Even Sarah is appalled: How could Carl never mention that? The only thing creepier than saying it would be not to say. Joe Mills is getting charged in a matter of hours. But that means he's been home free for days: Why bother torching Angie Gower?
"Maybe she saw him at the hospital? She did bolt, and Bullet called the station the night she got killed..."
"Okay," Sarah says, happy to move toward Reddick and away from whatever she isn't looking at yet. "He introduces Brigitte to the Junior Officers. He sees her all the time in the program, in the neighborhood. He gets to know her, and then what? Why does he kill her?"
Holder's wary; they are proceeding down a strange path. He knows Carl; he loved Carl. Carl overruled his wife just this morning to save him. What changed? The only thing that changed between Bullet's death and Ray's was Adrian. It wasn't about Trisha at all; it was about what Adrian saw, and kept painting, over and over, from a place he couldn't even remember.
Unable to speak it out, yet, figuring it on the fly, Sarah pulls out a map of the city: The Seward's public housing, when Adrian was little, was a mile from the nearest park. No trees around to build a treehouse, on the day you decided to be a dad, so you walked it. And in that park, there was a pond. And in that pond...
Stephen can't understand why a treehouse for a little boy would be built a mile away; about the hunger for trees and for sunshine. About running. Sarah does; she gives up a piece of herself.
"Trisha and Ray used to fight all the time. There were dozens of domestic-abuse calls. Adrian slept in a closet. He was lonely, scared... In my first foster home, the lady used to cry all day long every day. I'd wait until I couldn't stand it anymore, until I thought that I was gonna explode if I stayed another minute. And then I'd run. Every couple days I'd run. And they would find me and they would bring me back, and then I would run again. Adrian's a runner, too."
What happened to you, to make you run? Not abuse, not terror, not abandonment, not monsters, not anything you would have predicted: Nothing but the sound of pain. Of all the sounds in the world. Sadness, and grief; the unrelenting chaos of not knowing where it was coming from: The desire in her strong little body to save this world, and no idea how to do it. So she'd run.
It was never a fear of caring, much less the incapacity: It was her inability to stop.