Tim's heart was thrumming wildly in his chest, the anticipation of what was coming nearly overwhelmed his senses. He knew if he looked at his reflection, his pupils would be blown wide, and he could feel each breath coming shorter and faster the closer he got to his intended destination. If Dawson was indeed at Kathryn's home, he was certain there was about to be some amount of bloodshed. The only question that remained was whose would be spilled.

Tim had been tailing Kathryn's taxi from the concert. It was a mercifully short drive, though slightly drawn out because of the traffic near the venue. It was approaching midnight, and he was not at all sure of the plan that was about to unfold. The Marshals wouldn't move on the house until Kathryn was inside. Art was afraid their presence might spook her too soon and she would get away without being apprehended. They also, technically, needed her to engage with Dawson first to establish they were working together; Vasquez had made that clear. Tim ground his molars together in frustration.

A few blocks north of Kathryn's address, Tim turned right and raced up two blocks before hooking a left and traveling along a perpendicular street. He threw the car in park at the nearest cross street and booked it on foot toward the unmarked car Art was still sitting in as he drew his weapon. He stopped short, ducking behind the house across the way as Kathryn's taxi pulled up in front of her darkened property. She emerged and walked toward the front entrance, pulling her keys from her pocket. She mounted the steps and reached for the screen door handle, but something caught her eyes and she stopped short. Tim watched as she stared at the door thoughtfully before turning around and walking back down the steps.

Something had spooked her, and that might mean they were losing their opportunity to bring her in. He imagined Art losing his shit on the radio, but he was too far away to hear him and dared not risk exposing himself to Kathryn now. Instead, he watched as she opened the garage door from the outside and entered. While it was possible she was about to hop in her car and make her escape, Tim's gut told him she was instead confirming his suspicion that she kept weapons stored in the attached carport. He used the momentary blindspot created by the garage to make his way stealthily across the street and Kathryn's lawn, tucking himself close to the front corner of the house, ensuring he would be the first Marshal through the door.

Tim strained his hearing, listening for the smallest of sounds. He was grateful that Kathryn had apparently left the garage door open because the noise of it closing would have obscured any indication he might be able to glean about her movements. He heard the soft click of a deadbolt being unlocked and the sound of a door being carefully opened. An instant later, a single gunshot pierced through the quiet evening followed by a pained scream.

Tim rounded the corner, throwing open the screen door and kicking in the wooden one behind it in one swift motion. He was vaguely aware of Art moving from the car up the block, but he didn't wait for the older man to arrive before entering the house swiftly. He calculated that the entrance from the garage was likely in the kitchen, so he swooped through the hallway from the living room into the dining area behind, and approached the kitchen from the back. A light flicked on just as he rounded the corner, weapon at the ready, and he came face-to-face with Kathryn. She was standing in the kitchen in front of a door left ajar that lead to the garage, gun raised to his eye level. On the floor across from her, on the other side of the counter where she took her meals, was a man—definitely not Dawson—crumpled on the floor, moaning and grabbing at his shoulder, a .22 not far from his reach on the tile. Tim walked over to the weapon and kicked it away.

Tim watched as recognition dawned across Kathryn's face. He noticed her index finger laid gently along the barrel of her gun, much as it had been when she'd threatened him on that dirt road. He was taking no chances; his finger already rested on the trigger.

A slow, affectionate smile stretched the corners of her mouth in what Tim perceived as a genuine expression of warmth. "Deputy Gutterson. It's nice to see you again."

Tim held eye contact. "I'm not here for him, Ms. Geller," he said, and he watched as something minute in Kathryn's expression hardened; shifted away from the brief flutter of happiness he'd seen just a moment ago, replaced by something dark and familiar.

She moved quickly, aiming her gun toward the other kitchen entrance as Art walked in. "Sarah Geller, Deputy U.S. Marshals. Drop your weapon."

Tim noticed Rachel as she came up and stood at the back entrance, and he hoped Nelson was smart enough to have positioned himself outside the garage door. Kathryn took a moment to process the armed Marshals surrounding her as the man on the floor shouted, "Somebody call a fuckin' ambulance!"

At the same moment not-Dawson was shouting, Kathryn made eye contact with Tim again. "I'm sorry," she said, and she raised her arms to fire a single shot into the kitchen light without looking at it.

Everything was dark and chaotic in an instant. Rachel shot out the glass door and the man on the floor stood, trying to run over Art on his way to the front exit. Tim could hear the scuffle, but he could barely make out the outline of the two men as they grappled with each other in the doorway. Tim heard a motor starting as Rachel rushed forward to help Art, so he quickly retraced his steps, hastening toward the front door in an adrenaline-fueled sprint. He exited the house just as Kathryn, atop a black motorcycle, took off in the opposite direction of downtown Lexington. Nelson raced along the far side of the house, but he was much too slow.

Tim could have taken the shot. He knew he would have easily hit her at that distance, but he found himself instead racing toward his vehicle, keys in hand as he holstered his weapon. He leapt in the car, eyes still trained on Kathryn's increasingly small form in the distance as he threw the vehicle into gear. He sped across the abandoned lot, kicking up dirt as he watched lights flickering on in the surrounding houses one-by-one. As he turned onto the street Kathryn had taken, Tim saw Art in the front yard of the house, lights in the living room now ablaze behind him, silhouetting him and Rachel with their captive in handcuffs. Tim barely registered the confused look on his Chief's face before he was racing off in the night hoping he wasn't too far behind to catch her.

#

Tim had tailed her easily to I-75, but she took off like a shot once she hit the straightaway of the highway and he was afraid he'd lost her. His only saving grace was that there had been an accident not too far south, and he'd seen her motorcycle pull off at the exit toward Route 25. He'd been a few minutes behind her, but as he he was driving on 25, he happened to look over to his right and noticed a black motorcycle pulling into a dingy-looking motel parking lot on a road that looped back close to the highway. It was honestly pure luck that he'd found her, but he wasn't about to complain. He didn't know whether she'd made his vehicle during his pursuit, so he decided the best course of action was to park elsewhere and walk over. Her motorcycle, which was not on the list of vehicles registered to her, had a tinted license plate shield, so he knew there was no way any other LEOs would know what to look for, even if Art had tried to put a BOLO out. He had to admit, though, it was ballsy of her to choose a motel so close to the Richmond PD.

Tim decided to use the quiet lot of a motorsports store, which allowed him to park discreetly behind the building and approach the motel from behind.

The motor inn Kathryn had chosen was a single story motel, situated between a gas station and a Cracker Barrel. When Tim reached the parking lot, he saw her motorcycle parked next to the dumpster behind the restaurant. He would have to figure out which room she was in on his own. There were only a few lighted windows, so he decided to start by walking past each one to see if he could get a better idea. He hoped to find her without having to involve the front office, which would surely lead to Art being alerted to his whereabouts.

Chief Deputy Mullen had called him no fewer than seven times before Tim had answered, claiming to have been distracted by the pursuit. He had told Art they were headed south on I-75 (true) and that his cellphone was about to die (not true) before turning the phone off and continuing off the exit ramp toward 25. He was relying on the fact that he was driving a previously impounded car from 2002 without any GPS to provide him some time to speak with Kathryn without the umbrella of the Marshals service hanging overhead. Tim wanted an explanation from Kathryn herself, and he intended to ask her as many questions as he could off the record.

The first window Tim approached had the curtains pulled open, so he could see the couple inside eating Chinese takeout and watching television. The second set of curtains were closed, but he could hear some raucous sex from behind the door, so he felt it safe to assume it wasn't Kathryn. As he was approaching the third lighted window, Tim stopped, leaning against a different door.

The lights were off, the curtains pulled closed, but he could hear music thrumming lowly from within, and it sounded familiar. Tim pressed his ear against the door and realized it was the same music he'd been forced to listen to earlier in the evening, and he was sure he was at the right room.

Tim unholstered his weapon and knocked on the door, being sure to hold his face just far enough to the side that the peephole would not be useful. He hitched his voice up a few octaves, dulled his telltale drawl. "Ma'am. You forgot your ID at the office." He listened as Kathryn stepped cautiously toward the door, fumbling with the lock. She pulled it open just an inch before he shouldered through like a bull charging toward his matador. Kathryn had obviously not been expecting this and Tim watched with satisfaction as she tumbled backward, landing on her ass as her firearm left her hand and dropped uselessly to the floor. Tim advanced on her, pointing his weapon menacingly toward her face. He watched as fear spread over her features before it was replaced by a cold acceptance.

He looked in her eyes and saw that she thought he was going to kill her. He deliberately pushed away the guilt that swelled up in his throat.

Tim kicked the door closed, keeping his gun aimed at her the whole time. "Up," he said, gesturing toward a short loveseat on the opposite side of the room. Kathryn scrambled to her feet and walked to the couch. "Sit," he said, and she did, stiffly. Tim kept his gun trained on Kathryn as he reached behind him to lock the door and flip on the light. He also bent down to pick up his new captive's firearm, placing it behind the television. As he walked toward the woman on the couch, he noticed a black duffel on the bed and a plastic bag from the gas station on the table nearest her. "What's in the bag?" he asked.

"Snacks," she said plainly, "and a phone." Tim peeked into the bag and saw a bottle of Johnnie Walker, a tube of Pringles and a box of doughnuts; apparently Kathryn truly was a creature of habit. The Tracfone she'd purchased appeared untouched in its packaging, meaning she likely hadn't called anyone. He also noticed, with some amount of unbidden mirth, that there was a new travel toothbrush also stashed inside.

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"Just you and whoever else you brought along." Tim did not feel inclined at the moment to tell her that he was alone.

"I'm going to holster my weapon," he said, "But if you so much as hiccup, I will shoot you where you sit." He watched Kathryn's jaw tighten and he knew she believed him.

With his weapon holstered, Tim grabbed the box of doughnuts from the plastic bag. As he took the first bite, he realized he hadn't eating anything since lunch and he was suddenly quite glad Kathryn had made such a frivolous pit stop.

They sat in silence for several minutes as Tim ate, trying to decide how he wanted to proceed. For her part, Kathryn sat serenely on the couch, watching him closely, but giving nothing else away. Tim looked at her, still in the clothes she'd worn to the concert, hair slick with stale sweat and purple bruises darkening against her pale skin. She looked, for all the ferocity in her stare, like she was playing at dress up, and Tim had to stifle a chuckle because he knew it was no act.

Tim set the nearly empty box down on the table and lifted the bottle of scotch to his mouth, taking a long swig to wash down the sugar. The liquor burned deliciously and he rolled his shoulders, enjoying the metallic aftertaste for once. In all the time he'd been standing there, Kathryn hadn't moved an inch. She was just watching him in silence; it was unnerving and totally uncharacteristic of the woman he'd worked with before.

The music was still playing and Tim scanned the room for the source. He found that the motel, for all its outdated decor, had a small iHome instead of a traditional alarm clock, and Kathryn must have plugged in her own music player. Tim stepped over to it cautiously, as it required him to come almost in line with Kathryn where she sat, and tugged the music player out of its port, blanketing them both in blissful silence. "I don't know how you get anything done listening to that racket all the time."

"How long have you been watching me?"

"Just shy of a week," he said. Kathryn gave no indication that she was surprised or otherwise impacted by this information. "You knew."

Kathryn shrugged. "I knew someone was watching the house. I just didn't expect it to be you." Tim processed this information, thinking about the Grizzlies shirt even as he tried not to.

"Who did you think was watching you?"

"I don't know."

"Stop fucking lying to me, Ms. Geller," he thought he saw her flinch when he used the name, "I'm tired of it."

Kathryn took a deep breath and he watched as her stick-straight posture collapsed, her back collapsing in resignation to her predicament. "I assumed it was the FBI," she said, and he finally believed her.

"Why would the FBI be surveilling you?"

"If you're here, I think you probably know that."

Tim leaned against the wall opposite the loveseat and crossed his arms. "I think you'd better start telling me what the fuck is going on," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Who are you and who do you work for?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Listen to me, Kath—Ms. Geller, you are deep, deep in the shit right now. If you don't want me to pick up the phone and tell SA Reed precisely where he can find your sorry ass, you need to tell me what is happening."

"And why should I trust you?" she asked.

"You did once," he said. "And I'm here now. Alone. That's gotta be worth something."

Kathryn appraised him from her seat. He watched as her mind waged some internal battle against itself, and he wondered which part of her personality would win out; the kind, thoughtful side or the cruel, ruthless side. Finally, "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Can I at least have a drink?" she asked.

Tim gestured easily to the table, "Be my guest."

Kathryn stood from the short couch and grabbed herself a cup, poured a tall shot, and took it. Then she filled the glass nearly to the brim and sat back down, tucking her legs up underneath her in a cross-legged position. "I don't really know what you mean by 'everything,'" she held up a hand as he began to protest, "but I'll try." Tim, satisfied with her answer, leaned his head back against the wall and waited.

#

"I need to make it clear that my parents loved me very much," she began, "but they had me young and they were both addicts, so my childhood was not exactly functional. I spent most of my time back and forth with them between squalid apartments or flophouses and homeless shelters. My parents often forgot to buy food or clothes, and I had to make due with what I had available to me. That usually meant relying on neighbors or friends' parents once I got old enough to go to school.

"When I was nine or ten, my mom got clean for a while and she and I moved into a women's shelter before she got a little studio apartment for the two of us. But eventually she took my dad back and she relapsed and we were all right back where we'd been before." Tim watched as Kathryn took a sip of her drink and shivered.

"When I was eleven, I met a man name Jay. He was in his early twenties, probably, but I don't really know how old he was for sure. Jay was nice to me; he let me hangout with him and his friends, play video games. And he bought me stuff; pizza and McDonald's and cute clothes. He even paid for my school supplies when I started sixth grade. I thought he was my friend.

"Jay introduced me to booze, drugs, all of that. He used to always compliment me; tell me I was 'so mature' for my age, that I was pretty, that he loved me." Tim could feel the vehemence in her voice, but there was an undertone of nostalgia and heartbreak. His muscles tensed, dreading the continuation of the story as much as she seemed to. He thought of Ibsen, duct taped to a chair in his basement.

"It didn't take long before he convinced me to have sex with him, and then soon after that he asked me to have sex with some of his 'friends'... as a favor," she took another drink, "He told me it was what a good girlfriend would do. And I was a child, so what the fuck did I know about being a girlfriend?" She snorted, but the laugh rang hollow and flat. He could see the pain creeping into her eyes even as she held her jaw firm against an intruding quiver.

"I aged out of Jay's clientele pretty quick, so he passed me on to someone else." Though he was trying to maintain a neutral facade, Tim's eyes must have given away his confusion because she looked at him and then pointed to one of the tattoos on her arms. "That's what these are," she explained, "brands from men who thought they owned me." Tim didn't move, letting the full weight of her words crash against him like an angry wave. He had seen those tattoos, had counted them, had even asked her about them and been frustrated when she wouldn't explain.

He felt sick. Kathryn looked like she did, too, so she took a long, slow sip of her scotch and a deep breath before she continued.

"After that, things get really fuzzy because I was high all the time. Opioids mostly. But when I was sixteen or so, I was in a motel someplace hot and sticky. They used to set us up in rooms for a week or two at a time, and 'customers' would come to see us there.

"I don't know how long I was there for, but at one point, this woman walked in. She was the most beautiful fucking thing I'd ever seen; glowing skin and long legs, and big brown doe eyes that stared straight through me. I remember thinking she looked like Naomi Campbell. Hell, I was so doped up I probably thought it was her." Tim couldn't take his eyes off Kathryn as she spoke. He watched the muscles in her legs twitch as she continued; her fingers tapping frantically against the cup in her lap.

"Anyway, she came in and I'm all sprawled out and sweaty on this bed, trying to look alluring," another drink, "but she puts her hand on my knee and she says," Kathryn took a breath, and the next words that left her mouth felt heavy and important, "'You don't have to do that. You don't have to ever do that again if you don't want to.'" For the first time since she started, Tim could see real tears forming in Kathryn's eyes as she spoke. He wanted to reach out and touch her, tell her that it was over, but he he knew he couldn't. She struggled to keep the tears at bay, her whole body tense. She lost the battle and he watched as two small tears halfway down her face before she swiped angry at them and continued.

"I thought it was a trick, so I shook my head no and she asked me to take a bath." Kathryn took another sharp sip of her drink. Checking to see how much remained in her cup, she judged it insufficient and stood, topping herself off, before returning to her cross legged position on the couch. "I remember thinking she was like one of those moms you see on TV. She was so... gentle. Careful and loving. She washed my hair and behind my ears. She even scrubbed in between my toes," Kathryn's voice dipped low and soft, "I remember because it tickled.

"When I stood up, the water in the tub looked liked it'd been drained from a swamp. She sat me up, wrapped me in a towel, and brushed my hair," she paused, looking up, but never at him, like she was afraid to meet this gaze. "It was long then," she gestured, "down to my waist, and she french braided it. No one had ever been so soft with me, ever. Not even my own mother. When she was finished, she pulled some clean sweats and a pair of flip-flops out of her bag, and she asked me if I wanted to leave with her." Tim held his breath. "I said yes."

Tim's mind was split between trying to listen to Kathryn and wanting to ask a thousand questions. He was afraid if he moved, even if he breathed too loudly, whatever spell had overtaken her would be broken and she would stop talking. Kathryn took another long sip of her drink and Tim noticed for the first time that she was actually rather tipsy; her eyelids sat low and heavy, and there was a rosy color in her cheeks that hadn't been there before.

Though there were no longer tears in her eyes, he could see her hands were shaking.

"I was being kept on the fifth floor. They used to put us up high because it made it harder for customers to leave without paying and for us to run away. She told me stay to behind her, and she killed four men just to get me to her car. I couldn't fathom why she was even helping me, this beautiful stranger." Kathryn switched her legs, fidgeting around, Tim thought, simply to distract herself from the memory.

"After that, she helped me get clean, get my GED, even take some accelerated college classes. And then she told me I could go live my life any way, any place I wanted," Kathryn took a measured breath, "or I could help her help people like me." Kathryn paused, looking down at the cup in her hands. "I know people who have led healthy, productive lives after meeting her, but for me, there was never any choice. I knew the second she offered it to me I would gnaw off my own leg for the chance to work with her.

"So I learned to fight, I learned to fire a gun... I already knew very well how to pretend, so that part came easy. I started working for her when I was 20, and I've been doing it ever since."

Tim's mind was racing. Kathryn had been trafficked, drugged, abused. She wanted to be on the ground floor because she had been imprisoned on the fifth. She carried cleaning supplies with her because she'd grown up in squalor. Suddenly, so many parts of her were brought into uncomfortably sharp focus. Part of him wished he could forget them and let her drift back to a beautiful blur.

But an out of focus picture was incomplete, and the woman before him deserved to be seen in full splendor.

And he had slept with her. Tim felt like there was a rock in his stomach as his brain rushed to review each interaction they'd had. Had he taken advantage of her? Had she felt pressured to have sex with him at any time? He was snapped from his internal terror by Kathryn's soft voice from across the room.

"If I hadn't wanted to sleep with you, Deputy, trust me, I wouldn't have." Tim looked up from his thoughts, confused. Had he said that out loud? "It's not an unreasonable question; I can see it on your face," she explained. "You're a good man, Tim. I know that. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Who is she?" he asked, as much because he wanted the information as to change the subject.

"I can't tell you that."

"You have to, Ka—Sa—Ms. Geller," he decided, frustrated by his momentary lapse and resulting idiotic sputter.

To his surprise, Kathryn smiled. "I watched a lot of Buffy the Vampire Slayer when I left the life, while I was rehabbing and taking classes. It was a good distraction. When she asked me what I wanted my new name to be, I chose Sarah Gellar because I wanted to feel strong and powerful. She changed the spelling of the last name because she thought it was too obvious. Kathryn was my mother's name and my middle name; it's what I go by now."

"If you want me to help you, Kathryn, I need you to tell me who she is."

Kathryn hesitated, rolling the nearly empty cup back and forth in her palms. When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper and Tim had to incline his head toward her to make out the words. "Her name is Delia," she said, "But I can't tell you anything else." Her voice grew louder as she looked back up at Tim. "I've already told you too much, and I am loyal to her, absolutely."

Tim was still leaned against the wall, but his legs suddenly felt leaden and exhausted. He wasn't sure whether it was from standing on concrete all night at that concert, or from the sheer emotional toll Kathryn's store had taken. He pushed himself away from the wall and moved to sit next to Kathryn, who remained tucked on one end of the loveseat. He looked down at her arms. The tattoos seemed somehow darker and more menacing than he remembered. When he reached out and touched one of them, Kathryn flinched violently away from him.

"Sorry," she said, "I... I don't talk about that part of my life much. When I do..." she trailed off and Tim understood.

"I get the same way when people ask about my deployment. Tight chest, real jumpy." She nodded. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

"It's okay," she assured him, and she finished the last dregs of her drink, tossing the cup carelessly and uncharacteristically to the floor. When she spoke, she didn't look at him. "I know you have to bring me in. I understand and respect that, but I need you to know that I did not get Romero killed. I would never do that."

"I know," he said, and she finally looked over at him, still sitting close, but careful to leave her her own space. "Why do you think I'm here?"