Francis Cohen had been a nurse for thirty years. She took one look at her new patient – young, restless, agitated – and knew exactly the approach to take with him.

"Here you go," she said, hovering close the minute he was transferred to the bed. "Let's get you comfortable. You've had quite a morning, haven't you?"

Cutter grumbled something.

"I'm Francis," she said. "I'm going to be your nurse." She smoothed the blanket over his legs. "There now, are you warm enough? I can get you another blanket. Or a pillow. You'd be more comfortable with another pillow, wouldn't you?" She went to the closet and got one before he could answer, then fluffed it and put it behind his head. She rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment, gave it a squeeze. "Are you hungry, honey? I bet you'd like some juice. What kind of juice do you like?"

The young man blinked up at her. "Grape?" he asked quietly.

"I'll find you some. And you think about what else I can do to make you comfortable, okay? Be right back."

"I … thank you."

She gave his shoulder another squeeze, then went to find him juice.

In the corridor, her co-worker rolled her eyes. "That one? I hear he was a pain in the ass down in the ER," she said quietly.

Francis nodded. "I'm sure he was. But I never yet a boy yet who could resist the Mommy treatment."

"Better you than me."

Carter was sitting by the front window in the Lyric Diner, both hands wrapped around her coffee mug like it was a lifeline. John knew how she felt. For cops and spies alike, coffee was the elixir of life.

He slid into the booth across from her. "Won't that keep you up tonight, Detective?"

"Only long enough to drive home." She smiled briefly, took another sip. "It's not as good as Scotty's."

"We could meet at Chaos, if you'd rather."

"With all the cops that hang out there? Probably not a good idea. What did you do to Fusco?"

He held his hands up, all innocence. "I had nothing to do with it."

They both paused while the waitress came over and put a cup of coffee in front of Reese. When she was gone, Carter said, quietly, "Something about a bomb threat?"

John shook his head. "I was not behind it, I swear."

"And your partner wasn't, either?"

"Not … directly."

She gave him a look. That look. For a long moment. He met her gaze squarely until a little smile finally tweaked at the corners of her mouth. She sighed. "This cop you're asking about. Teddy Edwins. I can't say for sure, but it looks like he was one of the good guys." She pushed her file across the table.

"Really." Reese glanced through the file.

"No write-ups or reprimands, only a handful of complaints, and they're all the typical get-out-of-a-ticket kind. Nothing that looks like he's dirty."

"And the car crash?"

She shook her head. "They were running lights and sirens on a call. Hit black ice, skidded into a utility pole. Edwins shattered his leg."

"His partner was killed?"

"Leyland Williams. It was his second year. He was killed on impact."

"There wasn't another car involved?"

"Not according to the report."

"Edwins was driving?"

"No. Williams was."

John sat back. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his coffee mug. If Edwins blamed Jason Cutter for his partner's death somehow – but Cutter didn't have a driver's license or a car. "And nothing smells bad about the accident?"

"Not that I can see. You want to tell me what your interest is?"

Reese shook his head.

Carter reached out and took his wrist firmly. "John."

"Edwins is working as a night security guard. He works with a man named Cutter whose life may be in danger."

"How do you know that?"

He looked at her.

"Right. You're not going to tell me. How do you think Edwins is involved?"

"I have no idea."

She sighed, but released his arm. "You'll keep me posted, right?"

"Of course."

"And by posted," Carter said firmly, "I don't mean calling when there are a bunch of bad guys on the ground clutching their knees."

"I'll do my best," Reese promised. He gave her his best winning smile.

"Uh-huh." She stood up. "You can pay for the coffee."

John watched her walk out. She put on her sassy walk, on purpose, he was sure. Even the no-nonsense suit she wore couldn't hide the fact that Joss Carter had a very nice figure.

He really shouldn't be noticing that any more, if he was in love with someone else.

He shook his head. Bound did not mean blind. It was in his nature to observe. But thinking of nice figures reminded him. He glanced at his watch. Lots of time, even if he went home to shower and change before his night shift.

He left a twenty on the table and walked out.

Christine sighed. "We're going to have to do this the hard way."

"I thought as much," Finch answered calmly. "That's why I had you do it."

"Oh, thanks." She scrolled through his programs until she found the one that would crack the password – by grinding process of elimination. "Should I even ask?"

He looked over at her. Then he gestured to the board. "Jason Cutter is in danger. Or dangerous. We don't know which yet, or why. I had hopes that the contents of his laptop would tell us, but the young man seems unusually circumspect about his data." He turned up the speaker that was broadcasting the audio feed from Cutter's hospital room. A woman, presumably a nurse, spoke to him, and Cutter answered quietly, politely. They seemed to be on very good terms.

Christine set the program running and stood up. "He sounds like a nice guy."

"Hmmm. According to Mr. Reese, he was quite rude before. To a variety of people."

"She seems to be fawning over him."

"She does." He listened for a moment. He'd had quite a lot of experience with hospital stays, and while his nurses had always been professional and frequently very kind, none had been quite as relentlessly kind as this one. "He's certainly responding to her care."

"Maybe he has brain damage."

Finch gave her a half-smile. She joined him at the board, but glanced to him for permission before she looked directly at it. It was curious, he thought. She'd always deferred to his need for privacy, but even now, when he thought he'd clearly indicated his invitation, she was hesitant. There was something off about her. Something – distant, for lack of a better word.

She had had a rather eventful day, he reminded himself. Perhaps after her session of what amounted to face time with the Machine, she thought she'd learned enough of his secrets for one day. He couldn't blame her. The adrenaline was certainly wearing off by now, and the reality of what might have happened was settling in. "You must be exhausted," he said gently.

Christine nodded without looking at him. "The buzz is winding down." She pointed to one of the pages from Cutter's log. "Who's this?"

"That e-mail address isn't active. None of them are, unfortunately." He frowned. "These are pages from a journal Mr. Reese found hidden in Mr. Cutter's apartment. I'm sure they're significant, but I have been able to determine how yet."

"Did you check the forums?"

He looked at her. "The … what?"

She pointed again. "N2NY. New to New York. It's a discussion forum."

"I thought it was a code of some kind." He moved closer. "And the others?"

Christine scanned them. "UWSTAT – Upper West Side Take-Away Tuesdays. They're foodies. And this is New York Parents of Multiples."

"Multiples – twins?"

"Twins and more, yes." She scanned the others. "FRM – Fixies Rule Manhattan."

"Fixie?"

"Fixed-gear bicycles." She frowned. "Your Mr. Cutter gets around."

"Yes," Finch agreed slowly. "Do you know of any commonality between these groups?"

She thought about it. "They're relatively small. Locally based. Specific. A good place to find people with similar interests." She shrugged. "That's not very helpful."

"Perhaps it is. Perhaps they're places he frequented to meet someone."

"Hmmm?"

"We have a very preliminary theory that these e-mail addresses are women that Mr. Cutter has stalked. Perhaps he befriended them online, in these various forums, and persuaded them to meet him in person."

"And what? Killed them?"

"I don't know. It's possible." He shook his head. "These events that are listed? The crimes? None of them ever happened, or or at least none were ever reported to the police."

She cocked her head toward the speaker. Cutter had gone quiet; there was a television show playing in the background. "If that's what he's doing," she said evenly, "it would explain why he needs to move on to another forum."

He nodded slowly. "You know these forums. Do you participate on any of them?"

"No. But forums crash. I've fixed a couple of them. I know the mods."

"They would have intimate knowledge of the members." Finch moved around to look at the screen. The program was still trying to access Cutter's cloud files. "Would you be willing to introduce me?"

Christine already had her phone out. She scanned through her many, many contacts. "I'll see who I can find."

Teddy Edwins approached the unit desk quietly. Too quietly, as it turned out; the clerk had her head down and didn't notice him. He cleared his throat and she jumped. "Sorry," he said.

"Not your fault," she answered. "Can I help you?"

Edwins had a small box of chocolates from the gift shop in one hand. He put his free hand in his pocket and thumbed over his badge wallet. He had his ID card from his security job, and he was prepared to palm over where the badge should have been. "I'm here to see Jason Cutter."

"Room 401. Just down that way on your left." She gestured.

"Oh." He took his hand out of his pocket. "Thank you."

She smiled briefly and went back to her papers.

Edwins walked down the hall. He didn't like hospitals. He'd spent too much time in one. But this wing was quiet. Half the rooms were empty. He found Cutter's room and went inside.

The young man was sitting up in bed, typing rapidly on his laptop. "Hey, Jason," Edwins said.

Cutter looked up. "Hey. Teddy." He lowered the lid of his computer. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard about what happened. Thought I'd come check on you. How you feeling?"

"I'm okay." He sniffed. "Kinda got a headache still."

"I bet. Sounds like you were real lucky."

"Lucky. Yeah. Stupid squirrels. I could've died." He gestured. "That for me?"

"What? Oh, yeah." He put the chocolates down on next to the computer. "I didn't think you were really a flowers kind of guy."

"No. Thanks, though."

An uneasy silence fell. "I already called off work for tonight," Cutter finally said. "They think I had a seizure. But I should be back tomorrow."

"Maybe you should take some more time. A couple days, you know? Rest up?"

"Can't afford to. You know, unless they find something."

Edwins nodded. "Okay. But take it easy, okay? Be sure you're ready before you come back."

"Yeah."

The young man's hands strayed to the computer, though he kept the lid lowered. He clearly wanted to get back to it. "What do you do on that computer all the time?" Edwins asked. "You lookin' at porn or what?"

"No. Well, sometimes. Mostly I talk to people. You know, online."

Edwins nodded grimly. "You should be careful. You never know who you're going to meet online. If they're really who they say you are, you know?"

"You think I'm going to get catfished, Teddy? Me?"

"I don't know what that means."

Cutter shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I know my way around the web."

"Yeah. I guess you do."

The silence returned. An older woman came in, a nurse. "Oh, you've got a visitor. I'll come back."

"No, I was just going," Edwins said. "Just wanted to pop in for a minute. Is there, um, anything I can bring you? Anything you need?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks for stopping by."

"Sure. You take care. Like I said, think about taking a couple days off, okay?"

"Thanks, Teddy."

The retired cop looked at him for a moment. At the computer. He opened his mouth. Then he closed it, looked at the nurse. Then he left.

In the corridor, he stopped and leaned against the wall. He could hear Cutter behind him, asking the nurse for another blanket. He sounded like a little boy, playing up being sick for his mommy's attention.

Edwins shook his head and walked out.

Harold never learned his real name; his friends called him Crash, and given the scars visible on his face and hands, the nickname was well-deserved. He was a bike messenger by trade, and when Christine reached him he was waiting for his next call in a fast-food restaurant. She promised him twenty dollars and he gladly waited inside for them.

"This is Harold," Christine said simply. "He needs to know about someone on the forum."

If Crash had any qualms about sharing information, Christine's presence alone was enough to calm them. "Shoot."

"Marigold."

Crash snorted. "That bitch. I kicked her off the week she joined."

It had been, Finch reflected, the shortest entry in Cutter's black book. Just the user name and password code, the forum and a date. "Why?"

"She wasn't a rider."

"How did you know that?"

The young man slurped his soft drink. "When she signed up, I sent her the standard welcome post. Rules of the group, how to reach the mods, you know, basic. She lurked for a while, hung around for a couple days, just little comments. Someone noticed she was new and asked her to introduce herself and talk about her favorite ride."

"They're total geeks on the topic," Christine told Harold. "There are flame wars fought over pedal modifications."

Crash nodded. "Marigold makes this post about her fave. Wyatt Street King. Not a bad choice, kinda mainstream. Expensive. So somebody asked her why. And the answer she posted – she c/p'd it right from a website. I know, 'cause I was the OP."

"The … OP?"

"Original poster."

Finch nodded. "So she stole her answer directly from another website."

"You gotta understand," Crash said. "We don't have a lot of women on the forum. A couple, bike monkeys, you know, messengers, a couple distance racers, but they're pretty scarce. This is kind of a boys' club. So to get some strange chick wandering in … it was weird to begin with. But when she did that … I don't know. Didn't feel right right from the gate, you know?"

"Did you ask her to explain why she'd plagiarized her reply?"

"Yeah, I hit her on the side and told her she was cold busted. Right away she said she was really sorry. Said she was shy around new people and she wanted to make new friends and make sure people liked her. She was just trying not to sound stupid. Which I get, I guess." He shrugged. "So I told her it was okay, we weren't mad at her but she couldn't do that anymore. Told her she had to come clean with the group and try again. But she never posted after that. I sent her another e-mail the next week, but it bounced."

"She closed the e-mail account," Finch said.

"I think so."

"In the time she was on the forum, were there any members who showed any special interest in her?"

"Sure," Crash said. He drank again, and his cup made the loud empty sucking sound. Christine stood up without a word, took the cup and went to the counter for a refill. "Pretty much everybody. All the single guys, anyhow. Like I said, not a lot of women in our group. She seemed real nice. I was kinda sad she left. But I think she must have been one of those, you know, introverts. I dunno."

"I don't suppose you tried to track her IP address?"

"Not my thing. Sorry. Like I said, she was only there about a week."

"Thank you." Finch stood up as Christine brought the drink back to the table. "You've been very helpful."

"How come you're looking for her?" Crash asked.

"We think she's a grifter," Christine answered easily. "Scam artist."

"Really? She didn't seem like the type."

"Sweet and innocent?"

"Yeah."

"Like me?" she teased.

He grinned. "Yeah, Scotty, like you. Point taken."

"Thank you again," Finch said. He slipped the bike messenger forty dollars and they went back outside.

Christine checked her phone. "Next meeting. Maybe she'll be more help."

"I hope so. Lives may depend on it."

Zoe Morgan was wearing dark red, snug and low-cut, with heels that made her legs seem a mile long. She looked fantastic, as she always did. John was surprised to find that he wanted, rather a lot, to have one drink and get a room with her.

He was working, of course, or he would be in a few hours, so both the drink and the room were off the table. And really, it was just a habitual urge. He was not going to have casual friend sex with Zoe Morgan anymore. He'd only asked her to meet him for a drink to tell her why.

He stood up, took her hand, kissed her on the cheek. She looked him up and down, eased into her chair. "So you're cutting off my benefits."

John felt his cheeks go warm. It was a little unnerving, how well she read him sometimes. But he smiled, relieved. "I … met someone."

Zoe smiled back, her knowing smile but not unkind. "No, you didn't. You met her a long time ago. You just finally made your move."'

His cheeks felt even warmer. She knew him too well.

The bartender brought a beer for him and a highball for Zoe. She swirled the stir-stick around, set it aside. "You're finally hooking up with the detective. Good choice."

"Carter?" Reese shook his head, surprised. "No. We're just friends."

She had the grace to look mildly surprised herself. "Really." She sipped her drink. "That'll make it tricky, you know. Explaining your job to an outsider."

"She knows about my job."

Zoe's eyebrow climbed. "Well, that narrows the field." She took another sip, considering. Reese turned his glass on its coaster, but didn't pick it up. Finally her frown deepened. "Scotty Fitzgerald," she guessed.

Reese smiled and dropped his eyes.

"I thought she was Harold's …" She stopped abruptly.

John snapped his head up. "What?"

"Nothing." She waved one hand easily. "Go. Have fun. Call me next week when it's over."

"It's not like that." John heard the mild chill in his voice.

Zoe was, of course, unimpressed with his sudden coldness. "Not for you, maybe. But her? Scotty's strictly a three-and-out kind of girl. Nothing wrong with that. Just don't let it catch you off guard."

He shook his head. "Not like that," he repeated.

She studied him. Beneath her habitual smirk, there was genuine concern in her eyes. Finally she shrugged. "Maybe I'm wrong. If I am, I wish you both the best. If not … you still have my number."

Reese looked away. He felt confused, uncomfortable with her back-handed charity. "Thank you."

Zoe took a big slug of her drink, put her glass down, and stood up. "See you around," she said. She leaned and kissed him on the cheek. Then she walked out – as only Zoe could.

Watching her hips as she walked made him uncomfortably aware that he remembered exactly what she could do with those hips – and that a part of him still undeniably wanted that.

John shook his head. She had taken it well, as he'd know she would. What he and Zoe Morgan had was, as she'd said, a friendship with sexual benefits. There was no need for emotional complications when it ended; they'd both known that going in. And the residual desire he felt for her was simply that, residual. She'd been a gifted lover, and he'd enjoyed being with her. But it was time to move on.

Wasn't it?

He'd been sure that ending things up with Zoe would make his feelings about Christine clearer. It hadn't. He was still uncertain.

I thought she was Harold's …

Zoe was very good at reading people. She'd thought Christine was Harold's what? His lover? Why would she think that? Christine had been Harold's friend, certainly, before she was John's. His protégé. His peer. But his lover? John had never seen the slightest hint that Harold was interested in a romantic way.

Besides, Finch was now and always in love with Grace Hendricks.

And he had taken every possible opportunity to put Christine and John together, right from the start. Stay away from her, Mr. Reese. The genius had been subtle about it, secretive, but John had seen his almost-but-not-quite invisible fingerprints.

Still - maybe things had changed. Maybe Harold had reconsidered. Maybe John was picking up on that change, subliminally if not consciously. Maybe that's why he was hesitant to make a move.

He thought about it. Christine in Harold's arms in the library. But then, Christine in his arms and no reaction from his partner.

He turned the idea over in his mind. It was unlikely. Very unlikely. But it was possible. And maybe just the possibility that his partner was interested in Christine was what caused John to hesitate.

He was ninety-nine percent sure that wasn't the case. But he was protective of Harold, too. Now that the doubt had surfaced, he needed to be entirely sure.

And the only way to be completely sure, he decided gloomily, was to ask him.

Amy Melchiori was a social worker, and they met her just as she was finishing up her day. She gestured them into chairs in her very cluttered office. "Good to see you again, Scotty. And Mr.?"

"Crow," Finch supplied. "Harold Crow." He presented one of his cards. "I'm a private investigator, as Miss Fitzgerald told you. I appreciate your taking the time to meet with us. We're investigating a fraud case – or possibly several of them. I understand that you have an online forum for the parents of multiples?"

She nodded, settling behind her desk. "In my spare time," she said sardonically, waving to her office. "I have triplets. They're six now, they're a little easier, but when they were babies, there were just not enough resources. What really helped was talking with other parents. There are groups that meet in person, but getting out of the house when you have three babies – not happening. So I started an online group."

"There was a young woman who joined the group eighteen months ago. Her forum name was Cricket."

"Oh, her," Amy said with evident disgust and pity. "She's committing fraud? That doesn't surprise me a bit."

"You remember her, then?" Finch prompted.

"I remember her." The woman sighed heavily. "She was very young. At least, she said she was. I don't really know. She said she was sixteen and she was pregnant with twins. Sixteen weeks, she said. She was unmarried, of course, and she was afraid to tell her parents. She thought they'd kick her out."

"Difficult," Finch said.

"We felt horrible for her. The whole forum rallied around her. Gave her links to resources, talked to her – I offered to meet with her and talk to her parents with her. And she agreed. We set up a time, and then at the last minute she cancelled. Twice, actually. Then she said she'd told them. That her dad had noticed she was showing, and they were furious." The woman frowned. "All that weekend we sat vigil with her, basically. She'd come on and post about having another fight with them, and we'd offer her options, places to go – and then she'd come back and say things were better. Then Monday she said she was spotting and we all told her to go to the hospital, but she screwed around for another three days before she finally went …"

Amy paused, ran her hand over her face. "You have to understand. I'm a social worker. People come through those doors with every lie and excuse in the world. I've heard it all. I am the most cynical person you'll ever meet. But this poor girl – we just poured our hearts into helping this poor girl. Not just me, but dozens of us."

"It was a lie?" Christine asked.

"We didn't want to believe it at first. And I still don't know if all of it was a lie, or just part, or what. But her stories just got more and more far-fetched. She said she went to the hospital and they sent her home because there was nothing they could do. She said her parents threw her out, but when I offered to go get her she said they changed their minds. Then after a couple weeks she said she was in labor again, in the hospital. We offered to come visit her. She said they sent her home. And then at twenty-five weeks she said she was in labor again." She shook her head again. "All these other women on the list, they're going through the same thing, or they've gone through it. Everybody knows all about early labor, about what the odds are for babies at each week, all the drugs, all the procedures. We're pros, you know? And the more Cricket posted, the more what she was saying didn't make sense.

"Finally she said her twins had been born prematurely and they were in critical condition. I told her I'd come and be with her. She said no. I asked her what hospital she was at and she wouldn't tell me. She said that she was afraid of her father, that he'd made a big scene outside the delivery room." She sighed. "I'm not supposed to, but I … called a friend of mine. An OB. I genuinely thought this young girl might be in danger."

"And there were no twins," Finch said.

Amy shook her head. "My friend called all her friends, and they called all their friends. No teen mothers of twins that week. No raging fathers of teens outside delivery rooms. Nothing. So the next time she posted, I hit her on the side, told her I doubted her story, and demanded to know where she was." She sighed. "She posted to the forum that her twins had died. And that was the last we ever heard from her. After that all my e-mails bounced."

"Did you give her money?" Christine asked.

"No. Some of the members wanted to – hell, I wanted to – but a group like this, once you start something like that, it just gets out of control. So it's a hard and fast rule that we never do that. We talked about getting together some gear for her – we all have cribs, clothes, bottles – but she always put us off, said to hold off until she had a place of her own or things were settled or whatever. We did give her a lot of links to sources that could provide financial assistance, but I don't think she ever followed up."

"If she wasn't after money," Finch mused, "then what was the point of all her lies?"

"I don't know," Amy said sadly. "I just don't. If it was money, at least that would make sense. But this - the amount of time and worry we put into that girl … and all the other women who really needed it … I am just … I don't even have words. I couldn't believe that someone would tell lies that monumental. That horrible. And like I said, I've heard it all. It was just – beyond me."

Finch nodded his understanding. "Did you ever attempt to track her e-mails? Her IP address?"

The social worker looked at him for a long moment. "I was worried about her."

"I understand completely."

"It didn't do any good. Her posts came from different IPs. And the ones we were able to track were obviously bounced somehow. They all went back to big office buildings."

Finch glanced quickly at Christine. She kept her face calm, unresponsive. "Any specific office buildings?"

"The Flatiron, and then the Marshall Tower."

"Hmmm. Could she have been employed there, perhaps?"

"I don't think so. Of course, I don't know if she was really sixteen, so maybe. But she usually only posted at night. She said she couldn't be on the computer until her father was in bed. And those buildings are closed then."

"Hmmm," Christine said.

"That part drove us crazy, while we were all worried about her. I don't know how many times I stayed up half the night hoping that she'd post. I even offered to buy her a laptop, so she could keep in touch better." She shook her head again. "She played me. I don't even know who she really was, but she played me. If she's behind some kind of fraud, like I said, I wouldn't be surprised. But I don't know how you're going to catch her."

"We will catch her," Finch said firmly. "Believe me, we will catch her." He considered. "Your site called parents of multiples. You have men who are members as well?"

"Some. Mostly it's mothers who post, but they share with their partners. We try hard to make dads welcome, too. Only a handful post, but they're great guys. Especially if there's a father who's just starting out with this, they'll take him into private chats if he wants to. It helps, to talk guy stuff one-on-one. But I know quite a few lurk, too."

"Were there any of the men who were particularly interested in Cricket? Concerned about her?"

"All of them were. They're fathers. She was a child, in a way. They were very protective. Some of them offered to go talk to her parents, too, or to go to the hospital to be with her."

"Anyone stand out as being …" Finch hesitated, reaching for the right word, " … creepy?"

Amy considered. "No. Not really."

"Are there any men who joined at the same time Cricket did?" Christine prompted. "Or left when she did?"

The social worked thought about these questions, too. "No. All my guys – no. They've either been around for a long time or they've come since then."

Finch stood up. "Thank you for your time."

"Sorry I couldn't be more help."

"You were very helpful, believe me." He shook her hand, then gathered Christine with a gesture and walked her out.

On the sidewalk, though, he shook his head. "We are getting nowhere. Nothing there points to Mr. Cutter stalking this young woman, even if we could actually locate her."

Christine cocked her head at him. "What did I miss?"

"What do you mean?"

"I heard the hoof beats, but what did you hear that's got you thinking zebras?"

Occam's Razor, Finch recognized immediately. Simply put, the most obvious solution was usually the correct one. More simply put, if you hear hoof beats, think horses, not zebras. "You don't think Mr. Cutter is stalking them. You think he is Cricket and Marigold and the others."

"'On the internet, no one knows you're a dog,'" she quoted. "I've been men online, lots of times, just because it's convenient."

"But why would he do this? As your friend said, if there was a financial motive – but this is simple inexplicable."

"He's an attention whore," Christine answered. "He's drama-farming. A troll. He joins these forums and sucks up the attention."

Finch considered as they walked. "That's beyond reprehensible."

"Yeah. But it's not unheard of. It's not even illegal. Just horrible."

"Still – even if someone learned the truth, I can't see this provoking someone to plot a murder."

"I can." Christine nodded to herself. "If my premature twins had died, and I spend weeks and months trying to help this unwed teen mother and then found out that she was some punk kid who just made shit up to get a response? I might take a whack at him."

He glanced at her. "That's useful to know. And I do see your point. The other notes, the crimes he claimed to have suffered … that there are no police reports about." He nodded. 'If this is true - what an utterly horrible man Mr. Cutter is."

"But you're still going to save him, aren't you?"

They walked the rest of the way to the car in silence. "I suppose we are," Finch finally said.

He watched her glance around them, to the people on the sidewalk, in the cars. Happy people, angry ones, indifferent ones. People who did not know how close they had come to dying very suddenly just a few hours before. He could see the deep weariness in her. But she did not argue. She understood. Or at least she accepted his decision.

He opened the car door. "I'll take you home."

"I can help you," Christine offered.

"You have helped enough for one day. More than enough. You're tired. You deserve to be tired. And Mr. Cutter, now that I know what to look for, should be no great challenge. I will unravel his trails through the internet, however sordid they may be."

"Random …" she began. Then she stopped and simply put her arms around him. He held her until she slid away and got into the car. That brief embrace confirmed what he'd already guessed: Christine was utterly exhausted.

He drove her home and saw her to her door.