Jake thrashes and bucks when rough hands drag us back through the lobby of the bank toward a waiting van outside, but I am a statue carved from stony shock and I can't move.

He is shouting loudly at the officer reading him his Miranda Rights, screaming strangled disjointed sentences that make little sense- "No, she's dirty, I'm the sick one! I'm a clean boy!- and also my name.

"Rosa! No, no. no. no. Rosa!"

Mostly my name.

Jake spirals down into unrestrained panic faster than I've seen in years, and even worse than the time that we don't speak of- the day he collapsed, shaking, into my arms after I cut him free from the chair Hoytsman had him duct taped to.

He finds my eyes over the heads of the swarm of strange officers between us, and the wild terror in his expression fills my veins with liquid fury, but I have no reassuring smiles for him now. Because even though shock keeps my body from responding to my brain's command to cry, deep inside I am shattering too; and the most comfort I can offer Jake is to simply hold his gaze. I let him see on my face just a shadow of the dark fear filling my chest, and hope that it can be enough for him just to know that he's not alone.

When I realize that they are dragging us toward separate cars, I have to bite back a wild scream of rage that forms in my throat; my teeth pierce my lip hard enough to taste a fountain of hot, metallic blood pooling in my mouth, but I'm numb to the pain.

I thought that we would at least have the drive back to a precinct before they separated us; and even though I'm ashamed to admit it to myself, I'm suddenly terrified- both to be alone and to leave Jake alone in his current condition.

He's too far gone in a haze of panic to notice that I've been harshly shoved into a different car, until the two officers it takes to restrain him pass me. And when I don't follow him, I watch the horrified realization dawning in his eyes, and the color draining from his face as the fight seeps slowly out of his muscles.

I think Jake would have collapsed against the unforgiving cement then, if the men digging cruel fingers into his upper arms hadn't caught his weight between them. He is breathing hard, but it's too fast and too shallow, and I can't stifle the growl of frustration that my helplessness rips from my throat.

I want to kill Hawkins, I think savagely; and every single one of her slithering, treacherous men. The urge to beat them all bloody until they understand even a fraction of the pain they've caused takes my breath away with it's frightening intensity; and I shudder under the strength of it, allowing the violent fantasy to darken my gaze with thoughts of satisfying vengeance for just a moment.

Then the slam of a door pulls my mind back to the present, and just as Jake slumps limply into his own waiting van, looking nauseous and only barely hanging onto consciousness, I dig deep to find the steadiness it takes to shout his name roughly out my open window.

"Jake!"

He looks for me, but when his hopeless stare finds my burning eyes, I suddenly don't know what to say. I won't lie to my partner and tell him everything will be ok when I have no idea what's about to happen to us.

So I yell the only thing I do know with dazzling clarity, "I've still got your back. 1000 push- ups."

And even locked in the back of a squad car, handcuffed like a criminal, he smiles tightly for me. I can't hear him over the noise of the wailing sirens that switch on as my car begins to pull out into traffic, taking me who knows where; but I see him mouth the same words back to me and I know he's saying it too.

"1000 push- ups."