It took Ethan more than a day after his unexpected encounter with Bree to fully calm down. At times his anger and frustration would fade, but then some small, seemingly random event would remind him of what had happened, and he would feel his fury rise again. In that the numbers proved to be far more of a hindrance than a help, for more often than not they were the things that would remind him of what had happened. But, as is the nature of all emotions, it couldn’t last forever. He did eventually calm down.

Where the rage had been before, now there was just an emptiness. It was neither hot nor cold, it didn't hurt or feel particularly good. It was simply the absence of something that had once been there, and it left Ethan feeling drained. That morning, two days after he had met Bree, he lay in the hotel bed that was just slightly too hard to be comfortable and waited for the energy to convince himself to get up. When it finally came he left the house in a hurry, walking down the block with his hands shoved deep in his pockets to protect them from the cold sea air, to a respected breakfast diner a couple blocks down the street. He ate the food slowly, savoring every bite, and waited for it to fill up the empty feeling in his gut.

God damn her for making him feel this way. He had done nothing wrong. She was the one who had gotten furious the moment he expressed even a hint of reluctance at ruining everything about his life. She was the one who had stormed away before he had even had a chance to respond.

No. He didn’t want to be thinking about this again. He was done thinking about Brigit Walsh. 

Once more, the numbers became a hindrance. He could redirect his thoughts, focus on the city, on trying to find a casino that hadn’t been given his description and would give him a place to forget things for the night, but the numbers couldn’t be distracted. He would push the numbers away, from Bree, from the little boy, from his family, from the people who were threatening them, but the moment he stopped trying they would flit back to that, to the matter that had become ingrained in his subconscious.

All he wanted to do was forget. But his own mind wouldn’t let him. 

The next morning, the third day, Ethan noticed something in the ever-persistent numbers. The boy’s chances of surviving had gone up. He felt a sense of relief flood through him suddenly, and he nearly rolled back over and went to sleep. See? Bree hadn’t needed him after all. They would find the boy.

Except... they wouldn’t. The chance that they would find the boy hadn’t changed to match the the increased chances of the boy’s survival. Was that even possible?

He checked the numbers again, wondering if he had misinterpreted them in the foggy state between sleeping and waking. Maybe he had just dreamed it. But he hadn’t. For some unknown reason, and it certainly wasn’t that the boy’s captors had suddenly gained a conscience, the chance that the child was going to survive beyond that arbitrary deadline in five day’s time had risen. What was he missing?

Once more, Ethan lay in bed as the hours of the morning rolled slowly on towards midday. But this time he wasn’t moping. He was thinking. Ethan stared blankly at the ceiling as the numbers flitted before his eyes, moving so fast that they were nearly a blur, even to him. He knew that it was growing more and more probable that in five days time the organization was going to get what they wanted, and they were going to let the child go. It was good business. Somehow, somewhere, at some point, these people had let someone know something that would keep the boy alive.

It didn’t take long for the numbers to confirm that a member of the boy’s family had the key to his salvation. Only a split second later, and Ethan knew it was the boy’s father.

So the morning and the day went, with his body hardly moving an inch even as his brain raced on. Slowly he began to put together the pieces. The father knew something about the organization, and rather than holding his silence he had decided to testify. When they had found out they had decided to clean things up. They hadn’t been able to get at the father before he had entered into witness protection, but they had grabbed the children on their way home from school, only a few minutes away from the safety of the FBI.

Ethan ordered room service for lunch, and he ate mechanically, not tasting what he put in his mouth. Now that Ethan had committed himself to finding the details, he wasn’t going to stop until he understood everything. As soon as the plate was clear he stood up and began to pace around the room.

It wasn’t until late evening that he was finally able to find the last piece. There was no way for the mob to get at the father as long as he was in witness protection, and as long as he was alive there was a chance for him to testify. If they couldn’t kill him, they would have to get him to kill himself. The survival of the boy was contingent on his father committing suicide, and the closer it got to the deadline the closer the father got to committing the act.

Shocked, weary, and with a migraine reminiscent of the one from his trip down the river in Oregon, Ethan fell into bed and slept nearly twelve hours.

Ethan woke to the sound of a fly buzzing around his empty food plate and sunlight streaming through the closed curtains. As soon as he was awake, Ethan’s thoughts went back to the mob, the boy, and his father’s pending suicide.

It wasn’t as though this was the first piece of experience Ethan had with a mob wanting to kill someone who could testify against them. That had, after all, been the reason that the FBI had come after Victor.

And, in that moment, the numbers spat another shock at him. It was something he would have known if he had been paying attention, but the rage of his fight against Bree had washed the significance of one poignant sentence away. This was the same mob that had come after Victor. If he hadn’t died to allow Ethan’s escape, the man in charge of this operation would be in jail by Victor’s testimony.

It was like a blow to the gut, and for a moment Ethan lay there, trying to remind himself how to breathe. Did that make it... his fault? Was it his fault that girl was dead, and a young boy was going to have to grow up without his father?

Bree didn’t blame him. If she had, she would have had the perfect ammunition against him in the fight of four days ago. She had seen his remorse on the bank of that river, and it wouldn’t have taken much to twist that into a reason to force him to help. But, even in the heat of the moment with all that rage inside of her, it hadn’t occurred to her to use that weapon against him. But that didn’t lessen the twisting sensation in his own gut.

He hadn’t actually told her no, he wouldn’t help, anywhere in that fight. He had gotten mad and he had gotten scared, but he hadn’t actually told her no. Perhaps she had simply stormed off before it could get to that point, but why hadn’t he simply started with that? The thought stuck with him as he got dressed, showered and combed his dark hair, and left the hotel, bent on finding breakfast after having skipped dinner last night. 

Perhaps it was because a part of him had wanted to be convinced, would have been convinced, if Bree had heard the fear behind his anger, and had convinced him that he had nothing to be afraid of. But what did that say about his continued refusal to help? It would have been so much easier if Bree had persuaded him, but why did he need it? He would know the moment the father killed himself, and Ethan didn’t know if he would ever be able to get the burden of that soul off of him. Victor did not need company, however indirect the death. He was never the person who pulled the trigger, but he still felt like the killer, simply because he could have done something to prevent both of their deaths.

Ethan found himself turning around in the middle of the street, and for a moment he wasn’t quite certain where he was going. Then he realized he was going to the airport, to rent a car and drive to Boston. It would likely take him the rest of the day to get there, and find a way to approach Bree without any questions being raised, but he would have plenty of time to tweak the numbers and figure that out once he was on the road.

He knew the nerves would find him later, the confusion and the regret and the uncertainty, but right now he was committed. He would help Bree find the boy, and then he would help her gather the evidence she needed to get rid of that mob for good. Only then could he truly get rid of the guilt, and move past that one, catastrophic choice he had made in Richmond.