"Where are all of his houses, Dembe?" Lizzie asked again. Her patience was already shot and she didn't care to wrestle this information out of the silent man. He blinked his dark eyes at her critically.
"Mr. Reddington would not-"
"He's lying in an operating room right now! He doesn't care!" Lizzie cried. "I need to search his houses for evidence! Evidence that could lead us to the shooter, Dembe. If you don't give me the information, so help me I'll have you arrested. Then you'll have to tell someone else!" She wanted to stomp her foot in frustration, but knew it was a childish move.
Dembe stared at her for a few moments once more, but then slowly withdrew a notepad and stump of a pencil from a pocket, wrote down some things, and handed it wordlessly to her.
The man kept his houses immaculate. Nobody would even know who lived there. Elaborately staged to display different homeowners - a cluttered bachelor pad, a father of about four kids, a woman with a taste for elegant extravagance. And of course, absolutely no information was to be found on anyone who might want Reddington dead. Lizzie snorted to herself as she realized that that list was probably too long to even write down. She only hoped that they could find the killer using the bullets that were now being removed from his torso. After scouring these three houses, she finally decided to try the vents, search for little covered-up hiding places. Think so far outside of the box there was no chance of ever getting back in that box again. Finally, in the extravagant-woman-style's house, she found a small, secret room. Behind a bookshelf and with a metal wall blocking entrance unless you were authorized with the security system, it sat. Lizzie didn't leave much time to consider the fact that she was among those trusted enough to enter this secret room; one he'd entered into the system. He obviously had not expected this to happen.
The room was cramped, windowless, and dark. She tapped her cell phone screen until she activated the flashlight option. Here she found Red's stash of fedoras. Grabbing one, she decided she'd take some extra clothes for him for when he could leave the hospital. She rummaged through dresser drawers until she found clothes, as opposed to sheaves of papers, photographs, and small evidence bags. She didn't even want to know, she decided. Part of her wanted to take all this in - since it was evidence, likely - give it to her department at the FBI, and then tell Reddington where to get off at. But no. That wasn't Lizzie. She realized she was afraid he would die. She wanted to throw up at this idea once it struck her, but it was true nonetheless. She didn't want to lose him. Despite the fact that he was the very one who had murdered Sam, she felt as though he was a father to her.
She tripped over an extra pair of shoes, and gasped, grabbing for the dresser top to regain her balance. Her hand knocked against something and it fell with a clatter. Groaning, she focused the light on the ground and found a photograph frame lying face down on the hardwood flooring. A very young Raymond Reddington stood smiling in the photograph, fedora positioned on his head. A young woman with dancing eyes stood in a loose white blouse, her fawn colored hair pulled away from her face. But there was the girl with the stuffed bunny plush. Lizzie dropped the frame once more, but then knelt, her trembling fingers reaching out for the frame once more. The little girl in Reddington's arms clutched to him, smiling at the camera with her bright blue eyes and dark brown hair. The bunny was stuffed underneath her arm, and its clean white fur almost blended with the young woman's blouse.
"You're my father," Lizzie breathed between her teeth.
Your father's still alive. Tom Keen's words bounced against her skull, and she clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Raymond "Red" Reddington was indeed her father. Or was he? Was this a trap of sorts? Had he even planned his own shooting so she'd find this? This, this photograph that could very well be Photoshopped?
She carefully set the photograph back where it had been, standing up slowly and making herself back away, out of the room. The room locked itself with an ominous, metallic crunch, and she fled the house with no evidence, just this stupid fedora and an outfit which was mismatched.
Back at the hospital, she waited in a daze for Raymond Reddington to wake from his anesthetic. He made it out of surgery fine, but wasn't quite out of the woods yet. Lizzie sat thinking about the photograph. She ultimately decided that she wouldn't tell him what she'd found. Mr. Kaplan or Dembe had brought his clothes. She hadn't been snooping. And dear goodness, as long as that stupid security system hadn't recorded her entrance, she'd be in good shape. When he woke and started to feel better, she talked and laughed at his nonchalant stories - this wasn't the first time he'd gotten shot. He'd requested the bullet get sent to a forensic scientist he knew, which could hopefully give them a lead. When he tried to sit up in his hospital bed, Lizzie set her hand on the thin back of his hospital gown and rearranged pillows so he could lean up against them. A small gasp of breath escaped her lips when she saw the gnarled burn scars across his back where the gown wasn't quite closed. Her blue eyes flicked down to the scar that traced down her wrist and the heel of her hand.
Your father's still alive.
Raymond Reddington is my father.
"Is everything alright, Lizzie? Not going to flake out on me finally, are you? Listen, the last time I got shot, there was a spectacular mess and good grief, you can talk later to Mr. Kaplan about that-"
"I'm fine," she laughed, dragging herself together and pressing another pillow behind him before sitting back down, patting his arm and flashing a reassuring smile.