Kate Beckett stood outside the burning building. She stared into the fire, entranced, for several seconds. Then she shook her head, shaking off memories. She had no time for memories. She signaled Ryan and they walked to the waiting service vehicles. She stopped abruptly when she noticed who was reclining on a gurney by the lone ambulance, then started again, this time in the direction of the person. She was, she thought, exactly like a moth – drawn to the flame that could kill her.

"Sorenson." She spit out the name. "What are you doing here?"

He looked at her, bleary-eyed and wincing. "Same as you, I expect." He choked out. "I got a call from one of my people saying there was some suspicious activity here. I got to the door and the place exploded. I'm lucky to be alive." He paused. "I doubt that anyone in there can say the same."

Kate pointed to the upstairs windows. "You know that Alexis and Martha lived up there and that this bar belonged to them?" She stepped back to let an EMT through.

The EMT finished swiftly – checking Sorenson's injuries – mostly 2nd, and some 3rd degree, burns over his hands and face, abrasions from being thrown by the force of the explosion, a dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, and other, less obvious, injuries. She treated what she could and administered morphine, then she and another EMT lifted the gurney into the ambulance.

"Where are you taking him? I'm going to need to question him." She showed her badge, just to be sure they understood.

"Good Samaritan. But he's already out. Won't be in any shape to be questioned for a few hours."

Kate nodded curtly. She was inwardly furious, but it would be unfair to unleash it at the EMTs who were only doing their job. Somewhere the tiny hope surfaced that some of those 'less obvious' injuries were life-threatening and exquisitely painful. She quickly squashed it. She wished she could talk to her therapist, but he had disappeared after refusing to share patient records with the DOJ. This elicited a small, fugitive smile – he had destroyed the records before they got to them. She shook her head – she found herself doing this a lot lately – shaking thoughts from her head and going forward.

She turned toward the building and the firefighters; looking for the captain. She located him and strode in his direction.

"Captain -" she looked for his name tag, "- Peterson." She held up her badge. "I'm Captain Beckett, NYPD, Counter-Insurgency Unit." She continued. "We suspect that this might have been arson used to cover up underground activities. I would appreciate it if you would share any evidence you find with my office." She handed him her card and indicated Ryan. "Detective Ryan will be your liaison and will stay here with you to help." She turned to Ryan. "Kevin, I need you to report back to me on a regular basis. I need to know how many bodies there are, what started the fire, and if there are any, unlikely as it may be, survivors. You know the drill."

She thought about telling the firefighter about the secret, fireproof door in the basement, but decided against it. If they found it, fine: if they didn't, fine. She looked up at the blaze. Something didn't feel right about it. It wasn't just the probability of arson, arson was a given. But she didn't trust Sorenson's reasons for being here. There were underlying motives that she was going to find. She hoped Alexis and Martha had not been among the casualties. She felt oddly free. She had a real case now, something she could understand – arson and, possibly, murder. This wasn't harassing and tormenting people who, in any other situation would be innocent, this was a real crime and she was going to find the answers. She got in her car, instructing the driver to drop her at her office and then to put himself at Ryan's disposal.

It took a good day to get the fire under control; exploding bottles of liquor had added alcohol to the mix, making the fire burn longer and hotter. In the kitchen, unused for the past two years, old grease and oil contributed. It was a nasty fire and, in the end it took out nearly half a block of historic buildings before it was extinguished. It took another day for it to cool enough for the investigators to take over.

Ryan had stayed the entire time, dozing in the back of the car, eating and drinking whatever the firefighters ate and drank. He called his wife to reassure her and to let her know what happened. They were both concerned about Alexis and Martha, but said nothing.

When, finally, he entered the smoldering remains of the bar, he was exhausted and angry. He wanted to get up to the second-floor apartment, but knew it would be dangerous until they could get scaffolding in place. He itched to call the CSI unit, but with budget cuts and layoffs, the Unit was virtually non-existent – staffed by less than 5 people and stripped of equipment. For a Crime Scene analysis, he'd have to call the FBI and, with Sorenson's apparent involvement, that wouldn't be advisable – at least not until he'd had a chance to look the place over.

He explained to Captain Peterson that two women with connections to the resistance had lived in the apartment, hoping that would get him some help.

Peterson heard 'two women' but appeared to miss the part about the resistance. "Doubtful they're still alive if they were up there. Did you know them?"

Ryan nodded.

"Then you'll want to know." He signaled a couple of his firefighters. "Detective Ryan needs to see the upstairs apartment. You want to help him out?" He turned to Ryan. "Family?"

"Close." Ryan responded. "The mother and daughter of a close friend."

The man eyed Ryan shrewdly. "Two women alone. I guess this close friend is either dead or 'out of town'. When you're finished looking, come back here and talk to me."

It didn't take long for the two firefighters – named Logan and Courtney – to get the flooring under the apartment shored up enough to support them and to get Ryan suited up in protective gear. Soon the three of them were in the hall in front of the apartment. He prodded one of the two charred bodies splayed in front of the door.

"Crispy critters." Said Logan. "Probably not the women, though, too big and no tits."

It took a little effort to get the door open. The fire had warped the wood. But they finally got in.

"Detective Ryan, what are we looking for?"

"Anything out of place. I think I'll know it when I see it, but don't discount anything."

The three spread out and began a methodical search. The living/dining room was done quickly. There had been very little in there – a couch, a chair, a table, a lamp, a bookcase, a small TV – most of it burned and damaged by smoke, fire, water, and fire retardant. A couple of piles of burned trash rested next to the door. Ryan directed Courtney, the female firefighter, to the bedroom and Logan to the bathroom. Those rooms had been less damaged by the fire – mostly it was smoke and heat. He, himself, went into the kitchen. He looked through cupboards, in the oven, and, finally in the refrigerator. With some effort, he managed to pull the freezer door open. It was a soggy mess. Because the refrigerator was insulated however, while ice had melted and food had been pretty much spoiled, nothing was destroyed. He found a small metal box. Opening it, he found two envelopes, both sealed, one addressed to him and one to Beckett. Other than the envelopes, there was nothing of interest in the kitchen. He tossed the box out the open window.

He met the firefighters back in the living room. "Anything?" he said.

"Not much – some clothes, some papers, nothing relevant." Courtney offered.

"Pretty much the same in the bathroom – the usual stuff you'd see in bathroom. Good thing is – no bodies. They must not have been home." Logan looked down. "Would have been a hideous way to die – literally cooked to death." He appeared slightly green.

The three of them shuddered.

Ryan had time to change out of the firefighter's gear before the FBI arrived. The letters were in an inside pocket, out of sight.

He had a hurried discussion with Captain Peterson before he left: surreptitiously letting him know that he suspected that the FBI had something to do with the fire. He was gambling that the firefighter had no love for the Bureau and would hinder, as much as he could, the FBI investigation.

Once in the car, he called Beckett, then directed the driver to the loft.

He told Kate what he'd found. That there were two bodies upstairs – not Alexis or Martha – and six downstairs – again, not Alexis or Martha. The preliminary hypothesis was that all eight were dead before the fire started. He handed her the envelope. "Someone, Alexis I suspect, hid this in the refrigerator for you." She took it without a word and turned away. Then she turned back and said, "Ryan, go home. Take the next couple of days off. You look like Hell."

He mock saluted and left.

As he walked away, he took out the envelope addressed to him. On the enclosed paper, there was a ten-digit number.

Kate went into the office and sat at the desk. She put the envelope down in front of her and looked at it for several minutes. Then she opened it.

Kate:

In spite of our differences, I feel you have a right to know what's going on. Sorenson approached me with an offer of marriage. There's no painless way to say this but, I suspect that, because of the way the new laws are written, we may already be married. Since, as he's pointed out, consent on my part is not required and that, indeed, my physical presence isn't needed. He's told me that he's going to sue you, as my husband, for the loft, the house, the farm, and the money, using your miscarriage as grounds. He is, in short, prepared to drag you through the mud to get Dad's possessions. Be careful.

Alexis

Kate smiled mirthlessly.