"K?"

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Will never received one of Kalinda's change-of-address cards—she's ashamed now of even handing them out, of thinking a new street and a shiny new elevator were all it would take to deflect the inevitable—but it wouldn't be all that challenging to check her personnel file, she supposes. She's a little surprised that Will went out of his way, but it makes sense when she thinks about it.

"K? You in there?" It's Will's soft voice, the one he uses every time he realizes anew that she's feral.

Light hovers around the edge of the door like it's breathing. Kalinda can picture Will out there, jacket slung over his shoulder, the white-and-blue plaid shirt he's taken to wearing open at the collar to reassure those around him that he is not, in fact, practicing law. He's straining his eyes at her door, like if he squints hard enough he can see in.

He's been thinking they were two of a kind, and Kalinda was drawn into it, too, knowing over the corner of a bar or across a conference table that someone else knew the mechanics, felt the gears that were shifting underneath the conversations. But a shared cynicism, whatever kind of comfort it may be, isn't a shared understanding of danger. Risks for Will Gardner take place in courtrooms, bank accounts, hotel rooms; he wouldn't recognize her in this chair, her arms uncrossed the instant she heard the footsteps, trigger rasping beneath her pointer finger.

"Kalinda?" He draws the word out—a little drunk, probably, alone or with Callie Simko at one bar or another—and for a second Kalinda wants to cry, this name has been so goddamn good to her and now not even that is hers.

She stays still: her lights are off and he'll think she has already gone.