Bree took the picture, and Ethan turned away from her. And, even as he took his first step, he did his best to ignore the numbers that told him there was no way he was going to be able to just leave like that. The human mind was fickle. If he timed it just right, maybe...

But then she called to him, begged him to stay, and he found his feet halting, and then turning him back towards her. He listened to her words numbly, and the numbers concurred with everything she said. In his mind he saw an imaginary clock, ticking away to the almost unavoidable deadline for the boy’s death. A deadline that Bree didn’t even know about. And he was just going to walk away, and leave that little boy to rot?

Finally the situation ripped a hole in his emotional barrier, and everything came slipping out. It let out the sadness, and the pity, but it also let out the flood of indignation against Bree that had built up while she was talking, and that was what had to come out first.

“Have you gone mad?” Ethan spat, only barely managing to keep his voice in check so as to not draw the attention of passersby. “What are you going to do, waltz me into the FBI office and say ‘Here! This man, who we just went to a whole lot of effort to prove is completely unconnected to the mob, can help us find Jacob. I can’t tell you how, but I promise he can.’ Or, even better yet, ‘He’s psychic,’ or whatever term you want to use, ‘and can direct us right to the doorstep where the kid’s being held’?

“You are asking me to destroy my alibi with the American government, throw away everything I’ve built and everything I love, risk getting imprisoned, or worse, captured and studied to find out how my brain works, all because the FBI is incapable of doing its job!”