Molly slouched down in the seat, arms crossed tightly. Why was everyone being so difficult? Two weeks ago she had been in complete control of her life, enjoying her only occasionally stressful job, retreating to her cozy apartment in the evenings, getting together with friends on the weekends. The routine would be boring to some, but to her the predictability was comforting. Now she found herself in a stranger's car, being driven away from her home and her job, with no idea what the future held.

She was especially mad at Lieutenant Flynn. He was on the phone right now, yelling at some poor cops about how they had been told to keep an eye on her apartment. What business did he have putting surveillance on her without even telling her? Brenda had said a patrol would drive by now and then, but this sounded a lot more elaborate.

Flynn hit the "end call" button on his dashboard screen. "Idiots," he said.

"I told you I didn't want protection."

"Yeah, and you see where that got you."

Molly felt her cheeks grow hot. She had to admit she'd been caught off guard today. She never thought Mackie would be cruel enough or stupid enough to make a move like that. What kind of a sick person was he? How could he have seemed so average as a student ten years ago, so coherent in conversation last week, when underneath he was filled with something she couldn't even comprehend?

The Lieutenant turned onto a quiet residential street lined with modest bungalows. He reached up to his visor and a garage door went up on the next house, a tidy little ranch. When he pulled into the garage, she saw a red tool cabinet and a peg board covered with a variety of hand tools.

"This isn't the safehouse," she said.

"No, actually, this is my house. The official safehouse won't be available till tomorrow, and this is more secure than a hotel."

Molly watched him gather his phone and slide out of the car. Finally she shrugged her shoulders and followed him to the kitchen door. He seemed to think this was a perfectly normal state of affairs, and she was darned if she was going to be the first to say anything about it.

When she walked into the kitchen, a big red pile of fur launched itself at her chest and started licking her face.

"Down, Nessa!" Flynn said. "Sorry about that."

Molly laughed and stroked the dog's silky head. "No problem. I love Irish Setters." When the dog had finished exploring her and wandered toward her food bowl, Molly glanced around. The kitchen was not what she had been expecting from Flynn's sartorial choices. Neither was his car, for that matter. Both felt working class comfortable, well lived in and unpretentious. Actually, Flynn's clothes this evening were nothing like his usual gorgeous suits. He was shrugging off his baseball jacket and hanging it up on a hook behind the door.

He ran his hand through his hair. "You want something to drink?"

"Do you have tea?"

"Tons. Take your pick." He opened a cabinet door and turned to grab the kettle off of the stove.

Molly browsed through the boxes, finally settling on chamomile.

"Grab me an Irish Breakfast, if you don't mind."

"At this hour? You'll never get to sleep."

"That's the idea."

She turned around, tea packets in her hand. Flynn was leaning back against the counter, arms folded, dark eyes on her. Molly just shook her head at him. "You're that worried?"

Flynn smiled slightly. "No, I'm not especially worried, but I don't make a habit of taking people into protective custody and then dozing off. Kinda defeats the purpose."

"Do you have to do this very often?"

Flynn shrugged. "A few times a year. Often enough that I keep a spare toothbrush in the guest bathroom." He reached out for the teakettle just before it started whistling.

For the first time all evening, Molly felt her stomach unclench. The dog plodded over and leaned against her hip. Molly listened to the water pouring into the cups as she scratched behind the dog's soft, warm ears.

Flynn put down his book as he heard a car's engine cut off. Nessa, curled up at his feet, was staring at the front window. "Stay," he said quietly as he kicked off the blanket and padded to the dark dining room. He pushed the curtain slightly aside and watched the unfamiliar figure walking around the late model sedan parked in front of the Serranos'. White guy, thin, medium height. Flynn's hand settled on his holstered gun. The guy opened the passenger door and held out his hand. A young woman emerged. Becky Serrano, dressed to the nines. Flynn snorted and dropped the curtain.

Nessa's wet nose pushed up under his hand. "You don't follow orders worth a damn," he whispered to her as he obediently petted her head. He turned and headed toward the kitchen. Time to switch to coffee. He was getting too old for this. He remembered Becky drawing hopscotch squares and flowers all over his sidewalk, and now she was coming home from a date at an hour when he could hardly keep his eyes open.

He pulled out the jar of instant coffee so he wouldn't have to run the grinder. Two mugs sat on the edge of the sink, and he grabbed his and rinsed it out. While he waited for the water to heat, he munched idly on some popcorn kernels that were still sitting in the big ceramic bowl. His guest seemed to like popcorn as much as he did, and they'd gone through two bowls of it while they watched the Dodgers get creamed by the Cardinals. She had thrown popcorn at the TV when Billingsley got an exceptionally unfair call. Nessa had been happy about that.

He stirred his coffee and took a sip. Ick. He reached for the sugar bowl. His hand froze as he heard a whimper. He looked over at Nessa. She was staring down the hallway toward the bedrooms, ears up. He set his mug down and followed her to the guest room. The door was cracked open, and he paused outside. A faint moaning emerged from the room. "No….no…" In the dim glow of the nightlight he could see Molly moving restlessly in her sleep. His shoulders relaxed and he pushed the door open.

"Molly?" he said quietly. "Wake up." He walked to the bed and awkwardly poked her on the shoulder.

He jumped as she suddenly sat straight upright. "No!" she yelled. Then her face crumpled and she buried it in her hands.

Flynn sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled her to his chest. "Hey, hey," he said. "It was just a dream."

"It was him," she said through her tears. "He was cutting me again."

Flynn just rubbed her back in big, meaningless circles. Finally he heard her sobs subside, and he reached for the Kleenex box on the nightstand. She took a couple and blew her nose.

"God, I'm sorry," she said. She was looking down at the wadded up tissues in her hand.

He gave a quick pat to the blanket over her legs and stood up. "Forget about it," he said. "I'm going to see if there's anything on TV. You wanna join me?"

She nodded, eyes still downcast, and swung out of the bed. She was wearing the big, old T-shirt he had given her earlier, but her legs were bare. Flynn quickly averted his eyes and made a beeline for the door. "I'll make some more popcorn," he said and closed the door behind him.

He was scrolling through the TV Guide channel when she walked in, wearing his navy blue robe over the gray T-shirt. It covered her from head to toe, but didn't really help with his problem. And he just had to be wearing sweatpants, too. He crossed his legs and focused on the sparse TV offerings. Turner Classics always had something good on in the early morning hours. The offering today was It Happened One Night.

Flynn cursed silently to himself and kept scrolling.