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It had ended with a phone call to Sydney twenty months after Carthis.

Perhaps it was only fitting that it would begin again with a phone call. Not just any call. No. It was the call, the one everyone dreads but knows will one day come. You know the one. Sadly, we all know it. For Jarod, it had come at a quarter to four on an ordinary Tuesday morning.

Like the rest of us, The Pretender had always believed he'd have more time—time to make things right, telephone, visit.

He'd been wrong.

Dead wrong.

"Jarod? Honey, wake up."

Dark eyes fluttered beneath heavy eyelids. He was asleep. The sorrow that inhabited his soul, however, was roused, and rather than diminish with time—that alleged great healer—the yearning strengthened, became more unendurable.

"Honey?"

Jarod grumbled a lifeless no.

"Jarod?"

The Pretender opened his eyes. Upon realizing they were filled with tears he squeezed them closed, emitted an anguished sigh. Another day, another pointless day.

He was saddened by the reality of his life—no. Not life. He merely existed.

And it hurt.

It hurt to pretend, wake up with the awareness that while lying beside one woman he'd been dreaming of another, and he wanted to just go on sleeping but—

"Sweetheart?"

"Wh- Zo," Jarod said gruffly. "What's wrong?"

"It's the phone. Someone named Broots. Says he's sorry about the time. Sounds upset."

Jarod nodded, accepted the phone. "Mr. Broots?"

"Do you think open-toe shoes look okay? I mean, it's a funeral and—"

Zoe. Living with her was, at times, like living with a toddler. But then, Jarod mused, that was hardly fair to toddlers.

Perhaps it was her dependable imperfection that attracted Jarod to her. Or perhaps it wasn't attraction at all. He'd come to her rescue. She'd fallen for the hero.

He'd kept her at bay for years with a distant relationship until she'd appeared on his doorstep—penniless and with everything she owned in tow—and announced her homelessness, leaving Jarod no choice but to take her in. She insisted on accompanying him to the east coast. She was eager to meet his "old friends."

Friends?

It's going to be a long flight.

"Everything okay, hon?" Zoe asked.

"Fine," Jarod lied, uneasily surveying the empty parking lot. His gaze swung around abruptly when a door closed. A thin man with a distinguished, apathetic air stepped from the funeral home and fondled an expensive meerschaum. 

The fellow's astute blue eyes—framed with fine lines and crow's feet—regarded the world through round, metal rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his aristocratic nose.

His silver eyebrows were thick and arched and bisected by two deep vertical grooves; above his brows, four creases stretched horizontally in perfect parallels across his golden brown forehead. The silver, closely trimmed hair atop his square, clean shaven face was combed back and then parted nearly to the side.

He was dressed smartly in a black suit—tailored fitted for his broad shoulders and tall frame—and completed the ensemble with a dark blue striped tie and black shoes polished to a high shine.

The man's eyes met Jarod's for a brief moment and he acknowledged the Pretender with a nod and a ghost of a smirk that looked more like sneer than a smile.

Jarod deduced the man was employed by the funeral home and  averted his gaze and attempted to push the uneasiness from his mind. He was failing to do precisely that when he nearly collided with Broots.

"Jarod."
"Mr. Broots."
"You're early."
"Yes," Jarod said. "Before the service begins, I would like to speak with a Mrs. Buchanan? The caretaker?"

"Uh, right, Mrs. Buchanan." Broots said, his anxious gaze darting to the parking lot.

"She's been sending me letters for nearly nine years," Jarod explained. "Updates on Sydney's health."

"She-" Broots began but was interrupted by Zoe.
"Honey? You gonna introduce me?"
"Of course." Jarod smiled. "Zoe, this is Mr. Broots."
Broots nodded, as did Zoe.
"It's nice to meet you."

Broots smiled, and once again addressed Jarod. "I only wish- oh- uh-" Broots looked past Jarod and Zoe. "She's driving up."
"Who?" Zoe asked.

"I assumed she'd be inside," Jarod said.

"No. There was a mix up at the florists. I told her I'd call but you know how she is about these things. She always says: "if you want something done right, Broots, you have to threaten to put a bullet in someone."

Jarod realized then that Broots was referring to Miss Parker, and not Mrs. Buchanan.

"It's the tenth time today she's had to run out to take care of something," Broots said with a frown. "Truth is, Jarod, she hasn't stopped for even a moment's rest since it happened." Broots observed as understanding crept over the other man's features. Jarod frowned as well. "I don't think it's hit her yet, Jarod. I just don't- I don't know. She could probably use a hand with the flowers," Broots said. "Excuse me."

Jarod immediately felt his palms become moist, felt as if his stomach was performing double-back somersaults. He struggled to suppress emotions he had no right to even feel.

When he pivoted, he saw movement near a large, teal green van that apparently belonged to the funeral home. The rear doors were open, concealing the face and upper body. The killer heels, however, were unmistakably those of his former huntress.

"-we could get a second opinion."
"But, Angel," came an older man's voice.
"The idea of an invasive procedure, Robert-"

Parker became quite at the sound of approaching steps. Zoe felt her boyfriend stiffen at the initial sight of the brunette.

Parker wore a black dress, minimal make-up. Her hair hung in curls and was the same shade it had been in Carthis. She had been speaking with the distinguished looking man Jarod had seen earlier.

"Need a hand with the flowers?" Broots asked.

"No thank you, Broots," Parker smiled warmly, adding softly, "please go back inside with Deb-" Parker's gaze slid past Broots, locked, briefly, with Jarod's.

"Hello, Parker," Jarod said softly.

"She's Miss Parker?" Zoe asked.

"You're here," Parker said. Her words sounded like an accusation.

Zoe's head titled inquisitively and her eyes narrowed. Both she and Broots were waiting for Parker to say something more. Broots believed she'd perhaps add, "it's been a long time" or "I didn't think you'd come" or "Sydney would be pleased."

Broots grimaced as the silence stretched uncomfortably and he began to fear that his dear friend was about to erupt in anger and shout, "where the hell were you when we were sitting up all night with Sydney and holding his hand and cleaning up his vomit and helping Michelle bathe him and trim his hair and shave his face and rotate his withering body and change the bedding? Where were you when he asked to see you? Where, Jarod? Where the fuck were you, you son of a bitch?"

Parker didn't say any of those things.

"Yes," Jarod answered softly. "Yes, I am."

Both Zoe and Broots swung their curious gazes at Jarod because his words had sounded eerily like an apology.

The older man stood and smiled. It was a strange smile on a face devoid of laugh lines. The smile was out of place, odd. It reminded Jarod of those "What's wrong with the picture?" puzzles in those Highlights children's magazines he'd discovered years earlier. But it wasn't just the man or his chilly, mirthless smile.

There were many things wrong with this picture.

"Jarod, I presume," the man said.

Jarod nodded, extended his hand, felt the other man grasp it.

"Robert Buchanan."

"Buchanan?" Jarod asked with a growing smile. "Then you- uh, you probably know Michelle's friend and Sydney's caretaker." 

Jarod imagined that Mrs. Buchanan was a sweet, chubby, short bespectacled woman with smooth, fat, rosy cheeks, sun spots, crow's feet, deep wrinkles and even deeper dimples who wore floral print house-dresses and baked cookies and cakes for her three dozen grandchildren. The dear woman was probably a perfect balance to the cold, old goat she'd married.

"I should," Robert Buchanan agreed, turning to Miss Parker, who now stood beside him. "After all, I married her."

Jarod kept his mirthless smile in place with a great deal of effort—more effort than should have been required—and turned to Miss Parker.

"You're Mrs. Buchanan?" Now Jarod was slinging accusations.

The woman formerly known as Parker smiled, nodded. "For nearly ten years." She wasn't apologizing.

"Ten," Jarod repeated thickly.

"Yes."

"Please, Jarod," Parker said, "introduce me to your—wife?"

"Not yet," Zoe proclaimed. "But I'm working on reining him in."

Jarod grimaced. Reining me in?

"I'm Zoe," the redhead sang cheerfully, pressing a hand to her chest. "I'm Jarod's girlf— fiancé," She said saucily and offered Parker an open mouth, toothy smile intended to convey sincere amiability and contentedness. It was clear that Zoe was anything but. She was insolent, immature, invidious, and wanted the brunette to know, in no uncertain terms, that Jarod was her man and that she should take care to keep her manicured hands off of him.

Jarod glared at Zoe and revolved his eyes.

It had been cute when he'd met her grandmother and Zoe introduced him as her husband.
She often embellished the truth when she was feeling a bit threatened, insecure.

Broots snorted at Zoe's shameless display of arrogance and envy.

"So you're Miss Parker," Zoe said, and Jarod's brow knitted. He'd never mentioned the woman to Zoe before—at least not that he'd been aware of.

"Mrs. Buchanan," Parker corrected softly, offering a warm smile that she hoped would put the poor, distressed creature at ease. "It's nice to meet you."

Parker had no intention of finding herself in the unfortunate position of even being alone in the same room with the Pretender, let alone steal him from his silly fiancé's desperately tight clutches; Parker harbored absolutely no designs on Jarod.

"How do you know Jarod?" Zoe asked.

"I worked for the Centre," answered Parker coolly.

"Do you mean that place- the place that Lyle was talking about?" Jarod apparently hadn't brought his devoted fiancé up to speed on his imprisonment. "You worked with Lyle? You know him?"

"Lyle's my brother."

Parker didn't mince words. She told the truth with appalling insouciance and was quite unapologetic.

Zoe gasped. "He's not here? Is he?"

"Lyle was extradited to Tennessee nine years ago; he's serving 10 to 15 in a maximum security facility for the criminally insane."

"And what about you?" Zoe asked Parker. "Did you kidnap innocent women too?"

"No. My job was to capture Jarod."

Zoe snorted her disbelief and propped her hands on her hips.

Parker smiled. "That's water under a bridge that's long been burned. The Centre is gone and Jarod here is—" Parker's gaze shifted to Jarod briefly, "is no longer a wanted man."

The Pretender lifted a single eyebrow, remained silent.

"Capture him?" Zoe asked in wide-eyed incredulity. "Why?"

"Perhaps you should discuss this with your fiancé."

"But what about you? Were you arrested or-"

Jarod interrupted. "Miss Parker—uh, Mrs. Buchanan was instrumental in bringing the others to justice. She led special forces to the strongholds in south Africa. She—" Jarod's voice hitched. "She was in combat, Zoe, involved in covert operations. Do you remember when I went to Scotland?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Well, she had been working from inside the Centre even then, had been for two years, collecting data and evidence, risking her own life."

Parker had aligned herself with the Feds. There were road blocks, a history of law enforcement officials looking the other way when it concerned the Centre and its counterparts. Parker gathered the necessary evidence to threaten and blackmail all the right people and ultimately gained cooperation in her plight for a resolution.

She had played dirty just as she'd been taught to do and had taken all of the skills and training that had been foisted upon her by the Centre and had used their own manipulative techniques against them.

"Yeah, right. Let me guess: You got off scot-free, didn't you?" Zoe asked with a snort of derision. "You made his life a living hell. Did you know that?"

The woman formerly known as Parker sidled up to the redhead and Jarod wondered briefly if Parker might kill Zoe with her bare hands.

Just because she could.

Because even though the name and game had changed, she was still Miss Parker, after all.

Zoe shrank from Parker, grabbed Jarod's arm for support.

"Hell," Parker hissed, narrowing her eyes. Parker's assessing gaze slowly swept the length of the younger woman. Zoe shuddered beneath the formidable brunette's intimate gaze; she felt naked, felt her flesh tingle in response. "No," Parker said. "Hell would have been more pleasant."

"J-Jarod," Zoe said weakly, stumbling backward.

"I can assure you," Parker continued. "I know all too well the role I played in Jarod's life, so save your breath, sweetie."

Zoe observed the woman pivot, remove plants from the van. "She got away with it. Only in America," Zoe ranted. "Only in America could someone do what she did and get away with it."

"That's enough, Zoe," Jarod snarled.

"It is, indeed, a travesty," said Robert with a mocking smile. "But worry not, dear child: my wife didn't exactly get off scot-free." The man turned to Jarod. "Did she, young man?" Robert inquired with a mirthless chuckle and amended lightly with a meaningful look at Jarod, "Or perhaps she did."

"What did he mean by that, Jarod?" Zoe asked. Jarod didn't look up from where his gaze had dropped.

Broots cleared his throat. "I'm going to take these flowers inside."

"Answer the question, Jarod," demanded Zoe.

Jarod was silent. They had a funeral to attend and the past was too painful, much too complicated for Zoe to comprehend.

The past.

Back then, things had been clear. She'd been Miss Parker to him and he'd been just a Centre project. She hadn't wanted to chase him anymore than he wanted to be chased.

Enter Thomas.

His murder had opened her eyes. She'd confided in Detective Miller; before his car was sabotaged, he had put her into contact with the F.B.I..

Two weeks after Carthis Jarod learned that the organization was being dismantled, that while he'd been talking about turning points Parker had already reached the crossroads and made the turn. Parker wasn't Zoe. She didn't to be saved or live out some fairy tale different ending with him.

Jarod wasn't at all surprised to learn that the sign of loyalty Raines had been awaiting had come in the form a single gunshot wound to the head, which had instantly killed him.

Parker never had been one for subtlety.

If I could only unwind the hands of time.

Their lives had become skewed, blurred. And he knew that when he stepped back and looked at their lives he was to blame for what was wrong with the picture.

Six weeks after Carthis his curiosity had finally outweighed the pain of her rejection in Scotland.

Parker hadn't heard anyone enter the house, hadn't sensed his presence. She'd certainly felt the hand over her mouth.

"Please, don't scream. I'm not going to hurt you."

She glared at the intruder, pushed his hand away, and flipped on the lamp. "I wasn't going to scream, Jarod," she said irritably, tying her robe. "Newsflash, genius, the Centre is gone. You're free now, so please, if it's all the same to you, knock on the door next time."

"Next time? You're so certain I'll come back. Why, Parker? Why did you finally decide to stop Raines? Please tell me that you didn't kill him for- not for-- not for me."

"I did it for me, for my mother."

"Why didn't you come to me? I would have helped you, and I---where does this leave us?"

"Jarod."

"Jarod?"

"Jarod?"

"Huh? Yes?" He asked.
"Honey," Zoe whispered. "You were miles away. You okay?"
"Yeah," he lied.
"The pallbearers are leaving for the cemetery. Mr. Broots will be riding in the limo with Debbie, Nicholas, and Michelle. He asked us to ride along with Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan."

"Her name is Miss Parker," he snarled.
"Huh?" Zoe asked.
"Nothing," returned Jarod gruffly. "I'll meet you at the car."

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