+18 eps. 17-21 - After a hard case that takes the team to DC in order to catch a blackhat and prevent a bombing, all hell breaks loose on their return to Boston , when the ghost of the Libra killer comes back to torture Brock seven years after the m...
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Gillian and Connor hardly stopped to take off their clothes before collapsing on their beds, asleep the moment their heads hit their pillows. But she found no comfort in her dreams. The shadow of what that mad blackhat might be planning leaked into her dreams, stirring disturbing memories from the Wood case and the bomb at the bank, when Ron almost died. And those got mixed with hazy images from Orlando's, Phil Palmer's body covered in blood among the smoking rubble, King Gillian's arrogant smile as he ordered SWAT to open fire.
Struggling out of those upsetting dreams, she curled up under the covers. The crowd of first responders outside the blasted bank, expecting answers from her. The hostages lined up before the shop window, expecting her to get them out of there alive. And she felt so helpless and vulnerable, so scared. Who would give her answers? Who would get her out alive? Halfway between slumber and wakefulness, her sense memory recalled a subtle scent. It wrapped her in a soothing certainty that brought tears to her eyes.
Yes, she knew the answer to her questions. The caring silence, always watchful. The broody understanding, always distant. The embrace that could become the safest place of the universe when everything fell apart around her.
She threw her arm across the pillow to pull it closer. To sink her face in it and muffle the shaky sigh that parted her lips.
Dammit. She would've so needed the stupid bitter man around.
She didn't try to go back to sleep. She just lingered in bed, letting her body have the rest her mind wasn't about to get. She got up an hour later, took a long shower and tiptoed downstairs. She could very well get started with all the things she needed to get ready for Connor's pizza party that night. At least that would keep her distracted, and not only from her bad dreams.
Russell came at five, and Tanya a few minutes later. While Connor fought a fair battle to get up and join them, they started kneading as they commented on the case. Tanya had been checking the companies the Ghost had attacked, but they kept no digital records of rejected applications.
"We're gonna need to talk to their Human Resources offices," said Russell. "If you and Brock are right, he must've applied more than once, and try to get an interview by all means. Maybe somebody remembers something."
"Yeah, well, we're a little tight on time for that," Gillian replied. "First we need to stop his crazy plan."
Connor finally found his way downstairs and joined them.
His best friends, Tim and Mike, arrived at six and were put into slave-labor, setting tables and chairs and glasses, until the rest of the guests started ringing the bell, about seven.
Banks and Taylor came then, with Banks' older daughter, Angeles, who had become a fifteen-year-old Hispanic beauty overnight—or so her father insisted to believe. All the boys trailed off when Connor escorted her out to the backyard, and Banks let out a heartfelt sigh that made Gillian and the others laugh.
