One step, Two steps part 3
Title: One step, Two steps part 3
Author:Tamoline
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Orphan Black
Pairing: Sarah/Beth
Warning: Suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts
Summary: One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
I reach the edge of the platform.
Or - the AU where Sarah grabs Beth before she goes off the platform. There are still a lot of steps left.
My first response is relief.
I still have a chance at my job.
A chance at my future.
A chance to protect my identicals. Maybe even Sarah.
My second is a wave of panic.
I've got to lie to an inquiry panel.
I've got to convince them that it was just an accident, a tragic accident.
And I've got to do this without arousing suspicions. Without even too much chemical aid.
For a moment, I wish that Sarah was still here, that she could give me a quick lesson in how to do this.
Because these aren't the lies I'm good at.
They're lies of commission, not of omission.
I stumble to the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet and shake one pill into my hand, two.
No more.
I can't risk any physical symptoms today.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Slightly red eyes, with bags underneath. Maybe a little pale.
It'd do. With some makeup, it'd do.
But first, I need to just not *think* for a while.
So I change into my running clothes, and proceed to do just that.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Right foot hits the sidewalk, then the left.
Push.
Push more.
Push harder.
Feel the burn start to take hold.
Keep my eyes focused forward.
Nothing else exists.
Not for the moment.
I see Art's car - see Art - before he sees me. He's lurking almost around the corner from my apartment, placed so he can watch anyone coming out of the entrance whilst making it hard for them to spot him.
He jumps a little as I tap loudly on the passenger side window.
I can't say that his reaction doesn't please me a little. Even if he was way too focused on my building.
"How're you doing, dipshit?" I say loudly, almost cheerily, still glowing from the jog.
"I'd be feeling better if my partner wasn't trying to send me to an early grave," he says as he winds down the window, glowering a little.
I smile, almost involuntarily.
This small exchange feels like the most normal we've had since...
Since Maggie Chen.
It can't last, and it doesn't.
His face hardens slightly, and the moment is over.
My smile disappears, and I shoot for normality. "I thought that I still had some time."
"Just wanted to make sure that you weren't going to try and skip out on me again," he says, still with that slightly tight expression, then looks me over. "You must be feeling better."
"Twenty four hour bug."
"You actually ready for the hearing then?"
A surge of panic goes through me, only slightly muted by the pills.
"Sure," I say. "Just let me grab a shower and change my clothes."
"You do that. I'll stay out here, keep the car warm."
He doesn't say that it's his ass on the line, but then he really doesn't need to.
It isn't as though he hasn't said it enough already.
And the tension between us is worse today, worse than it has been.
Not that I can really blame him.
I flinch away, unable to keep his gaze.
"You want to come up and wait there instead?"
It's not much of an olive branch, but it's all I can offer at the moment.
Besides, maybe having him there will help keep some of the panic at bay.
He hesitates. "Paul won't mind?"
"Paul's away until the weekend, so I imagine he won't have an opinion on the matter."
"Okay, then," he says, untensing a little bit. "Mind if I grab some coffee while I'm there?"
"Sure," I say. "I'll show you where everything is."
And maybe it's only a start, maybe it's almost nothing at all.
But if I'm going to start to look ahead at all, it's going to be a real help to have Art there next to me.
The hearing... happens.
By the end of it, I'm not sure if I did well or not.
But I'm not escorted out of the room in handcuffs.
It's something, I suppose.
Possibly more than I deserve, some might say.
I can remember a time when I would have been one of those people.
I can remember a time when I believed in justice, in the law.
I can remember a time when I didn't have to wonder how many people in a given room would consider me human, if they knew.
But at least it's over now.
At least now I can start to look past it.
Win, lose or draw, the die is now cast.
Art's waiting for me when I emerge.
"Well?" he asks.
"I'll tell you when I know."
The parking lot where Katja died is utterly unremarkable, apart from that fact.
I didn't know her that well, but I can't help thinking that she would have appreciated the setting, in her own way.
A death in a grey lot, surrounded by grey prefab buildings.
Even with a briefcase of secrets to hand.
Much better than coughing up her lungs in a hospital.
Or, worse, reclaimed by whoever had made us, and spending her last days in a lab.
It hurts, a cold, aching pain, that I will never be able to talk this over with her, hear the black humour in her voice as she describes the ways that the scene could have been so much *better*.
I push it away.
I've got more important things to focus on right now.
Finding the spot where it happened isn't that difficult, between the notes I made yesterday and the thick black lines on the tarmac where Sarah must have screeched away. From there, it isn't too hard to figure out the rough location of where the shooter must have been. The buildings around here may be disused, but there's only so many windows that are missing their glass in approximately the right direction.
After forcing my way into the building opposite - the assassin must have either locked up after themselves, or used a different method of entrance and exit - it becomes a lot more obvious about which window was used. I could be wrong, but the one with stick figures drawn in a ring around it seems like the obvious bet. The scuff marks in the dust are also something of a clue, as is the table that's been moved in front of the window - presumably so the sniper had something to support their rifle, without having the barrel poke out of the window.
I dust for fingerprints fairly desultorily, but I'm not particularly surprised when I don't pick anything up. I can't imagine that anyone who is capable of setting this up wouldn't have been schooled in such elementary protocols.
Even if they are disturbed enough to leave their artwork.
Following the footprints in the dust, I find a window with boards that have been loosened. I manage to bag a few fibres though I'm not sure how much use they'll be - even if I manage to keep my job, I'm reluctant to risk myself by putting them through the system with nothing more than a 'just in case' scenario.
Finally, I go over the scene, to see if there's anything else I missed. And this is where I manage to actually find something that might be a lead - a spent cartridge that's rolled into a corner.
I pick it up and examine it. It looks a little like a .30-06 cartridge, but not quite. Maybe a little shorter, and it doesn't have a groove around its base. I bag it as well and, after a further search around the place is fruitless, I leave the building and go around the area, just in case I can find some traces of the assassin outside. The tarmac doesn't yield any clues, though, and, eventually, I call the search off.
Time to consult my firearms expert.
"What do you want now?" Maria says warily as I approach her desk. "And aren't you still supposed to be suspended anyway?"
"Just because I'm on leave, doesn't mean that I can't be asked for favours," I say. "And apparently even when suspended, it's easier to ask me than you for some people."
"So how is Art these days?" she asks dryly. "And why should I help him, even through the proxy of you?"
"Less than pleased with me. Disappointed, even," I say, the truth of my words cutting deep enough to obscure anything else. "And because you like me more than him. And because I bought you a chai latte."
She takes my offering, sniffing at it dubiously before taking a sip. "Okay," she says, apparently finding it acceptable. "What does he want me to do?"
I give her the bagged cartridge.
She picks it up, twirls it around in her fingers whilst studying it. "Huh. You don't see many of these around here." She looks back up at me. "It's a seven point six two by fifty-four mil R cal cartridge. Used in various ex-soviet bloc rifles. From the stamping on the case, this one," she says, looking back at the cartridge, "Appears to have been specifically manufactured for the Dragunov sniper rifle. For greater precision."
"So, what, it was used by a Russian sniper?"
"Ex-soviet bloc," she corrects. "That, or a hobbyist who knows their stuff."
Maggie Chen hadn't been in the country that long. And all the killings I'd heard about so far had taken place in Europe. So, maybe...
To import a rifle legally should be fairly easily traceable, and shouldn't take too much time to check out. Even when on suspension, if you knew the right people to flash a smile at.
Illegally - well, it'd probably be easier to source a rifle locally than smuggle it from Europe. Especially in the kind of time scale I was thinking about. And I had a good idea about which local dealers might have a specialty weapon like this and be willing to... be a little lax when it came to paperwork.
"Thanks," I say. "You've been a real help."
"Yeah, yeah," Maria says, waving me away. "Now leave me to enjoy my drink in peace, before it goes completely cold."
It's gone seven by the time I get back to the apartment. Between avoiding the lieutenant and fluttering my eyelashes at Raj, I've managed to confirm that no one outside an authorised dealer has brought a Dragunov into the country within the likely timeframe - and certainly not from Europe - but by that point, rustling up the local dealers would be more effort than it's worth.
There's always tomorrow.
Besides, there's a meeting of the club over at Alison's at ten - to turn over the briefcase to Cosima among other things - and I'm aware how much Alison prefers me to be out of my work clothes.
I like to do what I can for her.
The first sign that something is wrong is the light leaking out from under the front door to the apartment.
My heart stops, then starts racing.
I know there's a hunter after me - possibly more than one.
But surely they wouldn't-?
Not *here*. Not so obviously.
I stand to one side as I open the front door, my hand resting on the non-existent gun at my side.
"Paul?" I call as I push open the door. "Is that you?"
"Who else is it going to be?" comes his voice from the living room.
And suddenly my heart is pounding for a completely different reason.
It's *Paul*.
He's *here*.
And I still haven't...
I still don't know...
And I still have no idea what to *do* about that. About him.
I don't even know how I *feel* about him.
"I didn't think you were going to be back until Saturday," I say weakly as I walk into the apartment.
"I thought I'd come back and surprise you," he says as he gets up from where he was sitting and comes over towards me.
And, as ever, his words ignite a small flame of hope within me.
Maybe he does care.
Maybe we're going to be alright. This time.
(Maybe he really does want me.)
"How did the hearing go?" he asks as he hugs me.
And, at his touch, the counterflow begins.
Because this is how it always starts.
There's always a show of affection at first.
And then...
And then...
It's like he forgets, after a while.
Something just rings false - a word, a look.
Nothing that I can ever quite put a finger on.
Nothing that I can point to.
Nothing that stops me looking like a bitch when it sets me off, either hot or cold, anger or retreat.
As it always does, eventually.
And now...
And *now*.
I've got more reason than ever to suspect him.
I've actually got a reason to doubt him.
(But still, there's the little voice within me, telling me that I've been so wrong so many times before. That there's a reasonable explanation behind this. That it's just me being crazy, being emotionally unavailable. That I don't deserve him. That, if I finally manage to drive him away, I'll be alone forever.)
(Because if he doesn't want me, then no one else ever can.)
(Because, maybe, I deserve it, deserve all of it.)
The conflict within me, the back and forth, is enough to make me freeze under his touch. "I don't know," I say. "I guess I'll find out."
He tenses slightly, and looks down. I can see him studying my eyes. Doubtless trying to figure out if I've been using again.
I step away from him, and he lets me go without a struggle.
"Stop judging me," I say tightly.
Because if it wasn't for him, I might not have...
But I did, or at least I tried.
And that's on me.
But if he has been spying on me...
If this has all been a lie, every single day spent with me.
Then that's on him.
That's definitely on him.
(But there's still a part of me - a large part - that doesn't want to find out if it's true or not.)
(Not because I might have been wrong - again. Not because I might just be a paranoid freak.)
(But because I might be right.)
(And I'm not sure that I know how to go on from there.)
"Look," he says, in a conciliatory tone of voice. "I know that this has been hard on you. And I'm sorry that I couldn't have been with you for this. It's just bad timing," he says, so reasonable.
Always so very reasonable.
"I'm fine," I bite out. "You needn't have bothered."
And then, of course, I feel like a complete bitch.
It's not Paul's fault that... that so much has happened in the last couple of days.
It's not his fault that I'm all over the place. That it feels like tears are starting to well within me again, and I can't - I *won't* - let him see me break down like this.
And it's not his fault that I'm going to have to come up with an excuse to leave in a couple of hours.
Crap.
I give him the best smile I'm capable of right now, which isn't saying much. "Look, I appreciate this - I *do* - but the last couple of days have just been damn rough on me. I'm going to go out and exercise until I can get my head together. If you're up when I get back, maybe we can talk properly then. When I'm being less of a freak."
He looks me over again, then nods slowly. "Sure," he says. "Whatever you need."
But I can't help noticing that he doesn't say I'm not a freak.
In the end, I make it as far as the car before I can't go any farther.
I rest my head on the steering wheel, and just collapse there for... I don't know how long, not moving at all.
Normally, I couldn't do even this much *here*, in public.
But I don't have anywhere else at the moment.
And I need to get my head together, for the meeting tonight.
I can't let Alison or Cosima see me at anything other than my best.
I can't let any cracks show.
Because they're counting on me to protect them, look after them.
Not fail them like I do everyone else.
In the end, it's a tapping at my window that disturbs me.
And, to my shock, it's Sarah standing there, holding a paper bag. Looking... almost uncertain.
Even more shocking is how much relief I feel upon seeing her there.
"Hey there," I say as I wind down the window. "I thought you were getting out while the going was good?"
"Here," she says, handing me the bag. "This is yours."
Inside is what looks like tens of thousands of dollars, neatly stacked and bound, bank style.
Also a set of house keys, all shiny and new and freshly cut.
They look suspiciously like copies to the keys to my apartment.
Oh.
I'd bet that seventy-five thousand dollars are in this bag.
I...
I can't say that I'm surprised.
Not really.
It's the kind of thing that I thought would happen.
What else could you expect from someone with Sarah's record.
But still.
It stings.
Albeit not as much I would have thought it might.
I can't trust her.
I knew that I couldn't trust her.
"I see," I say, unable to look her in the eyes.
"I didn't go through with it," she says.
But what I have for her is a bounded mistrust.
I can know the limits, the parameters.
And she's already helped me so much more than I could have thought she would.
She saved my life, for a start.
Took me in, even for a single night.
And she came back.
She came back.
Maybe it's just the way I am, some defect within me.
But surely that is worth a second chance.
Within limits.
"Why?"
"Yeah, well. I'm about as surprised as you are. But, well, I found something worth staying around for. And it isn't like running helped Katja much, is it?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Something worth staying around for?"
Her eyes flinch away for a moment. "I want to be better. For my daughter."
"You have a daughter?" slips out of my mouth.
"Yeah."
"An actual daughter? That you gave birth to?"
"Is there something wrong with that?"
"I couldn't- we couldn't- I thought none of us could have children."
She looks at me for a moment. "Yeah, well. I definitely could."
This- this changes *everything*.
I abruptly remember where we are, which building we're outside, *who* is inside, and might come out and see Sarah and I at any moment.
"Get in," I say. "We've got a lot to talk about."
Author:Tamoline
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Orphan Black
Pairing: Sarah/Beth
Warning: Suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts
Summary: One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
I reach the edge of the platform.
Or - the AU where Sarah grabs Beth before she goes off the platform. There are still a lot of steps left.
My first response is relief.
I still have a chance at my job.
A chance at my future.
A chance to protect my identicals. Maybe even Sarah.
My second is a wave of panic.
I've got to lie to an inquiry panel.
I've got to convince them that it was just an accident, a tragic accident.
And I've got to do this without arousing suspicions. Without even too much chemical aid.
For a moment, I wish that Sarah was still here, that she could give me a quick lesson in how to do this.
Because these aren't the lies I'm good at.
They're lies of commission, not of omission.
I stumble to the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet and shake one pill into my hand, two.
No more.
I can't risk any physical symptoms today.
I look at myself in the mirror.
Slightly red eyes, with bags underneath. Maybe a little pale.
It'd do. With some makeup, it'd do.
But first, I need to just not *think* for a while.
So I change into my running clothes, and proceed to do just that.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Right foot hits the sidewalk, then the left.
Push.
Push more.
Push harder.
Feel the burn start to take hold.
Keep my eyes focused forward.
Nothing else exists.
Not for the moment.
I see Art's car - see Art - before he sees me. He's lurking almost around the corner from my apartment, placed so he can watch anyone coming out of the entrance whilst making it hard for them to spot him.
He jumps a little as I tap loudly on the passenger side window.
I can't say that his reaction doesn't please me a little. Even if he was way too focused on my building.
"How're you doing, dipshit?" I say loudly, almost cheerily, still glowing from the jog.
"I'd be feeling better if my partner wasn't trying to send me to an early grave," he says as he winds down the window, glowering a little.
I smile, almost involuntarily.
This small exchange feels like the most normal we've had since...
Since Maggie Chen.
It can't last, and it doesn't.
His face hardens slightly, and the moment is over.
My smile disappears, and I shoot for normality. "I thought that I still had some time."
"Just wanted to make sure that you weren't going to try and skip out on me again," he says, still with that slightly tight expression, then looks me over. "You must be feeling better."
"Twenty four hour bug."
"You actually ready for the hearing then?"
A surge of panic goes through me, only slightly muted by the pills.
"Sure," I say. "Just let me grab a shower and change my clothes."
"You do that. I'll stay out here, keep the car warm."
He doesn't say that it's his ass on the line, but then he really doesn't need to.
It isn't as though he hasn't said it enough already.
And the tension between us is worse today, worse than it has been.
Not that I can really blame him.
I flinch away, unable to keep his gaze.
"You want to come up and wait there instead?"
It's not much of an olive branch, but it's all I can offer at the moment.
Besides, maybe having him there will help keep some of the panic at bay.
He hesitates. "Paul won't mind?"
"Paul's away until the weekend, so I imagine he won't have an opinion on the matter."
"Okay, then," he says, untensing a little bit. "Mind if I grab some coffee while I'm there?"
"Sure," I say. "I'll show you where everything is."
And maybe it's only a start, maybe it's almost nothing at all.
But if I'm going to start to look ahead at all, it's going to be a real help to have Art there next to me.
The hearing... happens.
By the end of it, I'm not sure if I did well or not.
But I'm not escorted out of the room in handcuffs.
It's something, I suppose.
Possibly more than I deserve, some might say.
I can remember a time when I would have been one of those people.
I can remember a time when I believed in justice, in the law.
I can remember a time when I didn't have to wonder how many people in a given room would consider me human, if they knew.
But at least it's over now.
At least now I can start to look past it.
Win, lose or draw, the die is now cast.
Art's waiting for me when I emerge.
"Well?" he asks.
"I'll tell you when I know."
The parking lot where Katja died is utterly unremarkable, apart from that fact.
I didn't know her that well, but I can't help thinking that she would have appreciated the setting, in her own way.
A death in a grey lot, surrounded by grey prefab buildings.
Even with a briefcase of secrets to hand.
Much better than coughing up her lungs in a hospital.
Or, worse, reclaimed by whoever had made us, and spending her last days in a lab.
It hurts, a cold, aching pain, that I will never be able to talk this over with her, hear the black humour in her voice as she describes the ways that the scene could have been so much *better*.
I push it away.
I've got more important things to focus on right now.
Finding the spot where it happened isn't that difficult, between the notes I made yesterday and the thick black lines on the tarmac where Sarah must have screeched away. From there, it isn't too hard to figure out the rough location of where the shooter must have been. The buildings around here may be disused, but there's only so many windows that are missing their glass in approximately the right direction.
After forcing my way into the building opposite - the assassin must have either locked up after themselves, or used a different method of entrance and exit - it becomes a lot more obvious about which window was used. I could be wrong, but the one with stick figures drawn in a ring around it seems like the obvious bet. The scuff marks in the dust are also something of a clue, as is the table that's been moved in front of the window - presumably so the sniper had something to support their rifle, without having the barrel poke out of the window.
I dust for fingerprints fairly desultorily, but I'm not particularly surprised when I don't pick anything up. I can't imagine that anyone who is capable of setting this up wouldn't have been schooled in such elementary protocols.
Even if they are disturbed enough to leave their artwork.
Following the footprints in the dust, I find a window with boards that have been loosened. I manage to bag a few fibres though I'm not sure how much use they'll be - even if I manage to keep my job, I'm reluctant to risk myself by putting them through the system with nothing more than a 'just in case' scenario.
Finally, I go over the scene, to see if there's anything else I missed. And this is where I manage to actually find something that might be a lead - a spent cartridge that's rolled into a corner.
I pick it up and examine it. It looks a little like a .30-06 cartridge, but not quite. Maybe a little shorter, and it doesn't have a groove around its base. I bag it as well and, after a further search around the place is fruitless, I leave the building and go around the area, just in case I can find some traces of the assassin outside. The tarmac doesn't yield any clues, though, and, eventually, I call the search off.
Time to consult my firearms expert.
"What do you want now?" Maria says warily as I approach her desk. "And aren't you still supposed to be suspended anyway?"
"Just because I'm on leave, doesn't mean that I can't be asked for favours," I say. "And apparently even when suspended, it's easier to ask me than you for some people."
"So how is Art these days?" she asks dryly. "And why should I help him, even through the proxy of you?"
"Less than pleased with me. Disappointed, even," I say, the truth of my words cutting deep enough to obscure anything else. "And because you like me more than him. And because I bought you a chai latte."
She takes my offering, sniffing at it dubiously before taking a sip. "Okay," she says, apparently finding it acceptable. "What does he want me to do?"
I give her the bagged cartridge.
She picks it up, twirls it around in her fingers whilst studying it. "Huh. You don't see many of these around here." She looks back up at me. "It's a seven point six two by fifty-four mil R cal cartridge. Used in various ex-soviet bloc rifles. From the stamping on the case, this one," she says, looking back at the cartridge, "Appears to have been specifically manufactured for the Dragunov sniper rifle. For greater precision."
"So, what, it was used by a Russian sniper?"
"Ex-soviet bloc," she corrects. "That, or a hobbyist who knows their stuff."
Maggie Chen hadn't been in the country that long. And all the killings I'd heard about so far had taken place in Europe. So, maybe...
To import a rifle legally should be fairly easily traceable, and shouldn't take too much time to check out. Even when on suspension, if you knew the right people to flash a smile at.
Illegally - well, it'd probably be easier to source a rifle locally than smuggle it from Europe. Especially in the kind of time scale I was thinking about. And I had a good idea about which local dealers might have a specialty weapon like this and be willing to... be a little lax when it came to paperwork.
"Thanks," I say. "You've been a real help."
"Yeah, yeah," Maria says, waving me away. "Now leave me to enjoy my drink in peace, before it goes completely cold."
It's gone seven by the time I get back to the apartment. Between avoiding the lieutenant and fluttering my eyelashes at Raj, I've managed to confirm that no one outside an authorised dealer has brought a Dragunov into the country within the likely timeframe - and certainly not from Europe - but by that point, rustling up the local dealers would be more effort than it's worth.
There's always tomorrow.
Besides, there's a meeting of the club over at Alison's at ten - to turn over the briefcase to Cosima among other things - and I'm aware how much Alison prefers me to be out of my work clothes.
I like to do what I can for her.
The first sign that something is wrong is the light leaking out from under the front door to the apartment.
My heart stops, then starts racing.
I know there's a hunter after me - possibly more than one.
But surely they wouldn't-?
Not *here*. Not so obviously.
I stand to one side as I open the front door, my hand resting on the non-existent gun at my side.
"Paul?" I call as I push open the door. "Is that you?"
"Who else is it going to be?" comes his voice from the living room.
And suddenly my heart is pounding for a completely different reason.
It's *Paul*.
He's *here*.
And I still haven't...
I still don't know...
And I still have no idea what to *do* about that. About him.
I don't even know how I *feel* about him.
"I didn't think you were going to be back until Saturday," I say weakly as I walk into the apartment.
"I thought I'd come back and surprise you," he says as he gets up from where he was sitting and comes over towards me.
And, as ever, his words ignite a small flame of hope within me.
Maybe he does care.
Maybe we're going to be alright. This time.
(Maybe he really does want me.)
"How did the hearing go?" he asks as he hugs me.
And, at his touch, the counterflow begins.
Because this is how it always starts.
There's always a show of affection at first.
And then...
And then...
It's like he forgets, after a while.
Something just rings false - a word, a look.
Nothing that I can ever quite put a finger on.
Nothing that I can point to.
Nothing that stops me looking like a bitch when it sets me off, either hot or cold, anger or retreat.
As it always does, eventually.
And now...
And *now*.
I've got more reason than ever to suspect him.
I've actually got a reason to doubt him.
(But still, there's the little voice within me, telling me that I've been so wrong so many times before. That there's a reasonable explanation behind this. That it's just me being crazy, being emotionally unavailable. That I don't deserve him. That, if I finally manage to drive him away, I'll be alone forever.)
(Because if he doesn't want me, then no one else ever can.)
(Because, maybe, I deserve it, deserve all of it.)
The conflict within me, the back and forth, is enough to make me freeze under his touch. "I don't know," I say. "I guess I'll find out."
He tenses slightly, and looks down. I can see him studying my eyes. Doubtless trying to figure out if I've been using again.
I step away from him, and he lets me go without a struggle.
"Stop judging me," I say tightly.
Because if it wasn't for him, I might not have...
But I did, or at least I tried.
And that's on me.
But if he has been spying on me...
If this has all been a lie, every single day spent with me.
Then that's on him.
That's definitely on him.
(But there's still a part of me - a large part - that doesn't want to find out if it's true or not.)
(Not because I might have been wrong - again. Not because I might just be a paranoid freak.)
(But because I might be right.)
(And I'm not sure that I know how to go on from there.)
"Look," he says, in a conciliatory tone of voice. "I know that this has been hard on you. And I'm sorry that I couldn't have been with you for this. It's just bad timing," he says, so reasonable.
Always so very reasonable.
"I'm fine," I bite out. "You needn't have bothered."
And then, of course, I feel like a complete bitch.
It's not Paul's fault that... that so much has happened in the last couple of days.
It's not his fault that I'm all over the place. That it feels like tears are starting to well within me again, and I can't - I *won't* - let him see me break down like this.
And it's not his fault that I'm going to have to come up with an excuse to leave in a couple of hours.
Crap.
I give him the best smile I'm capable of right now, which isn't saying much. "Look, I appreciate this - I *do* - but the last couple of days have just been damn rough on me. I'm going to go out and exercise until I can get my head together. If you're up when I get back, maybe we can talk properly then. When I'm being less of a freak."
He looks me over again, then nods slowly. "Sure," he says. "Whatever you need."
But I can't help noticing that he doesn't say I'm not a freak.
In the end, I make it as far as the car before I can't go any farther.
I rest my head on the steering wheel, and just collapse there for... I don't know how long, not moving at all.
Normally, I couldn't do even this much *here*, in public.
But I don't have anywhere else at the moment.
And I need to get my head together, for the meeting tonight.
I can't let Alison or Cosima see me at anything other than my best.
I can't let any cracks show.
Because they're counting on me to protect them, look after them.
Not fail them like I do everyone else.
In the end, it's a tapping at my window that disturbs me.
And, to my shock, it's Sarah standing there, holding a paper bag. Looking... almost uncertain.
Even more shocking is how much relief I feel upon seeing her there.
"Hey there," I say as I wind down the window. "I thought you were getting out while the going was good?"
"Here," she says, handing me the bag. "This is yours."
Inside is what looks like tens of thousands of dollars, neatly stacked and bound, bank style.
Also a set of house keys, all shiny and new and freshly cut.
They look suspiciously like copies to the keys to my apartment.
Oh.
I'd bet that seventy-five thousand dollars are in this bag.
I...
I can't say that I'm surprised.
Not really.
It's the kind of thing that I thought would happen.
What else could you expect from someone with Sarah's record.
But still.
It stings.
Albeit not as much I would have thought it might.
I can't trust her.
I knew that I couldn't trust her.
"I see," I say, unable to look her in the eyes.
"I didn't go through with it," she says.
But what I have for her is a bounded mistrust.
I can know the limits, the parameters.
And she's already helped me so much more than I could have thought she would.
She saved my life, for a start.
Took me in, even for a single night.
And she came back.
She came back.
Maybe it's just the way I am, some defect within me.
But surely that is worth a second chance.
Within limits.
"Why?"
"Yeah, well. I'm about as surprised as you are. But, well, I found something worth staying around for. And it isn't like running helped Katja much, is it?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Something worth staying around for?"
Her eyes flinch away for a moment. "I want to be better. For my daughter."
"You have a daughter?" slips out of my mouth.
"Yeah."
"An actual daughter? That you gave birth to?"
"Is there something wrong with that?"
"I couldn't- we couldn't- I thought none of us could have children."
She looks at me for a moment. "Yeah, well. I definitely could."
This- this changes *everything*.
I abruptly remember where we are, which building we're outside, *who* is inside, and might come out and see Sarah and I at any moment.
"Get in," I say. "We've got a lot to talk about."