Next morning was back to Earth for Harris. He left Agatha to doze and showed up for work, if a counseling session counted as work. When he stumbled out of the tiny office shoved into the farthest corner of the firehouse, he felt as wrung out as a bandana in a laundry machine. How could a guy become this exhausted, if all he's done was talk about himself? Was he really that weak?

His next stop was even better: Colin and the union. Harris suppressed a groan and closed his eyes for a sec. I love my job. I'm not a quitter.

Colin didn't use an office, but took over the couch in the break room. When Harris called out to the old-timer, he slid his glasses to the end of his nose and squinted at Harris above a stack of folders and a mug. "Gimme a couple of hours here, hot-shot. Didn't Villarreal put you on the inventory checks?"

"Uh-huh." Harris massaged his throbbing temples.

"There you go," Colin said. "If inventories don't settle you down, I don't know what will."

"Okay." Harris poured a cup of ice water from the cooler and threw in a few ice-cubes in for a good measure. With that beverage, he wandered out of the break room into the long hall, walking past the officers' rooms. His body felt incomplete without Agatha's presence by his side. Maybe he should—

He shouldn't call her. He'd only annoy her if he called her every hour. Grow up. You're on probation, dammit, so go do the paperwork like Colin said.

But his head throbbed. He'd talked to strangers about how screwy he was and how he planned to get back on track for two hours straight. Two hours! He deserved a break.

With a furtive look, Harris dove into the uniforms' closet. Yes, the same one where he'd busted Jung with Mom. He even hid in its farthest corner, behind the rows of the overalls, just like they had done. It was private there, despite being weird. Very weird. And very private.

Come on, don't just stand around the closet. One quick call, just to hear her voice, and then he can move on with his day.

Harris slumped to the cement floor, sipping from his paper cup, until his teeth hurt. Jiggled his phone on his knee as it dialed her number. The phone rang a few times, then a click sent him to the voicemail.

Busy, of course. He rolled the sweating cup along his forehead, pinning the phone down with his elbow.

"Hi, sweetie. It's me. I know you're busy. I had the longest, the most grueling counseling session and you know what?"

He chuckled to cover his embarrassment. "By the end, all I could think about was you."

That was short and sweet, too bad he ranted on. "That pleated skirt you had on this morning? So light and puffy, I can't stop imagining how I can put my stupid head right underneath it to kiss you there. You taste amazing when you're turned on, do you know that? Anyway, sweetie, I miss you. Really miss you."

God, he probably shouldn't send this, he thought, crumpling the now-empty paper cup. It was horny, needy and stupid. He really shouldn't.

As his thumb hovered, the phone clicked again, like someone had picked the call on the other side of the line.

"Sweetie? Hi!"

The phone slipped through his butter fingers and thudded to the floor. Fortunately, the screen didn't hit the concrete. He tossed the cup into a trash can himself. "Hey, give me a sec. I'm just going to—"

"You are such an incurable loser," Oliver's voice said from the phone.

Harris, who'd gripped the phone, dropped the damn thing again and froze.

"What are you doing answering her phone?" he growled. Images of violence etched with red flowed through his mind. His hands shook, making it that much more difficult to scoop the phone, but he managed.

"What am I doing answering Ablaze's phone?" Oliver scoffed. "The better question is why you are having phone sex with my fiancée."

"Agatha is not your fiancée, creep!" Harris stared at the screen, sweat trickling down his neck. There could be no mistake. Agatha's number — her new secret and protected number — displayed at the top of the screen. "If you touch one hair on her head, I'll kill you."

"Ha-hah," Oliver said in a deadpan tone.

In the background, Agatha gasped, "Oliver? What are you— Get out of here, or I'm calling the cops!"

"Agatha!" Harris screamed, as if she could hear him. "Run!"

Oliver spoke right over his yelp, like Harris didn't exist. "Don't be silly, luv. I've handled more proficient departments than Milwaukee PD since I was a kid."

"What... what do you want?" Agatha stammered.

"You know perfectly well what I want: you. The more pertinent question is what you can get for it."

Harris heard a dickish smirk in Oliver's voice. His fists clenched, even if the only thing he could punch was a concrete wall. "Agatha!"

"You can't talk to her, imbecile. This is a recording. Enjoy!"

A recording! Some unexploded part of Harris' brain picked up the difference in the sound's quality as the jerk played it on. Agatha's voice sounded so clear, cold and distant, Harris' heart nearly burst.

"There's nothing you can offer me, Oliver. You're a liar and a murderer—"

"I prefer an assassin to a murderer, if you don't mind. It's more stylish. More accurate as well."

"I don't care what you prefer, Robert."

Agatha placed an emphasis on his name. If she hoped to rattle Oliver with this revelation, she didn't succeed. The dickhead just laughed. "So, someone had finally done their homework. Splendid! It saves us the introductions and a long life story."

"Are you done?"

"Far from it. I have a gift for you. It was a wedding gift, but your little caper messed up my plan. You have only yourself to blame for how hasty—"

"Get out, Robert! Oliver! Whoever you are! I don't care. I need nothing from you."

"Tut-tut. Anger suits you. It's fiery and the color of your cheeks is just a chief's kiss. But why are you angry, luv?"

Agatha breathed heavily into the pause. Words grated against one another when she squeezed them out. "Are you... are you for real? You've tried to burn me alive! Burned my lover's house. Nearly killed an innocent man. A paraplegic! God, you know all this, and you still dare to ask!"

"Luv, you're mistaken." In contrast to the edge of hysteria creeping into Agatha's tone, Oliver sounded smooth. Jovial, even. "I didn't hurt you. As for your roughneck, he needed a lesson."

"Don't insult him."

"Only the truth, luv. Your precious fireman has the intellectual capacity of an average baboon. He reacts the best to simple stimuli. I simply waved a torch at him to chase him back into the wild forest he'd come from. That's all."

"You are despicable!"

"And you're impatient. You asked for an explanation. Do let me finish it."

Agatha intakes of breath were shallow, fast, confused.

Oliver seized the pause. "Of course, I knew of his father's philandering. I'm in the business of knowing secrets. Granted, usually they are far more interesting, upscale secrets than some old man's love affair. But I'm not heartless. I knew he would be out of the house when I lit it on fire."

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" Agatha was crying now.

"Shh, darling. Back to the gift I brought you. You were right all along when you thought your parents' death wasn't an accident."

"What?"

"Calm now, it wasn't you who killed them."

Agatha's sob turned into a wail. "Who?!"

"All in a good time, darling. Come with me, stay with me—and I shall divulge the truth. But wait, that's not all! I'll throw in vengeance. Such vengeance—"

"They... they died long ago. Vengeance won't bring them back. Get... away... from me."

"Walk away, luv, and you'll rub shoulders with your parents' killers for the rest of your life. You'll shake their hands. You'll smile at them. Maybe even feel affection for them, unknowingly. In the present."

"No," Agatha whimpered. "No... please, no."

The recording ended abruptly with another soulless click.

"Shit!" Tears sting Harris' eyes. The asshole was torturing him, but Agatha! Agatha was... God, where was she right now?

Heavy silence cloaked him despite the bustle of the fire station. His head swam. Being cooped up with the smell of trucks, smoke and detergent, suffocated by the heavy overalls and not being able to see anything but thick fabric, stripes and badges... This made the sick feeling worse. Why did he choose the stupid room to call Agatha? It was his most hated place on Earth. But even if it was worse than that, if he was trapped in the fiery Gehenna, he had to think.

Agatha didn't go with you because she wanted to, Oliver. Or Bob. Or whatever you want to call yourself."

"I grew rather fond of Oliver."

Harris gritted his teeth. "Whatever. Your bait wasn't enough." How he wished that a worm of doubt didn't chomp on his heart!

A dry chuckle escaped Oliver. "I'll meet you half-way on that. My poor delusional fiancée tried to double-cross me and alert the cops. Imagine that!"

"Delusional? Screw you! Agatha is more sane than you, that's for sure."

"Pah! What's sanity and who needs it?" Oliver taunted. "But pay attention, ape. The operative word I've used is—she tried. She tried, and she failed. Now she is recovering nicely from her paranoid fit. Do you get my drift?"

Harris' chest heaved. His lungs hurt. His ribs and his side burned so much, the bandage must have come off.

This sick, cruel man had Agatha. Somehow, the motherfucker existed outside the law, if not above it. If Harris went for help, Oliver would hurt Agatha, because he lied about loving her. This twisted fuck had no idea what love was. A guy never hurts those he loves, never confine or belittle them... if he actually loves them.

His exhale was rugged. He had to collect his nerves. Maximum focus, because he had only himself to rely upon here.

"Put Agatha on the phone. I want to talk to her. Make sure she's..." His mouth refused to form the word 'alive', because if he said it out loud, it opened up a possibility that Agatha could die. He wouldn't accept it. Wouldn't even think of it, let alone say it. "I want to make sure she is okay."

A sneer from Oliver sent Harris' hatred through the roof. "As you wish."

The longest minute passed before the video feed flickered on.

Harris pushed his riled emotions away. Pushed the headache away. Pushed Oliver's heavy presence away. He ordered himself to be a memory only, taking in as many details as possible from the shaking footage in atrocious light. Missing something could mean a difference between life and death. Agatha's life and death, which makes it a thousand times worse than if it was his own.

He saw a brick wall. A drywall at an angle to it, torn down about a third way into a room. The debris from that and some broken furniture piled up. Birds' droppings. Lots of them.

The tear in the wall revealed wood studs and a metal one, either a bearing rod or a pipe. Then there was a window, partially boarded.

Harris had no idea what this wreck building was, but it would be a multistorey, and there couldn't be many in town. He'd search every one of them, top to bottom, if he had to.

Agatha sat next to a metal pole exposed by the crumbled wall in an almost meditative pose. She crossed her legs in front of her, knees sticking from under the skirt he was describing, her feet bare.

The moment the camera panned to Agatha, she pushed upward, her back winding up the pole. For a split second Harris didn't understand why the hell she was moving like that. Then it dawned on him: the motherfucking bastard handcuffed her wrists behind her back!

Harris' concentration almost collapsed into a wordless wail of outrage. It was so wrong to see her lithe figure chained, her loveliness caged in this trashed place among the bird droppings, filth and garbage.

"Agatha. I'm sorry. I'm a moron. I shouldn't have left your side, day or night—" His throat seized.

In the background, Oliver gave a slow clap. "Congrats. That's practically a cowboy song."

Agatha swayed on her feet, but the handcuffs didn't let her fall over. She tilted her head to get her mussed up hair out of her face. "Harris, don't listen to anything Oliver says."

"Agatha," Harris rasped.

"There is such a thing as too much of a good thing," Oliver said and shut off the video feed.

The sensations ripping Harris to shreds dissolved. Sweat dried off on his back. Rage brought him past the point when hell freezes over. Out of some dark, chilly void, he asked the only question left in the universe. "What do you want?"