Better - Brooke Fraser
He tried to kill me. He shot Lisbon. He worked for Red John. I almost married a Red John minion. I am—was—in love with the buddy of a serial killer. A man who thought nothing of shooting two local cops who were guilty of nothing but sitting in their squad car. And I'm the one who let him in.
I'm the one who let him see the chink in our armor. I'm the one who told him where we were.
But it's worse. How can it be worse? The man I love—can you love more than one man at a time—was sitting in a jail cell. And I can't help but be responsible. Oh, I know that he won't be found guilty; I have no doubt that he will be able to talk his way out of a conviction. He's that good. But it is because of me that he's there.
It's only a few days since the jury returned a verdict that shocked no one who knew Jane. I haven't see him. I can't bring myself to see him, to speak to him. Knowing that I am partially responsible for why he was there in the first place.
"It's not your fault Grace." I jump. I forgot he had a key.
"Yes it is." I can't look at him, but I can feel him staring at me from the doorway.
"I love you. I should have never let you go."
"You didn't let me go, I left."
"And see where that got us. You kill your fiancé; I kill a supposed unarmed man in the middle of a shopping mall. We are better together."
"Yeah." I laugh, dry and humorlessly. "It's not too late, it is?"
"No, it's not."
He walks towards me, and I stand. In his arms, I feel as though I am finally home.
