They cruised lazily into getting dressed, and she followed him to the front door.

"Scott?" she asked suddenly, then hesitated.

"What's up, babe?"

"You're not still doing that Origami Killer work, are you?" She showed a little strain on her face as she asked. "I'm not asking which parents hired you, I know you can't answer. But you're not still working that case, right?"

He was intensely startled, had thought for a brief second that she was asking whether he was still taking the boys. "Not at the moment," he said, skirting the truth.

"I just really want to leave all that behind. I mean, thanks for not talking about it. But I'd feel better if I knew you weren't still investigating. That terrible man is dead, anyway. I want this . . . I want us . . . to be all about the future."

"Well, exactly." He jumped at the opening she'd given him. "There haven't been any murders since Ethan Mars died. It's probably all over. Nothing to investigate."

"Thank you, Scott." That look on her face, her grieving motherhood, was the one that was so beautiful it nearly broke his heart. He couldn't even grab for her, could barely let her lean over and give him the kiss on his cheek. If he gave in to it, he knew he'd never get out of the house, today. He would stay there, living in that breathtaking sorrow until her face changed and he was too exhausted to do anything else.

He closed his eyes to tear himself away, settled heavily behind the wheel of his "new" car – not quite a junker, but still fairly elderly. He loved these old models. They kicked and died as often as overworked mules, but he could fix them with his own two hands. No computer shit to take care of. He felt a certain kind of bond with them; they tended to wheeze as though they also had asthma.

He tried not to think about what he'd just said, but he'd been lying, of course. It wasn't over. Every time he could get away, he anxiously threw himself back into the routine of cleaning up after his crimes, his sins. He was sure now that he could never be linked back to either Manfred's death or Paco Mendez', and, with Grace Mars' help, he'd managed to erase all traces of himself from her deceased husband's life. She'd been ridiculously willing to let Scott go into Ethan's house and clean up after himself. It was a sad little place, boxes unpacked, yard overgrown. If that man hadn't even been able to keep his house together, no wonder he hadn't been able to save his own son. Scott had been torn with sorrow, fury, as he wiped the place clean.

But those weren't the only ways it might not be over. Scott's exploded apartment was half-curse, half-blessing. He had a few cases he'd simply given up for dead after he'd lost all of his files on their backgrounds. On a positive note, the hideously burned body of the woman found two blocks away, the reporter he'd also given up for dead, couldn't even be determined to have been on his floor when the explosion happened. Denying any knowledge of her and accepting Blake's comforting hand on his shoulder had pretty much taken care of that.

But the arson teams were still working on his place. Still investigating. Very, very slowly. He wasn't even trying to claim the place hadn't been blown up, on purpose, just that he hadn't done it.

"I do a lot of adultery cases," he'd said. "You can imagine that I don't have a lot of fans. Some of the dickheads I find cheating – well, I wouldn't put it past them . . ." That would almost certainly take care of it, but it was still up in the air.

And it might not be over in . . . that other way, either. The way that itched deep in his brain. Because he'd only ever taken his victims in the fall. And it wouldn't be fall yet, not for a while.

And maybe, with no place to take them, he could manage to not take any more.

And maybe Lauren's sweet face could stay in his head long enough so he wouldn't need to.

Maybe.

He set off for Kramer's place in his choking car.

That was his real business. Kramer. The two men were locked together in mutual hatred, dependence, blackmail. Scott had made a Faustian deal with the one man who was able to cover up his murderous rampage through Kramer's mansion – Kramer himself. Kramer theoretically had all the power, knew enough to send Scott to prison for life, probably could have him killed with very little effort. But it was like Scott's potential for violence had him hypnotized. A cobra staring helplessly at a mongoose.

"How's the old man today?" Scott asked the awkward goon at the front door. Like all of them, the hireling was visibly afraid of him. Scott hadn't even bothered to learn most of their names; they almost all had the same sort of dreadful sameness, and mostly, did the same job, poorly.

The man shrugged, cautiously. "Same as always, really. Ebenezer Scrooge. Montgomery Burns."

That was an answer Scott actually liked, and he put the face in his mental catalog of people who he'd like to see not die. He worked his way into Kramer's office.

Kramer's fascination with him was always so shockingly transparent that Scott could feel himself despising the other man as soon as they were both occupying the same room. Kramer had power, had more power than Scott, even with all his corrupt connections, could ever dream of. But every emotion Kramer ever had screamed from his face as though he were a walking billboard. He needed men like Scott to be his face, to be a face that was able to lie, and threaten, and kill. Convincingly. The more Scott worked for Kramer, the more lies he told for his employer, the more arms he twisted without breaking a sweat, the more contempt he had for the weak old man who gave him those thick envelopes of cash.

"All right," Scott started. "What is it?

"I've got a social function to attend tonight. I need someone to be there beyond Todd." Scott checked that; Todd was a driver, and a very good one, but not a bodyguard by any means. "That's you," Kramer continued. "You should . . . change your shirt. And put on the black coat you've been given for these things. But I want you there."

"No." Scott tipped his head slightly back and forth on his thick neck. He wasn't willing to give up the date with Lauren. "Not tonight. That's why you have to give me warning. Won't be there."

Kramer's face tightened. "You can come tonight, or you can take Gordie on his trip out tomorrow afternoon."

Scott's voice immediately burst into a dangerously low register: "One rule when we started this, Kramer. I don't see Gordie. I don't help him with any of the fucked-up stuff he does."

"You're right, Mr. Shelby." Kramer was almost purring. "One rule. You don't have to go anywhere with Gordie. So, tonight?"

Every corner of Scott's eyes tightened. He'd just told Lauren he could support them both. He didn't just need the money, he needed Kramer to find him employable and not a huge liability. And Kramer was working that game against him. It was another one of their cobra-mongoose showoffs. He played the wild card: "Where is Gordie going?"

Kramer tried to show a poker face, instead looked broadly flummoxed: "I . . . I think he's probably . . ."

Scott had been working for him long enough to know that that pause probably didn't mean that Kramer didn't know, just that he didn't want to say, hadn't been prepared for the demand. Scott stared impassively at his employer.

". . . probably going to have some fun before it gets late."

Ah. Scott could parse that one easily: that meant "find some hookers before he starts clubbing." Probably a long string of them, both hookers and clubs. Scott might even have to tell a few of those whores that they'd better keep their mouths shut. And they'd almost certainly be crying, sometimes bleeding. It was an absolute shit job, and Kramer knew it. And Scott knew he knew it. But now Scott had tried to give himself the upper hand in such a way that meant he had to sound like he didn't care about taking it.

"Fine," Scott said. "I'll do that. Get Jared to cover for me, tonight. He blends better than I do, anyway. You know how I am. Bull in a china shop." He squared his shoulders to emphasize his presence. "Working with Gordie means I get a bonus."

Kramer flinched, as he almost always did when Scott teased him by mentioning his volatility. He was clearly unprepared for the offer. "Well," he stammered, "Fine. I don't know where he's going. Be back here by one P.M. tomorrow. It's not a very detailed job. You'll be driver."

Scott settled a little; he was going to hate the job, but he was satisfied that he was clearly bugging the hell out of Kramer. The old fart looked like he was still trying to choke down a tumbler full of thumbtacks.

"Got that place yet?" Scott asked.

Kramer scowled, admitted: "Yes. Registered to a dead man. Should be out of sight for years. Craig can give you the keys."

Scott lumbered to his feet. "I'll be back tomorrow, then. Just give me a car where I can fit behind the fucking steering wheel." He strode out.

He leaned heavily over the first goon he found, only about a third his size: "Who the fuck is Craig?" he asked.

"I –" the scrawny hireling had clearly been warned about Scott, looked frightened. "I just started. I think he's the guy with the office with the weird paintings."

Scott knew immediately what he meant. "Good job," he said. "You get to not be kicked in the nuts, today." He'd had no intention of doing such a thing, but increasing his legend gave him pleasure. The undersized muscle was visibly quivering even before Scott turned his face away from him.

Craig was Kramer's Secretary of the Interior, managed all of the hirings, firings, contractors. Never said anyone should be taken out, but would sometimes admit that someone's services were "disposable," if he was asked. Scott ignored the tiny Keith Haring lithographs on the man's walls as he walked in. It was easier that way, to pretend that the man secretly in charge of Kramer's household didn't have a bunch of unsettlingly cheerful – and vaguely faggy – images on his walls.

Not that Scott discriminated against fags. He'd shoot one of 'em in the head as soon as the next guy, if they deserved it or he was paid to. But only then. Let everyone live how they want, that was Scott's motto. Hookers, Mexicans, faggots, whatever. They'd get whatever they deserved in the long run, and that included questionably queer Craig. And Lauren. She was getting what she deserved, because she deserved far better than what she'd been having.

Craig spasmed as Scott shoved his way in, looked like a deer in headlights for a moment.

"You," Scott started, "Are supposed to give me keys to an apartment."

Craig sprang into life. "Yes. Yes! I've got them. Here." He fumbled a spare keyring onto the desk. "130 Market Street. One of them does the outside door, the other, the inside. Not sure which is which, but I'm sure you'll figure it out. From what I've been told of your . . . requirements, it should work." The little man remained perched uncertainly on the edge of his seat.

Scott examined the keys, wrapped them in his hand. He hadn't seen the place yet, but it never hurt to throw a little fear of god into anyone: "You never gave me these. You got that? We never had this conversation." He examined the other man's face carefully, which was already jerking at the corner of his mouth in an uncontrolled nervous tic. "You have no idea how many ways I can hurt you if you forget that. Craig."

Craig started nodding eagerly. "Never happened. Let me know if the landlord's a dick. Kramer's the only one on the lease, so you might not be able to get things fixed if they go to hell."

Scott was satisfied, lumbered out, and Craig spent another afternoon contemplating just how much he should quit this fucking well-paying job.

Outside, Scott stared at the keys in his palm. Didn't know if he was ready for them, yet. Didn't know if he needed them, yet. He'd go cruise by his old apartment, he decided, joke around with any of the construction workers there, see if any of his old pictures had been rescued. He missed them.

None, it turned out, had shown up.

But it wasn't a bad day, in total. He scrabbled up dinner from a diner and got the car to straggle its way home before they went out to the movie. Lauren had thoughtfully picked an action movie, and Scott loved the feeling of holding on to her in comfort when she jumped at the quick scares. Could tell she liked it, his holding her.

She grappled him so hard that night as they had sex that he felt bruised, though he knew no marks would probably show up – they hardly ever did for him. Just a thing. A lucky thing.

"Hey, babe," he rattled her sleepy ribcage a little after they were done. "Just so you know, I'm probably gonna be gone most of tomorrow."

"Mrasfpm. Scott." Lauren was clearly already half-asleep.

"Thanks for the movie."

They fell asleep, once again, draping each other.