Pam doesn’t know how she gets through the rest of the night. The rational, trained part of her brain keeps doing its job and logs information. It ends up being for naught, though: The buyer who had invited her for a previous showing never follows through. She has a suspicion it has something to do with her reaction to Jim’s sudden appearance. There’s not much she can do except resolve to control herself better.  

She did not expect to have such ample opportunities to practice. After years of being nothing more than an echo of a simpler time, Jim now seems to be present at every turn. Maybe it’s a good thing Pam’s getting exposure therapy now, because not even the living hell that had been the trainee program seems to stop her from being pulled into her past when she sees him at yet another event. 

It’s all rather suspicious. The Jim she remembers had never been that interested in art collecting; he hadn’t cared enough to come to her sad exhibition, either. But maybe it was just her art he had no appetite for. Maybe the Jim-from-Scranton she remembers was never real.

Maybe. But it’s not very likely, and all such naivety had been burned out of Operative Fischer long ago. So she fades into the background each time he makes one of his far too frequent appearances in the high art scene, trying not to resent the slowdown of her investigation. She knows she’ll have to deal with this situation sooner or later. She just hasn’t found a good enough angle yet.

The situation finds her before she finds that angle. She’s at yet another cocktail party in which Jim is charming the room and she does her best impression of a starry-eyed wallflower. For a sports marketing executive, he sure seems to enjoy hobnobbing with the artistic elite—and unlike her, it looks like he has the money to smooth his entrance into the scene. So when it gets a little too much to bear, she slips out past the foyer into an empty corridor.

This is a restricted area, she knows. But she’d studied the blueprints and there are enough nooks here to hide, and in the worst case she can always play the “got lost looking for the restroom” card. She lingers, trying to temper the genuine enjoyment of admiring the paintings on the walls with the need to stay alert and inconspicuous.

With her luck these days, it’s not even surprising that her little breather turns risky so quickly. She can hear gruff, angry voices approaching her location; the discussion is tense, but more importantly it sounds illegal. The private walkthrough office connected to the stairs is her best bet for an exit route, and it doesn’t sound like there’s anyone there. There’s no more time to take further precautions, so Pam noiselessly slips inside—and is immediately grabbed from behind as the door clicks shut.

“Mph!” Pam struggles against the strong arm pulling her to his body. Definitely trained. Definitely much stronger than her. There are at least four ways she can escape her assailant’s hold, but all of them would reveal some training in martial arts and that’s not something that Pam Beesly from Scranton would really know. Unless her cover’s been compromised or she’s willing to kill him, Pam can’t fight back fully.

She instead lets herself go limp, shuddering like she’s panicking. The man keeps his hand on her mouth but loosens his grip on her.

“Jesus, Pam. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The familiar voice makes her breath catch. She plays it up, trembling.

“J… Jim?”

“Just… just please be quiet, all right?” He takes both hands off her.

She stumbles back two steps, just far enough that he can’t grab her without lunging but not enough that he’d immediately notice the distance.

 “What’s going on?”

Jim shakes his head and puts his ear to the crack in the door. He’s frowning as he listens intently; it isn’t until there is silence that he turns back to her with a sigh.

“Why are you here, Pam?”

Pam blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You keep showing up where you’re not supposed to be.” Jim’s face is shadowed. “This is one too many times to be a coincidence.”

“What do you mean, where I’m not supposed to be? I work at Christie’s; this is exactly where I should be. I was invited, just like you.”

“The people you talk to, the events you show up at…” She watches him grit his teeth. “Pam, I hope you’ve got gotten mixed up in something you can’t handle.” 

Oh, Pam can definitely handle what she’s gotten herself mixed up in. But she settles for looking incredulous.

“What, is the art world secretly hiding deep dark secrets that I’m not supposed to know about?” True, but whatever. “You’re the one who accosted me just now.”

Jim flushes, then abruptly turns to the door to crack it open. Once it’s clear the hallway is empty, he pushes it wider.

“I’m warning you, Pam. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

She watches him walk out, a little too insouciant. Like with most events with a Jim encounter, she doesn’t find much success after.