Chapter 20

"You." The word burst from Emma's throat before she could stop it. She should have said something, anything else, but the shock screaming up every pore and nerve of her body hadn't left much time for careful reflection. She was suddenly and hideously conscious of the earrings recording everything, how James had already been snooping around to see if she still consorted with crooks, and had to fight a mad urge to tear them off and crush them beneath her Christian Louboutin heel. Not for his protection, God no, but for hers. Her hands balled into fists, her voice came out as a strangled hiss. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Killian Jones looked just as flattened. For several excruciating moments, he had nothing whatsoever to say, clever or otherwise. Then he took half a step. "You've spilled your drink."

Emma glanced down and realized it was true; there was a spreading stain on her red dress where she must have upended the cocktail. She hadn't even noticed until he pointed it out, but her cheeks flared hotly at the way the wet fabric clung to her thigh, and the way, under his eyes, she felt as if she was wearing nothing at all. And with that, she went ahead and fucking broke the cardinal rule of tracking down a perp: once you have him in your sights, never turn your back on him for any reason. But she shoved to her feet and teetered away, diving into the ladies' room in the marble hallway behind. Thank God it was empty except for her; she dabbed at the wetness with a wad of paper towels, her breathing short and sharp, and wasn't surprised when a beep echoed from the earring transmitter. The team was asking if she was in distress.

With shaking fingers, Emma reached up and flicked the switch. "Hey," she whispered furtively. "I'm in the ladies. He's in the bar. I – I know him. Can give you his real name. It's Killian Jones. He's a professor at Oxford University in England. He taught at BC briefly when I was a sophomore there, before I transferred."

Clicking and typing followed. "Good girl," the agent's voice crackled. "You going to be okay to handle this? Sounded like it was a bit of a shock."

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm – I'm looking forward to it." Emma stared at herself in the mirror under the softly glowing lights; her face was as white as snow, her made-up eyes dark as two pits. She mounted one last effort at drying her dress, then spun around. "I'm heading back now."

"Roger. We're running the background checks. Soon as we hear anything that sounds like a confession, we're moving in."

"Roger," Emma muttered, switching off. They could still hear her, but she couldn't hear them, and swallowed heavily, three times, before she opened the bathroom door. Shit. She'd probably blown it to hell. As soon as she bolted, he must have realized that his cover was shot and likewise booked it. She wouldn't wait around for her to come back, knowing what had happened. He was probably halfway up Congress Street trying to flag a cab, get the hell out of –

He was still standing exactly where she had left him, still with that expression as if she'd clubbed him on the head, and as she strode up, he turned to her. "Emma – Miss Swan, we have a great deal to discuss, I – "

"Yeah, I'd say we do." Emma slid back into her chair and raised a hand for the bartender. "Two. One for me, one for my friend here."

Clearly, that was not the outcome the bartender (who must have witnessed all sorts of alcohol-fueled romantic drama) had been expecting, but he nodded gamely and began to mix two cocktails. And it's not romantic. Fuck. As he handed the glass to her, Emma took a slug long enough to burn her throat, then turned back to Killian, who had likewise downed half of his as if in recognition that a stiff drink was the only way to get through this. "So," she said, low and hard, even as she couldn't stop herself from fiddling with the earring. "Start talking."

His dark blue eyes flicked to it, then her face. He polished off his drink with one more pull, then shoved it back for a refill. He was Irish; he could probably hold his liquor. "I'm sorry, Emma."

"What?"

"What you said to me, the last we met. It's true. I wronged you, and there's no getting around it. No excuses." He met her gaze. "You have every right to be angry with me."

At that, Emma had to toss down her own drink like a shot. "More," she ordered tersely, as the bartender passed Killian's glass back. He gave them both a curious glance, doubtless wondering if he was going to have to call security to peel them off the floor at last call, but complied. It wasn't until Emma had her own glass in hand again, fingers clenched around the stem so hard that she thought she was going to shatter it, that she felt up to continuing. "So. You're here. Just to apologize for whatever the hell you did to me, or something else?"

Killian's eyes closed off as if someone had slammed the storm shutters. "My business."

"Yeah?" Emma whispered, leaning closer. "One moment you're apologizing, the next you're telling me to fuck off? Not sure what you think you're doing, but it might be something for you to look into."

"Tough lass." He regarded her intently, one dark eyebrow cocked, staring into her face as if to riddle out who she'd become since their last meeting, and how. "And it hasn't struck you that if you so ardently desire to hear my secrets, then fair's fair, as goes for me in regards to you. Eh?"

Emma flinched. "That is none of your business."

"Ah, I see. You're afraid to talk, to reveal yourself. But no matter. At the moment, you're something of an open book."

"Really? And how do you work that one out, Nostradamus?"

"This is a bit public for such a conversation, wouldn't you say?" Killian cut his eyes at a dim back corner of the bar, with a pair of empty chairs. "Over there, perhaps?"

Fine. If it was going to keep him talking, she could go with it. Emma gathered her purse off the bar, threw down the last of her drink, and followed him to the corner, reflexively scouting out escape routes. At least there wasn't anywhere for him to make a break for it either, and if he did try, she could probably take him down beforehand. She sank into the chair and eyed him suspiciously; he was still standing. "Well?"

He shrugged. Then, instead of taking the other seat, he moved closer, knelt in front of her, and leaned in. Before she had time to do anything at all besides suck in a shocked gasp, his mouth touched her cheek, browsing up her jaw and leaving the faintest suggestion of kisses, his face against hers, their noses brushing, her blood rushing a thousand degrees too hot under her breakable skin. She was a big girl, a grownup, an undercover agent; if she had wanted him to stop, it would have been the easiest thing to shove him away and stab him through the eyeball with her stiletto. But even worse, she didn't, she wanted –

Fuck! No! No! She had not allowed him to spirit her off here to seduce her, to make her forget about what she –

Killian's mouth reached her ear, and she felt his tongue lightly flick against the lobe. Then with his teeth, he delicately pulled out the bugged earring and drew it down the smooth bare flesh of her throat and collarbone, light as a whisper, whereupon he dropped it into her cleavage. Emma felt it slide down her dress and land somewhere around her stomach, where his hand was already resting, his mouth pressing a searing kiss between her breasts. Just as she was either about to pass out, which was bad, or grab his head and drag it down to hers, which was worse, she regained her senses and pushed him away so hard that he fell back onto his elbows. "What – the hell – are you – doing?"

He grinned. It was far less gentlemanly than before. "Ensuring a private conversation, just as I said. What did you think?"

"What – what did you, how in the – " Emma's face – no, entire body – was on fire, and not just from humiliation. She fumbled for the earring, trying to extract it from her dress, conscious of his eyes drinking in her every move, but only succeeded in getting it snagged on her panties. Like hell she was going to stick a hand up there with him watching, but she had a feeling that he wasn't about to let her flee to the bathroom again. "The hell do you think – "

"Again. As I said." Killian got to his feet with a fluid, quick motion, sleek and graceful as a hunting cat – and as lethal as one, too. "Open book."

Emma wasn't sure how much of this conversation the earring was still picking up; aside from it being down her dress, he was speaking in a husky whisper, making her want to lean closer. That was plainly his intention. How the hell had he known? But the only way to play this was by the same rules – which was to say, none. She took a step and grabbed his wrists, pulling his arms away from his body and pressing her hips to his, walking them back to the wall and pinning him against it. "All right, smart guy," she breathed. He had an earring as well, a silver teardrop, and she worked it loose with her teeth, vaguely aware that this was definitely nowhere in the crook-catching handbook, and if the bug was still recording, it was getting either a very confusing or very scandalous earful. She'd worry about that later. "Who are you here to kill?"

He jerked, but it was hard to say whether it was because she'd fingered him or because, well, she'd fingered him; her hand was low on his belt, thumb hooked through it to pull herself closer, until she could feel a hardness that definitely did not belong to the proverbial gun in the pocket grinding between her legs through her still-damp dress. Thinking it her civic duty to assist him in having as little blood in his head as possible, thus to bamboozle him into a confession, she slid a hand beneath his trouser waistband and browsed a kiss up his jaw to his ear, whereupon she whispered, "Do you really want to see what happens if you don't start talking, by the time I get to. . . hmm?"

Instead of answering, Killian moaned. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and hitched her up, his knee sliding between hers. "Do you. . . really. . . want to do that, love?"

"Yes," Emma informed him. "I really think I do."

She thought he might have shrugged, but as she was moving to nip his ear again he turned, and she caught his mouth instead. They dove into each other as if into a well of cool deep water, as if they were dying of thirst, twisted up and entangled against the wall with hands and lips going God knew where, praying that the bartender didn't choose this moment to come check on them, kissing until her mouth was wet and swollen and bruised with the heat and insistence of his, until her legs were practically around his waist – until she heard a muffled beep from her dress and with a final, lingering kiss, he pulled back and wiped his mouth. "And with that, darling," he said, still panting, "I'll be taking my leave. Good night."

"Oh no." Emma, still reeling, lunged after him. She knew just as well what that beep meant: the team hadn't heard from her in too long, and they were moving in. Damned if she was going to let him escape now. She ripped her purse open, removed the revolver, and cocked and aimed it in one swift motion. "Don't take another step."

He grew very still, as any halfway sane person would do with a sight trained dead on his chest. "Put the gun down, Emma."

"Why?"

"We both know you're not going to shoot me."

"Really?" Her finger tightened on the trigger. Out of all the people who'd left her, he was the only one who'd ever come back – but what the hell did that count for anything? He hadn't come back for her. He was a loose cannon, dark and dangerous, clearly out for himself and no one else. "Give me one good reason."

He smiled faintly. "You're not a killer, Emma."

"The hell do you know? About me, about anything? About what's happened?" Oh God no, her voice had not just cracked. "But maybe I don't need answers. Maybe I just need to punch you in the face."

"If it makes you feel better, than by all means. But with a fist, not a bullet, if you'd be so kind." Killian's eyes flickered behind them. "You'll have to be quick, though. Unless I much miss my guess, those would be your friends coming to join us, and I don't intend to stay for the party."

Emma looked up with a jerk. Sure enough, she could see the four agents striding through the bar; they were dressed in plainclothes, but she knew what they were packing. She stood frozen, unable to decide whether to wave at them and shout, or to shove Killian away and hiss at him to get out of here. And in that critical moment of indecision, he moved.

He dodged out of the way of her gun and around the corner of the bar. He was trying to run without appearing to run, but they'd taken notice of him and were closing fast. As Killian swerved through the crowd, he brushed casually by the fireplace – it was the dog days of summer, it wasn't lit, but he snatched up the poker. And then, he spun around just in time to take on the first agent, who had been unholstering a stun baton and handcuffs.

The entire lobby turned to stare, aghast, as Killian knocked the baton away with a swift, contemptuous stroke, and slashed back to block the second agent's attempted hammerlock. Emma had never seen anything remotely like it. These were trained marshals used to physically confronting and apprehending dangerous criminals, but Killian fought like. . . strange as it sounded, the only word that came to mind was pirate. No showy twirls, no stage parries, nothing but brutally hard and ruthless skill, knowing that it was either him or the other bastard. The poker flashed in his hand like a sword as he fended off the third; the fourth was already on the radio, bellowing for backup. The hotel guests were fleeing en masse, and Killian cut his way to the doors just as red and blue lights screeched up outside. Emma stood almost forgotten in the chaos, until one of the agents grabbed her by the arm. "You hurt? He hurt you?"

"No," Emma gasped. "No, I'm fine."

"Jesus Christ. That guy is fucking crazy. Jesus, I hope James didn't know that, otherwise someone should cut his balls off for sending you into this situation as your first. Jesus. Motherfucker could have killed you."

I was closer to killing him. The agent wanted to give Emma an arm, but she shook it off as they emerged into the sea of flashing lights in front of the Renaissance, holding their badges high. "Hey!" her companion bellowed at the nearest officer. "Catch him?"

"No. Slipped the cordon somehow. Slick son of a bitch. Already sent half the department off to search. We'll find him." The young policeman wiped his brow. "Fuck, this is going to be a mess. PR disaster. The hell he armed with?"

"A poker. Fucking fireplace poker. Used it like a sword, though. Never seen anybody fight like that. Shamrock, huh?" The agent glanced at Emma. "What you say his real name was, again?"

"Killian." She felt as if she'd been hit herself. "Killian Jones."

"Killian Jones." The agent blew out a breath. "Well, he sure didn't act like a guy with nothing to hide back there. Hey, I think you've done enough for the night. How about I take you home? We'll be in touch when there's something to know."

Emma opened her mouth to protest – and then, looking at his face, realized that it would be useless. She shut it, and followed him.

After sweeping the car and the surrounding area to be sure that the fugitive hadn't holed up in either, Emma was conducted home and up the stairs to her apartment, with the agent assuring her that proper precautions would be taken to keep the place under surveillance, in case "our friend" decided to come back and pay a call. Then, after the rest of her questions had been shot down like a Black Hawk, she bid him good night, headed inside, and bolted the door.

Her adrenaline was still pumping, and even though she undressed and crawled into bed, she couldn't sleep. Every so often, she heard sirens go by outside, and wondered if it was part of the manhunt or just the usual late-night sounds of a big city. Fuck. The policeman was right. What a great fucking way for her first assignment to go. No matter what excuses she wanted to drape over her failure, the fact was that her emotions had blinded her, and she'd made a series of poor decisions that she wouldn't have made if it was someone else she was chasing. And Killian Jones, like the clever bastard he was, had taken advantage of it. If she'd ever been entertaining any ridiculous delusions that he was safe, that he was someone she could trust. . .

Emma tossed and turned under the sheets, starting at small noises, and was finally startled out of a turgid doze shortly past seven AM by her phone bleeping insistently. She grabbed it and held it up to her face, blinking blearily. James work. Fuck.

Emma punched the answer key and held it to her ear, throwing an arm over her face. "Hey."

"Hey. You awake?"

"Yeah. Now I am."

"Sorry." James didn't wait for an answer. "Can you get dressed and come down to the office?"

A block of solid ice slid into Emma's stomach. "I. . . look, James, I'm really sorry, I know this is on me, I didn't – just. . . am I in trouble?"

"How about you come down here, and we'll talk about it."

I'm in trouble. Feeling nauseous, Emma killed the call with her thumb and hauled herself out of bed. She dressed in double-quick time, barely noticing what she threw on; her heart was going a million miles an hour as she jogged out into the humid Boston summer morning. It didn't look as if it had come apart at the seams; everything was normal as she boarded the T and rode downtown. Fuck. How bad was this going to be? Were they going to fire her? What did she do if they did, go back to working at Subway? She couldn't afford her apartment on a minimum-wage salary, much less anything else. Back to Cambridge and the cats? Please no.

Her throat was parched as she exited the train and trotted the few blocks to the office. No police barriers or roadblocks; they hadn't shut the city down or anything. Maybe she was just looking for desperate reasons to hope that this wouldn't be as bad as she thought.

Dreading every second, Emma swiped herself into ATF headquarters and took the elevator up to James' office. It looked out toward the harbor; you could see the USS Constitution at its moorings, the city waking up slowly in the steamy August heat. As usual, though, James had the AC cranked high, and for more reasons than that, she was shivering as she tapped on his door. "Hey. Um. It's me."

"Emma." James removed his reading glasses and swiveled around. "Take a seat."

She did, folding her hands tightly in her lap. Her stomach was churning and she was glad she hadn't had time to grab anything to eat; this sounded an awful lot like the prelude to a firing to her. The one thing about this job was that if you fucked up, it wasn't just a few points on the stock market or a bad performance review from corporate. People's lives were at stake, their safety and the city's safety, and James wasn't running a charity; he didn't have time to fuck around when lunatics were running loose. If he canned her ass, he'd be entirely justified.

"So. Yeah." James rubbed the bridge of his nose. Behind him on the computer screen, she could see that he had the Boston Globe website open; "Terrifying Scene At Downtown Hotel" was the lead story, emblazoned in two-inch letters. "You want to talk to me about what happened last night?"

Emma cleared her throat painfully and tried to think how to begin. She told him everything she could think of, but still recognized that she was being less than entirely truthful; she didn't mention the kissing, that she had pretty much let Killian get away by freezing at the crucial moment, and she couldn't tell what James thought. His face remained inscrutable. When she finished, he removed a small black device from a file folder on his desk and pushed play.

Emma's cheeks turned molten as she realized that it was the recording from her earring bug. She could hear her own voice, shocked – "You. . . what the fuck are you doing here" – and Killian Jones' measured answer, "You've spilled your drink." The conversation proceeded clearly until the moment that he must have pulled the earring out and dropped it down her chest; from there it turned muffled, staticky, and indistinct, so most of the actual words weren't comprehensible. But the gasping, passionate, wet noises that followed didn't need much explaining.

James played it until the distant sounds of shouts and scuffling became audible, clearly when Killian had decided to make a break for it. Then he switched it off, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. "So."

"What – what happened to not prying into my personal life, huh?" Emma said weakly.

James laughed. "This is a little different, rookie. I get the honeytrap trick, believe me. But what I just heard didn't sound like that. Still, though. There's some interesting stuff we've turned up on this guy. For example, two years ago when you were in the hospital, are you aware that he came to the force's attention by claiming that he knew who had poisoned you?"

Emma's back snapped straight. "What?"

"Yeah. Interesting, huh? According to the file, he said that he was going to lead the officers to a place called Storybrooke, Maine, but of course, there is no such town. So far as I can tell, that looks to be exactly the time your parents disappeared. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that this stinks like three-day-old fish, and I need you to think very hard. Is there anywhere else you know Killian Jones from? Does the name Storybrooke mean anything to you?"

Emma concentrated desperately, but could only come up with a headache. "No."

James kept watching her. "How about your parents? Anything about them?"

"No. Look, I told you, I'm a foster kid, I never had them, I – "

"According to the report, their names are David and Mary Margaret Nolan. Ring any bells?"

A jolt shot through Emma's stomach as she suddenly remembered a conversation two years ago in London, on the subway with her former roommate, Wendy. "Someone. . . someone else told me that those were their names, yes," she admitted grudgingly, "but how can that – "

"I'll make this simple. When people who really should look for you don't come looking for you, there's usually two answers. One, they don't give a shit, which seems unlikely in this case. Two, they permanently can't. In other words, they're dead."

"And – " It began to fall horrifyingly into place. "You think this guy – Killian – he killed them, and then lied to the police about this whole wild goose chase in hopes of throwing them off the scent?" Did he poison me too? Jesus Christ, who was this maniac?

"I think it's not at all out of the question. I'm sorry for springing it on you in this way, but you had to know."

"But then. . ." Emma looked up at him wildly. "How in the hell is this even possible? I mean. . . come on. How can I possibly have this entire memory of my life, of knowing that my parents were never there, that I grew up completely alone, and – and everything? I'm not crazy. I don't feel crazy. How can I just be. . . not who I am?"

"No idea." James shrugged. "A curse?"

He said it more than half facetiously, but it made Emma's stomach freeze solid. For the first time since she'd met August W. Booth – rather, since he'd invaded her life and she'd done her best to invade him out of it again tout suite – she was seriously forced to consider if there might actually be some merit to his whole crazy theory. But how? How? Had something truly changed in her forever when she went into the hospital? She had been drugged or something, she'd almost died, she'd been in a coma. . . she'd been convinced that she'd had a baby, but everyone had told her that she never had. . . and then in Oxford when she'd actually met him, the unlived son, the shadow that wanted her to steal away with him. . . she'd dismissed that long ago as just a weird nightmare, a fevered dream. . . Neverland, come on. . .

"You've got a funny look on your face," James observed. "Want to say something?"

"I just. . ." Emma shook her head. "No. I. . . I'm guessing we haven't caught him yet?"

"Your special friend, Killian Jones? No. We've been in touch with the FBI and the Border Patrol, though – there's a federal warrant out for his arrest, and if he tries to flee the country, we're going to know about it. We've checked him out, and indeed, he's a professor at Oxford. Originally from Drogheda, a little town in Ireland. We're seeing what else we can dig up about his extracurricular activities, so to speak, and if we can gather some solid evidence, we may get Interpol involved. Not sure if there might be an IRA connection."

FBI. Border Patrol. Interpol. IRA. The words crashed through Emma like sledgehammers, landing deep in the pit of her stomach. "So," she squeaked. "Are you. . . firing me?"

James cocked his head. "What? Hell no. Actually, if anyone should be fired, it's me. I thought this was going to be a run-of-the-mill bust to get you into the swing of things, and it turns out this guy is a bona fide madman. I sent you into serious danger before you were ready for it, and that's on me. But for obvious reasons, we can't have you working the case anymore. You may be one of the key witnesses if we can put the pieces together, and we're looking into getting you into a protection program. So you'll be on indefinite furlough. Fully paid," he added, seeing her face. "We'll have agents at your place, but I advise you to keep a low profile."

Emma let out a slow breath. She wasn't fired, and yet, it wasn't entirely what she wanted either. Still, it seemed cheap to complain. "Got it."

James took another long look at her. "You okay?"

Emma nodded.

"You sure?"

Emma nodded again.

"Okay. You're tough as nails, I can say that for you – I'm not sure that everyone would have gotten through that the same way you did. Don't worry. We've got a lot of top people on this case, and we expect a break soon. Just a few weeks, I'm guessing. Take up a hobby. Do crosswords, play Powerball, learn French, something. You'll be back before you know it."

Emma nodded a third time. "Okay," she echoed, as if that would make it so. "Okay."

It didn't make it so.

Her apartment wasn't nearly big enough to accommodate all the restless rambling she wanted to do, and she probably shouldn't give her protection detail a heart attack by wandering all over Boston, as she'd done often when she was living in the hostel or the Bug. Finally, just to stop her head from exploding, she opened her laptop, surfed to Google, and searched for August W Booth.

She was fully expecting to turn up nothing – mysterious guys liked to be mysterious and cover their mysterious tracks – but to her vast surprise, she did. It turned out he was a writer, had published several books with a fairly well-known New York house, and there was even some buzz about him in literary circles. His debut novel, The Real Boy, was a modern noir retelling of the Pinocchio fairy tale; in it, Pinocchio was an adult, a guilt-ridden bad boy fighting against this world's temptations of sex, drugs, and money, as well as trying to find his missing, estranged father before he turned back into wood. It had been hailed as "darkly imaginative" and "seductively powerful" by some semi-famous critic, and it had a decent sales ranking on Amazon. The author photo was definitely him. She'd know that scruff anywhere.

Emma considered, then clicked over to his most recent book, Once Upon A Time. It took place in the same fractured fairy-tale universe as The Real Boy, but the protagonist in this one was named Anna, the long-lost daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. According to the promotional blurb, Anna was a tough loner, a girl who'd grown up never knowing who she was, a girl who nonetheless had a destiny. To break a terrible curse, and save the little town of. . .

Hold on a fucking second.

Emma could have ordered it from Amazon, but that would take too long. She felt like she'd just knocked back eight shots of espresso; she shoved back from the computer and grabbed her purse, then rattled down the stairs and out the door, powering a few blocks down the street to the indie bookstore and café where she liked to spend her off days. She enquired of the helpful clerk, headed straight back to the fiction section, and twenty minutes later, had a crackling new copy of Once Upon A Time in her hot little hands, which she forked her credit card over to pay for in total distraction. She tucked it under her arm and beat feet back to her apartment.

Emma grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge, settled on the couch, and opened the book. Whereupon she did not get up again for the next five hours, reading until it began to get dark and she had to turn on the lights. By then she just had a few dozen pages left, so she finished it. Then for the longest time, she sat completely immobile, struggling to breathe.

If August had been writing from a newspaper record of her own life, he couldn't have done it any better. The similarities were so eerie that Emma seriously wondered if he'd been stalking her for decades – in details both large and small, he seemed to have simply cribbed from her. Maybe I could sue him for a cut of the profits? Seriously. How the hell. How the hell.

At last, the exploding sensation in her bladder necessitated a bathroom break, and she got up and attended to the necessities, head still spinning. Much as she would give anything not to admit it, August W. Booth was apparently deadly accurate in – in something. Either that or he just couldn't tell where the line between story and reality was, had modeled his protagonist on her and was following her around trying to make her life turn out like Anna's. Which was really fucking creepy; it sounded like the kind of guy who would dress up in his dead mother's clothes and keep glassy-eyed voodoo dolls in his basement. And if so –

At that moment, from the living room, Emma heard a crash.

She spun around, heart overloading, and grabbed the nearest weapon to hand – which happened to be the plunger. Yeah, that's really scary. But she advanced with it brandished before her, like Captain Underpants or something. "Hey! Hey!"

But when she leaped into the room, ready to disembowel somebody with a toilet appliance, there was nothing there. Just the window, curtains fluttering in the evening breeze – but had she left it open? It was so hot right now that she kept the place shut up and the air conditioner on, and she advanced on it, wondering how someone had gotten up to the second story – there was no fire escape or anything leading from the window, and nobody in sight when she stuck her head out. Not unless they could fucking fly.

Unbidden, unwanted, she thought of the shadow again. The boy in green, who'd crept to her window in Oxford. I've been looking for you, Emma. I want you to come with me.

No. That had been two years ago, and just a dream. She hadn't been in a good place then, emotionally and mentally fragile, and she pushed away the surge of desperate longing that the memory evoked in her. Henry. She'd created him from hallucinations and grief and the unsettling realization that she was staying with the Darling family. She'd been sick. That was all.

That was all.

Emma ordered a pizza for delivery and ate it sprawled on the couch, watching the Red Sox game with half an eye. She was going to go crazy if she had to stay on virtual house arrest much longer – why couldn't they just catch Killian Jones already? The sooner she knew he was locked away for good, the safer she'd feel. There was definitely no desire in her to find where he'd gone, to warn him, or even to see if he was being set up, that he hadn't in fact killed her parents because her parents weren't there to kill. None at all. He wasn't being framed. That was just paranoia. He'd probably got himself into every inch of this. He'd –

Her phone began to buzz in her pocket, once more scaring her inordinately, and Emma had to swallow her heart back down from her throat before she could answer. It was James. "Hey."

"Hey. So. Probably going a little stir-crazy, huh?"

Emma barked a humorless laugh. "Just a little."

"Thought so. Okay. Well. The brass wants you out of the city for now. Can't say exactly why, they threw a bunch of operational jargon at me, but basically, there's been a development in the case and we want you in the protection program. Somebody's going to be coming by your apartment in the next hour. Just go with them and do what they say."

"What?" Emma muted the TV, scrambling upright. Her pizza was suddenly sitting like lead in her stomach. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," James confirmed. "Put together a bag, they're probably on their way."

"How long is this going to be for?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Just trust me, okay?"

Trust. She fucking hated it whenever anyone asked that of her, when they didn't know what they were doing by throwing out that little five-little word like an atom bomb. She stared at the wall of her apartment, suddenly and desperately aware that she didn't want to leave. I could make a run for it. But that might turn her into a fugitive from justice as well, and then what would she do?

"Emma?" James was still waiting for an answer. "You hear me?"

No choice. She never had a choice. As much a prisoner as if she had in fact gone to jail.

"All right," she said bleakly. "Okay."

She got up. She pulled her suitcase out from under the bed and threw some clothes into it, toiletries, essentials, electronics – cell phone and laptop and chargers. What else would she need? How long was she going to be gone? Was this just a twenty-four hour thing until they were sure that they had him safely in custody, or was it going to be a longer stay? Undisclosed location or something? She wasn't exactly up on the drill of disappearing without a trace, even though she probably should be. So what? What?

It was fifty-three minutes since James' call, by her count, when a brisk knock echoed on her door. She tied her shoes, hefted her bag, and turned off the lights, drawing the curtains – and then, on a mad whim, grabbed Once Upon A Time from the couch and stuffed it into a side pocket of the suitcase. Then she grabbed her purse and went to open the door –

And stopped.

"Hello, hon." Tamara smiled. She wasn't alone. Lacey was standing next to her, and Greg was behind them, car keys in hand. "Ready to go?"