You have to trust people, sometime. At some point. You have to. Like it or not, you can't live properly in this world unless you trust other people - people who do stuff for you - people who cut your hair, or fix your teeth or measure you for a suit; people who fill your car with gas or phone through a list of fifty-seven potential persons of interest in the hope of finding one of them still alive. You have to trust people to fix a broken cell phone for you or deliver your groceries on time or cook you a meal in a restaurant without poisoning you. You have to trust people.
I trusted her. Honestly? Never even stopped to think it through. I'd thought that her promises to me - and to the New York State Board of Medicine and the half-dozen other professional bodies she must belong to - would be strong enough to make it so she kept her mouth shut about what I had asked her to do.
But it seems I misjudged her. That's the worst part, I think. I don't ... I mean, it's rare, for me to make such a misjudgement. Normally I can read people. My feelings about what Liz does are confused by the years and years we have known each other. And by how well we have known each other.
Stupidly, I thought her loyalty to me was stronger than to Ross. I was there first, dammit.
She's away at some conference in Florida - something to do with blood spatter pattern analysis. I wander down to her lab, and rifle idly through the cabinet she has in there which is filled with implements for battering, bludgeoning, stabbing and cracking a person to death. She keeps a whole range of household articles that are not weapons, but which people have used as weapons, to compare against blunt force trauma wounds. Baseball bats. Screwdrivers. Flatirons. Walking sticks. A Hell's Angel belt buckle. Tire irons, all kinds. Axe handles. Le Crueset saucepan lids. House bricks. Ornamental garden Buddhas. Pyrex jugs - three sizes.
Things you would never expect to come hurtling out of the darkness to beat you to death.
I bet she's real interesting to wander round a flea market with. Did she really think, way back in medical school, that she would one day have a cabinet full of everyday objects to use as weapons?
Did I ever think, way back when I first met Declan Gage, that his whole fucking head would one day be full of everyday objects to use as weapons? Against me? No. I didn't. It all came hurtling out of the darkness.