's senses went on alert. His face showed nothing."Aye."

"Don't laugh, but I think I may have lost my phone near his bar last night."

"Here I thought you were working up to an apology." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and he rolled his eyes in her direction. "This is what Beckman was ranting about," he said. "What exactly were you doing there?"

"I was on duty, Murphy. It was an emergency call. Life or death. Little things like phones can fall by the wayside." He imagined her hands would be gesturing, emphasizing the lie, if she hadn't been gripping the wheel so tightly. "I was hoping someone from the bar found it, but they don't seem to be open. Or answering the phone." Her eyes darted to him. "You haven't been there recently, have you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Don't do that."

"What?"

She gritted her teeth. "That thing where you answer all my questions with more questions, and never give me a straight answer." She braked for a light, the tires nearest the gutter sending up a loud spray.

"I haven't seen your phone since the last time you lost it, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking."

Car after car crossed the intersection. The hatchback idled noisily. Murphy considered getting out and walking the rest of the way, it certainly would have been quicker.

"Would you please just call Seamus and see if he's found my phone?"

He dug his phone out of his pocket, clammy fingers fumbling against the sodden denim. He dialed Seamus; it went to voicemail and he asked about the phone, leaving a friendly generic message that Seamus would be sure to get a kick out of.

"I was with Connor and some friends last night," he said finally. "We had a few beers."

"At Callaghan's?"

"I was at Callaghan's on Sunday."

She let out a small breath. "But not last night?"

He raised his eyebrows, which she decided to take for a no.

"What about Saturday?"

His jaw tightened automatically. "You reporting this to Beckman?"

Her lips formed a thin line. "I'm trying to get a little peace of mind. Bobby Vigoda died on Saturday. I can't pretend I don't know some things, that I don't have questions…"

"You know, I got in this car because there wasn't going to be any talking."

"Just tell me you were at McGinty's. Tell me you were at Blackstone's. Tell me you were on a date."

"I was on a date."

"Fine," she said, brushing the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. Pink crept into her cheeks.

They were on his street now.

"You can let me off there by the trees."

She slowed at the curb, craning her neck to look up at the building that was not actually Murphy's. His was three buildings earlier, but survival instinct was speaking up loudly and he was determined to start listening.

"Looks like a nice place," she said. "Are you upstairs or down?"

"Up," he said. "Thanks for the ride."

"Murphy-"

He stepped out, hunching his shoulders against the rain, and shut the door. She didn't drive away immediately, watching as he turned and walked to the building that was not his. He pretended to unlock the door, noting that it really was locked, and hoping that she wouldn't wait around to see him safely inside. Finally the engine revved and her car crawled away from the curb and down the street.

He waited for her to turn the corner, and then hurried home, straight to the shower, peeling off his dripping clothes as he waited for the water to heat up. This was two peacoats in a week that he'd ruined. His pack of smokes was wet. The driest of the lot took a good half a minute to light, but it did light. Small mercies. He crammed/hung the coat over the towel rack and stepped in with the smoke pinched in his mouth, keeping his right hip away from the steaming spray, and letting the heat and the nicotine permeate every frayed nerve ending.

He'd said too much. He'd flipped out about Roc when he should have shut the fuck up and let her believe whatever bat-crap crazy shit she wanted to. What did it matter if she misunderstood the Saints? She could go to her grave believing Roc was a good man with bad loyalties that had never learned to stand up for anything. And that he and Connor were…whatever she thought they were.

He sucked the last of his cigarette and watched it wash down the drain. He needed to call Smecker. Somebody in that department needed to know that Frankie's death was connected, and they needed to be working on it yesterday. He turned his face into the hot spray, deciding to wait until Connor got back so they could relay all their news at once. Assuming Connor had anything to add.

A dull thud sounded from somewhere outside the shower. He stood perfectly still for a moment, listening. It was too early for Connor to be back. The sound didn't come again, but he couldn't dismiss it. He peered around the curtain. The peacoat, still wrapped around the steel towel bar, lay on top of the heap of clothes on the floor. Its weight had pulled the old screws right out of the drywall. He really needed to get a raincoat.

He wondered how much Annie really suspected. In a way, it seemed to hinge on what she wanted to believe. She'd chased him down and given him a ride, which turned out to be in exchange for a favor. But then he was almost sure she'd wanted an invitation upstairs. What did that mean?

Sighing, he turned off the water, reaching for his towel as he heard the noise again. It was definitely in the apartment.

"Con?" he called. No answer. Not good. The way things were these days, they always answered each other.

He climbed out silently, cinching his towel and picking up the metal towel bar. He stood back from the door as he opened it, detecting the slightest rustling coming from the direction of his bedroom. Stepping into the hall, he padded along the carpeted hallway, catching the movement of a shadow as he neared the open bedroom door.

The steel in his fist was heavy and solid.

She stepped into his line of sight, just as he raised the towel bar. "Murphy?"

"Holy fuck, Annie. I thought you were…" Well around the corner, completely oblivious to where I was going.

She was soaked as he had been, her hair in dripping waves that she pulled away from her neck, twisting it nervously as she caught sight of the towel bar in his hand.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I really had to pee, and the door was unlocked….I called when I came in, but I guess you couldn't hear me."

He shook his head, finally gesturing with the towel bar towards the bathroom. "It's all yours."

She thanked him and slipped past. As soon as the door was shut he leapt into action. Guns were okay, still in the duffel at the foot of his bed. Mask and gloves were in an indistinct pile that he kicked under the sofa. Dirty clothes got thrown in the closet, and trash crammed into the bin. A small stack of newspaper clippings made him pause. They weren't necessarily incriminating, and a part of him took issue with hiding them away. He moved them from the floor to the dining room table, next to where she'd set her handbag, as the bathroom door opened.

"Sorry…again," she said. "I could have found a public restroom, but I didn't think you'd mind. You did bring me the coffee." She gave him a small smile, and then her eyes dropped to the towel he was still wearing, which had slipped dangerously low on his hips. "Did you…want to put some clothes on?"

He leaned against the back of the sofa. "Depends on how long you're going to be here."

She felt her cheeks warm, hearing very clearly the double meaning in his words, but unsure whether it was intentional. She was partially changed from her work uniform: she'd ditched the shirt, but was still in the cargo pants, with a black nylon jacket thrown over a white tank top undershirt. The jacket was just a windbreaker, not waterproof, she now knew. For anyone with eyes to see, it was clearly not keeping her warm in any way. If Murphy had noticed, he hid it well.

"Nice place," she said. "I like the shag carpet."

Murphy crossed his arms and his face took on that studious look that meant he still hadn't figured out what to make of her visit.

Just do it already. "I did come to apologize," she said, before she lost her nerve. "I'm sorry for saying I'll go to Beckman. I don't want my relationship—my association-with him to make you keep anything from me. Whatever you know about Rocco, I just need to hear it for myself."

He gave a half shrug. "I know what you know."

She didn't bother to dignify that with a response. He was so damn stubborn.

He looked at her for a moment, then walked across the living room to the window.

"Did you know he used to call me on my birthday?"

"Really? Took him six years to remember mine and Con's." She watched his tattooed back flex as he forced the old window to slide open.

"Well, it wasn't my actual birthday, it was February 5th, but he called like clockwork, every year. I didn't have the heart to tell him."

Murphy smiled. "He always got Saint Agnes and Saint Agatha mixed up. He knew you shared a birthday with one of them." A car horn sounded in the distance, muffled by the rain and the wet wind that gusted in bursts, billowing the curtain.

Murphy stared down at the street below the window. "Roc never mentioned talking to you."

"He never mentioned you either. He was…careful not to, I think."

He turned and their eyes locked and she would have paid anything to know what thoughts were swirling around behind those blue eyes. It felt surreal. Half an hour ago they'd been screaming at each other.

She cleared her throat. "What if I end it? If I cut my ties to Beckman, will you tell me everything?"

His face darkened. "You should end it anyway."

"I know," she said, and it wasn't a lie. "It's just that the other cops in Southie are so soft on the Saints. Beckman's the only one with real conviction."

"That's not true."

He didn't raise his voice; if anything the words were quieter. But the strength of them was irrefutable. Her arguments dried up. She leaned against the table, her hand brushing a stack of newspaper clippings with big, bold headlines.

"Look, I understand what's driving you," he said, moving closer. He stood beside her at the table as she sifted through the clippings. The name Yakavetta darkened headlines on several pages. David della Rocco stood out in the column text of only a few. "We all loved him," he said. "We all wanted better for him."

"Please don't," she whispered. "I don't want to cry. I get this headache."

"I know," he said quietly. "I remember. And I remember that pact. Con and I were langered out of our minds, but we never forgot it. We were going to find a way for him to get out, to leave Yakavetta without..."

She shook her head, waiting for him to finish, but he didn't. "Without getting killed," she said. "But then I left." Her eyes burned.

"And Con and I dropped the ball."

"It wasn't your fault."

He stared down at the clippings, and then turned and walked back to the window, pushing it open as far as it would go. He returned with heavy steps, and it was a very long time before he spoke. "You're makin' a puddle on my carpet, Ann."

"Oh my God, I am. I'm sorry. I should go."

"No, I didn't mean-" He tried to stop a smile. "I meant, do you want to use the shower? I happen to know you don't have one at your place."

"Isn't Connor going to be back soon?"

Murphy eyed the door, his expression darkening. Then he sighed, and lifted a black hoodie from one of the chairs, handing it to her after a discrete (but not invisible) pat down of the pockets.

"How's that work at Jake's, do you wash in the sink?" he asked, watching her remove the nylon jacket. "You're supposed to scope a place before you move in. Every bum and free-loader knows that."

"Go ahead," she said, getting a little stuck in the oversized hoodie as she pulled it over her head. "Have your fun. I asked for it."

"You had me thinking you were so dedicated, so committed to Jake's business when really you were just-"

"Downstairs because he won't let me keep the coffee maker up there. Yes, congratulations, you found me out. But I do have a bathroom, a mini-fridge in the office, plenty of space I don't have to share with a roommate…"

"Roommates are underrated. What's your ma think about it?"

"Oh, don't even go there. I haven't told her, and don't look at me like that because you don't tell your mother anything."

"Come on, it's one thing for a couple of bachelors, but a single, beautiful woman-"

"Please. I get enough of the chauvinist stuff from Jake."

"I'm serious," he said, adjusting his towel so that she had to look away. "Jake doesn't have security bars on those windows."

"I hardly think someone's going to smash the plate glass to get to little old me."

"Well, what about a kitchen, laundry, a shower?" He craned his neck an inch to sniff her and made a face.

"Those were all happy perks of sleeping at the station," she said, leaning away with a smile. "Until today, it's worked out just fine."

"And what happened today?" he asked. "Keep talking," he said, heading down the hall, "I need pants."

She watched him every step until he disappeared into the room. "Leah happened."

Murphy pushed the door partially closed and pressed both hands over his eyes. What in the fuck was he doing? Connor was going to be back any minute, and the last thing he wanted to do was explain whatever the hell was happening here.

He grabbed some boxers, accidentally ripping off part of the scab from Annie's handiwork when he dropped the towel. And all the bandages were in the kitchen. Fuck. They used to keep some extra supplies in the duffle, but he couldn't recall seeing any recently. He limped over to it and saw what he'd missed the first time.

The zipper on the bag wasn't closed. He always closed it. It was pulled back six inches or so, enough for prying eyes to have taken a peek. Heart beginning to hammer, his brain quickly reinterpreted every word, every sign of body language she'd shown since he'd caught her in the apartment. He looked inside the bag, as she could have—must have—done. Mostly he saw rope. But below it was Connor's Beretta. Gray light shined in from the window, brighter now with a lull in the rain, but still pretty hard to see.

Goddamn it, he should have seen this coming. He should have known the moment he saw her face.

He threw on some jeans and walked quietly out to the living room, not sure where he expected to find her. Reading his mail? Digging through his trash?

She was standing at the table, reading one of the newspaper clippings.

"Find anything interesting?" he asked.

"Yeah, these are all the same articles I have." She didn't know why it felt so strange that he should have them, too. Why shouldn't he?

"I meant in my bedroom."

His tone was thinly casual, but she recognized the edge. Her heart skipped.

She stepped back from the table, clasping her hands behind her. "It's not what you think, Murphy."

"How'd you know it was mine?" he asked, moving closer, into her personal space. "Did you go through Connor's, too?"

"I didn't mean any harm. Honestly." She couldn't look him in the eye. He was breathing through flared nostrils, and the muscles in his jaw were twitching. In her mind, she was fleeing out the door. Instead her feet felt bolted to the floor. "When I heard you in the shower, I guess I should have left, but it felt…sneaky."

"Really. That felt sneaky."

"I'm really sorry. I'm just going to go, okay?" She swam out of his hoodie and tossed it onto the couch.

He leaned around and pressed a hand against the door. "Why are you here?"

Before she could move, he braced his other arm on the other side of her, trapping her between him and the door.

"I wanted to see your place, okay?"

"That's not what you said earlier."

"Murphy, I'm parked in a green zone."

"The only green zone's by the Laundromat. Quite a run through the rain for a girl with broken ribs and a full bladder."

She pushed a lock of hair away from her face, trying not to let her fingers shake. "I had mixed motives, is it a crime?"

"What motive made you search my bedroom, Annie?" His eyes flashed and she wanted to sink through the floor. "Did Beckman put you up to this? Or was it your idea?"

"I wasn't searching your room!" She sucked in a breath. The air between them smelled of soap and a faint trace of cigarettes.

"Explain."

This could not be happening. She looked down, and found herself staring at his tensed stomach, at the slanting angles of his hips disappearing into faded low-slung jeans. He ducked his head to look at her.

She turned the other way. "I saw the bag on your bed, and I just wondered…"

His arm flexed and the deadbolt locked behind her.

Something sparked. "I wanted to see if it was an overnight bag, all right?" She shoved both hands against him, with no effect other than pain in her own chest.

Murphy stood straighter, his eyes narrowing. She'd left red marks on his skin.

"You said you were on a date." Heat flooded her cheeks. "I was curious how the date ended." There. The nightmare was complete. She should wake any moment now.

Murphy closed his eyes. "You were checking on my sex life?"

A sharp wind gusted, whipping the curtain. Neither of them moved. Rain battered the windows.

"There's a flaw in your logic, darlin'," he said, his breath light on her ear. "What if she slept here?"

"No way. I know how your wife feels about your girlfriends." Her voice lost its power, coming out in a whisper. "You caught me before I could look. So I'm still wondering."

The tattoo on his neck was pulsing with the force of the vein beneath it. She watched it, transfixed, sensing the rhythm of his breathing from the blurring edge of her vision.

He lowered an arm, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.

Warm fingers smoothed over her jaw, lifting it, and then his lips were on hers and there was only heat, and skin, and the strength of his arms.

Her hands slid up to his shoulders, to his neck, electricity buzzing in every cell of her body. He kissed her deeply, pulling her to him until their bodies were pressed together, and all at once they were making up for the last three years.

A thought fluttered through her brain that he should have stayed in the towel. Her knees buckled.

He grabbed her ass, holding her firmly against him, torturing her with every step as he carried her to the kitchen table. Papers scattered and something toppled to the floor beside her, but all she really noticed was how hot his hands felt against her rain-chilled skin as he slipped the straps of her tank top down over her shoulders. His breath caught in her mouth as her fingers slid across his stomach to the waistband of his jeans.

A key rattled in the lock. They both froze, his hands on her bra clasp and hers on his zipper. They broke apart, breathing hard.

There was the sound of a muffled curse, and the deadbolt unlocked.

Murphy took a step back that felt like miles. Tugging her straps up quickly, she slid off the table, not entirely balanced as Connor walked in, slamming the door behind him.

He tossed his keys onto the table, catching sight of her as he let go of them. The keys whipped across the wood and onto the floor.

Her face red-hot, all she could do was smile. "Hi, Connor."

Oh, for a camera to capture that look on his face. He looked at Murphy, and then continued straight into the kitchen.

She waited for one of them to say something. But the only sound was the fridge opening and then the pop of a beer can.

"I should get going," she said, still feeling like she'd just stepped off the Tilt-a-Whirl. Maybe he'd walk her down. There was no way to sort this out in present company.

"Aye."

His hair was slightly disheveled, and he had a look like he'd been shaken from sleep. Painfully aware of his bare skin, and his scent, and his body heat, she forced herself to concentrate on surveying the damage. Her purse had taken a dive off the table, along with all the scraps of newspaper. She met his eyes with a small smile. He glanced toward the kitchen and rubbed a hand over his face.

Silence radiated from the empty doorway, thick and toxic. Murphy crouched and gathered up the scattered contents of her purse, and then handed it to her without a word.

Her heart plummeted. There was nothing to sort out.

She didn't bother to put on her wet jacket as she stepped past him into the hall. "Bye, Connor!" she called, "Great apartment!" She walked quickly to the stairs, trying to beat the sound of the door latching behind her.

Fuck Connor. And fuck Murphy and his co-dependence.

There was something hard in her throat that grew sharper the more she cursed them. She was so stupid. She knew where the limits were. Why did she always have to push them? Why could she never just let things be? Misreading signals was one thing. Expecting MacManus men to change fundamentally was beyond idiotic.

Never again.

The air downstairs was colder. She was shivering by the time she reached the ground floor.

Quick footfalls thudded on the stairs above.

She paused, listening to them coming closer, and then caught herself. No, never again.

The storm outside was safer.

"Ann, wait."

Gritting her teeth, she hugged her purse and ducked her head against the cold rain pelting her skin. A couple buildings down, she ducked under an awning to fish out her keys so she wouldn't have to do it standing in the open. She stared unseeing into her purse, hearing nothing but the creak of Murphy's building door and the splash of his jogging footsteps closing in.

His unlaced boots appeared on the concrete beside hers. "I'm sorry," he said, breathing fast. "It's not you. It's not even really Connor."

"Hey, I know." A shiver passed over, making her teeth chatter. "It's fine. I'm fine. I can't believe I barged in on you like that. I don't know what's got into me."

His boots shifted, moving closer. "Ann, would you look at me?" He pushed his dripping hair off his face, sending streams of water down into the wide collar of the black sweatshirt he wore, thrown over his bare shoulders. There was something in his eyes she couldn't name, but it was bright and painfully intense.

Maybe if God hadn't made them such a piercing blue, or if the rain hadn't darkened his brows and lashes to such a hard, deep black. No one could have held that gaze.

So it really wasn't her fault that she had to look down, and see what she saw.

There was a red spot on his upper thigh. It hadn't been there five minutes ago. It was small, and grew steadily larger as she watched.

"Is that blood?"

He breathed a curse as she looked down at herself, at her uniform pants, at the area that she almost couldn't believe had been pressed against him only minutes ago. Had a buckle or a snap snagged, or cut him somehow? The only tool still on her was her trauma sheers, which were blunt-tipped…there was something about the location on his leg…

The world seemed to speed up and slow down all at once. "Oh my God. Is that-?"

"No." He pressed a hand over it.

It was impossible. Yet it made a disturbing amount of sense.

"That was you last night." The ground tilted and she steadied herself on the door behind her. "That was you! What were you doing there?"

Black narrowed around laser blue.

"You do know the Saints. Seamus is holding secret meetings. Beckman was right to follow you. You are such a liar!"

"Well, what did you expect? You're informing on me to a fucking cop."

Cold air hit her teeth and she realized her mouth had dropped open. He was admitting it, out loud. Questions and accusations swirled in her mind, scrambling for priority.

"You asshole, you broke my ribs! I had to get an x-ray. Leah made me go to the friggin' ER."

He looked at her like she was mad. "You stabbed me with a fucking pen."

"After you attacked me!"

"I didn't need you ringing up your douche-bag boyfriend. What the fuck were you thinking, coming back there? You're damn lucky it was me you ran into."

"You're lucky I didn't hit what I was aiming for!"

This was too much. She set off for her car, leaving him bleeding under the awning. He splashed alongside her. She sped up. He kept pace, limping slightly.

"Are you going to let me explain?"

"Go ahead. Explain what you're really hiding in that precious duffel bag."

He didn't answer.

She laughed, reaching into her purse for her keys. An explanation. That was all she had wanted from him. And he would never deliver. "I wish it were that easy, Murphy. I really do."

Something jangled. Her keys dangled before her eyes, looped on his tattooed finger.

"When did you take my keys? Give me those."

He turned and chucked them before she could make the grab. They crash landed on the fire escape behind them. "See? Easy."

"Oh, come on!" There was no way she could reach them. He probably could, if he stood on a trash can and stretched.

"We're going to talk about this, Ann."

Raindrops splattered her eyelashes. She could not be more soaked and freezing if she jumped in the Charles fully clothed.

He took her hand and started to lead her back the way they'd come.

She locked her knees. "I'd rather die of pneumonia than be in the blast radius when Connor finds out I know your dirty little secret."

He stopped, muttering a curse, and then changed direction toward the Laundromat behind her.

It felt like a sauna inside. She sighed, soaking up the humid heat. An older woman sat folding towels on the chairs near the door, eyeing them as they squeaked toward the back, between the rows of machines. Annie crouched down and leaned against a dryer that was running. "Better talk fast. If you bleed out, I'm leaving your ass."

He took off his wet sweatshirt, and she averted her eyes, irritated with herself for falling victim the first time. He wasn't looking at her either. He leaned against the washer opposite her and balled up the sweatshirt, the veins in his forearms like ropes as he pressed it over his leg.

"Are you sure you want to do this right now?" she asked.

His eyes roamed the near-empty room, and the humming machines. "I don't want to do this at all. But how can I let you go to Beckman, thinking…."

"Forget about Beckman, okay? Tell me the truth about Rocco, and I'll listen to anything you have to say. Not saying I'll believe you, but I'll listen."

He looked down at her, and she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. Favoring her ribs, she slid to sit with her back against the warm machine. He sat down awkwardly next to her, keeping the sweatshirt on his wound.

"He was in Yakavetta's house," she prompted gently. "In the basement, with a bunch of other soldiers…."

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. "He wasn't with them. You didn't know this, but Yakavetta had tried to sell him out. Roc wasn't takin' orders any more."

"So he was there uninvited?"

Murphy's eyes were on the washing machine. The suds swirled and turned, making a strange sort of pattern in their tumbling. "Con's going to kill me for telling you this."

She didn't answer. His brother's name was a painful reminder of just how much was out of her control.

"Yakavetta caught him, and killed him." He took a breath and went on. "The Saints prayed for him like they did all the others, which is why there were coins on his eyes."

The ground was tilting again, making her stomach turn.

"Roc's killer is dead, Annie. The Saints took care of him. I wish I could have told you earlier, but it's like you've been on this quest. Hunting the wrong people."

She felt his face turn towards her and she closed her eyes. She'd wondered. She'd suspected. But she had never been able to voice the questions. It had been so much simpler to blame. Choosing a side, applying for the medic job, getting on that East-bound plane—every step had felt like progress. It had all been meaningless.

All this time, he had known.

He leaned, resting his shoulder gently against hers. "I'm sorry, darlin'."

She stiffened. "How do you know all this?" Slowly, she shifted to sit sideways in the aisle, so she could look at him. "How deep are you?"

His eyes darkened.

"Why do you say I'm lucky someone else didn't get me last night? If your buddies the Saints are such good guys."

"There's a lot worse people out there than the Saints, Ann. They're not your enemy. If you'd have been here, seen how it's all gone down, you'd be on their side. We wouldn't be having this conversation."

She gave him a look that made him smile and run a hand through his hair. "Now you think I'm crazy," he said.

"Murphy, the day I met you, you were getting a ten-inch cross tattooed on your forearm. You'd quit smoking before you'd quit going to Mass." He made a face that said it was debatable. "Your faith, your commitment to something bigger—it's powerful. I would never want to change that about you. But these Saints are zealots."

"Maybe they are."

"You don't see the danger there? Think 9/11. Think the last few centuries in the Middle East. Hell, think of your own country."

"Think of what you yourself have been doing, Ann. It's not a vendetta. And it's not about religion. It's about balance. It's about fixing something that's broken."

"I don't see it. All I see is more blood, and more pain."

"Aye, and it's not over yet. It's necessary. I wish you could just take my word for it."

"Take your word," she said. "Honestly, Murphy, it's like you want me to throw every lie right back in your face."

He dropped the balled up sweatshirt on the floor beside him. "I told you to leave it alone. I told you not to mess with it." The blood on his leg had spread to the width of her palm. He wiped his blood-smudged hands on the damp sweatshirt and she noticed the scabs again.

"Who were you fighting?"

He looked at his knuckles and made a fist.

"It was more of a discussion."

"With Connor?"

"With a concrete floor. All right, Ann. Ask your questions. If I can't answer, I won't. No lies."

She should have stabbed him a long time ago.

She rewound the last week and a half. What qualified as questionable anymore? The desperate search for an old tattoo design? Having her fix up Leah and Connor? If everything was related to the Saints, then that meant nothing between the two of them had been real. She adjusted her tank top, still able to feel every inch of skin where he'd touched her.

Too warm now next to the dryer, she stood. "Did Vigoda ever really owe you money?"

He let his head rest on the machine behind him. "No."

"I knew it." Memories flashed from the last time he'd sat bleeding on a floor before her. "Your 'fire hydrant' head wound…" She put a hand on the dryer, unsettled at the thought that bombarded her. "That blue glass I dug out of your scalp, that you washed down the drain? The next morning, when I found Frankie dead, his floor was scattered with blue glass. Very similar blue glass. Possibly identical."

Their eyes locked.

"I admit it looks bad," he said, struggling to his feet, "but there's more to that story. It wasn't us."

"Us," she repeated. "My God, it was Frankie. A punk who lived for tattoos and weed. He didn't deserve to die."

"No, he didn't."

"You said you wouldn't lie. Do you just know the Saints, or…are you out there helping them?"

"The Saints aren't responsible for what happened to Frankie. It was someone else."

"I have the pennies, Murphy!" She'd raised her voice.

Stone-faced, he glanced toward the old woman at the front, who was leaving.

He leveled his eyes at Annie, not speaking until the door swung shut and it was just the two of them. "Hand over the pennies to the cops. Run them for DNA. You'll see they don't prove shit."

Her mind was spinning. "Vigoda worked for Curry Wok. His food went undelivered Saturday night, except for one order. Sunday morning you brought me a fortune cookie. I thought you were so sweet."

"Vigoda was a pawn. There's more going on here than just the Saints wiping out evil men. I'm sure Beckman told you that Yakavetta's lawyer was about to air a lot of people's dirty laundry when he got killed. Somebody's set on keeping those secrets buried, and they're taking out anyone who gets in the way."

Annie digested this, her mind snapping back to a hazy conversation in a Martini bar. "Beckman didn't tell me anything. He only wanted to know about the Saints. And Leah." And you.

"That's another thing," he said, frowning. "I'm telling you this for your own sake, Annie. Every sign is pointing to an inside job. Inside the department."

"Wait. You think Beckman's dirty? Where are you getting this information?"

"Doesn't matter. He doesn't have anyone vouching for him. He works without a partner, and the way he treats you…it's not professional. And it isn't only me who sees it. This isn't personal."

"No, I'm sure it's not."

He scrubbed a tiny blood spot on the floor with his boot. "Annie, about before…"

"Oh, God, that was so not what I was trying to do, showing up at your place." She was not feeling entirely in control of her mouth. "Let's just forget it, okay? Please?"

His blue eyes pierced her. She shivered, acutely aware of how very alone they were.

"Stay here," he said finally. "I'll get your keys." He walked out without looking back.

She sank to the floor, wanting nothing more than to be home, under the blankets of her futon and out of these cold, damp clothes. Her purse slouched beside her. Of course—he must have snagged her keys after it had spilled off the table. Her heart skipped. Had he found the baggie with the bloody pen too? She dumped the purse out on the floor between her legs, saw immediately that it wasn't there, and heaved a sigh.

There was no way to ask him about it, either.

She gathered her things and walked to the door. Murphy must be having a hell of time getting the keys. She slipped on the damp nylon jacket and steeled herself for the cold, and then a movement caught her eye and she saw him –leaning against the building outside, smoking, examining the blood spot on his thigh.

She pushed the door halfway open.

"Why don't you drop your pants, let me take a look?"

He raised an eyebrow. "So you can get better aim?"

"I won't miss this time."

"No, you'll faint and I'll have to carry you home." He flicked his cigarette butt into the rain and gave her the keys.

She smiled. "I told you, that was a fluke."

He stood and squinted up at the gray sky. "So are we good?"

"I need some time to process. This is a lot to take in."

He took a deep breath, cocking his head as he considered her.

"I won't talk to anyone," she said. "Not Jake, not Beckman."

"He won't let you off that easy."

"I know. It'll be easier if I don't know anything else." She swallowed, knowing what needed to be said and somehow still hoping he'd disagree. "If I don't see you for a while."

He rubbed an eyebrow, and then nodded. "Take care, Ann. If you need anything-"

"Likewise. Good luck with Connor." She gave him a tight smile, and then ran through the rain to her car before either of them had to make a decision about the good-bye.

.