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Chapter Text

Helen rifled through a stack of children’s paintings of snow scenes until her (now glitter-covered) keys fell out onto her desk. 

“You’re headin’ out now?” Pamela asked, sticking her head into Helen’s classroom. Helen marvelled again at the small moments of everyday life that had felt so distant the last time she’d made this drive, when a return to in-person students and nosy co-workers had started to seem like an impossibility. It reminded her to smile gently at her colleague instead of rolling her eyes. 

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s a long drive up to New York.” 

“You’ll get there well before Christmas,” Pamela said, wandering into the classroom and collecting an abandoned mitten from underneath a desk. She tossed it into the lost and found box. 

“Well, it isn’t a Christmas party,” Helen said. She shook her keys with the resigned feeling that she’d have glitter on everything she owned soon anyway. “It’s a solstice party.” She found her water bottle behind a folder of permission slips and took a long drink. 

“Folks in the city are awful queer about holidays,” Pamela said. Helen raised an eyebrow. 

“Sure,” she said. “Because down here, everyone is so normal about ‘em.” Pamela laughed. 

“That’s true,” she agreed. “Well, safe driving. You know how to drive in snow, right?” Helen considered the honest concern written across Pamela’s wrinkled face. 

“I’ll manage,” she said. “I gotta go, Pam, but I’ll see you after the holidays.” 

“Merry Christmas!” Pamela called after her as she darted out to her car. Her suitcase was already in the seat next to her, ready for a quick exit after the students’ early release. She slid into the driver’s seat, checking the mirrors and pausing to slide her favorite CD into the ageing stereo system. 

Her phone buzzed. She frowned, fishing it out of her purse. It was a text in the group chat from Phillip, of all people. 

Good afternoon, everyone. I apologize for the late notice, but something urgent has come up and we are unable to host you all for the solstice. Please know that it has nothing to do with any of you, and we look forward to reconnecting soon.

Helen put her car back into park, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Sure, Blanc tended to vanish from contact for weeks if he got a new case, but he was pretty good about reaching out beforehand. And he’d never had Phillip make his apologies before. 

Another text popped up, this one from Jud in the group chat without the Blanc’s. 

That seem strange to anyone else? 

They’d chatted quite a bit over the last few years, even meeting up occasionally, and Helen smiled faintly as she pictured the frown lines that were surely visible on Jud’s face. 

Blanc is always strange, Marta sent immediately. Her typing bubbles appeared and disappeared a few times. But this isn’t like him, she sent at last. 

It wasn’t. And Blanc had promised Helen that she wouldn’t spend the holidays alone, though it was likely no one else knew that. Jud had his flock, and Marta her family, but Helen had returned from the Glass Onion to checked-out Zoom students and flighty co-workers who didn’t want anything to do with a teacher who’d helped bring down Miles Bron. Since then, Blanc had been a surprisingly stable presence, and introduced her to Marta and later Jud. 

Something’s definitely wrong, she sent. He would have told me if he’d taken a case.

No one disputed it. 

What should we do? Jud asked. I have until Christmas Eve before I have to be back.

I’m going to head there anyway, Helen typed, suddenly sure of it. I can find somewhere else to stay if they really can’t host. 

It could be a personal thing, Jud sent. Maybe someone is sick? I’m not sure we should overstep.

I have a weird feeling about this, Marta sent. I’ll meet you there, Helen. 

Helen put the car into drive, turned up her music, and started the long drive. 

She’d planned to stop for the night, but much like the first desperate drive to Blanc’s apartment she passed through that town without stopping.

At a gas station, many hours later, she realized her phone had died and plugged it back in. It woke up with a flurry of buzzes and pings as messages in multiple chats started to come through. 

In the chat with everyone, Jud had sent:

No worries, Phillip. Is everything alright? 

Phillip had replied only with:

It’s fine.

In their private chat Jud and Marta had then gone back and forth. 

Jud: I called Blanc and he didn’t pick up.

Marta: Phillip is being strange, too.

Jud: Who’s the closest?

Marta: Helen must still be driving. I’ll leave now. 

Jud: Should we… call the cops? 

Marta: Not yet. We don’t know anything, and we don’t want to get Blanc in trouble.

Unspoken, the acknowledgement that he was guilty of at least police obstruction most of the time and had definitely shielded all three of them from poorly timed police actions. 

Jud: I’m still wrapping things up at Our Lady of Perpetual Grace. I can’t get away.

Marta: I’m on my way. I’ll be there in five hours.

That was the most recent message, and Helen checked the timestamp. Only fifteen minutes ago, which meant she would probably get there around the same time as Marta. 

She called her, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear as she watched the gas meter run. 

“Helen?” Marta answered immediately. “Are you there already?”

“I’m getting gas,” Helen said. “I’m about five hours out.”

“Me too,” Marta said. “I’m not sure what our plan is when we get there, though.”

“I know.” Helen had been thinking about pistol shots and poisoned drinks since she started driving.

“But what else can we do?” Marta continued, like she had borrowed the words right out of Helen’s head.

“I know,” Helen said again. “Is pepper spray legal in New York? I picked some up at the last gas station.”

“Helen, I’m from Boston. I have no idea. Google it.” 

“Google it,” Helen muttered, putting the phone on speakerphone so she can type and talk. “You’re so helpful.” Marta laughed, a little of the strain fading from her tone. 

“I have a stun gun,” she confessed. “After the first attempted break-in at the manor, Blanc gave it to me and helped me set up the licenses. Since he brought it with him, I’m assuming they’re legal in NYC.”

“They are not,” Helen said, juggling her phone awkwardly as she tried to close her gas tank. “Pepper spray is, at least specific kinds.” She let her voice turn sardonic. “I Googled it.”

“Where the hell did he buy it?” Marta mused. “Well, I didn’t bring it anyway. I was on the road before we realized Phillip was being so strange.”

“I’m leaving now,” Helen said. “I don’t have your fancy hands-free phone car setup-“

“It’s just a dashboard mount,” Marta interjected.

“-but I have to hang up while I drive. Should we meet outside their apartment?”

“Okay,” Marta said. “Drive safe.” Concern hung heavy in her tone, the assumption that none of them were voicing. Something had happened to Benoit Blanc.

When Helen pulled up, Marta’s car was in one of the guest spots. It was empty. Helen cursed under her breath, fumbling the pepper spray and her phone as she got out of the car and locked it behind her. 

The doorman recognised her, giving her a smile as he let her in. The building had an eerie stillness to it, and Helen fidgeted nervously for the entire interminable elevator ride. 

Finally, she stepped off onto the correct floor and bolted for the apartment door. 

She knocked once, then thought of calling. She didn’t have time to reach for her phone, though, as the door flew open immediately. She whipped the pepper spray up, holding it out in front of her like a shield. On the other side of the door, Marta yelped and dodged to the side. 

“It’s me!” she said. Helen lowered the small canister, adrenaline racing in her blood. 

“Well?” she asked, stepping inside as Marta shut the door hastily behind her. Her expression was grim. 

“It’s bad,” she said. 

“He’s not-“ Helen had tried to prepare herself for it, the shock of a still, familiar body. She knew nothing she had done in the car would shield her, that the ache would ring through her bones just like it had done last time. But instant, warm sympathy chased some of the hardness from Marta’s expression. 

“No, no,” she said hastily. “He’s not dead. But he’s missing. Come in here.” 

With the world no longer narrowing down to a single point, Helen finally noticed the state of the apartment. It was absolutely trashed, potted plants smashed on the ground and the kitchen covered in flour and sugar that had apparently been poured out of the large jars. 

“What happened?”

“I found it like this,” Phillip said, emerging out of the study. “I came home from the store and it was trashed.” His shirt was rumpled, his hair messy. He had dirt and flour on the knees of his pants, and bloodstains on one sleeve. 

“Is he-“ Helen gestured at his sleeve. “Are you okay, Phillip?” 

“I patched him up,” Marta said, settling a hand on the older man’s shoulder. It looked for a second like it was all that was tethering him.

“I cut my hand on some broken glass,” Phillip said. Helen eyed the bandages wrapped around his knuckles and the fist-sized hole in the office wall and didn’t say a word. “Anyway, this sort of thing has happened before. A lot. I knew some of you were leaving today, so I texted you and then started to check the usual suspects.” He leaned on the counter, glancing around at the chaos. 

“The board?” Marta prompted, and he nodded. They led Helen into the study, which was usually dominated by a huge, intricate world map on one wall. Now the map had been turned around to reveal a list, hundreds of items written in Blanc’s spidery handwriting. Many of them had been crossed off. 

“He keeps a list of people he’s pissed off enough they might retaliate,” Phillip said. With a deep sigh, he added “It’s sorted by date.” Helen stepped closer and squinted at the entries. Sure enough, ‘Miles Bron, 2020’ was written neatly amongst the others. Below that, all of the Shitheads were listed as well. Marta stepped up next to her, tapping a finger on ‘Thrombey family, 2019’ for a moment.

“I’ve been going through and investigating them,” Phillips said, waving a black dry-erase pen. Helen switched her focus, looking at some of the crossed-out items. 

“Chicago Mafia?” Marta read, voice rising with concern. “KGB?” 

“Charles from two floors down,” Helen read, and Phillip shook his head. 

“Don’t ask,” he said with a sigh. He collapsed into the one cleared chair in the room, running his uninjured hand through his hair and consequently dusting it with flour. “I’ve checked all the usual places he vanishes to, and there’s nothing. No one knows where he went, no new project captured his attention, no one heard about a new case, and his phone was on the kitchen table when I got back.”

“Whoever trashed this place didn’t take his phone?” Helen asked, taking the notebook out of her jacket pocket. “That seems strange.” 

“I didn’t see any signs of a struggle,” Marta said, with a pained glance at Phillip. “No, y'know, blood or anything.” 

“He didn’t leave me a note, not even in our usual secret places,” Phillip added. “So he didn’t leave on his own. Someone was with him.” 

“Someone was with him when he left,” Helen mused, tapping her pencil against the pad of paper. “Someone he didn’t trust enough to leave a note in front of, but he trusted enough to leave without a struggle.”

“A client,” Marta and Phillip said in unison. 

“A trap,” Helen added. “But surely he would have worked out that it was a trap?” 

“If the client was really in trouble,” Phillip said, shoulders curling inward the slightest amount. “Knowing it was a trap wouldn’t stop him, the big lump.” His voice cracked on the last word

“Okay,” Marta said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We have a lot of people with motive, but we think whoever he left with came in here. Shouldn’t we call the police now, have them look for evidence?”

Phillip reached out, tapping a bandaged finger against a name on the list. 

“This is the New York City Police Commissioner,” he said. “Blanc worked a case around racial profiling a few months ago. You’ll find big names from the FBI on here too.”

“I thought he worked for the police, loosely?” Helen said, surprised. 

“He’s technically a private investigator,” Phillip said. “Honestly, he’s probably pissed off half the cops in the city. They let him assist because they know he’s damn good at his job and because he’s hard to keep out of a crime scene. He’s always said-“ he hesitated, his voice taking on a ghost of Blanc’s drawl. “I am accountable to the police and the courts, but I don’t work for them.”

“We’ll find him,” Marta said firmly. “He’s helped enough people. We can find some who are ready to help him back.” Helen nodded, tapping one hand consideringly against the back of the list. Something cold brushed against her finger. 

“Can you turn the map back around?” Helen asked. Marta and Phillip moved quickly, lifting and flipping the unwieldy canvas. Under Helen’s finger, something metal was pressed into the map, torn through the canvas so only the edge shone amongst the gilding. Marta stepped forward, taking tweezers out of the open first aid kit on the table and pulling gently at the object. It came free easily, a coin. Helen’s stomach sank as she recognised it. 

“Oh, he was always fidgeting with that,” Marta said softly. “During the whole case.” It wasn’t American currency, but before Helen could get a clear look at it Phillip took it in gentle fingers. 

“I gave it to him,” he said. “I joked that he must be wearing through the pound coin he was always playing with. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him put it down idly.”

Helen was examining the map. 

“You still haven’t,” she said, tapping her finger on the hole the coin had left in the map. “England. That’s somewhere to start.”

Chapter Text

Benoit Blanc was having an excellent Thursday. Normally after a few days without a case, he’d have fallen down a research rabbit hole or gotten stuck people-watching from the balcony, but the upcoming party had sharpened the world into clarity again. Phillip had gone to the store to get the ingredients for a last-minute baking project he wanted to try, so Blanc had the iPad reading aloud a paper on various cigarette brands and the chemical composition of their ash as he cleaned the house. 

“Diphenyl ether,” he muttered as he crouched to use the dustpan. “Interesting.” The doorbell rang, which was fortuitous timing, because he wanted to complain to Phillip about grape cigarettes. 

He dumped the dustpan and went to help his husband with the door. 

He hesitated a second before his hand made contact with the doorknob. Despite his own delay, there was no grumbling or shifting of paper as Phillip reached for his own key. He peered through the peephole, spotting the stranger shifting back and forth outside. 

He opened the door halfway, glad he’d taken the time to get properly dressed. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, taking in his unexpected visitor. 

“Um,” she said, shifting her weight awkwardly. “Hello, young man.” She was in a heavy tweed travelling suit with a matching hat. “I’m Doris Carter and I need your help rather desperately, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh,” Blanc said. He hesitated, glancing back at the kitchen. “It really isn’t the best- well, why don’t you come in and we can discuss your issue.” Maybe it would be a case he could solve in under eight hours. Yeah, and maybe pigs had taken to aviation. His eyes flicked across his guest, her misbuttoned jacket, the corner of a tissue peeking out her pocket, the heavy wedding band on her finger. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Doris said. “Letting a stranger into your apartment. You should be more careful.” 

“Of course, ma’am,” he said, noting the nearly imperceptible flinch behind her emotional armor. “What happened to your son?” 

She gasped, fumbling the tissue out of her pocket. 

“How did you know-“

“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Blanc said. “You see, I made a promise to a friend, and it’s very important to me that I keep it.”

“Oh, you’re a good boy,” Doris said, patting his hand. 

“Can I get you something? Tea, water? It must have been a long flight.”

“Yes, some water would be lovely.” She nearly collapsed into a chair at the table and gave the iPad a curious look. “Did you know your phone is talking about cigarettes?” Blanc handed her a glass and turned off the screen reader. 

“We’ll start at the beginning,” he said. “I just need to send a quick text.” He reached for his phone, opening the group chat his ridiculous friends had named “Fill in the Blanc”. 

No service. He glanced at the iPad. No wi-fi either. 

Phillip was going to be home in less than five minutes. Blanc had only that long.

He glanced up at Doris, who was peering at him with confusion that appeared genuine. She seemed to be an earnest pawn and not a player. But there wasn’t enough time to confirm that. 

“Actually,” Blanc said, standing with sudden enthusiasm. “I’ve changed my mind. Your son went missing from your house, right? In England?” 

“Yes, but-“

“Capital!” he interrupted. “Sorry to interrupt, but time is of the essence in a kidnapping case.”

“The police don’t think he was kidnapped,” Doris said, standing with him. She was trying to match his level of energy, and Blanc felt a little twist in his heart to play along with the lie even as much as he had to. 

“No, because it’s the perfect locked door mystery, isn’t it?” he asked. She stared at him with open astonishment. 

“Really, how do you do it?” she asked. He couldn’t help gentling his smile, leaning in a little. 

“Because you’re here,” he said. “You got on a flight and flew twelve hours away from your missing son because someone told you that with a case this strange, I was your best chance.”

“Yes,” she breathed. Blanc strode into his study, flipping Phillip’s coin around in one hand. He tucked it behind his fingers, vanishing it from view. 

“We’ll go to the airport now,” he said. “We’ll fly to England.” He slammed his hand against England on the map, hard enough to punch the coin through the canvas. Doris jumped, and he threw Southern charm up like a shield. 

“I apologize,” he said hastily. “That was poorly done of me. I only wanted to say - I will help you, Mrs. Carter.” 

“Oh, thank you,” Doris said. Blanc grabbed his case bag from under the desk, restocked with cash, his passport, a couple of suits and some basic toiletries. He slung it over one shoulder, giving Doris his best effort at a reassuring smile. 

“Shall we go?” he asked. 

“Yes, thank you,” Doris said. “I’m only not sure- well, I brought my pension cheque, but it might not be enough to cover the flight…” Blanc stopped, his whirlwind of thoughts briefly frozen in place as his stomach lurched queasily. 

“I will not take your money,” he said. “I have been paid for one job, ever, and that money was confiscated as evidence anyway.” 

“But I thought-”

“I am here to help, Mrs. Carter,” he said. If the look her gave her was a little too earnest and a little too panicked, well, he was working under a time constraint. “Your life is about to get strange for a little bit, but I will do my best to help your son return home.”

They had only a few moments before whoever was really calling the shots here saw Phillip arriving and was forced into rash action. He hustled Mrs. Carter out the door, refusing to hesitate or glance back.

“Oh, you forgot your phone!” Doris said, half-turning back. 

“We’re all too reliant on those foolish things nowadays,” Blanc said, wincing at his own blatant lie. Tracking would still be a problem while he was with Doris, but it would give him an edge if he needed to slip away. 

They’d surely toss the apartment, make sure he hadn’t left a message. He had to hope Phillip or one of the others wouldn’t find his little hint too soon and get involved.

For now, all he could do was head to the airport. 

Chapter Text

Jud arrived early for his prayer group, giving himself time to tidy up and put out snacks. To his surprise, he found most of the group was already there, huddled together and speaking in low voices. 

These were different days, he told himself. They probably weren’t conspiring, and no one was likely to throw a bible at his head. 

Still, he entered the room with a cautious knock. Everyone glanced up, expressions suspiciously innocent. 

“You’re all so timely today,” Jud said with a deliberate smile. “What’s the occasion?”

“We solved it, Father,” Letitia announced with a wide grin. “It’s all gonna work out.”

“Oh,” Jud said, relaxing. “Good.” Then he frowned. “Wait, what’s going to work out?”

“Your trip to England,” Simone said. Her energy was more subdued than the others. She wheeled her chair forward slightly to open the lid of a laptop on the table. 

“I’m not going to England,” Jud said. His prayer group looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Am I?”

“I figured you’d want to help Blanc,” Simone said, her subdued energy shifting into incredulity along with the others. 

“Help- well, yes, he’s my friend and I owe him a lot, but what does England have to do with-“ He took a deep breath. “I think I’m missing some context. Can you all start from the beginning?”

The beginning, apparently, was that Helen had called the actual office phone of Our Lady Of Perpetual Grace instead of his cell phone. Simone, unable to find anyone, had answered and taken down ticket information for a flight to London. Before disconnecting, Helen had said the ticket was ‘in case Jud was able to get away’. When Simone pressed for details, Helen hadn’t said much, but someone in the background had been talking about trying to find Blanc. 

“We knew you were close with those ladies,” explained Reggie, fidgeting with his suspenders. “And this Blanc fellow, too. We thought the only reason you wouldn’t go was if you had to take care of us here.”

“I don’t have to, I get to,” Jud protested. 

“And that’s very sweet, but we figured out a way we can all take care of each other,” Letita said proudly. “At least for a couple of weeks. Look!” She gestured at the laptop. Jud squinted at… a spreadsheet?

“I used to do some mutual aid work with the Panthers back in the day,” Reggie said. “This wasn’t too hard to whip up, don’t worry.”

There were rows and rows of tasks written down - everything from ‘close the shutters’ to ‘text the at-risk teens group with holiday support’. He even saw grocery deliveries to a few families he had thought didn’t know the food was coming from him. Each task had someone’s name next to it, church members.

“What’s this?” he asked, tapping a line that just said ‘Great Switcheroo’. 

“Oh!” Letitia said. “I’m quite proud of that one. Lenny and I talked the lovely Mrs. Winters and Mrs. Yeo-Jin into giving their weekly casseroles directly to the grief and addiction support groups while you're out of town. Covered snacks and casserole management in one go.”

“You all did all this yourselves?” he asked, not bothering to hide the teariness of his eyes. 

“Well, no, Father,” Reggie said. “You made us into the community. We’re just keeping it going for a little bit while you go help your friend.”

Which is how, forty-five minutes later, Jud stumbled out the front door of Our Lady of Perpetual Grace with a hastily packed suitcase, a Tupperware with one conciliatory slice of casserole, and four hours to make it to his first ever flight out of the country. Thankfully, he’d driven to Mexico once, recently enough that his passport was still valid. 

Helen had included in the phone message not to text anyone, so Jud spent the car ride and security process in baffled silence. It wasn’t until he walked up to the gate, fidgeting with his collar under his heavy jacket, that he spotted Marta and let the tension drain out of his shoulders. 

“What on Earth-“ he started, which was as far as he got before she wrapped him in a hug. He stopped protesting, not wanting to waste a hug. Then she pulled back, hands firm on his shoulders, and met his eyes. Fear ran just below the surface, but her gaze was clear. 

“He’s missing,” she said. “Phillip found the apartment wrecked, and his phone was still there.”

“Oh, shit,” Jud said. He really needed to work on the swearing. But… shit. “Is Phillip okay?”

“I’ve been better,” Phillip said from behind him. Jud turned and saw the man looking more rumpled than he’d ever seen. A clean bandage peeked out from the sleeve of his crumpled sweater, and there was a weariness hovering around his eyes that Jud knew had nothing to do with the late hour. He reached out to shake the older man’s hand, but found himself pulled into another hug. He relaxed into it, patting Phillip’s back gently when he trembled for a moment. 

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I know it’s a busy time for you.”

“Apparently my congregation have unionised or something,” Jud said. “They put together a whole sign-up sheet and got everyone to volunteer for something while I’m out of town. I have no idea how they convinced anyone.”

Marta, checking something on her phone, raised her eyebrows without glancing up. 

“They probably asked ‘Who wants to do a favor for Father Jud?’ and then turned down the extra volunteers,” she said. Jud’s face flushed. 

“I’m sure that’s not- they exaggerate my popularity,” he mumbled. 

“Everyone in that church who’s not a ‘Wicks Truther’ loves you,” Phillip said with a tiny smile. “I think you’ve even convinced some of them.”

“Okay, we’re not here to sing my praises,” Jud said, clearing his throat. “What’s the plan?” 

Marta looked up from her phone. 

“Got it,” she said. She held up an Instagram post, which had a blurry photo of Blanc gesturing with a bagel. The four of them turned and looked across the concourse at an identical shop. “Just like you said. Tagged #BenoitBlanc and at the H&H."

“He insists on a bagel before he flies, and he always gets spotted at airports,” Phillip said to Jud as if it was an explanation.

“…Why?” Jud asked, ignoring Helen’s resigned head shake. 

“Something about it missing something in the center, and that being a good representation of a case,” Phillip said. “I think he just really likes the horrible airport lox.” 

“It was taken yesterday afternoon,” Helen said, steering them back on track. “Can anyone see who’s with him?” They huddled around Marta’s phone, peering at the screen. Phillip fished reading glasses out of his bag. 

Blanc was looking into the middle distance, forehead creased in concentration. Absolutely no one around him appeared to be paying attention. 

“Hm,” Helen said. “Well, okay, who looks the most British?”

“I’m not sure that there’s a look that is specifically Brit- oh, her,” Phillip said, cutting himself off to point at an older woman in a matching jacket and hat. They all stared at her for a second. 

“Now what?” Marta asked. “This isn’t CSI, iťs not like we have facial recognition.” 

“Now we call in a favor,” Phillip said, snapping a picture of the woman on his own phone. Then he strode toward a door marked Airport Security. 

“Should we-?” Helen said, and they scrambled after him. 

By the time they got there, he’d tried the door and stared up at the camera. 

“Norris,” he said. “I need to talk to you, please.”

“Who are you talking to?” Jud whispered. Phillip waved a vague hand in his direction. 

They stood there for three very awkward minutes before the door opened a crack. 

“Phillip,” someone mumbled. An angular, coltish figure in an oversized hoodie stared out through the crack. “What’s up?”

“Blanc assisted airport security here once when a puzzlebox bomb was discovered at baggage claim,” Phillip told the group. “He and Norris here worked overnight on solving and defusing it. We had been foolishly attempting to take a vacation.” Norris ducked their head, not making eye contact. 

“Congratulations on the promotion, by the way,” Phillip said. “Head of Cybersecurity, hm?” 

“Thanks for the fruit basket,” Norris said. Their voice was still very quiet. “What can I do for you?” 

“Blanc’s in trouble,” Phillip said, and Norris brushed the hair out of their eyes. 

“What kind of trouble?”

“I can’t get ahold of him kind of trouble,” Phillip said. 

“His apartment was smashed up and his phone abandoned type of trouble,” Helen added. Norris stared at them unblinking. 

“I need to know what plane he got on,” Phillip said. “And who this is with him.” He held up a photo of the older woman. “I emailed it to your private account.”

“I can’t help you,” Norris said, glancing over their shoulder. “I’m sorry.” They stretched out a hand to Phillip, tentatively. Phillip shook it stiffly, their smaller hand pale against his. 

“Fine,” he said. “We don’t need your help.” 

He turned and stalked away, back to the gate. The others traded glanced and hurried after him. 

“Someone’s got them spooked,” Phillip whispered as they caught up to him at the gate. “But now we have a place to start.” He moved one finger a millimetre to the side, showing a slip of paper tucked into his hand without letting it be visible to the terminal at large. “An address.”

Nothing capped off jet lag, sleep deprivation, and an adrenaline crash like a house call. The group had decided Jud was the least suspicious person to send up to the door of the mystery address, so here he stood. Sweat beaded along his neck under his collar despite the cloudy chill of the morning. 

He knocked, and a young man answered the door. He looked nervous, only opening the door to the chain. 

“Yes?” he asked. 

“Hello,” Jud said softly. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m from the Church and I was wondering if you would be interested in supporting our new program for local at-risk youths?” He was, technically, from the church. The charity was real, even if local youths meant local to Upstate New York. And it really could use the support. It still felt more like a lie than like just not saying the dishonest parts out loud. 

“I’m not sure-“

“Who is it?” a voice said sharply, and the man in the door stepped to one side to reveal the older woman from the airport. 

“He’s asking for money for charity, Mum,” the man said. “For at-risk youths.”

“We provide counselling, addiction recovery support, tutoring, translation assistance, free Wifi and more,” Jud said, this time with genuine pride. 

“That’s wonderful,” the woman said. “Honey, why don’t you go back to the kitchen?” The man, still eying Jud with a fearful expression, retreated out of view. 

“Oh, Father, please forgive his suspicion,” she said as soon as he was out of earshot. “He’s just had a terribly harrowing ordeal, and isn’t feeling himself. But I know that God brought him back to me today, and I’m so very grateful.” She gave him a look that he felt instinctively covered some great sorrow. “Would you pray for him?”

“Of course,” Jud said. “Would you like to pray with me?”

He ended up perched on a chintz sofa, a plate of lemon loaf balanced on one knee and a steaming cup of tea on the tiny table, praying for Doris Carter and her son. When they had finished, he glanced around. 

The house was nothing unexpected on the inside, though his appearance beyond the door had caused the son to vanish upstairs somewhere. Doris stared at the staircase and shook her head. 

“This is what I mean,” she said. “He’s so frightened all the time. I don’t know how to reassure him.” 

“Perhaps he could discuss his experience,” Jud suggested. 

“He’s not… not as religious as I am,” Doris confessed, looking like she expected a scolding. Jud smiled gently. 

“That’s fine,” he said. “Maybe he’d prefer to discuss his experience with a friend, or a counsellor.”

He walked Doris through the basics of post-trauma support, tying it to Scripture and the hope of relief. 

She had tears in her eyes when they finished chatting, and pressed a few slices of pound cake in a bag on him when he stood.

She put the kettle back on, citing the stormy skies outside. He made his excuses, ready to head back to the others, but Doris’s hand closed on his shoulder. 

“Are you… married?” she asked. It wasn’t an uncommon question when he interacted with the public, so he had his ready-to-go answer on the tip of his tongue when he suddenly clocked her tone and hesitated. 

“Married?” he asked. 

“To a-“ she glanced around. “I don’t know if this is rude to ask a priest.”

“Please,” he said. “Feel free.” The kettle began to rattle, and she lowered her voice so he had to lean in to hear.

“Are you married to an older gentleman? American, like you? Maybe from the South?” He wrestled to keep his expression neutral. 

“I’m not, but he’s a friend of mine,” he managed in a sort of strangled tone. “His husband is here in the UK with me. Have you seen him?” 

“I have a message for his husband,” she said. Her hidden sadness bubbled to the surface again, but she furrowed her brow in concentration. “He said… ‘Don’t do anything foolheaded, I’ll be alright.’ Oh, and he said ‘Make sure Helen isn’t alone for the holidays.’” Jud couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“That sounds like him,” he said. Unbidden, tears pricked at his eyes again. “Do you know where he is?”

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” she said. “I’m so sorry. But he told us to go into the kitchen, and not come out no matter what we heard.”

“Us?”

“My son and I. I never would have guessed he was back there. Whoever heard of a false wall?”

Locked room mystery, Jud thought. The bait. 

“What did you hear?” 

Doris shook her head. 

“Nothing much. He was speaking to someone. He sounded angry. And then there were other people coming in, tramping around on the loose boards.” Her voice got very quiet, just as the kettle started to whistle.

“I peeked around the corner,” she whispered. “They had him in cuffs, the poor man. MI-5 doesn’t muck about.”

Chapter Text

Blanc started talking the moment they pulled the hood off his head.

“They did an experiment in 1954,” he said, grimacing at the brightness of the lights. “They brought 22 American boys, as average and well-adjusted as they could find, way out to a national park.” The agent across the table from him, a man in his early thirties, smiled encouragingly. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” he grumbled. 

“Far be it from me to interfere with the process of the great Benoit Blanc. Can I call you Ben?”

“You may not,” he replied, tone as level as he could manage. “They split the boys up, randomly, into two groups. The researchers had intended to, in stages, create a conflict between the groups. They were interested in how intergroup conflicts arose. You know what actually got ‘em to start fighting?”

“Sports?” The mystery agent guessed. 

“They saw the other group.” Blanc said, letting the anger sit heavy in his voice. “That’s all it took. Then they named their groups, began to create stereotypes of the other group and themselves. Pretty soon, no action seemed too extreme if it was to one of them.”

“I see where you’re going with this.”

“I am not certain if I should be more annoyed at the clumsy nature of your little gambit,” Blanc snapped. “Or at you ignoring my multiple interviews on this exact point. I do not, have not, and will not work directly for any government or law enforcement agency. And espionage?” He set his jaw. “What you do is illegal in every country, includin’ your own. This lends you a certain kind of carelessness. Careless killing. Careless betrayals. And, a bitter pill I refuse to swallow, carelessness with the truth. All of it justified because it’s to protect the ‘us’ from the ‘them’.”

“This is an emergency,” the agent said. Blanc rattled the handcuffs on his wrists.

“If I solved mysteries because someone kidnapped me, I would never get home,” he said. 

“Take the cuffs off,” the agent said, jerking his chin at someone behind Blanc. The click of keys in the lock, the warmth of an arm across his wrist. The person who’d unlocked him was left-handed, wearing long sleeves and a plastic watch, and smelled of a cologne that was mostly sandalwood. None of this was currently useful to his goal of ‘leave this room and go home for the solstice’. 

“A diplomat is missing,” the agent said. Blanc snorted. “He can’t be missing. He was on camera. Three guards were watching him. There was only one way out of the room.”

“Oh, so Mrs. Carter’s son was a practice run,” he snapped. “That’s a man you’ve traumatised, a man who woke up restrained and gagged, sealed inside the walls of his own room. A mother who was desperate enough to spend the last of her savings flying out to see me on your recommendation.”

“You don’t have to approve of our methods, Detective. You just have to solve the case.”

“So far you haven’t brought out the carrot or the stick,” Blanc said. “Why should I be convinced?” He could hear the slight tremor to his own voice. That was the problem with being much better at noticing lies than telling them. You noticed all your own. 

“We figured you didn’t need us to tell you,” he said. “But if you’d rather be crass - your husband is still a British citizen, which makes extraditing him for money laundering quite simple.”

“He doesn’t launder money,” Blanc said. The agent shrugged. 

“For a carrot, how does not arresting your four friends wandering around the United Kingdom and conducting interviews under false pretences sound?”

“Sounds like another stick,” Blanc said, fighting hard to keep panic out of his voice. The agent chuckled. 

“You have me there. So, what’ll it be?”

“What’s your plan if I say no?” Blanc asked.

”Send our best agents, give ‘em some Agatha Christie to read on the road, and hope they find this guy before a war breaks out. Oh, and arrest your four friends.”

Agatha Christie, though a brilliant author, was the wrong homework for a case like this, Blanc thought but did not say. She was a better author for when the cause of death itself was uncertain, and had in fact posthumously saved a life by so accurately describing the symptoms of thallium poisoning in ‘A Pale Horse’ that one Nurse Maitland had recognised the real-life case she encountered. 

He was vaguely aware that his brain was attempting to spin off on a tangent to avoid processing the emotions surrounding a case which had somehow already managed to endanger the four people closest to him. It was hard to stop mid-tangent, though. 

“Who’s drivin’?” he asked, and the agent gave him a shark smile, all teeth and flat eyes. 

“I’ll take you,” he said. “Pleasure to work with you, Ben.”

Chapter Text

They didn’t even bother getting separate hotel rooms; Phillip just found the closest place with two double beds. They arrived in silence. He knew he should be looking after the others, but whatever Jud had seen in that house seemed bad and the worry was eating away at his insides. 

The hotel door shut behind them with a click, and the women turned to Jud with twin looks of determination. 

“So,” Marta said. “What happened?”

Jud was pale, hands trembling. He sat down heavily on the foot of one bed. 

“Blanc came to her house and found her missing son,” he said. “The son vanished from a locked room, with the house security system never picking up an exit from the house between when a driver delivered lunch and he vanished.” He took a deep breath. “There was a false wall in his room, I guess he was sealed in behind it.”

Marta’s expression twisted for a second with a strong emotion Phillip was too tired to identify. 

“That’s horrible,” she said softly. 

“Blanc told Doris and her son to hide in the kitchen and not come out no matter what they heard,” Jud said. His eyes cut to Phillip and he hesitated. 

“I’m not made of glass, son,” Phillip said, with just enough self-control left not to raise his voice. Jud didn't even have the decency to look annoyed, just nodded sympathetically. 

“She said some men came in and he argued with them. She wasn’t supposed to look around the corner, but she did. Some men in suits had him handcuffed. She thinks they were MI-5.” 

A spike of red-hot anger sparked low in Phillip’s stomach and raced up to his head, briefly whiting out his vision and setting his head buzzing. When he blinked his vision clear, Marta was shooing the others away from him.

“He’s okay,” she said. “Just give him some space.” 

“They got some fucking nerve,” he snarled. The others flinched, especially Jud, and he took a deep breath to reach for a calmer persona to wear. It was just like being on-stage, he told himself, and tried to remove shockingly pale-blue eyes and an elusive smile from his mind by pure force of will. (He failed, of course. He always did.)

“Sorry,” he muttered, and patted Jud’s shoulder. “It’s not you I’m angry with,”

“No, I know,” Jud said, looking a bit relieved anyway. 

“He solves mysteries for free,” Phillip said. “He helps people who need help, he performs, he throws himself headlong into dangerous and volatile situations, he explains everything, he gets the person hurting people to stop.” His voice was trembling, and he was no longer sure it was with rage. “And still, the reaction of so many people is to ask him to do more. Solve more mysteries. Fight their enemies. Dig up dirt on their opponents. Lie for them.” The others traded glances he couldn’t read. “He has given his life, his gift, to the truth, but sometimes it seems like all anyone sees of him is a resource.”

“Not everyone,” Helen said, stepping forward. She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed hard enough that her nails dug in. It was grounding, pinpricks of discomfort against the growing need to writhe around in his ill-fitting skin. “Blanc is our friend.”

“I can’t-“ Phillip’s breath came in ragged gasps. “I think the anger is all that’s holding me together.”

“You can put it down,” Marta said. She met his eyes without flinching, a sharpness to her gaze. “We can take a turn being angry. And if you fall apart, we will put you back together.” 

Every character Phillip was trying to hold on to collapsed and hot tears slipped down his cheeks. Hands guided him to the bed, rubbed his shoulders. He lost track of who was who. Someone took his jacket away and brought him a sweater, and someone else pressed a hot cup into his hands when they started trembling. 

An icy feeling spread up his body and he stammered something incomprehensible. 

“What’s that?” Marta asked, moving so she was clear in his blurry vision. 

“Something’s wrong with me,” Phillip muttered through numb lips. “Maybe I was poisoned?”

The other two exclaimed, but Marta stayed crouched in front of him. 

“What are your symptoms?” she asked, fingers feather-light and cool against the pulse in his neck. 

“I’m shaky and dizzy,” he said. “And my lips are numb and my chest is aching.” A thought occurred to him. “Am I having a heart attack?” 

“No,” Marta said calmly. “You’re not having a heart attack.” She gave him a careful once over, and he tried to hold himself still. “Guys, can you give us the room?” That was said over his shoulder. A few seconds later, she caught his attention again. “I think you might be having an anxiety attack. Can you try a grounding exercise with me?” 

It felt a bit ridiculous, naming colors in the bland hotel room while spies held his husband. But it began to work, slowly and painfully. The shaking intensified as the other symptoms dropped off. 

“That’s a stress-release thing,” Marta said. “I know it can feel scary, but it’s actually a good thing because it means your body is starting to calm down.”

“There are no purple objects in this bloody room,” Phillip grumbled, and Marta chuckled.

“There you are,” she said, so softly it ached. “What do you want next? I can have the others come back and we can eat, or you can go to sleep.” Phillip was absurdly grateful she was keeping it to a simple two options. 

“Let’s eat,” he said. She texted something, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. Phillip tried to brace himself for sympathy and pity, but a second later Helen and Jud bustled in with takeout and started debating how to tell which food was in which container. 

It was still there, a bit. Jud’s eyes lingered over him for an extra second as if reassuring himself that Phillip was okay. To be fair, he had suggested he’d been poisoned.

On the other hand, Helen was so carefully not looking at him that it was also obvious. But it wasn’t very awkward. It felt more like everyone was working together to for a common goal, like throwing a party. 

“Oh,” he said, hesitating with a spoonful of kung pao chicken halfway to his lips. “Happy solstice.”

He woke up in the midafternoon, groggy and disoriented. Jud, sprawled next to him, was still asleep. The curtains were drawn, bright light creeping around the edges. 

“Morning,” Helen whispered. She was sitting at a small desk by the television. “Or, good afternoon. There’s muffins.” He rolled out of bed and limped over to the desk, discovering a box of Asda muffins. He ached from the flight and long hours of tension. 

“You were up early,” he whispered back. “Thank you.” She shrugged off his thanks, holding up her notebook. The page was covered with text, sorted into a web. 

“Brainstorming,” she whispered back. “Hey, this room has a balcony if you want to go join Marta.” She led him out a door he hadn’t noticed the night before and onto a small balcony overlooking the field behind the hotel. 

“This is fancy,” he said. Marta, staring out from the railing and cradling a paper cup of coffee, laughed faintly. 

“Right?” she said. 

Helen stepped up next to her and leaned gently against her side, looking out in the same direction. Some of the tension visibly drained from Marta’s posture. 

“I told you he’d wake up next,” Helen said, still not looking over. “You owe me five dollars.”

“I did not agree to this.”

“You can afford it, heiress,” Helen said, and then laughed as Marta prodded her in the side with an elbow. “Ow, okay, I surrender.” 

A little of the hollowness in Phillip’s chest eased. 

“What have you two been up to?” he asked. 

“We made some plans,” Marta said. “C’mon, we’ll wake up Jud and talk. I dibs throwing a pillow at him.”

Despite her big talk, Marta woke Jud up  by gently shaking his shoulder. He still shot up to standing, pulling away to stand with his back to his wall, and shuddered for a moment. 

“It’s alright,” Phillip said, letting his voice drop into a practiced, soothing tone. “It was a dream.” Jud stared blankly through him and Phillip blinked away the same look in blue eyes. “A dream,” he said again, and Jud breathed out slowly. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Oof. Okay. I’ll make coffee.”

Helen paced as they got settled, then took up a position at the front of the room. As a teacher, she was a natural performer.

And Phillip was trying to stop seeing glimpses of his husband in his little gaggle of his friends/suspects/assistants, he really was, but when she came alive with that familiar energy he had to bite his lip. Jud settled his hip against Phillip’s leg as he shifted on the bed next to him, which he suspected was not an accident. 

“Okay,” Helen said. “Here’s what we know. We know where and when men in suits came and took Blanc. We have a suspicion of who they are, but we’re not certain. We know that Blanc knew it was a trap early enough to leave a hint for us at the apartment and a message with Doris.”

“Blanc trusted the people arriving were just after him,” Marta added thoughtfully. “He didn’t tell Doris and her son to run, or to leave the house.” 

“Good point,” Helen said, scribbling something in her notes. “So we have opportunity. But we’re missing a motive. Like in Clue.” The grin Phillip gave her was a little raw, but the more real for it. He had very little stagecraft left to hide behind today. 

“He’s had offers from MI5 before,” Phillip said. “They’ve never kidnapped him. So the motive would have to be substantial.”

“We could look for something in the news,” Jud said. “They’re probably trying to keep it quiet, but the media can be relentless.” His expression was pinched, and this time it was Phillip who patted his back. #KillerPriest had trended for even longer than #BenoitBlancPwned. 

Helen picked up a piece of paper from the table that had tape applied to it and stuck it to the wall. She wrote: Look for big news stories. 

“Speaking of,” Marta added. “Should we try sending our story to the news? Get public eyes on the missing Benoit Blanc?”

“We have no real evidence,” Phillip said. “A coin in a map and a trashed apartment don’t necessarily mean a kidnapping. Plus,” he hesitated. “It might put us in danger. More danger.” 

Helen wrote: Keep it quiet. 

“Are there any other quirks of his on cases we can look for?” Jud asked. “Like the bagel thing?”

“Oh!” said Helen, and added: Check social media.

“He’s careful to change his behavior up enough that he’d be hard to sabotage,” Phillip said. “But it’s possible that since he clearly knows we’re here, he might be trying to send a message.”

Helen added: Look for hidden signals.

“Okay,” she said. “Marta, you’re the best with technology. Do you want to do the checking for social media posts?” Marta nodded. “Phillip, I think you’re most likely to recognise coded messages. Do you want to try and look for those?” She glanced at him and blushed, presumably because the swell of pride he was feeling was plastered over his suddenly soft expression.

“Sounds good,” he said. 

“I’ll look into the news stories,” Helen said, “If, Jud, you’re willing to keep an ear out for local gossip and make sure we’re staying off the radar? People like telling you stuff.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jud said. “Do we have, like, a cover story?”

“Keep it simple,” Phillip said. “Old friends on vacation.” Jud gave him a thumbs up. 

“If you learn anything, come find me,” Helen said. “I’ll stay at the room in case you all need to move around. If we need to meet back up, I’ll just text anything in the group chat and we should meet up back here.”

“Youre really good at this,” Marta stage-whispered, and Helen blushed again. 

“A sound plan,” Phillip agreed. “Thank you, dear.”

“I’ll start with picking up some lunch and seeing if anyone is curious,” Jud said. “I’ll keep my ringer on.” 

“I’ll start looking,” Marta said. “I wish I could text my little sister. She knows social media better than I do.” 

“If it really is MI5, then we were not being overcautious by avoiding texting,” Phillip warned. “I’m going to reach out to some people from old cases here, see if anyone’s heard anything. Maybe I’ll run into a clue that way.” Helen and Marta nodded, already focused on their tasks. 

Phillip took a deep breath, then another. Progress. A way forward.

He pulled up the photo from the bagel shop and zoomed in on his husband. He’d clearly been performing deliberately, not caring if he lost Doris’s interest because he was actually fishing the crowd for someone who’d recognise him and take a photo. Leaving breadcrumbs when he couldn’t leave a note. But now, with sleep and food in his system, Phillip could see what he’d been missing before. 

He’d always been able to read Blanc like a book, from their very first encounter. Here there was fear in his stance, his shoulders held too square and his jaw half-tensed. And anger, visible in the way one hand was spread flat against the table like he had to stop himself from clenching it into a fist. 

He tapped one finger against his husband’s solid chest, which unhelpfully zoomed the photo back out. 

“We’re coming, my love,” he murmured. “We’re going to get you out of there.”

Chapter Text

“Here we are,” Agent Godwin said. They’d pulled up in front of a drab building that was truly simply a dull grey rectangular prism. Blanc gave it a quick overview. Medium to small windows, concrete walls, no obvious external fire escape systems. “Are you going to solve it from out here?”

“That would be embarrassing to you,” Blanc said, but he didn’t bother to put heat into the taunt. He could feel the pull of the mystery in front of him and it was taking real effort to be smart about this.

“Your assistant will be waiting inside.” That caught his attention, a shiver of discomfort up his spine. 

“My assistant?” 

“Yes, we’ve noticed you like to have someone to monologue to and we figured it was the best way to make sure you kept us in the loop.”

“An agent,” Blanc said flatly. “You do know I pick my… assistants… carefully, don’t you?” The word felt strange, both not enough and too specific. 

“Don’t worry, we chose someone non-threatening and competent,” Godwin said lightly, which made Blanc want to shake him. He resisted the impulse and sighed instead. 

“I suppose this is not a request.”

Godwin gave him another bright, too-sincere smile. 

“It is not.”

He let himself be led into the lobby, where a young woman in jeans and a hoodie was examining a notebook. She had dark hair down to her shoulders, large dark eyes, and was standing just a tad too still for it to read as natural. She glanced up at them and gave Blanc a shy smile that made him grimace. 

“Sir,” she said, and he grimaced more. He almost told her to call him Blanc, but decided at the last second some awkward distance between them was a good idea. He’d be less likely to get excited and tell her something he shouldn’t, which he was already dangerously liable to do.

“Ma’am,” he said instead, letting his drawl pull at the vowel. She smiled at him again, fleeting and practiced. He ignored the way it made his skin crawl and turned to Godwin. 

“Are you joining us for this little escapade?”

“No,” Godwin said. “I’m in charge of the retaliatory measures for when you prove a foreign power did this.”

“Got one in mind?”

“Well, he was the British ambassador to Russia. So…”

“Hm,” Blanc said. “Well, I’d say I would keep you in the loop, but I guess I don’t need to.” 

“Precisely,” Godwin said. He gave the woman across from them a tight smile. 

“Tori.” She gave him an easy smile back that failed to reach her eyes. 

“Always a pleasure, Agent Godwin,” she said. Godwin left the room and she sighed. 

“What a prick,” she muttered. Then she met Blanc’s eyes and offered a hand. “I’m Agent Williard. Nice to meet you, Detective Blanc. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I don’t shake hands with my captors,” Blanc said bluntly, turning away from her outstretched hand to stride toward the elevator. “Brief me on the way up.” If he offended her, she didn’t show it. She fell in step next to him, tucking her notebook against her jacket. 

“Ambassador Gareth Hopson disappeared from his office yesterday evening after an official dinner,” she said. “Within ten minutes of his disappearance, we had agents searching the building and the surroundings. Nobody found anything.”

“Circumstances of his disappearance?” Blanc asked, affecting disinterest. 

“I just arrived. They didn’t want to brief me and upset your method.” He scoffed. 

“How thoughtful,” he said. “Line up the witnesses. We’ll start with anyone who saw the victim when they were setting up this dinner or later.” 

“Yes, sir,” she said. He thought he hid his wince better that time. 

“What is your name?” Agent Williard said. 

“Isabella Fox,” the nervous woman in front of them said. She wrung her hands together and he noticed the dryness and cracking skin along the repetitive path of her worried motion. 

“Mrs. Fox asked to be interviewed first,” Agent Williard said casually, like she was discussing the weather. Blanc was begrudgingly impressed. 

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Fox?” he asked, leaning forward. She shot a nervous glance at Williard. 

“Who’s this?” she asked. 

“I’m Detective Blanc’s assistant," Williard said, her voice easy and soothing. “I got here just before he did. It sounded like the agents were giving you a hard time?”

“Yes,” Isabella said. “Yes, they seemed convinced I had abducted the poor Ambassador! I told them I left at the end of dinner, and the security tapes would show that, but they wouldn’t leave me alone.” 

“Tapes, hm?” Blanc said with a pointed look to his side. Williard nodded and ducked out of the room. 

“Listen, Mrs. Fox,” Blanc said. “I want to clear this matter up, but I’m not planning on jumping to any hasty conclusions. Could you answer just a few questions for me?”

“Sure,” Isabella said. She glanced at the door. “I just want to go home.” Something searing and bright flared in Blanc’s chest, and he quashed it before it could make it to his face. 

“I understand,” he said instead. “When did you arrive at Ambassador Hopson’s office?”

“Um, it was a small event. He was hosting the Russian ambassador to England and two of his attachés. I came at 16:00, and brought a cart of supplies.”

Williard slipped back into the room and nodded at him, taking her seat again. 

“Please continue, Mrs. Fox,” she said, when the woman hesitated. 

“I was setting everything up. The chefs gave specific instructions, so I was very focused on the steps.”

“What were those instructions?” Blanc asked. Isabella looked startled, than pleased. 

“I think you’re the first person to ask me that,” she said. “The gazpacho had to be chilled to a specific temperature. The herb oil was to be put on the right-hand side and the sliced bread on the left, but the bread wasn’t to be sliced until 30 minutes before so it didn’t go stale. The main course-“ 

“That’s sufficient for now,” Blanc said, interrupting her and watching her face carefully. “Thank you. Once you finished setting everything up, what time was it?” 

“16:54,” Isabella said promptly. “I was so relieved to have finished with six minutes to spare - I’d been watching the clock for the last half hour.”

“Anything unusual? Even the smallest detail might be important.”

Isabella furrowed her brow. 

“I asked the Ambassador if he wanted me to bring him anything else,” she said slowly. 

Blanc leaned forward. 

“Why? Did he seem unhappy with the food?”

“No, he was very charming. He usually is. No, I saw- yes, that’s right. I saw a lunchbox in his backpack, and thought maybe he hadn’t liked the sample menu we sent him.”

“Didn’t he approve it?” 

“His secretary did,” Isabella said. “Madeline. They’re supposed to clear it with the Ambassadors, but they’re so busy. We know about allergies and intolerances and that sort of thing, but sometimes there’s a mix up if the ambassador just doesn’t like something.”

“What did he say?”

“He smiled, and said it was perfectly fine. He told me not to worry.” Her voice had gone a little misty. “Do you think he’s alright?” 

“I hope so,” Blanc said, and found he didn’t have to fake the earnestness. “Did you stay for the dinner?” Isabella laughed, startled but real. 

“Hell no!” she said. “Me at an official function? No, there are sometimes specially-trained servers but they didn’t want any this time. For privacy. That’s why there’s no cameras in the meeting area or his office, you know.” Williard nodded a confirmation. 

“I came in after the guests left to clean up.”

“And what time was that?”

“Around… 17:45, maybe? I know they were faster than I’d expected. There was a broken coffee cup, but Ms. Snyders told me not to touch it. It wasn’t one of mine, anyway, it was from the office coffee machine.” 

“Ms. Snyders?” Blanc asked. 

“The Ambassador’s attaché,” Isabella said. “I think she took a picture of the broken cup. I guess she had to order another one.” 

“Then what?” 

“I picked up all the dishes and chafing trays and whatnot and loaded my cart. I walked back out, said goodnight to the guards, and headed out to the van. I was unloading everything into the van when agents grabbed me and brought me here.” She winced, biting at her lip. 

“They told me Mrs. Fox here was the only person to leave the office with a large enough object to have conceivably contained the ambassador,” Williard said. “That’s why they detained her right away. But they didn’t find anything out of the ordinary when they searched her van.”

“Okay,” Blanc said. “Mrs. Fox, thank you for your statement. I’m afraid I can’t release anyone until I know more, but I will work as fast as I can, so we can all go home.” She reached across the table and took his hand, and he met eyes filled with wild relief. 

“Thank you,” she said. “You actually listened to me. Thank you.” He gave her an uncomfortable nod, overly aware of its jerkiness, before Williard led her gently out of the room. 

“The videotapes cover only the hallway outside. There are no blind spots in that hallway, and the cameras have been checked to be working normally,” she said when she reentered. “They confirm that Mrs. Fox entered at 16:00, left at 16:55, and returned to her van to wait. She came back when summoned, entering at 17:46 to collect the dishes and re-exiting 8 minutes later.” She gave him a considering look. “Who’s next?”

“The secretary,” Blanc said. “Let’s hear about this so-called locked room.” 

The next woman who entered was in a sharp pantsuit, makeup drawn in crisp lines and heels clicking on the floor. 

“Madeline Vance. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Blanc,” she said, taking Blanc’s hand in a firm handshake and meeting his eyes. 

“Everyone seems to know who I am,” Blanc said cautiously, noticing she hadn’t so much as glanced at Williard. “Was there a memo?”

“Yes,” Madeline answered promptly. Blanc, having chosen that moment to take a sip of water, coughed. “Ah. I see. This is my assistant.” The phrase only tasted a little like ashes in his mouth. He took another sip of water. 

“Pleasure,” she said again, turning the force of her attention briefly to Williard and offering another firm handshake. Then her focus returned entirely to Blanc. It was somewhat unsettling. “What can I help you with?”

“Your boss is missing?” Blanc asked. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” she said. “We declared him missing to the British government yesterday at 19:09.” In his periphery, Williard nodded. 

“Please tell me about that evening, in as much detail as possible,” Blanc said. He felt a nearly-imperceptible sigh from Williard and squashed the feeling of amusement it garnered in him. Yes, this woman was likely to be extremely thorough. But he was not going to bond over it with his MI5-assigned babysitter. 

“I left the office at approximately 15:00 to schedule an appointment for Ms. Snyders with a public notary,” she said. “I believe there was a travel form that needed to be completed. I returned at 16:45, when we were due to have the pre-meal brief.”

“Due to..?” Blanc prompted. 

“Ms. Snyders was late,” Madeline said without dissembling. “She arrived at four minutes to the hour.”

“After the caterer had finished setting up?” Blanc asked. Madeline paused, then nodded. 

“That’s right,” she said. “The meal was mostly uneventful. Matters of policy were discussed only briefly, and the two Ambassadors were clearly attempting to keep the mood light. However, one of the Russian attachés became upset after eating. He gestured angrily and knocked a mug off the coffee table.” 

“The guards didn’t respond to that?” Blanc asked. 

“No,” Madeline said. “The office and dining areas are soundproofed by the counterespionage team. We have a silent alarm to press if necessary.”

“Did you press it?” 

“No. The Russian ambassador spoke firmly to his attaché, who then apologised. The event did not escalate further.”

“Then what?”

“The Russian delegation left somewhat hastily. I called Isabella and she came back to collect the dishes.”

“Did Mrs. Fox behave in any unusual way?” Williard gave him a look out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t say anything. Madeline was unphased. 

“Not to my recollection.”

As he’d suspected, she didn’t ask why he’d asked. Her position required professionally suppressed curiosity. 

“Then what?”

“The ambassador entered his office and asked not to be disturbed,” she said. “I left the office around 18:05. Per an email from the Ambassador, I filed a formal complaint against the attaché who broke the cup.”

“Was that unusual?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

Honestly, Blanc was surprised they’d made it this far without that answer. It still rankled.

“I returned a few minutes later, at around 18:10,” she said. Williard sat forward, eyes suddenly alight. He turned to her. 

“The security camera shows it was longer than that, Ms. Vance,” she said. “You didn’t return until 18:15.”

“My mistake,” Madeline said. She crossed her legs under the table. “Ms. Snyders was gone when I returned. I did some filing for a few minutes before I smelled something strange. 

“Strange how?” Blanc asked. 

“Like burning plastic,” Madeline said. “I went up to the door of the Ambassador’s office and it was stronger there. I knocked, and there was no answer. I tried the door, but it was locked. At this point I became alarmed, and rushed out to alert the guards stationed outside the door in the hallway.”

“Are there always guards there?”

“I’m not at liberty-“

“-to disclose, yeah, yeah,” Blanc said, waving an annoyed hand. “What happened next?”

“I nearly collided with Ms. Snyders in the doorway. I brought her and Graham inside with me.” 

“Graham is..?” 

“One of the two guards,” she said. “He and Earl have the evening shift.”

“All right.”

“Graham unlocked the door and we all went inside. The room smelled strongly of burning plastic. Ms. Snyders checked the microwave and found a melted Tupperware inside.” Blanc reached for his water again, taking a slow sip. 

“Hmm,” he said, instead of any of the things he wanted to say. “What was the state of the room?”

“It was pristine,” Madeline said. For the first time, some of the professionalism slipped out of her voice to reveal bafflement. “No papers out, the filing cabinets weren’t opened. We did an inventory… after, and nothing seemed to be missing.”

“So your Ambassador put some leftovers in the microwave and didn’t stop them heating in time because he vanished into thin air?” Williard asked. 

“The door was locked, and only the Ambassador has the key,” Madeline said. “There’s one window, and it was locked from inside like usual.”

“Not only the ambassador,” Blanc said. “After all, your guard Graham could get in.”

“He used an override key,” Madeline said. “Their location is tracked by the security system. Besides, even if Graham hacked the tracking, how could he get the ambassador out without Earl or the cameras seeing?”

“The silent alarm - is there a way to trigger it from within the Ambassador’s office?” Blanc asked. Madeline nodded. 

“Nothing,” she said. “They even tested to make sure it was working while they had us check if anything was missing.” Perhaps not entirely incurious, then. 

“Thank you,” Blanc said. “You’ve been most helpful.” 

“Of course. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” She was back to her perfectly scripted delivery. Blanc nodded at her as she left and wished privately that someone would yell or insult him soon. This polished professionalism was downright jarring. 

“Two witnesses down,” he said. “I make it four more to go.” He let his mind race off along potential paths until a sound forced his focus back to the small room. Agent Williard had knocked on the table to get his attention. 

What do you think?” she asked. “A real locked-door mystery?” 

Blanc raised an eyebrow. 

“I think we shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he said. She just smiled. 

“I knew it,” she said. 

Chapter Text

“There’s no photos online,” Marta said. “Nothing in his tags, including some of the more creative ones.” She was bouncing one leg, aware of it but not willing to use enough energy to stop. 

“Well, that tells us something,” Phillip said. “They want him to solve something. So if no one has seen him, not even his allies here, he’s somewhere obscure.”

“I might have something,” Helen replied. She’d been leaned against the headboard for a few hours, her neck at an angle she was likely to regret eventually. “Come look at this.”

They crowded around, Marta clambering onto the bed to get a good view. 

Diplomatic Talks Between Russian and UK Ambassadors Unexpectedly Postponed

“It says the talks took a long time to set up, and no one is sure what’s happening now.” Helen said. “They’ve been ‘unavoidably delayed’, apparently, and there’s no date for when they start again.” 

“That sounds big,” Phillip said. “It could just be politics, but if it’s a dead ambassador?” 

“Does it say where the talks were going to take place?” Marta asked, leaning forward so quickly she lost her balance. She had to catch herself with one hand on the headboard. Helen put a steadying hand on her shoulder and shot her an amused look. Marta narrowed her eyes back, then remembered the urgent task at hand. 

“It doesn’t say where,” Helen explained. 

“I know an ambassador,” Phillip said, slowly closing his eyes. “Oh, that’s going to be a rough conversation. But if she can tell us where the ambassador’s office is, that’s probably a good place to spot Blanc.” 

“Will it be okay? With the ambassador?” Helen asked. Her eyes had widened slightly at his unusual discomfort. 

“Yes, fine,” Phillip said awkwardly. Then: “She had a crush on Blanc during the three weeks we were stranded on an island with her and a murderer. I’m sure she’s over it by now.”

“What?” Marta yelped, in surprisingly perfect unison with Helen. 

“It wasn’t just us and the murderer,” Phillip added, unhelpfully. “There were twelve to start out with.” 

“You two lead the strangest life,” Marta said. “I thought our cases were maybe an exception, but it’s just like that all the time?”

Her phone buzzed and she flipped it over absent-mindlessly, still shaking her head. She stared at the text for one second too long.

Judd: Extra Pickles

“Uh-oh,” she said. “Uh, c’mon. Guys, we gotta go. Right now, we gotta go right now!”

“What’s wrong?” Phillip said, leaping to his feet as Helen shoved all their notes into a backpack. 

“Jud texted,” Marta said, adrenaline like fire in her veins. “C’mon, out the back. There’s a fire ladder off the balcony.” Phillip glanced back at their bags and few scattered belongings, grabbed his wallet off the table, and followed her out. Helen stopped just long enough to throw the deadbolt on the door and followed behind them.

Marta led the way down, swinging herself out on the ladder and clambering down. Her hand slipped, and for a fraction of a second it was the worst day of her life and she was falling off a trellis. Then Helen’s hand snapped closed around her wrist, anchoring her both literally and metaphorically. She regained her grip and kept climbing down. 

“Now what?” Helen hissed as they crouched in the tall grass behind the hotel.

“Jud must have heard something when he picked up lunch,” Marta said. “He was going to that Thai place. If he texted, the room is compromised so he wouldn’t come here. We should go to him.” She straightened for a second to peer up at the balcony. 

“It’s close,” Phillip said, phone out. “Ten minute walk.” 

“Should we leave the rental car?” Marta asked. There was a beat.

“That sounds like what a spy would do,” Phillip said uncertainly. “I’m not sure what it would do to my credit, though. Would I have to pay for the whole car?”

“And we have to get to London, presumably,” Helen added. Marta shrugged. 

“Let’s get the car, then,” she said. 

The three of them crept around the building, not spotting anyone behaving oddly (except for each other). Phillip pulled out of the parking lot, looking only mildly harried, and drove toward the restaurant. 

Helen was in the front seat, pouring over their notes. 

“I mean,” Marta said, the realisation trickling in with terrible surety. “If it’s really an intelligence agency we’re up against, they know we’re in the country because we used our passports for the flight. And they know which car we have, because we rented it on your card. I’m not sure why they haven’t stopped us yet, but even if we find Blanc I’m not sure what we’ll be able to do without the element of surprise.”

“Oh,” Phillip said, and took a single sharp breath in. “I know why they haven’t come after us. And why Blanc went with whoever showed up at our apartment without a fight.” He pulled into the restaurant parking lot and Jud, face calm and professional, got smoothly into the car. 

“Men in suits,” he said, voice low. “Strangers in town, asking people about us. The server said he didn’t tell them anything, and he didn’t like their look.”

“Hope you didn’t forget anything important,” Helen said. “We left our bags when we fled the hotel. We’ve got to rush to London.”

“Okay,” Jud replied, his easy-going calm soothing.

“It’s fine,” Phillip said, his voice still terribly steady and calm. The kind of calm that, in Marta’s experience of danger, spelled trouble on the horizon. “We can go pick up our stuff. They won’t bother us.”

“What?” Helen asked, turning sharply to face him. “These guys are dangerous, you know!” 

“Yes. Dangerous enough that he broke an old rule of his,” Phillip agreed. He put the turn signal on, turning back toward the hotel. “He’s actively solving a case for them. He’s doing it to protect us.”

The car fell silent. 

“Oh,” Jud said at last. It seemed to sum it up. “Should we… should we go home? Maybe if we’re not here, they’ll have less leverage over him.” 

“They’d never let us board the flight,” Phillip said, still eerily cool. “They wanted us here. That’s why they used the intermediary to lure him out, so he wouldn’t know it was MI5. If he had, he wouldn’t have left us clues.” 

“Okay,” Helen said. Her voice was shaky. “Then what do we do?”

“Get our stuff,” Phillip said. “Follow the plan. Get to him. We need to talk to him. And then we’ll do whatever he tells us to do, because I’ve put you all in terrible danger and-“ his voice broke, and he shook his head. “I shouldn’t have- he must be angry. I shouldn’t have dragged you kids into this.” He pulled back into the hotel parking lot, put the car into park, and let his head drift forward to rest against the wheel. 

“With all due respect,” Jud said. “That’s bullshit.” Marta felt a ghost of a smile cross her face. 

“Ransom tried to stab me,” she said. “If he hadn’t happened to grab a prop knife, he would have succeeded. Was it Blanc’s fault for not foreseeing the danger?”

“That’s not-“ Phillip started. Helen laughed. 

“Hell, he talked me into going to an island where somebody shot me,” she said. “If he’s mad at you for getting me arrested, the man is a hypocrite.”

Jud was staring at both of them. 

“I got… punched? And framed? We still need to do a complete rundown on each others’ cases sometime.”

“The point is,” Marta said, catching Phillip’s eye in the rear view mirror. “We’re not kids. This isn’t our first rodeo.”

“Yeah,” Helen said. “This is our second rodeo.” Jud snorted, but then reassumed the even demeanour he’d had when he got in the car.

“It’s a setback,” he said. “I hear you. And it’s terrifying to realize we’re being used against him. But we’ll figure something out. Because I’ll bet on one thing - whoever thinks they can keep Benoit Blanc on a leash to solve their mystery has been doing a shit-ton of underestimation.” 

“Two pep talks in twenty-four hours,” Phillip said with a weak laugh. “What would I do without you all?”

“You came up with the plan, though.” Helen said. “We get to Blanc. We talk to him. Then, we’ll figure this out. As a-“ She cut herself off. 

“Yeah,” Jud said firmly. “As a team.”

Chapter Text

“I got you a sandwich,” Williard said, setting a greasy bag on the table. Blanc barely glanced at it, fingers steepled in front of him.

The challenge in front of him was twofold:

He needed to find the solution to the mystery of the vanishing ambassador, but he needed to do so while keeping as much information as possible from his captors. On the other hand, if he didn’t appear to make progress, he risked MI5 deciding he needed more motivation. 

“It’s bacon and egg,” Williard said, nudging it closer to him. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I’m alright,” Blanc said. Williard rolled her eyes. 

“What, you think it’s poisoned?”

“Should I?” 

She huffed, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite. 

“How is it?” Blanc asked. 

“Excellent,” she said, putting it back on the wrapper.

“Good, you’ll enjoy it,” he said, standing and catching his chair as the sudden motion tipped it over. The fizz in his blood was the same as always, sending all other thoughts running for the hills. “You can eat and walk, right?” 

Williard picked the sandwich up off the table, taking another bite. 

“Company’s paying for your dinners,” she said around a mouth full of bacon. “They’re nicer than mine.”

“You can have all of ‘em, if you let me do my job,” Blanc said, throwing the door open. 

“Where are we going?” Williard asked, trailing after him. 

“A man vanishes from a locked, sealed room under guard..?” Blanc said. “We’re going to Houdini’s chamber.” 

She chuckled, moving to take the lead and turning toward the elevators. 

“I should have asked for tomatoes,” she said, tapping her lanyard against the reader outside the elevator. “So we’re skipping the rest of the interviews?”

“Let’s say we’re, uh, delaying ‘em,” Blanc hedged. “There’s still more we need to know, but I’m not sure it will do us any good until we’ve seen the scene of the crime, as it were.”

“Are you expecting to find something? We had our people look it over for any forensic evidence.” 

“Oh, good,” Blanc said, letting an edge creep into his voice. “I love when agents walk all over my scene, bagging evidence and letting a bunch of unfamiliar faces into the room.”

“You think someone came back to the scene of the crime?”

“I don’t know what I think yet. That is rather the purpose of this exercise.” He glanced at the elevator buttons, showing floors up to 20. There was no note about roof access, unsurprisingly. 

They stopped on the 17th floor, doors sliding open. 

“After you,” Blanc said, overly gallant. Williard gave him a sarcastic half-bow and strode out, glancing around the hallway.

Ahead of them, two guards were seated on either side of a beautiful unfinished wooden door. It seemed at odds with the rest of the building’s sleek modernity. Blanc checked his watch. Just past 19:00. Evening watch, perhaps. 

“Excuse me,” he said. “Are you Graham and Earl?” One guard, a scruffy-looking middle aged man in a suit, stood to greet them. 

“I’m Graham,” he said. “I guess you’re here to look around?”

“In a moment,” Blanc said. “This door here, it strikes me as unusual.” 

“Oh,” Graham said. “Yes, good eye, sir. The Ambassador had the door from his residence in Moscow shipped back when he returned for the talks.”

“I assume it underwent a security check?” Blanc said, rapping a knuckle against the wood. It made a solid-sounding thunk. 

“Of course, sir, an extremely thorough one. And the locks were replaced on arrival to accept the tracked master security keys.”

“The door to his study is the same?” Blanc asked. 

“Yes, sir. Well, it’s a different pattern, but the door is the same design.”

Blanc ran his fingers down the outside of the doorframe, tapping against where the hinges were presumably located. He slipped a pencil out of his pocket and crouched by the door. 

“May I have a page of your notebook?” he asked, holding his hand out behind him. Williard pressed a page into his hand, and he held it to the wood of the door. He shaded lightly with the pencil, just enough to get an impression of the wood grain. 

“What is he-“

“Don’t ask me,” Williard said, with exactly the right tone of exasperation, and the pencil caught and dragged as his hand clenched. 

“Fiddlesticks,” he muttered, tucking the pencil and paper back into his pocket. “All right, let’s go in.” 

Graham let them in, opening the door. Blanc paused on the threshold to locate the two cameras in the hallway, noting their positions.

“Detective,” Madeline said from inside, standing from her seat behind a desk. “Can I help you?” 

Blanc didn’t respond, now looking around the room from the doorway. There were two desks, both facing the door. The one to his left, where Madeline was standing, had a small coffee station next to it. Three matching mugs were set neatly to one side next to a bowl of sugar. The other desk had a set of locking fireproof filing cabinets behind it, and a nameplate that said ‘Attaché Juliet Snyders’. Behind Juliet’s desk, there was a small open space where armchairs were arranged around a low coffee table. 

“That’s where the dinner was set up?” Blanc asked, indicating the chairs. Madeline, unphased by his silence, nodded. 

“Yes,” she said. “The building staff bring the table and chairs up when there’s an event, and I arrange them.”

“Was there anything out of the ordinary with the table and chairs that you arranged that evening?” Blanc asked, leaving the doorframe to peer around the small space. Madeline didn’t reply right away. He glanced over to see her looking contemplative. 

“I don’t think so,” she said at last. 

“Hmm,” Blanc said. He turned sharply from the sitting area, moving to another unfinished wooden door centered between the desks. “This is the Ambassador’s office?” 

“Yes,” Madeline said. He pulled the pencil rubbing out of his pocket and compared it to the door. 

“What are you thinking, sir?” Williard asked. He visibly waffled for a second before ostensibly giving in. 

“Bit strange, to have a door from Russia in this office,” he said. “A door that was found locked from the inside. I’ve never been much of a gadget expert, but then I’m more of a whodunnit guy than an espionage one.” He met her gaze and she narrowed her eyes back at him the slightest amount in silent warning. 

“You think spies took the Ambassador?” Madeline asked, then ducked her head. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Blanc said, holding up a hand. “No apology necessary, Ms. Vance. I am considering all possibilities that could account for such a strange event.” She relaxed a little. 

“By the way, I see you are still missing a coffee mug,” he said, with an innocent smile. “Ms. Snyder didn’t order a replacement yet?” 

“Ms. Snyder doesn’t handle that sort of thing,” Madeline said quickly. “I ordered one this afternoon. But feel free to use one of the mugs there.”

“She doesn’t handle them?” Blanc asked, leaning on the coffee table thoughtfully. “Hm, well, that seems strange to me. If she didn’t need to replace the mug, and you were the one who filed the conduct report against the Russian attaché who broke it, why exactly did Ms. Snyder take a picture of the broken mug with her cell phone?” Madeline blinked. 

“Did she?” she asked. “I’m not sure. You’d have to ask her.”

“Ah,” Blanc said, waving a hand. Williard’s pen scratched against paper behind him. “It might be nothing. Is the office locked now?”

“No,” Madeline said, clearly glad to be moving into more familiar territory. “We’ve moved all the sensitive documents to proper storage sites, so you’re free to go in and look around.”

“Shall we?” he asked, and Williard frowned. 

“Why did you compare the wood grains?” she asked. Bait taken. 

“To see if these doors were as similar as they appeared to be,” he said. “I have my skills, but a photographic memory isn’t one of them. Here.” He pulled the paper back out of his pocket and handed it to her. “You hold onto that.”

She tucked it back into her notebook. 

Blanc led them into the room, ushering Madeline in with them and closing the door behind them. 

“There are a few kinds of solutions to puzzles like this in murder mysteries,” Blanc said.

“I read about this,” Williard said. “In The Hollow Man.”

“My, my, look who did their extra credit,” Blanc said, forcing a familiarity he did not feel into his tone. Where had she gotten that particular title from? “Why don’t you share with the class?”

“Well, the main thrust was that in most cases, the murderer was never actually in the locked room,” Williard said.

“Indeed,” Blanc said. “Sticking with only the cases presented in that book that actually involve foul play and not an accident or a disguised suicide, we come down to five options:

1. Something in the room compells the victim into an accident or suicide. 
2. A device, timed or triggered, is inside the room and not recognised when the room is examined. 
3. An agent outside the room kills the victim in such a way that it appears as if they were in the room.
4. The timeline is incorrect in some way: a victim was incorrectly assumed to be alive or dead, or something similar. 
5. The victim is not dead, merely incapacitated, and is killed by someone who responds to the apparent tragedy.

However, we run into a most vexing issue.”

“What issue?” Madeline asked. Her professional deadpan had cracked, and a familiar sort of morbid curiosity was peeking out from underneath. 

“For there to be no body, the murderer had to be in the locked room. All of these methods I just described assume the victim enters normally, encounters the guilty party’s plan, and leaves in a hearse. There are precious few ways that a remote device or outside agent could not just kill but entirely vanish Ambassador Hopson, especially without leaving any trace in the office.”

“Precious few?” Williard said. “So not none?” 

Blanc grimaced. “Well, there are a few truly preposterous ideas to rule out first,” he said. “Acid, properly controlled, can eventually dispose of a body but not in as short of a timeframe as we have and not without an almighty stink,” he grimaced, hand twitching reflexively toward his handkerchief. “Trust me.” He swallowed hard, started again. “Fire doesn’t completely disintegrate human remains even in a crematorium, so a disintegrating laser through the window seems unlikely for that (and other) reasons.” 

“Get to the less preposterous ideas,” Williard said. 

“There are some tricks that the author of that book leaves out, because he considers ‘em unsatisfying in the world of detective fiction. Things like: secret passageways, grand conspiracies, and an unreliable narrator.

This crime, for instance, is quite possible if all of the witnesses are in cahoots and friends with a skilled camera hacker, for instance.” Madeline raised an eyebrow. “Or, perhaps more likely, if there was a passageway in or out of this room. Or somewhere for the killer to hide themself & a body until people were swarming all over the crime scene and they could disappear.”

“The agents assured me they searched every inch of this place,” Williard said. “No secret passageways or bolt holes.”

“Makes sense,” Blanc admitted. “It’s a lot of work to build passageways, and usually quite noisy. Then the main possibility is this: the door wasn’t locked. Someone tampered with it.”

He glanced at Williard. “I want you to go talk to whoever assigns the staff who move the furniture. Get me the table and chairs that were in this room that night, and the staff who dropped them off and picked them up.

They are the people most likely to have been personally unobserved near the door. And while the agents initially assumed only Mrs. Fox’s catering cart was big enough to hold the ambassador, one of the armchairs could hold a body.”

Maybe in a few pieces.

Williard nodded, gave him a warning look, and headed off at speed. Blanc paced around the office, peering at the furniture. He opened the microwave and stared at the twisted thin plastic inside. 

“Ms. Vance. Does this look like you remember it?” Once again, she studied it for a moment before answering. 

“Yes, it’s the same.”

Interesting, Blanc thought. If it had been melting when she saw it, it should have changed shape. 

He had to plan this next part carefully, so there’d be nothing for any observer to brief Williard on. 

“Ms. Vance,” he said again, slipping a cigarette out. “Mind if I..?”

“Of course not,” Madeline said, a cut-crystal ashtray appearing in her hands as if by magic. “But if you don’t mind opening the window?”

“Of course,” Blanc said. “I didn’t realise they’d open. Bullet resistant glass is so dang heavy.” He walked over and flipped open the lock, running a quick finger around the perimeter of the window and then swinging it open a crack. It moved freely. He lit the cigarette, leaning on the windowsill. 

“Oh, it’s not the old glass,” Madeline said. Her fingers twitched slightly and he offered her a cigarette. She joined him at the window. “It’s some kind of new fancy polymer plastic with carbon-fiber, I think.”

“Kids these days,” Blanc said, heavy on the sarcasm, and she chuckled a little. He blew some smoke out the window and then did a double take. Across the street, handing out free bibles to passerby, was none other than Father Jud. He blinked, but the illusion remained stubbornly persistent.

They were here. But there was no way he’d get to them before Williard returned. He’d have to trust they’d find a way to contact him.

He still had a job to do. Continuing to make small talk with Madeline, he slipped one arm down over the sill and felt along the wall under the window. Two steel bolts were driven into the concrete, just enough to stand on. 

“What are you two up to?” Williard called, her tone light and teasing. Blanc crushed out his cigarette in the tray and Madeline followed suit. 

“Just killin’ time,” Blanc said. He swung the window shut and threw the sturdy locking bolt. 

“Meanwhile I’ve been running down our only lead,” she said. “Come along. I’ve been collecting furnishing staff for you.” 

Chapter Text

“This is a terrible plan,” Phillip said under his breath, pushing the stolen room service cart that had a whole lobster on top. He glared at the lobster like it was personally responsible.

Despite the seriousness of the occasion, Helen had to stifle a laugh. He looked, for a moment, as petulant as one of her students denied a sticker. 

“It’s your plan,” Marta said tinnily through the AirPod in Helen’s ear. Phillip waved an irritable hand that Marta couldn’t see. “There’s no security cameras, since they’re trying to keep him off grid. All you have to do is get by the guards and keep anyone from getting suspicious enough to remember you.”

Even over the low-quality connection, the tension in her voice was obvious. Marta and Jud had both objected to Helen and Phillip going in alone, but ultimately there was no way to be stealthy with such a large group and the two of them had the most experience pretending to be someone they weren’t. Plus there was Marta’s whole… issue… with lying.  

“Okay,” Phillip said, sighing. Then he shifted. Helen couldn’t think of any better word to describe it. His posture slumped, his face drooping into a much older appearance. He curled his shoulders under the hotel uniform, disguising their breadth, and cast his eyes awkwardly on the ground just in front of his feet. 

“Wow,” Helen said. She couldn’t match his performance, but she drew her own shoulders back and managed Excellent Posture. She forced herself to ignore the itching of her ill-fitting housekeeping uniform. 

“Nine thirty,” Marta said. “Let’s go.”

Helen took the two folded towels they’d borrowed from the same laundry bag as the uniforms and held them out in front of her. Moving briskly through the hallways, she dodged past tourists with bulky suitcases and bored-looking businessmen. 

She ducked into the stairwell for a second as two businessmen with suspiciously similar suits clicked by in very expensive shoes. 

“Crap!” she whispered. 

“What’s wrong?” Jud asked. She’d forgotten she had the group Signal call open, and she fumbled with her earbud for a second.

“Scary men in matching suits,” she hissed. “Hang on.”

The men turned at the corner and vanished from view, and Helen slipped back out. 

“I see the room,” she muttered. There was a do not disturb sign hanging from the door, which she pushed to one side as she wrapped a corner of the towel around the handle. With her other hand, she held the housekeeping master key in front of the scanner. 

“Housekeeping!” she called, and pushed the door open. 

This was the really risky part. They’d deliberately moved during the day when Blanc was most likely to be out on the case in the hope that MI5 wasn’t bothering to actively guard inside his room. 

The room looked empty, but Helen didn’t let the persona drop yet. 

“Hello?” she called. “Someone asked for more towels?”

No answer. Not even a rustle. She walked forward a few steps, glancing around the room. She set the towels down carefully on the top of the shoe rack. 

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’m inside.” She pulled a pair of rubber gloves out of her pocket, pulling them on. “Go.”

She checked around the small room for a tense few moments, then there was a knock at the door. A warbling older voice called out. 

“Room service!” 

Helen rushed to the door, opening it and stepping to one side. Phillip pushed the lobster-topped cart into the room, glancing side to side. 

“I don’t think they clocked either of us,” he said, shutting the door. He was frowning. 

“That’s good news, right?” Helen asked. 

“Their security is kind of lax,” he said. “If they’re putting him in danger with this case…”

“Focus,” Helen said, patting his shoulder. “They think no one knows he’s even here, remember? Except us. C’mon.” 

Phillip pulled out his own set of gloves and Helen began to actually look at the room itself instead of just scanning for agents.

A black leather bag was hung on the back of a chair, and she held it open with one hand. The adrenaline was surging in her bloodstream, and she wanted to toss the place so badly. Hunt for something, anything that would tell her where he was and if he was okay. 

Instead, she found it nearly empty. 

“His suits are in the closet,” Phillip muttered. He spoke quietly enough that she only heard him through the earpiece. “How long did you say he’s been here?” 

“Uh, the check-in email she forwarded said two nights,” Marta read. Blanc met Helen’s eyes and they both turned to the freshly-made bed. 

“No clean towels, no new mug,” Phillip said, jerking his chin at a coffee-stained cup next to her. “Housekeeping hasn’t been in here.”

Helen scanned the room. There was an armchair up next to the window. She moved over to it and knelt, pressing her gloved finger to a divot in the carpet. 

“He dragged the chair against that wall,” she said. Phillip bit his lip. 

“He’s probably napping in it, when he sleeps at all,” he said. “He’s worse about that when he’s on a case alone.” He reached out, brushed the back of his gloved hand against the leather bag. “Idiot,” he said softly. “Take care of yourself.”

“Okay, should we leave a note?” Jud prompted. 

“They might search the room before they let him in,” Marta reminded him. “We’ll have to-“

“There’s one here,” Helen said, picking up a piece of paper. The others went silent. 

“What does it say?” Jud asked. 

“It says… ‘pocketwatch in drawer’,” Helen read. She glanced at Phillip.

“Ah,” he said. “Open it. I expect it’s cash.”

She opened the desk drawer to find a stack of bills in mixed currencies. 

“It is,” she said. “What..?”

“It’s an old running joke we have,” Phillip explained. “When we first met, I’d sit and people-watch the crowds with him sometimes. Whenever he spotted a pickpocket, he’d say ‘pocket watch’, like ‘watch their pockets’. Eventually it became our shorthand for guarding valuables.”

“Where did it come from?” Helen asked, flipping through the variety of high-value bills. 

“It’s mostly gratuities from his jobs,” Phillip said. “He often works for free, but sometimes clients insist he take something. This is his bad-case stash. He’s giving it to us because he won’t have a chance to spend it. They must have him on a pretty tight leash. Or they’re just paying for everything to try and bribe him into cooperating.”

“So if we take it, he’ll know we were here?”

“Too obvious, I’m afraid,” he replied. He flipped through the bills quickly. “There’s only one bill in Australian dollars, if we take that one he’ll notice and they might not.”

“Speaking of,” Jud said. “We should wrap it up.” The crowd chatter on his end was rising. “I’m seeing activity here, so they might be moving him.”

“Got it,” Phillip said, taking the bill. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and added a quick sequence of squiggles to another bill.

“I asked him what we should do. Hopefully he finds a way to get back in touch, since it’s too risky to leave anything that will tie directly back to us.” Phillip sighed. “This is exhausting.”

“Save that energy,” Helen said with a grim smile. “You’ve got to get back into character.”

Chapter Text

Halfway through interviewing the staff who’d moved the furniture, Agent Williard got a call. 

“Excuse me,” she said, standing and walking over to the corner. Blanc and Mr. Adi Rusů, the current interviewee, watched her with matching looks of curiosity. 

“Williard,” she said, holding the phone to her ear. Her expression shuttered, dropping into a perfect deadpan. “Understood,” she said. “How long- I’m on my way. Yes, sir.” 

She hung up. 

“Mr. Rusů, would you mind excusing us?” Blanc said. “I think we’re finished here anyway.”

“Of course, sir,” he replied, standing hastily. “Thank you!” He practically bolted from the room. 

“Your impatience is scarin’ my witnesses,” Blanc said, stretching enough to make his spine pop. Williard didn’t rise to the bait, typing something on her phone. The screen was angled so that he couldn’t see anything, so he just folded his hands together and waited. 

“They caught someone in your hotel room,” she said at last. “I’m supposed to report there. I’m asking them what I’m supposed to do with you.”

“I will wait in the Ambassador’s office,” Blanc said, shoving his panic under as many case-related thoughts as he could manage. “I can look around to see if I missed anything. After all, it’s well-guarded.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in a room that one high-value target has already disappeared from,” Williard retorted. Without an audience, her delivery was clipped and professional. 

“Well, you could let me out onto the street,” Blanc said. “I could get us lunch. What’s the name of that sandwich place?” She raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Funny.” Then her phone dinged, and her gaze slid back to it. 

“They want me to leave you in the ambassador’s office,” she said slowly. 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Blanc replied.

“The fuck are they thinking?” she muttered, typing a response. The motion of her fingers was sharp and frenetic. 

“Does having a kind heart make you a good spy?” Blanc asked. Her head whipped up.

“What?” she asked sharply. 

“No, I don’t imagine it does,” Blanc said. His chest already ached. It didn’t seem quite fair, somehow, that she should look so abruptly lost. Well. She was young. “Listen, a word of advice?”

“Oh, this should be good.”

“Just because you're good at something, doesn’t make it the thing you’re good at.”

“You need more sleep,” she retorted. “You’re delirious.” He just chuckled.

Her phone buzzed again and she sighed, barely glancing at it before shoving it in the pocket of her jeans. “Seriously, you’re wearing the same shirt as yesterday. Did you even sleep?”

“I’ll have you know I changed,” Blanc said, laying on the faux-offense a bit thick. She didn’t smile.  

“You changed your jacket. It’s the same shirt. You can’t live on shitty hotel coffee alone.”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your concern,” Blanc said, just a touch of anger slipping past his self-control as over-enunciation.

“Your well-being is my concern,” she said, which tipped his anger from smouldering coals to wildfire. His hands very deliberately did not clench into fists.

“It is not!” he snapped. “Or you would let me talk to my husband and kids.” He forced a deep breath through uncooperative lungs. 

“Kids?”

“My productivity is your concern,” he continued, pretending not to hear. “While you are holding them hostage, don’t pretend to care about my well-being.”

“All right,” she held her hands up. “Don’t let it affect your productivity and I’ll leave it alone. We have to go.”

He managed to wrangle his temper again as the elevator ponderously descended to the basement to get them. Unfortunately, he needed her help.

He waited until they stepped into the elevator to take her phone out of her pocket. To her credit, she just watched him turn it off and hand it back to her.

“We alone?” he asked. She glanced around, then moved so the back of her head blocked his face from the security camera. 

“As far as they’ve told me,” she said. “Why?”

“Don’t trust anyone,” he said. “This took resources.”

“You suspect someone inside MI5?”

“I have eliminated no suspects.”

“Why are you telling me, then?”

He grimaced. 

“I’m hopin’ your kind heart is stronger than your training,” he said. “It’s a risky bet, but I’ve made riskier.”

“Whoever they caught in your hotel room…” she trailed off. “Blanc, they were probably there to kill you. It’s not my safety you should be worried about.” The elevator dinged. 

“-all the way up here to the nineteenth floor!” Blanc called out. He didn’t wink at her, because he was facing the camera, but he saw recognition in her face. She turned and smiled at the woman standing outside the elevator. 

“Ah, Ms. Snyders,” she said. “I have to step away for a moment, but this is Mr. Blanc. He’d like to ask you a few questions.” She handed him a small device. “He’ll just be recording the conversation for me, if you don’t mind.”

Juliet Snyders was dressed in impeccable business formal attire, the beauty of her dark skin accentuated by the contrast with her pale blouse. She had a striking gold necklace and a charming, easy smile. 

“Mr. Blanc, I’ve heard so much about you. Please come in.” She glanced at Williard, who was still hovering next to him.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll take good care of him.” She smiled again, lending her comment the air of a joke, but Williard frowned. 

“It’s fine,” Blanc said. “Go see who they’ve got.” At some point, the adrenaline coursing through his blood was going to leak onto his face and he needed her gone before then.

Thankfully, she finally turned and pushed the button to recall the elevator.

Blanc followed Ms. Snyders past the two guards at the door without any relief. He allowed himself to be settled into an armchair in the space behind her desk. 

“Coffee? Hot chocolate? Water?” she asked. From her desk across the room, Madeline half stood as if to leap to the coffee station. 

“Not for me, ma’am, thank you,” he said. “Feel free if you’d like one yourself.” He took his glasses out and settled them on his nose.

“Ah, you have four mugs again,” he observed. Juliet’s perfect smile froze for a second like a lagging video call, but then she nodded.

“Madeline keeps the whole office together,” she said. “We’d be short more than mugs without her.”

“Aha,” he said. “That’s good to hear. All right, shall we- Oh, yes,” He took out the recorder and started it. “I’m speaking with Ms. Juliet Snyders, ambassadorial attaché to the missing individual. Ms. Snyders, can you give me a complete rundown of the evening as best as you can remember it?”

“Starting when?” 

“Ms. Vance started at 15:00,” he suggested. Juliet nodded. 

“Yes,” she said. “That’s right. She left around then to get a form notarized for me. I stayed here, checking my email and catching up on filing for a couple hours. Then I stepped out to take a personal call.”

“I hope you’ll forgive my directness,” Blanc said. “But with whom did you speak?”

“My therapist,” Juliet said. “We had to reschedule an appointment.”

“Mmm, I see,” Blanc said. “Is your therapist particularly chatty? Because according to the security tapes, the two of you spoke for twelve minutes.”

“My schedule is complicated,” Juliet said, with only a flicker of hesitation. She was good. But, more importantly, she didn’t feel guilty. Whatever she was concealing, she thought she was doing the right thing. 

“I came back at five ‘til,” she said. Madeline and I helped direct the dinner preparations. The ambassador arrived just before the guests. The dinner went well, other than some ruffled feathers from another attaché. He took offence to the ambassador’s ‘purloined’ Russian doors.” Madeline nodded to herself at the desk, apparently now recalling the topic of the disagreement. 

“Do you recall speaking to Mrs. Fox around 17:45?” Blanc asked. Juliet frowned. 

“No, did I?” she said. “She came in to collect the dishes, that much I know.”

“Mmm. You left the office again while Madeline was out filing a complaint,” Blanc said. “Where did you go?” 

“I went outside to smoke a cigarette,” Juliet said. “I’m sure the cameras show that.”

“Then what?” 

“I came back around 18:17,” Juliet said. “I was talking briefly to Earl when Madeline ran out. We followed her into the room and she explained about the smell and the locked door. Earl opened the door with a key, and then we looked around. Madeline found the plastic in the microwave-“

“I thought you did?” Madeline interjected suddenly. There was a long, tense pause. The two women didn’t look at each other, both staring off into the middle distance as they tried to remember.

“Now I’m not sure,” Juliet said. 

“Ms. Vance?” Blanc asked. Madeline shook her head. 

“Me neither,” she said.

They both appeared genuine. Not for the first time, Blanc cursed the fallibility of human memory.

“Okay, so then what?”

“We couldn’t find the ambassador. Graham alerted building security and they conducted a search. About halfway through, we declared him missing at ten minutes past seven.”

“Near enough,” Blanc said. “Your stories all paint a consistent timeline, and the cameras confirm it. It makes no damn sense.” 

“You’re telling me,” Juliet said. “I’ve been spending every minute since then stalling inquiries about these talks that we worked so hard to set up. I’m worried that we’ll lose a chance to save lives.”

Blanc looked at her, full focus bent on her body language and expression. She meant that. She was genuinely upset at the idea of the talks failing, and furthermore seemed the most upset to see her boss missing. However, there was an undercurrent of nerves that he’d touched on twice. Once with the coffee mug and once with the personal phone call.

“Thank you,” he said. “That will conclude this interview.” He shut off the tape recorder. 

The phone on Juliet’s desk rang, and she gave him an apologetic look. He waved a permissive hand, settling back in his chair and trying to remember a breathing exercise. She answered and listened for a moment. 

“It’s for you,” she said, holding it out to him. “Secure line.”

Blanc took the phone in a hand he could no longer pretend wasn’t shaking. 

“Yes?” he said. 

“Someone from the talks wanted to know why they were stalled,” Williard said without preamble. “A known Russian agent was in your room looking for clues. We’ve set them free with a stern warning, which should hopefully buy us some goodwill and time for the talks, but it puts you in danger if they’re responsible.”

“Ah,” he said, focusing hard on keeping the tension in his body language instead of collapsing into the nearest chair in relief. His vision had been swimming with images of Jud, Marta, Helen, Phillip in custody. “I mean, that’s not good, but I’m almost always in a bit of danger when on a case. The truth can be unpopular, especially with killers. Are you coming back?”

“No, because I got another call,” she said. “They’ve found Ambassador Hopson’s body.”

“Found his body where?” Blanc said, watching Madeline and Juliet’s body language carefully. 

Madeline went pale, hand flying to her mouth in shock, but Juliet’s expression just froze into a worrying look of horror. 

“Dragged it out of the river,” Williard said. Blanc frowned. That didn’t make sense.

“That’s a clumsy way to dispose of a body that had already been expertly vanished,” he said. “Okay, we’ll talk more when you’re back. Do I have to stay here the whole time?”

“No,” Williard said. On her end of the line, he could hear shoes clicking across stone. “Godson is coming to drive you back to the hotel, which has been secured.”

“Lucky me,” he said, and she made a muffled sound which might have been a chuckle. “See you later, then.”

“Eat something,” she said, and immediately hung up. He set the phone back on the cradle. 

“I have to go,” he said. 

“Is it true? He’s dead?” Juliet asked. She’d moved to Madeline’s side, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

“I’m afraid so,” Blanc said. “Listen. Can I ask you a favor?”

His room was as drab and empty as he’d left it, though Godwin insisted on walking him in to check for intruders. The paper on his desk, his note to Phillip, caught his eye. The angle was a little skewed. As casually as he could manage, he meandered over to the desk and glanced down. Nothing on the note. 

“Find anyone?” he called, loud enough to cover the creak of the drawer as he opened it. 

“No,” Godwin said, sounding bored. “Almost done.” Blanc paged through the bills as fast as he could. One was missing, the only Australian one. The bill that had been underneath the missing one had faint scratches on it. 

Phillip had left him a note in Tolkien’s Elvish. Of course he had. He squinted at it, calling rusty skills into use. 

The children and I are here to help, the first line read. Chief Scott called and told Jud someone accessed her case file on Wicks. What should we do?

He restacked the money, closing the drawer slowly and carefully. He was still focused on that when he heard the sudden heavy footsteps behind him and felt the sting in his neck. 

He whirled around to see Godwin grinning, tossing a syringe to one side. 

“You have very inconvenient timing,” Blanc said, as his vision started to tilt and swirl. He grabbed the heavy lamp off his desk and Godwin stepped back out of reach. Ignoring him entirely, Blanc staggered to the window and clutched the curtains to stay upright. One hand slipped down the cord of the lamp to the switch. 

“You can’t get out that way,” Godwin said, amused. “Bulletproof glass.”

Blanc stumbled, his stomach lurching unpleasantly as his vision blurred out of usefulness. By feel alone, he pressed the cone of the lamp head to the glass. His numb fingers tightened on the switch. 

Click click click. 

Click. Click. Click. 

Click click click. 

“You bastard-“ Godwin snarled, lunging to rip the cord from the wall. Too late. 

As he slumped forward, the cool glass was oddly refreshing against his suddenly-flushed face.

Blanc’s racing mind had just enough time to hope that SOS wasn’t the last message he’d ever send to Phillip before the sleep he’d been avoiding crashed into him like a wave.  

Chapter Text

Jud and Marta were keeping an eye on the entrance to the office building Blanc was working in while Helen and Phillip watched the hotel room. 

“Anything?” Helen asked across their usual group call. Jud hummed a negative, smiling and handing another free Bible to someone. The volunteer group leader was only a few feet away from him, so he couldn’t respond verbally. 

The door to the building swung open fast, a woman coming out at a run and skidding to a stop. She looked out over the crowd of people on the street - the missionary group, a line at a food stall, pedestrians shuffling along the sidewalk. There was a wildness and panic to her expression that caught Jud’s eye.

“Is there a doctor here?!” she shouted, her voice carrying over the crowd. Jud glanced at Marta to see her already dodging through the crowd toward the woman. He handed his stack off to another volunteer and followed her, mumbling something incomprehensible about a break. 

By the time he re-emerged from the crowd, Marta had made it to the woman. He hurried over. 

“He just collapsed,” the woman was saying. “We called 9-9-9, but if you could-“ She was fidgeting with a gold necklace, worry tight around her eyes. 

“Of course,” Marta said. “Lead the way.” She noticed Jud. “This is my friend, he might be able to help.” Jud was in plain clothes, but the woman still gave him a strange look. 

“No offense, but I hope he doesn’t need a priest,” she said. “This way.” She led them inside, badging open the elevator and hitting the button for the 17th floor. 

“God, this elevator is so slow,” she muttered, bouncing her leg. Marta was digging in her backpack, pulling out pieces of her medical kit and stacking them in Jud’s arms. 

“Do you have defibrillators in the office?” she asked, as the floor ticked past 14. 

“No,” the woman replied. “They’re too expensive to maintain, apparently.” 

The doors slid open and she ran for a door at the end of the hallway. Jud and Marta ran after her. There were two chairs on either side of the door, both empty, and the door itself was already open. A man in a security uniform was sprawled on the floor inside, a woman and another guard kneeling beside him. 

“I found a doctor!” 

“I’m a nurse,” Marta said, kneeling next to the guard. Her hand went to his throat, and her shoulders relaxed a tiny bit. “He’s still alive. Pulse is ok.” She met the other guard’s eyes. 

“Can you run to the front door and wait for the ambulance?” she asked. “We needed a security key to come up, so maybe you could help them get here & give directions.” 

“Got it,” he said, jumping to his feet and sprinting off.

Jud wandered over behind the desk with the nameplate that said Madeline. There was a framed photograph of a young boy, smiling up at the camera. It looked like an old picture, weathered and worn. 

“Oh, with no guards here,” the new woman said, standing and stumbling back a step from the unconscious man. “The door.” She turned and pulled the door shut, which let it lock with a click. As soon as it did, both women relaxed. 

“I cannot believe that worked,” the woman with the gold chain said. 

Jud moved not-so-subtly to stand behind Marta’s back. She was listening to the guard’s breathing and frowning. 

“What’s going on?” Jud asked. 

“Oh, right,” the other woman said. “I’m Madeline, this is Juliet. Blanc asked us to meet with you.”

“What did you give him?” Marta asked, now closing gentle fingers around the man’s wrist and looking at her watch. 

“200mg of propofol,” Juliet said. “Is he sick? Godwin said it was safe.” She stumbled, catching herself on a desk. “Wait, was he not alive when he left? Oh, God. Oh God. Did I kill him? Please tell me I didn’t kill him.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Marta said. “He’s not allergic, and it doesn’t seem like his heart rate and breathing are dangerously low.” She stood and turned to face the woman, and Jud instinctively took a step back at the banked fury in her expression. “But you had no idea that was safe. Sedatives like that should only be given by professionals in medical environments. If something had gone wrong, he could have been dead before you got me up here.”

“Earl…” Madeline whispered, and Juliet shook her head. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, he said it was safe and I know I shouldn’t have trusted him after everything, I was just hoping- I was hoping there was some other explanation.” 

“You said Godwin said it was safe?” Jud asked “Who’s Godwin?” 

“Agent Godwin,” Juliet said. “He’s MI5, and I was helping him with a mission. Is he… is he stable? Can we talk?”

“One question,” Marta said. “And then you can tell us what happened. How did you know how to find us?”

“I only knew how to find you,” Juliet said. “Blanc said you were outside, you were a nurse, and that you’d answer if I asked for help.”

Marta sighed, taking a seat next to the man on the ground. 

“What happened?” she asked. 

Five minutes later, Jud was sitting in stunned silence when a sudden noise almost made him jump out of his seat.

“Morse code!” Helen shouted over the comms. “In the hotel window, that’s his room!” Jud fought back the urge to put one hand to the earbud in his ear. 

There was a click from the door, and then it opened to admit paramedics and the other guard that Marta had sent off.

“How is he?” he asked, moving immediately to his partner.

“I think he’ll be okay,” Marta said. She stepped aside to talk to the paramedics, 

“It’s an SOS,” Phillip said over the call, his voice hoarse. “I don’t- we need to follow him.”

Marta wrapped up her conversation and rejoined him. 

“What’s going on?” she whispered. She’d taken her earbud out to avoid it being seen by the guard & paramedics. 

“We have to go,” he whispered back. “Blanc’s in trouble. Well, more trouble. We have to get back before they move him so we can follow.”

“We have to go,” Jud said louder. “I’m sorry, please excuse us. I hope he’s okay.”

“Wait,” the guard said, holding out one hand. “We might need to ask you a few questions.”

Madeline appeared next to them.

“Oh, no, it’s so late already!” she said. “Graham, she has to get to her hospital for a surgery!” Marta hid a gag behind one hand. 

“Yep-we-gotta-go!” Jud blurted out, rushing all the worlds together and bolting for the door with Marta. No one moved to stop them, and after a second the doors to the elevator closed behind them. 

“We don’t need a key?” Jud asked, hitting the ground floor button. It lit up. 

“Uh,” Marta said, breathing shallowly. “Ugh. Apparently not. Fire code, probably?” The doors opened and they ran for the street.

The hotel they were keeping Blanc at was very close to the building, probably so there was less chance of anyone seeing him travelling in between. So it only took a few minutes before they were crossing the street to the neighbouring hotel they were staying at.

As they entered the lobby, Jud spotted Phillip and Helen walking purposefully toward them. Phillip caught his arm and spun him around. 

“Someone just took a suspiciously human-sized carpet roll out of the hotel,” he whispered in Jud’s ear. “He’s loading it into a van now. We’re going to follow him.”

“And then what?” Jud asked. “We’re not action heroes.” He was uncomfortably aware that out of the whole group, he had the most history with violence. Were they expecting him to go in swinging? They piled into the car. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Phillip said. His voice was shaky. “Blanc asked for help, from us, when he’s been trying so hard to keep us uninvolved. Something must have gone wrong.”

“Godwin,” Marta said. “He must have taken him.” A panel van pulled out from the parking lot, and Phillip’s eyes tracked it with a fervour Jud had never seen from him. He waited for painful long seconds, then pulled out after it. 

“I’m going to get him back,” he said. “We all are.”

Chapter Text

Blanc was trying to work, but his head didn’t feel right. His thoughts were sluggish and disjointed.

Dead eyes watched him.

A silent gallery, arranged around him like he was a lecturer on a stage. He was kneeling by a body, running his hands over the shirt, rifling through the pockets, looking for clues. He was trying not to look at the face, the wide open dead eyes that would be staring back at him. He was trying not to feel the coolness of the body under his hands. 

Dead eyes watched him. 

He couldn’t find anything (no EpiPen on Duke’s person), he couldn’t find anything (where was the damn tox report on Wicks?), and his eyes unbidden flicked up to the only place left to search. 

Dead eyes watched him.

It was Marta’s face, a knife buried in her kind heart. Helen’s face, warm humor erased as the bullet struck home. Jud’s face, creased in guilt and smeared with grave dirt. 

Phillip’s face. 

He jerked awake, disoriented and breathing hard. Something was hurting his wrists, blood trickling down one palm. The room was large, and his gaze darted around without coming into focus. Shadows everywhere. A warehouse? 

The cold pain at his wrists resolved itself all at once into the feeling of a pair of handcuffs, and his vision settled enough that the man across from him came into view. 

“There you are,” Godwin said with a smirk. There was a gun in his belt. “We’re back here. But now, you see the true shape of what you’re up against,”

Blanc forcibly took control of his breathing and rolled his eyes. 

“What I’m up against,” he huffed. “Yeah, I bet that’s how you like to think about this. Your wits against mine. Self-made men. Single combat. Am I getting close?” Godwin’s smile never wavered, but his eyes showed his sudden uncertainty. 

“You’ve never had a case like this,” he said, crossing his arms. “I committed the perfect crime and snuck it past the world’s greatest detective.” 

“An ego trip,” Blanc said flatly. In his periphery, dead eyes faded away. For now. “You set me on your own trail because you wanted bragging rights?” 

“I knew I could best you,” Godwin said. A smile spread slowly across his face - not crazed, just smug. “And I have.”

“You seem to labouring under several false assumptions,” Blanc said. “I’ll disabuse you of the most important one first - I have most certainly had a case like this.” Godwin blinked.

“Men like you are a dime a dozen,” Blanc continued. It was hard to not gesture, but the handcuffs still bit unpleasantly into his wrists. “You wear the trappings of civility like an ill-fittin’ suit and think yourself a wolf in sheep’s clothing. But you aren’t a wolf. Or a lion, because both of those animals know they rely on the pack. No, you’re just another man playin’ with the lives around you like scatterjacks, snatching up all you can hold.” Godwin spluttered. 

“But-“

“I don’t particularly care why, what wrong you imagine the whole of humanity has done you,” Blanc interrupted. “There’s always someone stirrin’ up hate, and always people desperate or cruel enough to fall for it. But your response to tragedy, real or imagined, is to inflict that suffering on the innocent. That’s no way of solving things.” 

“I don’t care what you think,” Godwin said. “Why should I care what some-“ 

“Careful, now,” Blanc said sharply. “I shouldn’t need to tell you that words have power. But here’s why you should care: nothing you build will last when you are building on bones and shifting sand. So you lie to everyone and sell them out the minute it’s convenient.

Oh, you can do some damage like that. You have victims enough already, scared or betrayed. People who trusted in the contract between humans that you think of as a weakness. But your work won’t endure. Because you willfully, woefully underestimate the people around you. Why should you care about a caterer, a secretary, a nurse, a teacher, a priest? Those are service jobs. Unlike you-” Blanc chuckled. “Unlike you, their jobs actually mean something.” 

Godwin stride forward, rage turning his usually elegant motion jerky and puppet-like, and slapped Blanc across the face. His ring scraped a raw line across Blanc’s jaw, and he waited a second for the ringing in his head to die down. 

“Wow,” he said. “You’re mighty brave when you have your opponent tied to a chair.” Godwin flushed. 

“You’re stalling,” he spat. “Lashing out because you’re embarrassed I fooled you.”

“Fooled me?” Blanc said with a laugh. “With a cheap trick, straight out of the novel you knew I recommended to Police Chief Scott during the Wicks investigation because for some ungodly reason she mentioned it in her report-“

“How do you know that?” Godwin said, voice tight. 

“Because she told me,” Blanc said. “You still don’t get it, do you? You think you’re on the winning side because you’ve collected all the power for yourself, led everyone to your game. But by putting yourself first, you put everyone else on the other team. You feel good about those odds?”

“She didn’t tell you,” Godwin said, ignoring his lecture. “You haven’t had contact with anyone. You don’t have your phone.”

“You put me in a building full of scared people and told them I was there to help,” Blanc said. He would not tell this man about Phillip helping him, not ever. “In what world have I not come into contact with anyone? No, wait, I’ll answer that for you. In a world where you don’t think of staff as people. I mean, honestly? For a spy, you’re not very good at information control.” Godwin flushed darker, stepping a few paces back. 

“Shut up,” he said, pulling out his pistol. “Or I’ll do more than slap you. Just tell me what you think happened. No tangents, no lectures.” He took the safety off with a click and levelled it at Blanc’s chest. Blanc heaved a sigh. 

“You had Ms. Snyder drug the ambassador’s coffee after dinner,” he said. “She thought she was helping MI5 catch a traitor, or some such cover story. You bribed the Russian attaché to break the mug after he’d drunk some, so the cup would be replaced and couldn’t be tested for anything if the investigation was quick to think of it. You paid him half up front and half after Ms. Snyder sent you photographic proof he’d done it, which Mrs. Fox observed her doing. You texted Ms. Vance from her estranged son’s number, hoping to draw her to a private location and away from the office, knowing she would lie to protect his identity if questioned and look suspicious. While the outside office was briefly empty, and Ambassador Hopson found himself chemically incapacitated, you rappelled from the roof and cut a hole in the bullet-proof plastic composite window with a handheld high-powered laser. You reached through, unlocked it, and climbed in. You put your extra harness on the Ambassador, prepared to swing out the window and make your great escape.”

Godwin’s hands were trembling on the gun, and the dead eyes were watching him.

“Here’s where it gets a little fuzzy,” Blanc said. “Something didn’t go according to plan. Your test rig was too well ventilated, or you were too dumb to test the laser cutter at all before your attack.” Godwin’s finger twitched on the trigger and Blanc suppressed his flinch. “Regardless, you could smell burning plastic. You knew that as soon as the secretary returned, she would smell it too, because the Ambassador had replaced the typical well-sealing office door with a wooden one that didn’t quite fit the frame. So you did what you could with what you had to hand - you took the leftovers from his desk and put them in the microwave. You set the time for an absurdly large number, perhaps even hoping it would add another layer of mystery to your crime - a man vanishing in the middle of microwaving his meal.”

“You could never prove those wild accusations,” Godwin said. “And anyway, the window was locked when help arrived.”

“Why don’t you take me to court and we’ll find out what I can prove. The locked window is easy - this is the part you stole from The Hollow Man. You pulled the old pane out, using leverage and the hole you’d cut in the middle to pry it out of the frame. You climbed out with the ambassador strapped to your back, leaving the microwave running. Then, standing on the two pegs outside the window to help you stay close against the building, you put a new pane in, sealing it with a similar-looking adhesive. It was still wet when I leaned out the window to smoke, since it’s been too cold and rainy outside for it to cure properly. It came off on my fingers.” He paused for Godwin’s latest interjection, but the man seemed to be struck dumb. 

“I assume you used some sort of fancy reel gadget on the roof to lower the two of you to the ground, but you might have climbed yourself.” Blanc said. “Either way, you had Ms. Snyders detach your rappelling setup from the roof while she was smoking up there, since you’d installed it out of view of the camera, and she dropped it down to you.” He took a deep breath. The world didn't seem like it was staying totally still, which was a little worrying. But he was almost done. “What I’m curious about is this: what happened that made you kill him? It made your mysterious murder much less mysterious, and his body turnin’ up really worked against your argument that the Russians had taken him, since they’d want him alive and talking.”

“He got out of his handcuffs,” Godwin said dully. “I couldn’t let him leave, but he wouldn’t stay put. I had no choice.” 

“Well, now,” Blanc said, and let his gaze go to a shifting patch of shadow. “We always have a choice, don’t we?”

Agent Williard stepped out of the shadows behind Godwin, her gun levelled at the other agent’s head. 

“Drop the weapon!” she snapped. “Now!” 

Godwin wavered for a moment, straightening his aim at Blanc. 

“Just give me an excuse to shoot you, you absolute bastard,” Williard snarled, her own stance perfect. 

With a clatter, Godwin dropped his gun. He raised his arms, and Williard quickly moved to cuff him, kicking the gun away.

“Blanc,” she said.

“Williard.”

“Pleasure seeing you here.” Her tone was stiff and businesslike. 

“You came for today’s sandwich, I assume,” Blanc said, and the corner of her lips twitched. 

“No time for lunch yet, I’m afraid,” she said. “But once I hand this arsehole over to the police, I have rather a lot of free time on my hands. I gave my notice on the way here.”

“They wanted you to bring him back to MI5, not the police,” Blanc guessed. 

“For retraining,” she said ominously. “But I think things are safer with him off the streets. I saw a car pull up as I came in, so I think your family is here to save you.” Blanc stared at her, then down at his disheveled suit and the blood splattered across his shirt from the still-dripping cut on his face. 

“Are you going to let me out?” he asked. Her hand dipped into Godwin’s pockets and she threw the keys at his feet. 

“No,” she said. “Too high a chance this slippery bastard gets loose. They’ve got you.” 

And, prisoner in hand, she vanished back into the warehouse. 

Chapter Text

Phillip crept up to the corner and peered around it into the main space of the warehouse. Behind him, Jud shifted his weight and Helen handed Marta a pepper spray that she definitely was not allowed to have here. Security must have missed it in her checked bag. 

It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dark. There was a chair. Blanc was in it, head slumped forward. 

He didn’t even realize he’d started moving until Jud’s strong grip closed on his arm. 

“It’s too exposed,” Marta was whispering furiously. “It could be a trap.”

His husband was right there. 

The others murmured for a second, Jud’s hand still firm on his forearm. 

Then they crept forward as a group, dragging him along. 

“Huh,” Jud said, pointing out a gun on the floor near the chair. 

Blanc’s head came up at the noise, his face half-shadowed.

“They’re gone,” he called. His voice was odd, some aching note beneath it. “She arrested him.” He let his head drop forward again.

Jud’s grip wavered and Phillip pulled himself free, striding toward into the faint light and toward him. The others followed after a second, light footsteps echoing off distant walls. 

He flinched when Blanc raised his head again. Blood was dripping down his chin from an angry red gash, staining the collar of his shirt. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were wide and wild. He was staring straight through them, shivering, wincing with each step Phillip took. It was that realisation that made Phillip stop, flinging his arm out to stop the others.

“Love!” he called, rocking on the balls of his feet to keep himself from approaching. “It’s just a dream!” Marta, backpack in hand, shifted uneasily. 

“Look at his pupils,” she said. “He’s been drugged recently. Probably the same propofol Godwin gave Juliet for the ambassador. I’d guess he woke up functional from adrenaline but crashed before we got here.”

Phillip could see Blanc’s eyes tracing across their bodies, reading the tension in their stances. It drew a worried crease across his brow. Phillip took a step forward and Blanc flinched.

Phillip froze.

“What do we do?” Jud whispered. 

“I can-“ Marta started hesitantly, and then Helen stepped past them. She was smiling, wide and real, her body language relaxed and easy. 

“Hi, friend,” she said, in a voice just a shade shy of upbeat. “You’re having a pretty bad day, huh?” She walked forward, drawing Blanc’s attention, but he just squinted at her in confusion. “He took your glasses, huh?” Helen asked. “It’s just us, Phillip and Marta and Jud and me.” She knelt in front of the chair, her hand coming down and picking up something with a clink. Keys?

“Andi?” Blanc asked, hesitant. Helen didn’t flinch, which must have cost her dearly, but smiled gently instead. 

“It’s okay,” she said. “We’re off the island. You don’t have to pretend anymore. We’re all safe.” A degree of tension eased out of Blanc’s shoulders. 

“Oh,” he said, and Phillip could see the gears turning. “We’re in London. Miles Bron is in prison.”

“Yep,” Helen said. “You know, it’s pretty impressive that you’re awake right now because someone gave you some really strong medicine. But it’s probably making you feel a little strange.” 

“I don’t want to sleep,” Blanc said sharply. “She’s always trying to get me to sleep.”

“Okay,” Helen said, holding up her hands in surrender. “Those handcuffs look uncomfortable. Can I take them off of you? I’ll have to go behind you, but I’ll keep talking so you know where I am.” 

“Yes, please,” Blanc said. Despite the childish confusion splashed across his face, uncharacteristic enough to make Phillip’s chest tight and painful, he seemed to be following the conversation. He didn’t flinch when Helen moved behind him, talking softly about the case, or when there was a click of a lock releasing. 

“There we go,” Helen said, averting her eyes from bloody sleeves. “I don’t think you’re badly hurt, but I’d like Marta to take a look since she’s a nurse.”

“I know she is,” Blanc said, a little snappishly, but then his gaze softened again. “I’m very proud of her.” Marta’s shoulders shook in some silent emotion, but she moved forward slowly and took his hands in hers.

“Let’s take a look,” she said.

Phillip was still standing there, frozen. Jud wrapped a warm arm around his waist. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “The meds will wear off soon. From what Marta was telling me and Juliet, this is basically like he just woke up from surgery.”

Marta was speaking gently with Blanc, her voice a little more panicked than Helen’s even tone but apparently not enough to rattle him further. She rolled up his sleeves, wiping blood off of bruised wrists, and spread some antibiotic on them before wrapping them in bandages. She reached up slowly for his face, turning it with one hand so she could get to the cut on his jaw, and he suddenly put his hand over hers.

“Oh,” he said suddenly, with a huge sigh of relief. “You’re all alive.” 

With a strangled half-sob, Phillip moved forward and pulled his husband against his chest. Blanc curled into him, wrapping one bandaged hand around the back of his head. 

“Bad dream, love,” Phillip mumbled. “It was just a dream.”

Blanc was sitting in the armchair by the hotel room door, dozing with a box of Pad Thai listing on his lap. Phillip, sitting on the bed with Jud, chuckled weakly. “When I said he needed food and sleep,” he stage-whispered. “I didn’t really mean simultaneously.” 

Helen snorted, taking her gaze of the episode of Murder She Wrote playing quietly on the television. On the other bed, Marta was also asleep, her head in Helen’s lap. 

“It’s been a long few days,” Helen said. “I can’t believe Christmas is tomorrow.” 

“Hell of a Teacher Voice you’ve got,” Phillip said. “I didn’t get a chance to say it at the time, but I bet your students would follow you anywhere.” Helen ducked her head, smiling. 

“The amount of calm I had to project when a kid brought me a snake to see that had its fangs in his arm?” she shuddered. “Kids, man. Their curiosity is… alarming.”

“I cannot relate,” Blanc mumbled, shifting and peering at the room. His glasses were askew on his nose. He picked up the takeout container and put it on the table, the motion pulling back his sleeve and exposing the bruises ringing his wrist. “My curiosity is clearly sedate and restrained.” 

“Yes,” Jud said. “You never bait suspects to see if they’ll punch you.”

“Nope,” Helen agreed. “Never wander into a nest of shitheads trying to solve a murder.”

“I’m glad we are all on the same page,” Blanc said smugly. Helen threw a balled-up straw wrapper at him and it stuck in his hair. 

“Very teacherly behavior,” he said solemnly, and she giggled. 

“What are we doing?” Marta asked, stirring. “Are we roasting Blanc?”

“Surely not,” Blanc said, stretching. 

“No,” Marta agreed. “We would never. You're too fragile and dramatic.” Helen put a hand to her throat in mock surprise. 

“I must clutch my pearls!” she cried, and they both dissolved into laughter. Blanc smiled at them so tenderly that Phillip was a little sad they didn’t see it.

Blanc stood, picking his way between suitcases and across the room. He dropped onto the bed next to Phillip, perching in the small space by his side and settling his head on his shoulder. 

“I’m okay,” he whispered, quiet enough that perhaps only Phillip heard it. He dropped a kiss on his head and rubbed his shoulder. 

There was a knock at the door. 

Everyone groaned. 

“I’ll get it,” Blanc said. 

“No!” everyone yelled simultaneously. Blanc shrank back down onto the bed. 

“If y’all feel so strongly about it,” he said. Phillip patted his knee reassuringly. 

“I got it,” Jud said. He stood and moved to the door, peering out the peephole. “Uh, it’s a scary lady in a suit.” Blanc jumped to his feet, ducking Phillip’s grab for his lapel, and met Jud at the door. 

He opened it. 

“What are you doing here, Williard?” he snapped. 

“Just following up,” she replied cooly. She tried to look over his shoulder. 

There was a brief but remarkable moment where Phillip watched his husband consider tackling an ex-MI5 agent to prevent her from seeing him. It was endearing and terrifying in equal measures, because everyone involved knew it wasn’t a fight Blanc would win. 

“Come in,” Blanc growled instead. “But you try anything with them-“

She held her hands up. 

“I’m out, remember? Plus, if anything, MI5 is scared of you now. You got one agent arrested, talked one into quitting, and exposed a source they didn’t even know they had in the Ambassador's office.” Blanc rolled his eyes, sitting heavily back on the armchair. Phillip didn’t miss the way Williard’s eyes tracked his bandaged jaw, the half-eaten food on the table. He didn’t think he’d imagined her relaxing, either. 

“Do you have it?” she asked. 

“Of course,” Blanc said. “I already delivered your little recording device to the police. My speech. His confession.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. 

“Good,” she said. “Good.” She opened them again. “Wait, did you give them your interview of Juliet too?”

Blanc pulled an exaggerated face of confusion. 

“I must have recorded over the first conversation,” he said. “This fiddly modern technology is so confusing.” She snorted.

“Laying it on a little thick,” she said. He stared back at her with wide-eyed innocence. “Okay. Well. This will be a hell of a court case.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Blanc said. “After I get my family home. We have a belated holiday to celebrate.” 

“Yes,” she said. She reached slowly into her pocket and withdrew a small wrapped box, which she set on the table. “Happy solstice.”

She stood and walked back to the door. 

“Williard,” Blanc called. She stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “Was it all just to get me to cooperate? Our little dance?”

“It makes you a good detective,” she said, nonsensically. Blanc furrowed his brow at her. “Your kind heart,” she said, and left. 

Chapter Text

Blanc hung his coat on the hook inside the door and glanced around their apartment. Things were almost, but not quite, where they belonged. There were traces of flour along the cracks of the countertop. 

“I do believe someone broke back in to clean our apartment,” he said with a sigh. 

Marta, slipping her shoes off at the doorway, hummed consideringly. 

“Is that thoughtful? Or just scarier?” she asked, passing him an armful of wrapped presents. Blanc shrugged, the presents jingling festively at the motion. He stared at them with mild consternation. 

“We need to upgrade the security system,” Phillip said with a yawn. He dropped his suitcase and Blanc’s bag on the office floor. Blanc resolved to deal with them later. “You should ask Norris. They passed along your message, by the way.”

“Oh, good,” Blanc said. “I hope they didn’t get in any trouble. MI5 had agents tailing me.”

“They texted when we came through their airport,” Phillip said, whisking the presents out of his arms so he could work on the snarled laces of his shoes. “All is well.”

“Anyone can feel free to help!” Helen called through the doorway, and Phillip and Marta both hastily reached through to unload casseroles from the stack in her arms. 

“Remind me why we have these?” Blanc asked, as Phillip cleared counter space. 

“Jud’s parishioners somehow found out where and when he’s celebrating Christmas,” Helen said. “Is this a tuna casserole?” She set it gingerly on the counter. 

“Someone drove down from Upstate New York on Boxing Day to hand-deliver him casseroles?” Phillip asked, stealing a spoonful of sweet potato casserole. “We should get him doing your publicity, Blanc.” 

“No, thank you,” Jud said, staggering in through the door with an enormous wrapped present. “What is this?”

“Who’s it to?” Marta asked, examining it. 

“Uhhh…” Jud had to crane his neck around to read the card. “Helen. From Blanc.” 

Blanc, who had just started to pour himself some whiskey, froze. His alarm was plastered incriminatingly across his face. 

“Uh,” he said. “In my defense, some of these things I acquired while still drugged.”

“Oh, this should be good,” Helen said, hanging her coat on the increasingly overfilled coat rack and flopping onto the couch.

“Scoot,” Marta said to Helen, perching next to her on the couch and tucking her feet under her leg. “Wow. That humid cold really sucks. I can’t feel my toes.”

“Sure, just use my thighs to warm them up,” Helen said, rolling her eyes. Marta gave her an admirable puppy-dog-eyed expression, which Blanc resolved to add to his repertoire of interrogation expressions.

“I’ll get a fire going,” Jud offered, ever the peacekeeper, and the women traded looks of mingled amusement and fondness. 

“You all seem cozy,” Blanc said, as Marta tossed Jud a lighter as he passed. Phillip handed Helen a glass of hot apple cider from the microwave.

“If you’re feeling left out,” Phillip said, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Don’t get kidnapped and miss all the bonding time next holiday.”

“Hardly my fault,” Blanc objected, tipping his head back to catch Phillip’s expression and trying out Marta’s puppy-dog-eyes. He waited until Phillip looked like he might be about to apologize and then grinned. “After all, if I hadn’t gotten kidnapped, you all might never have grown so close.” Phillip groaned but kissed him on the forehead anyway. 

“You,” he said. “Are ridiculous. Sit down and open your presents.”

He steered Blanc to the other couch and pushed him firmly into his seat. 

“Yes, you go first,” Helen said.

“No, giant drug-induced present first,” he said, and she laughed. She got up, ducking Marta’s half-hearted attack with a pillow, and approached the giant present. 

“Someone hand me a knife,” she said. “I’m going in.”

Three layers of wrapping paper and a cardboard box later, the room was in howls of laughter. Even Blanc, still faithfully trying to defend his purchase, had to wipe some tears of mirth from his eyes. 

“Why??” Helen half-shouted, throwing a thirteenth stuffed Big Ben on the ground. “Blanc!” She dissolved into laughter, sticking her entire torso into the box. “There’s so many!” she yelled, muffled this time. 

“It’s-“ he had to break off to laugh again. “They’re for your students.”

“What?” she pulled her head out of the box, holding another stuffed clocktower in each hand. 

“I thought, you, I thought-“ She tried to balance the new additions onto her pyramid, sending the whole thing scattering to the ground, which set everyone off into another round of helpless laughter. Jud was actively wheezing. Blanc tried to pull himself together. “I thought- are you all right, son? I thought you could give one to each kid when you told them where you went for solstice. Christmas. Whichever.” Phillip was laughing so hard he’d tipped over his wineglass, which was now perilously close to staining the couch. Well, it wasn’t like anything in here’d ever had a spotless look to it.

“But then-“ Blanc couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. The memory of being so chemically disoriented was unpleasant in its own right, but he had left his future self quite a gift. He paused for a second to look over the flushed, crying-with-laughter faces of his family. “I couldn’t remember how many kids are in a third grade class.” Helen gasped. 

“How many did you order?” she asked, fumbling for the packing slip. 

“Well, I didn’t want to get too few,” Blanc said, right as she made a choked sound. 

“FIFTY?” 

Blanc waved a dismissive hand, which set them all off on another round of cackling, and took a sip of his whiskey. 

Eventually, they all started to calm down, only occasionally relapsing into giggles. 

“What’s next?”

“Oh, I was curious about this one,” Phillip said, and put a tiny box into Blanc’s hand. “From Williard. Who 100% hacked her way into my digital eVite I sent you all for the solstice party, by the way. Norris sent me the access log.”

“Hm,” Blanc said. “Intruigin’, certainly.” The others sat up, curiosity wiping the amusement from their faces as they all leaned in. Jud even put his hand on Phillip’s shoulder to lean over him, though Blanc let his eye skim across the detail like you would with a skittish cat. 

He unwrapped the box. 

Inside, there were two folded slips of paper and a USB drive. 

The first piece of paper was his pencil rubbing of the wood grain of the Russian doors. On the back, in red pen, Williard had drawn a surprisingly lifelike herring. Blanc chuckled. 

The other piece of paper was a note. 

“Read it?” Phillip asked, squinting at it over his shoulder. 

“Ahem,” he said, flicking the paper open with flair, and had the privilege to see his kids each roll their eyes as Phillip beamed. “It says:

Mr. Blanc,

Enclosed, you will find a small token of my appreciation for your efforts in resolving the mystery. Perhaps someday we can meet again in more favourable circumstances, and you can fill me in on the process of deduction you used for certain details. No hurry. 

Mrs. Fox has safely returned home, and said to tell you she is mailing you a pudding. I have no idea if it will make it through customs. Doris and her son are also doing better. It seems her son found a winning Lotto ticket on the street and they’ve come into a small bit of extra money that he put aside for counselling. Graham also reports that Earl has made a full recovery and hates hospital food. He’s also been offered a generous early retirement package.

It was an honor to meet your family. I see they all have your heart. 

-Tori

P.S. Please forward fruit basket recommendations for your friend, Norris and pass along my apologies. 

“So…” Jud said, into the quiet that followed the reading. “What’s on the drive?”

“It would be funny if it was a computer virus,” Marta said. Helen gave her a sidelong look. 

“Don’t tempt fate,” she chided. 

“Uh, I suppose we can plug it into the old tower computer?” Blanc said. “I’m not certain it would be wise to use my laptop.” 

Which is how he ended up in an office chair, four people trying to occupy the exact same space as him, staring at a PDF copy of an official-looking memo. 

To whom it may concern:

I officially tender my resignation from the company. The unchecked and egregious behavior of a high-ranking leader has made me question our ethical standards. I will be in touch with details. 

Relatedly, if anyone feels a need to follow up with subject Argus, please know I have created a detailed press release with interviews and photographic evidence of how he came to contract for us. This package will arrive in the hands of several reliable contacts of mine in the international press if the company takes further action. 

Thank you.

“Did she.. blackmail MI5 to stop them ever kidnapping you again?” Jud asked slowly. 

“Well, I did solve the case,” Blanc replied. “There are some in their number who probably considered it a success.” 

“We should get her something nice,” Phillip mused, throwing an arm over Blanc’s shoulder as they retreated back to the sitting room. “What do you get a very-recently-former spy?”

“It’s Jud turn to open a present,” Helen said solemnly. “I think we should wrap all the casseroles in tin foil and make him open them one at a time.”

“Then I’m wrapping all your clocks,” Jud retorted, then looked surprised at himself. 

“Aha! He does banter!” Helen said, high-fiving Marta. 

The three of them descended on the pile of presents, picking through and pointing out nametags, and Blanc fell back to lean against Phillip in the kitchen. 

“Eggnog?” Phillip asked, holding up a nutmeg grater. 

“No, thanks, I’m okay,” Blanc said, calm and warm. “I already have everything I need.”