e 🦦

Ethan had always prided himself as a man “above” too many things. Petty things, like using store bought pasta sauce or relying on technology as a pastime— and until he turned thirty seven, Dr. Ramsey also stubbornly believed that he was above the idea of being in love.

When the attending finally met that new intern he’d recommended himself, disturbingly quiet with unmistakable red hair, he barely batted an eye. She had an apprehensive look about her, meanwhile Ethan and any other doctor who didn’t live under a rock knew exactly who she was. He recalled her application, stellar experience and almost prodigious grades from a top university, and one thoracostomy was enough to see that she was everything he thought she’d be.

But he could never have fathomed the extent to which he cared about her. The physician imagined he’d teach Dr. Sakurai well enough to make her at least a half decent doctor (in retrospect, Ethan’s version of “half-decent” was still almost close to impossible) then send her on her way. Maybe even exchange a formal email every so often.

Then he found himself worrying more than he should be, leaving his office to see how she fared through the day, and inviting her out for coffee during the painfully brief breaks he used to want solely to himself.

And before Ethan had recognized the feeling, he was already tightlining on the dangerous brink of falling in love.

–

Disheveled hair, a shirt half untucked from the trousers, and creases in his new leather dress shoes make the doctor a sorry sight. Now, as he scours central Kyoto for one woman amidst a rush of busy pedestrians, Ethan’s primary thought is how fast she must fucking walk.

He’s relying purely on those portable WiFi eggs the hotel lends out, giving Google Maps a glance every so often and seeing just how off course he’s come.

“Just take the egg,” June had insisted with a roll of her eyes. “For safety’s sake.”

And after all the backroads, random turns, and stop lights, he’s glad he did. Ethan doesn’t have a damn clue on where he’s found himself, just that he’s in the middle of a pedestrian bridge, back on the main road and with still no sight of Dr. Sakurai. He leans over the deck to catch his breath, knuckles gripping the rails as the American questions why he didn’t just make his mind up sooner. Discarded that cowardice of his while he still had the chance.

Because what are the chances of running into her again in a city as big as this?

Ethan fishes his phone out of his pocket and types in the address of his hotel— a forty five minute walk from where he currently stands. And with an exasperated groan, the man reluctantly scrolls through the directory to dial a cab.

He swipes down his contacts almost too quickly, mostly consisting of his close Edenbrook colleagues whilst anybody else took up unremarkable space in his work inbox.

Banerji, Naveen. Dad. Delarosa, Inez. Emery, Harper—

Haruna.

Ethan slows to a stop as he rereads the name.

His eyebrows are furrowed, scrutinizing the page as he vividly remembers deleting Sakurai’s number a year after she left. He concluded that there was no point of keeping a name that wouldn’t answer, yet Dr. Ramsey spent a near-humiliating amount of time debating whether or not to keep it just for the sake of keeping it— even when common sense told him that nothing valuable was going to be discarded if it was gone.

Still, he presses her contact’s name and the doctor’s suspicions are confirmed at the information that greets him. Underneath an unfamiliar set of numbers, a typed note gives it all away.

Ur welcome :D - Bryce

one year ago

“Why don’t you call her?”

Ethan’s office seemed to have turned into something of a hideout for the colleagues he did tolerate, with Dr. Lahela nosing in on his personal life as he lounged in one of the seats. Ethan looked up from the chart he was reading, a critical look on his face.

“I don’t call Haruna for the same reason she doesn’t call me.” He responds dryly. After four years, Dr. Ramsey became flawless at pretending the mention of her didn’t still bother him.

“She left Edenbrook for a fresh start on her career, and keeping in touch would defeat that purpose.”

It was an unspoken agreement and a bitter truth. Some sick part of man wished she still needed him, if that’s what it would have taken for her to stay. But if there was one thing that the Sakurai’s eldest daughter was good at, it would be staying committed to her objectives.

“Yeah, you’re definitely overcomplicating things.” Bryce interrupts Ethan’s thoughts, making a point with his blunt, simple-minded tone as he patted sandwich crumbs off his scrubs.

Ethan scoffs.

“I’m being considerate of her and her needs as a doctor.

“And you’re such a saint for that,” The surgeon sarcastically remarks. “But it’s also been a few years. You know how many keynote speeches she’s done? Or guest lectures? Or about the fact that she just won a Lasker award, or that she’s on the cover page for Time—“

“Uh-“

“Look, all I’m saying is that you don’t need to be so considerate anymore. Rue’s doing great. Meanwhile—“

Bryce quirks his mouth in concern as he looks Ethan up and down, jaded eyes and his stubble a little rougher than usual from sleeping in his office overnight. As Dr. Lahela opens his mouth to say something, he notes the intimidating stare plastered on the older man’s face and shakes his head in an attempt to brush it off.

“Forget it.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Just—“ Bryce groans. “Try calling her. Here, I’ll even give you her number-“

And just as he’s about to kick the surgeon out of his office, a knock sounds from the other side of the door with an apprehensive, “Dr. Ramsey? Are you available at the moment?”. At that point, the diagnostics head was willing to do anything else to put a halt to the current conversation.

He gets up from his chair with a sigh, already anticipating what sounds like an intern stuck on a case. As he makes his way towards the door, Ethan shoots Dr. Lahela a look as if to say “don’t touch anything”, and was foolish enough to think Bryce of all people would actually listen.

–

The discussion Ethan had with one of his mentees didn’t last as long as he thought it would. Within two minutes, they were bidding the attending a good rest of the evening with new insight and a little more confidence. Dr. Ramsey made his way back to his desk to continue with his paperwork, failing to notice how his phone was in a different spot from where he left it and the pleased smirk Bryce was keeping to himself.

Now the screen is pressed against Ethan’s ear, having made the decision to call her despite the rise in his pulse and the hammering against his chest.

What if I regret it?

Just call her, for Christ’s sake.

It rings once. Twice—

“Hello?”

Shit.

And Ethan, initially slouched over the rails of the bridge, straightens at the sound of Haruna’s voice. She picked up too fast. Fuck, the fact that she even picked up at all came as a surprise. Dr. Ramsey’s breath catches in his throat, all words escaping him because the man was expecting at least a few more seconds to think of what to say.

His heart continues acting frantically, and the way it’s beating is so damn palpable it feels unlike him.

“You kept my number.” He finally says. His voice is calm. He keeps that same professional, observatory tone because it’s the only way to hide his nerves.

“And for some reason, you have mine.”

“Makes us even.”

“Mhm. I suppose.”

And an awkward silence ensues. The diagnostician brings the phone away from his ear to look at the screen bright with Haruna’s name. It brings about a nostalgic feeling, a surreal one. Like he still has a hard time processing that the woman on the other end of the phone is the same one that’s been haunting him all these years.

“So,” Haruna begins with a flustered cough. “Why did you call?”

“Because I missed you.”

It was true. He was too old to be lying about important things and acting like he was the same person from seven years ago. The man wants her, and Dr. Sakurai is the only person capable of keeping him from admitting it.

She meets his confession with more silence. Except instead of a contemplative pause like earlier, tension drowns the line as Dr. Ramsey draws a breath and anticipates her response.

“Ethan…” She sighs tiredly. Maybe even with a little bit of reprimand. “This isn’t Boston anymore. We’re not—“

A shaky breath trembles on the opposite end.

“You know.”

“I know.” He agrees. “But you deserve better than what I showed you this weekend.”

He pauses, offering Haruna a chance to interrupt. To stop him and say that she doesn’t need to hear it or that it no longer concerns her, and give him some type of hint that she’s completely moved on from her bittersweet time at Edenbrook. But she doesn’t. Ethan swallows hard, the dryness in his throat the only obstacle now from saying everything that needs to be said.

“You’ve always been important to me.”

It’s the most sure of himself he’s sounded all weekend. He’d avoided her like the plague, despite that nagging feeling that he’d regret it if he remained so stubborn. And now that the older doctor’s heard her voice, he doubts whether or not he’ll be able to end the call.

“But I’ve always regretted letting you go. You looked like you’d hate me for the rest of your life if I didn’t, but sometimes I wonder if it would have been better that way. For you to stay and feed a grudge every time you saw me, instead of racking my brain for the next five years just to remember what you look like.”

He laughs bitterly.

“Seeing the way you’ve changed, how different things were between us- I was afraid to admit many things and acted cold to you. But I’m proud of you, Rookie. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”

And with that, the weight that had been riding on his shoulders for the past week— the past couple of years, seemed to be partially alleviated.

This is okay. This is good. He held back his tongue for a lot of things, because how could you tell a taken woman that you still love her? But he hears her breath over the phone, her heels marching on concrete, and the rustling of plastic bags that are probably her groceries, unable to think of anything apart from the fact that she sounds like home.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Ethan.” Haruna murmurs, her voice adopting a bit of warmth. “But thank you. I was happy to see you. Hopefully you felt the same.”

“I’ve always enjoyed your presence, Rue. You know that.”

A reminiscent sigh echoes in his ear as Haruna jokes, “If you hadn’t told me, I might not have.”

“Rue…”

“I know you feel…responsible,” She continues, “—for my decision to leave Edenbrook. But like you said, things are different— in a good way. And now that you’ve seen how drastically things have changed since I came home, I think you can agree that I spent too long pretending to be someone I wasn’t.”

“Edenbrook was…is so special to me, but...”

And suddenly her voice is clear. Too clear. For a moment Ethan thinks that there’s no way he’s right, but the man pushes his leaning posture off the rails of Shijo Bridge and turns around.

She stands not too far from him, phone raised to her and slowly lowering to her side with a gentle, tired smile. Multiple grocery bags hang in the crooks of her elbows and against her lean stature.

She is still so beautiful.

The woman starts towards him and Dr. Ramsey can’t even bring himself to meet her halfway, his feet stubbornly planted to the concrete. Now they’re face to face, Haruna still keeping a fair distance as she scans him from head to toe, refamiliarizing herself with his appearance.

“We can't keep doing this, Ethan.”

And one didn't need to dig deep enough into the statement to understand what she meant. They had been playing this game for too long, and after seven years of knowing each other but never really knowing what exactly they were, someone eventually had to swallow the sentiment and stop the chase.

But five years had turned him into a selfish, greedy man. No longer able to make the sacrifices the younger him would have been capable of. She was right, this couldn't continue.

Which is why he's going to put a stop to this endless cycle right now.

“Can’t it be me?” He blurts, and Haruna’s eyes widen with uncertainty in a silent response. As if to say, what do you mean?

“I’m rash." Ethan states shamelessly. "And stubborn. A pessimist who finds it easier to see the worst in people and a complete opposite from him-“

“Doctor-“

“But I adored you.” The man insists, the declaration so firm that it would have convinced anyone. “I’ve made that no secret.”

It only leaves Haruna speechless, and though some part of her must have known how hopelessly enamoured Edenbrook's diagnostics head is with her, the straightforward statement causes the woman to break eye contact. She appears unnerved. Conflicted, and Dr. Ramsey tells himself that it’s enough.

Stop this.

What kind of asshole do you have to be to say something so selfish?

“Believe me when I say that I’ve tried, Haruna.”

But he can’t stop.

“After two or three years, I thought I could do it. Accept that you were gone and that this-“ Ethan‘s eyes flit between the two of them with a brief pause, “was just something to look back on. Then Harper said I had to fly out to Kyoto, that you were also going to be attending, and that you’ve found someone else and I’m sorry but I—“

“Wait, Etha-“

“Just—“ Dr. Ramsey interjects, clenching his jaw and reaching forward to place a gentle hand against hers. “Let me say my piece, alright? I know this is the last thing you want to hear, and I want to be happy for you both-“

“What? ‘Us both’? Me and who?!”

And it was starting to get frustrating trying to spell it all out. Ethan had wanted to resolve this calmly, a last ditch effort to convince himself that he was going to be fine no matter the outcome, and provide Haruna that closure if it was what they both needed.

But this is impossible. He feels himself growing irritated, a rising unpleasantness making itself known in both their voices.

“Haruna, you are fully aware.” Dr. Ramsey groans impatiently and the woman scoffs.

“About what!”

“That damned scientist Date!”

“My brother-in-law?!”

Wait.

And suddenly, he has a lot less to say. Somewhere along his spiel, Ethan had moved closer to the point that she was flush against his toes and tilting her head to meet his large frame. It’s the closest they’ve stood in years and the proximity makes Ethan’s ears burn.

Because God, this is fucking embarrassing.

“But you…” Ethan bites back a straight sentence and averts his eyes. “Everyone knows.”

“Clearly not if you’ve spent all this time thinking I was in a relationship with my sister’s husband.”

“Who else could it have been?” The diagnostics head grumbles impatiently, to which Haruna responds almost sheepishly.

“…Ayano has a doctorate degree, Ethan.”

And he chokes on absolutely nothing when the realization dawns on him.

“Wrong Dr. Sakurai.” Himself and Haruna both say, Ethan verbalizing it with a humiliated groan and the younger woman stating the same thing with a rueful nod.

Now he’s absolutely mortified, internally yelling profanity at himself and the world. Because it’s all so clear now— why Harper brought up seemingly irrelevant information to a professional event, Bryce’s insistence on contacting her when he’d be the first to know about any of her new relationships, and June’s incessant giggling as he muttered bitterly throughout the conference about how close Haruna and Dr. Date seemed.

And the worst part is that Ethan is grateful. Because he knows himself best, and without all that prodding, the man is sure he would have returned to Boston wishing he’d done something differently.

“Was that all it was?” Haruna asks, her tone referring to that as something trivial.

“Don’t make it sound so simple.”

“Explain it to me then.”

Ethan tightens his jaw, unbelieving of what he is going to say next. “I was afraid.”

And he finishes the thought before she has a chance to ask.

“I was afraid of what you’ll do if you found out I still have feelings for you.”

–

A deliberating silence. Eyes that won’t meet his own. Haruna Sakurai lowers her gaze to the ground as she inhales a shaky, hesitant breath and speaks in a voice painted with denial.

“You’re impossible.” She laughs dryly, but the woman can’t say she isn’t absolutely elated.

At that first meeting, Dr. Sakurai felt time stop upon the sight of him. Stone-faced, deep voice, umber hair. He’s still so dashing in a suit. Time zones and the eleven thousand kilometres between Boston and Tokyo were reduced to nothing but twenty feet and personal inhibitions, but Haruna knew better than to push past the crowd and make it known that she was still very much in love.

And the rest of the weekend rewarded her with him in bits and pieces, the woman changed in as many ways as half a decade would allow while her mentor remained miraculously untouched by the time. A cold and brief greeting, followed by his retreating figure disappearing beyond people and sliding glass doors. Only now does she understand what he must have felt all those years ago.

Craving the past. Arrogantly fooling herself into thinking things can return to how they were before, only to remember that it all started from her. Her and her selfless acts that come from such selfish places.

‘How did you do it?’ She wants to ask.

How do you come to terms with someone you love no longer wanting anything to do with you?

Because Haruna Sakurai knew she deserved every bit of apathy he displayed towards her.

The woman left Boston on a Friday night, with not a hint of traffic on her way to the airport and clear skies that, for once, Haruna wished hadn’t appeared. Absolutely nothing that tried to tell her not to go, especially since she hadn’t uttered a word to Ethan about her departure.

“RueRue.” Sienna sobbed the entire ride in the passenger's seat, gathered herself briefly as Haruna checked in her luggage, then couldn’t hold it any longer once she was about to make her way to the boarding gates.

The others were working. Bryce miraculously had the day off. But Dr. Trinh called in sick for this, and everyone and their dog knew Sienna never called in for anything. Haruna pulled her and Lahela into a tight hug, already feeling herself wavering.

“This is why I didn’t want you guys to come,” Dr. Sakurai groaned jokingly, letting a few tears slide as her own voice quivered. “You’re really gonna have me looking like shit before my plane even takes off.”

“C’mon Rue, looking like shit for seventeen hours of the day is what you do for a living.” She felt Bryce smirk against her hair as he made the jab.

“See,” Haruna pursed her lips in a fake smile, “Comments like that are why you’re the one I’ll miss the least.” Yet gave Lahela one final squeeze before releasing both of her friends from her grasp.

“…Dr. Ramsey would have definitely come, RueRue.”

It was an innocent suggestion meant to be helpful. To lift a bit of the somber attitude of Dr. Sakurai’s silent departure, but the way Haruna’s smile tightened in unconvincing concurrence had Sienna regretting her words.

“You’re right.” Haruna agreed, a distant look in her eyes as the dread of leaving finally began to settle in. “And that’s exactly why he can’t know.”

The mention of him makes her jaw clench. Constricts her throat and further chips away at her resolve, and Dr. Haruna Sakurai wondered when she had become so weak.

So she left before the poison settled deeper in her veins. Disposed of that fondness that polluted her very core and turned the young doctor into someone that wasn’t her, because one simple sentence was all it would have taken to make her stay. And who was Dr. Haruna Sakurai if not the cold, calculated heiress that everyone knew her to be?

She abandoned Boston, swiftly and quietly, ready for the resentment that it might have brewed within him. Yet Haruna spent the next five years lugging around a sense of guilt that couldn’t be extinguished, fearful of what might happen if she saw Dr. Ramsey again.

Because the woman was arrogant enough to believe that she could grow used to living without him.

Even when Haruna began to feel herself change, no longer the ardent Oxford graduate who thought she had the world in her hands. Or when she’d tailored a dull, monochrome routine meant to eat every millisecond of her time, to the point that her own overachieving parents begged her to take one day off. She finally realized how foolish the thought was when, two weeks into unpacking her things at the new condo she bought in Aoyama, Haruna found a bookmark of dried flowers from her twenty-seventh birthday.

She’d already been home for three years at that point. Red hair grown out, back to the ink black tresses she had as a student. Her thirty-first birthday had just passed, but the woman didn’t think there was anything worthy of celebrating.

But laminated cherry blossoms slipped out of her favorite book as she began to organize her sandalwood shelf, and Dr. Sakurai learned the hard way that all the distractions she occupied herself with for the past couple of years were merely that– distractions. She picked the bookmark up off the floor and placed it on the bedside table before taking a seat at the edge of her bed. As she scrolled through her phone’s directory, Haruna became achingly aware of just how lonely she actually was.

Professional contacts, family, the same five friends she made in Boston, and finally the diagnostician she abandoned for the desolate life she chose– it would have been 4AM in Massachusetts, but she took a chance and dialled Sienna’s number, swallowing the sob residing at the back of her throat.

“RueRue! You got me at a great time, I’m on night shift– Haruna?”

But she couldn’t do it. She heard Dr. Trinh’s voice and everything drowned her all at once. The things she thought she’d forgotten, memories that Dr. Sakurai reminisced nonchalantly when people asked her what it was like in America, and everything she didn’t say for the past three years where she only had herself– all of Haruna’s poor attempts at acting like it meant nothing rushed back tenfold.

“Sienna…” And she cried for the first time in years, because at that moment all the things Dr. Sakurai had at twenty-six years old sounded unfathomable to the person she was at thirty one. That uptown penthouse herself and four friends could barely afford, all sun and sheer curtains. A birthday she spent with her mentor at the Boston Public Gardens because its flowers reminded her of home. It was all so bittersweet, and Haruna wondered how she could have ever given this up for a life consumed by nothing but work and toil.

Another two years was what it took for Haruna to really accept what she had done, grown used to it even. But Dr. Ethan Ramsey appeared out of nowhere and easily reclaimed that spot in her heart that never fully healed. Now he’s here, still so clumsy, and revealing that it was the same for him all along.

Haruna forces herself to look up and meet Ethan’s eyes, unable to ignore the tenderness in them when they find each other.

“I was going to cook tonight.” She tilts the corners of her mouth in a light smile. “Come have dinner with me? For old time’s sake.”

–

Quaint houses fenced in cast iron and neatly trimmed hedges line the street of Haruna’s neighbourhood. She hums silently to herself as she sits behind the wheel of her car, taking comfort in the silence of the night whilst Dr. Ramsey, ensconced beside her, keeps his eyes fixed ahead. 

And the front of Haruna’s residence is met with a paved roundabout driveway, the house itself hidden from public view with tall concrete walls. Chipped stone weathered and worn from generations of rain and constant repair. A curved roof splayed with black ceramic tiles and sprinkled with autumn leaves. It is almost aristocratic, but the fact that she is an heiress is something that Ethan has always known.

“My mother’s childhood home.” Haruna looks over her shoulder as she makes her way inside, Ethan following suit. “We’d spend the summers here.” 

She appears unphased by the silence that resonates through the halls, with not another face to greet her apart from framed photos that span at least a few generations. The lights are all dimmed, and Haruna switches them all on as she directs Ethan to the living room.

“Make yourself at home. Washroom is just down the hall.” She informs. 

As she disappears around the bend, Ethan immediately makes his way to the restroom. He turns on the faucet and leans over the porcelain sink, gathering himself as he faces the fact that nothing and no one can save him from this predicament. 

But Dr. Ramsey is unaware of the fact that Haruna is upstairs in the master bathroom, doing the exact same thing. Fighting the burning in her chest at the sight of him. Racking her brain for what they could possibly talk about over wine and Japanese curry. 

Two doctors on opposite ends of the house face themselves in the mirror and see nothing but uncertainty, because where the hell would a conversation even start after five years? 

How have you been? 

Have you managed well?

You look different. 

You never change. 

Can we start over? 

Can’t you forget about me?

But as they sit across from each other, silence and the awkward clinking of utensils bouncing off the walls of the room, Ethan finally decides to ask the question that’s been eating away at him all this time. 

“What are we?” 

He hears her choke on a mouthful of food, the sound of her fist softly meeting her chest as the woman meets his eyes. It’s a terrifying question to answer just as much as it is to ask, Ethan understands this. But he can’t bring himself to do anything, say anything else until he knows that things aren’t one sided like he thought. 

And she responds to his pleading gaze with one of her own. 

“Ethan, please…” Haruna nervously swallows, a clear hesitance in her voice. Like she’s unsure of what to do if he prods any further.

“I don’t understand you.” He almost scoffs, biting back a disbelieving smile as the doctor laughs emptily. 

“You tell me again and again to go back to Boston and leave this behind— you’re so adamant on keeping things between us vague but you…“ 

A frustrated pause.

“—you say it like it’s not what you really mean and I just wish that look on your face matched what you say.” 

And Dr. Sakurai slowly feels herself come undone, the woman now far too aware that the American can see right through her no matter what she does. 

It almost seems pointless now. To keep up the front. To maintain a distance and persist in her cold demeanor to convince the man that she doesn’t still love him. But as Haruna opens her mouth, so tempted to tell him that he’s got it all wrong and he is still everything to her, the way he looks at her makes the heiress bite back her words. 

“Ever so observant.” She offers a gentle, tired smile. “As always, you never miss a thing, Doctor.”

His expression holds so many questions. So much heartbreak and Haruna’s stomach turns as she wonders how many times he’s made such a face because of her. 

She faces away from him, hiding the quiver of her lip as she pretends to wipe her mouth. 

And Dr. Sakurai gets up from her seat.

“Facing you is never easy, Ethan. Not with everything taken into consideration.” She sighs as she leans over him, gathering their plates and making her way to the kitchen sink. 

Haruna knows him too well. The kind of person he is. The way he loves so recklessly and sparing nothing. It’s all hers— he’s all hers. 

“You make it hard for me.” 

But she can’t let him collapse under the weight of loving someone like her. 

“What?” 

She can hear the recoil in his voice. Haruna bites the inside of her cheek and keeps her back towards him, not daring to turn around and break down at the immediate sight of him. She tells herself it’s alright. That once she wills the next statement off of her tongue, she’ll never have to go through it again. 

And neither will he. 

“I thought I could handle it.” Dr. Sakurai lies reluctantly. “Seeing you. Being around you. But everytime, I’m just reminded of too many things I’d rather forget.” 

“Rue, I never meant to interfere with the life you’ve established here—“

“I know.” She cuts him off, now a ticking time bomb. She doesn’t know how much longer she can hold herself together. “I know, and I’ve never blamed you for anything. But…let’s make this the last time we see each other.”

The following silence resonates in the room for too long. Feeds into a discomfort that has her trembling on the inside, wishing this entire interaction would just end.

Hurry up. 

Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up. 

“Is that really what you want?”

No.

“It’s what I want.” 

And a look over her shoulder is all Dr. Sakurai can muster. “I’ll arrange your ride back to your hotel-“

“No need.” Ethan interrupts, and from behind her Dr. Sakurai hears the rustling of belongings as the man collects his coat, his phone, his wallet. Deleting all traces of him in her home as if he was never there to begin with. 

So when she feels his presence behind her, still respecting the distance she chooses to keep, Haruna pauses her task momentarily. He’s close— well, the closest they’ve been to each other in years and Ethan’s towering figure looms over the younger doctor before he asks. 

“Can I hold you?” 

 She sucks in a sharp breath. “Ethan…”

“Please,” He softly insists, “Humor me.”

And she concludes that there’s nothing to lose by fulfilling this one request. She doesn’t want to regret saying no. Haruna gathers herself once again and turns around to face him, stepping closer until their proximity allows the woman to wrap her arms around the older man. 

Shutting her eyes, Dr. Sakurai takes a deep breath as she takes comfort in the width of his chest and the familiar scent of bergamot and cedarwood. But she’s careful to keep her hold of him loose. She feels Ethan’s head lean against hers, his arms tight around her to the point that she is trapped in his embrace and can barely move. 

It’s been so long since she was last held with such fervor, and she’s craved it all this time unbeknownst to herself. So when Dr. Ramsey pulls away, depriving her of that touch she’s missed so much, Haruna almost makes the mistake of asking for it back. The man steps back and meets her eyes, looking down, then back up and lifting the corners of his mouth in a sad but albeit accepting smile. 

“Take care of yourself, Rookie.”

Haruna nods stiffly and another exchange of words doesn’t follow. She immediately turns back around to continue with those damn dishes, willing herself not to cry at the mention of that nickname from all those years ago and the fact that she will never hear him call it again. 

Dr. Sakurai can’t bring herself to tear her gaze away from her task, to follow him to the door and say a proper goodbye. She hears Ethan’s retreating footsteps, the rustling of his things at the far end of her house where the entrance is, and the final click of the door signifying that the man has left.

Just like that, she’s alone again. 

“Still calling me that stupid nickname.” She chuckles to herself with the comfort that no one is listening, and shakes her head in disbelief. 

… Rookie. 

Well done, Rookie. 

Rookie, have time for coffee?

Hey— Rookie, don’t!

The laughter dies down in a moment. Her forceful smile fades, and the discipline she’s imposed on herself since the moment she saw him rapidly disintegrates. 

Dr. Sakurai grips the counter, faucet still running, and steadies herself against the surface. She tells herself she has no reason to cry, but no matter how indifferent the heiress pretended to be, or how well she thought she’d numbed herself to the lonely reality of the path she chose—

Haruna Sakurai is still only human. 

“Ethan…” She whispers, hanging her head as her shoulders shake. 

And all of her strength leaves her. She pushes herself off the kitchen counter in an attempt to carry on with her evening, at least make it to her room— but the moment her fingers release the wooden corners, Dr. Sakurai crumples to the floor. 

Maybe one day it’ll hurt less. With time, she’d stop trudging through her days wishing she was someone different, that she wasn’t the way she was. And maybe in a few years, this feeling that burns in her chest at the thought of him will gradually subside. 

But at this moment, Dr. Sakurai has no need to hide. She couldn’t bring herself to do it even if she wanted to, because now her body is racked with sobs, holding her head in her hands as she struggles to breathe amidst tears that won’t stop. 

So she swears she mishears it when the door opens again— quiet, sheepish steps as Ethan re-enters muttering something about forgetting Naveen’s gifts. She doesn’t hear the way his voice dies mid-sentence as he passes the room and sees her on the kitchen floor, unrecognizable and far from the curt, grounded woman that always had him sputtering. 

Dr. Ramsey abandons everything that anchored him to reality. The things he’d tell himself to believe that he’d healed from that old love and no longer cared. His own inhibitions that amassed while they were apart seem so petty now.

None of those thoughts that ate at him can compare to the sight of her like this. 

And it all happens too quickly. How he’d hung up on Dr. Hirata mid-call, the neurologist questioning his whereabouts with their flight in less than twelve hours. The sharp distraught breath he releases as he drops to the floor and takes Haruna into his arms. She still fits so perfectly against him. 

“I’m sorry.” Ethan gasps into her hair, frantic. Guilty. He pulls her into him as much as possible as a feeble attempt to compensate for all the times he should have embraced her but didn’t. 

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” 

Her crying stills for a moment, arms limp as if they’re afraid to reach up and find that she’s just imagining it all. The woman never accepted his touches easily and it only urges him to hold her closer. She’s pushing against him half-heartedly, mustering whatever strength left to pretend like she didn’t still need him. 

“Why are you here…” Haruna whispers, disbelieving.

“You should have left. You…you were never supposed to know that—“

“That what?” Ethan interrupts impatiently as he holds both of her wrists. “That you neglect your own health for the sake of your work? That you spend all day keeping up some facade only to break down when you’re finally alone?” 

She’s finally looking at him, speechless as the woman sees his eyes glistening with tears. Ethan swallows hard, letting Haruna go and placing his hands on her shoulders. 

“Rue…why do you…” His voice trembles, though he’s trying his best to keep it steady. “Why do you always insist on suffering by yourself?”

How does someone answer that? Dr. Sakurai shakes her head silently as she allows the tears to fall, struggling to find words that aren’t an apology. 

“I…I—“ She barely croaks. But to no avail. She doesn’t have an excuse, can’t formulate a response to justify any decision she’s made since leaving him. 

“Please. Don’t tell me this is what it was like for the past five years.” 

Ethan looks at her pleadingly, desperation and pure anguish painting his expression whilst the woman begs him on the inside not to look at her so painfully. 

“I never contacted you because I thought you were happy. Haruna, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve nearly dropped everything to come and see you— only to remind myself that all I would be doing is hindering any progress you’ve made on your own. I tried to make myself hate you to make your absence easier…dove into work so I didn’t have to think of anything else…”

“Ethan…”

And the man gives up on his rational, calm approach; no longer able to maintain the impression that he’s unaffected and managed fine without her. Dr. Ramsey hangs his head, hiding his face from her view but Haruna hears the turmoil in his voice. 

“But I don’t know what to believe anymore. Was I wrong? Did I waste all this time pitying myself while you needed someone? Tell me the truth, Haruna.” 

Dr. Ramsey wills himself to look up, his cheeks wet with the tears he was unable to hold. 

“Do you really want me to leave?”

Silence hangs in the air for barely a moment before her arms, resting on his back so weakly, holding him with so much conflict, find their strength and tighten around the width of Ethan’s torso. She responds with a sob. 

“I don’t. I’ve missed you so much, loved you all this time but—” Haruna’s nose burns trying to hold back the rest of her tears. 

“I’ve also hurt you. My decisions always came from a place of pride, and you always had to pay the price. I couldn’t…I couldn’t keep letting you do that to yourself.” 

“Forgive me.” She manages to choke out. The woman’s voice is broken and barely articulated through a rasp, her statement heavy with years of regret. “Everything I’ve done— I thought I was doing it for you. It all looked so selfish of me, but I swear-“ 

And Dr. Ramsey can’t stand to hear another word. He gently takes Haruna’s jaw and presses his lips to hers, devouring the gasp that leaves her throat as he closes the space between them. 

The man’s mouth moves hungrily against her own. Desperate. Starved. And Haruna kisses him back just as eagerly, years of longing that they’ve hidden from each other finally being released in their proximity. The same woman who carried herself in public with so much dignity, who looked like she didn’t have a single ounce of self-doubt in her bones, suddenly feels so needy, so vulnerable in his arms. 

And it only urges him to pull her closer. His clothes are balled into her fist, wrinkled from the force of her grip as Haruna continues to kiss him hard. Ethan only pulls away to press his lips to her forehead. Her nose. The corners of her lips.

“Please. Please come back to me.” He pleads, desperate. “I know I’m begging but…I can’t do this again. Whatever I’ve done to manage these past five years without you— I can’t do it again.” 

“We-” Haruna gasps, still breathless from his mouth on hers. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Maybe not. But I want to be with you, and I’m tired of trying to convince myself otherwise.” 

“Haven’t you forgiven me too quickly? Ethan—”

“I forgive you.” Dr. Ramsey insists gently. “I forgave you a long time ago.” 

She’s stopped protesting, tired of fighting the relief that being in his arms has given her. If she’s greedy for wanting this, for setting aside all of the guilt that brewed inside her for years just to be able to love him freely again, then she’s accepted it. Dr. Sakurai thanks Ethan silently, mouthing her gratitude against his lips as she nestles closer to him. 

“I love you.” 

Dr. Ramsey freezes. As he tilts his head downwards to meet Haruna’s eyes, the look on her face tells him all he needs to know. 

“I…feel like I’m finally allowed to say it.” She breathes. “I love you, Ethan.” 

She means it just as it is. Not a goodbye, or an apology. She is telling him she loves him just for the sake of telling him, and it’s almost funny how one statement immediately dispels the bitter memories he made while they were apart. 

Ethan rises up off the floor and brings Haruna with him, taking her face in his hands as he leans down to kiss her slowly. 

“I’m glad you said it first.” He smiles in relief. 

“Because now I have no intention of letting you go.” 

— two weeks later

“Call me when you land.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Do you have everyone’s gifts?”

“Double checked last night and the night before.”

“Alright…I know you’ve missed two weeks of work on one of your whims, but I don’t want Naveen telling me you went to the hospital as soon as you—“

Haruna’s worrisome spiel is cut off by Ethan’s hand around her waist, pulling her towards him as they wait to check-in his luggage. She laughs defeatedly and loops her arm through the crooks of his, leaning against his shoulder and recalling how he’d managed to stay in Japan for extra time.

“I’m taking leave.”

Haruna’s eyes widen as she lifts her head off of Ethan’s chest, the man sitting up against the headboard of the bed with his phone to his ear. 

“Ethan.” She hisses, and he taps his index finger to his lips in reassurance and a gentle ‘shush’, pressing his lips to her hair. 

The clock next to them read 4AM, two hours until the American was supposed to depart on the flight back to Boston with his colleague and now he had Naveen on the phone saying he wasn’t planning to return to work. Haruna squirms as she listens in on their conversation. 

“My boy, you do know that there is a process to apply for vacation.” 

“I’m not vacationing.” Ethan rolls his eyes with a scoff. “It’s a…” He spares Haruna a glance. “I suppose you can call it a family matter.”

“…Is it urgent?”

“Ye-“ 

“No, Dr. Banerji. Ethan will be returning to work as scheduled.” Haruna says hurriedly, and this time it’s the man’s turn to raise his brow at her. 

“Dr. Sakurai? Is that you?” 

“The one and only. I’ll bring Dr. Ramsey to the airport myself in time for his flight. In fact, we’ll leave right now—“ The woman begins to scramble out of the sheets, only to be yanked back into bed by the man beside her. She looks at him pointedly, then at the phone, and Ethan smiles as though nothing is amiss. 

“Ah, Ethan, why didn’t you just say this the case!” Naveen cackles through the phone, and the younger doctors hear him slap his leg in delight. “Don’t worry about work, Harper and I will figure something out.”

“Thank you, Naveen.” 

“Pardon? Dr. Banerji I think you’re mistaken—“

“I think not, dear. So glad to hear your voice again, you two take care now!”

And he hung up. 

They returned to Tokyo together. He met her parents, though there wasn’t much to discover about each other in a room full of doctors with their own Wikipedia page. Dr. Ramsey remembers his hands sweating like never before, flexing his fingers in anticipation for the veterans in medicine that waited on the other side. 

“So the prodigal daughter returns.” Dr. Ryoichi Sakurai scrutinized as soon as he opened the door. 

“You over exaggerate, Dad.”

“What are your mother and I supposed to think when you always pass up Sunday dinner for overtime! Now you’re here with Edenbrook’s head of diagnostics? Sweetheart, you know what we’ve said about taking work home—”

“That’s…um.” Haruna begins to correct. “That’s not why he’s here.” 

Her and her father mumbled to each other quietly in their mother tongue, as if Ethan could understand. But it was obvious to him that he was the topic of conversation, the older Dr. Sakurai shifting his gaze towards Ethan periodically throughout the brief conversation he was holding with his eldest. 

Him and his wife welcomed Dr. Ramsey into their home with an unspoken apprehension, wondering what strings of fate were pulled for a nation’s most renowned doctor to be so smitten with their eldest daughter. Ryoichi Sakurai was fearful, meanwhile his wife was far more stoic and composed as she led the small talk and fulfilled their role as proper hosts. 

Still, within a single evening, Dr. Ramsey was able to dispel any doubts they had regarding him and his feelings for their firstborn. 

He didn’t have to explain. They saw it in the way he looked at her, ardently and like she was the only woman in the world. Their gaze would flit to Dr. Ramsey’s hand resting gently on top of Haruna’s, reserved yet unembarrassed— making up for lost time. 

It’s almost like he’s met them before, and despite the man being notorious as a rude cynic, he knew exactly what to do when he wanted to be liked. Ethan charmed her parents with his intellect, and took Haruna’s advice to heart when she said her mother was weak to a handsome face and her father to a man who can hold his liquor. 

Yet he still felt his stomach tie into knots when Haruna’s mother asked to speak privately late into the evening, while her husband and daughter were too immersed into their conversation and a good bottle of sake to notice. Ethan could immediately tell whom Haruna had taken after, her eloquence and distinguished mannerisms a perfect mirror of the parent standing in front of him. 

“That child…” Sayuri sighs. “I’m glad she’s finally set aside some time to come home. I was convinced she wouldn’t leave work even if the world was ending.” 

“It seems to be a pattern with her, Dr. Aoyama.”

“Ah yes, you were her teacher. I suppose you’d know better than anyone else what a workaholic she can be.” She chortles as Ethan clears his throat. The woman catches his discomfort and waves her hand dismissively. 

“Don’t look so nervous Dr. Ramsey. This isn’t that kind of talk.” 

“I’m not-”

“Don’t try to lie now. Otherwise you wouldn’t be talking so fast, or leaning too much on one side, or sweating the way you are right now. In fact, I’d be more concerned if you weren’t cautious about meeting your fiancé’s parents.” 

“I suppose it’s no use trying to play it off.”

“Good. After all, us doctors are observers by nature, no?”

Dr. Aoyama chuckles but it doesn’t last long, the impassive look she tried to maintain fading into concern as it etches itself into her features.

“Her father and I have always been so worried about her. Haruna, that is. We always reassured our daughters that our reputation is irrelevant to who they are as individuals, but I can see now that she never really believed it.”

“Has she always been so…high-strung?” 

“She’s known this pressure since she was a child. It made her feel like she always needed to prove something. The pride our girls gave us turned Ryoichi and I careless, and now there are so many things I wish I could have told my eldest growing up. Maybe then she could have been a little more greedy, a little more childish.” 

Her mother placed a gentle hand on Ethan’s forearm, offering him a small smile in request. She looked at him as if the rest was out of her hands.

“Whatever Haruna chooses, I trust that you’ll treat her well.” 

“Always.” 

And Haruna, listening just past the doorframe with her back against the wall, sighs in relief as she returns to the living room. 

A deep sigh rings in her ears as she snaps out of her thoughts. They’d reached the security checkpoint of the airport, about to part ways before Ethan makes his way to the boarding gates without her. The brooding look on his face makes her laugh. 

“Don’t look so unenthused. You love work!” 

“I also loved being on vacation.”

Haruna reaches up and rests a hand on his cheek, turning the man towards her. 

“Thank you.” She says with a reassuring smile. “For staying. I know I tease you for it, but I’m grateful.” 

Ethan’s gaze softens, the creases on his forehead softening and the tension in his shoulders release as the man kisses the palm of her hand. He mutters a silent ‘don’t be’, and when the PA echoes throughout the airport announcing that his flight had already started to board, Dr. Ramsey bids a final goodbye with a gentle embrace.

“Love you, I’ll see you in a bit.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Now hurry up and get out of here before I cry.”

He rolls his eyes in good nature before pressing his lips to Haruna’s forehead, then quickly on her lips. Separated now by the stanchions, Ethan mentions nonchalantly.

“Off the top of your head, what requirements do foreign doctors need to practice here?” 

“Well, there’s the medical licensure exam which you’d ace, no doubt. The challenging part is that they’re all in Japanese, so anyone writing has to be about as fluent as a native speaker—”

Haruna rambles for a bit, clueless to the reason behind his question before her voice dies gradually, suddenly understanding the implication. The woman furrows her brows at the older doctor. 

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you’re thinking it. And I’m not letting you uproot your career in Boston to settle down here in Tokyo— mmph-” She’s cut off abruptly as Ethan interrupts the argument with a kiss. 

“Sorry.” He mutters, already grabbing all of his luggage by the handle. “Don’t want to miss my flight, right?”

And as Dr. Ramsey begins to walk away, picking up the speed just barely amidst his naturally long strides, he hears her call his name. As civilly as she could and in the least disruptive volume she could muster.

“Ethan! Ethan Jonah Ramsey, we are not finished!” 

Without turning back, he raises a hand in acknowledgement though his mind is already made up. 

–

Six o’clock.

Dr. Lahela glances at his watch and scoffs silently, never having been a morning person. He weaves through the halls of Edenbrook, trudging in his steps and only looking forward to the treat that greets him on the other side of the door to Dr. Ramsey’s office. 

“I know you’re only gone for the weekend, but God, I don’t think I can survive without your coffee machine.” 

Ethan eyes Bryce from the other side of his desk, uninterested. A few moments pass before the diagnostician sighs, rummaging through the drawers before taking a set of keys out and tossing it to the surgeon. He waves him off unenthusiastically. 

“You can only use the Breville. If I come back to find out you’ve been snooping through my office, I swear I’m going to—“

Dr. Lahela had tuned him out from that point forward, offering himself a grateful pat on the back for gathering his courage and suggesting that the diagnostics head offer him a bit of trust.

Because it’s been two weeks and Ethan still hasn’t returned to work. 

He remembers the ghastly look on Sienna and Jackie’s face when they came to the hospital two Mondays ago, complaining that Dr. Ramsey had taken a temporary leave of absence which meant that they had to pick up his patients. And while Bryce could sympathize, he was just glad that he could continue as before and with friendly privileges to the glorified espresso waiting patiently for him in Ethan’s locked office. 

He hums quietly as the keys jingle, half-skipping into the room before the sight that greets him makes the surgeon stop and swallow a scream. 

“Eth-Dr. Ramsey! You’re back!” 

The older doctor looks up from his documents, smiling lightly in welcome. He looks refreshed. Well-rested.

“Bryce.” Ethan acknowledges. “Good to see you.”

Huh?

“Yeah, same to you. Sorry if I just barged in, nobody told me you came back—“

“You’re the first one to know, apart from Naveen of course. I’m sure Dr. Varma and Dr. Trinh will be relieved to give my patients back.” 

Bryce chuckles lightly and gently sets Ethan’s keys on the table, sheepishly making his way to the espresso machine to pull himself a shot. He looks over his shoulder while waiting for it to extract, curiosity getting the better of him. 

“So…how was Kyoto?” He asks, making an awkward attempt at small talk. 

“As usual.”

“Right, right. Did you get me some swag?”

"Some what?"

"Nothing." Bryce responds in a panic. "How about, uh, Haruna? Did you run into her?"

A few moments of silence pass, long enough to feed into a discomforting atmosphere. The whirring of the espresso machine is all that resonates through the room as Bryce starts to come to his own conclusions. 

“…I did.” Ethan responds, his answer holding a tone that seemed accusatory towards the resident. 

Aw, shit.

Does he know that I touched his phone? 

Of course he does! Who else would be brave enough to touch Dr. Ramsey’s phone!

Oh, God. She totally dumped him. And he’s going to fire me—

“Here.” 

The sound of Dr. Ramsey’s voice interrupts Bryce’s thoughts, the surgeon eyeing the sealed invitation his senior slid across. He picks it up cautiously and voices his awe at the address printed on the back. 

“Deuxave?” Dr. Lahela reads out loud, surprised. “Now why would you invite silly ol’ me out for fine dining—“

“Shut up. I have yet to run into the rest of your motley crew, but they’re invited as well. So keep next Sunday free.” 

“Why?” Bryce asks dryly, and his cluelessness makes the attending sigh. “This place goes for at least one-fifty per head. Trying to make up for your LOA or something?” 

“Well…” Ethan exhales thoughtfully, seemingly struggling to find the words for an explanation. 

And the expression adorning his features as Dr. Ramsey ponders his response only makes Bryce more curious. He’s forgotten about the espresso now, its crema dissolved and the beverage now far too cool to drink as the subtle smile on Ethan’s face piques his interest. 

Bryce can’t tell what happened over the weekend in Japan, and what happened the two weeks after, but something about his friend seemed different, though barely noticeable. He’s been rid of that restlessness that ate at him since the surgeon was an intern, responded gentler. Looked content.

And it isn’t until Ethan uses his free hand to adjust his glasses that Dr. Lahela sees it. A band of yellow gold on the older man’s ring finger, polished center and bevelled edges. A solitaire diamond is embedded within the band’s silhouette. 

Ethan straightens in his seat, appearing to have decided on his response and unable to hide the way his eyes brighten at his next statement.

Sloane gives him the finger as she fixes her hood. Bryce’s grin only grows. She’s saved from whatever witty comeback he’s about to serve when Ethan and Baz approach, safe from the rain under their black umbrellas.

“Nice jacket!” Baz greets them with.

Bryce flips his wet hair back and flashes his winning smile at the compliment. Sloane casts him a warning look, as if she’s ever been able to stop him from flirting before. “And thank you for coming on such short notice,” Baz continues.

“No problem. Besides, you saved me from being threatened by one of the most attractive women I’ve ever met.”

“What? Why?” Ethan demands to know.

“Who?” Bryce asks with unabashed interest.

“Charlotte St. Yves, the manager of the Edenbrook.” Sloane grimaces and shrugs her shoulders. “I might have, you know, insinuated that she was killing her employees to keep them quiet about the senator’s death.”

Ethan runs a hand over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus, Sloane.”

“I mean, I was polite about it.” At that, Bryce barks out a laugh. She resists the urge to swat at him. “It’s not a big deal,” she assures. “So can we get to the part where you explain what’s going on?”

“This belonged to Gwyneth Monroe.” Ethan holds up a ziplock bag with a cell phone inside. “She’s one of the three confirmed victims of the fire.”

Sloane studies the phone and then glances back at the building.

“Unless that case is fireproof, I don’t see how it made it out in such good condition.”

“Her body was found in the women’s restroom, away from the main spread of the fire,” Ethan explains. “ME on scene said she died from smoke inhalation.”

“Monroe streamed a live video that expired just after nine a.m. today. Whatever she spoke about in that video could give us information on the Edenbrook employees’ deaths.”

“I don’t recall her name being on the list I have.”

Ethan shakes his head, his voice tight when he answers.

“No, she didn’t work for the Edenbrook.” Before she can order them to get to the point with their cryptic show-and-tell, he continues. “She was a software engineer for Panacea. It appears she was working on some sort of AI that would read through electronic medical records and identify drug-seeking behavior, or recommend medications and lifestyle changes, all based on a patient’s chart.”

As thrilled as she is to have a legitimate connection to Panacea, it doesn’t really sound like one. The software Monroe was creating doesn’t sound that ground-breaking either, especially when it’s already being used at hospitals nationwide.

“But the Edenbrook isn’t a hospital -- how does this link back to them?” she questions.

“Because it appears Panacea didn’t stop there. If they’re going to be pushing this software, they need it to be a cut above the rest.” Baz whips out his phone, where an article detailing an advertising deal between Panacea and Facespace is open to read. “No need to worry about HIPAA violations when patients post every meal they eat or rant about their back pain.”

“There’s a few steps missing between them cutting a deal for ad spots and Facespace giving them access to users’ profiles, though,” she points out with a frown.

“Sure,” Baz agrees with a chuckle. “But not if they can conveniently blame it on the algorithm they use to determine what ads you see. Besides, why would you argue against something that would recommend better lifestyle changes, or determine your need to get tested for Cushing’s syndrome? Maybe you or I would, but the average American social media user? They would accept the update without reading the fine print.”

“Regardless of how the software works,” Ethan cuts in before Baz can get going on one of his diatribes, “we know that’s what Monroe was helping to develop. It’s already in the testing phases because Panacea sent her what they claimed to be mock profiles to analyze. That much we’ve gathered from her other posts and user comments. What we need to know is about those mock profiles, which we think she talked about in that video.”

Fishing out the phone, Ethan moves close to hand it to her and adjusts his umbrella to shield her from the increasing rain. “We already tried the most common passcodes, according to the tech expert here.”

Sloane taps the screen and can’t help the small smile on her face at the four failed attempts message. Baz fumbles to straighten his glasses and grunts out something about not being in cybercrimes.

“What makes you think I can do any better?” she asks. “The woman was an engineer and I’m certainly no hacker. I can barely remember to check my Jabbr account and I still don’t know how bitcoin works. Don’t you guys have tech gurus for this sort of thing? Besides, even if we find anything on here, we can’t use it in court unless you get a warrant first.”

His jaw clenched tight, Ethan exhales with a sigh. His breath fogs the cold air between them.

“Which we aren’t going to get, because we already tried. Judge said that we don’t have enough probable cause. And, considering that most of our information comes second hand, she’s right. Which means we can’t take it to our tech analyst.” Rolling his shoulders back, he drags in a steadying breath and smirks down at her. “Besides,” he parrots her words, “your entire career is based on observing and listening to people. And you’ve told me what you can suss out from someone’s profile before.”

Sloane rolls her eyes at his tactic, but nonetheless pulls out her own phone. She’s never been one to resist a challenge -- something she’s sure Ethan has realized by now. Finding Monroe’s Pictagram account is easy, given her 15,000 followers. Bryce leans in to look over her profile and offer his insight. It’s hard not to miss the way Ethan’s gaze settles on Bryce’s hand on her shoulder. Ignoring them both, she thumbs down the rows and rows of posts until she reaches the bottom and works her way up. The first fifty or so are of college: sorority rush, spring break in Playa del Carmen, shaky videos of dorm rooms and nightclubs. There’s a few trips back home to the Midwest, several photos of a Jack Russell Terrier, as well as the occasional trip to Anaheim, complete with the infamous mouse ears. After graduation, there’s a celebratory vacation to Tokyo, more mouse ears, and more photos of the dog, followed by lots of computer screens with intelligible lines of code.

“So, any ideas?” Baz prompts. “After the basics, I tried Ubuntu since she has quite a few posts about it.”

“Those posts are from last year, though. Unless her phone was stolen or compromised at some point, she probably never changed it from when she first got it.”

“She should have changed it at least once,” Ethan says. “She works for a major corporation.”

“How many times have you changed yours, Mr. FBI Agent?” Sloane teases.

A reluctant sigh is all she gets in return.

Switching back to Monroe’s phone, she taps out 642539. The phone vibrates in her hand, notifying her of the fifth failed attempt. Bryce sucks in a breath between clenched teeth.

“She could have set it to erase all data after ten failures, so keep that in mind.”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” she assures.

Once the keypad pops up again, she tries her second guess: 363437. The home screen blinks into view. Bryce is congratulating her and calling her Willow for some weird reason, but it all becomes background noise to her. An overwhelming number of notifications start to appear -- missed texts and calls from Sneha and Zoe and Patrick and a hundred other contacts:

text me back I need to know you’re safe -- what the fuck I saw that club burned down last night are you ok??? -- havent heard from you and ijust want to make sure your okay girl -- gwyn please please plaese call me back i’m really worried

“Sloane?” Ethan’s voice penetrates through the fogged wall of grief. His arm brushes against her shoulder, a small gesture of comfort.

“Yeah, I’m--” her voice breaks in the relative quiet of the parking lot. She clears her throat before trying again. “I’m fine. Let’s see here….” she trails off, navigating to Pictagram’s app and opening it.

Tapping through a few more screens, she finally locates the archive. The most recent is a live video with 04:11 stamped at the bottom. Sloane presses play.

The cacophonous screech of a bass sounds from the speakers. The view is a bartop, complete with unused coasters and wet napkins. There’s a stack of highball glasses with the remains of sliced lemons to one side of the frame. In the other is Monroe, her blonde waves plastered to her forehead and neck from sweat. She sips from a half-empty cocktail, spitting out her straw with a curse when she drains it.

“Heeelllloooo my lovely followers,” she croons. Brushing back some of her hair, she grins at the person next to her. With only the style of their hair visible, the rest of their features are lost to the club’s flashing lights. “No, no, sorry, I’m talking to them.”

A pink nail points to the screen; her fingertip smashes the camera, blurring the world for a moment before Monroe appears again.

“A lot of you guys were asking about my recent post and I’m doing this live ‘cause this stupid app gives you a sixty second limit on videos. So, I’m here to tell you that, con-fucking-trary to belief, following your dreams is bullshit. Don’t do it! I moved all the way to Boston for this job because I believed in them and the advancements they were making in the opioid crisis and now I find out they’re a big phony and I just…” she shoves back a chunk of hair that’s fallen into her mouth and shakes her head. “I’ve been working on this project for months -- monnnths, you guys. It’s like, like my baby! And it’s going great, the alpha’s working right? So they want me to test it out.”

The person beside her must comment on her drunken rambling, because she snaps her head around and levels a dirty look at them. “Considering there’s over sixteen-hundred people watching right now, I think someone does care about what I have to say. So why don’t you fuck off, huh?”

The person’s hands lift in a sign of surrender before they move completely out of frame. Monroe rolls her eyes and then reaches for her drink, pouting when she realizes it’s still empty. There’s a two-minute long segment of her heckling the bartender before another cocktail appears before her.

“Where was… oh, right, but like I was saying,” she continues after a long sip of the drink. “They like gave me this list, right, of all these generated profiles to test my software on. So, I run them through and the first one’s a total workaholic, declines offers to go out all the time, complains when he drinks, etcetera. My software pegs him immediately, diagnoses his alcohol intolerance, offers up a recommendation for anxiety meds and therapy, boom, done. Another one it gets in less than a minute, recommends depression meds, therapy, and a test for sickle cell. The rest take roughly about the same time and I’m over the moon, I’m sooo fucking pumped because my baby is working so well. And… and I didn’t think anything of it, but then.”

She abandons the hold on her drink to steady her phone with both hands, the video having gone a little shaky from her trembling. “But I turned on the news this week and two of these names, these people I thought were just thought up by a computer for testing… they’re real! And they’re -- they’re fucking dead! And then I got this cryptic-ass email from my boss and I don’t know what to do! So now I’m here because I’m too scared to go home… and, and I know it’s stupid of me to be talking to all of you but I don’t want to tell my friends because they’ll think I’m crazy, or tell me about how I should’ve jumped ship with my company wayyy before this, and they’re right! I just-- the money was so good that I could look the other way sometimes, you know? But that’s…” she trails off, wiping at the tears that now stream down her cheeks “That’s no excuse. It’s not! And I know it’s not, but I just don’t know what to do.”

A hiccuping sob leaves her and she covers her mouth again. The person from before returns, their hand just at the edge of the frame; the chunky ring that they wear flashes as they gesture. As if answering their question, Monroe shakes her head. She says something else, but the words are lost under the pounding music. The video ends there.

Sloane drags in a deep, calming breath, even as her nerves alight in her chest and scatter outward through her limbs. Looking up from the phone, she sees that similar feeling of dread crossing their faces, as well.

“They gave her a hit list,” she murmurs. “She’s talking about Garrison and Keller. She has to be.”

“But why kill her for it?” Bryce hisses. “Why not wait until they have access to the software? She was making it for them to use.”

“She mentioned it was in alpha testing, which means it’s not complete and probably has some major bugs.” Baz burrows into his thick scarf and sighs, fogging up his glasses in the cold. “For some reason, they must have needed her to run it now, and not in six months.”

Next to her, Ethan sucks in a sharp breath. When he looks up from his own phone, his gaze immediately catches hers.

“Because Panacea is planning on buying out Lavinium,” he says, turning the screen to show them the news article published just ten minutes before.

“What?” Bryce sputters. “Talk about a big pharma monopoly.”

“The real question is,” Baz murmurs, “what did Garrison and Keller have on Panacea that was worth killing them for?”

Voices nearby drag them out of their bubble. The chief and arson investigator are making their way out of the building; their pants are streaked in soot, their faces grim. The chief motions to Ethan, who crosses the asphalt to speak with her.

Sloane directs her attention back to Monroe’s phone. She runs a few searches through the email app, but nothing about the software appears, or the cryptic email from her boss. If she deleted them, then why keep a video detailing the software’s abilities in her Pictagram’s archive? At the sound of footsteps, Sloane locks the phone and straightens to greet the two women. This close, it’s obvious they must be related -- if not for the similar nose and high cheekbones, but the surname pinned to their uniforms. Chief Emery gives a not-so-subtle glance to Bryce’s and her press badges before hiking an eyebrow up at Ethan.

“It’s fine, Harper,” he says. “They’re with us.”

Not wasting any more time, the other Emery launches into her findings.

“The fire started in the men’s bathroom. It was designed to look like somebody being careless and throwing out a cigarette in the trash, but the burn pattern on what was left of the can and the floor around it shows evidence of an accelerant. Bathrooms usually aren’t the best place to start a fire, given all the tile and lack of combustibles. They smashed a painted shut window to bring in the much-needed oxygen. The glass on the ground outside still has blood on it, despite the waterworks. Forensics will see if it’s a match to any in the database.”

“What about security cameras?” Baz asks.

“The computer where the feeds were saved was destroyed, though the geek squad will try to pull off what they can from the hard drive.” Before he can form his follow-up, she adds: “No cloud storage, either.”

“Do you know what kind of accelerant?” Sloane speaks up. “Gasoline, kerosene?”

Fishing into her jacket, Emery retrieves a digital camera and zooms in on one of the photographs. Amongst the blackened tiles and murky puddles and melted plastic is more broken glass. The corner of a dark blue label is visible underneath the soot, along with the familiar gothic font spelling out Sea. Ethan locks his gaze onto Sloane’s, the blue of his eyes burning in the gray light. Baz frowns at the photo.

“Vodka? Are you sure? Because it doesn’t really--”

“If it’s eighty proof or higher, it’ll generate enough vapor to sustain a flame,” Emery explains. “Especially if ignited with a lighter. Considering this was a two-alarm fire that took six hours to kill, I would argue that vodka is a decent-enough firestarter.”

The group falls quiet as they chew on the information presented. With a promise to forward their reports to the FBI, the Emerys cross the parking lot to the cruisers to see about having the scene secured. Bryce is the first to peel off with a comment about getting to the airport in time. Being the kind-hearted soul that he is, Baz offers to drop him off on his way to Chelsea. Sloane doesn’t resist rolling her eyes this time at Bryce’s combined hair-flip-and-grin -- his ‘tried and true method,’ as he’d called it before.

“Well,” Ethan starts as the others drive away.

“So,” Sloane says at the same time.

Underneath the umbrella, they smile at each other like fools.

“Do you need a ride back to your office?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t say no to one.”

“Good.”

Though the CNN building is just over three miles as the crow flies, it takes a hell of a lot longer to drive there. Not that Sloane minds. When she’s driving, she’s usually on the phone, setting up an interview or leaving messages on some secretary’s voicemail, her eyes on the car in front of her in case they decide to pull some illegal maneuver, as Bostonians often do. Sitting in the passenger seat and admiring the view is a real treat. She’s lived in big cities before, but none look as pretty as Boston does when it’s had a good inch of rain. The thick blanket of gray clouds tucks the buildings in and makes the city seem smaller. There’s something about the juxtaposition of the past and the present, the centuries-old brickwork and the four Dunkins they pass. Rain drums atop the car, the wipers dispelling it with their steady susurration across the glass. It would be even better if she could get Ethan to listen to something other than opera.

“I didn’t even know Polaris had this many classical stations.”

“I have the Premium Symphony package.”

“Ah, of course you do.”

“Do you not like opera?”

“If I wanted to listen to people wail nonsensically, I would watch an episode of America’s Most Eligible.”

“You’ve never been, I take it?”

“On a reality show?”

“No,” he scoffs. “To the opera.”

At the deadpan look she shoots him, the right corner of his mouth curls up into a half-smile.

“No, I haven’t.” She was going to leave it at that, but she’s always been too curious for her own good. “What about you and Harper? Did you two ever go together?”

He makes a poor attempt to brush aside the insinuation before he relents under her steady gaze and raised brow.

“No, we didn’t. Then again, we only saw each other for a few weeks, and the only thing running was Der Rosenkavalier.”

“That’s German, right?” she clarifies.

“Yes. And my preference leans toward Italian operas.” Ethan readjusts his grip on the steering wheel and clears his throat. “Tosca is starting next month. Its story is a little melodramatic for some, but the music is magnificent.”

“Is this your roundabout way of asking me to go with you?” she teases.

“Yes. It is.”

His hands clench the leather tighter for a moment. It’s probably pathetic to be jealous of a steering wheel, but here she is, picturing where else he could be putting his hands. What a curse it is sometimes to have such a vivid imagination.

“Hmm.” She bites at her lip for show. “You know what, I’ll think about it.”

Ethan concedes to her teasing response with a soft huff of laughter. They reach her building, where he swings into a spot along the sidewalk. Throwing the car into park, he twists in his seat to face her, hesitation visible in the tight clench of his jaw.

“Can I give you something else to think about?” he asks.

“Yes.” The word leaves her mouth faster than she ever thought possible. “Yes, plea--”

The rest of her request is lost under the crush of his lips against hers. His kiss is just like him: brash and demanding. A stuttering breath escapes her when he pulls back, his eyes roving over her. His mouth opens, an excuse at the ready -- but before he can let it loose, she cuts him off with another kiss. His arm loops around her back, urging her as close as she can be. The seatbelt pinches at her chest, but she pays it no mind. Sloane tangles her fingers in the soft hair at his nape. Her name comes as an exhale, his breath hot against her skin.

The trail he blazes along her cheek and down her neck turns every thought in her head to mush. For a blissful moment, there’s only Ethan and the light scrape of his teeth at her pulse point and his fingers raking up the hem of her sweater and his delicious groan when she tugs at his hair and this weird buzzing sensation and--

“You have got to be kidding me,” Sloane whines as she digs into her jacket pocket.

Retreating into his seat to give her space, Ethan flashes her that lopsided smirk of his as she fumbles with her phone. “If this is Bryce, I’m going to…” she clears her throat and accepts the call, assuming her professional persona. “Sloane McTavish.”

“Oh, it is so nice to finally be able to speak with you, Miss Sloane,” a warm voice greets through the speaker. “I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if we could meet this afternoon. I think I’m finally ready to talk.”

Her sluggish brain catches up as recognition turns into sheer excitement. Scrambling for a pen and paper, she barely restrains herself from making an embarrassing noise of joy. Having watched her go from zero to one hundred in the span of three seconds, Ethan quirks an amused eyebrow up at the display.

“It’s good to hear from you, too,” Sloane says. “And of course I’d love to meet up. Where did you have in mind, Mrs. M?”

Taglist: @writinghereandthere @maurine07 @choiceskatie @togetherwearerapture @openheartfanfics @lsvdw-blog

Author's notes and what-have-yous:

Pushing through the stragglers at the crowd’s edge, they navigate around the border of emergency vehicles and into the ornate building. The lobby is just as flashy with its gleaming floors and wooden panels. A chandelier hangs in the center, formed from hundreds of blown glass leaves suspended in a spiral. A marble staircase leads up to the second floor where the bar’s warm lights shine through floor-to-ceiling windows. Piped in through hidden speakers, classical music floats under the anxious murmur of guests. Bellhops herd them towards the elevator bank, urging them upstairs to their rooms. A woman sits on a velvet chaise lounge, black lines running down her face as she gives her statement to a trio of detectives.

It’s not hard to spot the stairwell door, teeming with cops as it is. Bryce frowns when he spots the uniforms. Sloane reads his expression with ease.

“It’s your fault for wearing that jacket everywhere.”

“It’s your fault for not snagging one of those for me.”

Patting him on the arm, she tugs the hat down further and slips into the group of officers headed up the stairs. It’s easy to go unnoticed in her dark clothes and makeshift disguise -- especially when one of them loudly jokes about out-of-shape cops, prompting a wave of sarcastic remarks. Despite the jesting, they all make it up to the twelfth floor landing to join three detectives, some CSU techs, and a hotel employee.

“Why are you all here?” one of the detectives demands to know.

“Lozoya said you needed us to secure the--”

“It’s a fuckin’ roof. What the hell is there to secure?”

The officers grumble at the tone, but stand firm. “Fine, sure.” The detective waves them through. “But no takin’ photos for your Pictagrams and no botherin’ the feds.”

Sloane steps out onto the roof with the rest, lagging behind but not pulling away completely. Two men stand near the door, their backs turned away from the wind as they converse. Whatever they’re saying is lost to the noise carrying up from below, so she passes on eavesdropping and trails after the officers as they circle towards the building’s front. Yellow tape has already been posted around a section of gravel, where the loose stones have been kicked around. From someone pacing and contemplating their decision, or two someones having a fight, she isn’t sure. One of the cops makes a comment about how he must have hit the fire escape on the way down, what with how his face was caved in. The others cringe at the mental image.

Slipping her phone from her coat pocket, Sloane hides it in her palm and snaps a round of photos. At least one of them will be useful, she figures. She’s edging closer to the tape and feigning interest in the view below when she spots the signet ring. It’s gold, made of three bands stacked and melted together. On the front is a small, black triangle with the number “33” stamped in gold.

“You’re not being as subtle as you think you are.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she raises an eyebrow at the man approaching her. He’s one of the FBI agents -- obvious by the expensive suit and coat, and from his lack of a visible badge. Homicide always wears theirs around their necks.

“I’m sorry?” she asks when he comes to a stop in front of her.

He’s tall -- like really fucking tall. This close, she can see the striking blue of his eyes as he glares down at her. His breath fogs out in a heavy sigh.

“Just because the majority of these morons don’t watch CNN doesn’t mean you can get away with trespassing.” With a pointed glance down at her hand, he continues: “Or taking pictures of active crime scenes. I could have you arrested, you know, for impersonating an officer.”

She slides her phone back into her pocket and reaches up to adjust her hat.

“Maybe I’m a fan.”

He levels an unimpressed look at her.

“No one is a fan of the Boston Police Department.”

“What’s your name?” she asks, sidestepping his attempt to corral her towards the access door.

“I’m not interested in being interviewed.”

Sloane tilts her head back and assesses him: no-nonsense and a little condescending, but there’s enough of a spark of sardonic humor in there to use. She could play up the charm, but she has a feeling he wouldn’t fall for it. Getting under his skin it is, then.

“Well, considering you aren’t in coveralls and booties, you’ve clearly nothing better to do than stand around anyway.”

“Getting you out of an active crime scene is in my job description, actually. Besides, don’t you have a war-torn country to parachute into?”

“They’re on a ceasefire right now. And besides, I know who’s under the tarp downstairs.”

The agent snorts at her claim and guides her closer to the door, his hand hovering near her back but never making contact.

“You and every other lookie-loo down there with a camera phone.”

“I was supposed to have a meeting with him tomorrow,” she tells him, keeping her voice low.

The brief chuckle is enough to tell her that she isn’t winning this one.

“Looks like your schedule cleared up a bit, then. Now, if you’d like, you can join your friend in the garish Hawaiian-print jacket who’s shooting B-roll in the lobby. But if I see you up here again, I won’t hesitate to arrest you.”

Sloane shrugs off his warning and digs into her pocket for her business card.

“I have information that might be relevant to this case, if you’d like to get in touch with me.”

“I’m sure you do, Miss McTavish,” is all he says as he takes the card. “But I’m not one for schmoozing, even if you deem it ‘relevant.’”

With an aborted gesture, he waves her to go on through the door and leave. She does so without comment, which surprises him. Though the look she gives him before she disappears down the stairs tells him that this may not be their last communication.

“Reporters,” he scoffs and crumples her card into his coat pocket. With that distraction taken care of, he turns to find his partner.

|| || || || || || || || || || ||

Tuesday, January 13, 12:46 p.m.

“Ethan, hear me out: maybe we try a different type of knock.”

His hand pauses in front of the door as he turns to his partner, asking his question by raising a single brow.

“I was reading about intimidation tactics in regards to psychological manipulation,” Baz continues. “It talked about the ‘cop knock’ and how commonly associated with guilt it can be. Maybe we try a softer knock, to let them know they aren’t in trouble.”

“They might very well be in trouble, though, if they lied to the police,” Ethan points out, to which Baz blinks at him and then sighs.

“I know. But we drove all this way and if we have to turn back around because another person decides not to answer their door I’m going to scream.” At Ethan’s look of doubt, he shifts on the stoop. “Okay, fine. I’ll sigh really, really loud.”

“Very out of character for you.”

Ignoring the comment dripping with sarcasm, Baz leans forward and knocks a gentle melody against the door. To the right of the stoop, the curtains in the window move back a few inches before falling back into place.

“Mr. Stevenson, I’m Special Agent Mirani and this is Special Agent Ramsey,” he speaks to the closed door. “We’re just here to ask a few follow-up questions.”

Inside, there’s the high tone of a woman’s voice before the muffled roar of a television reaches them. Knowing that camping out front of their door isn’t going to do them any good, Ethan nudges Baz and tips his head to the sidewalk. With a sigh of defeat, Baz follows him down to the SUV parked down the block.

“That’s the third one this week,” he whines, shuffling from foot to foot to keep warm as he waits for Ethan to unlock the car. “And it’s only Tuesday.”

Pulling the keys from his pocket, Ethan curses when a paper falls out with them and onto the asphalt. He bends down and snatches it up, crushing it in his palm to relieve some of the frustration he feels. Because Baz is right -- that’s the third witness who has refused to talk to them about what they saw Saturday night. The distrust of law enforcement he can understand as a reasoning, but for there to be so many in such a small span of time is nothing less than odd. It goes against the average, which is something he finds frustrating.

He slides into the driver’s seat and turns on the car. Baz lets out a weak cry of relief as he climbs into the cab and flips on the seat warmer. The crushed card ends up tossed into the other debris of the center console, where Baz eyes it with interest.

“Have you reached out to her yet?”

“Have I reached out to the person who trespassed onto a crime scene?” Ethan scoffs. “No, can’t say that I have.”

“Maybe you should.”

“It would be a waste of time.”

Baz shoots him a look, as if he’s the one being insufferable.

“And driving out to Quincy isn’t?” he questions with a gesture to the neighborhood around them. “She said she had information. Right now, she might be the only one who’s willing to talk to us.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, then berating himself for the bad habit, Ethan glares out at the wintry mix settling on the trees and shrubbery. As much as the bureau likes to brag about solidarity with the press, he doesn’t like dealing with them. It’s no surprise that people whose job it is to stick their nose into other people’s business aren’t the easiest bunch to work with. Though the same could be said for his fellow agents. Including his partner.

Heaving out a sigh, Ethan hands the card over. The momentary event is cut short, however, when her phone rings out and then rolls over to her voicemail.

“This is Sloane. Leave your name, number, and reason for calling at the--” Baz hits the end call button and classical music plays through the car speakers once more.

“I could’ve left a voicemail.”

“Nobody leaves voicemails anymore.”

“Then how will she know it’s me?” Ethan asks.

With an elaborate gesture, Baz opens up the messaging app and begins tapping at the screen. Ethan rolls his eyes as he pulls out into traffic. The muddy water of the Neponset River churns below them as they head north along the interstate for Boston. The chime of a text notification rings through the cab.

“‘Can’t talk right now, in a meeting. Ready to share?’” Baz reads off.

“Tell her yes.”

Another moment of silence, then: “She says ‘no beating around the bush, then. I like that.’ Um, then says she’ll be downtown for the next hour, then has an interview at two. Are you able to meet her today, or do you want to do this over the phone?”

“I despise texting.” Ethan does a double-take when Baz’s fingers move in a flurry across the screen. “No, don’t send--”

Another chime sounds.

“She says ‘that checks out.’”

“What does she mean by that?”

“That you’re a classic type of guy, you know,” Baz fumbles. “Really… old-school, but in a cool, retro way.”

“Uh-huh. So, where does she want to meet?”

|| || || || || || || || || || ||

Tuesday, January 13, 1:34 p.m.

“Where’s your hat?”

McTavish lets out a dry chuckle at his question and hops down from the retaining wall as they approach. The leather messenger bag she carries smacks against her hip; she immediately shoves it behind her as a reflex.

“Last time I wore it, I was accused of impersonating an officer. Figured it would be safer to leave it at home.”

“A wise decision,” Ethan says. “An even wiser one would be to toss it.”

At the suggestion, she wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

“Nah. But c’mon, you aren’t here to share fashion advice. Let’s walk and talk.”

This time of year, the Common has nothing more to offer than the bare limbs of the famous oaks and elms. Being the middle of the day, only a few people are out skating on the frog pond. Dreary weather aside, Ethan likes the winter season -- there’s less violent crime when it’s cold out. It’s hard to motivate hardened criminals into action when it’s below freezing. Not that it stopped whoever tossed Senator Farrugia off the Edenbrook’s roof.

“I assume you’ve had less than good luck when it comes to follow-ups,” McTavish says as they wander down a branching path.

“What makes you say that?” Baz asks.

Rolling her head to the side, she glances between the two of them before settling on Ethan.

“Because you wouldn’t have stooped to contacting me if things were going fine. How many times have you been stiffed?”

“One no-show and two others that wouldn’t come to the door.”

“Damn.” McTavish clicks her tongue. “And it’s only Tuesday. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve had about the same luck.”

Ethan stops short, forcing the others to halt, as well.

“We’re not here to make conversation. At the hotel, you said you had information.”

“I do, or -- at least, I’m trying to uncover a deal he was working on with--”

“Everyone knows the deal he was working on,” he interrupts, much to her obvious frustration. “That addiction rehabilitation bill was all over every news site for the past three months. Including yours.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “and everyone knew he wasn’t going to go through with it. Not when the Cyrus Brothers donated to his campaign last week. It’s no coincidence that they’re one of the biggest players behind privatizing the prison system in Massachusetts. The less people clogging the prisons, the less money in their pockets.”

When he glances over to his partner for confirmation -- he’s never been one to pay much attention to the finer workings of corporate America -- Baz gives a small nod.

“Tell us something that everyone isn’t aware of, then,” Ethan demands.

“The Edenbrook and a big-name pharma company have something going on under the table.”

It’s certainly not what he was expecting her to say, as evident by the fact that he has to bite back a reaction.

“Who we talkin’?” Baz jumps in. “Lavinium? Cale-Anderson?”

“Bigger,” McTavish says with a shake of her head.

“Sachmis?”

“Think Greek.”

“Can you two stop--” Ethan tries to quash their guessing game, but he’s drowned out by Baz’s excited gasp.

“No way! Panacea?”

“Bingo.”

Crossing his arms, Ethan frowns at the name.

“What do they want with an old-money hotel, though?”

McTavish bites at her lip and fiddles with her bag’s strap.

“I’m not entirely certain just yet. But it can’t be pure coincidence that their CEO Declan Nash stays at the hotel pretty often, especially when he owns two properties in the area. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that legislators who stay at the Edenbrook later pull their support from anything that would wound Panacea’s revenue. There’s something suspicious going on there, though, I’m sure of it.”

“Nash is a total scumbag,” Baz agrees. At Ethan’s pointed look, he doubles down with: “In my professional opinion, of course.”

McTavish gives a not-so-subtle gesture to her watch.

“Damn, and it’s almost two. Okay, so here’s my deal: I give you whatever information I learn from my interviews if you share the tox results from Farrugia’s autopsy.”

“We won’t get those back until--” Baz tries to deflect, but it’s no use.

“You mean you won’t share results with the public until three weeks from now as a precaution. Especially since everyone thinks he killed himself since his mistress came forward.”

“Ah, but you don’t?”

She levels an unimpressed glance at Ethan for his tone. He doesn’t bother adding that he’s fine with the public thinking that; it gives them more time to work behind the scenes. He gets the sense that she’s smart enough to know that.

“Politicians don’t commit suicide over infidelities -- they go to sex rehab or church and then pay to get themselves out of the news circuit. C’mon, guys, you’re the feds and he’s a United States senator. Give me a little credit.”

“Why do you want them so badly?”

“I’ve got a hunch.”

Humming as he weighs his options, Ethan scrubs a hand across his jaw.

“And I’m supposed to let you in on an investigation because you have a hunch.”

“I think my hunch record speaks for itself,” she says, her chin lifting as she smirks. “I was the one who dropped the Nighthawks’ doping scandal. And I uncovered Farrugia’s shady dealings when he was the mayor of Worcester in the mid-2000s.”

The agents share a look. Maybe adding another player to the field wouldn’t be so bad. After all, they have been trying to talk to the senator’s aide for the past few days and haven’t had much luck. Though his whereabouts were confirmed the night of the supposed murder, Ethan has his suspicions. And if there’s anything the guilty hate, it’s talking to the feds.

“How easy would it be for you to secure an interview with Travis Perry?”

McTavish’s mouth curls into a scowl at the name.

“Not very,” she murmurs. The grimace drops from her face a moment later. “But I’m always up for a challenge. I’ll see what more I can do. But I think something bigger is at play here.”

“So do we,” Ethan assures her. “Like you said, this is a senator’s death we’re dealing with. We have to be methodical about this. If that means taking the time to clear some names from the board, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“But keep in mind that we are on a tight schedule here because they’re firing up the retort next Monday morning. Any physical evidence will be gone.” The corner of Baz’s mouth dips into a frown. “There’s no exhuming and running another autopsy on ashes.”

“Understood. And as much as I’d love to stay and discuss funeral plans, I’ve got an interview with a former bellhop.” With that, McTavish readjusts the strap across her shoulder and nods at them. “I’ll be back in touch when I’ve got something to share, boys.”

“Ramsey,” he offers as he reaches out to shake her hand.

“Baz,” his partner says as he does the same. “It’s what all my friends and/or secret press contacts call me.”

He rolls his eyes at Baz’s comradery. McTavish flashes him a smile, her nose scrunching up as she does, as if this is some private joke he isn’t privy to. Ethan shoves down the immediate notion of how charming he finds the expression.

“Well, you can call me Sloane, then.”

|| || || || || || || || || || ||

Taglist: @openheartfanfics @writinghereandthere @maurine07 @lsvdw-blog

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Author's notes and what-have-yous:

*rolls up to the club six months later to find a closed sign on it*