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Consciousness slowly returned to Parker, stabbed through the blackness in much the same way that the insipid gray outside filtered obliquely through the blinds and into the darkened den.

Somewhere a door slammed. Shards of glass crunched beneath shoes. Parker became cognizant of unhurried movements in the Hacienda—the steady, purposeful strides of one who has some idea of what will be discovered, and is in no rush to make said discovery. The stairs creaked and suddenly heavy footfalls were advancing to the rhythm of a much older tune. The lyrics were clipped abruptly; the speakers fell silent.

Parker jerked awake, opened her eyes all at once. And groaned in disapproval. Wearing dark jeans, a black tee, and an expression of mild anger—mingled with vague disappointment—Jarod towered over her. The radio's power cord hung limply in his right hand, a black bathrobe dangled from his left.

"Which one of you wants to tell me what happened here last night?" He inquired blandly, and observed confusion wash over Parker's features. 

Last she'd checked, there had been only one of her. But knowing that sniveling son of a bitch Raines—

Just then Kyle's arm moved beneath her neck and recollection fell upon her. Crushed her. Pinned her to the floor. Parker opened her mouth, moved her lips. It was much too soon to talk. Her throat was dry, sour with alcohol, her eyes were gritty. Her temples throbbed. She closed her eyes, wished Jarod away.

"Nothing happened," Kyle answered, stifling a yawn. And although Jarod's unbelieving and unwavering gaze remained riveted on Parker's pale face, Kyle added coolly. "We had a few drinks."

Jarod might have been convinced by his brother's explanation had it not been for the rather disconcerting state of undress in which he'd found the pair.

Oh, they just had a few drinks.
In their underwear.

Happens all the time.

Parker wore Kyle's shirt, and not much else, and she looked younger in it. In fact, she looked eerily childlike with only her fingertips protruding from the sleeves. All of which somehow made the discovery even more disturbing, especially when contrasted by the sharp angle of her hips, bare save for the black panties she wore.

"Mhm," The Pretender hummed, and then opened his left hand, allowed the bathrobe—his bathrobe—to slip through his fingers. Parker felt it drop across her bare belly, and grudgingly shoved her injured hand into a sleeve. "You're expected at the morgue in less than hour—you knew that."

Gee, the poor thing woke up on the wrong side of Rachel this morning. Parker eyelids fluttered in annoyance. She sharped her vicious riposte to a fine point, and, prepared to slay the ill-miened beast, met his dark, measuring gaze. The words were forgotten, lost. There was something proprietorial in his eyes, something vaguely menacing. She dropped her gaze to the robe—it was a rather lovely pretext. And she was grateful to Jarod for, unwittingly, supplying it. Gathering her wits, and the robe around her body, she decided that she had been mistaken, and decided, too, that it mattered little either way. This was the final refrain, the final corte in their decades long tango. She was mere days away from life sans boygenius.

"I'm not going," she said testily, petulantly, tying the robe tightly around her waist, and Jarod cringed at her childishness. He felt ill, suddenly, and much too out of sorts to comprehend why.

"Miss Parker—"

"I've made my decision," she snarled, sounding—to Jarod's relief—more like herself, her adult self. Thank God.

"All right," he said. "I'll identify his body."

"No," she argued. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"Look," Jarod said with growing impatience, "I'm not going to argue with you. Okay? The DOJ is concerned only with their own itinerary and neither you nor I are in positions to make demands," he explained and then, immediately contradicted himself by demanding, with more authority, more grit than he'd intended, "Go upstairs and pull yourself together. I'll go identify the body; when I get back, you and I are going to talk."

Bastard.

Parker didn't care much for this particular incarnation of Jarod. He wasn't all that pesky when he was whining about his parents, marinating in his own woe and self-loathing or begging for his life. But when boygenius has his shit together—No. Just no. Just fucking no. She could think of only one thing worse than taking orders from Raines, or Lyle, or Cox: taking orders from Jarod.

Parker narrowed her eyes at him, and then brushed past him. When she was gone, Jarod's gaze slid over to Kyle, "Clean up this mess, cook her some breakfast and keep the coffee coming. Strong coffee, Kyle. I want her sober and clear-headed when I return." That said, he pivoted.

"You're angry at me?" Asked an incredulous Kyle. "I didn't get her drunk. Hell, if I hadn't been there, she would've polished off the bottle."

Jarod turned, faced his brother, regarded him narrowly. "If you hadn't been here, she wouldn't have even touched the bottle. You brought it into the house."

"I didn't think she was going to still be awake when I got back."

"You didn't think at all, Kyle."

"Whoa. What the hell is this about?"
Jarod glanced at his watch, said, "I can't be late."

"We were just blowing off steam, Jarod," Kyle shouted, defensively.

"Is that all?"

"Is that—is that all? Why? Why do you care?" Kyle asked, and mused—angrily—that Jarod wanted Parker to be more than just sober and clear-headed. He wanted her. Period. And yet: "You said there was nothing between the two of you. Hell, you were with Rachel."

"I've known Rachel for quite some time," came Jarod's rather self-righteous reply.

"I've known Miss Parker longer than you've known Rachel, Jarod."

"Rachel isn't vulnerable right now, Kyle," Jarod explained. "Her father's body wasn't just discovered, she wasn't just taken at gun point from the place where she was practically raised, her life wasn't just thrown into upheaval. And you don't know Miss Parker," Jarod said shiftily, enunciating each word. He then admonished severely, "You shouldn't have run away last night."

"I didn't have any incentive to stay where I, clearly, wasn't welcomed."

"Mom was asking for you."

"For me?" Inquired Kyle. "Or for some picture perfect idea of me that she's created in her mind? The three-year-old Kyle? I"m not a child anymore, Jarod. I can't be her little boy."

"You have to give her some—"

"Save your breath," Kyle interrupted. "I know, I know: pain changes people, she needs more time, et cetera, et cetera. I heard it all last night, and I get it. I get it now! Okay? Damn it," groused Kyle, pivoting. "I'm starving and you are late," he called over his shoulder.

Jarod observed in stunned silence as Kyle withdrew from the room and then he lifted his curious, dark gaze to the arch—at the top of the stairs—through which Parker had, no doubt, angrily stamped ten minutes earlier. Pain changes people? What the hell happened here last night? He intended to find out the moment he returned.

Parker, however, had plans of her own; those plans didn't involve him. Apparently.The first indication that something had transpired in his absence were the two SUVS that blocked the intersection, their flashers blinking maniacally in the downpour. "What now?" Muttered Jarod when a yellow-slickered Agent Morales jogged up to the car. He killed the wipers, lowered the window, said, "Tell me you didn't let her leave."

"You know me better than that," answered Morales. "She waited for the shift change, took off towards the mountains, used the rain and brush to her advantage. We headed off her at the lake." Jarod averted his gaze, shook his head. "I underestimated her," he confessed to himself. "Uh, tell me: was my brother involved in her escape attempt?"

"No. Your brother assisted us in apprehending her."Jarod studied the man for a moment, and then opened the door and stepped out of the car. Morales called over the rain, "A word of caution: she's not happy."

"Happiness isn't on the table," Jarod returned dryly, and then entered the house, where an ill-tempered Kyle was still cleaning up last night's party. Alone.

"Where is she?"

"Outside," answered Kyle with a jerk of head to indicate the back yard.

"In this rain?" Inquired Jarod, with a squint of skepticism.

"Give her a few more minutes," Kyle suggested, and observed his brother's bemused expression morph into absolute suspicion. "Have a cup of coffee with me, Jarod."

"Is this some sort of diversion," Jarod ask, turning to the kitchen exit.

"If it is, Kyle—"

"Diversion? No," explained Kyle, "I just think you should give her a break. Jarod," he called, futilely. "Jarod? Jarod!"

Fresh out of breaks, Jarod quietly slipped outside to discover that Parker hadn't colluded with Kyle after all, and, furthermore, appeared to have no intention of attempting, again, to escape. Alone with her demons, she seemed to have resigned herself to fate, and seemed rather perturbed about it. Beneath a eleven by five inch white awning, she paced back and forth in short, choppy strides and sucked ferociously on a Marlboro. It was the season of change, of promises broken. The ones she'd made to herself. Those her father had made to her.

Jarod observed her, unnoticed, for several moments, the sort of head-to-toe scrutiny that wasn't allowed in their game, because it meant that he cared—that, too, was disallowed. By her. It was unwritten, unspoken law.

She hadn't regained her color; in fact, her face seemed to disappear in the opaque clouds of smoke that hung low beneath the awning. She pushed a tremulous hand into her coat pocket, retrieved the hard pack and then hastily pinched a cigarette from it. She removed the dying butt from her lips, used it to light the fresh one. Closed her wind-stung eyes. Sucked deeply. Smoked like she did most everything: all in. No half measures.

After a moment, a cloudy curl of smoke unfurled from her mouth. She's self-destructing. Or is this what grieving a monster looks like? Or could this possibly be the morning after blowing off steam with Kyle? And just what, he wondered, did that entail anyway? Had it been grudge sex? Jarod distinctly recalled Kyle's disdain for Parker, which, to his astonishment, far surpassed his own disdain for her. And was she able to consent, or was she completely blitzed the entire time? And did Kyle procure a condom at some point during their road trip? And when did he purchase the tequila? Had he been planning to blow off steam with Parker prior to last evening? Plotting to get her drunk? The questions only raised more questions, and some of the questions were rather unpleasant to entertain, were unpalatable.

Jarod considered returning to the kitchen to beat the answers out of his brother. And he likely would have; Parker, however, pushed a hand through her hair, pivoted, and narrowed her eyes. At Jarod.
She felt the small stretch of dry land shrink considerably when he joined her beneath the awning.

"I don't suppose," said Jarod softly, "I have to tell you that cigarettes are bad for you."

She jerked her gaze away from his. "Leave it alone, Jarod," said Parker tartly, her face hard and inscrutable.

He answered with a despairing and dramatic sigh, and weighed his words before, at last, announcing, "We have to talk."

"Talk," she commanded, detesting his primacy, detesting everything about him, and for no solid reason, nothing logical, nothing that she could articulate. It bothered her, and she found that incomprehensible; after all, she'd never needed a reason to hate him before.

"This isn't quite what I had in mind," he said, surveying the heavy rain.  She drew to a halt, inquired sharply, "Was Daddy murdered?"

"No," answered Jarod softly. "No, he died from exposure."

"Exposure," Parker repeated with a measure of incredulity, her voice thickening with grief. She resumed her fretful pacing, shook her head in disapproval. "Right," she hissed, the words wavering with rage, with pain. "I bet your little autopsy didn't tell you if his exposure was coerced," she said with a nasty, empty laugh.

"Foul play isn't suspected."

"Why would it be? An old man wandering around lost and disoriented? Dehydrated?" She threw her hands up in a grand, angry gesture, nearly dislodging the cigarette from her fingers in the process. "It happens all the time—that's exactly what his killer wants you to believe."

"It doesn't matter what I believe, Miss Parker. There will be no investigation."

"And that's it?"

"No," he answered, with a compressed, pained smile. "No, I'm afraid not. Look: can we go inside?"

"You're really starting to piss me off, Jarod," she snarled.

"I am starting to piss you off," he retorted incredulously.

"Yeah," she said, in a tight, toneless voice. "Snitching to the feds, your casual dismissal of my—" The remainder of her diatribe caught in her throat, and, she decided, it was just as well. He couldn't possibly comprehend the depth of her loss. Or the depth of her self-loathing. The previous nights' events returned to her; measure by measure, the music pulsed through her mind, made fuzzy and distant by the tequila. She couldn't stop feeling her body beneath Kyle's, and perhaps more perplexing, couldn't recall much else that transpired. She took a nice, long pull on the Marlboro and Jarod observed its end glow bright.

"Miss Parker? Your what?"

"Fuck you, Jarod," she said, exhaling an cloudy plume of smoke, her words smoking, her eyes smoldering. "I don't answer to you and I never will and it's going to take a helluva lot more than this little Draconian cop routine of yours to keep me here," she said, piercing the air between them with a angry finger that Jarod was quite certain she could kill him with if given half a chance—and most likely would before the day was done.

"I don't know which badge you are hiding behind," she hissed, her voice tremulous, "but you can pass along this message to your boss: heads are going to roll if I have to stay here another night."

Jarod took a compensatory step back, held up both hands, affected the most conciliatory tone in his impressive repertoire and asked, "Could we possibly start over?"

Parker narrowed her eyes, composed a thin, triumphant smile and sidled up to him. "We're done."

"No, Miss Parker," Jarod said to her departing form. "No, we aren't," he said, jogging to catch up with her. "I'm not a cop," he called out desperately, and stopped shy of reaching for her—it required a Herculean effort to withdraw his hand, and not grasp her arm. He then shouldered his way into the house, entirely unaware that she was trying to lock him out. In the rain. Where he deserves to be. The bastard.

"You aren't staying here another night," he said with some urgency, his voice following her through the kitchen, into the living area and up the stairs. When he finally caught up with her, she was sitting dead center of the stairs, resting her forehead in her hands.

"I'm listening," she said tersely.

He affected a warm expression that typically invited friendly smiles, kind greetings; Parker, however, was anything but typical; her face remained blank, her eyes cold.

"Still take your coffee black, Miss Parker?" He asked softly as he ascended the steps, and offered her a cup that clinked softly atop a saucer.

"I'm not doing this, Jarod" she said.

"This?" He inquired as he sat precisely two steps below her.

"Willfully participitating in your manipulation," she answered. "Following your lead in this same old dance. I am not going to drink coffee and act like I want to be here in return for answers. You are going to tell me everything you know or I am going to walk out the door. That's the deal," she hissed.

"You won't get far," Jarod cautioned grimly, setting cups and saucers on the step between them. "The men outside aren't going to allow you to leave. In fact, the DOJ has been considering charging you with a number of crimes and requesting the maximum sentence. Abducting and exploiting children, false imprisonment—they are Federal crimes, Miss Parker, in case you didn't know."

"Then arrest me."

"It's a little more complicated than that, I'm afraid. Actually," he amended sheepishly; brown eyes skittered to the coffee cups. "it's a lot more complicated. Just prior to our road trip, I met with parties from several agencies and pitched a deal. I offered them exculpatory evidence in your defense—"

"What evidence?"

"The fact that you're here now," Jarod answered simply. "Also, you played a large role in rescuing J.R, you've collaborated with me in the past. You pleaded with your father to put you back in corpora—" He stopped himself abruptly. Much too late.

She dropped her hands to her sides, paled. "How did you find out about that?"

He lifted a cup to his lips, drank a steamy sip, and then straightened. Returning cup to saucer, he met her gaze, and confessed.

"There's very little I don't know about you," he said, his eyes hard, unblinking. "I couldn't afford to be ignorant," he said with a measure of distaste in his voice. "My best friend grew up to lead the team pursuing me. It wasn't personal, Miss Parker—that's what you always said. It's not personal," he mocked with a shrug, "it's just business. Well," he continued, "you were correct. It was business. It was my business to know where you were, who you were with, what you were doing, what you were planning, to study your face, your expressions, your voice, your every move, and to know when to run, to know when to try to reason with you, to know—well, to know you. It was just business."

"You spied on me?"

"Unceasingly," he answered, his voice sharp and cold, unapologetic.
Her jaw unhinged. She stammered something unintelligible, fell silent briefly and began again, her cheeks aflame. The hateful words, the panoply of unmitigated insolence and hubris clogged her throat; quite unable to speak, or even think, coherently, she averted her gaze.
Jarod observed as she resumed her former position, this time closing her eyes and leaning forward into her hands, and clutching her head. She remained there, stiff and quiet. And speechless. He was absolutely amazed. Had it not been for the angry glare (and the accompanying flicker of embarrassment), he would have sworn she'd suffered a mini-stroke, and summoned an ambulance.

He cleared his throat artificially. Parker, however, didn't lift her head. She simply commanded, "Talk." And that's precisely what Jarod did.

"I believed that I had successfully secured your freedom prior to yesterday's meeting. Certain parties," he said, his voice softening perceptibly, "however, have since chosen to re-neg owing primarily to the lack of recompense. Unfortunately Broots, who I mistakenly believed was safe, and my brother, were used as bargaining chips, and were both facing stints in prison. I'm not even sure how they knew Kyle was still alive, but they know; they know I was harboring a known felon."

"Recompense? You want pecuniary recompense?" She said, tossing her head back, trying to relieve the gathering tension in her neck. "I'll write you a check, Jarod."

"It won't be that simple," he said.

Parker, exasperated, closed her eyes. "Tell me that Broots isn't going to prison."

"Broots isn't going to prison."

"Good," Parker said, genuinely relieved. "He wouldn't last an hour; I'm much better suited for it. When is my arraignment?" She asked, her tone blithe, oddly bereft of apprehension, and Jarod couldn't help but respect her loyalty.

And he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. He, however, decided that now wasn't the time to tell her that he was fully responsible for Broots' involvement with the Centre: Jarod had intercepted each of the candidates vying for the full time IT position. As a result—and just as Jarod had planned—Broots had been upgraded from standby contract hire to full time IT position. Jarod had personally handpicked Broots for the pursuit team, not for his IT expertise, but because Broots had two things that none of the other candidates had: a child, and a conscience. And Jarod had used both to his advantage.

Watching her face closely, Jarod observed a spasm of dread mar her features, and responded with a self-deprecating smile. "You aren't going to prison either," he said, and then added, enigmatically, "at least not the way you think you are."

"Meaning?"

"Some uh, some charges have brought against you. A string of misdemeanors essentially contrived to inconvenience you—"

"Cough it up, Jarod," she said impatiently.

"They're willing to make it all go away."

"The catch?"

"The catch," answered Jarod, "is that The FBI lost communication with one of their undercovers, Agent Misha Clemente, two days ago. They believe she was murdered, in an unrelated crime, before she could infiltrate a human trafficking ring suspected of abducting them," he said, presenting Parker with a selfie photograph of two young girls coated in glitter; their open smiles revealed braces. Parker glanced at the photo, and then frowned, looked away in disgust, distress. "Gracie Livingston and Celeste Steel," Jarod explained. "They disappeared during Gracie's tenth birthday party."

"So go find them, Jarod!"
Jarod answered Parker's impassioned exclamation with an expression of incertitude.

Surprise twist time.

"Look," he explained. "Rachel, for some insane reason, got the impression that you were a flight risk. She refused to disclose this information to me unless I promised I wouldn't tell you. I knew I'd break that promise to her before I made it."

"Tell me what?"

"Agents are spread thin, and losing Clemente has jeopardized the entire east coat operation. You are fluent in several languages, you have weapons training. You're intelligent. With very minimal supervision and direction you can do this. Look: I want you to know that the FBI isn't prepared to accept no for an answer," Jarod said, pressing the cup between his hands; he was tempted to crush it in his grasp. "You do this for them," he said, frowning into his coffee, "or you go to prison. You, Broots, and Sydney."

"Sydney," she whispered breathlessly. "In prison?"

"Rachel wants your answer by midnight."

Rachel. It was probably her idea. Or Jarod's. What better way to atone for the sins of my father? Karma. In all its splendor. 

"I'll do it," Parker said, and then added tartly when Jarod looked up from his cup, "And you can tell your girlfriend that she didn't have to threaten me with prison." Parker rose and a took a single step.

"There is another option," Jarod said gravely, and observed as Parker came to a halt. "We run," he said. "We can take my car, drive to the Centre's private airstrip in Sante Fe. We can flee the states, seek asylum in—"

"I'm not running," she said. "I don't run."

"You ran this morning," reminded Jarod softly. She was suddenly quiet, suddenly economic with her rebuttals, her glares. She didn't turn, didn't meet his gaze. She couldn't deny his words, no matter how much she wanted to.

"Ah, I see," he purred, sidling up to her. "You only run from me," he said, his breath spilling across her neck.

"Don't flatter yourself, Jarod," she said. And he opened his mouth to inquire why he should be flattered, when, in fact, his feelings were quite different, quite the opposite, but then she said, cynically, "Wait a minute," and twisted around to address him: "We?"

"Pardon?"

"You said we can flee the states. You included yourself. Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"If it were would I have asked?"

"I suppose not. Uh, I've obstructed justice, tampered with evidence, I've removed organs from unwilling donors, coerced confessions—the NSA considers that excessive force, and they are awfully angry about it. I've exposed numerous agencies, as well as hospitals, dental offices, midwifery clinics, legal and accounting firms to all sorts of scrutiny.

The sort of scrutiny that costs taxpayers millions of dollars, the sort of scrutiny that ruins careers, lives. Good cops, Agents, and even several internal affairs investigators have been terminated for trusting me, for looking the other way, for not following protocol. The CIA is rather interested in learning more about their obvious security flaws; they are rather displeased. The DHS is especially suspicious of me, and, despite Rachel's testimony, the Secretary tells me I can expect to be on probation for the rest of my natural life—and I quote," he said. "My passport has been revoked; I will never be allowed to legally travel overseas again. The Attorney General was at least polite—chilly, but polite, which is more than I can say for the Directors of the FBI and ATF. They seem to think I enjoyed impersonating their Agents. They believe I enjoyed it so much in fact that the FBI is sending me out on a legitimate operation. With you, Miss Parker. You know, since I'm so smart and all."

"No," she said, clutching the stair rail for support, and sinking slowly down to the step. "You said a week. And—and—"

And just like that her mouth had forgotten how to work again.

"Look on the bright side," he said cheerfully.

"There is no brightside," she interrupted grimly.

"Sure there is. Had you rather spend thirty to forty-five in Federal prison?"

"Yes," she said, "If my only other option is—"

"This is your only option," Jarod interrupted. "I've successfully secured your freedom, and Mr. Broots', and it wasn't easy; however, it does comes with a price."

"That will only cost us our sanities."

"Hmm, unlike life in prison which, believe me, is a real sanity booster," quipped Jarod. "I've no intentions of losing my freedom, of living in a cage. We will be monitored at all times, however, that's a rather small price to pay—"

"Monitored?" She asked, and leaned forward once more and held her aching head.

"Miss Parker," he asked softly, "are you all right?"

"You wouldn't happen to know a cure for hangovers?"

"Only one," answered Jarod. "Don't drink."

"Well you're useless," she retorted, "as usual," she added with a sigh, and then moaned, "Monitored," she mused aloud, "I'm going to be treated like a common criminal."

"No," he corrected gently. "An uncommon criminal. We are both believed to have hidden funds, here in the states and abroad, as well as powerful connections, specifically in Asia. We are considered flight risks."

"I have neither funds nor connections in Asia."

"You don't have to pretend, for my sake," Jarod said, gruffly, "that you aren't acquainted with the Tanakas."

"I'll leave the pretending to you, Jarod,"  Parker returned fire. Reloaded. "I'm not acquainted with the Tanakas. I was once acquainted with Tommy Tanaka—that was before I discovered his father was a child murderer."

Jarod sliced the air dismissively. "The DOJ has determined that we are flight risks, and are not open to further rebuttals or negotiations."

"If I do this, Broots and Sydney walk?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to want that in writing and I will want proof."

"I'll have to ask if that can be arranged—"

"No," she said flatly. "That's the deal. If they can't guarantee it, if they can't supply proof," she said, impassioned and anguished, "there is no deal." She rose, and then came to a sudden halt when Jarod raced ahead of her up the stairs, blocked her retreat. "Miss Parker—"

"I'm not negotiating Debbie's happiness or Sydney's health," she hissed. "I already regret helping you with JR; I put Broots' life at risk and Sydney was injured, and that is your fault, but I feel responsible, and I'm not going to do it again. Woo your girlfriend if you must, Jarod; hell, ask her to marry you if need to, but don't you dare ask me to disrupt the lives of the people who matter most to me, the only family I have left, not after everything I've done to protect them." She folded her arms across her breasts, drew a breath, and said softly, "Can we argue about this later?"

"I don't want to argue with you or—" frustrated, he fell silent, pushed a hand through his hair, said, "Do we have to argue?"

"I suppose not," she answered with a half-hearted attempt at a shrug, and then studied him expectantly. You're supposed to get out of my way now. Preferably before I toss you down the stairs.

"I'm sorry that I have to bring this up now, and I am truly sorry for your loss," he said, thinking in that moment that there were other topics he'd rather broach, words unspoken, conversations unfinished. He had theories regarding the cabalistic symbols he'd glimpsed in Carthis, and about the Triumvirate, not to mention the text of the  abstruse—and supposed foretelling—scrolls, which he was certain he had positively identified as English (and certainly not to mention the infamous moment of weakness).

They were all conversations the pair would likely never have. He was certain that something else, something more pressing, would always take precedence. In this case, her father, who continued, in his death, to be an obstacle. "Your father," he said after a long pause, "has been transferred to a funeral home. They are awaiting your instructions."

"Tell them to cremate him," she said mildly.

"I'm sorry," he said, blinking wide, "what?"

"He wanted to be cremated."

"And his ashes?"

"Scatter them in one of the Centre's sixty hybrid biotracts."

"I wish there was more time, but there isn't. I can give you another six hours," he said. "Look: if you're going to see him, and I think you need to, it has to be today. If you need some more time to decide what to do, where to bury—"

"I want him cremated and shipped to Blue Cove."

"You were serious?" He asked, and then studying her expression, amended "you are serious. Uh, okay. What about visitation? I can accompany you to the funeral home if you'd—"

"Thanks but no. I'm not going," she informed him. "Excuse me," she said, and attempted to pass him.

"Just—wait," he said. "Don't you think you should go, if for no other reason than to attain closure?"

"Closure? I'm not certain that's possible. Until I know why he was murdered there won't be closure."

"There is no indication that he was murdered. Miss Parker, if you don't say goodbye," he importuned," you will regret it."

"Not as much as I'll regret not knowing why, knowing who killed him. Sometimes, there is no closure," she said with a facile smile.

Stunned into silence, Jarod lowered his gaze and stepped to the side, and felt, rather than observed, her hasty retreat.

"You understand," he called urgently after her, "that if you don't see your father in the next few hours, you will never see him again?"

She answered blandly, answered without turning, without missing a beat,

"Life goes on, Jarod."

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