Back at the station in El Paso, Cross and Wade are doing a Sorkin-esque walk and talk. As they arrive in the bullpen, he's still worried about the Feds showing up and taking over the case, and she's still insisting that the case is hers. He warns her that this kind of case can change her, and not just the jurisdiction headaches; two chopped-up women can "leave a scratch on your soul. Give you bad dreams." "I don't dream," she shrugs, not bothering to add that she doesn't exactly wear her soul on her sleeve, for that matter.
Just then her phone buzzes. It's Ruiz, calling from the line of cars on the Juarez side of the border crossing and giving her the bullet on Christina Fuentes, whose partial remains were found in a "death house" -- basically an abandoned building used by the cartels as a body-Dumpster -- about a year and a half ago. He says he's on his way with the file. "She's one of them," he intones dramatically. "The dead girls of Juarez." Poetic title. I bet that sells a lot of papers. She tries to blow him off, but he's already on his way.
After disconnecting, she frets about it to Wade, who says this is good. "He called you at 4:00 AM with a name, didn't he?" As he goes on talking about jurisdiction and how she's going to need Ruiz's help south of the border, she sniffs her pits, stands up at her desk, and changes her shirt right in front of him while he completes his thought. "I told you to use the ladies' room, Sonya," he adds in the same tone. "Yeah, next time," she promises, covering up her sports bra and instantly forgetting. Wade probably isn't so lucky.
That blue Impala we haven't seen in a while drives into a spot in the desert. It's near a parked trailer and pretty much nothing else. He lets the girl out of the trunk, who understandably wonders where the hell she's supposed to be. When he doesn't answer, she runs off into the darkness. She ignores his warnings about rattlesnakes and soon stumbles in the dark. He goes and pulls her to her feet, inviting her to scream if she wants. "There's no one around for miles." He takes her into the trailer and dumps her on the bed, then creepily takes off his dogshit-colored leather jacket. All he says when she asks where they are is that she's in a safe place, then he goes to the medicine cabinet to get supplies to administer first aid to the leg she scraped when she fell. Then the jacket goes back on and he says, "You must be tired," adding angrily in Spanish,. "Sleep!" He says he'll be back, and leaves the trailer, securing the door with a padlock on the outside while she panics and scrabbles at the bars on the window. It's probably safe to say that this isn't how she envisioned her first night in the U.S.