'But you wouldn't be playing alone this time.'

There was something in her look that at once troubled and exhilarated him to the point of breathlessness. He could almost feel the dopamine flooding his caudate nucleus. He was falling for her, he realized—falling for her hard. And that was a problem. As Neil would say, precious little distinguished the neurochemical profile of love from that of obsessive compulsive disorder. And now, more than at any other time in his life, he needed to be rational.

'I'd like to say that comforts me. I really would. But the FBI…'

Sam blinked, obviously hurt. She brushed a lick of hair, as soft as floss, from her cheek. 'I was thinking of me,' she said, turning to her car.

'Sam?' Thomas called, following her down the walk. 'Sam.'

'It's okay, professor,' she said, tugging open the door to her Mustang. From her expression he knew she'd transformed into Agent Logan once again. 'You know Neil better than anyone else; you've got to protect your own. I can appreciate that. Believe me.' She squeezed his hand.

'I am sorry, Sam.'

'I know.'

Several awkward moments passed. She swung into the car, then with a blank forward look, turned the ignition. The sound of her car had teeth.

Frankie and Ripley were fighting at the kitchen table when Thomas came back in—something about Sam's underwear, of course. Thomas was about to intervene, but the phone startled everyone into silence. He glanced at the caller ID, cursed. He closed his eyes to gather himself, then picked up the phone.

'Nora?'

'Hi, Tommy. Listen, could you do me a favor?'

For an instant he had no idea what to say. A favor? After these past couple days?

He left the kids in the kitchen. He could hear Ripley say 'Uncle Cass… is a psychopath,' in her radio DJ voice.

'You gotta be fucking kidding me,' he said to his ex-wife.

'Da-ad!' Frankie called. 'Ripley said psycho!'

'Daddy's talking to Mommy,' he called, knowing that would shut them up. It did.

'I just need you to keep the kids for a bit longer,' Nora said.

Thomas paused, brought up short by the quaver in her voice. He found himself surprised by just how little he had thought about her since the previous night with Sam, and idly wondered whether this was a staple of male psychology, something 'pre-programmed to maximize reproductive possibilities.' A bird in the hand, as they say…

'Where are you calling from?'

'It's been horrible, Tommy,' she whispered, the way she always did before crying.

Terror flushed hot through his limbs, face, and chest.

'What's been horrible, Nora?' He turned his back to the kids. 'What are you talking about?' His throat ached saying this, as though he had forced the words through a more primal urge to cry out.