"Who are you calling?" Cat asked as she picked up the slew of papers and file folders on the floor.

Only the sound of Jane's fingers slamming into the buttons on her phone answered – at first. "Should probably be the Feebs, but they suck at playing ball. Gonna go straight to the source: the Marshals."

Feds. Cat scowled as she crammed copies of handwritten interview notes and more official witness statement forms into the correct folders. No matter what agency, Feds sucked. Arrogant assholes who strode in and took over. "You think Morris was in witness protection."

Rather than answer, Jane pointed to the phone shoved between her shoulder and head. "Yeah, this is Detective Jane Rizzoli from Boston PD. I need information on a Derrick Morris." Then she glanced up and in a quieter voice added, "I'm betting he's new to the program or something caused the Marshals to move him to Boston in a hurry." Her tone hardened again. Cat grinned at the bite as Jane snapped, "Don't pull that shit. I know Morris is in the program, and I figure someone in your organization wants to know he's been murdered."

Finished with her cleanup, Cat dropped the files (a lot less tidy than they'd been before their trip to the floor) on her desk and watched Jane glare holes into the coffee-stained calendar covering her desk. "Like a miracle, the way they suddenly know all about Morris."

Yep. A miracle. Fucking feds. While Jane waited impatiently for information, Cat closed her eyes and reached for Faith. Nothing. Damn it! From the newly quiet and peaceful feel through the bond, Faith was finally sleeping. Cat wouldn't begrudge her Domme the rest. It had been days since they'd managed more than a few random thoughts through the link. Over the last twenty-four hours, though, Faith's exhaustion had seeped through the block.

Tara was still shielded or her mind was weirdly murky from medication.

Cat hated the hollow twinge in her psyche. The fear and the echo of soul-deep abandonment that swirled just beneath the surface.

No. She wasn't alone. Tara and Faith hadn't left her. Hadn't repudiated her. They were all busy. Cat needed to deal with her crazy damned emotions and get her shit together.

The emotional pep talk stiffened Cat's spine. She sat up in her chair and began to review the case files again. Jane's raspy comments (and shouts) played in the background as Cat studied the crime scene photos for the millionth time.

What were they missing? Cat turned her chair until she could see the murder board. Headshots of the victim and the Academy employees who had discovered the body connected by red Expo marker lines and Cat's scribbled comments. It was a pathetic amount of information.

"Stop wasting your time." Jane appeared at Cat's side. "We've got a meet with a local Marshal. Looks like they're willing to trade information on Morris."

Already halfway into her coat, Cat paused. "What's the catch?" Feds didn't trade information. Ever. Not unless they thought they'd come out ahead on the deal. She finished putting on her coat before unlocking her desk drawer and holstering her weapon.

Cat had to run to catch up with Jane's long-legged stride. "We'll see when we get there. Marshal Schneider was 'reluctant to discuss details' over the phone." It was easy to hear the invisible air quotes. "Morris must have been in some deep shit if Schneider is willing to negotiate."

Or the Marshal wasn't really planning to give them anything. Only take. "Be a bitch once she realizes we've got less than nothing to bargain with."

Jane laughed as they climbed into Jane's unmarked car. The scent of stale French fries and days-old coffee filled the interior in an oddly calming cloud. "The trick is to get Schneider to give before she gets. It's all a game, Cat. One I learned from Korsak. He's a Master at it."

Personally, Cat thought Jane might be too impatient to play any strategy game well. Time would tell. Squinting against the mid-day sun beaming through the windshield, she reached for the bond again. I miss you both.

She kept one mental hand pressed against the closed conduit as Jane pulled into midday traffic. Tired of the silence in her mind, she asked, "Why do you think Morris was in witness protection?"

"Saw something he shouldn't." Jane drove with her full attention.

Really? Cat rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I was thinking a little beyond that. More like what did he see?" Something bothered her. If Morris had been hiding… "Why put a witness, one you're trying to keep safe, in a place where people are going to see him? Even be able to request him personally? An Academy is a fucking stupid idea. Work from home call center agent, sure. Librarian, absolutely. Sought after submissive sex surrogate? Might as well put a sign on him."

Jane's laugh started quietly then filled the car; though, the sound wasn't one of humor. "You want the lead detective job?"

"Uh, you think I want to curry favor with the brass and do even more paperwork?" Cat gave a faux shudder. "No. No. And more fucking no. I'll keep my current job: star detective with all the great ideas."

Tara flicked through the pile of documents and photos she'd managed to scrounge up. Some were copies of videos and images from the Internet. Others were Council legal briefs (long, boring, inch-thick documents) from the Boston HQ library or printed from the International HQ records.

None of it made any sense. It was really something for Monica to study when she and Drew arrived. The thought drove Tara's sense of helplessness higher. The photo in her hand crumpled as she clenched it. Fate damn it!

No one in the photos looked like they were a scum sucking traitor who'd sold out the Council and their fellow magic users. They simply appeared tired or scared or completely focused on teleporting Slayers to their Houses and HQs. The images nearly vibrated with the emotions of the people in them.

Yet they did absolutely nothing to help Tara narrow down the list of suspects. Suspects who were all ready to return to their regular lives – and who the Council had compelled to remain in the HQ after the video went viral. Tara had to discover who had taken the video and why they'd given millions of people access to the inner workings of magic and the witches who wielded it.

Movement drew her gaze away from the papers in her lap. A tiny girl huddled in the recliner in the corner of the room. "I should have listened to you," Tara said. "I should have bypassed all this…stuff," she waved her hand in the general direction of the paperwork, "and focused on interviewing all of the people we pulled in after the attacks."

Her new assistant didn't speak. In fact, she shrunk farther into the chair.

"Miss Maclay?" A woman and a child stood in the doorway of Tara's room. "Sorry for the delay. We've been scouring the HQ for someone to help with your work." The woman gently maneuvered the girl (all of five or six years old) across the threshold. "As I'm sure you're aware, there aren't a lot of available bodies right now. Have a good day." Sneakers squeaking on the clean hospital wing floors, the woman fled back down the hallway.

And that's how the little girl and Tara had become best friends. If best friends never spoke to each other or provided a name. "Who should I start with first, little mouse?" Tara used the nickname with a wink and bright – if falsely cheerful – smile.

Silence mocked her. Tara was beyond tired of silence. No one had visited her in this Goddess-forsaken room except for doctors and nurses. Cat had been at work since sometime the day before, and Tara had been warned to leave the bond closed until the risk of another migraine lessened. Not that she could muster the wherewithal to open the bond, thanks to the drug cocktail pumping into her veins.

Maybe she should just give up. Close her eyes and go back to sleep. Slumping against the pillows, Tara did close her eyes. There were so many things wrong at the moment. Where could she even start? One witch and her silent mini-Slayer.

Her eyes snapped open when the papers and photos under her hands began to move. Her little mouse was out of the chair and sorting through the material Tara had gathered. A tiny, narrow chin nodded sharply when one particular photo came into view.

She picked it up and thrust it at Tara. "This one."

Tara took the offered glossy image. A hunch-shouldered man with watery green eyes stared at her. He'd obviously shaved his head, but dark stubble filled his pate like the beginning growth of a Chia pet. "Thank you. You're good at this," Tara praised. Turning the photo over, she memorized the name. "Isaiah Spilfort. It's time we sat down and talked."

"Mouse, would you please have the Watcher on Duty send Mr. Spilfort our way?" Tara needed to conserve her energy – and she'd already pushed the stretched-to-the-breaking-point staff as far as she could for one day.

Faith woke with a start. Sitting up abruptly caused the seatbelt across her torso to lock, and she cursed when it refused to release. She was trapped like a bug under a microscope. She went still, feeling every eye in the car on her. Only Sam appeared unconcerned.

"Everything alright?" Ailsa glanced across the front seat. "Shall I stop at the next rest area?"

"Nah, I'm good." Sam snorted in the back seat, and Faith heard Ailsa's nearly silent sigh. Everyone was a critic. "Ready to go get home, ya' know?" It was one hundred percent truth; although, calling Boston home was trippy.

Sam's head appeared between the SUV's bucket seats. "Other than an actual bed and hot shower, 'home's' going to be worse than Camden. News vans and YouTube videos. We're famous, and not in a good way. I already miss the occasional article saying how strong and sexy we are when we save the world. Who knew letting a Legion of nutjobs inside the Council would make us Public Enemy Number One again?"

Holding back a nasty reply (Sam hadn't been around when the Council truly had been the enemy), Faith kept her voice and expression calm. "Tara's called in the big guns." Their brief texting session had been filled with Tara's attempts to get the HQ under control and stem the information leaking to the Internet. "Got one of the best lawyers on the Council payroll headed our way. Be ready for a show. The Lady's got anger issues."

"Must be a requirement for being part of the original gang," Sam mocked. "Oh, wait! No, it isn't. You just like to exaggerate how big of a bad ass you and your friends are."

Faith was going to have Tara turn the kid into a frog. "Keep on believing I'm a liar, Sam-wise. I'll be on the sidelines when Monica rips your head off and stomps on it."

"That's not nice." Faith grinned at the sleepy voice. "You won't let her hurt Miss Sam, will you, Faif?"

Sam's grin held a touch of Dominant mockery. "Please, Faif?" Damned if she didn't emphasize Sophia's lisp. "Don't let the mean lady hurt me."

Who needed to wait? Faith would deliver all the hurting needed. She didn't say that, though. Not with a four-pack of little ears sprawled all over the bench seats and Sam. "Don't worry, Soph. I'll take good care of Miss Sam." Really good care. "Go back to sleep, kiddo. We got another hour or two."

Two hours and she'd be back with her lady and her girl. Faith knew Cat had been trying to reach her. She'd felt her frustration and anxiety, but Faith hadn't been ready to share the maelstrom of her own emotions. Faith needed to see Tara first. Needed to take a minute (or thousand) and let Tara wrap her warm, mental blanket around Faith. If Tara was still out for the count because of the meds, Faith would settle for a pair of arms and a real blanket.