Author's Note: Finally, another chapter! I really like this one because of the added scene. It wasn't planned, it just sort of happened. Hope you enjoy and thanks for the reviews!

I don't hear from Mr. Finch until the next morning. I use the time to take care of some personal business, stocking up on medical supplies, because it doesn't matter how good I am, I'm going to get hurt, and I need to be ready for it. I prepare three first-aid kits - one to keep at the hotel, one to put in my shipping container, and one to leave at Mr. Finch's library, assuming I'm ever invited back to it.

Not that there's anything stopping me from going in uninvited, I just don't want to press my luck with him. As mysterious as he is, and with as many questions as I have, he's still given me something that I never expected, something that I probably don't deserve - a second chance. I'm not stupid enough to throw that away. So I'll give him his library for now, even if I am peeking into every other corner of his life.

It's almost eight o'clock the next morning before I get a text from him, just a time and an address. At nine, I'm walking down pier twelve in Bowery Bay, Mr. Finch standing at the end of the dock with his chauffeur and bodyguards looking on from the shore. I wonder how much they know about their boss and why they're not more curious. I can't even put a price on my curiosity.

Mr. Finch is leaning on the rail of the dock as I approach, staring out over the water, his emotions relatively calm today, even if they are muddled. Surprise washes over everything else as I speak - was he so lost in thought that he didn't hear me coming? - and he gives me one of his stiff looks over his shoulder.

This is the last place anyone saw Theresa Whitaker alive. He hands me a large envelope containing a folder full of information, and he continues speaking as I look through it. The intel is extensive; he must have spent all night gathering it, a hunch that is confirmed when I notice that he's wearing the same brown suit from yesterday. He looks tired, which would also explain his subdued feelings.

The information he's given me is a good start, but I need more. I need the police report. I tell him I'll talk to my "friend" in the department and I'm hit with a wall of dislike and unease. I feel the same way, but we don't really have any choice. I leave him standing on the dock and head back into the city.

Stills' badge comes in handy once again, getting me deep into the precinct, where I find my pal, Fusco. I yank him into a men's restroom, his surprise and fear cold and sharp against my skin, but it's quickly seared away by hot anger as he recognizes me. I tell him what I need and he argues with me, whining about his IAD file, like it's my fault he's a dirty cop. I repeat my request, something that I won't be inclined to do too many more times, and walk away. Half an hour later, he meets me outside the station.

File in hand, I catch a cab to Mr. Finch's library, standing outside on the street as I give my employer a call.

"Hello?" he answers.

"I got the file," I tell him. "I need to use your computer; are you at the library?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese. Come on up." Nosy son-of-a-bitch. For someone who values his privacy so highly, he sure shows very little regard to anyone else's. I've considered turning off my phone so he can't track it, but I think that would just make him more suspicious of me. I need him to trust me, or I'll never get anywhere with him.

I read through the police report as archived news footage plays on his computer and it quickly becomes obvious that this was a professional hit made to look like a murder/suicide. I can't believe the cops missed it, but then again, yes, I can. I've done the same thing a few times and in all but one, no one had ever been the wiser. I explain to Mr. Finch about the muzzle impressions. He's curious, but also skeptical as he asks how I know. After the fuss he made about not wanting to know about Stills' death, I'm surprised he wouldn't know better. I tell him it's what I would have done and he cringes emotionally, a tight knot of regret, disgust, and fear forming inside him. Maybe he'll think twice about questioning me in the future.

He doesn't let it show, though, instead voicing the very question that's on my lips - why didn't the shooter kill Theresa? He mentions an address for the aunt and uncle, but I've got my own leads, and I can't be in two places at once. I ask him for help and he balks, fear, alarm and worry pouring out of him.

"If you could just talk to the relatives," I say, clarifying in case he thought I'd be sending him after the hitman. The panic eases, but not as much as I would have thought. He licks his lips and draws a breath before nodding.

"All right. What sort of information am I looking for?"

"Any reason anyone had to kill them," I say. "The financial trouble Grant was having is a red flag in my book. And maybe one of them knows where to find the girl." I reach into my jacket and pull out Stills' badge. "You want to borrow this? It's good at getting people to talk."

He draws back, for once letting his displeasure be seen on his face. "You took his badge?"

"It's come in very handy," I say, my tone light, teasing, playful. He does not appreciate it.

"I can handle it myself," he says and turns away. I'm curious how he intends to do that, but I don't ask. I just leave, taking Deacon Page's mug shot with me.

As far as I can tell, Mr. Finch doesn't like me. When he looks at me, I sense worry and doubt, disgust and fear, desperation and hope. Normally, I don't care how people feel about me; I've gotten used to it all...except for that flicker of hope. And perhaps that's why it bothers me that he doesn't like me, that he's afraid of me, that he finds me...repellent, because in spite of that, I give him hope. I haven't been able to do that for anyone in a long time.

I hit every skateboard park in Manhattan, glad that Mr. Finch didn't take the badge after all, because even with it, these kids are all attitude and smart-ass remarks. It's almost five before Mr. Finch calls to tell me how his first foray into the field went. He talked to the aunt, but the uncle is off the grid. He asks where I am, like he's not tracking my every move through the cell, and I answer. Right about then, I spot a kid that could be Deacon's twin and for once I get to hang up on Mr. Finch.

Deacon is all tough-guy bravado and teenage attitude as I take his phone, but when I show him Theresa's picture his alarm is borderline panic. I know he's seen her even before he lies to me. Once I've cloned his cell, I let him walk away, my gaze sweeping the plaza as I wait. Sure enough, a minute later, Deacon sends a text and on the far side of the plaza, at an ATM machine, a teenage girl casts a startled look around. Got her.

She runs and I chase, weaving through pedestrians. I grab her arm, her fear strong, but her determination stronger. She whips her arm around and my ability goes dark as some kind of blade slices deep into the heel of my left hand, pain radiating up to my elbow. Ignoring the blood, I run after her, but nearly get hit by a van and she escapes. I curse under my breath and look at my hand, blood dripping from my fingers. She missed the main artery, but just barely, and I don't have to be a doctor to know that some gauze and an ace bandage isn't going to cut it this time.

The pain in my hand is sharp and insistent, a nagging ache clawing up toward my shoulder, leaving me emotionally blind to the people around me, so many people, and I have no idea what they are feeling. Someone bumps against me and I whip around, but the man walks on, oblivious. I have to get out of here.

I glance up at the street sign and try to picture the nearest hospital. Luckily, the area is familiar to me from my time on the street. Unfortunately, the nearest hospital is seventeen blocks away. There is a clinic just two streets away, one that I had been forced to visit a couple of times, once when a cut on my leg got infected and once when another transient had gotten the jump on me and broken a beer bottle over my head.

I feel more than a bit out of place, walking in wearing an eight hundred dollar suit, my ability to blend in and disappear stripped from me. I'm just all kinds of vulnerable right now and I hate it. Everyone in the waiting room stares at me, two hobos and a young mother with a colicky baby, even the woman behind the desk, and for a moment I just stare back, uncertain. Are they angry, or afraid, or amused; are they going to help me or throw me out?

Stepping over to the desk, I hold up my hand, the blood dark and tacky. "I, uh...I had an accident," I say. Her eyes get big, then she reaches back, opens a drawer, and pulls out a large, sterile sheet of gauze.

"Here, put pressure on it and keep it above your heart. What happened?"

"I was opening boxes at work and the knife slipped - I was being careless." And an accident wouldn't require them to call the police like an assault would. I hear a noise and glance behind me, but it's just the young woman rocking her baby. The hobos are still staring at me and I shift uneasily, unable to sense any malice in them or not. I need some painkillers, now.

"Do you have insurance?" she asks.

I shake my head. "I haven't been working long enough for the benefits to kick in, but I can pay. I'm not looking for a handout, this was just closer than the hospital." And hopefully they'd ask fewer questions.

"All right, have a seat. The doctor will be with you as soon as he can."

I sink into one of the mismatched waiting room chairs, facing the two transients and keeping the front door in the corner of my eye. They watch me warily, one of them murmuring quietly to the other. After a few minutes, I start to relax. They don't seem threatening, just curious. The young woman, on the other hand, isn't paying any attention to me at all. She can't be more than seventeen and even without my ability, it's obvious that she's scared to death, rocking her baby and singing softly, trying to make it stop crying.

The door into the back rooms opens and I jump - I hadn't felt anyone approaching. The receptionist motions to me. "The doctor will see you now."

I glance at the other people in the room. "But they were here before me."

"We're just waiting for him," one of the hobos says as a third man emerges past the receptionist.

"Your condition is more serious," the receptionist says as the three men leave. "Now come on."

"No, I'll wait," I say, lifting the edge of the gauze and exposing the wound. "The bleeding has stopped. Take her first."

"All right. Come along, miss."

Clutching her baby to her chest, the young woman rushes across the room. "Thanks, mister," she says as she passes me. I sit in the empty waiting room, my hand throbbing, for another half hour before she comes back out. The baby is still crying, but she doesn't look nearly as scared.

The receptionist shows me to an exam room and I sit for a few more minutes before the doctor comes in. I glance up as the door opens, momentarily surprised to recognize him.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Clark," he says, his voice an unmistakable deep, rumbling bass, surprising coming from a tall and relatively slender man. He's about twenty years older than me, if I had to guess, his hair completely silver, his smile warm and genuine. He treated me both times that I came in, and I remember being impressed by his kindness and compassion, his gentle demeanor carrying not a hint of disgust or scorn, even for a dirty, drunken bum like I was.

"I'm John," I say and he pauses, just for an instant, his gaze darting back to my face. Then he turns away and begins washing his hands in the sink.

"So, John, what happened to you?"

I tell him the same thing I told the receptionist. "It was just a stupid accident," I add. "I wasn't paying attention to where my hands were, and those box-cutters are so damn sharp."

"Yes, they are," he says, drying his hands and slipping into a pair of fresh latex gloves. "All right, let's see what the damage is." He peels away the gauze pad, several large, dark spots on the white material, but it isn't soaked or anything. He makes thoughtful noises as he examines the edges of the wound and I wince as he pulls it open to gauge the depth, fresh blood welling up.

"You're lucky," he says. "No tendon or arterial damage, just muscle. You're going to need, oh...thirty stitches or so, and a couple weeks of light duty at work-"

I can't help but chuckle as I imagine telling Mr. Finch that I can't kick ass and bust heads because I have a doctor's note. Dr. Clark arches an eyebrow at me. "Not going to happen," I explain. "This job is important and there isn't anyone else who can do it. I'll try to take it easy, though."

"Try hard," he urges. "If you rip out the sutures, it'll just take longer to heal and leave a bigger scar."

"I don't really care about scars," I say, showing him the heel of my right hand, where the glass from that mirror sliced me up.

He squints as he peers at the nearly healed wound. "That looks like it should have had a few stitches, too. Another accident?"

"Yes. I'm...rather clumsy."

He gives me a long look, but says nothing as he lays out his tools - the curved needle, the thin black thread, the forceps, the gauze, the anesthetic, the disinfectant. I flinch as he injects lidocaine into the wound, but the anesthetic acts quickly and I feel the pain fade away, like someone turning down the volume on the radio.

I'm not sure when my ability returns, but I suddenly realize that I can feel him, his emotions like a calm, warm cocoon around me. There's an underlying thread of confusion, though, and flickers of doubt, which only strengthen when he glances at my face. He washes away the fresh blood before pouring the disinfectant over my hand. As he threads the needle, he casts another darting glance at me, and I have a few moments to consider my answer before he even voices the question.

"Have we met?" he asks. "You seem familiar, somehow. Your eyes...and your voice..." Anyone else and I would be surprised that they remembered me, but not him. He'd encouraged me to quit drinking, he'd even offered me work doing odd jobs around his house, but I was drunk and homeless by choice; I wasn't ready to be rescued.

"I've been in here a couple of times," I say. "About a year ago, I had a bottle broken against my head."

"Oh, my God, you're that John," he says, stopping and just staring at me, the needle forgotten in his hand as his gaze travels down to my shoes before jumping back to my face, and I feel relief and joy from him. He smiles at me. "Looks like you're doing well."

I can't help but smile back. "Not bad, actually. I quit drinking and got a job."

"Right, opening boxes," he says, a shadow of suspicion and worry darkening those bright emotions as he pulls over a stool and takes a seat. "I wasn't aware that box-boys could afford six hundred dollar suits." He begins to stitch me up, and while I don't owe him an explanation, I feel bad for being the cause of the darkness inside him. There are so few truly good people in this world, when I find one, I want to protect them.

"I'm not a box-boy," I say. "I'm working security for some rich guy. He does something with computers, I think; I don't pay much attention to that. And sometimes he has me run errands, do odd jobs...open boxes, stuff like that."

"Sounds like a good job, then," he says and ties off his current suture before raising his eyes and looking into mine. "Just make sure you can face that mirror each morning."

"I can," I tell him. "For the first time in a long time, I can."

He's relieved. He finishes with my hand and wraps it in gauze and an ace bandage.

"Thanks," I say as I rise from the exam table.

"Hold on, let me write you a prescription for some pain medication."

I hesitate as he peels off his gloves and washes his hands again. "No thanks," I say. "I'll make do with over the counter stuff. I can't work if I'm taking narcotics - wouldn't be safe."

"You really should take a few days off, at least." I just shake my head. He sighs. "Well, I tried. It was a pleasure seeing you again, John. Take care of yourself."

"Thanks, Dr. Clark," I say as I shake his hand, something I rarely do. The physical contact of skin on skin is like gripping a live wire, feeding his emotions straight into my body. I feel kindness, joy, hope, thankfulness - good feelings - but they're still foreign, they still push my own emotions to the side, living within me like squatters in an abandoned building, and I want them out. I draw back, pausing a moment to regain my equilibrium, and that's when I hear a crash and a frightened scream from the front of the clinic.

"What was-"

"Stay here," I tell him, reaching under the back of my suit jacket and drawing my weapon as I press my back against the wall beside the door. The grip feels awkward in my hand, what with the numbness and bandages. I guess I'll have to shoot with my right for a while. Luckily, I'm fairly ambidextrous. I shift the gun to my uninjured hand and ease the door open, peering out into the hall. It's empty.

I slip out, checking behind me before I extend my perception down the hall. I feel fear, a cold, black terror, probably from the receptionist. I hope so; it means she's still alive, and the vibrancy of the emotion means she's uninjured - pain bleeds the life out of feelings. I sense someone else, too, an angry, desperate presence, with just enough hate and fear lurking beneath the surface to make them really dangerous.

I slink forward, gun down at my side, and hear a man's voice, low and hoarse. "Money, all of it. Hurry up. Pills, too. Now, bitch!"

I peek around the corner, into the receptionist's area. He's about six foot, two hundred pounds, mid-thirties, holding a large, hunting-type knife. She's on her knees, her whole body trembling as she pulls handfuls of plastic pharmaceutical company sample packs out of the drawer and drops them on the counter.

"What the fuck is this?" he demands, grabbing a handful and throwing them at her.

"We're not a pharmacy," she says, cringing back as he makes a threatening gesture with the knife before starting to stuff the plastic packs into his pockets.

I step into the room. "Hey," I say and he whips around, pointing the knife at me. I keep my gun at my side, hidden from his view. "You really shouldn't do that."

He looks me over, his surprise fading as anger and greed rise to the surface. He steps toward me, away from the receptionist. "Money, now. And that jacket."

"No," I say, amused at the confusion that blossoms inside him. Amateur. He's never had anyone resist and isn't sure what to do. What he does next is the wrong thing. He takes another step toward me, the knife coming into reach. I grab his right wrist in my left hand and jerk him off balance, my right knee slamming into his gut and doubling him over. As he sucks a great, desperate gulp of air, I press the barrel of my pistol to his forehead.

"Drop the knife," I say, my voice low and calm. It's a trick I mastered while working for the Agency - a soft, quiet voice tends to confuse people, especially when you're kicking the shit out of them. The knife drops to the carpet and I kick it away. I pull the gun back, grab him by the collar of his shirt, and slam his head into the wall. He slumps to the floor, groaning before going silent and still.

The receptionist is staring at me, her eyes wide and face pale, as I tuck my gun away. Her fear makes my chest ache, because it's not directed at the thief anymore, it's directed at me. "You should call the police now," I tell her. I step out into the waiting room and reach into my pocket, pulling out the last of the cash Mr. Finch had given me. It's eight or nine hundred, and I lay it on the counter without a second thought. "Thanks for the help," I say, holding up my bandaged hand, and I leave.

I don't blame her for being afraid. She'd just had a traumatic experience and I had a gun - in all, not a good afternoon for either of us - but it still brought back those memories, the ones that drove me the strongest to drink. There is nothing worse than seeing fear in the eyes of the one you love, than feeling it grate against your skin, a sensation like chewing broken glass. I'll do anything to keep from feeling that again, even if it means never letting anyone get close enough to love me.