By the time they reached Portland, it was late in the evening. Sylar looked out at the city, the lights of the streetlamps and the buildings twinkling. He had to admit, night was his favorite. It seemed to be deep and dark and private. It was when he felt most alive. But they had been traveling all day, and, he had to concede to himself, he was tired and needed rest.

He knew Claire was tired too. She kept nodding off, her head bobbing up and down as she slipped into and recovered from sleep. Finally, once they were in the area of Portland where the murders had occurred, he tapped her shoulder. "Wake up," he said. "We're here."

She took a deep breath and stretched in her seat, then looked around. "We'll need to find a place to stay tonight," she told him, then remembered the lack of luggage in the back of the mustang. "And we're going to need to buy clothes."

"Buy clothes?" Sylar asked, giving her an odd look.

Claire returned the look. "Well, yeah. You don't intend to go around in those clothes for the rest of your life, do you?"

"No," he said. "I just haven't bought clothes in a while."

"Well what have you done, then?" Claire said with a snicker, "steal them?"

Sylar looked at her in earnest. "Yes."

Claire's jaw dropped. "So you're a murderer and a thief?"

Sylar groaned. "I've only taken what I've needed. I don't have money on me usually; it's not like I get paid for what I do. And I've never held anyone up at gunpoint for anything. I just wait until a place is closed, use my power, and get what I need."

"Well, you're starting with a clean slate, and part of that slate is doing everything by the book. We need to find someplace cheap and accessible, buy what we need, then find a hotel."

Sylar looked around the street. "How about there?" he said, pointing to a store with an icon that looked like a bulls-eye. He'd never seen it before, but the store looked big enough and was bound to have a clothes department.

"Target? Yeah, that'll work," Claire said.

Sylar parked the car and followed Claire into the store. He nearly lost her because she quickly began walking off, seeming to already know what she wanted.

"Wait!" he called. When she didn't stop he used his power to stop her in her tracks. He heard her gasp. He quickly ran to her and freed her from his control.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Claire asked angrily.

"I told you to wait and you didn't. It was one way I could make sure I didn't lose you," Sylar reasoned.

She rolled her eyes. "It's a department store, Sylar, not the bottom of the ocean. We'd find each other eventually." She began walking again, heading towards the misses section to buy clothes, and then realized that he was walking right after her. She turned back and gave him an annoyed look.

"Why are you following me?" she asked him.

"We're buying clothes, aren't we?" he asked, almost sounding sheepish.

"Well I'm buying clothes in the misses section. You're buying clothes in the men's section, unless along with changing your ways you've decided to pick up a fetish for cross-dressing too," she said sarcastically.

Sylar didn't seem to find her comment funny. "Well, what do I buy?" he asked.

Claire couldn't believe this. Here, before her, was a 6 foot something serial killer who was insisting on following her like a puppy dog and needed her to tell him what to buy. She sighed loudly in frustration. "Get a pair of jeans, a pair of khakis, some button down shirts, some pullover shirts, a pack of t-shirts, a jacket, socks, a belt if you like, and some underwear," she directed.

He actually looked a little hurt by her frustration, but he turned and began walking towards Men's. Claire shook her head and resumed her own shopping. She usually wasn't too wild about Target styles, but she didn't want to tell Sylar that she wanted to go elsewhere. The poor guy looked completely bewildered by having to shop for himself. Looking through shirts, she couldn't help but laugh to herself. He had been a psychopath, but he was male all through: completely helpless when it came to shopping.

Then she had a thought that struck her. She had the image in her head of them shopping together as a couple someday, she telling him what to buy, him acquiescing because he knew she knew best. It made her smile, but it also unnerved her. She knew she was never going to have a normal life, and even if Sylar was reformed completely, they'd never have a normal life together. Thinking of the future made her crazy. It was best to think only of the present, do what needed to be done now.

She finished her shopping, and looked at what she'd found: three button down dress shirts, an elbow length lightweight sweater, two pairs of jeans, two pairs of dress slacks, two dresses, a skirt, five bra and panty sets, a pair of pajamas, and a nightgown. Claire then remembered that they would need something to carry their clothes in; it was a bit tacky to walk into a hotel with shopping bags. She skirted over to their sports section, and bought two duffle bags. She had done well, and it was enough to get her by without blowing through all the money that Mr. Nakamura had given her.

She walked over to the men's section to find Sylar standing there, his clothes in his hands. She noticed he was staring at the lingerie she had in her arms, but she decided not to call him on it; he'd been heckled enough by her.

At the checkout counter, Claire asked the cashier, a gawky teen with spiked black hair and piercings, where the closest hotel was.

He looked at Sylar, standing behind her, then Claire. "Are you going for cheap or nice?" he asked.

"Somewhere in between," Claire replied.

The teen pointed out the door. "There's a Best Western down the street; just go through a few lights and it'll be on your right."

By the time they reached the hotel, it was nearly ten, but the clerk told them they did have vacancies and would check them in, much to Claire's relief.

"Single room, double beds?" the clerk asked. Sylar was about to answer in the affirmative when Claire piped up, "Separate, adjoining rooms, please, if you have them."

Sylar looked down at Claire, who didn't meet his eyes. Separate rooms? He hadn't been expecting that.

The clerk was able to accommodate them, and when he asked for payment Sylar stealthily slid him a credit card. Curious, Claire tried to see the name on the card but Sylar blocked her view with his shoulder (deliberately, she thought).

The clerk gave them two key cards, and explained that the rooms had two doors: one to the outside, and one to each other's rooms, through a small hallway, and that each door could be locked from the inside. The clerk looked meaningfully at Claire, as if he knew she was afraid of being alone with her companion.

They were at the door to the rooms when Claire put her hand to her head and said, "shit!"

"What's wrong?" Sylar asked.

"Toiletries. I forgot to buy soap, a toothbrush, floss…"

But then she saw Sylar reach into his duffle and pull out a small plastic bag. He handed it to her. She looked through it and saw, to her delight, that it had everything that she had just complained of not having.

"Thank you!" she said, then frowned slightly. "You…did buy this, right?"

Sylar smirked, and nodded. "I bought it while you were picking out your clothes. I…I was sort of dreading buying my clothes, so I bought those things first."

Claire nodded. There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Sylar just stared at her. He didn't look like he was planning to go to his own room anytime soon.

Finally Claire just slid the key through the module on the door and heard it click. She held it open with her hand and said to him. "Well, it's been a long day. We should get some rest and then start early." She began to walk into her room and he began to follow, which made her freeze.

Sylar smiled slyly. "You don't mind if I get into my room through yours, do you? They are adjoining after all."

He was standing close to her, and he knew that made her nervous. He was much taller than her; the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. With his hearing he could hear her heart beat speed up, her breath become a little quicker.

But she said, "Um, sure," and stood aside for him to come in. The rooms were not terribly large, but they appeared to be clean and in good order. Sylar immediately went to the door which adjoined his room and opened it, and walked inside. He knew Claire was probably watching him, wondering what he'd do next. He took a brief assessment of his room, then walked back to hers. She was standing in the middle of the room, staring.

He walked up to her again, close enough to look intimate, but far enough that they weren't touching. "Do you…need anything?" he asked.

Claire pressed her lips together in that way he was beginning to recognize as nervous arousal and shook her head. "Really, I'm fine," she said in almost a whisper.

"You don't trust me, do you?" Sylar asked, still not moving.

"It's not about trusting you. It's about trusting myself," she told him, and moved to the bed, unpacking the clothes she bought from the store.

Sylar was disappointed, but he felt a sense of respect for her answer. He walked back to the hallway. "Good night," he called after him, and heard, a few seconds later, a quiet "good night."

She took a shower, changed into her new pajamas, and got into the bed, which she found, with relief, was clean and free of stains. As tired and comfortable as she felt, she couldn't fall asleep just yet. She was a little…piqued by the fact that Sylar was going to be sleeping just a few feet away from her, but she forced herself to think about the case. Case. It made it sound like she—they—were detectives. And in a way they were. They were cases of the superhuman, something they could specialize in.

She rolled from her side and onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Who exactly were they looking for? Cases of the superhuman would be doubly difficult, she decided, because they wouldn't only be looking for a particular profile of a person for motive, but also a type of power for the purposes of actually perpetrating the crime. Claire felt strongly that the murderer had to be a man. The victims were all women, all young and most likely beautiful, if Lori Dunkirk was any indication. They all died in rather violent, brutal ways, which seemed to Claire to be more of a fashion that men would follow.

She wondered if the victims died quickly, or if they had time to be terrified, knowing that they might die. Claire could relate to the latter. She'd been a victim before. And maybe…that was the way to catch the killer.

But now she could feel sleep pulling at her, so she stopped resisting and let herself fall into a dull, dreamless sleep.

He waited until he heard the sounds of her breathing become deep and even, and her heart rate slow down. Then he got up and walked through the hallway. He tried the door, expecting to find it locked, but found, to his surprise, it was open. Claire must have forgotten to lock it. Or, he pondered with a smile, maybe she didn't.

He open the door slowly, carefully, and crept inside. Claire was lying in bed, one hand against her cheek, her hair spread out on the pillow. He moved quickly to the side of the bed and sat down, looking at her. He now knew her as being brave, bold, maybe a little impulsive, but now all her defenses were down and looked sweet, innocent—a sleeping angel.

He leaned over and stroked her hair, wondering if she was a light sleeper or not. Apparently, she was the former. Her eyes opened. "Sylar?" she said groggily, then sat up and looked around. "What's wrong?"

He eased her back down to the bed and kissed her. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just here for you." He cupped one side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. He knew that she was becoming aroused, because he could feel heat gathering in her face. He would soon get in the bed with her, hold her in his arms.

But her shut her eyes and caught his hand in hers, moving it gently away from her face. "Sylar," she began, "are you sorry for what you've done?"

He knew what she wanted to hear, and part of him wanted to lie so that she would give in, but he knew she'd know he was lying. So he told her the truth. "I'm sorry for what I've done to you," he said softly. "Everything I've done."

Her eyes were fully open now. "And everyone else?"

Sylar reluctantly shook his head. "No one else matters but you, Claire. You're the only thing I care about."

She stared at him for a while, as if trying to come to a decision. Then she said, "That's not enough for me. You need to go back to your room…please."

Sylar's eyes burned. She really had rejected him! Wordlessly he stalked from the room, using his telekinesis to slam the door behind him as hard as he could.

CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

He stayed up a little later tonight, mainly because he had a lot of work to do that he wasn't able to get done earlier. All the drama going on at work! Everyone practically in tears, even people who didn't work with Lori and had never met the slut. You'd think they'd never heard of a person dying.

Of course, the other constant conversation thread, the one that he didn't mind hearing, was all the speculation about how Lori had been found: covered in red paint, inside and out. People were frightened about the mystery, and he loved it. He showed them.

Tonight made him think back to high school. After Elizabeth's deadly injury, he knew he had power, and so he began to carry himself with a quiet superiority. He was still "butt-ugly" as one girl termed him, but he held his head high and didn't speak to anyone unless he deemed it worthwhile. But high school was full of curvy, luscious, promiscuous girls. Mini-skirts and knee high boots. Tight sweaters. Pedal-pushers. Creamy skin. Cleavage that shook lightly when they laughed. Ohh it was revolting. And it was maddening to know that he could take them all out if he wanted to. However, he was afraid that somehow, if too many were taken, that it would be traced back to him.

He had made it through his entire high school career, and was almost free when prom came and he had no choice but to act. He knew that everyone hated him, first because he was so ugly, and second because he was prideful. He knew they'd try to cut him down a peg. His mother had told him stories about this, to prepare him. He seemed oblivious to everything, but his ears were open. He knew what people said about him.

The "popular crowd" found their foil for him in the shape of Jenny Winter, a tall, thin chickie with strawberry blond hair and a porcelain complexion. He was sitting in the library, immersed in a book, or at least pretending to. He saw them gathering together and conspiring, and then Jenny walked over to him, pretending to be innocent of any forethought.

"Is this seat taken?" she said in her sweetest voice.

"No," he answered simply. He went back to reading and he knew she was beginning to get uncomfortable.

"Well…can I sit here?" she said, trying to mask her annoyance with sweetness.

"That's your choice," he told her. Sheepishly she sat down. He now knew she was trying to find a way to work up a conversation. He wasn't going to make it easy.

But she pushed the right button, the little tart. "Everyone thinks you're a snob, you know," she told him, trying to seem frank, "but I think it's because you know you have power, and you're not going to waste your time on anyone below you."

He actually put down his book and looked at her. Did she know, somehow? He was good at masking emotions, and probably only seemed mildly amused, but inside he was astir with fear.

She smiled. "I know you're smart. You're destined to go on to do great things. You know that you're better than everyone here, maybe even some of the teachers. Why come down to our level?"

Internally he sighed with relief. She knew nothing. She just thought he was an ugly nerd with too much pride. He decided to play along.

"Well…you might be right there," he said. He knew now that she thought she had a way in.

She leaned a little closer, trying to seem confidential. "You know…all my friends think I'm crazy for coming over to talk to you. They said you'd just ignore me or dismiss me. But I told them I'd ask you anyway."

Here it came. She was going to ask him to the prom, he was going to get all excited because he thought they made a "connection." Then, she'd tell him to meet her at the prom, he'd get there, only to find that she was already with her date, and everyone would laugh at his foolishness. They'd finally get back at the arrogant freak they all hated.

But he decided to play along. "You…want something from me?"

Jenny's eyes fell. Nice play. "I-I have trouble reading," she told him quietly. Shocked, he leaned a little closer and listened. He hadn't been expecting this at all.

"I have trouble with comprehension. And…and I know my parents get disappointed in me. I'm not going to graduate unless I get help with my final paper in our English class. You see, I…I see what I want to say in my head, but when I write it, it doesn't come out right. Well, I can't afford a professional tutor, and I really need help. And you're the smartest guy in our class," Jenny smiled shyly. "My friends said you wouldn't help me, but I told them I had to try."

So that's why they were gathered at that other table! They were trying to talk her out of it! At the back of his mind, he still wondered if this could be a cruel joke. But she opened up to him in such a way—why would she fake a disability like that? And she was very beautiful…he decided that Jenny was different and he'd help her.

The following week he tried to help her to write. Every afternoon he'd meet her at the library and tutor her. He tried to explain how to write ideas with clarity, and organize them efficiently. He asked her about the details of the plays and poems they read about, but she shrugged and said no matter how hard she tried to read, the ideas never made sense to her.

Finally, one day she turned to him, practically in tears, and said, "I've tried my hardest. But I'm going to fail and it'll break my mother's heart. The only way I'll pass…is if you write the paper for me." He felt wrong about doing it, but when he saw the tears beginning to form in her eyes he didn't think he had any choice but to agree.

So he typed up an essay about one of the poems they'd read in class, carefully composing it so that it would be good enough to pass, but with enough grammatical and mechanical errors that the teacher wouldn't suspect that he'd written it. He gave it to her the day before class, and she actually hugged him! Put her arms around him and embraced him.

"You saved my life," she said with a smile. "My parents will be so proud of me."

He beamed. He felt like he could do anything at that moment. And so he did. It was impulsive, but he went with it. "Will you…go to the prom with me?"

Her smile fell. She looked away, like she was thinking. But then she quietly agreed.

He was on cloud-nine for the rest of the day. He was going to the prom, and with a beautiful girl! The incident with Elizabeth when he was ten years old faded from his mind. The only worry he had now was how he was going to tell his mother.

He ended up not having to worry about that. He was in a store a few days later, looking at bow ties for the prom, when he thought he heard Jenny's voice. It was coming from behind the wall, separating the men's section from the women's. He was going to go there and greet her but then he heard something that froze his blood.

"So I thought I was going to fail English class, you know, because I've been giving it the heave-ho all semester, but this brainiac in my class actually wrote it for me!"

"No way!" said the other girl, who he didn't recognize. "How'd you ever pull that one off?"

"Oh, I told him that I was going to fail English, and that I had 'learning problems'"—she actually laughed right there, "and he felt so bad for me that he wrote it up and gave it to me!"

"Ohh, brother. What do you have to do to pay him back?" the other girl asked.

"Well, I did tell him I would go to the prom with him," Jenny said with remorse. "But I'm just going to tell him at the last minute that I have to go on a trip with my family, and that'll be that."

"So you're not going to the prom?"

"Of course I am, Dummy! Robert's taking me. I just have to get that other guy off my back first."

He ran out of that store so fast his head hurt. He had been betrayed again! Jenny never had any learning disabilities! She was just a lying, lazy slut who'd used him and never had any feelings for him at all.

Fists clenched so tight his hands hurt, he ran all the way home and went to his room and shut the door tight. He got out a piece of paper and a pen, sat on his bed, and began to carefully and neatly write the name, Jenny. He looked at the name for a long time, the loop of the "e," the swirls of the "y." He hated the name—Jenny. It was the name of a manipulative, cheating, lazy whore.

And what happened to manipulative, cheating, lazy whores? He knew. Slowly he walked into the bathroom, put the stopper in the sink, and filled it halfway with cool, clear water that reflected the sun from the window in white, curvy lines. Then he took the piece of paper with the offensive name, gently placed it on the top of the water, and submerged it.

That year there was no prom at Oakwood High School, on account of one of their students being found dead with fluid in her lungs two days before it.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Claire lay awake in bed for hours after Sylar left her. The events of the occurrence ran through her head over and over again, and she kept dealing with the same mix of emotions: pride because she had resisted, guilt because he had laid his heart out to her and she rejected him, fear that he would revert back to his old ways, worry that now she would be alone. Her mind raced and raced until it was nearly dawn, and then she could stay awake no longer and fell asleep.

When she opened her eyes again it was 8:30. She felt terrible and only wanted to sleep some more, but she knew she had work to do. And so, groaning, she dragged herself out of bed, washed her face and brushed her teeth, and threw on a combination of the clothes she had bought the night before. Finally she was done, and she looked over at the adjoining door, a chill of anxiety coursing down her back. She wondered if he was there.

Carefully she walked into the little hallway and came to the closed door. She knocked lightly. "Sylar?" she said softly. When she received no answer she tried again, a little louder this time. She tried to hear through the door but could discern nothing on the other side. She was thinking of trying the door, but decided against it. Perhaps he was still asleep. She would understand if he had had a hard time sleeping after that night's incident.

She walked down to the lobby, where they were serving a "continental breakfast" according to the signpost by the elevator. Claire knew she should eat, but her anxiety about her status with Sylar reduced her appetite. She decided to at least see what was available in the conservatory, anyway.

When she arrived at the conservatory she found, with a measure of joy, that Sylar was there, sitting alone at a table, eating a pastry. She walked up to him and sat down carefully, a little afraid.

"Hi," she said meekly.

Sylar looked up at her with a look of total unconcern. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

Claire was a little confused by his nonchalance, but she replied, "not too well. Listen, about last night--"

"I drew this yesterday. It might be helpful," Sylar interrupted, pushing a piece of paper across the table to her. Claire turned it over and looked at it. The drawing seemed to be the back of a man. She could see that he was holding a piece of paper in his hand, and even though most of his face was hidden, there was clearly a smile marking his features.

Claire handed the drawing back to Sylar. "What do you think it means?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "Could be our killer. I don't know."

Claire looked at it again from across the table. "Couldn't you draw it with his face forward?"

Sylar shook his head. "The precognition works like a trance that I can't really control. If there was some other way of controlling it, I didn't learn."

"Maybe you should have asked for instructions from Isaac Mendez before you killed him," Claire quipped, then instantly felt bad for some reason.

Sylar appeared unfazed. "Yes, I'll have to remember that for next time," he remarked, then got up to get another pastry.

Claire was troubled. Did he really mean that—a next time? Had she completely dashed his faith and good will? Oh, this was such a mess. She never should have given in to him the first time—and second time. She didn't want to play power games. She just wanted him to care, to show mercy, compassion, and generosity to others, not just her. Mr. Nakamura told her that Sylar could be used for the greater good, but she wasn't so sure if she was the right one to get him there.

Sylar returned with two pastries, passing one to her. "Where do you suggest we start looking?" he asked.

Claire looked down at the danish he brought her, feeling a little ill, but still thinking. "The library, I guess. We can check back issues of the newspapers for clues."

"Sounds good. Aren't you going to eat that?"

He was so cool. He acted like everything was fine, that he felt nothing. Claire knew she lost him. She just hoped that they could solve this case and then go their separate ways without him killing her.

"No," she said simply. "You can have it." She pushed it back at him and got up to leave.

The library in the area wasn't terribly diverse in sources, but Claire was able to look at issues of the local newspapers and read about the other murders. Apparently the first girl, Janet Redelmeyer, who was found with a perfect circle cut out of her chest, and the second girl, Lisa Laricey, who had had her body torn apart, both lived alone. There was no evidence of anyone being in the apartment at the time of their deaths at all. A neighbor of Janet Redelmeyer's even swore that she was in the hallway before and during the time of death, and hadn't seen anyone enter.

"So whoever this killer is, he's doing this from some other place," Claire told Sylar, who was looking through the national papers.

"It's a good way to do it. Clean, efficient, no need for physical contact," Sylar remarked.

Claire felt a bit of exasperation run through her. Of course he'd admire this. He probably wishes he could do something like that himself.

"The question is now, how did he do it? Even with extraordinary powers, you usually have to be in contact with something in order to do something to it," she reasoned.

"I'd find it a more…satisfying experience myself, to have contact," Sylar said. Even with her back turned to him, Claire knew he was smirking.

Her sigh came out as being resigned. "I guess it is," she said quietly.

"I was kidding, you know," Sylar told her, sitting down next to her.

Claire looked at him, puzzled. "About what?"

"When I said I'd remember next time to get instructions from someone before I killed them. I was kidding about that."

She smiled. "I'm glad." Maybe there was hope of an understanding between them, after all.

But he didn't return the smile. Instead, he looked at the newspaper articles she had been examining. "If this guy does these killings remotely, it might suggest a certain type of psychology."

Claire was too excited about this deduction to care about Sylar's rebuff. "How so?" she asked.

"A lack of direct confrontation might suggest someone who is usually very introverted and passive—someone who doesn't like—or maybe fears—interactions with people. Therefore, his powers allow him to indulge in his pleasures, but from a distance."

"That makes sense. Hey," Claire said, excited, "give me that picture you drew."

Sylar pulled the paper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. Claire looked at the man Sylar drew carefully. The man's back being turned in the picture made it a challenge, but Claire got an idea.

"This guy is an introvert, like you said, but not by choice," Claire told Sylar.

"How do you know?"

"I can't be entirely sure from looking at his back, but from what I can tell, this is not a handsome man. He's short and stumpy, judging by the way his clothes fit him. And from what I can see of his brow and nose, they're kinda broad and…" Claire tried to find the most accurate and euphemistic way to saying it, "unpleasing to look at. I doubt he's got a gorgeous face."

"Very good! Definitely not the type of guy a pretty girl like you would go out with, right?" Sylar said, a bit of nastiness in his tone.

But Claire wasn't about to be put down by someone like Sylar. "If he's killing people, then probably not. It's a personal preference. You understand."

Sylar laughed humorlessly. "I should."

Claire's heart fell. He hated her now, she could see that. She didn't know why he had bothered to stay, but she did need his help and she would take it as long as he'd be willing to give it.

She sighed. "So now that we have a…profile for this guy," she began, trying to think of the terminology she'd heard on crime dramas, "what's our next move?"

Sylar shrugged. "Try to track him down, I guess. Figure out how those girls would have met him—and try to find out how he's doing it."

Claire looked at the articles again, scanning them. "From what I read in the article before, all the women worked within ten miles of each other." She frowned. "But for different companies. Janet Redelmeyer worked for a place called Positronics. Lisa Laricey worked for a law firm. Lori Dunkirk worked for Willow Leaf Publishers. If they all worked for different places, how would the guy have met them all?"

Sylar shook his head. "Perhaps they all belonged to a club of some sort, or maybe they all shopped at the same store." But then he got an idea. "They all work in the same building." He told Claire. "That is, I'm willing to bet they do. It might be a huge, multi-story office building, and each of the companies the victims worked for was on a floor, or occupied a suite."

"And so, someone who worked in the building with them saw them, knew them, and did it."

"So maybe the guy I drew worked with them."

"Right!" Claire exclaimed brightly. "So we just need to find out where all these companies are located."

Sylar couldn't help but be amused at her enthusiasm. "I'll go check the internet and see what I can find," he said, and promptly got up and left that wing of the library.

Sylar returned a few minutes later with good news. All three companies were indeed in the same building—a giant monstrosity in the downtown district of Portland.

"Awesome!" Claire let out yet another cheery exclamation and jumped out of her chair. "So now we just need to head down there and scope it out."

"No, we don't," Sylar said, towering over her.

"What? Why?" Claire asked him.

"Because we have no idea who we're looking for, or where in the building. For all we know, he's moved on to greener pastures," he noted the sick look Claire got when he used that metaphor. "Even if we could find the guy, we can't exactly go up to him and demand he tell us how he did it. There's no evidence we could possibly have right now. We first need to figure out how he's doing this. Then, if you insist on confronting him, at least we can shake him up by revealing that we know his secret."

Claire opened her mouth to protest, but then decided against it and nodded in concession. Sylar was right. At least, she figured he was. She supposed he was looking at it from his own perspective, how he'd feel if someone knew his secret and confronted him with it.

"Ok. But how do we find that out?"

"We have to read the police reports; autopsy, crime scene details, that sort of thing."

"And where do we find those?"

"Well," Sylar said, a dangerous look in his eye. "I know where, but it would mean dirtying up that clean slate you want me to have so much."

Claire's face fell. "You mean, breaking into the police department and looking through their files."

"Exactly."

Claire looked away, her arms crossed over her. She didn't like the idea of breaking the law, even though she knew that superheroes had to do it all the time for the "greater good." Finally, she sighed and nodded her head.

"So do we go now?"

"No no no. We have to go late tonight, after the building has been closed up…or is at least a little less populated."

"How do we get in?"

Sylar smiled. "Thanks to all of my 'hard work,' I have several abilities to choose from, you know. I'm sure I can find a method that's both stealthy and effective."

Claire gave him a worried look. Before, Sylar seemed to be trying to avoid talking about his abilities and how he got them, but now he seemed to be doing everything he could to remind her of the fact that he had murdered in cold blood again and again. But she tried to remain focused. They decided on breaking into the police department around 2 in the morning.

They drove back to the hotel, the car as quiet as a grave. When the finally got there, Claire was out of the car before Sylar had even put the car in "park." She needed to get away from him in the worst way.

"Since we have some time to kill before our job tonight," Claire told him, walking toward the building, "I'm going to get some rest."

Sylar stood by the car. "Fine with me. I'll see you tonight." With that, he got back into the car and drove away.

Claire watched the blue mustang gather speed and zip back out onto the road. Feeling broken, she walked up to her room and lay down on the bed. This had been a mistake. It was a terrible, awful, horrible mistake that she had made. How could she have left her family to take on the ridiculous and impossible task of reforming a serial killer? He didn't want to be reformed, she saw now. He just wanted her to give in to him, and when he was done with her she was sure he'd find a way of disposing of her. Why had he even bothered to save her life? Claire pressed her head deeper into the pillow and told herself that she would make a bet with anyone that Sylar was regretting doing that now.

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Claire would have won that bet. Sylar was driving through the city, actually feeling angry for the first time in a while. When he was busy acquiring powers he felt so cool, almost scientific. He was doing the job of evolution, the "survival of the fittest." But now he had joined forces with one whom he had once marked as being "unfit," and she expected him to think just like her, automatically. He had to care for the world. He had to show compassion for the women that were killed. And he had to be patient. She would decide when—or if—they were ever going to have sex again.

Sylar knew the word for men like him, although he always considered himself too refined to use it: "pussywhipped." He had allowed a beautiful woman to dictate what he did, where he went. He had Petrelli at his mercy, for God's sake! Just one slice of the head, and he would have tapped into such incredible power…

But then, she had to come in, all tears and bravery, and put a gun to her head and guilt him into saving her. Then it was all a blur, and before he knew it, he had been hired to be a do-gooder. He might as well have become a firefighter, saving people's beds and rescuing kittens. A least he would have been paid for it.

And all that crock about not really being alive until you sacrifice yourself for someone else! He must have been out of his mind to believe that.

But…he knew Claire believed it. He remembered her tackling him with all the strength she had to save the life of the other girl he thought was her. And she really had pulled the trigger that night; that was no staged event. She really could have died, in order to save Petrelli. Even with these murders in Portland; once Nakamura had given her a brand new car and all that money, she could have skirted off and lived a life of idyll and pleasure; Sylar knew plenty of people that would have done that. But no, Claire believed in this "Way," this force for good that she was sure she was a part of. And she was doing her best to make Sylar believe it, too. That even he, a hardened killer who had brutally took the lives of others, who seemed so far from ever really being repentant, was a part of a greater plan for good.

Sylar had finished his musings when he saw the sign for the interstate. Just a few more miles, and he could abandon all of this silly detective play he'd been forced to engage in. Just one more mile, and he could go back to being Sylar…the real Sylar. He'd keep collecting powers, more and more, and then…well, he'd have a plan by then. He didn't need redemption, didn't need to feel, didn't need Claire.

He slammed on the accelerator. He was almost there. He could turn onto the interstate…

But at the last minute he swerved back to the left, inciting a few angry honks from other drivers. He went to the next light, made a u-turn, and went back the way he came.

"Damn her," he swore to himself.