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Leaving the Fillmore Graves campus, Major felt strangely light. Free, almost. It took him a few minutes to figure out why, and then it struck him: No more Max Rager. No more Vaughn du Clark. No more list. No more zombies hidden in freezers. No more lying to Liv. He felt free because he was free.

This was the first day of the rest of his life.

The fact that he had no idea what to do with life as a zombie, or even life in general, anymore, wasn't going to hold him back, he told himself. It was going to propel him forward. It was going to allow him to try anything that looked interesting.

Feeling chipper and upbeat, he headed for a coffee shop. It seemed like days since he'd had a decent cup of coffee. He'd sit, he'd sip, he'd look through the want ads—he'd see what jumped out at him. For someone who had always had a plan, it seemed so refreshing to let himself go.

Waiting in line at the coffee shop, he idly grabbed a bottle of OJ, tipping it back to read the label. It looked organic, but you could never tell until you checked. As he looked down, he caught sight of the newspaper rack out of the corner of his eye, and the picture on it looked familiar. Turning his head to look more closely, he saw that the picture was very familiar—it was him. A bad shot, admittedly, but completely recognizable. And above the picture, the headline: "Chao$ Killer Victims Found in Secret Basement Lab." The lead story was about the shootout and fire at Max Rager, but … there it was, in black and white. "Chao$ Killer." With his picture.

His good mood deflated. He grabbed the paper, reading over the part of the article that was above the fold, forgetting that he was in line until the barista called, "Sir?"

Then he looked up at her, over the paper, and smiled as he stepped toward the counter, and he watched the blood drain from her face. Some part of his mind found that interesting. He had never seen someone go pale that way. Her professional smile faded as he approached, and he sighed, his shoulders hunching with defeat. So, still the first day of the rest of his life—as the Chao$ Killer.

"Uh … this, this," he held up the orange juice and the paper, "and a large Americano, please."

She wanted to refuse him service. He could see that in the hesitation in her movements as she rang him up, and in the slight curl of her lip that she couldn't control. But these places had strict rules, and he was not a convicted killer, not even under indictment, so there was no legal justification to kick him out.

He took the paper and juice, remaining polite, and carried them to a table, where he sat circling want ads in red while he waited for his coffee. He focused on reading the ads, trying to picture himself in each of the various menial odd jobs he was even partially qualified for, and tried not to pay attention to the fact that he had nearly finished the bottle of juice and still had no coffee. An Americano wasn't a particularly difficult or complicated drink, and the line at the counter, while steady, wasn't overwhelming. Apparently this was his life now.

"Large Americano," he heard finally, and he got up to retrieve his coffee, taking a sip as soon as he picked it up. Cold. Well, tepid, at least. Definitely not hot. And more water than coffee. He stopped to look at it the cup and frowned. They hadn't been subtle: The name written above the cardboard sleeve was "Chaos Killer."

Yes, this definitely was his life now. So much for a fresh start, or freedom, or trying new things. No, he'd be lucky if he had any options at all.

Putting the cup down on the table next to the open newspaper and the nearly empty bottle of juice, Major walked out. Let them think the Chaos Killer was one of those people, the ones who didn't clean up after themselves. What did it matter? They were going to think what they wanted, anyway.

All of which left him—where, exactly? He couldn't go back to work with kids. Helton had seen to that. He wasn't going to have a lot of luck as a personal trainer, not with Chaos Killer written on his face. And what else was he good at? What did he have to offer that hadn't been taken from him?

The answer came to him. One place he could go where he would be accepted for who, and what, he was; where he could use his skills; where they already knew the true story. The one place in Seattle where he could be himself.

He drove across town and found himself standing in Vivian Stoll's office.

She looked up from her computer and smiled. "I was expecting you half an hour ago."

"I like to make my decisions deliberately."

"That's good. I like a soldier who thinks. You'll fit in here nicely, Major." Stoll stood up, offering him her hand to shake. "HR is on the third floor, they'll get you set up with everything you need, all your paperwork, the whole nine yards. Welcome to Fillmore Graves."

Later, after about a mountain of paperwork, he headed for the morgue, figuring Ravi would still be there. Which he was, hunched over the desk in the outer office.

Major was smiling as he came downstairs, but Ravi was definitely not. He looked like a balloon with all the air out. "Someone's in good spirits," he said, looking up at Major with an attempt at a return smile.

"Guess who found a job? A job where no one cares if you've been publicly accused of being a serial killer."

Ravi frowned, apparently trying to figure out what kind of job that was, but before he could ask, Major looked past him into his office, where he saw Liv asleep.

"Why is Liv sacked out on your couch?"

His roommate grimaced. "Bad day. She drowned her sorrows."

"Ah. And she's here in case she pukes in her sleep?"

"Something like that."

"She's taking Drake's death really hard."

"You could say that, yeah." Ravi shook his head. "None of us have had a very good week."

"No. No, we haven't. Maybe … maybe next week will be better."

"We can only hope."