Tim was ravenous, and once again found himself grateful that Kathryn had ordered them each their own pie. He'd also retrieved the remaining bourbon from his car, and they both sipped from the bottle appreciatively. They'd eaten mostly in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Tim was trying to figure out how to tell her that Romero may have set her up. He looked at Anderson's cellphone sitting on the bedside table and wondered how he could confirm that information without having to immediately share it with Kathryn.

He hoped if it was true, he could soften the blow somehow.

Now that Tim had eaten and his mind was clearer, he could see how ragged Kathryn looked; deep purple circles under her eyes made her face look bruised, and her fingernails had been torn to the quick. He wondered if that was a nervous habit he'd missed before. She was currently perched in a chair across the room, sitting cross-legged as she ate her pizza. She'd removed her jacket to reveal an oversized Aerosmith t-shirt with the arms cut off and dark jeans.

Tim thought she looked like a teenager dressed to attend her first concert with her dad.

"Something on your mind, Deputy?"

Tim looked up to find Kathryn watching him intently with a slice of pizza poised halfway to her mouth.

He decided for the moment to steer the conversation as far from Kathryn's fashion sense and the case as he could. "Is your mother still alive?"

It still sent a thrill through him when he was able to catch Kathryn off guard, and he smiled when she nearly choked on the bite of pizza she'd just taken.

"I don't know," she managed to sputter after her coughing fit subsided.

"You never checked?"

Kathryn returned the half-eaten slice to the box it had come from, carefully folding the receptacle closed and setting it aside on the dresser. She looked for a napkin, but finding none, wiped her hands down her thighs to rid them of grease.

"I looked her up when I first got out, but that was years ago. She could have died in the interim and I wouldn't know."

"I don't think I could stand that," he confessed. "After I left for Basic, I kept waiting for a phone call that he'd killed her." Tim didn't elaborate, knowing Kathryn would understand who he meant. "When too many days went by between calls, I assumed the worst. Almost gave me an ulcer." Tim leaned back in his chair, gnawing on the last piece of crust. He didn't even bother to finish chewing before he continued, "But then the call I got was from her, telling me that my dad was dead, and I was relieved because I thought she would finally be happy. I thought she was safe."

Kathryn hesitated, but only for a moment, "And then she got sick?"

Tim nodded. "I had to fight for Compassionate Action just so I could say goodbye. She hardly got a year without the bastard."

Tim finished the last of his crust and tossed the empty box onto the floor, brushing his hands together and letting the crumbs fly carelessly. Kathryn flinched, her nose wrinkling distastefully, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"She would have been 56 today," he said, finally.

After a moment, Kathryn unfurled her legs and stood, picking up the nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam from the floor and walking toward him. "Happy Birthday, Mrs. Gutterson," she said and took a sip from the bottle before passing it to Tim. Their eyes locked and he held her gaze as he took a long, full swallow.

"Happy Birthday, mom."

#

Soon after their toast, Kathryn excused herself to take what Tim assumed was a long, hot shower and he used the opportunity to investigate Anderson's phone.

As he swiped through the contacts, he did indeed find a "C. Romero" listed, and he learned far more about the man than he wanted to by perusing his text messages. Tim had been right; there was an ex-wife. And it seemed like Chad liked to get drunk and send her pictures of his dick before whining about how much he missed her.

The woman either had enough self-respect to ignore him, or she'd changed her number without alerting him. Either way, it was both terribly sad and totally amusing; just the sort of schadenfreude pick-me-up Tim needed.

He just had to remember not to think of Anderson's face caked in blood and missing teeth.

And then there were texts from Romero. They were brief and most of them didn't seem to make sense without context. But since he knew the date of the Daniel Boone drop, he was able to scroll to that night.

Anderson had texted Romero minutes after Nettles' report said Spencer's call had come into the station.

"D.B. dropped. Pickup?"
"Y - $25"
"1:2 odds"
"Ok"

And that was it.

"What the…"

"Anything good?"

Tim almost dropped the phone. Kathryn was standing behind him, wrapped in a motel towel, her hair still dripping.

"Fuck, Kathryn."

"What is it?"

Tim desperately wanted to lie; to keep this information from her. But instead, he handed her the opened phone over his shoulder.

"Romero was the dirty fed. This is from the night we found the truck."

He couldn't watch her read the messages; didn't want to see betrayal or hurt on her face, so he kept his eyes forward.

Because if Romero had been the one to sell her out to Solkov, that meant—

"This is a simple code," she said softly, "Romero used the same with me. "$25 means he had a 25-minute ETA. The 1:2 odds Anderson sent back meant his own travel time was half that."

Kathryn walked back to her chair and sat down, scrolling through the texts intently. She looked deflated. Defeated. Tim watched as the normally defiant glint in her gaze dampened and then died.

"Kathryn…"

"He was feeding him info for months. Some of these dates… Romero was deliberately undoing work I'd done."

"Kathryn, if Romero was dirty, that means—"

Her head snapped up. "You'd best choose your next words very carefully, Deputy. There's no reason for you to make any rash assumptions."

"You know I'm right."

"All due respect, fuck you. You're not exactly in fighting shape."

"I could be brain dead and still see what's going on."

Kathryn crossed her legs again and balanced the phone on her knee. She rubbed her eyes and ran her fingers through her damp hair. She looked something beyond exhausted. Tim knew that look.

It was a look of resignation.

And he could hear her voice, assured and clear in his bedroom, I've only been in the same room as Vincent Dawson once.

"Delia hired Dawson," he said, and Kathryn's head dropped into her hands, the curtain of her hair closing around her face like a shield against his voice.

"I know."

Delia had sent them both on a wild goose chase in order to clean up the mess left in the wake of her hitman.

She'd toyed with them to cover her own ass.

#

Tim wished fervently for more bourbon. Kathryn had been sitting, motionless and bereaved for twenty minutes and the only salve he could think to offer her was the last dregs of his liquor, but even that seemed inadequate.

He decided to leave her to think and grieve alone.

He knew he shouldn't drive, and he liked the idea of the cool night air on his face, anyway, so he shoved his hands in his pockets and he walked a mile and a half down the road they'd come in on until he found a gas station. He bought Kathryn the only bottle of scotch they had and hoped she didn't mind sharing because he opened it on the walk back.

Tim entered the room to find Kathryn now sitting in the middle of the bed, wearing a plaid button down that was two sizes too big for her.

"Damn it, Kathryn, that's my last clean shirt." But when she looked up at him, he didn't have the heart to scold her further. "Here," he said instead, holding out the bottle. Once she took it, he tossed her a bag with a can of Pringles and a stale doughnut from the pastry case inside and was startled when she actually laughed.

"Quite the care package, Deputy. Do I look that bad?"

"Nothing a little whisky can't fix," he said, settling back into his chair, though he wasn't half as sure as he sounded.

He watched as Kathryn unscrewed the top of the bottle and knocked back a hefty swig. She swallowed and then coughed loudly. "You couldn't have sprung for the bottom shelf? Did they make this in the toilet?"

"Beats me," he said, "the guy at the register said it was the house special."

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before taking a second, somewhat more conservative sip.

"Thank you," she said as she closed the bottle, resting it on the bed next to her.

"So what now?" he asked.

"Now we figure out how the fuck to get you out of dodge."

"What about you?"

She shrugged. "Pretty sure I'm dicked either way. Our goal now needs to be to extricate you from this mess."

Tim knew she was probably right. Still, the idea of Kathryn taking the fall for Delia didn't sit right with him in the least.

"She never told you?"

Kathryn shook her head, "She still had me looking for who hired Dawson." She let out an utterly unamused bark of laughter, "I've been poring over financial statements from Russian oligarchs all fucking week." Tim watched anguish ebb over her features, flowing into anger and then back again in a tortured wave.

She did what he would have done in her position; she grabbed the bottle and took another long drink.

Tim rose from his seat, kicking off his shoes and settling on the bed next to Kathryn, who scooted over to make room for him.

"How did I miss it?" she asked, and Tim wasn't sure what to say, so he just wrapped his arm around her shoulders and let her rest her head against him. It wasn't much, but it was all he could offer her.

Because he was definitely a little drunk and also mourning, which meant he wasn't in a position to provide a clearheaded view of anything.

"I asked Reed for three days, so I still have tomorrow before I have to be back. I think we should sleep on it and figure it out tomorrow."

Kathryn turned her face and nuzzled gently against his neck. A jolt of electricity surged through him when her tongue pressed against his carotid.

Tim let out a low, pleased hum, "I thought you said that was a bad idea?"

"Who gives a shit?"

As it turned out, Tim Gutterson didn't.

He turned and pulled Kathryn into a kiss filled with longing—longing for respite, for a different life, for a pleasant distraction. They fell into a mutual embrace of need; both desperate to feel something other than wrath or regret. When she caressed his face, he felt the tension melt from his shoulders and the haze of his loss eased, overtaken by the mechanics of physical gratification.

Their touches remained lazy and soft, neither of them interested in anything rough or harsh; this was meant to comfort. Tim's mouth made its way to her neck, and then her shoulders, whispering over the skin his shirt didn't cover. Kathryn laid back and he followed her, trailing kisses over her chest, between her breasts to her stomach and then her hip bones, where he let his teeth graze lightly over her smooth skin.

She writhed slowly, sensually beneath him, and when she tugged his hair, pulling him back to her mouth, he followed her easily, enjoying the languid dance of their tongues and the stringent taste of cheap scotch, even as he rolled the bottle off the bed and heard it land with a thud on the carpet.

Kathryn ran her hands under his shirt, pushing it up and out of the way. He tugged it over his head, enjoying the way her eyes drifted over his torso, and when she leaned up and kissed the scar on his left shoulder, he couldn't suppress the embarrassing sound that escaped from his mouth before he tugged her lips back to his.

He felt her smiling as he kissed her, and he didn't even care that her mirth came at his expense because he just wanted to feel something that didn't hurt. He wanted to remember he could touch something without breaking it.

Kathryn rolled him onto his back, pressing his shoulders firmly down into the mattress as she draped her hips over his. Tim yanked the too-large plaid over her head, leaving her hair a tangled mess that framed her face like a lion's mane.

The crooked smile she gave him didn't make her look any less predatory. But when she leaned down, and all he could feel was her skin against his, he forgot to worry about becoming her prey.

Kathryn dragged slow, open-mouthed kisses down his body and Tim fumbled with his belt and the button of his jeans. He was grateful when she helped discard the troublesome garments because he didn't have the patience or dexterity for them.

He was even more grateful when she settled between his legs and let her mouth distract him from every anxious thought and tainted memory he'd ever suffered. Tim tilted his head back and closed his eyes, allowing himself to simply enjoy what Kathryn was doing to his body without thought or regret.

She was gentle and deliberate—every movement and pressure variation intentionally soft. Tim's headache was gone, replaced by a pleasant buzz in his skull as Kathryn moved her lips over him again and again.

He gasped when she did something unexpected with her tongue and his hips twitched involuntarily. "Fuck, Kathryn, come here," he said, eyes still closed as he reached for her.

And then she was there, and he was kissing her, rolling her onto her back so he could return the favor. Tim let his strong, skillful fingers trace their way down her belly and over her thighs before settling inside her. She rolled her hips beautifully in response and Tim relished the view of her beneath him, eyes closed as she allowed herself to enjoy the same uncomplicated pleasure he had a few moments ago.

For all that she frustrated him, Tim had to admit this was worth the price of her brash wit, maybe even of her frustrating ability to dodge questions or her proclivity for lying. As he considered these things about Kathryn, however, Tim's mind began to drift to less pleasant subjects until he heard her whisper, "Tim, look at me."

And when he did, he found her face flushed, lips parted and wet, and her eyes sparkling with desire and need. Tim kissed her again, removing his fingers delicately before taking their place.

His brain was blinded by the sensation, and there was no room left for worry or second guessing. Kathryn wrapped her legs around his hips, matching the pace he set easily and breathing hoarsely against his ear. He wanted to feel all of her near him, so he held his body close to hers, supporting his weight just enough that she wouldn't be uncomfortable.

The sweet friction, the smell of her skin, and the sound of her voice engulfed his senses until he reached the inexorable edge he'd been chasing and plummeted over.

At least he still had the presence of mind to pull out of her first, but he made a mess of her thigh when he did. Tim collapsed in a boneless heap against her, and as he rubbed his nose along her jaw, he could feel her smiling. Kathryn twined her fingers through his tousled hair, and Tim allowed himself a few minutes of satisfied oblivion before he got up and retrieved a towel from the bathroom, using it to clean her leg.

She laughed a little as she watched him. "Such a gentlemen."

"As ever," he said, "Shower?"

"Mmm," was the only response.

#

Tim and Kathryn stood under the water as she massaged shampoo into his hair. Rather than bathe, Tim just held onto her, pressing their bodies together like he was trying to meld them both into one being. He kept his eyes closed, afraid of what he might find if he looked at her. For now, he wanted nothing more than to feel the comfort of another human being, and Kathryn was the only one near.

Tim knew it could have been anyone standing there with him; it was only proximity and chance that it was her.

"Feeling better?" she asked, and he made some noncommittal noise low in his throat. "I'm going to take that as a yes, even if it isn't."

As they crawled back into bed—this time to sleep—Tim found himself incredibly glad you didn't need to trust someone to have sex with them. When he pulled her close, still intent on pressing skin-to-skin, he was grateful she let him tuck her head under his chin without a cutting, sarcastic quip.

Tim knew it could have been anyone, but he was thankful for now that it was her.