When Tim woke in the morning, Kathryn was gone, along with his shirt and Anderson's cellphone.

He was furious, and he left his third irate voicemail as he began the short drive back to Lexington. "I swear to god, Kathryn, if you don't fucking call me back, I am going to track you down and shoot you my-goddamn-self."

So much for working together. So much for trust.

Tim had decided almost immediately after waking that he would drive back to his apartment. Reed had given him three days and he was going to take three days, goddamn it. His actual cellphone had died god-knows-when, and he couldn't find the charger he usually kept in his bag. He wouldn't have been surprised if Kathryn had swiped that, too. Hell, he was apparently lucky he still had his fucking wallet.

As Tim drove too fast toward his apartment, he rolled the windows down to let the cool morning air wash over him. He would make coffee later. Right now, all he wanted was to be home.

And maybe to run Kathryn over if he happened to see her walking along the side of the highway.

Tim had noticed the bruises and cuts on his knuckles when he'd first grabbed the steering wheel. The damage had gone unnoticed the day before, though that was hardly surprising; Tim could have sprouted a second head yesterday and he'd have missed it. He flexed the sore appendages now, easing the stiffness, and counted himself lucky he hadn't broken anything. His left hand looked particularly nasty, though, and he resolved to ice it before he had to return to the office in the morning.

When he walked into his apartment, it was still early, and Tim threw his go bag halfway across the living room in frustration before starting a pot of coffee and jumping in the shower. Despite his irritation, his body was thoroughly relaxed compared with days prior. He had to admit that, even if Kathryn was a giant pain in the ass, her presence had helped him overcome the intense stress of his dismal week.

He supposed maybe he should thank her for that. Right after he throttled her for taking off. Again.

He was getting really tired of her leaving him behind.

Coffee in hand, Tim sat on the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He checked the phone he'd plugged in before his shower and was relieved to see only a missed call from Rachel, but no voicemail, which meant it hadn't been important.

Reed must have really let the Marshals know he was busy, and he found himself feeling incredibly grateful for this small mercy.

Tim had no way of getting in touch with Delia; she'd made sure of that. And if Kathryn wouldn't return his calls, then there wasn't much he could do about that, either.

Dawson. Dawson was the only thing he could focus on; the only lead he had that still made any fucking sense. He'd last been seen in Northern Virginia, but he was sure someone would have called him if they'd taken him into custody.

Tim kept a bulky old laptop in a dusty case under his bed. He didn't use it much; preferring to leave work at work whenever possible, but he took it out today and signed into the VPN. When he searched for Dawson's name, he saw the latest notes. "Fugitive evaded capture in Alexandria, VA. 2 agents injured. Last seen headed south on Route 1."

Had he been going to meet with Delia? Kathryn said she often spent time in D.C. If they were still working together, that was bad news for everyone involved. Route 1 was no help; Dawson may as well have been on 95 and he could be headed anywhere. There was an APB out for the car he'd been in and Tim setup an alert so if it got pinged in the system, he'd receive a notification. It couldn't hurt, he decided.

Tim tried to think through his options, weighing the information he had against what he assumed. He began scribbling every idea, no matter how stupid, down onto the back of a junk mail envelope:

Romero dirty. Delia hired Dawson to kill him. Kathryn framed - why?
Anderson knows where victims are?
Other dirty cops?
Delia turned on Kathryn?.
Kathryn going after Delia?
Dawson and Delia still working together?
Russians?

Options?
Kill Dawson
Kill Delia
Arrest Delia?
Still kill Dawson
Kathryn killed Anderson? (gunshot)
Anderson alive / goes to jail
I go to jail
Kathryn goes to jail
Kathryn dies

Tim decided maybe this stream of consciousness thing wasn't for him, because that shit was fucking useless.

#

Tim ordered himself Chinese food for lunch; beef lo mein and crab rangoon. It was too greasy, too salty, and incredibly satisfying as he shoveled noodles into his mouth with the cheap takeout chopsticks as he scrolled through every line of every report ever compiled on Vincent Dawson that he had access to.

There had to be something here that had been missed; some indication of where he was going or why he'd been in Virginia, if not to meet with Delia.

The more he learned about the man, the less he liked Kathryn's chances against him. Dawson was truly monstrous; had been linked to more murders than Tim would honestly have thought physically possible for a single human, and some of the crime scene photos…

Tim set his chopsticks down for a moment as he scrolled to a different part of the report before he resumed eating.

It seemed like Dawson had worked for every major crime organization currently active in the United States, and his version of loyalty seemed to be "pay me or I'll kill you." Solkov and his group had used him on several occasions.

Tim was looking forward to putting a bullet into the base of his skull at the first opportunity. He'd be doing the rest of humanity a favor.

And maybe if he could find him, Kathryn would at least answer a goddamn text message…

Tim nearly spilled his lo mein all over the keyboard.

Who the fuck was knocking on his door?

Tim was reaching for his gun when the knocker called out.

"You in there, Gutterson? It's Reed."

Shit.

"Just a sec!"

Tim began clearing the table of his stupid scrawled notes. He closed the laptop, stuffing it under the couch. Then he looked at his hands, realizing there wasn't anything he could do about the fact that it was clear he had beaten the shit out of something. Would Reed believe him if Tim said he was in a Fight Club?

Tim took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation to come, and pulled the door open with what he hoped was a genial smile plastered on his face.

"Howdy, Agent Reed, what can I do for you?"

Reed gave him a once over and Tim stuffed the hand that wasn't holding the door open into his back pocket.

"Mind if I come in?"

Yes.

"Not at all," he said, stepping aside and letting the Agent into his apartment, scanning the room, hopeful that he hadn't missed anything.

Reed was doing the same, and Tim told himself firmly that all he saw was the Kentucky Wildcats game on the television and the bottle of bourbon on the counter. Reed could judge Tim for that all he wanted, honestly.

It was after noon. Barely.

Reed wasted no time, removing a laptop from his bag and booting it up on Tim's kitchen counter without even asking.

"Can I get you something? I've got bourbon whiskey and tap water."

Reed looked at him over the top of his computer, and Tim couldn't read his expression.

"No, thanks. I just wanted to show you something. I'd have been here sooner, but I had to convert it to a digital file from the VHS tape. You believe people still use those?"

Tim didn't have any time to answer because whatever Reed wanted to show him must have been cued up already. He tapped the space bar and turned the laptop in one fluid motion, facing the screen toward Tim on the opposite side of the counter.

Tim was watching security camera footage from what looked like a doctor's office or maybe a small hospital. The camera was placed behind a reception desk, pointed toward the automatic doors about twenty feet in front of it. He looked up at Reed, who was studying him from over the top of the laptop.

"Give it a second," he said, and Tim crossed his arms, returning his attention to the screen. He schooled his face, sure that Reed was hoping to elicit a reaction with whatever this was.

And then he saw Kathryn drag Anderson's limp body through the doors and walk straight up the reception desk. There was no sound, but he could see Kathryn speaking to the woman behind the desk.

Tim glanced up at Reed. "Sarah Geller?"

Reed smirked, nodded. It made Tim incredibly fucking uncomfortable.

"Do you know what she's saying?" Reed asked.

Tim screwed his face up in what he hoped was a suitably confused expression. "Can't say I'm much for lip reading."

He watched as Kathryn pulled a gun from the waistband of her jeans and pointed it at someone beyond the camera's view. She looked incredibly calm as she spoke with the receptionist again, and he watched her hand the woman behind the desk a piece of paper.

The receptionist spoke to Kathryn for a few moments, then pointed over her shoulder.

Kathryn looked straight into the camera, and then shot at it. The gunshot he'd heard, Tim assumed.

What the fuck had she been thinking? She should have just dumped his stupid ass on the pavement outside. Or shot him in the head behind the building, which Tim had half-hoped was what had happened.

Reed closed the laptop with a snap.

"The receptionist—a lovely and terrified girl named Martina—said Geller handed her a piece of paper with my name and number on it. She told Martina her name with instructions to call me and tell me she had beaten up a man named Chad Anderson because he was a dirty cop. Martina said Geller also told her that Anderson would say it was someone else who'd done it, but it was just because he—" Reed's voice went up an octave as he made air quotes with his fingers, "'has a small prick and doesn't want to admit getting beat to shit by a woman.'"

Tim wasn't sure whether Reed had meant to imitate Martina or Kathryn. He for sure didn't sound like Kathryn, and he hoped for Martina's sake it had been a poor imitation across the board.

Tim leaned against the counter, keeping his arms crossed and hoping his knuckles were sufficiently covered by his forearms.

"And?"

The glint that overtook Reed's eyes made Tim feel like he'd just stuck his foot in a bear trap.

"Well, and, Anderson was the cop who responded to the call from Daniel Boone, isn't he? The incident, incidentally, that you were meant to be investigating. In fact, once I got the call, I drove out there and while Anderson was in no condition to speak, the trooper who answered the phone at his station was incredibly helpful. Told me that a Deputy U.S. Marshal named Timothy J. Gutterson had come in looking for Anderson, too. Told me he gave you Anderson's home address. You know what I found at that address?"

Tim didn't move.

"A bunch of blood in the kitchen and mugshots for Geller and Dawson."

Shit. He'd forgotten about those.

Reed let the implication hang in their air between them, half-challenge and half-threat.

"Yeah…" Tim trailed off lamely and he knew he was fucked. He didn't have an excuse, so he went with a half-truth. "I met with Anderson, but he was tight-lipped. I left him the photos in case he saw either of the suspects."

"Bullshit," Reed said, and Tim had never heard such a warning tone in the other man's voice before. It was the first time in their brief interactions that Tim felt like he was speaking with a superior. The FBI Agent leaned against Tim's counter, staring him down from across the small kitchen. "Sarah Geller is protecting you and I want to know why."

#

Tim didn't think he'd ever been struck totally mute before, but here he was, just standing in his kitchen, incapable of saying anything that made sense. Utterly at a loss for how to talk or wriggle his way out of this situation. Normally, he'd have some sardonic and measured response.

But there was nothing.

He wished Kathryn was here because she probably would have either gotten Reed on her side or duct taped him to a chair by now.

"Listen, Agent Reed—"

"Deputy Gutterson, if any of the words that are about to come out of your mouth are not the God-given honest truth, you'd best rethink your approach."

Tim sighed, resigned to his fate. "Why don't you tell me what you already know. It'll save me the hassle of repeating myself."

Tim had a small dining table with two chairs behind his couch that he never used, which was obvious because it was covered in clutter—bills and mailers and takeout menus, his gun cleaning kit. One of the chairs had become a de facto coat rack at some point and had a stack of five or six jackets laid across the back.

Reed picked up his laptop and made his way to the table, sweeping the pamphlets and envelopes from the tabletop onto the floor in a single swift motion without hesitation.

"Hey!"

But Reed ignored Tim's protest, instead plunking himself down in the coat-less chair and beginning to pull folders out of his briefcase, opening them and laying them out on the table.

Tim, curiosity now piqued, walked over to the make-shift workstation unfolding in his dining room. He picked up the jackets from the other chair and looked for a good place to put them. But there wasn't one; that was why they were on the chair in the first place. So he dumped them unceremoniously onto the floor next to the discarded mountain of junk mail.

Tim was surprised by Reed's mocking and sarcastic, "hey," as he pulled the chair around closer to the Agent as he tapped through something on his computer. The man became stranger by the minute.

Tim remained standing for the moment, scanning the documents laid across his table. It looked like a lot of detailed spreadsheets with dates and coordinates. There were also bank statements with Romero's name at the top, so it seemed like Reed had maybe known he was dirty.

And then there was a picture of Kathryn with Delia, black and white and grainy, likely also pulled from security footage. It wasn't anything particularly incriminating, just the two of them eating at a table outside a little café. Delia's back was to the camera, almost certainly by design, Tim thought, so Kathryn sat in full view. She was wearing a dress, of all things, and there was a bright, beaming smile plastered on her face as she laughed at something Delia had said.

She looked exquisitely happy in a way Tim would hardly have thought possible. She looked beautiful, even all pixelated and greyscale.

"Take a seat, Deputy. I just need a minute." Tim let his irritation flare for a moment at being told what to do in his own house, but then he complied, sinking into his chair. He wondered if Reed would object to drinking while working, because this looked like it was about to give him a whole new migraine.

But instead of bourbon, Tim leaned over the back of the couch and dug around in the paper takeout bag, pulling out a fortune cookie. He peeled away the crunchy plastic and snapped the cookie in half, shoving both parts in his mouth as he unfurled the paper inside.

All things are difficult before they are easy.

Tim knew better than to think that any of this would ever be easy.

"Let's start," Reed said. Tim crumpled the fortune and tossed it over Reed's head, where it landed somewhere in the pile of discarded papers from the table.