But when the question is bravery, when the question is courage, when it's about running and not-running, that's when things get tricky. Because sometimes, change is the smart thing and the brave thing. But other times, you're just running to run: Sometimes stopping would be the smart thing and the brave thing. And sometimes the brave thing isn't even the smart thing, and sometimes the smart thing isn't the brave thing.
And you can't just ask yourself what the most true or authentic thing is, which is the best way to answer questions like this usually, because it's all you. It's all one story and you're the one telling it, so that's when it gets sticky. That's when you can surprise yourself.
Kalinda stares at the dufflebag on her bed, the goodbye bag, and eventually dumps it out again. The exhaustion of horror, perhaps. Or the compelling evidence of the fact that Alicia could not have led him here in a more random way if she'd tried, which means he will always come back. Guns or sledgehammers, Blake or Wiley, sleep with Cary or sleep with Peter: None of that means anything, never meant anything, if he can find her here. Which means it never meant anything, because he did.
Upstairs, Grace reports, one of the doorknobs is still broken. Peter offers Alicia a glass of wine and they stand in the doorway. She thanks him for telling the truth, today. The children call them in to dinner. You can't colonize the past, not really; but it can find its own way back into you.
Kalinda moves a chair to face the door, loading her gun. She shoves it between the cushions, and folds her arms to wait. Somebody's going to die. Somebody already did.
Alicia kisses Grace goodbye; Zach asks her to stay. Just for pizza, not for symbolism. He's getting big. She steps out of the house, leaving her family behind. There's a Welcome mat beneath her feet; it still says Welcome. You can read it, either way, backwards or forwards, upside-down or right-side-up.
Kalinda watches the door, knowing that he'll knock. It'll sound like Leela, like history knocking on the door, but he's going to knock and then things are going to move very fast. Right now she's two women, like the cat in the box, but when he knocks it's just going to be one woman sitting there. Very small, very afraid. So afraid she'd burn the world down if she had to. And tonight, she realized that she does. He's going to knock, and things will move fast.
And then he does.