It's been a pretty good day, until now. Better than average. Dwight had been willingly taped in a box and the sensation of Pam's fingers grasping his, her shoulder under his palm, was only seconds old. Unfortunately, so was the humiliation of being shoved by her fiancé and failing to find adequate words to explain the situation. Pam's trying, Roy's not listening and Jim is slowly getting angrier with himself for crossing the line and screwing things up for her. Dwight sells them out, and Roy steers Pam towards the door with a controlling push.

Jim glances around the office, blindly, forgetting for a moment that he has an audience of co-workers and cameras, rests his elbows on the top of Pam's desk. He scrubs his eyes and realizes for the first time that he's in over his head. It's Roy and Pam, not Jim and Pam. After a few moments of self-pity, he straightens and glances towards the elevator. She's still there, arguing with Roy, fighting not to shrink under his rough touch. The doors finally slide open and Roy all but tosses her inside. It's not abuse, really, Roy's not that kind of guy. It's more like disrespect. Jim's blood is boiling and a fog clouds his brain as he takes his seat, oblivious to the party around him.

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The next morning when she arrives, five minutes late and flushed, Jim keeps his head down, because he's still upset by yesterday's events, is trying not to think about it. His plan is a success for all of two minutes. Pam perches on his desk, still wearing her jacket, displacing his mouse pad.

"I have a proposal." He can hear her grin before he even looks up, which he tries not to do too quickly at the word ‘proposal'.

"What are you up to, Beesley?" It's good to see her smile again. Fourteen hours was too long.

She produces a plastic bag from her coat pocket. "I think Dwight needs to pay for his betrayal of the alliance." She whispers, her mock serious tone belied by the smile tugging at her lips. "I'm going to frame him for murder."

Jim glances at the package. "You can't be serious. What is that?"

"A bloody glove. I'm enlisting you to plant this in his drawer and convince him he's killed someone." She offers the bag.

He leans back in his chair. "You have an incredibly devious mind. What makes you think he'll fall for this?" Her knee is inches from his fingers. He has clench them into a fist to keep from reaching out.

Pam presses the gooey white plastic into his hand. "I believe in you, Jim."

************************************************************************

When Dwight opens his drawer, his first reaction is a suspicious look to his frequent tormentor. "Jim! What did you do?"

Jims stares at his monitor. Game on. "I don't know what you mean, Dwight."

Dwight probes his desk drawer with a pencil and lifts the incriminating glove for display. "You put this here!"

Jim finally glances up, shocked. "Dwight! My God! Do you want me to call the sheriff?"

The glove wobbles precariously as Dwight puts out a hand to stop him. "No! Wait! First I need to assess the crime scene."

There's faint snort of delight from reception and Jim wills his face to remain a picture of concern. "Dwight, I really think we should let the professionals handle this. Are you sure you don't know anything? Maybe you put it there during the night and forgot."

"First of all, Jim, I am a professional." Miraculously, he misses Jim's attempt to swallow a laugh. "Secondly, I wouldn't forget something like this. I have the mind of a Jedi. Completely focused."

Jim curls his left hand over his mouth to hide a smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Pam starting to break. "What about post traumatic stress disorder? It's possible you've repressed the incident. Maybe you should turn yourself in until the DNA testing is complete."

Dwight actually appears to consider this, and then puffs out his chest. "No, that's ridiculous. I'm not guilty. In fact, I'm beginning to think someone else in this office may be the real killer." He leans forward conspiratorially. "Creed is watching us very closely."

Jim turns in his chair, slowly, casting an amused glance to the camera. Creed is indeed looking in their direction, although it's more of a blank, brain cell deprived stare than anything. "Could be. Should we question him?"

Dwight lowers the glove carefully back into his drawer. "I think you'd better leave this to me, Jim. An amateur like you would only compromise the interrogation."

***********************************************************************

Jim pulls the tab of his grape soda, watching with great interest as Dwight approaches Toby, pointing emphatically in Jim's direction. With a sigh, Toby begins writing on a sheet of paper. Pam comes through the door, pauses to see what Jim is looking at.

He takes a sip of his drink. He loves how the metallic taste of the can compliments the grape flavor. "Dwight's reporting me to HR. Again."

She smiles and moves to the vending machine. "Special file?"

"Yup." He continues to observe the proceedings. "He should just make a standing weekly appointment." He turns as she's opening a bag of Doritos. "Hey, good work, by the way."

Pam pops a chip in her mouth. "Thank you. You, too."

"Well, not good enough. I think he's about to rat me out to the police." He dusts a few crumbs off the microwave. "Sorry if I got you in trouble yesterday."

There's a distinct lack of crunching and he fights the urge to check her reaction. "It's not your fault." She says, finally. "He wasn't really that mad, once we got home."

"Oh." The soda can makes a clunking noise when he squeezes it too hard. "He shoved you." He regrets his words the moment they're out of his mouth.

She ducks her head. "I... he didn't mean it. He gets jealous. It's stupid. I don't know why he'd even think..."

"Yeah." Jim interjects, before she can finish. "Stupid." He throws his half-empty drink in the trash. "I have to get back to work."

As he leaves the break room, grimacing, he sees Toby add a fresh complaint to a white and green banker box, then kick it under his desk.