Author's Note

Wow. Reviews. Good ones. I'll admit that I always have to work up a little courage to open that mailbox every day. Thanks, everyone.

I started this chapter days ago, but, unfortunately, have had little occasion to work on it. I had originally planned to combine this chapter and the next one, but decided instead that this would be a good place to leave off for now.

I'm sorry about the Emmy, Tony. Knock them dead with the next batch of episodes and come back next year. I'll be watching.

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Chapter Two – "Drawn Battle"

Present

She'd made it.

Sharona could feel the cold spring from the doorknob as her fingers neared it. That was new; she hadn't recalled the chill during her last visit. Perhaps the weather had been different. Odd. She couldn't, for the life of her, remember. A whisper of forgiveness for the inattentiveness fled from between the woman's lips in a smoky curl. She had been distracted.

Three months earlier . . .

She gripped the knob, fumbled for the key, and flung the door wide as the keychain clinked back into her shouldered purse. She ventured a few steps into the hallway, her gaze immediately seeking some sign of disturbance, which was, admittedly, illogical here.

"Adrian?" she called. The irritation rose in her voice as the last syllable passed her lips.

"S-Sharona? Oh, thank G-Did-did you shut the door?" The weakened tones of his normally soft voice only just carried from the kitchen. She glared. Her insurmountable patience had been cut very thin that week. And then, uncertain: "Sharona?" A thick crash answered him as the heavy door slammed back against its frame. Sharona lowered her foot. He'll notice a shoeprint. Just then, she could care less.

"What was--?" he began, anxiously.

"I'm on my way," She entered the kitchen stiffly. Fortunately for her employer, the bizaree sight within was enough to prevent Sharona from chewing him out. For now.

Her boss sat cross-legged at the edge of his countertop, black-stocking toes turned up against his knees and his shapely hands steepled palm-to-palm and resting over his left ankle. His jacket and shoes had fallen into a flawless line beside him. A timid, strained smile played at the edges of his lips as he turned to her.

"Sharona," The relief clinging to his voice flung her back to the distant image of a child. It was Monk who broke that strange tableau as he quietly directed his index finger before him, at the floor.

At first, she saw nothing. Sharona inched forward, wordlessly inspecting the glaring mahogany planks beneath her feet until she discovered the thing that had driven her neurotic boss to climb the furnishings.

"Adrian," she spoke evenly, "There's five ants here. This is what you dragged me out here for?" Her eyes flashed dangerously.

"Uh, well," his pinky absently moved to scratch the ridge of his brow, "Six. There are six." His voice was thin, as though stretched too far. This appeared to be all he had to say. With an exasperated growl, Sharona set her purse beside him and reached for a dustpan. Less than a minute later, she watched the little black bodies swirl in the sink basin, one crumpled form catching in a corner before disappearing down the drain. All of the frustration seething just below the surface of Sharona's professional exterior had to out. So she shook her head. She tried to focus on the warm water running over the pan's rectangular scoop and onto her knuckles.

"This is ridiculous, Monk," she shook her hands off in the sink and reached for a towel to dry the dustpan, "I can't allow my life – not to mention Benjy's – deteriorate to this state of . . ." She turned to watch him rise from a crouch, his footwear secured, and she watched as he worked his jacket buttons into place. And then she found his eyes, and Sharona suddenly wasn't so sure about the accuracy of her metaphorical child. She certainly wasn't sure of her anger. He did his best, after all.

She realized that she had been staring when familiar anxiety tinged the warm, brown irises.

"Uhm, Sharona? Are you . . . okay?" He crossed the kitchen with the murmur of pressed cotton and carefully plucked the towel from her fingers in order to finish the job himself. Now that the crisis was over, he was, no doubt, anxious to be rid of her so that he could finish cleaning up. He'd probably want to bleach the floors.

"Fine. Uh—Adrian? We'll talk later. Just . . . don't call me again, alright?" she turned away from him to grab at her purse, "I need to take care of Benjy now." Not you. Her phone rang.

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"Mom?" Sharona went still.

"What's wrong, Benjy?" At the note of alarm in his friend's voice, Monk stood and turned from the center island where he had replaced the brush and plastic pan in its designated space. He wrung his hands, but remained still otherwise.

"There's someone here," Benjy's voice was still heavy with sleep, but the edge of unease stood out in plain relief to his mother, "He's—" The low tones of a whispered voice, a strange voice, reported faintly over the line. It was a moment before Benjy came back on, "Mom? Come home. Please."