Harold sat on the bench in the park, watching John Reese walk down Grace's front steps, and wondered why he wasn't angry.

He should be. He'd been known to bite Reese's head off for far less than this. Of course, by now he was used to the fact that his associate was insatiably curious about him, and harbored no qualms about indulging his curiosity. To some extent, Harold had made his peace with this. It was an unalterable fact of their relationship, and the price he paid for their association.

But to track down Grace . . .

Harold shifted restlessly on his bench. At some point, he was aware, he had begun to think of John Reese as a friend. But this . . . this wasn't the act of a friend. Nathan had never pried into his secrets—never with such single-minded determination, anyway. He'd given up after a few halfhearted attempts, and learned to respect Harold's carefully guarded privacy. Why couldn't John do that?

Because John cared enough to find out.

The thought pierced him like a knife, so sharp and sudden he actually flinched. No! He was horrified at himself for letting the idea into his mind, even for an instant. It was disloyal to Nathan, and disrespectful to his memory, and . . . and there weren't even words for how wrong it was.

Shoving the thought violently away, he got up and walked over to meet John. He was tired, that was all. Tired, and aching, and emotional from seeing Grace across the park. His heart was still pounding from that glimpse of her. No wonder he was having strange thoughts and feelings.

But as he glanced over at his uncharacteristically subdued associate, he realized that he still couldn't bring himself to feel angry.