He drives her home. By now he's gotten the driver routine down and he wants to enjoy the moment: from a social security number to this woman, still alive, a small smile on her face visible in the rear-view mirror.

She already has her cell phone out. "I've decided who to send the trial data to," Zoe tells him. "He's a good reporter. Someone I trust." Another someone who owes her a favor, John thinks.

He evaluates his bruises: a few from this morning. Lawson's driver hadn't expected him and Lawson himself put up little resistance. He's still sore from when Douglas roughed him up putting the cuffs on him, but nothing serious.

John looks at Zoe in the mirror again; she looks unhurt, looks like she's regaining her equanimity. She catches his glance; this time she doesn't say anything, just watches him. He smiles, then turns on the jazz track he played before when she told him that she hated jazz.

Arriving at her home, he opens her car door. She steps out; instead of giving him orders or hurrying to her next destination, she stands there for a moment. Sunlight filters through the leaves as they lean against the car.

"Shall I see you to your door, Ms. Morgan?" he asks.

"I've been seeing myself to my own door for a very long time," she says. Her eyes catch his and she doesn't say anything for a moment. "I want you to hear something, though. If you have some time, that is."

"Of course," he tells her.

Her expressive face had a look of doubt for a second-whether at his response or simply at him, he doesn't know. He follows her up the stairs and inside, sitting on the sofa at her invitation.

"You were right," she says as she walks across her living room to a turntable. "Miles is my favorite. But he's too... distant for now." She opens a cabinet, takes out a record and slips the vinyl out of the sleeve. She turns to look at him and says, "I want to feel alive. So-" She holds up the sleeve for him to see.

"Dizzy Gillespie," John reads.

"Yes," she says, looking younger and vulnerable for a split second. Turning again, she puts the record on the turntable. First the trumpet, then the bass... not a tune John recognizes.

She sits next to him on the sofa, closing her eyes for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she slips off her leather jacket, then sits and listens. The tune develops a playful rhythm, bass and cello sounding out a chase.

After a couple of minutes she stands again and pours a glass of whiskey. "I don't know if you drink, but I think we deserve something." She raises an eyebrow in his direction; he nods his head and she brings him a glass as well.

"This was probably an ordinary workday for you," she says.

"More or less."

"So how is it that you're giving me job advice?" Zoe's expression makes it clear that his earlier comment still bothers her.

"All I said was that you might consider a new line of work," he tells her.

"Oh, I remember what you said," she replies quickly. She looks like she might say something else, but doesn't. Instead she looks at him, the same evaluating look she had as they broke into the Virtanen building. Like she's trying to classify him as an asset or liability.

The record starts to play another song; this one he recognizes, though he can't name it. Zoe stands up and puts out her hand. "Dance with me," she orders.

Either he's too used to following orders or too tempted by the challenge in her voice; he stands and takes her hand, then starts to move with her, taking advantage of the sparse decor to move them around her living room.

"You can tell a lot about a person by how they dance," she tells him.

"So what are you learning about me?"

"That you like to dance, but it's been a long time since you've tried it," she answers him.

He spins her once, then says, "You're just guessing."

"Yes, but I guessed right, didn't I?"

It is the first time he's danced since... since a very long time. He feels the light bruises of his own body as he moves, feels the fragility and strength of hers under his fingers, smells the whiskey and her perfume.

Jessica liked to dance. He doesn't let that memory linger; instead he lets the music dictate their steps, finally coming to a flourish next to her coffee table.

She doesn't let go of his hand. "Maybe I can call on you tomorrow night," she says. Her tone is as playful as Zoe gets; the same tone she used when she suggested breaking and entering.

"Maybe. If I don't have other obligations."

Zoe smiles. "Maybe you can leave your imaginary friend behind." She traces one finger up his cheek, close to the ear with the earpiece.

He smiles back. "Maybe," he tells her.

He means yes.