Note: Reminder to readers that this is a darker Lizzington fic and this chapter contains violence and themes which may be upsetting.

Tom collapsed on top of her, groaning, blood streaming from the cut on his head and seeping into the white silk of her blouse. Liz's level headedness vanished into a haze of adrenaline and she used all her strength to roll him off her, before scrambling to get off the bed. Lying down she felt frightened and vulnerable; she needed to be standing. She swung her legs to the floor and darted for the table where Tom's jacket hung over a chair - she was sure it contained a weapon. As she moved she felt a rush of air behind her as Tom kicked her feet out from under her, groaning in pain and swearing at her as he did so. She landed hard on the stone floor, but managed to roll and right herself. Tom stood before her ready to pounce, blood oozing from the cut on his head. He blinked as the blood stung his eyes, and she launched herself forward, slamming her elbow up under his chin. The difference in their heights made the blow less effective, and he kicked her hard in the stomach, sending her staggering backwards. As he approached her she grabbed his shirt collar and brought her knee up hard, but he used her weight against her, ducking and rolling her over his shoulder, slamming her to the ground.

She was momentarily stunned, and he was kneeling over her before she had a chance to recover. He grabbed one of her wrists and pinned it above her head, blocking her attempt to punch him with her free hand. He knelt on her thigh, using his weight to hold her whilst he wiped the blood from his eyes, smearing it across his features in the process. Perhaps this was his true face, she thought as waves of panic hit her – a cold mask of blood. But after drawing his arm across his face, it was unmistakably Jacob Phelps who looked down at her, like a hurt, rejected and angry little boy.

"You lying little bitch" he seethed, shaking his head. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Let me go Tom, please" she said as calmly as she could. She flexed her body slightly to check how much – if any – leverage she could get to escape. He leant down on her harder, and she thought of the bruises this would leave. She wondered whether she would be alive to see them. "Tom" she said, breathless with fear and adrenaline. "We were married for two years – we loved each other. Don't do this."

Tom's eyes were unfocused and he was breathing hard. The wound on his head was continuing to seep bright red blood. When he spoke his voice cracked, unable to conceal his hurt. "Yes, we were married. But you forgot that, didn't you? You gave up on us before you ever found out about me. When did it start, Liz? Did he seduce you? Or was it the other way around? Did you throw yourself at him? I guess those daddy issues run pretty deep" he said spitefully, choking back tears.

Her cheeks burned with shame and tears pricked her eyes. No, she and Red hadn't slept together. But she wanted to. She couldn't deny it to herself anymore – she was falling in love with him, and now it might be too late to tell him. "Please don't" she whispered through a haze of tears. "Please Tom, please stop." She looked up at him beseechingly and saw that he was failing, his face pale with blood loss and streaked with tears. He looked down at her with eyes as sad as her own before leaning down and whispering in her ear "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She heaved him away from her, and this time she was able to reach the table. Her hand closed around the gun and she pulled it from his jacket, spinning round to aim it at him where he lay on the floor, her hands shaking.

He looked up at her with his bloody face and puppy-dog eyes and her lower lip trembled as she gripped the gun. "Do it, Liz" he said. "But look me in the eye when you do." He smiled faintly, reminding her of the last time he had spoken those words to her. She had let him live then. As she stood over him she thought of her husband, and of the lost teenager recruited into something he wasn't old enough to understand. She let out a sob and shook her head. She began to back away slowly, keeping the gun trained on him whilst grabbing her phone from the table and making her way towards the door. No matter what he had done, she could never bring herself to kill the man known as Tom Keen.

As soon as Liz felt the cold night air on her face she began to run. She followed street lights in the distance, pounding the pavement until she left the warehouse district behind her, stopping only when she reached streets with shops, lights, and a few people even at this time of night. She leaned against a building to catch her breath, willing herself to stay upright. She looked around her; she knew he couldn't have followed her at that pace with his injury, but she felt the need to check all the same. When her breath returned, she took the phone from her pocket and shakily began to dial.

She had expected Dembe to answer but it was Red. He sounded angry. Angry and terrified.

"Tom you listen to me…"

"It's me" she gasped.

"Lizzie! Oh thank God, thank God. Are you alright? Where are you?"

"Yes" she choked, still trying to slow her heart rate.

"Sweetheart tell me where you are" he said, his voice soft but urgent.

"There was a warehouse, I ran…." She breathed. She looked around her. "I'm on the corner of Rhode Island and M"

"Hold on…. There's a church, St Matthew's, do you see it?"

Liz walked on down the street glancing furtively about her and saw the enormous building looming. The saint etched in the stone front seemed to look down at her pityingly.

"Yes, I'm coming up on it" she said shakily.

"Go in now, and wait for me. I'm coming for you sweetheart." The line went dead.

When Red arrived at the church it was dark and draughty, lit only by the street lights outside and a few meager candles flickering in the vestibule. He saw the outline of her head and shoulders first; with her bare arms and white blouse she seemed to emit a ghostly light in the gloom. As he approached he saw her shivering and he slipped his coat over her shoulders as he sat beside her. She didn't move, and for a moment she seemed completely unaware of his presence. He reached tentatively for her hand, but withdrew with a sharp intake of breath as he noticed the deep purple welts on her wrists from where she was bound, and the bruises on her arms.

"Lizzie… Lizzie look at me." His voice enfolded her like blankets, his gentle tones amplified by the acoustics in the cavernous church. She slowly turned towards him, and his face darkened with concern and anger as he took in the deep bruise that crept across her cheek, and the red stains on her blouse. He reached out to assess her injuries - to check if the blood was hers - but she drew back away from him. Her blue eyes seemed even bigger than usual, and sharp with fear. Resisting a powerful urge to embrace her, he settled for meeting her gaze with a warm, determined stare of his own. "You're ok now. I promise everything is going to be ok. Come now."

She nodded wordlessly, and he rose, holding out his hands to help her stand. She stood of her own accord, instead using her hands to pull his coat around her more snugly. He walked her out of the church silently, out into the morning light where Dembe was waiting with the car. Red opened the door for her and then slipped in beside her. He was careful to avoid initiating contact, but before long he felt her head come to rest on his shoulder, where it stayed for the rest of the journey. He remained as still as possible, wishing her a deep, dreamless sleep in which she could forget all the terrible things that she had experienced in her life.

She was still asleep in the early hours of the morning when they arrived at the house, a pleasant, period building outside the city surrounded by a few acres of meadow land. She barely stirred when Dembe opened the car door and, with a nod from Red, gathered her into his arms with a gentleness that belied his apparent strength and carried her into the house. When Red entered behind them he was greeted by Mr Kaplan, who had somehow managed to arrive ahead of them and air-out the house.

"Take her upstairs, first door on the right. I'll be there momentarily" she said matter-of-factly. She turned to Red.

"She's in shock, Kate." Red's voice was even but his eyes told of the concern and helplessness he felt.

"A perfectly natural reaction" Mr Kaplan responded resolutely.

"I'm leaving her in your hands" he said seriously, his tone reinforcing all that implied.

"You're not staying?"

Red sighed. "Based on the information we got from my contact on Tom Keen's movements and Lizzie's location when we picked her up I have a pretty good idea where she was held. I'll be back as soon as I can, but right now Dembe and I have work to do" he said, his eyes flashing.

Mr Kaplan nodded briskly, knowing full well that her employer wouldn't rest while the monster that had done this was still at large. "I'll take good care of her. Be safe" she said pointedly before disappearing up the stairs.

Tom Keen was long gone by the time they reached the warehouse. It was now nothing more than a dark husk, a shell full of evidence that would torture Red's imagination. As he stepped inside through the iron door, his skin prickled. It smelled like fear in there. Like evil. Unfortunately, he was all too familiar with places like this. Places where the walls whispered of the atrocities that had been committed there, of the twisted minds of the people who had made use of the space. It reminded him of the darkened basement where he had found Dembe all those years ago, as an angry, abused boy. Dembe returned to his side, having cleared the area, and holstered his weapon. A look passed between him and his employer, before Red nodded silently and Dembe went outside to guard the door, leaving Red alone.

He surveyed the warehouse, taking in the furniture from her house, the dinner table… and the bed. His heart began to hammer in his chest. He began to walk slowly around, reading the scene like a horrible script. It was something he was good at. He had to be. He saw the sofa, cushions scattered around on the floor. It started here. Blood on the cover. She had been struck, hard. He turned to the table. Candles. Two wine glasses, one drained, one untouched. Food, mostly untouched. She hadn't cooperated. Or couldn't cooperate. He forced himself towards the corner with the bed. Her navy blue jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Broken cable ties crackled under his feet. Two ties. Wrists and ankles. Clean cut with a knife. He'd needed her free for this part, he thought desolately. Quilt ruched on the bed. One pillow on the floor. Pieces of a shattered lamp. Signs of a brutal struggle. More blood. Whose, he couldn't tell. There was nothing there to help ascertain where Tom Keen might be now, and Lizzie had barely spoken two words so far.

He had seen enough. He turned and walked swiftly towards the door, stepping out into the harsh light. Dembe stepped towards him but he raised his hand to halt him, before moving around the side of the building. Once he was alone he bent double with his hands on his knees, staving off the wave of nausea that crashed over him.

TBC