The Little Black Box Theater is dark and still. Martha makes her way down the pokey wooden staircase from her second-story office and almost gets to the backstage door before she remembers the broken foot light. One of the college students who auditioned this afternoon must have thought she was trying out for a Fosse review instead of a Sam Shepard play. The girl flew downstage with such abandon that she kicked a prop flowerpot across the worn oak floor and cracked one of the bulbs into a hundred pieces. A stage hand cleaned up the shattered glass, but the bulb still needs replacing. Her stage looks like a gap-toothed child, and it makes Martha blue to see her baby looking anything but perfect. Especially with a potential new producer dropping by for coffee and a tour in the morning.

A quick perusal of the supply cabinet reveals only one remaining bulb. Martha flips the switch for the backstage lights, giving her just enough illumination for her task. Her 64-year old knees pop in protest as she kneels and gingerly extracts the base of the busted bulb. The new one installed, Martha stands and stretches the muscles in her back.

And freezes.

The recesses of the small auditorium are almost inky black. The only indication that she is not alone is the faint glow of the red exit sign burnishing a halo of silver hair in the back row. The old seat squeaks as he rises.

"It's just me, Marty. Nothing to fear."

Martha covers her eyes with a trembling, well-manicured hand and groans.

"My whole life long, only one person has dared to call me that." Her hand falls away and she lasers a glare though the darkness at her visitor. "Hello, Charlie."

Charles slides out of the back row and walks down front, right up to the edge of the orchestra pit, into the light, into her life again.

"No one calls me Charlie anymore, so we're even." Off her incredulous look – "Well, name-wise, at any rate," he offers sheepishly. "You look amazing, Martha. The years are being very, very kind."

"Perhaps, but you and your sneaking around just shortened my lifespan by at least a year. At my age I can't afford that kind of debit."

"I'll make it up to you," he promises.

"You'll forgive my skepticism, of course."

"For starters, how about we knock off all this secret keeping and cut our son in on the deal?"

There's a lightness, a twinkle to his delivery that irks Martha. "Charles, by any standard, I've had a rather incredible sense of humor about you over the years. It does not extend to jokes about that."

"No joking, Martha." He's more solemn now. "I made contact today."

The room swims around Martha. The acting space behind her is staged as a kitchen scene. Martha drops into a vinyl chair and rests her head on folded arms atop the yellow Formica table. She's silent. Charles walks the long way around, through the side auditorium exit, up the hallway and onto the stage from behind her. When he sits in the chair across the table from her, Martha is wiping under her eyes.

"You made contact." It's a statement, not a question.

"Yes, he should know by now."

"By now?" She looks up, confused.

"I...sort of...cornered his wife in Central Park and gave her a letter for Richard."

"Oh, Charles, you didn't. What on earth?"

"I had business to take care of with her."

"What business could you possibly have with Kate Beckett? And she's pregnant! You probably scared the daylights out of her, if the way you just greeted me is any indication."

"She's fine, Martha. It's just...there are things about Winter that she has a right to know. Things that nobody else will ever have the wherewithal to tell her."Charles lays a hand on her arm, squeezing gently. "Kate's got some distance from it now, and it seemed like a good time, for a lot of reasons."

She pushes away from the table and stalks away across the stage. Her back is to Charles, arms crossed, hugging herself in the cool air. "Stephen Winter!" She spits out the dead man's name like it tastes foul in her mouth. "I keep hoping I've heard that name for the last time. What do you know about him that could help her now? It's done, Charles, he's dead. Him and dozens more, dead or in prison. There's no one else to chase, no one left to be a threat. She's moved on and she's happy – Richard and Kate are truly happy."

"Martha, I'm glad for that. But she's always struck me as someone who would want the whole story. The events surrounding Winter's death...just left questions. That kind of thing that eats at a cop. I just wanted Kate to know what really happened."

Martha rounds on him, "And so you just took upon yourself to reopen old wounds...after all this time, all this silence, you couldn't help yourself, so you just sail into town to...to..." She trails off to a whisper, suspicion dawning across her features. "You?" At first a question, and then, "You. It was you."

Her flighty public persona aside, Martha has always been sharp as a tack. He gestures at her abandoned chair. Martha glares, but reclaims her seat.

Charles takes a deep breath. "The agency only found out about Winter at the very end, when the FBI did. When he skipped town, jurisdiction fell to us to do what had to be done. My own team was on the ground in Marrakesh the day Winter died. That's what I had to tell Kate."

Martha nods slowly, taking it all in. Most days she manages to not think about what Richard's father does for a living. This is definitely not one of those days. "Well. That's...remarkable."

"Martha, I haven't ever done anything really meaningful for him. It was obvious, even then, that he loved Kate. Anything I could do for her, it was for him, too. They needed to be clear of her mother's case if they were going to have a solid chance to be happy. For national security reasons, Winter had to go. My whole career long, I've never been less conflicted about taking life than I was that day."

Martha smiles, a small, wry upturn of the lips. "This would make an amazing play."

Charles only shrugs, knowing after more than forty years of silence, that Martha would never breathe a word of this out of turn.

"I suppose, Charles, that in your world, nothing says 'I love you' like a meticulously planned assassination. At least it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."