"Mr. Reese?" Finch worried in his ear. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine, Finch," Reese answered. "A couple band-aids will fix it. I'll see you in the morning."
"I'll call you if we receive another Number. Otherwise you might take the opportunity to … sleep in."
Which meant, Reese knew, that his partner knew damn well that he was standing outside Christine Fitzgerald's door. "Thanks, Finch." He tapped his earpiece off. Then he turned his phone off, for all the good that would do. He knocked on the door.
There was a little delay, a bit of movement inside the apartment before the door opened. She hadn't asked who it was, but Reese was certain she'd checked one of her cameras before she unlocked the door. Christine was barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, clearly ready for bed. But she smiled warmly, glad to see him as always. "Hey, John."
"Hey," he said calmly, "can I use your first aid kit?"
"Yeah." Wary now, she gestured him toward the bathroom. He felt her hands on his back; she peeled his overcoat off as they moved. She spotted the bloodstains on his shirt, the crude bandage stuffed in his sleeve. "Knife or gun?" she asked, unalarmed.
"Knife."
Reese sat down on the closed toilet seat and unbuttoned his shirt. He tossed it and the bloody rag into the bathtub. Christine got out her big first aid box, and also the smaller wooden box that he knew held acupuncture needles. "We don't need those," he said.
"We'll see." She tugged his t-shirt out from his waistband, pulled it over his head, and threw it in the tub, too.
She put one hand on his bare shoulder and pushed until he half-turned, so his back was to the light and she could see the long slash on the back of his arm. She made an unhappy little noise and opened the cupboard to get a clean washcloth.
This wasn't the romantic dinner Reese had planned. Not at all the circumstances he'd hoped to have her undressing him in. Yet maybe this was better. If he was going to ask her to be in a relationship with him, maybe it was best that she knew exactly what she was getting into – not in theory, but in actual bloody reality.
Not that she was any stranger to violence to begin with.
He twisted his head to see the wound as well as he could. As he'd guessed, it was long, starting just below his left shoulder and running nearly to his elbow, and it gaped wide, but it wasn't deep. The bleeding had mostly stopped. Still, he could see how a civilian would find it gruesome. "You can just throw a bandage on it," Reese offered. He could call Finch back, have the genius stitch him up.
"Hush." She pulled on a pair of sterile gloves, got the washcloth damp, and dabbed briskly at both sides of the wound, removing most of the dried blood. Then she opened an alcohol wipe. Reese tensed, but she swabbed an area over his shoulder blade, well away from the open wound. It was cold. Her hands were warm.
Christine addressed his injury with appropriate concern and effective action, not with panic or alarm. Exactly as he'd expected.
She opened the wooden box, took out a pack of needles and tore it open. Reese picked one up, turned it between his fingers. It was very fine, light. Sharp. Nothing at all like the long, thick needles he'd been tortured with … "You don't need to do this," he said. "Just stitch it. I'm tough. I can take it."
Christine shuddered delicately. "We are not barbarians, John. Have you had acupuncture before?"
"Not exactly."
"It won't block the sensation entirely. It just quiets things down."
"Can I still pull a trigger if I have to?"
"If you have to," she answered, amused. "But I have pretty thick doors. I doubt anyone's getting in. Unless it's me you're worried about."
"I'm always worried about you."
"I'll try to control myself."
He tensed again when she moved the first needle behind him, out of his line of sight. He trusted her, of course. And he knew, realistically, that the slender needle couldn't hurt him like Kohl's beastly tools had. But the anxiety was still there. He waited for the tiny prick. It never came.
She reached past him for another needle. "You drop it?" he asked.
"No." He felt a little tap of pressure. No prick. Fingertips, nothing more.
His shoulder felt very warm in a circle about the size of a quarter. As she put more needles in, the warmth spread. It stretched all the way from his spine to the top of his shoulder. Then it began to flow down his arm.
The pain in the cut hadn't been intolerable, but as the warmth hit it the discomfort grew muted. It wasn't numb, precisely. It was just dulled, exactly as she'd said. Distant, somehow. Reese felt himself relax. He felt calm. Sleepy.
"Mmm-hmm," Christine said quietly. "Told'ja so. Here, do this." She lifted his right arm and put his elbow on the counter, then pushed his hand down so his whole forearm rested there. Then she brought up his left arm, more carefully, and tucked his left wrist under his right one. It held his upper arm parallel to the floor, so she could work on the long cut easily. It wasn't uncomfortable. Nothing was uncomfortable.
She took her gloves off and touched his neck just at the base of his hairline. Her fingers were very warm. She worked them for a moment, massaging the tight muscles on each side of his spine. Then she opened her palm and pushed his head down gently. He leaned, rested his cheek on his forearm. He could see her from that angle, sideways. But his eyes were very heavy.
He felt almost drugged, but without any of the anxiety that would have provoked. If he had to, he could snap back to full awareness. But he didn't have to. He was safe here. Christine would take care of him.
She rummaged in the bigger first aid box and brought out new supplies. Then she put on new gloves. She smoothed antibiotic cream along the wound, then squeezed the edges together and applied half a dozen butterfly bandages. Reese felt all of it, but nothing hurt. "Those won't hold," he said mildly. "You're gonna have to do sutures."
"Yes, dear." She picked up the first of the sutures and threaded it confidently through his skin. He felt a tiny prick on each side, nothing more.
She put stitches on each side of each butterfly and then in between those. The bandages, he realized, held the edges of the wound together and kept the stiches from pulling while she worked.
"You've done this before," he murmured.
"Once or twice."
She worked quickly, efficiently, but gently. John made a mental note to come to her for stitches from now on. Her method was far less painful than Finch's, and she didn't harangue at him as she worked.
Obviously she'd done it more than just once or twice. "Who else have you stitched?"
"Junkies. Homeless guys. Men who got in fights over me. Twice."
"Hmmm."
That should have bothered him, Reese knew. It didn't. Not at all. Of course, in his current condition nothing bothered him very much. But now that he was relaxed, things became clear to him. He was half-naked, alone with Christine. Her hands touched him. Her scent filled his head, Ivory soap and something faintly like peppermint. Clean and good. He could feel the warmth of her body along his back. He was comfortable, safe, relaxed. "I don't want to kiss you," he said simply.
Her hands never hesitated. "Well, I also accept payment in beer," she answered easily. "But this is a lot of stitches, so we're talking imported stout, not piss-water domestic lager, okay?"
John smiled and let his eyes drift shut. "Okay." Then something occurred to him. "You're not even surprised." That was not good, actually; it meant that he'd misread her feelings, perhaps badly. He'd been so wrapped up in trying to sort out his own feelings that he hadn't given much thought to hers. Maybe letting someone hang around in the wake of a traumatic experience didn't precisely equal wanting to spend the rest of her life with that person.
But it didn't matter now, he supposed.
"I'd have been more surprised if you did want to kiss me," Christine said.
He opened his eyes, tried to force himself to more awareness. "Why?"
"Why would I be surprised?" Her voice was still casual. She wasn't upset. "Because like our late Agent Donnelly, you have an invisible tattoo on your forehead that reads, 'I need a commitment'."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
"Oh." Though he knew she wasn't being literal, he moved to brush his fingertips across his forehead.
"Don't wiggle," she said.
"I have good posture and shiny shoes," he argued. "I could get Harold to write me a three-day pass." He flinched; he probably shouldn't have said that last part.
"You could," she agreed easily. "And if you wanted to do that, I would love to spend a long weekend in bed with you."
On a purely physical level, that sounded wonderful to Reese. But on an emotional one, it felt oddly disturbing. He still couldn't identify the problem. "But?"
"But come Monday morning, I suspect you'd be miserable."
"When you kicked me to the curb."
Christine chuckled. "Nah. I'd just ease you out the door."
"Because you couldn't love a man like me." A monster like me, he thought, but he managed to bite it back.
She leaned and kissed his temple. "Because I can't love anybody, John."
Her voice was gentle and sad, and he hurt for her. "Why?" He lifted his head a little. "Why are you so sure of that?"
She used her forearm to push his head back down, very gently. "You know what a love map is?"
"I've heard the term."
"Psychological theory. Basically it says that how you're loved in your childhood dictates how you give and receive love as an adult. And frankly, mine is totally fucked."
"Because of your mother?"
Christine made a little dismissive noise. "She never loved me. My father did. As well as he could." She put the scissors down. "Which wasn't very well."
"But …"
"John." She spread one of the suture wrappers on the counter, began to remove the acupuncture needles and drop them onto it. "You are a beautiful man, body and soul. And I love you." She bent to kiss him again, this time on the cheek. "But I can't be what you need, and you know it as well as I do."
He closed his eyes. He did know. And he couldn't be what she needed; he didn't even know what that was. Neither did she. But he did love her, too, in a way he still didn't understand. "Christine."
She ran a damp gauze over his shoulder where the needles had been. He knew they were gone, but the warmth and dulled sensation didn't fade. "Best I can do," she announced, cleanly changing the subject.
Reese straightened slowly. As she swept all the wrappers into the trash can, he stood up and looked over his shoulder to study the cut in the mirror. The stitches were tiny, neat and even. "Very nice."
Christine smiled. "So I get my advanced first aid badge?"
"Intermediate," he corrected. "For the advanced you have to jump-start someone's heart with a car battery."
"Oh, that sounds like fun."
He touched her hand. "Christine …"
"Why don't you grab a shower while you're still numb," she said, in a tone that made it clear it wasn't a suggestion. "Then I'll put a light dressing on it."
"Probably a good idea."
She gathered his torn clothes out of the tub. "I'll get you some clean clothes. Are you staying, or do you want street clothes?"
He looked at her. Her eyes were sad, but calm. She looked away.
She didn't want to talk about it.
He didn't blame her. But he wasn't ready to let it go. "I'd like to stay."
Christine nodded, snagged his discarded clothes out of the tub, and slipped past him out of the bathroom.
Donnelly was exhausted when he got back to his live-in hotel room. He couldn't remember exactly when he'd slept, but it had been a long while ago.
He showered, dried off, put on sweat pants. Then he sat down in front of the computer. "Asena. You okay?"
Y/N: Y
"We did good work today. We'll catch these guys."
The computer did not answer. He hadn't asked a question. He hesitated a long time. Then he said, very quietly, "Show me the girl. Please."
There was a long pause, and then the message came up:
Locate SUBJECT: FITZGERALD, CHRISTINE B.
STATUS: NO SURVEILLANCE IMAGE AVAILABLE
"Do you know where she is?"
The computer showed him a map, then zoomed in and placed a star over the location he knew was the Chaos Café.
"Is she safe?"
THREAT DETECTED: As always, a status bar appeared under the text. It was all red, at 100%, but it slid downward swiftly, stopping at 2.3%.
Donnelly frowned. It was usually a steady 17%, based soled on the fact that she lived in New York City. 2.3% was in the range of random-act-of-God risk level. He considered, then asked, "Is she with John Reese?"
Y/N: Y
He nodded grimly. He didn't like it, of course. Didn't approve – not that anyone had asked him. But he was certain of one thing: With Reese beside her, Christine would be absolutely safe from pretty much everything short of a lightning strike.
He stood up and stretched. "Good night, Asena."
GOOD-NIGHT, SWEET PRINCE; AND FLIGHTS OF ANGELS SING THEE TO THY REST.
Donnelly raised an eyebrow at the screen. "You really need to get out more, sweetheart."
Reese stood under the hot spray and watched his blood swirl down the drain. The cut would probably bleed again, a little, but it was worth it to be clean. The heat soothed his other muscles; the blood and grime washed away. He used Christine's shampoo; it was where her peppermint scent came from.
They weren't going to be lovers. He was undeniably relieved about that. From the moment he'd acknowledged the whole idea, it hadn't felt right. He still didn't know quite why. It wasn't some sense of loyalty to Zoe, or some fear that Harold wouldn't approve. It was something in him, something that was vaguely repelled by the idea of having a sexual relationship with her. It felt simply wrong. And now that it was irrevocably off the table, he was glad.
He called her 'Kitten' and she let him. He should have known their relationship wasn't going to be sexual, just from that little detail.
But he loved the woman. And if they weren't going to be lovers, he didn't know what they were going to be.
He'd been friends with women. Partners with women. This wasn't like that. It was more certain, somehow. More stable. No matter what he did, no matter how horrible, he knew that Christine would forgive him. Care for him. Love him.
The only other person he'd ever felt that unconditional acceptance from was Finch.
And – his mother.
Christine wasn't Finch. It was a different.
She damn sure wasn't his mother. But there was some note of truth there.
He thought back to what Edwins had said. We take care of each other. That's what family does. What the pack does.
And somewhere, once, he remembered seeing a plaque on the wall of a chain restaurant. A Robert Frost quote. Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Christine was home. Family. Finch was family, too. But Christine was different. Gentler, sweeter. Softer. Less secret and distant. More touchable, physically and emotionally. She was more open about her feelings, which let him be more open, too.
Kitten.
Reese chuckled to himself. It made sense, now, that the idea of having sex with her was vaguely sickening. And it wasn't surprising that he hadn't recognized the feelings he had for her.
He'd been an only child.
He'd never had a sister before.
While he was getting dressed – his own sweat pants and t-shirt, which seemed to be standard issue Finch-operative-sleepwear – she rapped on the bathroom door. "You hungry? I could make you a sammich."
"A sammich?" he repeated.
"Yup."
"Okay."
When he came out, she was in her little kitchen. She pushed a mug of tomato soup over to him. It was thin, rich and very spicy. "Deli down the street," she announced, before he could comment.
"It's good."
She made grilled cheese sandwiches, with sharp cheddar and mellow brie on thick Italian bread, two for him and one for her. They were delicious, and he was much hungrier than he'd thought.
When Christine finished eating, she went back to the bathroom and returned with gauze, tape, and the antibiotic ointment. Reese pulled up his shirt sleeve and let her dress the cut. "You're good at this."
"Thanks. I threw your shirts away."
"That's fine."
She gestured toward the coat rack, where his overcoat hung inside out. "I wiped down the inside of the sleeve. It should be okay, but you might want to have it cleaned."
"I'll have Finch take a look."
"You want a beer?"
"Sure."
Reese finished his sandwich, rinsed his dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher. Then he picked up his beer, led her to the couch and sat down next to her. "You want to tell me what happened?"
"What happened when?"
He looked at her steadily. "It took me a while, but I've learned to recognize when you're grieving. Your wounds are older than mine. But they're bleeding fresh tonight. And it's not because of the shooting, and it's not because of the missiles. It's something else. So what happened?"
Christine dropped her eyes, toyed with her beer bottle. There was a very long silence. Reese thought she wasn't going to answer, and he prepared himself to let her, though that was difficult. Finally, though, she sighed and half-turned, pulled her leg up on the couch under her.
"You know that I was an intern at IFT, the summer before my father was shot?"
"I know."
"I …" She shook her head, started her story back further. "I used to be Catholic. My dad used to take me to church when he could. When he was stable, and when I wasn't too bruised up."
Reese forced himself to be still, to keep the anger off his face.
"The priest, the nuns, they knew what was going on, what my home life was like. They didn't … interfere. It wasn't Church policy." She let out a slow, uneven breath. "But they got me scholarships to parochial schools. Scholarships to buy uniforms. To buy lunches. They helped me as well as they thought they could."
John nodded, still fighting to keep his expression calm, open.
"IFT had college interns before, but I was there the first year they had high school kids. You had to be nominated by your school, and then you had to write an essay. I wrote a really good one. Even now, it's really good. But also …" she hesitated, took a deep breath, "also someone from the Church leaned on Nathan Ingram to get me in."
"From what Harold said," John offered, "you deserved the spot, regardless."
She shrugged. "The thing is … you know I'm going through Ingram's documents for Will?" He nodded. "I found Nathan's notes about the interns. About me."
Reese felt an almost overwhelming urge to simply grab her and hug her, close and tight. He clenched his hand around his beer bottle instead. She didn't need that, not right now. She needed him to sit still and listen.
"He knew. About my mother, about my father. And he … didn't know how to help. He didn't want to embarrass me. He didn't want me to be uncomfortable, because he didn't want me to leave the program. He didn't know what to say. So he …"
Christine stopped. Tears glistened in her eyes, and she blinked them back. Her back teeth ground together. It took her a long moment to get herself under control. "He went out of his way to be available. He had lunch with us every week. He tried to be in the lobby when we came in. Found excuses to be in the elevator with us, in the hallways." She bit her bottom lip. "He told us … he told his assistant that any of us could talk to him, any time. He gave us his private cell phone number. All of us, not just me. So I wouldn't be …"
The tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "All I had to do was ask. He would have helped me. He wanted to help me. He gave me every chance in the world. All I had to do was stop being so prideful and so stubborn and so sure that I was smarter than everyone else and I had everything under control … all I had to do was ask. I couldn't save my father, but Nathan Ingram could have, could have just picked up his phone and … all I had to do was … open my mouth and ask. Just speak. And I didn't do it."
John reached across the space between them and brushed her tears with his fingertips. That only made her cry harder, of course. "And that's why Chrissy isn't allowed to have nice things," she finished simply. "Because she doesn't take care of them."
Reese shook his head. "You were a child. You should never have been expected to take care of him." He tugged her arm gently and she moved across the couch, let him cuddle her against his side. It felt right, to have his arm around her shoulders, to feel her tears soak through his shirt. He stroked her hair and let her cry.
The change in her since the shooting made sense now. She'd learned what her stubborn independence had cost her, and she was genuinely trying to change. To accept help that she didn't necessarily need, but which was offered from genuine caring.
Zoe Morgan had told him once that no woman alive could fix what was wrong with him. He'd been inclined to agree at the time. But he was healing, slowly, and though she couldn't see it right now, so was Christine.
She was hurting, but she was also growing.
Her tears didn't last long. Reese guessed that she'd already had a good long cry – or several – about what she'd learned. When she quieted, he spoke without preamble. "When the Towers came down, I was in a hotel in Mexico with a woman named Jessica. I was in love with her. Really in love, maybe for the first time in my life."
Christine shifted, looked up at him. He pressed a kiss on her forehead and went on. "I told her that I'd resigned from the Army. That I wanted to make a life with her. I thought marriage, kids, maybe buy a boat. Happy ever after." He paused, looked across the room at nothing. "And then I went to order more tequila and she turned on the television. We watched the Towers fall together."
"John …" Christine tightened her arm across his chest. Even in her own pain, she tried to comfort him. But he needed to get the story out.
"I gave up that life right then. That life I wanted with Jessica. I re-upped in the Army. I told her not to wait for me. Because I knew I was going to war, and I didn't think I was coming back. I wanted her to find someone who would take care of her. Who would be there for her. I told her not to wait, and I went off to war."
He drew a deep breath. "And Jessica … moved on."
It hurt, more than he'd expected it to. It wasn't as if he'd forgotten, not for a day, for an hour. But it was hard to speak the words. Only his conviction that Christine needed to hear them let him continue.
"A couple years later I got recruited by the Agency. On my way to my first assignment, I ran into Jessica in an airport. She had an engagement ring. She was going to marry this guy named Peter Arndt. But she still … she still loved me. She told me, point blank, all I had to do was ask, and she'd end the engagement and wait for me." He looked down at Christine. "All I had to do was speak, and she would have waited. But I was too stubborn. Too prideful. Too sure I knew what was best for her. So I kept my mouth shut.
"She married Peter. And I guess they were happy. For a while." He kept going, as fast as he could. "And then he beat her to death."
Christine moved suddenly, turned and put both arms around him. She held on, tight. He held her back. There was nothing else to do, nothing to say.
If he hadn't been certain of their relationship before, he was then.
When he could bear to move, he shifted and she slid back down beside him. "We," Christine announced, "are a fucking mess."
John nodded. "We are. But at least we're a mess together."
They were quiet for a long time. It felt good, just to hold her. He was grieving, his old wounds open again, like hers, but it was good not to be alone. Not to have left her alone. "You're wrong, you know."
"Hmmm?"
"You said you couldn't be what I needed. But you are what I need, Kitten. Right now, just like this." He tipped his head to look down at her; her bright blue eyes met his. "You're my family."
"What, the bastard children of despair?"
He shrugged. "Beats being an only child."
She thought about it. John watched the expression in her eyes go from doubt to acceptance. Christine nodded, found a little smile. Then she nestled close to him again, her head tucked comfortably under his chin. He loved her softness, her warmth. The way they relaxed into each other. The easiness of just holding her, without any further expectations, from him or toward him. The sense that they belonged right there, together, just was they were.
"That's why you didn't want to kiss me," Christine finally said. "Because we're … what, emotional siblings?"
"It took me a while to figure it out, but yeah." He kissed her forehead again. "You knew, too."
"I did?"
"The night you called me from the hospital, for sure. But probably before that." He shrugged, smiled, diffident. "I fit your – inclination – and you never even noticed me."
"Oh, I noticed you. Believe me, I noticed." She patted his chest fondly, but in a distinctly sisterly way.
He raised one eyebrow.
"The guys I sleep with tend to … go away." Christine shrugged. "I wanted to keep you around."
"Then you got what you wanted. I'm not going anywhere."
"This is going to take some getting used to."
"I'll try not to cramp your style," John promised. "Too much."
"Great. Like you weren't overprotective enough before."
"Just try to date nice guys, stay away from Squids and Jarheads, it'll be fine."
She growled softly.
Growling, Reese decided, was not the same as snapping, so he gave his newly-claimed big brother status a try. "You know, maybe if you changed your expectations a little, you could also change the outcome."
Christine growled again, but she still didn't snap.
"Maybe if you got to know these guys, instead of jumping right into bed with them, they'd still be around after three days."
She grinned wryly. "And the ghost of Donnelly speaks again."
"Really."
"He said that maybe if I stopped shooting relationships on sight, some of them might actually survive."
Grudgingly, Reese nodded. "I always knew he wasn't stupid."
"You really are a lot like him, you know."
"I don't see it."
"Smart. Intensely goal-oriented. Absolutely invested in your own personal moral code. You'd much rather be wrong than uncertain. And you both held your wounds close and used them to make you strong."
John studied her. "Donnelly was wounded?"
She nodded. "Early and deep."
He should have guessed that, John realized. He'd never given much thought to Donnelly's character and motivations. He'd been too busy trying to stay out of his custody. But looking back, what she said made sense. They were a lot alike, he and Donnelly. He could admit that, now that the agent was safely dead. They'd had the same basic goal: To protect people. They'd simply gone about it in very different ways. If John's life had been different – very, very different – they might have been colleagues. It was a stretch to think they might have been friends, but John could have worked with him. Trusted him. And, "He would have been good for you."
"I would have destroyed him." A sad little smile quirked around Christine's mouth. "Besides, he was a Jarhead."
Reese grunted. "Everyone makes mistakes."
They went quiet again for a time.
John tried to remember the last time he'd been this content. Before Christmas, he realized, sitting by his window with Leila sleeping in his arms. This was better. He didn't have Christine back to her grandparents by nine. And she could drink beer with him.
He was going to have to call Zoe Morgan and tell her she'd been right.
Although – it could wait a week or so. And then he could just let the fixer think he didn't want to talk about it. That would be better than an outright admission that he was wrong. A little more bearable.
Zoe had thought that Christine was Harold's …
Reese groaned out loud. "Harold's going to be heartbroken, you know. He had great hopes for us." It didn't seem wise to spell out exactly what those hopes had been.
"And he tried so hard to make them happen."
"You knew?"
"He was very subtle, most of the time."
"Mm-hmmm." Reese considered. "I think you should tell him. I can't bear to see him unhappy."
"We should tell him together. So he knows that we still love him and that we're not not dating him and that he doesn't have to choose between us. It's important."
John chuckled, but nodded his agreement. "Tomorrow. We'll take him for ice cream. He'll like that."
"Maybe shopping at the geek store after."
So much, Reese thought, for those dozen brilliant blue-eyed children. Although – as far as he knew, Harold was a capable of fathering brilliant blue-eyed children was he was. Probably more brilliant. And turn-about was fair play…
It had no chance of succeeding, of course, until and unless Finch was able to get over Grace Hendricks, and Christine was able to get over her past. But it was an interesting idea. He could at least watch for openings.
He sighed. One hardheaded introvert at a time. "You know," he mused, "it's supposed to be a nice weekend. Be a shame to waste it."
"What'd you have in mind?"
"If we're not going to spend it in bed, maybe we should spend it getting you packed up and moved to the new place."
She looked up at him. Her bright blue eyes were troubled, frightened. But there was something else, too. Something that almost looked like hope. After a long minute, she said, very quietly, "Okay."
He pressed another kiss to her forehead and drew her very close in his arms.
It was cold, and the misty drizzle that fell over the park threatened to turn to true icy rain at any moment. At his side, Bear shook the rain off his fur, then settled back on his haunches. Finch glanced down at him. Then he looked again at the town house on the other side of the park.
There was a faint light in the downstairs window. The lamp next to the wingback chair, Finch knew. They'd always left it on at night, he and Grace. He wasn't even sure why; it was just a habit they had. A little light in the night.
There was a soft light upstairs as well, in the front bedroom.
Gregg Everett was still there. In the front bedroom, with Grace Hendricks, at three in the morning.
It was as it should be, Finch told himself. He had planned this, arranged it. He had put the photographer directly in the path of his former fiancée. He was a good man. Thoughtful, gentle, kind. Gifted. He would be good for Grace.
This was a good thing, he told himself. This was as it should be, he repeated.
Across the city, he was reasonably certain, John and Christine had finally acknowledged the feelings they had for each other. That was as it should be, too.
For the moment, all was right with the world, romantically speaking.
And he was standing alone in the dark and the cold soft rain, with a patient but bewildered dog for a companion.
It was, Finch admitted, bitter-sweet. But on the whole, the sweet far outweighed the bitter.
The light in the bedroom went out.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Tried to close out the hurt. This is as it should be. He sent a silent prayer to whatever deity might be listening, wishing them well. Wishing them joy, and love. He turned away from the townhouse before he opened his eyes.
His gaze traveled up, and he looked squarely at the surveillance camera mounted on the light pole at the edge of the park.
"Keep them safe," he whispered.
The red light continued to flash regularly, evenly.
Finch nodded. He pulled the leash very lightly, and Bear stood up and moved at his side. They walked the back to the car. He opened the passenger door and Bear jumped in, sitting politely on the towel Harold had spread on the seat earlier. He rubbed the dog's ears, shut the door, and went around to the driver's side.
Behind the wheel, he hesitated. He was tired. He could go to one of his residences, try to get some sleep. That was the practical thing. The reasonable thing.
But he wouldn't sleep. He would just be awake and alone.
Better to go back to the library. He needed to clean up from the Cutter investigation, tie up the loose ends. And there were books that needed to be re-shelved. He could rest on the couch for a time. Maybe find something dry to lull him to sleep. It was more likely to be restful than going to an empty house.
Harold was nearly always alone. It rarely bothered him. Tonight, however, his solitude had sharp edges. The library was better. The library would soothe him.
He wouldn't be alone in a room full of good friends, however musty and quiet they were.
As he reached to turn the key in the ignition, his call phone rang.
Concerned, he answered carefully. "Hello?"
"Uncle Harold? I'm sorry, I know it's the middle of the night …"
Finch relaxed. Will Ingram sounded agitated, but in an irritated way, not an imperiled way. "It's alright, Will. I was just heading home from an event. What's wrong?"
"That woman, Angelis? The reporter?"
"Yes?"
"She's … wait a minute. Jules, can you …"
There was the sound of the phone being passed, of keys clicking. Then his own phone chirped. He moved it away from his ear and looked at the image.
The story was from the New York Journal. There was a picture, grainy and black and white. Finch immediately recognized the big half-circle window, the front of the building that housed Nathan Ingram's loft. There was an ambulance to the right of the picture. In the center, paramedics carried a stretcher down the front steps. The head of the stretcher was up, and Christine's face was clearly visible. So was Will's, standing beside her. There were dark stains, obviously blood, on both of them.
The headline, in luridly large type, read: BLOODY BRAWL AT BILLIONAIRE'S LOFT?
Beneath that, a sub-caption continued: INGRAM HEIR IN FIGHT WITH MYSTERY WOMAN
The lede paragraph started with the words, "No police report has been filed in regards to an incident earlier this year which resulted in an unknown woman being hospitalized …"
Finch growled. Bear looked at him, concerned. He patted the dog's ears again.
Will returned to the phone. "I just saw it. I was going to call Scotty …"
"I'll call her," Harold said quickly. "And Miss Morgan. Are you at home? Off the streets?"
"Yeah. We're at the loft."
"Good. Let your bodyguards know what's happened. There's likely to be an uptick in paparazzi traffic."
"Yeah, Julie did that."
"Then just keep your head down. We'll handle this in the morning. It will blow over. Don't worry."
The young man sighed. "I just … this was weeks ago. I don't know where they got this. I guess it caught me off guard."
"You're still a celebrity, Will. You're interesting. Miss Morgan will help us through this. But don't worry tonight. Try to get some sleep."
There was a long pause. "Alright. I know you're right. Thanks, Uncle Harold."
"I'll talk to Miss Morgan, and I'll call you in the morning?"
"Alright. Thanks."
Finch put his phone away thoughtfully. He needed to read the whole article. To contact Zoe Morgan and get ahead of this. To call Christine and John – in the morning, not now; it wasn't that urgent, as long as they were off the streets. To find out where the photo had come from and how it had risen to the surface after so many weeks. He had a great many things to do …
He glanced once more across the park. The little light in the front window, the darkness above. Nothing had changed. But he had things to do. He nodded to himself. Many things to do.
His eyes traveled to the surveillance camera. The red light blinked steadily.
Harold chuckled, perversely pleased, and started the car.
If someone you know exhibits warning signs of suicide: do not leave the person alone, remove any firearms, alcohol, drugs or sharp objects that could be used in a suicide attempt, and call the U.S. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255) or take the person to an emergency room or seek help from a medical or mental health professional.
"No man ever steps into the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man." Heraclitus