When Kathryn answered the phone, her nerves sizzled because she could tell immediately that something was wrong.
"Yes?"
"Kathryn, I…"
And then nothing, just aching silence and… was he crying?
"Deputy?"
He was, and the sound of it broke her heart.
"Tim, what's wrong?" she asked in the softest voice she could muster.
"I think I killed him."
Kathryn packed her things, knowing she'd probably be dumping them all soon, anyway. She tossed the documents she'd been searching through into a metal garbage bin with a match from the dive bar down the street and watched them burn before she dumped water into the bin, leaving behind nothing more than an illegible black sludge.
It took all of fifteen minutes for Kathryn to erase her existence and get in her car, but it felt like twelve minutes too long.
She'd never heard Tim Gutterson cry before—she wasn't sure anyone had, honestly—and it was a wholly unnatural sound that didn't suit him in the least.
It was a sound that made her want to pull him close and hold onto him forever.
It was a 2 hour and 9 minute drive from the abandoned house she'd been crashing in to the address he'd given her, and she was afraid to push the pace in case she got pulled over by some overzealous cop trying to make quota, only for them to realize they'd stumbled on a genuine fugitive.
But going 72 miles an hour didn't seem like it would get her to him fast enough.
She had desperately tried to keep him on the phone—tried to get more information from him—but there was something raw and dark pulling at Tim today, and her voice hadn't been enough to loosen its grip this time.
He'd given up his location, at least, so that was something. The fact that he'd been present enough to tell her where he was eased the firm pressure in her chest a little. But as she sped toward the Kentucky state line, Kathryn worried she might be too late.
As she drove, she tried to focus on the music blaring from the car's speakers. She focused on the screaming lyrics, moving her mouth perfectly in time with the hurried words. She'd cranked the volume so high that some of the instruments sounded distorted, but she needed to drown out the memory of Tim's choked sob.
#
Kathryn wasn't sure what she'd been expecting to find when she knocked on the door, but it certainly wasn't the haunted husk that answered.
Tim looked like a ghoul, eyes rimmed in scarlet and staring at her like he didn't even know who she was.
"Jesus, Deputy, get back inside." She hoped the harsh edge of her voice, the gravel she mixed into in her tone, might pull him back to the present.
Because it was clear that Tim was wrestling with ghosts.
Kathryn just hoped she had arrived quickly enough to keep him from becoming one himself. The thought of leaving the person in front of her alone with a firearm didn't sit well at all. She wondered if maybe she should confiscate his weapons, but decided it would only put him more on edge.
All the blinds in the little house were pulled closed, and Kathryn strained her eyes against the shadows, trying to make sense of her surroundings. When she couldn't, she reached out for the switch.
Tim's flinch as the room flooded with light did not go unnoticed.
The man—Sergeant Anderson, she thought—was in the kitchen. Tim hadn't even bothered to sit him upright, so he was sprawled awkwardly on the floor next to an overturned chair. His hands were still cuffed together, though the restraints were clearly no longer necessary.
There was a wicked amount of blood, and Anderson's face wasn't quite the right shape, but Kathryn leaned down to check for a pulse anyway. As her fingers slid through the sticky mess, she felt her stomach churn. Even after all these years, Kathryn had never quite gotten used to the feel of another person's blood on her hands.
It took her a moment of fumbling, but then she found the heartbeat she was looking for—faint, but present.
"Well, he's not dead, at least."
Kathryn pretended she wasn't watching him, but when Tim's shoulders relaxed a fraction, she was relieved; glad she could offer him some small consolation. But now she had to figure out what to do. Because Tim was in a whole mess of shit, and he was liable to drown in it if she couldn't yank him back out.
#
Kathryn knew this plan was only half-baked, but it was the best she had at the moment, and it wasn't like they were working with unlimited time.
Anderson needed medical attention, and while it would certainly have been easier to just kill him, she thought the benefits of at least trying to keep him alive outweighed the convenience of homicide.
She just hoped Tim had the presence of mind to listen to her instructions and that he was far enough away the gunshot she planned wouldn't trigger him into a full-blown dissociative episode. She was going to need his help getting out of here when she was finished, and she didn't want to think about what might happen if the Deputy wasn't able to function because then they'd both be screwed.
Kathryn could admit she was a little sad to leave the car. She didn't always like the junkers she picked up when she needed a quick ride for cash, but the purple Oldsmobile had grown on her. The seats were comfortable enough to sleep in, it didn't smell like cigarettes, and the speakers produced decent sound. But as she yanked Anderson's limp body from the back, trailing a smear of snot and blood in his wake, she knew it was a goner.
Anderson's long limbs were heavier than they looked, and he groaned loudly as she shifted her grip under his shoulders to get a better hold on him. She decided to take the gurgled protest as a good sign—maybe he would pull through after all.
Kathryn took a deep breath as she reached the front doors of the building and dragged him inside. She waited until the last possible moment to turn around, knowing that once her face was on camera, there was no going back. She hoped she'd calculated correctly, because if there was a security guard with a gun, she might never walk back out.
"This man needs medical attention," Kathryn said firmly as she dropped Anderson to the floor and turned around. She found a pretty girl behind the desk looking at her with wide, concerned eyes. "What's your name?" Kathryn asked, calmly.
"Martina, ma'am. What happened to him?"
Kathryn reluctantly pulled her gun out of her waistband with her left hand as she watched a security guard creep down the solitary hallway toward her, hand on his taser.
"I don't want to hurt anybody," she told Martina, looking into the younger woman's eyes carefully—seeing the fear and trying to soothe it as best she could with a gun in her hand, "I'm not going to hurt you, Martina."
Kathryn produced a piece of paper from her back pocket and slid it over the reception desk. "I need you to do something for me, though," she said, pointing at the paper, "Call that number and tell the man who answers that Sarah Geller brought this man in. Tell him he's a dirty cop."
Martina looked at Anderson, who was still mumbling on the floor, with trepidation.
"He's not going to hurt you, either." Kathryn shot a look at the security guard, her gun still pointed at him, as he took a few tentative steps forward. "Please don't do that. I'll be gone in a minute," she turned back at the receptionist, "Martina, can you repeat back what I said?"
Martina nodded and Kathryn waited patiently for the girl to gather herself enough to speak. "C-call the number and tell," she looked down at the paper, "Agent Reed that you brought in…"
"His name is Chad Anderson."
"M-Mr. Anderson."
"Good. And my name?"
"S-Sarah Geller."
"Excellent. Now, Mr. Anderson? He's going to deny it was me who did this. But that's just because he's a misogynist prick who doesn't want to admit getting beat to shit by a woman."
Martina flinched at the harsh language. Good, Kathryn thought, because it meant she would remember it. Kathryn had learned a long time ago that a sharp tongue was often her most effective weapon.
"Will you tell Agent Reed that for me, too?"
Martina nodded.
"Thank you. I'm sorry I had to do this, but you've done a great job. You call that number as soon as I leave, okay?" Kathryn hazarded a glance at the security guard, who was still watching her intently, but seemed to have decided he didn't like his taser's odds against her handgun.
"Martina, can you show me where the security camera is?" Though Kathryn already knew the answer, she thought it would be best to put on a bit of a show for Reed and whoever else would eventually see the video in evidence.
Martina pointed a shaking finger over her shoulder and Kathryn gave her what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
"Thank you."
Then she took out the camera with a single shot, right after she looked into it to ensure it got a clear view of her face.
Kathryn sprinted from the building, doing her best to forget Martina's terrified expression as she'd screamed.
#
When Tim kissed her, Kathryn knew it was a horrendous idea, so she hesitated.
But her resistance only lasted a moment because goddamn it, she wanted it.
The last time she'd seen him, she'd told him everything she could ever tell a person about herself, and still he'd stayed. She'd screamed in her sleep, and he'd crawled into bed beside her.
She'd smothered him with her need to be held, and he'd wrapped his arms around her accordingly, with no expectation of anything else.
And then she'd left, and she'd regretted it ever since because all she wanted was to fall into his stupid embrace again. So when he kissed her, she caved in with disgusting ease because she didn't have enough self-control not to, even if she knew she was taking advantage of him in his weakened state.
If Delia knew where she was, she would be furious. And if Delia knew she was a hair's breadth away from sleeping with Tim again? Kathryn didn't want to think about it. Her initial confession had prompted more anger than she'd ever seen from her liberator.
Delia's opinion had always meant to so much, and Kathryn knew she'd been chasing her forgiveness ever since she'd revealed the details of her relationship with the Marshal. Finding Dawson—killing him if she needed to—it was all part of her penance for lying to her mentor and friend; a form of self-flagellation to occupy her as she strove for clemency.
Kathryn knew Delia would be disappointed in her, and the thought was agonizing. But Tim's mouth was soft and warm, and even as he kissed her, she remembered the way his tongue had felt when he'd gone down on her without hesitation in that first motel room they'd shared.
Still, at least she had the presence of mind to rebuke him when he tried to take it further.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Deputy." It took more self-restraint than she wanted to admit, calling him that. Each time the title fell out of her mouth, she knew it was nothing more than a lame buffer against what she really wanted to say.
She ran her fingers through his hair, reluctant to let go of him.
But instead of curling into his arms and asking him to hold her, she ordered pizza because it was clear that Tim needed to eat. She knew the tremors in his hands couldn't be attributed solely to lack of sustenance, but it was the only thing she could offer him for the time being.
If she could, Kathryn knew she would have given him every goddamn thing in the world.
#
Kathryn didn't cry often. If she caved in and sobbed every time she wanted to, it might never end, so she generally made it a rule not to, full stop.
But today, as she stood under the scorching stream of the motel shower, she let herself cry quietly, her forehead pressed hard into the tiles as she muffled the sound with a fist.
Seeing Tim look so broken, hearing him speak about his mother with so much regret and self-loathing, felt like a twenty-pound boulder had been dropped on her chest. The miserable weight made it difficult to breathe, and the helplessness she felt beneath the burden was too intense, so she let her body collapse against the mildewed shower wall, away from his imploring eyes.
She couldn't let Tim know she'd been brought so low by his suffering—it was important for him to see strength in her, so he could borrow it.
Kathryn knew she needed to help him find his feet because if he didn't, he'd never survive the rest of this case. She was already painfully aware that their relationship had put him in a position of grave danger. She didn't think she would survive if it resulted in his injury.
Or worse.
Once her breathing had returned to normal, Kathryn switched the water to an icy deluge, tilting her face up into the cool rush to bring down the inflammation of her eyes and nose.
When she looked in the mirror, she was sufficiently pleased that she simply looked exhausted and not sad.
The feeling of triumph over her despair did not last long.
"Delia hired Dawson," Tim said, and it was another boulder, this one twice as large, squeezing her arteries closed and snapping her bones like twigs.
"I know," she said, miserable and defeated.
Had everything been a lie? Had she risked her life for more than a decade for nothing?
She couldn't believe that Delia had meant to put her in danger—wouldn't believe that she'd meant to frame Kathryn for Romero's murder—but how could she truly know? She had always known of Delia's shrewder personality traits. Was it really so impossible that she had finally turned them against Kathryn?
Was this punishment for her own lies about Daniel Boone and Tim? For fucking up that operation so royally? For losing those terrified victims and abandoning them to suffer in the darkness?
If so, maybe she deserved it. Tit for tat; a betrayal in kind.
Kathryn was glad when Tim left her alone because it afforded her the opportunity to express her rage without him seeing. She paced the room, barefoot and wrapped in a towel, like a wounded lioness on the prowl.
She clenched her fists over and over, wishing she hadn't bitten her nails so short, so they could draw a satisfying amount of blood from her palms. Instead, they left only vague half-moon indentations that did nothing to satisfy her urge for destruction.
Part of her wished she could turn her fury outward the way Tim had, but Kathryn had always been much more adept at self-violence, despite the work she did. She scratched compulsively at her thighs, tracing the lines of the tattoos there—itching to feel a needle hit her skin, to paint her into something less ugly and damaged.
As renewed tears threatened to fall from her eyes, Kathryn found herself desperate for reassurance. She tore through Tim's duffel bag without remorse, searching for something to attach herself to before she became lost in a haze of anger, floating away into a boundless universe of loss; untethered and abandoned.
When she tugged on his red plaid button down, she immediately felt more relaxed. The thick flannel brushed over her skin almost like a caress, she pressed her face into her shoulder to inhale the scent that clung to the fabric. It helped ground her in the moment, so she could think.
But all she could think about was how alone she felt.
When she heard Tim on the other side of the door, Kathryn attempted to reign in her despondent appearance, but from the look on his face when their eyes met, she could only surmise she had failed miserably in doing so.
#
She knew she was being selfish, but she didn't care. Everything felt wrong, and she needed reassurance. So she turned her face against Tim's neck and ran her tongue roughly over his pulse, knowing what it would lead to.
"I thought you said that was a bad idea?"
What she wanted to say was something vaguely mushy and sentimental. Something like I need you, just let me touch you. Instead, she was purposefully glib, even though their situation was anything but—because she knew that was the way things had to be between them in order for it to work.
"Who gives a shit?"
He gave in as easily as she had, and she was glad for it. Kathryn knew she shouldn't read anything into it—tried to remind herself that Tim was just another man who wanted to fuck her, and there had always been plenty of those.
But it was impossible to stop her mind from skating through the hope that fluttered in her chest when he touched her so softly. Impossible to quell the optimism that arose in the wake of his lips as they ghosted over her skin. When he bit her hip bone gently, it sent a shock of lust through her whole body and she pulled him back up to kiss him greedily.
And she was greedy, her need for him voracious and all-encompassing.
She wanted to make him feel precious; wanted to unhook the anchor that was dragging him into the dark depths of his memories and lift him up to the surface so he could take a cool, refreshing breath.
When she helped him tug off his shirt and saw that nasty scar on his shoulder—the first one she'd ever noticed as he sat shirtless against a motel headboard—she leaned up and kissed it like it was still fresh and she could soothe the wound.
She felt the appreciative sound he made in every cell of her body.
Kathryn didn't know how to talk to Tim about his mother, or how to ask him about what he'd seen before he beat Chad Anderson nearly to death. She didn't know how to reignite the mischievous light in his eyes.
But she knew how to flip him onto his back and pepper his body with gentle kisses to let him know he was worthy of something beautiful and kind.
She knew how to let him relax against the pillows while she provided pleasure and distraction.
And she definitely knew when she flicked her tongue like that, it would elicit a sharp reaction, but she still smiled when it did.
"Fuck, Kathryn, come here."
His voice, asking for her, telling her to stop what she was doing so he could kiss her again made her painfully aware of how much his approval and acceptance meant to her. She knew it was a frail and dangerous edge she was skirting—knew that relying on his need of her was asking for eventual catastrophe.
When had relying on anyone but herself worked out well?
But when he pressed his fingers against that vulnerable spot inside her body while his thumb circled the outer nerves, Kathryn didn't care that this was destined for calamity; didn't care that she was far too invested in a doomed inevitability.
She closed her eyes and let herself just feel him, the warmth of his arm laid against her shoulder as it supported his body, the proximity of his mouth over hers, and the way he twitched against her thigh as he touched her.
But then the movements slowed, became less methodical, and she opened her eyes to find Tim's gaze unfocused and faraway. She was afraid she'd lost him.
"Tim, look at me."
And he did, he looked at her—it felt almost like he was looking right through her skin to the marrow—and then he was fully inside her and it was all she could do not to scream or cry or both at how good it felt to have him there, moving with her in tandem.
She knew there was something else gliding just below the surface of their physical connection; something she couldn't quite admit, though it was undeniable and sincere.
Not love, but maybe somewhere love-adjacent.
She could feel it in the excruciatingly slow way he moved and how he held her as close as physically possible without hurting her. She knew his balanced position over her was making his arms shake with the effort, but he did it anyway, cautious not to crush her beneath him. She knew he was prioritizing her comfort even though it would be easier not to.
Even during their hurried and tense first sexual encounter, Tim had always treated her body with a gentleness no one else had ever shown it. The notion threatened to overwhelm her as Kathryn wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer still.
She never wanted to stop pulling him closer.
#
Even after, surly Tim Gutterson proved to be thoughtful and considerate as he cleaned her leg without any prompting. Kathryn shot him a mocking compliment, but it was laced with genuine gratitude.
She only hoped he knew that somehow.
But how could he?
No one had ever made her feel as worthy or respected as the broken, exhausted Deputy Marshal, despite their collective flaws and performative indifference.
Kathryn owed him so much already—her life, more than once, and maybe even her sanity, now that the last few tenuous connections she had to other people were badly frayed or totally severed.
Tim might be the only person Kathryn could still presume to be on her side.
So why was it so difficult for her to just be honest with him?
I don't trust you as far as I could spit a rat.
The admission still stung, like she'd walked barefoot over a field of thistles. But even if he didn't trust her—and realistically, she thought, he shouldn't—she was still determined to do everything in her power to make sure she didn't drag him down into the muck with her.
Kathryn had originally intended to take a real shower, but as she was massaging shampoo into Tim's hair, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a smothering embrace that restricted her movements. He stood, eyes closed, as she finished washing his hair, but after that, she resigned herself to just standing under the torrent of warm water with him until he was ready to move.
She knew she would wait as long as it took for him to be ready.
#
She awoke groggy and disheveled, disoriented for a moment before she realized where she was. Kathryn was losing her edge—she'd almost slept too late to avoid him.
Their limbs had become even more tangled as they'd slept and extricating herself from Tim's embrace without waking him proved difficult.
She had to leave before he woke up. If he looked at her, she knew her resolve to go would melt away, and then he'd be in even more danger than he was already.
She was sure her stunt from yesterday had gotten Reed's attention, and she needed to take preventative measures to ensure she wasn't found. At least not yet—there were loose ends she needed to tie up first.
Her first night's sleep on a real mattress instead of a bedroll on the floor afforded her some much-needed energy and the restful sleep proved important as she hurried to gather her things, including the snacks Tim had brought her and Anderson's phone.
Once she'd dressed, Kathryn made the mistake of looking at the Deputy still fast asleep in the bed they'd shared, and she almost crawled back in beside him. Her throat felt too tight—swallowing stung and she was afraid if she breathed, it might turn into an anguished yell.
Instead of pulling him into her arms again, she settled for taking his shirt with her; a stolen token of the only person she knew who'd never intentionally done her harm.
As she tugged the door quietly closed behind her, Kathryn became acutely aware of the fact that it might be the last time she ever saw Tim. And if it wasn't totally final, it might be the last time she saw him as a free woman.
The last time he could call her Kathryn out loud.
Every muscle in her body begged her to turn around—to return to the bed and run her fingers through his hair in the way she knew brought him comfort.
He deserved comfort, didn't he? She could give him that, she knew she could.
But Kathryn had already made her decision.
Tim didn't need to trust her. He didn't even need to like her. In fact, though the thought was excruciating, part of her hoped he didn't because it would make things easier in the end.
Even if he hated her for it, she would still do whatever it took to shield him from the disastrous consequences of knowing her.
Kathryn wasn't strong enough to wish she'd never met Tim Gutterson, but she was certainly ready to throw herself in the line of fire if it meant protecting him—whether from himself, or anybody else.