Felicity stood in the lobby of her building and watched Rory and Oliver drive away. She remained there for a few minutes, looking for signs that the pair was being followed. She saw none. The New Archer must have holed up, she thought, when the uniforms had begun searching the Glades. Satisfied they were not in danger, she got into her car and headed for Ramirez's apartment. It was Sunday and barely eight in the morning, so traffic was almost nonexistent. That made it easy to keep an eye out for people tailing her. But like Oliver and Rory, she found herself alone.

Her call to Diggle, although short, had left her a little drained. She'd apologized for losing contact after reporting the Archer to Dispatch, and launched into an explanation about Oliver wanting to avoid the hospital (without revealing where he had spend the night). Then she'd waited, expecting to receive a good tongue lashing. She certainly deserved it. Instead, there had been silence on the other end of the phone.

"Sir?" she'd eventually prompted.

Diggle had exhaled slowly and loudly. "Christ, Felicity, you took a dozen years off my life."

She'd blinked, caught flat by the use of her first name. Diggle had called her Felicity all through high school and college, right up until the day she'd entered the police academy. Then he'd switched to her surname. The change had signaled the transition in their relationship. For Diggle, she was no longer a kid to be mentored. She was a cop in the chain of command - his chain of command. She was Smoak. That he would revert to Felicity now made her realize that he hadn't forgotten those days of looking out for her.

"I'm sorry," she'd said, feeling the sting of moisture in her eyes. "I know I screwed up."

"As long as you're alive," he'd replied. "Screw-ups can be remedied. Dead is forever." His voice was a little hoarse.

She hadn't trusted her own vocal chords. There was a thickness in her throat that couldn't be attributed to the early hour. After a minute, she'd swallowed and said, "I've got a plan for today that I think will give us a real, solid lead."

"Tell me about it." Diggle sounded relieved to return to the topic of the case.

She'd told him about Ramirez, the drawing, and her attempt to backtrace the hack.

"Sounds promising," Diggle had said, his voice still rough. "Let me know what you find."

"Will do."

And they had disconnected.

Ramirez answered his door in a tee shirt, flannel sleep pants and bare feet. His hair was too short to be disheveled, but his dark scruff could stand to see a razor and the shirt was very wrinkled. The apartment smelled of toast and butter.

"I'm sorry. I know it's early. I've caught you during breakfast," Felicity said.

He shrugged. "Zoe and I just finished. We're cleaning up. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Pleasantly surprised, she nodded. "That would be great, thank you. I take it with milk and sugar."

He disappeared into the kitchen just as Zoe came darting out of it. She was wearing pajamas with solid pink bottoms and a flowered pink top, and her dark hair hadn't yet seen a comb. She stopped in front of Felicity and balanced on one foot, brimming with childish energy. She had a smudge of jam on one cheek. Strawberry, Felicity guessed.

"Hi," Zoe said brightly.

"Hi, yourself. I like your pajamas."

"Thanks." Unable to stand still, the girl put her foot down and skipped around the living room. "Dad and I drew the picture. Do you want to see it?"

Felicity nodded. "I do. But first I'm going to look at your dad's computer."

Ramirez stepped out of the kitchen. "Maybe you can wash your face," he suggested to Zoe, "and brush your hair. Then we can show Detective Smoak the picture together."

"Okay." And Zoe dashed out through one of the doorways.

Ramirez placed a cup of coffee next to the computer as Felicity sat in front of the keyboard. She began typing, and after a minute, frowned. She typed some more, double-checking her work. Then she sighed.

"I don't like the sound of that," Ramirez said dryly.

She took a sip of the coffee. It was good - just the right amount of milk and sugar. "I was hoping we'd get lucky and find the location where they're monitoring your system. They disguised their original IP address and I was able to trace my way through that, but it appears they're working out of a coffee house in Star City's business district, not a private address. So the individual could be any one of hundreds of people who use that coffee house."

Ramirez perched on the arm of the sofa. "Can't you check the camera footage from the coffee house? They've got to have a security system."

Everyone's an investigator, she thought wryly. She shrugged. "It depends on how much history they keep. If they've got a month or two of footage, we might have a chance - if we knew who we were looking for. If they only keep a few days to help with robberies or break-ins - which is more typical - then we won't learn much."

"How about my drawing? That might help with who you're looking for."

Felicity nodded. "Let's see it."

Ramirez retrieved a sketch pad from a corner of his desk and flipped through it. "Here it is," he said, laying the pad down in front of Felicity.

As if on cue, Zoe bounced back into the room. The jam was off her face and her hair was a tiny bit neater. Felicity guessed she had run the brush through it at least twice.

"What do you think?" Zoe asked, coming up to stand next to Felicity. "Isn't my dad a good artist?"

"Hmm," Felicity agreed. "Very good." She studied the picture. It was surprisingly detailed, considering it had been drawn from memory. The woman had an attractive, oval face, with high cheekbones and large eyes. Ramirez had done the drawing in colored pencil, and he'd made the woman's chin-length hair sandy blond and her eyes hazel. She looked vaguely familiar, but Felicity was unable to attach a name to the face.

"How confident are you about this drawing?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "She was here a couple of months ago, so I can't claim that it's perfect. Zoe gave me her impressions, though, so maybe between the two of us it's kind of accurate."

That wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement. Frustrated, Felicity continued to stare at the drawing.

"You don't recognize her," Ramirez said. He sounded disappointed.

"I'm not sure. There's something familiar about her, but I can't figure out what it is or where I might have met her." Felicity tapped her fingers on the desk and narrowed her eyes. It was the hair that was throwing her off, she decided. "Can you make a copy - and then make her hair darker?" Nearly every woman she had interviewed for the case had been a brunette.

"Sure."

Ramirez scanned the drawing with his computer and printed out a copy. Then he dug into a box of colored pencils, selected a brown one and moved it quickly over the woman's hair, changing her to a brunette.

"Make her hair a little longer while you're at it," Felicity prompted. "Past her shoulders."

He complied.

"And now her eyes," she added. "They should be brown too."

He darkened the eyes.

And, holy shit, Felicity knew exactly where she had seen the woman. She must have worn a wig and contacts when she'd come here, pretending to be child services.

Ramirez was watching Felicity carefully. "You know her?"

"I think so.

"What are you going to do?"

Felicity rose from the chair. "I'm going to talk to her."

Felicity's partner, or friend - or whatever he was to her in the cop-world - was silent for the first fifteen minutes of the ride to Oliver's home. It wasn't because his anger had lessened. Oliver could see that Rory's jaw remained rigid and his knuckles were white on the controls of the car. He focused on the quiet Sunday streets as if they were filled with children who might dart in front of the car at any moment.

Oliver was fine with the silence. He had a lot to think about and he could think better without conversation. At the top of the list was when he could see Felicity again. It needed to be soon, because he had a feeling she would talk herself out of getting involved with him if she had enough time to dwell on the negatives. It was clear her pal Rory would try to dissuade her. Oliver wasn't blind to the objections she would receive from her colleagues if they became a couple. He had to make her believe that exploring their connection was worth the trouble.

"What the hell are you playing at?"

The words burst out of the detective as if he'd been chewing on them for the last fifteen minutes.

Oliver didn't pretend to misunderstand him. "With Felicity? I'm not playing at anything - not that it's any of your business."

"Of course it's my business. Smoak is a good cop and a good friend, and I'm looking out for her. She doesn't deserve to be jerked around by a guy like you for his own entertainment."

Entertainment? Oliver wanted to tell the detective that the last thing any of this was, was entertaining. His unexpected attraction to a cop was causing him to do things he had never done before, turning his life upside down. But he realized the arguments Rory was about to make were probably the same ones Felicity was going to hear from him later. It might be better to know what they were.

"What makes you think I'm jerking her around?" he asked quietly.

Rory stared out the windshield for a moment, his jaw muscles working. Then he set the auto-controls to take over the driving and turned to face Oliver.

"What makes me think you're jerking her around?" he repeated. "Give me a fucking break. You have nothing in common - you two are from completely different worlds. She came from nothing and works for a living. She's had to earn everything she's got. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. There's no way you understand all she's accomplished and you definitely don't respect it."

Oliver kept his voice even. "I'm the CEO of an eighty billion dollar corporation. On a typical week, I spend sixty hours in the office. I think I understand work well enough. And respect it."

"You're the CEO of an eighty billion dollar corporation that your father and grandfather built," Rory stated. "Not the same thing. You had things handed to you. You never once had to worry if you could afford something. Hell, you probably spend more in a day on your lifestyle than Smoak earns in a month."

That last statement was likely true, Oliver thought, although he wasn't going to admit it to Rory. "So what are you saying?" he asked the detective. "That only wealthy people can be with wealthy people? That Felicity isn't allowed to get involved with me because her origins are too humble and she doesn't earn enough?"

"Don't twist my words," Rory snapped angrily. "Smoak deserves anything she wants. She deserves the best. And that includes someone who can truly appreciate her."

"And you think I can't."

"Damn right, I think you can't. From what I've read, you prefer the rich and famous - and she's nothing like that. I think a man like you can't come close to appreciating a down-to-earth woman like Smoak."

"But you can." Oliver's voice was matter-of-fact.

"I-" Rory opened his mouth and glared at Oliver. Then he closed it.

Now we're getting to it, Oliver thought. "Let's not pretend," he said to the detective, "that your concerns are purely professional. I saw how you looked at Felicity back in her apartment. You've known her for how long? A couple of years at least, I'm guessing. You've had plenty of opportunities to be more than a colleague to her. But you aren't. Either she's shot you down or you've been too afraid to try."

Rory's face darkened, and he turned away to stare out the side window of the car.

"But I wasn't too afraid to try," Oliver went on. "And she didn't shoot me down. So when it comes to appreciating her, I appreciated her enough to stick my neck out and tell her how I felt - which I'm sure pisses you off." He paused to take a breath. "And if you're thinking my money gave me some kind of advantage," he added, "then you don't know her as well as you think you do."

Rory continued staring out the side window. They were out of the heart of the city now, only a couple of miles from the iron gates of Oliver's mansion.

"All of that may be true," the detective said, his voice calmer, "but it doesn't negate your history. You change women the way most men change socks. I don't want to see her get hurt."

Oliver frowned. Of all of the arguments Rory could make, that was the one most likely to strike a chord with Felicity. She'd already brought it up when they were alone. I don't want to give my heart to someone who isn't accustomed to dealing with hearts. Not for the first time, he wished he'd paid more attention to his public appearances - been willing to attend events on his own instead of thinking he always needed a companion.

He shifted in his seat and blew out his breath. "We're about the same age, you and I," he said to Rory. "Just past thirty, right?"

The detective turned to him and nodded warily. His expression said he was wondering where Oliver was going with this.

"You're not married, obviously," Oliver continued. "And not co-habbing either, or you wouldn't be so focused on Felicity. But I doubt you're entirely celibate."

The color rose in Rory's cheeks. "I don't see what that has-"

"So, have you had long-term relationships with every woman you had dinner with - hell, with every woman you slept with? Were these all women you thought you would spend the rest of your life with?"

Rory's flush didn't fade. "No, but-"

"But the paparazzi weren't watching every time you went to a restaurant or attended a party. You went out for a little while and eventually stopped seeing each other for any number of reasons; the attraction wasn't that strong, your careers conflicted, things just didn't work out. Maybe your family and a few of your friends knew about it, but that's it."

Rory began shaking his head.

"I don't have that same luxury," Oliver said. "If I even have coffee with a woman it's posted on some website or another. People immediately begin speculating on the nature of the relationship and often make it out to be more than it really is. Then, when I'm not seen with the woman again, I've dumped her."

"It's not the same thing," Rory insisted, still shaking his head. "We're not the same."

Oliver shrugged. "Maybe not. But I'm not as fickle as the media likes to make out. I don't go out with women with the intent of dumping them. And like a lot of people, I'd be happy to connect with the right one."

There was a pause as Rory's expression morphed to one of incredulity. "Are you trying to tell me you think Smoak could be the right one?" he snorted. "That's a joke. First of all, you barely know her. And second - let's circle back to the part where the two of you have nothing in common."

Christ, the man was stubborn. Oliver could feel his own anger beginning to build. He swallowed. "Maybe we don't have a lot in common - at least not on the surface. But if Felicity's interested - if she and I are both interested - in exploring a relationship," he imagined Felicity smiling at the word, "then that's our business and we deserve the chance to do it. Without interference."

They were at the gates to the mansion. Oliver pulled out his phone to input the access code and saw that it was still turned off from the night before. He switched it on and ignored the beeps that signaled multiple voice messages. Then he typed the code and the gates swung open.

Rory resumed control of the car and steered it up the long drive to the house. "Who the hell lives like this?" he muttered. Then he added, "You can't dictate what I say to Smoak. If I believe she's making a bad move, I'm going to tell her."

Oliver pocketed his phone. "It's her life, and her choice. She doesn't have to justify it to you. If she's as smart you you think she is - and I think she's smarter - she'll figure out what's right for herself on her own."

Rory shook his head, but said nothing.

"Too much interference from you," Oliver added, "and you risk your own relationship with her."

Rory's jaw jutted out. "Smoak won't mind."

"Maybe. Maybe not. You've known Felicity a lot longer than I have," Oliver said evenly. "In my more limited experience, she hasn't been happy when she thinks I'm overstepping."

Rory stopped the car in front of the imposing wooden doors of the mansion. He said nothing for a moment, just looked at his hands on the steering wheel. "She's used to taking care of herself" he eventually admitted, "and calling her own shots."

Oliver nodded. "So, are you willing to risk your friendship with her over something that - if you're right about me - could blow over in a few weeks?"

Some of the stubbornness returned to Rory's face. "I don't want to see her get hurt."

"No, of course you don't. But the truth is that she's going to get involved with someone sometime. She's too exceptional for the entire male population of Star City to ignore her. If it's not me, it'll be somebody else. And she'll risk getting hurt then because there are no guarantees. It's a fact of life and relationships."

Rory didn't reply.

"Look at it this way," Oliver added. "Maybe I'll be the one who gets hurt by this whole thing. If I'm as much of a jerk as you think I am, she'll figure it out pretty quickly. I doubt she'll be gentle."

Rory's face brightened. "That's true."

A knock on the passenger side window caused both of them stop talking. Oliver turned to see Tommy peering into the car.

Oliver lowered the window. "Hey," he said in greeting.

"Hey." Tommy's gaze went to Rory and he gave Oliver an inquiring look. "Any particular reason you've been sitting in the driveway for the last ten minutes?"

"Tommy," Oliver said, "this is Detective…" He paused, realizing he didn't know Rory's last name.

"Regan," Rory filled in. "Detective Rory Regan with the SCPD."

"Right," Oliver continued. "Detective Regan, this is Tommy Merlyn - an old friend and manager for most of my properties."

Tommy and Rory exchanged nods. Then Tommy returned his gaze to Oliver. "Are you in trouble?"

Oliver shook his head. "I'm not under arrest, if that's what you're asking. At least, I think I'm not."

"But you're being driven home by the cops."

"Long story."

Tommy raised his eyebrows. "Does the long story involve you losing your phone? Because you didn't answer last night...and this morning. I was getting a little worried."

Judging from his expression, it was more than a little. Oliver sighed. "I didn't lose it. I turned it off." He paused. "And I forgot to turn it back on."

Tommy's eyebrows went higher. "You forgot to turn it back on?" he repeated. "For more than twelve hours? That's a first. It must have been a hell of a night."

Oliver pressed his lips together and didn't look at Rory. He imagined the fury a response like, sure was, would spark. After all, the detective knew who Oliver had spent the night with.

Tommy glanced between them as if sensing the tension. He gave Oliver an amused look as he continued, "Anyway, could you please call Susan? She must have rung the house four times last night when she couldn't get you on your mobile. By the last call she was sounding a little frantic. You didn't stand her up, did you?"

Susan. Great. Oliver could feel Rory's accusatory glare and knew exactly what the man was thinking. You spent last night with Felicity when you're seeing another woman? You're an even bigger ass than I thought.

"No," Oliver replied, keeping his eyes on Tommy. "I didn't stand her up."

Rory shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. "Susan," he repeated. "Susan Williams?"

Oliver nodded. "Yes."

"The political reporter."

"Yes."

"Is she a friend of Isabel Rochev's, too?"

Oliver frowned, caught short by the change in Rory's tone. He sounded professional now - like a cop.

"No," he replied. "I don't believe the two of them were friends. I think they knew each other by sight, and that was it." He turned to face Rory. The cop's brow was furrowed in concentration. He looked like he was trying to assemble the pieces of a puzzle. "Why?"

Rory hesitated, and for a second, Oliver didn't think he was going to answer. "Because Williams was in Isabel's apartment the evening she was killed," the cop said slowly. "I recovered about an hour of missing memory from Isabel's droid and there is a record of her going there around eight-thirty. She used a building maintenance key to let herself in."

Oliver pressed his fingers to his temple. "Why the hell would Susan be in Isabel's apartment? Unless..." He paused, then turned to Rory. "She's the one who planted the drugs."

Rory stared at him. "You know about that?"

"Felicity might have mentioned it," Oliver mumbled, hoping he wasn't creating another problem for her.

Rory narrowed his eyes, but before he could reply his phone chimed softly. The detective looked down at it. "Smoak just texted. Williams is also the woman our witness identified as planting the calls from a drug dealer. Smoak is on her way to see her now."