"If you can find her," Brenda says darkly when Kristi suggests that Shay's a better fit for this job offer, so Kristi makes her way to New York with her cell phone in hand and an unimposing death glare on her face. Shay's folks are no help, even though she can dial them faster than she can call her dad. They keep telling her that Shay went and found herself some religion, so she moved to a kibbutz somewhere in bumblefuck Israel, left no forwarding address or contact information. They sound honest enough, but Kristi can smell bullshit from a mile away. Shellfish, and Shay's butterfly, and her fingers on Shay's skin, all tell her that this isn't the truth. Okay, it's been more than a year since she- or anyone, as far as she can tell- has heard from Shay, and maybe Shay's on some spiritual journey, but she'd have told Kristi where she was going.

So she's at the Garden, still with her cell phone in her hand, still glaring at the world. It's one thing for Shay to have her phone off on game day, but Kristi shouldn't be getting a disconnect notice, not with a number she knows better than her own. Clearly the good life has gotten to Shay's head, and Kristi ignores the little whisper in the back of her mind that reminds her that no one's actually seen Shay on the court or in Liberty gear.

People who are at a game this early should recognize a national champion point guard when they see one, but the passers-by don't look at her twice as she goes to the ticket window. There's not a seat in the house, no matter how much cash Kristi flashes; not even showing off her national championship ring and invoking Shay's name get her anything more than a blank stare from the bottle blonde on the other side of the glass.

She trudges back through the lobby, hat drawn low over her eyes, weaving around fans in blue jerseys like the one Shay showed her once upon a time; the people don't even seem to see anything other than Hammond's promotional images, the impossible spitting image of Becky Hammon. Shay'd get a kick out of that, if she isn't already. She always claimed to have a thing for little guards with big shots.

A shriek of triumph brings Kristi's attention back to the modern day as a brunette in a denim jacket thrusts her arms into the air and yells, "Lunch is on me, everyone- he took the pair for $500, and that's with haggling!"

"Way to go, sweetie!" a guy in a Rangers jacket says, and he pulls her close for a kiss, apparently to her surprise and the applause and whistles of their friends. Kristi turns away from the sight, her stomach twisting, and leaves the Garden behind her. Maybe she can sweettalk a bartender into showing the Liberty game. There's a likely place on one of the cross-streets. She's got her wallet out, ready to speak the universal language, but the TV over the bar already has ABC on.

Might have something to do with the punk-looking redhead she's sitting next to, who's got her gaze trained on the game and a glare of pure hatred on her face. Kristi watches the redhead's profile harden out of the corner of her eye; she can identify with the anger she recognizes in the redhead's face, the feeling of something not being right, because every time she looks at the Liberty bench, she doesn't see Shay among the blondes, and closed-captioning calls #22 Ashley. Maybe the kibbutz thing isn't so far off after all… but her fingertips tingle with the sense memory of Shay's sweaty skin, and she can almost hear Shay's voice muttering in her ear, sleepy and teasing. Without looking away from the screen, she starts tracing lines and curves in the beer and crumbs spilled on the bar.

Takes a little bit for her to realize that someone's watching her as her hand sketches a familiar shape on the bar. "Nice ring," the redhead says quietly. "You're Toliver, right? I remember the shot."

"Everyone does." Hard not to sound bitter when people talk about Lang and Harp and Marissa and Kristi the way they should, but talk about Ashleigh like she was the starter and don't talk about Shay. "I wasn't the only one who hit big shots in that game, though."

"You're looking for Doron."

Magic words. Kristi looks away from the screen, the game forgotten, her intense attention squarely on the redhead, who isn't really a redhead, that much is clear from the eyebrows and light lashes. The redhead has a pretty face that makes Kristi think of swinging blonde hair, pom-poms in the air, tight sweaters and short skirts: a cheerleader, not a punk rock wannabe in a sky blue tube top that shows off the tattoos over her collarbone and the necklaces that… that…

The numbers are tangled in the arms of the slender silver cross, but Kristi recognizes the charms instantly, the matched numbers that the blonde called Ashley wears on her back. "Nice necklace," she says. "Where'd you get it?"

The redhead opens her mouth, then closes it again, looking down and away. "What's that?" she asks, pointing at the design Kristi's doodled without thinking.

Kristi looks at it. "It's a butterfly. In flight. I had a- my- Shay has that. On her shoulder. Because it's different, you know? Because Shay's a goofball sometimes. She's special." She smiles when she says that to the stranger, because otherwise Shay would give her a noogie, even if Shay's not actually here. "And you didn't answer my question."

"I kinda hoped you wouldn't notice that." The redhead plops her elbow on a napkin on the bar and leans in close to Kristi, a hint of beer and whiskey drifting on her breath. "I bribed someone at the Garden. They were throwing away a bunch of 'things the team doesn't need anymore'. It was a very full box." She fiddles with the silver chain of the cross.

"But she's not-" On the screen, blonde on blonde, battling for position. Kristi won't even let that train of thought leave the station. "You don't think-"

"Aren't you still in school?"

"Yeah, going into senior year. Job takes effect as soon as I graduate, but I still think Shay's better for it than I am, no matter what Brenda keeps saying-"

"What's this about a job? Aren't you a little young?" the redhead interrupts, her words sharper than knives.

"That's why I thought Shay- Lang's enough of a reminder, but-"

"Frese- you mean the old coach at Minnesota?"

"Yes, if you let me finish a sentence. What's going on here?" Kristi lets herself sound angry, because anger's at least intimidating and Kristi's hat helps her look bad-ass.

Probably not a good sign that the redhead mumbles, "Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fucking shit." Or that the redhead's eyes are wide and she looks as serious as she can with a face like hers and a Kool-Aid red fauxhawk like hers. Or that she says, "There's some bad shit going down in this game. I don’t understand it and I don't want to. I got out by the skin of my teeth. You need to do the same thing. Take it from a fellow ACC alum- there's blood in the air." She reaches with shaking hands to the back of her neck, wincing slightly, and unhooks one of the necklaces. Shay's number comes free of the cross that imprisons it and pools in the redhead's hand. "This isn't mine. Take it."

Kristi doesn’t believe the redhead's words, but she believes the deep hollows under bloodshot blue eyes and the desperation that fills the raspy voice, she believes the darkness in Brenda's voice and the mania in her actions, and she believes the endless line of blondes on the screen. #22 bites deep into her palm, nearly drawing blood, as she takes the necklace. "Who are you?" she asks.

"I don't exist anymore. I'm a paradox." The redhead jerks her chin at Kristi's hand. "Let's just say I split the difference. Don't go back to Maryland, Kristi. If you do, you'll be lucky anyone's you."

It's only later, far later, when Kristi gets her first look at the woman they claim is Harp, that she understands what the redhead means.