It was a windy day, with the sharp breezes filtering through the alley that Mary's car sat in. God he hated that car, it was a deathtrap, but she was adamant about keeping that thing. He doubted it could have run her kidnappers down it was so old and decrepit. Thinking about that hideous deformed eggplant on wheels was the only thing that made him able to tolerate the fact that his partner, his Mary, was restrained, maybe gagged, and definitely unsafe.
He appreciated that Bobby didn't make note of the cracking in his voice, and that his reassurance wasn't overdone or too sweet. Marshall imagined that this man could lay on the fake smothering comfort that all government agents were required to be able to regurgitate on cue to panicked family members. Bobby handled all the evidence carefully, but the combination of her gun and dashboard notepad was almost too much to see being held in latex gloves.
Marshall could focus on her notes, just looking at her handwriting wasn't going to choke him. Yet.
It looked like the items up until number three were crossed out. He barely quirked a smirk thinking of all the times Mare took a moment to noisily uncap a pen, scratch out the item and cap the pen, usually tossing it somewhere into the ether of her car. She would quietly, although smugly, comment on how she could, without issue, control her life. Little did he know that just that morning Mary had her own private revelation about how her life was at the hands of her family and she felt that she had no choice (and didn't care that she didn't have a choice). Had she told him this, he would've hotly contested the fact, to the point of Mare telling him to shut up before he had a stroke and then not-so-politely suggesting that they have a very greasy and fattening lunch to smooth out the rough day.
At that moment, he looked at the different goals that were clearly demarcated on this paper. He believed that nearly all of these were related to her witnesses, checking out their new relationships in town, keeping an eye on her more fragile witnesses and even though she bitched about it, she wanted them hapy enough to survive and not screw up their chance at a safe life. While he rambled on like this in his head, he swallowed hard at item number five.
"Dating Service."
Didn't mean a thing. She had Raph. Unless something bad was going on with Raph, or nothing was going on at all, and she was looking for someone, something else.
Hold on, cowboy.
That would be Mare's voice stopping him right in his tracks.
Doesn't mean he couldn't be hopeful.
He held that piece of paper with that list, and that number five was nagging at his brain something awful. Marshall looked away, at the worn out tires of Mary's car against the cracked and crumbling pavement beneath the car. The darkness of it all reflected the crime, reflected the lack of respect that one group of people had for anyone who got in their way. It was a bit more poetic than he thought he could manage at that moment in time.
He mumbled and nodded through his conversation with Stan, then walked to his car. Marshall couldn't work through anything else right now. He had to find Mare, he needed to get back on track. He would know if she wasn't…well, he wasn't going to go there right now. But he knew, at that moment, he would not let it get that. He would find her, he would hold her and bring her back safely.
But that number five was not far from the front burner of his mind. It shamed him, but the moment after this mess was over, number five would be very much present.