She made it through the night, although she didn't sleep much; got through the next couple of days quietly enough. Long hours at the Post Office, catching up on paperwork, avoiding conversation. She skipped dinner entirely once, but that came with problems of its own, questions and concerns. Fake concerns, but not ones that she was prepared to answer, so…
A new morning, and she'd thought of something new. Alone in the kitchen, she cracked open Tom's car remote to replace the battery with a bugged one that she'd filched from the armory. She'd barely started when she heard him behind her in the hall.
"Since when did Jolene Parker's case go from missing person to murder investigation? And have you seen my keys?"
Shit. "It's crazy, right?" she answered, just ignoring his question about the keys, working faster.
"Yeah, what uh…what happened?"
"The police say they have a person of interest." She pulled the newspaper over her busy hand as he came into the kitchen behind her.
"Really? Who is it? What do they... What do they know?"
She thought she heard just the lightest note of panic, of insecurity, in his voice, and it brought her some petty satisfaction. Until she thought about the most likely reason that he would want to know.
"They're not sure," she said flatly.
"Isn't it possible that she just left town like she said? Moved to Dayton?"
"They found blood…matches hers," she said, turning to face him, leaving both batteries behind under the newspaper.
"You see this stuff every day… You know, people getting hurt and killed...and...I don't. It freaks me out, just the thought of that happening to you, you know. Just promise me you're as careful as you can be when you're at work." He uncurled her fingers and placed a kiss on her palm. Came closer, as if for more, and she couldn't stand it.
"The desk," she said.
"Hmm?"
"By the computer. That's where I saw your keys."
He turned to check and she finished with his remote in swift movements, then held them up. "Found 'em! They were under the newspaper."
"What would I do without you?" he asked as she dropped the keys into his outstretched hand.
What, indeed? Move on to the next mark, she supposed, like all con men. Choose his next victim and start a new life. A completely fresh start, as if the last three years had never happened, and she realized she envied the thought. Wanted her own fresh start, her own new life. She'd do everything she could to ensure that she'd get it.
Later, as she sat with Reddington in the storage locker, she had to share her doubts. Owed it to him.
"He knows something's off."
"What makes you say that?"
"I can feel it," she said. "I know him."
And she did, she thought, knew his actions and reactions — at least of the man he was pretending to be. As long as he kept up the pretense, she'd be able to read him. There was both comfort and danger in that.
"Tom is on his heels," Red said. "He's behaving erratically."
"He killed Jolene Parker," she realized aloud, the thought having haunted her since their earlier conversation. He wasn't just a con man, but a cold-blooded killer.
"Yes."
He knew? "You knew? Why didn't you tell me?" How could he have kept that a secret? Let her live with a killer, sleep beside him, have… Her face burned with anger and shame and resentment.
Red was talking, explaining himself, and she supposed his reasons were sound enough, but… Had he meant to spare her, or safeguard his case? After all, he needed Liz and Tom together to find out as much as he could about the shadowy figure that lay behind it all. The real threat, which was aimed not at her, but straight at Reddington and his organization. She was just…collateral damage.
Her resentment grew and festered as he talked on, bringing her a new case — new and old at once. Calling back to when he first entered her life, with the Pavlovich Brothers, mercenaries, the extraction team that had taken the general's daughter on that very first case.
She thought back to walking into her house to find Tom at knifepoint, bloody and battered, and fervently wished that Ranko Zamani had finished the job he'd started that day.
Talking through the case with the team, standing in the Post Office, she couldn't shake the thought. Everything would have been different. She would have been devastated, but knew now that it wouldn't feel as wretchedly awful as she did now.
Wouldn't have left her bleeding and broken and lost.
Following Tom Keen through his day was not as elucidating as Red had hoped it might be. At least he wasn't reduced to hanging around outside an elementary school, but he'd learned nothing of interest and was getting impatient. Antsy.
Time to phone Lizzy and check in.
She wasn't happy with the case — the brothers had succeeded in taking Xiaoping Li. He regretted that, he did, but they had other things to think about. Namely, Tom Keen, and just what he was up to. Careful surveillance would hopefully give them some much-needed information.
"Meet me at 9th and Constitution."
More important than the Task Force right now; more important than anything else. He was so much closer to answers, so much he could feel triumph coming. If only everything went right.
It didn't take long for her to slide into the back seat of the Mercedes beside him, cheeks pink from the cold air, eyes sharp and assessing. She found Keen before Red could point him out, sitting in the park across the street, seemingly reading the paper without a care in the world. She frowned as she watched him, and he longed to comfort her. He talked, instead.
"Called in sick this morning. Returned home briefly before making a stop at the Radford Bank in Adams Morgan. He's made three phone calls... All from pay phones. He's been sitting at that cart for nearly an hour.
"I'm sorry, Lizzy." So, so sorry; she'd never really know the true depths of his remorse where she was concerned.
"Don't be." Curt, short, unflinching. She was doing better at holding herself together, he thought.
"This must be difficult."
"You want to know what's hard?" She turned to look at him, face cool, expression even, voice level. "Sitting here when all I really want to do is get my hands around his throat."
Just at that moment, Keen got up and began to walk. Lizzy, of course, wanted to follow him — highly inadvisable, and he pointed out the numerous scouts on the street already doing the work for them. He should have known she'd go anyway, leaping out of the car and chasing Keen into the Archives as if it didn't matter if she was spotted.
So volatile, so impetuous, so…Lizzy. He couldn't blame her, not now. Not for needing to know what was going on, needing the truth about a man who had taken so much from her. He could only hope she'd stay out of sight, and that nothing would come of it.
Thinking about it, it didn't seem likely, so he began to make other plans.
She couldn't help it, she couldn't. Couldn't leave her fate in the hands of all these strangers. She flashed her badge at security, raced up the stairs after her erstwhile husband. Managed to spot him beside another man, seemingly waiting for an elevator. Tom suddenly looked behind, and she ducked back, as fast as she could…but no, no. The two men split and started walking.
On instinct, she followed the stranger, out of the Archives and into the street, just in time to see his car drive away. Shit. Had she ruined everything? Blown it completely? She conferred briefly with Red's man on the sidewalk then looked over at the Mercedes, still there by the curb.
She couldn't face Reddington — whether he was disappointed or angry or understanding, it would be too much right now. He met her eyes, though, and smiled at her, a sad, knowing smile. Her lips quivered, and she spun on her heel and walked away, as fast as she could move without running.
She found her own car and just drove, aimlessly and without purpose. Her phone buzzed — Ressler, looking for the info she'd claimed to be obtaining from Reddington. There was no point in answering, since she had nothing on Li.
The poor woman deserved better than Liz, working with only one hand while all her attention lay elsewhere. Li could die, and at this point, Liz wasn't sure she'd even notice, let alone care.
She drove until dusk, watching neighbourhoods pass by, stopping by the small park at the end of her street to watch small children being pushed on swings and encouraged down the slide by delighted parents. Pictured herself there, one last time, with the man she'd loved and their sweet baby boy, enjoying a crisp winter afternoon.
She locked the dream away as she headed up the street, back to the home she thought they'd made. Tidied her mind as best she could, and prepared for the confrontation to come. She didn't know what Tom had seen, so she had to be ready.
She ducked in the front door and thought she could hear the tinkle of music. "Tom?"
"I'm in the dining room."
She definitely heard music; as she walked to the dining room, she saw the music box and her heart pounded. Deep breath. "Where'd you get that thing?" she asked, some of the fondness she felt upon seeing it leaching into her voice.
"I was gonna ask you the same question. I found it in the basement."
"That's where that was — I've been looking for it. My father gave it to me."
She carefully shut the lid as Tom walked over to her, wine glass in hand. "It's beautiful," he said. "It's in great condition, too. It looks almost new. Why haven't I seen this before?"
Distraction. "Your pot is gonna boil over," she said quietly, and walked away into the kitchen to tend to the stove. "You're cooking? I thought we were going out for Thai?"
He followed her; put his glass down on the counter. "Yeah, well, I just thought it might be nice, you know, to stay home alone... Just you and me."
He poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her. "How was your day?" she asked, feeling inane, insane.
"It was exhausting," he said, chuckling. "You know Billy Salter? He was acting up again 'cause his mom keeps packing these fruit roll-ups, and they give him this satanic sugar high, you know. So...
"Oh, uh, I did stop by the National Archives just to maybe book a field trip for the kids. It's funny. I, uh...I could have sworn that I saw you there. There was a woman there, and she looked just like you."
Shit. Shit. "Ah, no, I wish. I was cooped up in the office all day."
"Yeah. Should have known." He moved close to her, that familiar smile she'd loved on his face. "Well, whoever she was, she could not have been half as beautiful as you are right now." He leaned in slowly and kissed her deliberately on the mouth.
"All right. Uh, keep stirring," he said, turning away and heading for the front door. "I'm gonna walk the dog."
She listened to him chatter at the dog, listened to the rattle of tags and the click of nails, the familiar voice, and thought she might scream. Might weep, let go of the horrible gasping sobs that were there, just waiting to be released.
She couldn't stand it. Then, for one long moment, their eyes met down the hallway, and she was afraid.
"What?" she managed, but knew her voice sounded strange.
"Nothing," he said, and turned away. "Love you. I'll be right back." He kept encouraging the dog as he opened the door and left.
Her heart hurt, and her stomach ached. Just as her vision began to blur, she heard the jingle of tags again, a scritch-scratch at the front door.
She walked down the hall as if in a dream, and opened the door for Hudson, who trotted through and away into the house. Leaving her alone. Her chest was compressed and painful, her throat tight and choking. She managed to fumble out her phone, speed dial 7, and the familiar dark voice eased her enough that she could speak.
"I need you," she said simply. "I'm at the house."
And, of course, he came, right away. She was still standing in the hallway, still wearing her coat, numb and shocked and grieving, when he came through the door. She hadn't locked it in her strange fugue.
He took one long look at her, then simply enfolded her in strong arms. She lay her head on his shoulder and let his breath, deep and even, guide her own until she felt calmer. When he felt her relax against him, he pressed a kiss to her head, soothing, then eased her away so he could strip off her coat and lead her to the living room.
He sat her down on the couch, and then took off his own coat and sat down in the chair opposite. She remembered them a few weeks ago, seated in the opposite positions, seeing each other again after his long absence, and the happiness she'd felt.
She wasn't sure she'd ever feel that kind of happiness again.
"He's gone," she said, in a high, tight voice that didn't sound quite like her own. "My husband is gone." Saying the words made it worse, somehow, made it real in a way she couldn't deny. He was gone, and he wasn't coming back.
"Your husband never existed."
Jesus, did he think that made it better? That not only had her husband left her, but she'd never had a husband at all, that her entire life was a lie and she was nothing but a mark, a target, a mission? Was she supposed to find solace in the fact that she'd fallen for a predator, and hadn't seen his true colours until it was too late?
Red was still talking, reassuring her — he thought — trying to soothe.
"…from the emotional point of view, this must feel like an extraordinary violation and betrayal. But for Tom it was business."
It was too much, too much — a violation, indeed. "Do you know we had sex the other night?" she spat, low and miserable. "Do you have any idea how filthy that makes me feel?"
Only the twitch of his cheek and the darkening of his eyes told her that her words had any impact at all. "Unfortunately, Lizzy, you're chest-deep in filth, and you're gonna have to wade through it to get to the other side."
"Is that it?" She screamed it, her sorrow suddenly drowned by rage. "Is that all you have to say? Don't you care?"
"Lizzy, I–" He was going to say something pacifying, she just knew it, and wanted to slap him.
"I had to let him," she hissed. "Let him touch me, let him inside me. A party to my own rape. Is that what you wanted, when you told me to stay the course, to keep up pretenses? Is it?"
They were both standing now, toe to toe as she poured out her anguish. His eyes flashed, dark and dangerous, and his mouth twisted in anger.
"Is that really what you think?" he snapped. "That I would…"
"Deliver me up like a gift?" she snapped back. "I told you I was afraid, that it might happen, and you, you said–"
"I said what I had to!" he roared, startling her as he grabbed her by the shoulders. "Just like you did what you had to. Do you think I don't care? The thought of his hands on you is sickening, it's infuriating; if I saw him now I would kill him where he stands for daring." He shook her, and her breath stuttered in her chest. She had woken the dragon, and now she would have to deal with it.
"Fix it then." The words came on their own, without thought or impetus. "Take the taste of him out of my mouth. Make me forget."
They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, panting, hearts beating hard and loud in the quiet house. Then, in one swift movement, he grabbed her by the neck and yanked her close, fastening his mouth to hers.
It was nothing short of a devouring, his fingers caught painfully in her hair. She held on to his neck, trying to brace herself, digging her nails in. He growled in response, and she felt his teeth on her lips. Before she had a handle on what was happening he was pushing into her, walking her backward and slamming her into the wall. Pictures rattled and her hip hit the desk. She relished the smarting pain of it, loved the fierce thrust of his tongue and the hard punch of his cock against her leg.
She'd missed him.
His hands were moving, yanking the shirt out of her pants, traveling up her body to her breasts. He was rough, raw, urgent, driven by the harsh anger and pent up emotion of weeks of separation. So completely different than anything that she'd ever experienced that her mind was wiped clean of everything but need.
His hands were at her waist, now, unbuttoning and pulling, her loose suit slacks falling easily to the floor. She stepped out, kicked them away, even as his hands twisted into the black lace of her panties. One strong yank of his hands ripped them from her body, and god, it made her wetter, hotter, more eager. With a harsh sound he pulled back and stared at her, wild-eyed and breathing hard. She imagined she looked much the same, and knew what he wanted, agreement, acquiescence.
In place of words, she unbuckled him, letting the loose leather brush her stomach; unzipped his slacks and slipped through the front of his shorts to grasp him firmly, letting her hand run up and down his length. His eyes closed and he bit the inside of his cheek in that way he had, and then, then, he was on her with the ferocity of a storm. His fingers probed at her, running through the slick wetness at her core; his hands pushed at her thighs, spreading her wide. Then he was there, knees bending to get inside her in one fierce push as he gripped her waist and lifted her to the right angle.
A hot sound choked out of her, her hands clutching at his jacket, her legs curving around his hips; she pressed her back into the wall behind her for support and took all that he had to give. And that was plenty, she thought dizzily, kissing him messily, trying desperately to keep up. He drove into her again and again like a man possessed, moving his mouth from her lips to her jaw, to her neck to her earlobe, and back to begin again. She could barely breathe; she started to ache inside as pressure built.
He knew, he knew, because he fit a hand neatly between them to toy with her clit; used his other to tease at her nipples, tugging and molding and god, she felt good. It was sensory overload of the best kind, so much, too much, and she was shifting her hips in desperate effort as he flexed his own faster and faster.
She came in a rush that had her ripping her mouth from his to cry out, loud in the still house; yes, he groaned back, yes, that's it, sweetheart, and then he was pulsing inside her hot and fluid and her legs were trembling and she couldn't focus her eyes and it hurt and was complete and for one blinding instant everything was perfect.
She shuddered against him, using her white knuckled grip on his jacket to pull him close, to hold herself upright. She pressed her face to his collarbone and felt him press his lips to the top of her head. He murmured something soft and gentle; she sighed in a great release of breath that relaxed her whole body. She felt scoured clean and new, baptized in the ferocity of his need. She wished they could stay in this quiet space forever, but life pressed back into the world with a buzz from her phone.
They both ignored it, but he offered her a rueful smile — they both knew this interlude was over. Her legs wobbled as her feet touched the floor, but he had to support himself on the wall as he pushed away, and that gratified her. He resettled his clothing, tucked himself away, and bent to recover her pants and offer them to her. She looked on the floor for her panties — were they salvageable? — but didn't see any sign of them. When she met his eyes, he just winked at her and patted his pocket complacently.
She…had nothing to say to that, not one thing. She excused herself in a faint voice to trot up to her bedroom for clean underwear and fresh slacks. While she changed, the world began to eke back into her consciousness in an insidious swirl of thought and emotion, the high brought on by sex seeping away. As she went slowly back down her stairs, a heaviness started to grow inside her.
Red was already seated in the same chair he'd previously occupied, neat as a pin and his legs crossed politely. She slipped around him without touching him and sat back on her sofa with a thump, the events of the day coming all the way back to her in a horrible, sickening rush.
"Lizzy, are you all right?" he asked, face creased in concern, and possibly a little guilt.
She opened her mouth to reassure him, maybe ask him to stay, maybe invite him upstairs. Something entirely different, something that had been simmering inside her for hours, maybe days.
"I fell in love with him." Oh god, oh god, she had, and this hurt was unlike any other. How could she think she could just forget it? "I married him. We…we were gonna have… I was excited to have a child with him. He was the one person I chose in my life who made me happy, who made me feel safe.
"What does that say about me?" What did that say about her as a profiler? As a student of the mind? How could she trust herself ever again, let alone anyone else?"Everything that we had was just a figment of my imagination… Worse than a figment… A lie. It was right in front of my face, and I didn't see it. I just…believed it. All of it."
"Time is the only thing that will allow you to find yourself again." He looked at her with such gentle forbearance that she wanted to scream.
She leapt to her feet again, done with it all. Sex hadn't really helped, after all, had only added to the confusion, to the morass of feelings swirling inside her. She was just. So. Done. "If you tell me to be patient one more time, I swear to God...
"I am going to find him, I'm gonna find answers, and I'm going to do it with or without your help." She was near tears again, suddenly, and that made her angrier. How was she to come out of this if all she could do was weep?
She couldn't ignore the buzzing of her phone this time, and knew she had to get back to the case. Reddington was kind enough to point her in the right direction, at least. He kissed her gently before he left, running a hand over her cheek. She retreated from him, still pissed off at his calm, his ability to switch his rage on and off like a tap.
She knew that wasn't fair, that he didn't deserve to take the brunt of her anger, but the real target was nowhere to be found. Red would have to be her stand-in, for now, but she thought, somehow, that he'd understand.
Lizzy.
As he went about his day, tracking down Keen's contact from the Archives the day before, cheerfully intimidating him with harmless anecdotes — and wasn't it just amazing how that always worked? — he couldn't forget her devastation. Somehow, the quiet statements of loss were more impactful than her sobs, than her anger, her defiant assertions. Those simple words, her voice high and sad like a child's, my husband is gone. He ached for her sorrow.
And on the other hand, there was his own rage. The thought of Keen, taking advantage of her, knowing that she knew, and having sex with her…he could cheerfully throttle the blackguard with his own bare hands. It was all he could do to banish the dark thoughts, images, imaginings from his mind, as he waited for Dembe to finish photocopying.
Fucking her hadn't helped; as sweet as it had been, it had only proven a temporary balm to the fire of his rage. He was fortunate to have had many years of practice at burying it all so he could continue with business. Something Lizzy had yet to learn. And despite that, despite his years, his hard-won control…
This day felt endless.
A call from Preston got things moving, and finally, it was information he could use. Keen was at one of the drop sites, and things were crystal clear. Hoping against hope she might have changed her mind, he placed a quick call.
She was absorbed with her lead on Li, and sounded angry that he would even mention Keen to her. She was bound and determined to have it out with the man, despite what must be her own better judgement. With her emotions in the lead, she'd not get useful information, and with Keen the consummate agent that he seemed to be, she'd not get what she wanted, either.
However, he owed her, he couldn't forget that. And so, with the location from Lizzy, he tracked down the Pavlovich brothers. He couldn't trust himself to retrieve Keen — his own anger and disgust too volatile, his hatred too strong. Besides, far be it from him not to use the experts in the field when they were available to him. He could believe that they'd get the job done.
And they did, returning from delivering Keen with rough smiles and hands out for payment. A few complaints about the amount of trouble it had taken. Keen had more resources behind him than anticipated, but Red was willing to offer a bonus.
The brothers were rather a blunt instrument, but he couldn't complain about the results.
Reddington.
He'd gotten to the Pavlovich brothers before she and her team could, and here they were, in her house, having…delivered Tom Keen to her, like a present. A gift from Reddington, one of them said, confirming all her worst suspicions.
However, she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She heard herself thank the man who'd spoken to her in coolly polite tones, and watched herself usher them out the door. Took off her coat and her suit jacket and braced herself.
This wasn't going to be easy, but she could do it, she could.
But the words that came out weren't demands for information, not the cool questioning of a profiler, a psychoanalyst. They were the words of the broken woman inside her, the one who didn't understand the monster her husband had turned out to be. The words of a rejected lover, not of an FBI agent.
But no matter what she said, how she pleaded, his expression didn't change. He looked at her calmly, blankly, as if about to recite his fucking rank and serial number. As if he was at a particularly boring dinner party. As if he didn't care at all.
I was doing my job, he kept saying. As if that made it all okay. As if that were a viable excuse for what he had done to her.
"Stop talking about your job! You, this… Everything was a lie! My life was a lie! Every feeling, every memory… Say something to your wife, who's dying in front of you. Say something."
"It was the shoes."
"What does that mean?"
"That's when I knew." And then he proceeded to shatter her poor aching heart into so many pieces she didn't know that she'd ever get it back together. In any shape or form.
I just felt…sorry for you, he said; well, at least there was some scrap of humanity in the bastard. She couldn't…she was choking on her sorrow, her rage, the violence that was welling up inside her, threatening to explode in a mess of screaming sobs. Her cheeks were already wet; she couldn't have stopped the tears leaking out if she'd tried. They'd started before she even realized it. Just the thought of the simple happiness she'd felt, falling in love…
She had to bite down on the finger she had over her mouth to keep from shrieking out her pain and humiliation and misery. Thank god for Ressler, timely for once, but wanting to know where she was. Lying was an old friend by now.
With Ressler's doubts in her mind, she dialed Reddington. Demanded to know where Xiaoping Li was. She had to believe him when he said he didn't know. He was frank enough about everything else. He'd been distant, but she thought that was for her own benefit as much as anything; thought that he must know how she was struggling.
"What is his obsession with you? You guys got, like, a, uh, daddy-daughter thing going on?" She was thankful for the chill in her bones that kept her from flushing, remembering strong arms, a questing mouth, the two of them coming together in rooms, in hotels, in the park. She gave herself a hard mental shake. Now was not the time.
"What's your plan? Is daddy coming over? Is he gonna make me talk?"
"No, he's not," she said, finally dispassionate, rage cooled to an icy blade. "I am."
She sat across from him again and made eye contact. "Who do you work for?"
"I have nothing to say."
He wasn't afraid of her; he thought he knew her. Well, that was going to change. She shrugged, stood up. Walked into the kitchen and got the big plumbing pliers out of the drawer. He laughed when he saw them in her hand. Laughed. She grabbed the back of his neck and clamped the pliers around his thumb.
"Who do you work for?" she asked again, patiently.
"Come on, Liz," he said, and oh, he was mocking her with that little smile. "You don't have it in you."
Didn't she? No point in any further conversation, she thought. And cracked his thumb back with one firm twist. The sound it made was almost as satisfying as his howl of pain. Once more, and his thumb broke, possibly splintering, and his agony was sweet, sweet as candy.
She sat back down and waited. He managed to laugh again, and she supposed she wasn't that surprised. He must have been trained to withstand pain; to sit through torture. That was all right. She could think of plenty of other things to do.
"You broke my thumb," he said conversationally.
"Yeah, I did. If you're looking for sympathy, you might want to start with honesty. Here's an example of honesty, Tom. You've been making me pancakes for two years. I hate pancakes."
"You want honest? Here's one. If you're gonna handcuff somebody, don't break their thumb."
And then he was up, arm free, swinging the chair around to collide with her face. She fell back, breaking glass beneath her on the sideboard, the thunk of the wood into her ribs stealing her breath. As she struggled away, he cracked her hard on the back with the chair and she fell to the floor with a grunt. She scrambled to the lamp, managed to stand in time to bring it around and crash it into the chair he still carried.
Unfortunately, that freed his other arm; he kicked her hard in the belly and she went flying again. They fought, hand to hand, a fierce struggle through their home, furniture breaking, mementos gone. She managed to get to her gun and they grappled for it; he suddenly heaved her right over his head so she landed on her back behind him, breaking the coffee table beneath her. When she looked up, her own gun was pointed firmly in her face and her cuffs rattled to the floor in front of her.
"Your handcuffs. One on the wrist. One on the banister. Do it."
She did it, fuming, managing to at least arrange it so she could sit comfortably on the stair. He didn't argue.
"I am not here to hurt you, Liz. My job was never to hurt you." She wished she'd shot him when she had the chance. "I'm one of the good guys. Reddington… He's not who you think."
What? How was that the point? Why were these two men pointing fingers at each other — which one was the villain? Like a game of three card monte…except it really wasn't. Reddington might keep his secrets, might have agendas as long as his arm, but he'd been honest with her. Cared for her. While the man in front of her had lied, violated, destroyed her life. And just finished beating her within an inch of it.
"I will find you," she said, and it was a promise.
"I can prove it," he insisted. "The key in the lamp… I know you found it. Take it to Radford Bank. Box number 3929. He is not who you think he is.
"Goodbye, Liz."
And he was gone. She had lost, lost everything.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
They watched Keen walk away from the home he had broken, and Red's heart sank. He'd known it would end this way, but he feared what he might find when he went into the house.
"Do you want me to stop him?" Dembe asked.
Now wasn't the time to deal with Keen. Now, he needed to go to Elizabeth. "No, we'll just let the tail follow him."
His cheek twitched as he watched the other man disappear from sight. He could easily shoot him now, have done with him. Kill him without mercy or a single shred of remorse.
But now wasn't the time.
Heavy, he felt heavy as he walked into the once-pretty house now a wreckage. He took note of the splintered bannister and the handcuffs on the floor; found Lizzy sitting on her couch, staring into space, her arms wrapped around herself. For warmth? For comfort? In pain?
Honestly, he'd imagine it was all three.
"I lost him," she said, her voice small. He thought she would expect recriminations, but he had none to give. "He's gone."
"No." He sat in the chair across from her, met her eyes with a slight smile.
"This whole time, you've never let him out of your sight. Your people are following him now."
"They are." Keep it simple, stay quiet. She needed his calm now, more than ever.
"How is this all gonna end?" Plaintive and unhappy. Oh, Lizzy.
"This is an end. And then something new will begin. You deserve the best in life, Lizzy.
"I know that sounds odd coming from a man who has brought you some of the worst, but it's the reason why Tom had to work so hard to be that for you… To be kind, to be thoughtful, make you laugh, to make you love him. Because you deserve that.
"And it will come."
Tears started slipping down her face as he spoke, welts and bruises just starting to show. He stood, pulled off his coat and dropped it in the chair, then moved to the sofa to sit beside her. He lifted an arm, waiting for her, and she burrowed into him immediately, hands clutching at his jacket as if to keep herself upright.
"Everything hurts," she gasped out. "I c-can't…"
"The effects of a hard beating are emotional as well as physical," he said quietly, stroking her hair, rubbing her back. "Let go, Lizzy — it will make it easier in the long run."
She sobbed, then, her heart broken, shattered like the furniture scattered around the room. He'd see Tom Keen dead for this, and all his black deeds, and that was the simple truth. She cried until she had nothing left, curled against him in a ball of misery, until all she could do was hiccough and gasp for breath.
He quieted her with strokes and pats and as much love as he dared, whispering words of comfort and soothing her with gentle hands. Eventually, she dropped into sleep, her head in his lap, hand in a fist around a wad of his pant leg. He leaned back and closed his own eyes, suddenly exhausted beyond reason.
He'd watch over her sleep, and see her safe 'til morning.