Finch wanted to just go home – or anywhere else. A hot meal, a hotter shower, a nap and a set of fresh clothes sounded like the perfect morning. Even a new Number was preferable to going to Chef McCall's place of business. But the situation would not get any better if he delayed, and it might get much, much worse. He dropped Bear off at the library, checked that is was adequately cool for the dog's comfort, and then went directly to the restaurant.

O'Phelan's did not serve breakfast, according to the sign on the door, but they did have carry out pastries and coffee available. Harold went inside and waited patiently in the five-deep line at the register. He imagined it was much longer on a weekday morning.

The cashier looked up at him, and before he could order, said, "Are you Harold?"

"I … yes."

She smiled. "Becky's expecting you." She jerked her head toward the swinging doors to the kitchen. "Go on back."

Expecting me, Finch thought uneasily. That was not a good sign.

"Thank you." Finch took a deep breath as he walked. He did not believe in psychic abilities. He emphatically did not. If Mrs. McCall had anticipated his visit, he already knew the answer to the question he'd come to ask.

He felt a hard ball of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He'd had to go into that house, to help save John. But if Becky McCall remembered the context that they'd met in …

Finch squared his shoulders and marched into the kitchen.

Though it represented the mouth of hell for him, the commercial kitchen was completely ordinary. Overhead lights and stainless steel. The rich scent of yeast and cinnamon. To one side onions simmered and a pot steamed. To the other a dishwasher rattled. He knew from his research that during rush the kitchen held twelve to fifteen employees; there were only three now, the morning crew beginning to preparing for lunch, and the space seemed curiously empty.

The small brunette was at a sink furthest from the door, washing her own mixing bowls. She wore a full black apron, but no traditional chef's hat. Becky McCall was not a woman who traded on her status.

The rock in his stomach turned. Finch walked quietly to her side.

She glanced at him, smiled tightly, and returned her attention to the bowl she was washing. "Hello."

Her voice was very quiet, and Finch found himself leaning closer. "Hello. I wanted to let you know, if you haven't heard, that Lily and the children are all safe."

"I know. Thank you."

"And also, I wanted to thank you. I'm not sure how you knew our … intentions … but it if weren't for your intervention, this situation might have ended much differently."

The woman glanced at him sideways again. "I'm glad I could help." She rinsed the bowl and set it to drain, then dried her hands carefully. "But that's not why you're here, either. You want to know if I recognized you from Yvette's party."

Finch felt suddenly cold, though the kitchen was very warm. "You obviously do."

Becky nodded. "Grace Hendricks sent me a note the next day. Complimenting my catering staff and thanking me for the delicious meal. No one's ever done that before. She's really a nice lady."

"Yes." Tears pricked at Finch's eyes; he was glad for his glasses, and for the glaring lights in the room.

"Her fiancé was killed in the ferry bombing."

"I …" Finch's tongue felt thick and clumsy. "The bombing was … I was badly injured. They … were trying to kill me. They killed my friend. They would have killed Grace, and anyone else I was close to …"

"I know."

"I never wanted to hurt her. But to protect her …"

"I know," Becky repeated.

Harold made himself stop explaining. "How do you know?"

She considered for a long moment. Her cheeks went pink. She was, Finch recognized, as private a person as he was. But finally she said, "Everyone I loved as a child thinks I'm dead. I had to leave them. To survive. You had to leave for her to survive."

"Yes." Finch felt a huge surge of gratitude. "Yes."

"She just got married, you know."

"I heard."

"They had a reception here in the city. I made the wedding cake."

The tears returned and he blinked them back. "I'm sure it was delicious."

"She's happy now. She was very sad for a long time, but she's happy now."

"I know." Finch could not trust his voice to say any more.

"I won't do anything, say anything, that might damage that happiness."

"Thank you." It seemed painfully inadequate.

"Kind of the least I can do."

Finch felt his breath catch. They were exactly the same words Christine Fitzgerald had said to him, the first night he found her at Chaos – and exactly the same inflection.

"Scott and I wouldn't be married if it wasn't for Lily," the chef continued. "You saved her, and Helen. And I think a lot of other people." She nodded. "Robert would approve."

"We do our best. It's not always enough."

Becky gestured behind him. There was a carry-out bag on the counter. "Cinnamon rolls. Take some for John."

"Thank you. For … everything."

She smiled gently. Her cheeks were still pink. "It's been nice to meet you. Again."

Finch bowed mildly and started out of the kitchen.

"He was glad the young bird flew away," Becky said suddenly.

Finch turned sharply. "Pardon?"

She blinked at him, apparently as surprised by her words as he was. "The man … by the window," she began tentatively. "He said he didn't know the boy, didn't recognize him. But he did."

Finch couldn't breathe.

"He always hated … to see a young bird get caught in a snare. He wanted the bird to fly away. He was glad it did."

Harold stared at her. He didn't believe. He didn't. But how could she possibly have known? His father, deep in the grips of dementia, sitting by the window in the nursing home, watching the birds … the last time Harold had ever seen him. No one knew. No one knew.

"Sorry," she said, just as suddenly. "I get these … things … sometimes. I don't usually know what they mean. I just …"

"I know what it means," Harold assured her. "And … I've very grateful to hear it. I've always wondered."

"Be glad it wasn't red cabbages," she said wryly.

"Red …"

"Nuclear devices. But that was a long time ago."

"I … oh." He didn't understand, and he was afraid to ask. "Yes." And then, "Is there anything else?"

"Well, it's not psychic," Becky said, "but in case you were wondering, Mickey is really bored with fishing."

Finch grinned slowly. "That is useful to know, yes."

That afternoon, they got a single-word message from Christine Fitzgerald: Running.

Joss Carter made her way up the steps quietly, but of course the dog heard her. Bear came trotting out of the work room and waited for her on the landing, wagging his tail happily. "Hello, Handsome," she said, rubbing his ears.

"Hello yourself," Reese said.

Joss looked up. The former spy was standing by the gate, wearing his traditional sardonic half-smile.

"Yeah, you're lookin' okay, too," she allowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Just a social call," she assured him.

They walked together into the main room. Finch stood up behind his keyboard. "Detective. How nice to see you. Is everything alright?"

"Fine," Carter repeated. "Just stopped by for a visit."

"Hmmm. Can I offer you some tea? Or coffee, I suppose." He glanced at his watch. "Yes, it's still early enough for coffee."

"No, I'm fine." She leaned her hip on the arm of the big couch. "I wanted to let you know I'm going to be out of town for a while. Ten days. Taylor and I are going to Hawaii."

"Oh." Finch came around his desk. "On vacation?"

"Yeah. I've been promising I'd take him since he was this high." Joss held her hand out three feet over the floor. "And this might be the last chance we get, what with his new career and all."

Reese sat at the opposite end of the couch. "You're actually taking a vacation, Joss?"

"Hey, I got a ton of vacation time saved up."

"I'm not arguing that. I think it's great. It's just not like you."

"Well, now that I've got you guys on the job, my caseload is way down. Or it will be, once this heatwave breaks. I can spend some time with my son."

"But that's not the only reason," Finch observed.

Carter looked at him, and then at Reese. They were too damn good at reading her, both of them. She was annoyed. But she'd come to tell them the truth anyhow. "No. It's not."

The cat came and glided around her ankles. Joss leaned and picked her up. She grunted with the effort. "This cat weighs a ton. You're overfeeding her."

"She feeds herself," Reese said.

"She rarely touches her chow," Finch agreed.

"You must have a lot of mice."

"Not any more."

Finch settled into one of the wooden desk chairs. He clasped his hands loosely in front of him.

Reese crossed his long legs.

They both waited.

Carter put the cat down. Bear licked her eagerly, and Smokey rolled onto her back and submitted to the dog bath willingly. "Weirdos," she chided gently.

"Joss," John said.

She looked at him. His eyes were bright, serious, but also calm and supportive. She took a deep breath of the library air; old books and musty paper, against the sharp electronic smell of the computers. Hints of John's coffee over Harold's light green tea. Something very faint and medicinal, maybe flea soap on Bear.

She couldn't stall any more. "Carl Elias will be released from custody, probably on Tuesday."

Reese put both feet in the floor and sat forward, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, at the ready. "He's posting bail?"

"He'll plead guilty to most of the lesser charges against him, and the more serious counts will be dropped. He'll be released with time served."

"That's not going to happen," John announced simply.

"Yes," Joss countered, "it is. We made a deal, John."

"You and Elias made a deal?"

"Yes."

"He didn't make a deal with me."

"John …"

"Carl Elias tried to kill you, Detective," Finch interjected. "He kidnapped your son."

"I know."

"He had Detective Szymanski shot. He murdered a number of Mafia dons, including his own father …"

"I know," Carter repeated. "I also know that John interceded in all of those cases. Which means I can't have any of them go to trial. And we're not even going to talk about the whole John-Warren-in-Rikers issue."

Reese looked like he'd been gut-punched. "Joss …"

"John. I've thought this through. This is my choice."

"To let Elias walk free, after all he's done, because of me?"

"I crossed the line. I knew there'd be a price. This is the price."

"I can't." John shook his head. "I can't let you do this."

"It's not up to you."

Reese sat back, silent, his mouth set in a tight line.

"And you're not going after him," Carter added firmly.

"Sure."

"John."

"If you've reached an … arrangement … with Elias," Finch said uneasily, "why does your sudden vacation coincide with his release from custody?"

Joss smiled tightly. "The price for my cooperation with Elias' release is that he give up the remaining members of HR."

Reese looked up, a little less miserable. "What?"

"He knows who survived the HR sweep. He knows who the head is, and who all the stragglers are. He's giving them to Moss."

"Because HR would come after Elias," Harold mused, "as soon as he was released."

"He could handle them himself," Reese answered.

"This was part of the deal," Joss said firmly. "Elias walks, but HR goes down for good. And he understands that after this we're square. He steps over the line again, I will send him to prison."

John shook his head. "I hate this, Joss."

"I'm not crazy about it myself. But corrupt cops do way more to undermine the safety of this city than Elias ever could."

"The devil you know," Finch said. "I agree with Mr. Reese, Detective. This action may have consequences you have not fully contemplated."

"It probably will," she agreed. "But this is the best choice I can make right now. For all of us."

Reese rolled to his feet. "You're going to Hawaii because you think HR will come after you."

"Me and Taylor." Carter made herself stay where she was, leaning against the couch. "My mom's going to visit her sister."

"What about Fusco? If he doesn't get picked up in the sweep, HR will peg him for the snitch."

Joss opened her hands. "That's the other thing I'm here to talk to you about."

"There's a cybersecurity seminar in Washington D.C. beginning on Monday," Finch answered immediately. "I could arrange for him to be invited as a last-minute participant."

She grinned. "I knew you'd have something on deck, Harold."

"What about Lee?" John asked.

"He could take his son along. See the sights between sessions, perhaps take in a sporting event of some sort." He nodded to himself. "Yes, it can be arranged."

"Through about Thursday should cover it. They should all be in custody by then."

"I'll take care of it." Finch went back to his keyboard and sat down.

"I don't like it, Joss," Reese repeated. "Any of it."

"I know."

He paced to the window and back. "There must be some other way."

"There's not."

"It's too much. It's too much to ask. Too much for you to give up."

"Nobody asked me to do any of this," Carter argued gently. "These were my choices, and I made them with my eyes wide open. This is the way it has to be."

He returned to the window and stood looking out through the frosted glass. Joss could see the unhappiness in his posture, in the tension of his shoulders. "John," she said quietly.

Reese did not turn.

Finch simply stood up and left the room.

Joss pushed herself to her feet and walked over to stand behind Reese. Slowly, she placed her open palm on the center of his back. He tensed, then leaned back into the touch. "I'm going to Hawaii, John. I'm gonna lay on the beach and sip umbrella drinks and pretend I don't notice my son chatting up the pretty girls at the surf shack. And then I'm gonna come back and get back to work. And whatever Elias does going forward, we'll deal with it then. But HR will be gone."

John shook his head without turning. "I should have let the Russians kill him."

"That's not who you are, John."

"It's who I used to be."

She moved even closer. "You're different now."

"So are you," he answered bitterly. "The Joss Carter I first met …" He stopped, took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Joss took a deep breath of her own. He wasn't wrong; she was far different from the straight-arrow detective that had first met the bearded vagrant in the precinct. It hurt to have him comment on how much she'd changed. She patted his back one last time and turned toward the door. "See you in a couple weeks."

She was at the sliding gate before Reese said, "Need a ride to the airport?"

Joss looked back. "I was planning to pick Taylor up, get him some dinner first."

"That'll work."

She hesitated. "You're gonna meet Taylor again."

"I think it's time. Don't you?"

Taylor hadn't seen John since he'd rescued him from Scarface. Since Elias had kidnapped him. They would need to come up with an explanation. Reese probably had one on stand-by. Logically, if Taylor was going to be working with the Ingrams and Christine Fitzgerald, he was bound to run into Reese, sooner or later.

Sooner was probably better. Just in case. She nodded. "You're buying."

"Thought we could go Dutch."

"Nope."

Reese gave her a crooked grin. "Eh, I'll expense it, then."

"Whatever works."

"See you tomorrow, Finch," John called as he joined her.

Finch reappeared in the doorway, with a convenient cup of tea steaming in his hands. "Have a safe trip, Detective."

For each of the next three days, in lieu of cat pictures, Finch received an e-mail from Christine with the same two words: still running.

On the fourth day, there was a picture attached, a pair of very battered and muddy sneakers with three of the kittens playing with the undone laces. The message said done running.

Finch called Reese in the field and passed the message on. "Three days is about right," he said thoughtfully. "Anything about coming home?"

"Not yet."

"Soon," Reese said, as if he were certain.

"Perhaps."

"Soon."

Carl Elias left Rikers an hour before Patrick Simmons was booked in.

Simmons gestured one of the corrections officers over to him. "Need you to make a call for me. I'll make it worth your while."

"I'm listening."

"Need you to call Alonzo Quinn, up in the mayor's office. Tell him …"

The CO waved impatiently. "He won't answer."

"Just tell him …"

"We booked him in twenty minutes ago."

Simmons took a deep breath. The air felt very cold. He didn't have to think about his next words. "Then call the DA. Tell him I want to make a deal."

The officer grinned. "I'll tell him. But you're gonna have to take a number."

Mickey Kostmayer heard a phone ring, distant and muffled, when he opened the back of his van. But it wasn't his ring tone and it stopped before he got his tackle box stowed, so he didn't think anything of it.

He walked around and climbed into the driver's seat. As he shut his door, the phone rang again – inside the cab.

Kostmayer froze. The phone rang a second time, from under the passenger seat.

He let out a long slow breath. He'd spent far too many years as an operative to think that there was any mistake. A phone that was not his, ringing in his vehicle, was the trigger to a bomb. Any moment he was going to be violently dead. No point in trying to get out or to run. It was already too late.

He'd always known he was going to die that way. Or with a bullet in his head.

Still, he'd had a good run.

He'd talked to his wife on the phone just before he'd left the loft. She was coming home tomorrow. Wouldn't have to change her plans much. He'd told her he loved her and missed her. He was glad he'd gotten a chance to say it one last time.

The phone rang a third time.

Kostmayer was surprised he was still alive. He looked around the vehicle. No one too nearby. The explosion would damage some vehicles, probably the outside of the buildings. Sure as hell mess up Mrs. Daughterty's fresh laundry, hanging on the line from the night before. She'd be madder than a wet hen. Nothing to be done.

The phone rang a fourth time, and then a fifth.

"Shoulda' run," Mickey said out loud. Apparently he'd had plenty of time to get clear. He wondered if it was Gusev and his crew. They weren't very professional; they might not have the code set right.

The phone rang a sixth time, and then stopped.

Kostmayer sat very still, with his hands on the steering wheel, looking out his front window at clean white sheets flapping in the wind.

He started to think he was going to live.

His pulse suddenly surged as the adrenaline caught up with his brain. He took a couple short, panting breaths.

It might still trigger when he opened the door. Or when he turned the ignition switch.

He had his own phone. He could call Lily. She could get eyes on the device, give him a description. If it was as crude as he was starting to think it was, he might be able to talk her through disarming it …

No.

Reese, then. He was an op. He probably had lots of experience …

The phone rang again. Kostmayer jumped, then swore.

No explosion. The phone rang a second time.

Swearing, he reached under the seat and grabbed the phone.

It was brand new, the latest model. Waste of money; a flip phone would have worked better as a trigger.

It rang a third time. The caller ID had a number and city location, no name. But anyone with half a brain knew how to block their number, so how …

On the fourth ring, he pressed the green button. "Hello?"

"Hey," a woman said, breathlessly. "Good, you picked up. Listen, this is really weird, but I saw your ad and … are you for real? I mean, for real for real? Because I don't have any money, so if this is some kind of scam you might as well not even waste your time …"

"Who is this?"

"Oh." The woman hesitated. "Oh, um … I mean, how do I know?"

"How do you know your name?"

"How do I know you're for real and not just some creep looking for … I don't know what. I mean, you're a verified user and all, but …"

"Slow down," Mickey said. He shook his head, hard, trying to clear he fog all that unused adrenaline had left behind. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I told you I don't have any money. Like, literally like twelve bucks, and no credit, so if you're some kind of identity thief …"

"I'm not," Mickey said.

"I … okay. The thing is … I know this is totally crazy, just calling someone up because you saw their ad online, but I … it's like you said, I really don't have anywhere else to turn, I've tried everything I could think of on my own and he's just …"

"Wait." Kostmayer closed his eyes. A new certainly settled over him. But he had to ask. "What ad?"

"Your ad," the woman said. "On Craig's list. Under 'other assistance'. You said you'd help people when they don't have anywhere else to turn."

"I did?"

"So do you? Or are you just some con man looking for desperate people to con some more? Because if that's what you are …"

She went on for a minute or so like that. Mickey didn't hear most of what she said. He took the brand new phone away from his ear and looked at it. It wasn't a bomb trigger. At least not the kind he'd thought it was. But it still had the power to blow up his life.

The back of the phone was slightly sticky, just in one spot. On a hunch, Kostmayer said, "Hang on a minute. I need to find something to write with." He leaned down and looked under the seat again. There was a note there, with a small piece of tape still attached. In the heat it had come loose from the phone.

On the note there was an ad number, an account name – Equalizer – and a password fifteen characters long. Beneath it said, I recommend changing the password to something you can remember. Or simply cancel the ad, if you wish, and go back to fishing. But we really could use the help. Good luck.

It didn't have a signature, of course. It didn't need one.

He had a pretty good idea who'd bought the phone and left it for him. And a pretty good idea who'd placed the ad, too.

He didn't know where to find them. Yet.

"Son of a bitch," he said quietly.

"Are you still there?" the woman called distantly.

Mickey thought about it for a long moment. Then he brought the phone back up to his ear. "I'm here," he said. "Why don't you tell me what the problem is … and I'll see if I can help."

Shaw was very good at poker, and very good at keeping her mouth shut, and Root guessed that she was very good at watching other people, too. Root watched the woman watching her every day for more than a week before she finally pretended to crack.

"Did they ever find out," she asked, with mock casualness, about ten minutes before their daily session was to end, "what that chip was?"

"Call." Shaw shoved five M&M's into the center of the tiny table. "What chip?"

"The chip from Alicia Corwin's shoulder."

The woman smirked. "That bitch. You mean the chip on her shoulder, right?"

Root smiled brightly, as if Shaw had smiled at her. "In her shoulder. A computer chip. Implanted. Your boss wanted to know what it was."

Her opponent was very good at poker. The only reaction Root could read was that Shaw's disinterested seemed to grow even deeper. But that was a reaction in itself, of course. "Dunno. Nobody asked me."

"Oh." Root flipped her hair and dealt herself two more cards. "Well, I guess they didn't read you in on the whole operation."

"I don't want to know about the whole operation," Shaw answered. She showed her hand and collected the candies in the pot. "I just want to know when my part of it's over."

Root shuffled the cards and dealt again. "How's your leg healing up?"

"It's okay," Shaw answered.

They both let the subject of the chip drop. But Root was quite sure her watchers had caught the whole exchange. Three or four more days, she decided, and she'd bring it up again.

They were clever and patient, her captors. But she was more patient, and it went without saying that she was far more clever.

Finch's cell phone rang while he was walking Bear. He checked the screen as he walked. "Hello, Will."

"Uncle Harold. You busy?"

"Just walking the dog." Harold navigated around a cluster of tourists. "How are you?"

"Good. Listen, um, are you busy tonight?"

"Not that I know of." He eyeballed a pay phone as they walked past, but it did not ring. "Why?"

"Julie's parents are in town. We're having dinner with them. I know it's really short notice, but can you come?"

"Uhhhh …"

"Mom's coming, too. We haven't told them about the baby yet. I mean, we told Mom, but not Julie's parents."

"I'm sure they'll be very happy, Will."

"I know. It's just … you know how they are."

"Overbearing," Finch supplied.

"Yeah, that."

It was curious, Harold thought, that he and Olivia had become the allied adults in the young couple's lives, the bulwark of rationality against the Carson's judgmental and critical ways. "I'll be there," he promised.

"Thank you," Will breathed, with heartfelt relief.

"Tell me when and where."

"I will as soon as I know. Thank you so much."

Harold smiled as he clicked his phone off.

It rang again immediately.

This time the caller ID said Ireland.

For days they'd received nothing but kitten pictures from Christine.

Harold moved to the side of the building, out of the way of other pedestrians. "Good morning," he answered, surprised and happy, fighting to keep his voice from sounding too eager.

"Hi." Christine's voice was quite small, though that might have been just a bad connection.

He tried to resist the question, and failed. "Are you coming home?"

"I think so." He turned his body away from the traffic noise, but her tone was still soft and – uncertain.

"Good."

"But listen …"

"What's wrong, Christine?"

There was a pause long enough to make him wonder if the call had dropped. "Do you remember the night in the pizza shop?" she finally asked.

Finch reached down and rubbed Bear's ears. He knew it was a comfort measure, not for the dog but for himself. Did he remember? The glassy-eyed junkie, the skeletal young hacker who was all but dying before his eyes? "I remember."

"Do you remember what was in my backpack? The things I asked you to return? Specifically?"

He looked around sharply. She was talking in a very private code, as if she thought they were being watched. He saw the traffic camera on the pole across the street. Of course they were being watched. "Yes."

"Go find them. At your … building. And then … let me know if you want me to come home or just stay here."

"Christine …"

"Please. Whatever you decide … just let me know." The call went dead.

With a sick dread in his heart, Finch hurried back to the library.

Christine had had two books, that night in the pizza shop. Ender's Game and Lord of the Flies. Mass market softcover editions, checked out of the NYPL. She'd asked Harold to have someone return them for her.

Of course there were copies on the shelves in his now-shuttered library. They were easy enough to locate.

There was a fine layer of dust on the shelf in front of the first one. But the whole shelf was much less dusty than the ones around it. She'd cleaned off the whole thing to make the particular book less obvious. That must have been weeks ago. Or months.

He held Lord of the Flies in his hand thoughtfully. She'd left him something here, some message. Something that frightened her, and something that she'd taken great pains to conceal. Only the two of them would have known which books to look for. He ruffled through the pages, expecting to find a note or a notched page, underlined words, something. Nothing. He held the book by the spine and shook it upside down. Still nothing. But the spine didn't open quite right. It had been probably been re-glued, badly. He held it closer and examined it.

As expected, the spine had been glued, at both ends. But in the center … he ran his thumb along it to be sure. Yes, there, just in the center, a tiny square bump.

Not a page, then, but an SD card.

He quickly located the second book and carried both upstairs to his desk. Then be got out a slender matte knife and opened the spines. There was a tiny data card hidden in each of them. He checked closely before he set the books aside; there was nothing more.

He found an adapter and plugged one of them into his computer.

The file that came up was, of course, encrypted.

"Clever girl," Finch murmured, annoyed but not surprised. "My clever girl."

He saved it, then removed the data card and replaced it with the second one. It contained only the encryption key.

Bear nuzzled at his leg. Finch rubbed his ears again. Oh, yes, comfort measure. He became aware that he was holding his breath. What had she found, and why was she so troubled by it? Why had she hidden it instead of giving it to him right away? And why was she showing it to him now?

The file opened for him. It wasn't a program, just text. Many pages of text. Short entries, just a paragraph or two each, separated by dates.

Before he'd finished the first entry, he knew what it was and who'd written it. "Oh, Nathan," he breathed. "Damn it, Nathan, what did you do?"

By the time he got to the bottom of the first page, he also knew where Christine had gotten them. The hidden data on the music disks. The ones he'd told her to go ahead and decrypt. The ones he'd been sure would be an embarrassingly detailed record of Nathan's various romantic conquests. Instead it was a record of the rise of IFT, Nathan's day-to-day notes and observations. Nathan's conquests, yes, personal and professional.

But so much of it was about Harold …

He could read it all, and he would, but it didn't matter. The implication was clear. Christine knew all that Nathan had known about the Machine, which was, for all practical purposes, everything. And more to the point, she knew everything that Nathan had known about him. All the way back to their first days at MIT. The pranks, the failures, the successes. The dreams. The confidences.

Some of it she'd already known. Some he never would have told her. But she'd found it. Everything.

Everything.

His mind recoiled from the idea. He felt sick.

Bear whined and licked his hand.

Harold took a deep breath. He shook himself, patted the dog again. "It's alright, Bear. It's alright." Then he reached for his phone.

He should take a few minutes. Or hours. He should read through the rest of the journal; he should consider all the implications. But he didn't. He couldn't.

She knew everything. She knew how he'd likely feel about her knowing. But she'd admitted that she knew anyhow. And she'd offered to stay away, to leave her life permanently behind and start again half-way around the world, if he couldn't tolerate the idea of her knowing so much.

He was a really private person. He'd told Reese that. He hadn't had to tell Christine. She knew. She knew exactly what the impact of this information would be on him – and she'd told him anyhow. Given him an easy opportunity to simply exile her, to never see her face-to-face again, to never …

He couldn't call her. He didn't trust his voice. Instead, he typed in a text.

IF YOU'RE NOT ON THAT PLANE TONIGHT

I'M COMING TO BRING YOU HOME MYSELF.

The minute he hit 'send' his stomach began to uncoil.

She knows everything, Finch told himself, and so logically the best place for her is right beside me.

It was a rationalization. He knew it was a lie. The best place for her was far, far away. Safely far away. But he couldn't do it. Not now.

If she would return, willingly, knowing everything she knew …

He could not wait to see her again.

The End