“Cut to the chase, please. When can I take him home?”

The doctor blinked in surprise at Miss Parker’s brusqueness.

“Hm! Very well,” she blustered. “Barring complications, likely Sunday.”

“Sunday when?”

“If he has another good night, Sunday morning.”

Miss Parker snorted. ‘Good night’, she supposed, was relative. She was still massaging feeling back into her hand after a night of Jarod using her fingers as a stress ball. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the bed; he was still asleep.

“What can I do to expedite things?”

The doctor laughed, a laugh of startled shock. It froze when she realized Miss Parker was being serious.

“Expedite. Hrm. That’s one way of putting it. You can help him by letting him rest. It’s the best thing for him right now. Minimize stress as much as possible. Does he have a stressful job?”

Miss Parker quickly turned a laugh into a cough.

“In a way,” she said.

“Well, I’d recommend limiting his contact with work as much as is feasible. I recognize that’s not possible for everyone, but if he needs an excuse to go off the grid for a bit, being shot twice is a pretty good one.”

Minimize stress, thought Miss Parker. It was a big ask. Every moment Jarod spent conscious, he was likely anticipating the move back to the Centre. No matter her perspective on the prospect, she could see how the idea would be stressful. A Parker-led Centre had had its problems, that was true enough. A Raines-led Centre was a different story. Things had gone downhill quickly the moment Daddy had… left. Died. Disappeared.

… Died.

Anyway, she could see why he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.

“Good to know,” Miss Parker said, giving the woman a quick, tight smile. “Thanks.”

And she closed the door, leaving her and Jarod alone, with the doctor blinking at the closed door in front of her face. Miss Parker turned back to Jarod, and found him sitting up and looking at her in complete silence. He seemed to have picked up this habit of silent staring since being shot. She wasn’t complaining about the silence, but she could have done without the staring. Miss Parker picked an unopened yoghurt off Jarod’s untouched breakfast tray and peeled off the lid. It was mango with fruit on the bottom.

“Morning,” she said. “Any more nightmares?”

“What?” Jarod blurted. “How did you kn— what do you mean?”

“Nightmares,” Miss Parker repeated. “Like yesterday.”

She looked around for an extra spoon. They’d left one for Jarod on the tray, wrapped in plastic, but she wasn’t so much of a jerk she’d steal the man’s only spoon.

“I had a nightmare yesterday?” His surprise looked genuine. He must have lost some memories from yesterday. Granted, he had seemed foggy at times.

“Yep,” said Miss Parker, trying to fashion the yoghurt lid into a scoop shape. “You said it was about being at the Centre with Mr. Lyle. Which, incidentally, I wouldn’t worry about. Lyle’s going to be on the outs with the higher-ups when I get back with you. That was the deal. Whoever catches you climbs up the ladder. Whoever doesn’t gets dropped down a chute.”

“A chute?” Jarod repeated with alarm. “Raines has threatened to drop you down a chute?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him, but no. Chutes and Ladders?” Miss Parker said, ladling a mouthful of yoghurt into her mouth with the makeshift spoon. It was an awkward process. Jarod shook his head. “Oh, right. You wouldn’t know it… a board game for kids. It’s nothing to write home about. You didn’t miss much.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Jarod’s mouth sagged at the corners, and he leaned his head back on the pillow.

“Chutes and ladders,” he repeated.

Miss Parker had a sudden premonition — none of that Inner Sense stuff, just regular old intuition — of Jarod sitting in a featureless cell, cut off from the world again. No more discoveries of missed childhood landmarks. It had always been the way things were going to go, if and when Miss Parker succeeded. In that moment, however, it felt more tangible. And more depressing.

“It doesn’t have to be like it was before,” she offered. Jarod looked at her, radiating skepticism. “I’ll have some pull. I’ll… I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense for someone who’s meant to simulate real life to be separated from real life, does it? I’ll have some culture shipped in, to keep you in touch with things.”

“Generous,” said Jarod acidly.

Miss Parker rolled her eyes. “Or I won’t, suit yourself.” She sat at the bedside to finish her snack. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that nightmare anymore, anyway. Like I said, Lyle’s going to be lucky if he keeps his job. He won’t be in charge of the Pretender project.”

“That wasn’t what the dream was about,” said Jarod. “It was about what Lyle did last time I was at the Centre. And whether he’s in charge or not in the future, the Centre endorsed his approach. They would endorse it again in the future, since as far as they knew it was working. Not that I don’t feel reassured by your offer to send me board games through inter-departmental mail.”

“What do you mean, his approach?” She tried to think back to when Lyle and Brigitte had brought in Jarod a couple of years ago. Anything she knew about it, she knew second-hand. She’d been recovering from her own gun-shot wound at the time, laid up in an off-the-grid psychiatric institution. She hadn’t heard much, though she’d badgered Syd enough for details. Jarod had been taken in, he hadn’t done any simulations, they’d tried to move him to Africa and he had escaped en route. Nothing about Lyle’s involvement.

“Don’t pretend to be ignorant, Miss Parker, it doesn’t suit you. His attempts to make me cooperate. The —” He waved a hand. “The electrocution, the cell in the sub levels. Telling me my father was dead.”

The scoop of yoghurt froze half-way to Miss Parker’s mouth. A chunk of mango fell unheeded onto her wrinkled blouse.

“The what?” she said faintly. “Electrocution?”

Jarod raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t know? Sydney knew, so did Broots.”

“I got shot, jackass. I missed weeks. When I got back to work, you’d already escaped. But —” She remembered Jarod’s gift to Lyle, post-escape: a sponge and a pair of electric leads. She hadn’t understood the reference at the time. She did now. Her voice softened, almost against her will. “He was torturing you? I swear, Jarod. I didn’t know.”

“It’d be on DSA, if you think I’m embellishing.”

Miss Parker scowled. “I believe you. Whatever you are, you’re not a liar.” It sounded ridiculous as soon as it left her mouth. He lied vocationally. That was his whole gimmick. “Well. Not to me. Usually. It sounds like something Lyle would do, anyway. Bastard. You — you didn’t deserve that.”

Jarod’s mouth twitched at one corner.

“I know,” he said. “But thank you.”

There was a knock at the door. Miss Parker opened it to find Sergeant Hobbes.

“Hello again, Ms Jamison.” The officer bent his head to look past her at the bed. “And Mr Parker is awake and on the mend, I see. That’s great! That’s great. Can I come in? I have a few more questions for the both of you.”

“My husband is healing from a very serious injury, Sergeant,” said Miss Parker, channeling entitled middle-class suburban stay-at-home mom with every fibre of her being. “The stress of being interrogated is the last thing he needs right now.”

“It will only take a minute,” said Hobbes, and cheerfully shouldered past her into the room with a customer service smile. Far from looking stressed by this development, Jarod looked as though he was trying to contain a laugh bubbling up out of his throat. He caught her eye, raised his eyebrows and mouthed ‘Parker?’ in her direction.

She glared.

‘Husband?’ he mouthed again.

She mimed a vicious cutting motion at her throat. Jarod was less than intimidated, but he swallowed his laugh.

“Jake, is that short for Jacob? Can I call you Jake?”

“Of course,” said Jarod with a warm smile. He didn’t blink at the pseudonym. But then, slipping into a role was his bread and butter.

“Thanks, Jake. Glad to see you on the mend.”

“So you said,” said Miss Parker icily. “What are your questions, Sergeant? I’d like to get this over with.”

Hobbes’s eyes flicked back and forth between Jarod and Miss Parker, plainly trying to add up the logic of their ‘relationship’. He pulled out a glossy photograph and held it out for the both of them to see.

“This should be quick, thank you for your time. Does this man look familiar at all to either of you?”

It was a head-shot of Marco Lorefice. Miss Parker couldn’t help the flicker of recognition tinged with revulsion that traveled across her face. She’d last seen that face dead. She’d hoped never to see it again.

“Who is he?” she said, instead of answering.

“Marco Lorefice,” said Hobbes. “He’s a suspected racketeer, a rising star.”

“A racketeer?” said Miss Parker. Inside her head, she was scrambling. She should have thought to clue Jarod in earlier on her established story with the cops. Then again, could she have counted on him to play along even if she had? “We were mugged, Sergeant. We didn’t have our mom-and-pop bakery threatened.”

The sergeant laughed politely. “True. But y’know, Ms Jamison, when you described your mugger, it stuck in my head. I couldn’t shake it. It sounded just like Lorefice — I’ve been trying to nail him for months. Then yesterday, his girlfriend reported him missing, and two puzzle pieces, y’know, they came together. They fit. Yes, mugging is not exactly his M.O., but I don’t know what could lead him to be in that parking garage, we don’t know the circumstances. Maybe he had to get some cash fast, we don’t know.”

Miss Parker caught Jarod’s eye, and some silent communication passed between them. Jarod nodded.

“Yes, that looks like the man who shot me.”

The stale thought of Jarod’s blood on the floor of the seventh floor lobby niggled at the back of Miss Parker’s mind. Nothing had come of Jarod coming in with Lorefice’s blood on him, or at least nothing yet. Had she given the cops a clue to Lorefice’s murder (if that’s what you could call it) for nothing at all? When the cops eventually found Lorefice’s body, would they think to try to link it to Jarod? As far as she was aware, neither Jarod’s fingerprints nor his DNA were in the system. If the cops wanted to try to link Lorefice’s death to Jarod, they’d have to get a warrant. Or Jarod’s permission, but she didn’t plan on letting him give that. A warrant would take time, as would a DNA analysis. They’d be out on a chopper before any arrest warrant could come down.

All this screamed through Miss Parker’s brain as she nodded along.

“Yes, that’s him.”

She’d already given the description. It was too late to take it back. She’d have to hope it wouldn’t bite them in the ass later. The Centre would forgive a lot when she came back with Jarod, but they wouldn’t be pleased if she came back with the Philadelphia PD on her trail.

“Thank you both for the positive ID,” said Hobbes with a wide grin. He was a little too excited, Miss Parker thought. New to the job, probably. “This is very helpful. Of course, we haven’t found him yet. When we do, though, would you be prepared to testify against him?”

“We’ll have to think it over, Sergeant,” said Miss Parker loudly, in case Jarod tried to contradict her. It was a non-question, but the fewer ties they had to the case, the better. “You said yourself this man is part of organized crime, a racketeer. We don’t want to be on some… mafia don’s radar. It would be a big risk, and a big decision.”

She looked over at Jarod. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he watched her with a small smile on his face.

“First of all, we don’t believe this to be a mafia case,” said Sergeant Hobbes. “But I understand your concern. We’d protect you, y’know. The Philadelphia Police Department takes pride in our thorough and effective protection of witnesses to violent crimes.”

He sounded like a public service announcement, and a naïve one at that. It was an effort not to snort.

“I’m sure,” Miss Parker said curtly. “Nevertheless, we will have to think it over. Is that all, Sergeant? My husband has not eaten breakfast yet.”

“Oh, by all means —” Hobbes indicated Jarod’s breakfast tray with an expansive gesture.

“No, I meant we’d like you to leave. To have breakfast in peace.”

Hobbes’s face was an open book, and as Miss Parker looked on, it rifled quickly through pages of rage, calculation, and finally reluctant acceptance. His rookie charm facade slipped an inch, then he pasted it back on.

“Of course. Please tell a nurse if you need to be in touch with me. And again, do not leave the premises without informing me or another officer. The on-premise police presence all have a picture of Lorefice, in case he shows his face; so do the nurses. Not that he’s going to show up!” Hobbes held out both hands, fingers splayed, in a gesture intended to calm. “We just want to be ready for anything.”

“OK,” said Miss Parker.

“Thank you,” said Jarod. It was the first time he’d spoken in a while.

“Yeah, no problem!” said Hobbes. Miss Parker caught a slight frown as he turned to the door. Maybe he’d expected more effusive gratitude.

Once Hobbes had left, Miss Parker turned back to Jarod, and was greeted by a broad, unguarded smile. The smile caught Miss Parker off guard — she’d rarely been the focus of a genuine smile from Jarod since they were kids. It transformed his face, she noted. He was always handsome — even on his most annoying days she couldn’t deny that — but the smile brought forth that same uncomplicated, sweet quality she’d seen while he slept, before the nightmares started up. It made him, well. Beautiful.

She realized after a too-long moment of contemplation that he was speaking.

“It’s nice being able to sit back and watch you Pretend in my stead,” he was saying. “You’re good at it. But you stay… you. You don’t lose track of yourself.”

Miss Parker pressed her lips together to keep from smiling at the compliment. She scrambled for a cutting comment about having a life or not being lab-grown, but everything she tested out felt a little too cruel with Jarod shortly heading back to his sheltered existence at the Centre. She cleared her throat.

“Yeah, sure. Eat your breakfast.”

Jarod picked up a miniature box of Cheerios and opened it.

“You weren’t worried I’d ask Hobbes for help getting away from you?” he asked as he shook O’s into a small plastic bowl.

“No.”

Jarod frowned at the milk carton he was using to drown his cereal. “Why not?”

“Because you never have.”

Jarod didn’t reply right away, and the only sound in the room was the crackle of the spoon’s plastic wrapping.

“I’ve never asked for help from the police when you’ve caught me? No, I guess I haven’t. But they haven’t been around. In Florida, during the hurricane. After the Isle of Carthis. Or any of the other times you’ve come close.”

“Jarod, you’ve had people trying to illegally abduct you for over five years. You’ve been near the cops, hell, you’ve been a cop. But you’ve never tried to sic them on me beyond short-term diversions. Never tried to attack the Centre through legal channels, even though you could dress down a courtroom blindfolded. Not that I want you to, but don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Jarod munched on his Cheerios for long enough that Miss Parker assumed a monologue was in the works.

But then: “You got me there.”

And that was all.

“I got you there,” Miss Parker echoed flatly. He was being deliberately obtuse. “OK, my turn for a question, then: Why not?”

“Good question.”

“And I expect you to answer it.”

More cereal-munching.

“I’ve Pretended to be law enforcement a couple times, at different levels. I’ve unearthed corruption in many industries and institutions, and law enforcement is one of the worst. I also know the Centre’s potential for taking advantage of corruption. Going to the police has a good chance of creating another enemy, or giving my current enemy more foot soldiers. And that, I definitely don’t need.”

It was a good answer. But maybe not the full answer.

“Is that all?”

Jarod stared into his cereal bowl.

“You in prison, that’s not something I want. I don’t want Sydney to go to jail, or Broots either. There are people at the Centre whose imprisonment I wouldn’t lose sleep over, yes. But the collateral damage would be… I wouldn’t want that.” He looked up into Miss Parker’s eyes. “I want you to be free.”

“I…” I want you to be free, too. No, that wasn’t right, hang on. “I want to be free, too.”

Abruptly, Jarod looked bone-tired.

“You’re more free than you think you are, Miss Parker.”

She didn’t like where this was going. A little déjà vu trickled back from their conversation after the take-down of the corrupt landlord in Cedar Rapids. This again?

“How’s that? You’ve said yourself we’re both prisoners of the Centre.”

Jarod nodded. “Yes, I did say that. There’s also a difference between fighting against and being complicit in your own imprisonment. You fought for a long time. You’re not fighting anymore. What changed?”

Miss Parker stood and dropped her unfinished yoghurt in the trash, no longer hungry. She wheeled on Jarod.

“You want to know what changed? Your moles at the Centre must be sleeping on the job. Leadership changed. My father jumped out of a plane, and that walking corpse Raines took over. Daddy would never have hurt me. Raines would have me executed for giggles if the mood struck him. That kind of pressure has a way of focusing a person’s priorities, wouldn’t you say?”

It all came out as a breathless rant of pent-up anger and no small amount of fear. Insufferably Unflappable Jarod raised his eyebrows.

“You’re scared,” he said finally.

“Of course I am!” she burst out. She found she was shaking in her anger. “All the time. And you just make it worse every time you slip away, every time you deprive me of the chance to be the one left standing when this is all over.”

Jarod’s smile was sad.

“I’m scared too, Miss Parker.”

“Stop calling me that here,” she snapped. “Someone will overhear you. It’s Ms Jamison.”

Without waiting for an answer, she stalked over to the windows and checked for vulnerabilities. Jarod watched her skeptically.

“I’m not going to break through the window,” he said dryly. “You’d hear it, and I can’t run on this leg.”

Miss Parker didn’t reply. She focused on scanning the room for obnoxiously large air vents. When she found none, she swept out of the room, leaving a non-plussed Jarod in her wake.

There was a family lounge kitty-corner from Jarod’s private room, with a pile of magazines and a television set airing a soap opera with the volume on mute. It wasn’t a five-star tourist experience, but at least she wouldn’t keep getting caught in emotionally fraught conversational cul-de-sacs by a man with a crippling addiction to head-shrinking. Miss Parker chose a seat with a clear view of the door to Jarod’s room, and settled in to wait. One more good night, the doctor had said. And then she’d be headed home to trumpets and fanfare.

And freedom.

The whole car smelled like hot bananas. It was a scent to turn Sydney’s stomach. After Broots had offered to drive the two hours from Blue Cove to Philadelphia, however, Sydney could hardly begrudge him his choice of snack. And besides, he didn’t have to endure it much longer. They were almost to their destination, just as the shine was wearing off the day.

“We’re taking a gamble that Lorefice’s place of work is open on a Saturday,” Sydney mused. Broots shushed him, the better to concentrate on taking the exit off route 95.

Sydney should have guessed he’d be a nervous driver. He was the type. He would have crumpled under the pressure if he’d been subjected to a T-board solo, which was another upside to going on an impromptu road trip to Pennsylvania. Raines and the Triumvirate couldn’t T-board them if they weren’t there, right? Sydney carefully ignored the niggling thought that they were merely delaying the inevitable.

Only when Broots pulled off onto the correct side road did the moratorium on musing lift.

“It’s where Miss Parker said she was going,” said Broots, as if no time had passed, though it had been a good twenty minutes. He kept his hands rigidly at ten and two. “It makes the most sense to pick up the trail wherever she did. Jeez, why didn’t we just go with her? She could be in real trouble.”

“Did you want to be the one to demand that she bring us along, when she’d already decided she was going alone? Have you ever known her to put up with superfluous acts of chivalry?”

“We-ell, not —”

“That was rhetorical.” Sydney scanned the buildings flitting by his passenger-side window. “Could that be — is that it, there? We can’t already be there.”

“Oh! Yep, that’s the place,” said Broots, squinting as it as they passed by. “It looks like it might be open? I think I see movement inside.”

After finding a parking spot, Sydney and Broots approached the sandwich shop. Sydney took in great lungfuls of air as they stepped up to the front doors, revelling in a completely banana-free bouquet. As Broots mentioned, there seemed to be people inside. The limited lighting suggested the place was probably not open for business, however, and the figures were likely not customers.

Sydney and Broots looked at each other dubiously, then Sydney rapped on the door. The man who answered was a police officer.

“Can’t you read? The place is closed,” he said, jabbing a finger at the ‘CLOSED’ sign in the window.

“I realize that, thank you,” said Sydney with a warm, unruffled smile. “We are looking for a friend of ours who was last seen at this establishment.”

The officer perked up, and open the door a fraction wider.

“A friend? Who’s this friend, what’s he look like? Hairy guy, thick eyebrows, big arms?”

“Not —”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Broots interrupted. Sydney looked at him askance. “Marco. We were expecting a call today and he never — eh, he didn’t call us. Is he in there? We were, well. We were worried.”

“Marco Lorefice?” the officer said. Sydney and Broots nodded, Sydney a little reluctantly. The cop gave the two Centre employees a once-over. “You don’t look like the sort of people Lorefice would get mixed up with.”

“Mixed up with? Nah,” Broots back-pedaled hastily. The last thing they needed was to be implicated as associates to someone with Lorefice’s record. Broots had done some research on the sandwich artist since Miss Parker’s departure. By his description, Sydney could understand why he’d been a prime target for one of Jarod’s Pretends. “Friends of the family. We know his, uh, mom.”

The cop’s interest flickered out.

“He’s not here,” he said curtly. “If you hear anything about his whereabouts, though, call into the station, wouldja? Your boy’s in hot water.”

“He’s not our —”

The door closed in their faces.

“Wonderful,” said Sydney. “That was a fair attempt, Broots, but I think you’d better leave the Pretending to Jarod.”

“Worth a try,” Broots muttered.

“Of course it was. Let’s go back to the car, see if — oh, I beg your pardon.”

Two officers shouldered past them out of the door and down the steps, one of them their acerbic doorman. They addressed neither Sydney nor Broots, but made directly for their patrol car across the street.

“Broots,” Sydney hissed. “Let’s get to the car, quick. We should follow these two.”

“But —”

“There’s no time to second-guess, let’s go.”

Miss Parker caught a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision: the door to Jarod’s room, easing open. What was he up to? This was one of the hazards of not cuffing him to his bed, but she couldn’t risk the cops or hospital staff noticing and throwing her out of the building. As she watched, Jarod limped out into the hallway, his eyes darting this way and that. Almost immediately, he was accosted by a nurse. The woman was short but well-built, and she applied her considerable brawn to gently-but-firmly guide Jarod back to his room. The susurration of their whispered conversation caught Miss Parker’s ear, though she was unable to make out any distinct words. As she got to her feet, she groped in her bag for her gun. Just in case.

The nurse gave Jarod a look of concern and stopped her efforts to push him back towards his room. Damn him, what was he giving away? Miss Parker’s fingers curled around the gun. She wasn’t planning anything concrete. If she could get close to Jarod without making the pistol visible, however, she’d be able to coerce him away from his would-be accomplice.

She drew close and finally caught some of the words.

“Mr Parker, you really should be off your feet. I know you’ve been through a lot, but there’s no cause for concern. We have officers keeping an eye out for your shooter. But really, it’s just a precaution. You’re perfectly safe.”

“The shooter is not who I — hello,” Jarod said, spotting Miss Parker’s approach and grimacing. “You’re back.”

“I’m back!” said Miss Parker with a grin more closely resembling bared teeth. “You all right, honey? You should be in bed.”

Jarod appraised her for a long moment, and his gaze drifted to the hand she had buried in her purse. His eyes widened fractionally and flicked over to the nurse. He was scared she’d kill the nurse, Miss Parker realized. She felt vaguely offended. To drive home the point as intended, she stepped behind Jarod and pressed the barrel of the gun into the small of his back.

“Come on back inside, Jake.” The threat was implicit. “The dinner menus are coming around soon, aren’t they? We’ll have to decide what to order.”

The nurse visibly relaxed. “That’s right! I’ll give you yours now, and here’s a dry-erase marker so you can check off what you’d like. I recommend the soup, it’s always wonderful.”

And she handed them a long, laminated card with, yes, an attached dry-erase marker. They both thanked her and she bustled off, pushing a cart.

Back in the private room, Miss Parker laughed.

“That was a lame attempt, Jarod,” she said, earning her a glare. “No pun intended. It would have been a lame attempt from your down-the-hall neighbour the octogenarian, and it’s exponentially more pathetic from you. Don’t try me, Mr Parker.”

“Would you really have shot the nurse?” Jarod asked.

Miss Parker stuffed the gun back in her bag.

“Of course not.”

“Would you have shot me?”

No. I couldn’t watch that again. “Why would I pull a gun on you if I weren’t willing to shoot?”

“Dodging the question,” Jarod quipped, but there was no humour in his voice.

“I’m more interested in why you actually thought I’d kill a nurse in a public hallway. Trying to decide whether I’m more insulted that you’d think I’m that stupid, or that you think I’d kill someone just for getting in my way.”

Jarod sat back down on the bed.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Miss Parker waited a beat but nothing was forthcoming.

“You think I’d — you know perfectly well I wouldn’t do that.”

“I do?” Jarod’s mouth twisted in a controlled performance of bafflement.

“Yes.”

“You told me yourself, not even a week ago, after you took down the landlord in Cedar Rapids. You said you couldn’t afford to consider whether you should do something, only that you had to do it. Survival decisions, not moral decisions. I may have figured out what your morals are, but apparently you’re deferring to Raines instead of your own mind. Or to your brother. And the two of them? They’d shoot the nurse.”

Bastard, twisting her own words against her. She hadn’t been back in his presence thirty seconds before he started tearing into her world-view to suck the marrow from its bones.

“That’s different.”

“Why.” A demand, not a question. Miss Parker found that she couldn’t look away. He had her pinned with his attention alone. “You can listen to your own morals when it’s a stranger, but when it’s me, what? The rules are different?”

“Of course the rules are different with you, Jarod,” Miss Parker spat. “The rules are always different for you.”

She felt as if she’d been running a race, the air all clogged up in her throat.

“So you would ruin —”

“Shut up, Jarod!” Too late, she realized she’d said the wrong name, far too loud. “Jake. Shut up… Jake. Don’t twist my words again. The rules are different because I know you. You’re a… a bigger picture.” She gestured vaguely at him.

“A bigger picture.” He frowned at her like she was a crossword clue he couldn’t quite puzzle out.

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

And she didn’t, because she couldn’t look any harder at it to find out. If she did, it would all fall apart. She couldn’t even look too hard at “because I know you”, or she’d have to admit how short the description fell from the mark. Because we were friends? Because I understand what you’ve been through? Because you’re important? Because…

It was a pointless, self-flagellating exercise. She looked down at the laminated menu in her hands and cleared her throat.

“The soup looks good.”

Sydney and Broots were at another darkened doorway, butting heads with another part-time cop, part-time bouncer.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” the officer said. As he spoke, he and Sydney carried out a quiet, unacknowledged tug-of-war over the door to the seventh floor lobby. “How did you get past the main floor lobby? This is a crime scene, you need to leave. Immediately.”

“Crime scene?” wheezed Broots. Climbing six flights of stairs had left him out of breath. He and Sydney had discovered on arrival that the police had decommissioned the elevators.

“Yes, and you are potentially contaminating the scene. Have you — yes, I can see you’ve been touching things all the way up the stairwell.” Broots released the railing as if he’d been burned. The uniform sighed. “You’d better come in. You’re employees, I take it? We’ll have to get some information from you, when I can get someone to take you back to the station. We’re short-handed tonight.”

“Employees, yeah,” said Broots, feeling much less confident in his ability to pseudo-Pretend than he had earlier. Sydney said nothing, and Broots imagined his silence was distinctly smug.

“It’s Saturday night, you gents ever heard of work-life balance?” the cop asked.

The question seemed rhetorical, so Broots fidgeted instead of replying. The cop struggled briefly with propping the door open, then gave up and ushered them inside. As they stepped in, the policeman tried to block their view of an adjacent hallway, like a parent using their body to obstruct a child’s view of half-wrapped Christmas gifts. It was in vain.

There was blood on the floor. There was so much blood. And, unless Broots for very much mistaken, that leg visible through the door to the hallway looked very dead.

“Jennings, are we done documenting the scene out here, near the elevators?”

Jennings was squatting over by the dead legs, pouring over a clipboard. She confirmed they were, indeed, done documenting the scene out here, near the elevators. She didn’t look up from her notes.

“Can I move some chairs?”

Jennings gave her permission for them to move some chairs. The doorman-cop moved two chairs to face the least interesting view available, which turned out to be a white, featureless wall. Broots and Sydney sat down without protest.

“I’m going to have a word with our guy on the ground floor, can you two sit tight? Jennings, can you make sure they sit tight?”

Jennings promised to make sure they would sit extremely tight.

“Whose — whose blood do you think that is?” Broots whispered once their doorman had left.

“There’s no sense in speculating,” Sydney murmured.

“Do you think it’s Miss —”

“That’s speculation, Broots.” Sydney sighed. “Yes, of course it could be Miss Parker’s. It could also belong to any number of people who are not Miss Parker. Much as I don’t like to think about it, it could be Jarod’s. It could be Mr. Lorefice’s, much more preferable. It could be a murder victim entirely disconnected with our purpose in Philadelphia, since all we’ve done is follow a police car to a crime scene.”

Broots was silent for a moment as his blanched complexion settled into something a little less zombie-esque.

“Whose leg do you think that is?”

“Broots!”

Jennings looked over at the raised voices. Broots flapped his hands at Sydney to be quiet.

“It’s not Miss Parker’s, that’s something. That’s a man’s shoe. Could be —”

“Don’t. Stop speculating,” Sydney hissed.

“Well, it’s not impossible. It could be Jarod. What do you think Raines would say if we brought Jarod back dead?”

A shudder ran the length of Sydney’s body as his mind rifled unwillingly through thoughts of the posthumous experimentation Raines would have planned.

“Broots, I won’t say it again, stop —”

“— Speculating, I got it, sorry.” Broots turned his head several millimeters to the right, trying to catch the crime scene in his peripheral vision.

There was so much blood.

“I have to go sort out my sleeping arrangements. Don’t sprint for the exits while I’m gone.”

“Hilarious. Was the couch uncomfortable, then?”

“… What?”

“You slept on that couch over there last night. Was it uncomfortable?”

“How’d you know that? I moved it back before you woke up.”

Shrug. “I woke up in the middle of the night.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Thank you, Miss Parker.”

“For what?”

“It was a hard night.”

“Yes? OK. So?”

Sigh. “Never mind.”

Pause.

“The couch was fine. I’ll pull it up alongside the bed again.”

“Whatever you like, Miss Parker.”

“What the hell are you smiling at?”

“Nothing at all.”