Light was streaming through the high window. Claire could now see that she was in a small room, no doubt in the broken-down warehouse district. The iron door was tightly closed and barred from the outside, just like images from the crime scene photos. Only there were no bloody marks around the door, no attempts made to get out. That was what he wanted, her desperation, her fingernails torn and bloody. The panic to settle in her as each hour passed, drawing her nearer to the twilight that would bring his form to the doorway. She would not give him that satisfaction. Surely they had found her missing by now, and she knew Jack. He wouldn't rest until she was found.

It had grown cold overnight and she rubbed her shoulders, attempting to bring some warmth back into them. Her muscles were stiff from lack of movement, but it took great effort to prompt her to stand. Hand trailing against the cement wall, she moved hesitantly about her prison. She had always woken up in her nightmares, before the door fully opened, but it was the same room, the same closed in space. She had always hated closed in spaces. Once she had gotten locked beneath the stairs in her family's spacious country home. That was when she had bloodied her fingers, trying to pry her way out. The maid had found her in hysterics several hours later, sitting in the darkness, holding her legs, rocking back and forth. She hated the feeling of being trapped.

She had faced trials before, had felt so afraid that she couldn't prompt speech, had looked into the eyes of murderers and rapists without backing down. But this was different. In those situations, she was in control. Here, she was helpless. She had nothing to protect her except her mind, her sanity, and she fought to prevent panic from flooding into her as she surveyed her prison, the ribbon of light creeping across the floor.

She knew that once it was gone, it would bring him to her. He liked darkness. It suited him.

-----------------------------------------------

With each hour that passed, Jack came closer to desperation. He knew from the case file that Harmon liked to keep his victims alive for twenty-four hours before he killed them. Before he—

The thought prompted him to rise to his feet and he began to pace. How long he paced, he didn't know, only that a phone call brought his attention to Van Buren's face. She held up one finger, prompting a lifting of his eyebrows in hope.

"… I see. Yes, yes, I will be there immediately. Don't go in unless absolutely necessary."

She slammed down the phone and looked at him. There was hope in her voice, after hours of shaken concern. "He made a mistake. They found Claire's car six blocks from the warehouse district, in one of the empty outbuildings."

Jack drew open the door. "Am I going with you," he asked, "or are you going with me?"

It was nearing darkness when they crossed the bridge, pulling up alongside a long squadron of cars. Faces turned in the glare of the headlights, squinting as they attempted to see the figures joining them. Lennie was the first to brief them, informing them that a boy had seen figures go into a warehouse. They had not emerged. He stood in the background with a police officer, looking scared.

He couldn't have been more than twelve years old, busted with a joint in his pocket.

No one cared.

"Are you sure it's him?" Anita asked, her tone in utter seriousness. She was beautiful in the passing twilight; still young enough to regain a sense of mystery but motherhood had softened her slightly, adding a hint of care to her features. No one wanted to say it, but Logan did, his shrewd eyes mournful as he said what all were thinking.

"It had better be. We're running out of time."

Pressing her lips into a firm line, Anita looked around at the officers awaiting instruction. "Does he know we're here?"

"We've been very careful, but by now he knows we're looking for him."

"So this could turn into a potential hostage situation."

"Hostage situation or not, we have to try, Lu." It was a title of affection that softened the mood, but only slightly. There was tension among them, as she sent them in. Jack had lingered slightly in the background throughout, but now came forward.

"I want to go with them," he said.

Anita hated the look in his eyes, hated that she had to turn him down, but her voice remained calm as she replied, "We can't risk it, Counselor." She knew he wouldn't take it well, and he didn't, but she never anticipated the tremor that entered his voice. It almost broke as he said, "Damn it, Anita, it's Claire."

Maybe then she understood. Maybe then she saw beyond the obvious. Maybe then it sank in, the realization that he cared more for a reason she had failed to observe. It made sense in that moment, the casual tone between them, the protectiveness he showed for her at all times, how harsh he was on anyone that dared impede Claire's investigations. So many times Claire had been at the precinct, at the morgue, at three in the morning. It wasn't just for the job. It wasn't just for the conviction. It was for Jack. This and more flooded through her mind, and he saw the dawning realization in her eyes. It softened his.

"All right," she answered.

It was foolish. It was uncustomary. It was risky, but she let him do it.

Jack was shrugging off his jacket, the same rumpled one he had worn to the office the previous day. They were putting a bulletproof vest on him, its dark blue color blending into the night as it descended. He had to follow orders, but would be going in.