The first pebble in the avalanche was the news about Angelo.

Well, no. Really, the first pebble in the avalanche was the embolism that broke off somewhere in the region of William Raines's neck and traveled along his bloodstream to the brain, where it stuck fast. Of course, the only people who knew about the embolism were Sydney, Lyle, and the rehabilitative team on sub-level twenty-three. As far as anyone else at the Centre knew, the avalanche started with Angelo.

"Did you hear about Angelo?" said Broots, once he'd caught up to Sydney in the hallway. Sydney was surprised. The tone between them had been chilly as of late, ever since Broots had let slip his ambivalence about the shoot-to-kill order on Jarod. They'd talked, yes, but only about what they'd needed to discuss to do their jobs. It was strange carrying on the hunt for Jarod without Miss Parker there, but they'd dealt with the strangeness by consoling themselves that they were trying to find Miss Parker, too. This was assuming Jarod and Miss Parker were still together, wherever they were.

All this to say, it was unexpected for Broots to seek Sydney out to exchange the latest work gossip.

"I've heard many things about Angelo," said Sydney. "None today, though, no. Is he all right?"

Broots trilled his lips. "I sure hope so. Nobody knows. He's missing."

"Missing? That's not exactly unusual, is it?" said Sydney. As far as he knew, it wasn't just common for Angelo to vanish into the Centre's unusually cavernous heating duct system for days at a time, it was expected.

"Yeah, that's what I said," said Broots. "He's like a cat, right? He'll come back when he needs to. But that's not how people are talking about it. They're talking like he's left the Centre."

Sydney frowned.

"… But as far as we know, he could still be here, right?" he said, half to reassure himself.

"I guess so."

But Broots didn't look convinced.

Later that day, Sydney ended up in an elevator alongside Mr Lyle. They'd exchanged grunts upon entering the elevator and had dropped two levels down into the sub-levels before it occurred to Sydney to ask.

"There are some rumours going around," he said. Lyle didn't show any sign of having heard, eyes glued to the number display above the doors. "Mr Lyle?"

"Huh?" said Mr Lyle, jolting from his reverie. "Oh. Sydney. What is it?"

"Rumours," Sydney said again. "About Angelo. They're saying he's gone."

Lyle grimaced.

"Don't remind me, God knows the Triumvirate won't let me forget it. First Jarod, now Angelo. The savant population of the Centre keeps dropping. And unlike Jarod, somehow I doubt Angelo's going to make quite as much noise now he's escaped."

The elevator dinged and Lyle stepped out. It wasn't Sydney's stop, but he wasn't finished with Lyle yet. He grabbed Lyle's elbow, slamming his other hand into the elevator door frame to stop the doors from closing.

"Hang on," he said. "Do you mean to say Angelo's really left the Centre?"

Lyle looked down at the hand grasping his elbow, more shocked than angry for the time being. After a beat, Sydney let go reluctantly. Lyle tugged briefly at his sleeve cuff to pull out the creases in his elbow, and looked around at the small throng that had gathered around them. The crowd was only trying to use the elevator for its intended purpose, but they worked just as well in the role of an audience.

"Yes," said Lyle between gritted teeth, not taking his eyes off the employees milling around them. "In future, doctor, please see me in a more private setting if you have any more rumours you need clearing up."

Sydney nodded stiffly and stepped back into the elevator. After a delicate pause, employees filed into the elevator around him, throwing him loudly curious looks. Over their heads, Sydney watched Lyle leave, stalking off with his shoulders around his ears like a man who expected a volley of arrows to rain down any second. Lyle wasn't wrong, the Triumvirate would likely view Angelo's escape through a similar lens to that of Jarod, albeit with a different degree of importance attributed to it. Regardless, it didn't spell anything good, especially for the man at the top. There had been rumblings of dissatisfaction among the staff as of late, dissatisfaction with Lyle in particular. This was not to say that Lyle was losing fans, rather that his detractors were becoming bolder in saying how they felt as his failures mounted. Things were shifting, had been shifting ever since that near miss in Cedar Rapids a couple weeks previous.

Sydney thought back to his desk, where he had the bagged contents of the trash bin from Jarod's hospital room in Philadelphia. He'd hoped Angelo might be able to read something among the yoghurt lids and used tissues. He and Broots would have to move on to the next tack in the mission to track down Miss Parker and Jarod.

Then, he thought of Angelo trying to hitchhike his way to Wilmington, the closest major city. His innards squirmed with worry as he wondered if Angelo had taken any shoes with him, or if he was walking down the shoulder of a highway right now, barefoot. Much like a house pet, he couldn't see Angelo faring well in the wild.

Sydney was acutely aware that he'd worried about the loss of Angelo's utility before he'd worried about the man himself.


The next morning, there was a suitcase outside Miss Parker's bedroom door.

Two nights in, and she thought of it as her bedroom, not Charles's. It wasn't hers the way her bedroom in Blue Cove was hers, but it was hers nonetheless.

The suitcase was also hers. At first, she assumed it was only a look-a-like. A snapshot of the average airport's baggage claim area will tell you that a good majority of travellers still buy black suitcases even though they know perfectly well everybody else on the flight will have checked a black suitcase too, and they'll be squinting at each black suitcase that trundles by on the conveyor belt once they touch down at their destination. This was definitely her bag, though. She looked both ways up and down the hallway, and hefted it back into her room.

Inside was a collection of her things from home. There were a couple of changes of clothes, all outfits she'd planned for work for the coming week before she'd left, plus a thick sweater and a set of pyjamas. They were the same pyjamas she'd changed out of the morning she left for Philadelphia, last Friday. Her bathroom cabinet had been all but emptied into a couple of giant ziploc bags.

There was more. The thriller she'd been reading over the past couple of months with a receipt holding the spot she'd last left off reading. Separate framed pictures, one of her and her father, the other of her and her mother. Her favourite coffee mug, which she was pretty sure she hadn't washed before leaving, but was clean and dry now. A box of her go-to decaf tea. Her mother's watch and one of her mother's paintings. And a dozen other careful choices, all taken from her house in Blue Cove.

Jarod — there was no doubt in her mind it had been Jarod — had gone to Delaware yesterday and brought her back as much of home as could fit in a suitcase without violating American Airlines's weight limit.

She'd deny it later, but her first reaction was one of delight. As charming as Margaret's ranch house in the middle of the Teton Wilderness was, it wasn't home. She'd missed the familiarity of her own belongings. Her second reaction, which ballooned and drowned out the first as soon as it occurred to her, was violation. Jarod had been in her house. He hadn't asked what she wanted, hadn't even told her what he was leaving to do. He'd gone into her closet, into her bathroom cabinet, had washed her dishes and checked which box of tea she used the most. Worst of all, he knew exactly what to pick. Not a single item was something she could take or leave, every cubic inch of the suitcase's interior was optimized for what she'd most like to have with her while away from home. On a small scale, he'd Pretended as her and used that to dive into her life without her permission.

"Jarod!" she roared. For once, she was glad Margaret couldn't hear, because she intended to rip the cozy silence of the spruce-and-stone rancher in two with her fury.

From outside the door came a sharp, startled oath in Jarod's unmistakable baritone. Miss Parker yanked open the door and was met by his startled face behind an enormous blanket.

"Jarod!" She peered at the blanket in his arms, distracted. "Is that my duvet?"

"Yes," he said, and his tone was already defensive, though she was sure he didn't have the first clue how he'd messed up. "I thought you would —"

"Yes, I know. You thought I'd like it. You thought it would make me feel better." She was almost snarling, advancing towards him. He took an involuntary step back. "Did it ever occur to you in that over-inflated brain of yours to ask me what I wanted? Or were you so confident of your understanding of me that you knew, you just knew I'd be delighted at the thought of you rooting around in my closet?"

Jarod stared at her, stunned. The duvet in his arms overbalanced and slowly started toppling to the floor, unheeded.

"Say something!" she snapped.

"You don't want it?"

"Of course I want —" She broke off to regain her breath. "That's the worst part, Jarod. I wanted every single goddamn thing you brought. You chose perfectly. You didn't just invade my house, you invaded my head. Is it just that you don't understand privacy? Oh, it's my turn to shrink heads now. That's it, right? You never had privacy at the Centre so anyone else who wants privacy can go to hell?"

Jarod's expression stuttered, then slackened in horror.

"No! No, it isn't like that at all, Miss Parker… at least, I don't think it is. This isn't what I wanted, I was trying —" He swore again. Miss Parker wasn't sure if she'd ever heard him swear before. In a way it relieved the tension. If she'd run up against wholesome affability instead, it would have been all she could do not to bruise her knuckles against his Dudley Do-Right jaw.

"I know what you were doing," she said. She wasn't yelling anymore, but her voice stayed cold. "You've been doing it ever since you escaped. Giving me my mother's watch, her wedding ring, warning me about Lyle, sending me a damn bunny-rabbit for Christmas. You're always trying to be kind, God knows why, I've never invited it. That's what you're always doing. Put it on your business card, Professional Provider of Unsolicited Kindness, but when that kindness comes my way it's always with the stink of, of mockery, of a neener neener, I can predict you better than you can predict me. So, what, you're only bad at this whole kindness vocation when it comes to me? Or are you —"

"Yes!" Jarod burst out.

"Yes what?"

Jarod made a face, like it physically pained him to speak.

"Yes, it's… difficult to be kind to you."

It wasn't what she had been expecting, and for a moment her rage sputtered to a smoking wick. It was difficult to be kind to her? What kind of convoluted dig was that?

"Then why bother?" she said when she found her voice again. "Why not leave me alone? Was it just about throwing me off my game, making me more susceptible to being swayed to your way of thinking? I guess I can't argue with the results. I'm here, aren't I? You're free, aren't you?"

Jarod shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I've always wanted the best for you, Miss Parker. You've been a good person in a bad situation for a long time, I know that. Allowed to escape, you could be wonderful. But —" Ah, there's the 'but', thought Miss Parker, carefully avoiding his uncomfortably earnest praise. "But since I escaped the Centre, I do also see you when I think of the fear of going back. You were the face of the dogs at my heels for years — and can you blame me? You were trying to ruin my life, whether you wanted to or not. It's hard to not want to fight back when you're attacked. I'm not a saint."

He said all this in a rush, voice rough, his eyes darting wildly from one corner of her face to the next(, to the next, to the next), searching desperately for understanding. The duvet had fallen to his feet, forgotten. He turned aside and splayed his hands on the railing which looked out over the living room. Miss Parker came up beside him, slipping into his peripheral vision. She wouldn't let him avoid her, not now that they were under the same roof.

"All the more reason to leave me alone," she shot back. "And anyway, I'm not chasing after you anymore. Move with the times, Jarod."

"No, you aren't," Jarod agreed. "You could, though. I've let you into my home, let you walk among my family when I've only just got them back. I can't leave this up to chance."

Miss Parker's jaw pulsed. He still didn't believe her, didn't believe she'd really let him go. Granted, it had been a big decision, but she'd had just about enough of not being taken at her word.

"What, that I won't call up the Centre in the dead of night and have sweepers riding in on choppers within the hour?" Jarod visibly flinched, apparently at the mental image this suggestion created. "If I was going to do that, why wouldn't I have done it already?"

Jarod shot her an unamused glare.

"That's not nearly as reassuring as you might have intended it to be," he said.

"You can't leave this up to chance, you said. What's the alternative?" she continued, as if he hadn't said anything. "Don't answer that, I know the alternative, I'm seeing it in action: manipulating me like I'm one of your marks. Little token gestures of appeasement here and there, Christ." Her words took on a sarcastic edge. "As if that's gonna do it. Yeah, I was going to betray your mom to the Centre, but I changed my mind because you washed my favourite coffee mug for me."

As she'd been discovering lately, there were few delights greater than watching Jarod be struck speechless by an excellent point.

"You can't blame me for being cautious around you," he said eventually.

Miss Parker laughed, dry and exasperated.

"Cautious? Oh, by all means. Invasive?" She closed in fast, such that her mouth was at his ear. He squirmed, just a little. "Never again. I'll give you a tip, no charge. You want to minimize the chances I'll turn against you and throw you to the Centre wolves? Don't you ever go behind my back and root through my things — or my mind — again. Or you'll wish you understood me a lot less."

Jarod didn't reply with words. He bent down, picked up the duvet and folded it carefully, unhurriedly. When he was done, he bent and set it down outside her door. It was as if he was laying an offering at her feet. He straightened and stared at her a moment, like he was scanning the horizon for land.

"I'm not taking it back. You might as well enjoy it," he said simply, and left.

Miss Parker took the duvet back into her room.

(No, Charles's room.)

She waffled back and forth, but ultimately peeled the top quilt off the bed to replace it with the duvet. She didn't like how it had come to her, but it was her favourite duvet, and she wouldn't turn up her nose at that.


Sydney was washing his hands at the sink in the top-floor men's room when he heard a mild commotion coming from the wheelchair-accessible stall. He looked around to see a man with heavy brows struggling to hold the stall door open with one hand while he wheeled himself out of the stall with the other. The man appeared to feel a pair of eyes on him, and looked up. He shot Sydney an exasperated smile.

"One day I'll find whoever engineered these stall doors and make sure they're terminated with prejudice," he said as he finally extricated himself from the stall. The door banged the back of his wheelchair on the way out. "The doorway is only barely big enough to fit, too. What's the point in a big enough stall when I can hardly enter it?"

Sydney chuckled politely. The man looked familiar but he couldn't place him.

"You're Sydney, right? I'm Dr Tuchen, we've met before I believe," said Dr Tuchen. A memory flared in Sydney's mind. They'd run into each other when there'd been that scare over Jarod possibly taking up a recreational drug habit.

"Dr Tuchen, of course," said Sydney, switching to unctuous. "Head of clean-up, right?"

Another employee walked past the two of them, making for the urinals. He gave them a skeptical look as he passed, and fair enough. The bathroom was an awkward place for chit-chat, let alone formal re-introductions.

"Yes, that's right. Say, a little bird told me you've been looped in on the…." Tuchen glanced over at the urinals, where the only other person in the bathroom was unzipping his fly. "Ahem, the MCA CVA project?"

He was referencing Raines's stroke, Sydney realized. Middle cerebral artery cerebrovascular accident. Sydney nodded. Tuchen wheeled into the sinks and leaned forward in his chair to reach the taps. Once the faucet was running, he appeared to think it safe to talk further.

"Between you and me, how is that going?" asked Tuchen.

If Sydney had been a more flappable person, he might have sputtered. Was this man really asking him to share classified Centre secrets to a relative stranger in a company restroom? How could Tuchen have risen to a position like head of clean-up without developing some sense of self-preservation?

"I wouldn't know," Sydney said, grabbing a couple sheets of paper towel from the dispenser. "I've only been consulted once. I'm in the dark otherwise."

Tuchen nodded with a certain look of commiseration.

"Yes, I've noticed Mr Lyle keeps things close to the chest," he said.

"You're telling me," said their third wheel, who had returned from the urinal. "I'm constantly having to clear up crossed wires between my department and communications because Lyle doesn't want the left hand to know what the right is doing."

He whined the word 'Lyle' like a fourth grader might invoke the name of his annoying older sister. Apparently his opinion on men's room chatter could be shifted by a sufficiently juicy topic. He looked a little familiar to Sydney, too. Someone from Broots's original department, before he was relocated to the Jarod recapture effort. His designated parking space was close to Sydney's own, and they often rode the elevator up to the main level together. Sydney thought his name might be Ted. Or maybe Todd.

"Ted, right?" said Sydney.

"Todd," said Todd. He rolled his eyes as he wet his hands at the sink. "Todd Powell. I don't know where that guy gets off. Just 'cause his daddy used to run this place, he's suddenly interim head while Raines is… on vacation, I guess? Doubt he's on vacation, let's be real, Lyle probably had the old fart whacked. Anyway, this isn't a monarchy. And even if it were, I'd take his sister over that middle management brat."

Tuchen chuckled.

"Middle management brat," he repeated to himself, like it was the best joke he'd heard around the office in ages. He looked up at Sydney. "I'm off. Nice seeing you again, Doctor."

With this parting shot and a backwards wave, Tuchen left. Sydney rubbed distractedly at his long-since-dry hands with a paper towel, staring at the closed door and wondering what to make of the interaction. Lyle had said Raines's stroke was a closely-guarded secret, so why would the head of clean-up be involved? And supposing he was involved, why would Tuchen confront Sydney about it in a public venue instead of going straight to Lyle? Surely he could only have been looped in by Lyle in the first place.

Meanwhile, Todd continued to rant against Lyle's sins — all relatively mild compared to the literal skeletons in Lyle's closet, but of top priority when one's life revolves around workplace drama. Sydney only just barely extricated himself from the conversation in time for his next commitment. He'd made an afternoon appointment with Broots. They were headed out for an interview at that airport in Wisconsin, to speak with a staff member there.

It only occurred to Sydney weeks later that that fleeting encounter in the men's washroom was the last time he ever saw Todd Powell.


Miss Parker was dimly aware that the house in the Teton Wilderness had at least four bedrooms. There could be more, of course; in part to avoid giving Jarod reason to treat her like an armed explosive, she'd kept snooping to a minimum. Three were accounted for: one each for Jarod, Margaret, and herself, the latter formerly belonging to Charles. This left one bedroom unaccounted for. She was not particularly moved to account for it.

That is, until its owner came home.

Miss Parker had taken a map out of the drawers that pulled out from the living room coffee table, and was plotting her route to an airport. Not the closest airport, she'd decided. On the way back, she wouldn't have Jarod around to fake her credentials on the manifest, and any Centre tech worth their pay would be able to track back her flight to its point of origin and narrow down Jarod's current whereabouts. Likewise, though she'd taken down Margaret's phone number in case of emergency, she didn't anticipate being able to use it. The Centre had access to her phone records — hell, she wouldn't be surprised if her cell had been bugged — and that same salaried Centre tech would be able to reverse-lookup an address in their sleep.

She wasn't sure when she'd leave, but Jarod's attempt to force the issue with the suitcase stunt had made it doubly clear that this wasn't home, no matter how many home comforts he'd lugged across the country for her. Yes, OK, she'd unpacked most of it. Yes, fine, it did make her feel like she could relax in her own space, at least for as long as she was staying there. But the point was, it was borrowed time. She'd have to return to the Centre some time. Some time soon.

Outside, the crunch of gravel signalled a car pulling into the driveway. Miss Parker paused with her finger on the route to Lincoln, Nebraska. Who could that be? Margaret's car was back now that Jarod had returned from Delaware, so that ruled out Margaret. The Westfalia they'd brought in from Oregon had been in the driveway already when she'd sat down to work. Could it be Charles, the prodigal father? That might be a little awkward, seeing as how the last time they'd met, she'd been ready to kill him in mistaken retaliation for the suspected murder of her mother. She looked back down at the map, her shoulders tense. If it was Charles, all she could do was pretend she belonged there, and hope that the quasi-bluff was enough to avoid an altercation. The map came into focus as she tuned out all distractions.

She considered her options. Travelling east was preferable, to cut down on total travel time. The Lincoln Airport in Nebraska was farther away than she'd like, so that was out. The Rapid City Airport, on the other hand, was within manageable distance and to boot, it might get her where she wanted to go without summoning blinking neon arrows pointing to the Teton Wilderness.

The door opened. In Miss Parker's peripheral vision, a pair of soft-treaded boots stepped in, too light of foot to be Charles. Miss Parker looked up. She was greeted by the sight of a stranger, a young woman with a dark ponytail pulled through the back of a baseball cap. The woman noticed her in the same moment, and her eyes went wide.

"Who — Miss Parker!" In a single fluid movement, the woman reached around behind her back, pulled out a pistol, and pointed it straight at Miss Parker's chest. "Don't move!"

Miss Parker obliged, all the better to pause and take in the woman holding a gun to her heart. The woman's face didn't ring a bell, but if she recognized Miss Parker, she was likely sent from the Centre. The Centre higher-ups and their grunts must have pieced together from witness accounts on the plane from Wisconsin to Oregon that Miss Parker had switched sides.

(She hadn't switched sides, her brain insisted. She was only taking the long way home, gathering information on the way. She wasn't throwing her career away for a life on the run, not her.)

And now this woman was here, clearly not expecting to find Miss Parker. Maybe she'd expected Jarod, instead.

"Get your hands up," the woman barked.

"You've got it wrong," said Miss Parker, but she followed the woman's order. She thought back to her own weapon, nestled in her purse on the armchair to her right. It wasn't within arm's reach, but if she could get to it….

She stood and faced the nameless Centre agent.

"What are you doing? Sit back down, now," said the stranger. There was an edge of wariness in the woman's voice. She must know Miss Parker by the reputation she'd cultivated around the main office, which tended to be at once overblown and an underestimation of the true article.

"Sure," said Miss Parker, all placating calm. She stepped backwards towards the armchair where her purse lay. "I'll sit down. No problem."

She took another step back. The woman's gaze flicked behind Miss Parker's back. Miss Parker frowned. All that lay behind her was the hallway leading to the bedrooms: Jarod's, Margaret's, and a third unoccupied room. Did this woman know something she didn't?

"If you try to run, I'll put a bullet in your back, don't think I won't," the visitor said. The conviction of her words was betrayed by a slight wobble in her voice. Miss Parker registered some mild surprise that in fact, the woman sounded downright daunted by the idea of shooting her in the back. Most sweepers hired by the Centre — if, indeed, she was a sweeper — were well versed in the occasionally brutal requirements of the job. Maybe she had some residual loyalty to Miss Parker that she was wrestling with. Aha, thought Miss Parker. She could play on that.

"I don't think you will, actually," said Miss Parker slowly. She took a final step back, felt the edge of the armchair cushion against the back of her legs. "I'll just sit back down, now."

She bent her knees as if to sit, grabbed the pistol from the purse and whirled it around to point right back at the woman. The inertia of the movement overbalanced her slightly and she fell back into the chair. She didn't lose her aim, though. Not for a second. The scene froze in a fresco, each woman holding her gun against the other.

The other woman inhaled sharply, but otherwise did not react.

"I'm not going back," snarled Miss Parker. A look of — what, confusion? — flitted across the other woman's brow, but she was spared the chance to reply when the front door burst inwards.

It was Jarod. For a shred of a second he grinned excitedly, but the grin dropped when he took in the tableau before him.

"What's going on?" he asked, looking warily between the two of them.

"Get out of here, Jarod," Miss Parker shouted, at the same time the other woman yelled: "Jarod, get Mom and run!"

Miss Parker's grip faltered. Mom? The tension in her shoulders dropped a notch. This must be the sister. Truthfully, she'd completely forgotten Jarod had a sister, but yes, there had been another sibling running around, hadn't there? What had her name been? Emma?

She didn't drop the gun, though. Dropping the gun seemed like a wonderful shortcut to getting a bullet between her ribs. The sister didn't drop her gun, either.

"I'm not going anywhere," said Jarod in his hostage negotiator voice. "Emily. Miss Parker. Both of you have made a mistake. Drop your weapons."

Emily, right. Not Emma. Emily. Unconsciously, Miss Parker's gun arm began to drop, presumably obeying some uncritical corner of her brain that considered Jarod's advice to be worthwhile. She brought the gun back up. Not yet. She wouldn't relinquish control over this situation until it was strictly necessary.

"I thought you were a Centre sweeper," said Miss Parker. "Drop your gun first and I'll drop mine."

"What? No! Jarod," said Emily, not taking her eyes off Miss Parker. She surged forward a step, seeming to just barely control the urge to let a bullet fly. "Jarod, what is this? Why is she here, where's Mom? What has she done?"

"That's a lot of questions," said Jarod dryly. He projected calm, straining to keep every hint of anxiety under wraps, but Miss Parker knew where to look for the signs. His neck stiffened and his eyes darted around, taking in every detail. "We can answer all of them when the guns are put away. Miss Parker?"

Miss Parker locked eyes with him, and he broadcast to her a silent plea.

A beat.

For once, Miss Parker decided to be the bigger person. Her gun arm dropped to her side and she slid the pistol back into her purse. Emily did not seem appeased by this; if anything, she looked even further alarmed. She did not follow suit, and the muzzle remained pointed squarely at Miss Parker's heart. Miss Parker felt naked under the bull's eye with no weapon in her hand.

"You can't be serious, Jarod," said Emily. She still hadn't looked at her brother. "She's with the Centre. She's been trying to take you back in for years. We can't have her here."

"We can and we are," said Jarod, stepping around his sister and into the prospective path of the bullet. "There's more going on than you understand, Em. I won't let you hurt her."

Emily's eyes bulged.

"Jarod, get out of the way," she said.

"No."

Miss Parker's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't that she couldn't believe Jarod would do something like this. Stepping in front of a bullet was exactly the sort of grandiose gesture he'd trot out for any given underdog on the street. The thing was, Miss Parker wasn't an underdog. Emily was an underdog, a plucky reporter on the run from a ruthless, shadowy think-tank. That was the part that strained credulity: he was taking her side over his long-lost sister's.

"What is this?" said a voice from the stairs up to the third floor landing. It was Margaret. Her hair was flattened on one side and her eyes were fogged over, like she'd been napping. "Emily! What are you doing, put that away."

By her tone, Emily might merely have been wearing a hat at the dinner table. Miss Parker almost smiled.

"Mom!" said Emily. Her voice shook with relief. Miss Parker's lip curled; this woman actually thought she'd hurt Margaret. "Thank God. Get in the car, Miss Parker from the Centre is here."

"You know very well I have no idea what you're saying, Emily. You're facing away from me. Put the gun down, we need to start getting dinner ready."

Emily's face screwed up into a knot of frustration. With a wild warning look at Miss Parker, she turned her head so her face was visible to her mother.

"Mom, get in the —"

But Miss Parker had had enough of guns being pointed at her. She darted forward, skirting Emily's peripheral vision. She jabbed Emily hard in the wrist and made to pull the gun out of her loosened grip. In a panic, Emily clamped down and pulled the trigger. The bullet flew wide; Miss Parker felt the slipstream of the bullet whiz past her ear. A larger hand closed over Miss Parker's a millisecond later and she heard a wordless shout — Jarod had moved at the same time. She looked up and into Jarod's face, and almost lost hold of the gun, so startled was she by the look on his face: he looked terrified. He scanned her frame frantically, nothing so flattering as elevator eyes, more… diagnostic. Realization struck Miss Parker. He thought she'd been hit by the bullet.

"Hey," she muttered, loud enough for him to hear, though only just. "I'm fine. I'm fine, Jarod. It missed me."

It was enough to shake him out of his momentary panic, to make him meet her gaze. He held it for a moment. She saw it in his eyes when the words sunk in. He relaxed, everywhere but his mouth, which tightened in a small smile.

Miss Parker looked away. The last time she'd seen him look that scared, it was back in Philadelphia, when he'd been shot by the racketeer. In a fugue of pain, he'd seen her across the room and, briefly, he'd been so frightened he'd tried to crawl away, losing blood with every twitch of his muscles. Now he was scared for her.

Interesting. Had things changed so much? Perhaps they hadn't. Perhaps being scared of Miss Parker and being scared for Miss Parker were not mutually exclusive concepts in Jarod's convoluted brain.

"I certainly felt that," said Margaret, annoyed. "It made the whole house shake. Wonderful. Wonderful, Emily. Where did the bullet get to? If it's shattered a window, you'll be the one installing the replacement."

Emily did not respond, locked as she was in a tug-of-war over the gun in her hand. She hadn't given up the stand-off.

"Get off," she growled.

She yanked her arm to the side, trying to shake off Miss Parker's grip. Miss Parker was used to being outclassed in the weight department, however, and held on until the gun was successfully pried from Emily's hand.

Miss Parker huffed a laugh.

"Nice to meet you, too," she said.

Emily took a heaving breath. The hard look behind her eyes melted into helplessness.

"What is going on," she gasped, still breathless.

"Miss Parker is our guest," said Margaret. "I'm sure she'd be happy to put your mind at ease over dinner. As for right now, it's already quarter to five and I don't even have the oven preheated. I'd love some help."

On automatic, Emily moved towards the kitchen.

"Not you, Em," said Margaret. "I was serious about that bullet. Find it and dig it out, then you can join us."