Linden: "Sorry, that was about Pastor Mike. I have some adrenaline stored up."
Mills: "It was very intense!"
Skinner: "You are all banged up!"
Linden: "Yeah, but I honestly feel great. That dude is in custody..."
Reddick: "-- And look what I found! A whole box full of rings, like trophies."
Linden smiles, already beautiful and rare, but especially through the nicks and bruises of her dust-up. I mean, he's the suspect and he's acting wicked crazy, so she must feel validated by it. But as a viewer who does not trust this show's red-herringness -- merely enjoys it -- I am only intrigued, rather than elated. I mean, as if homegirl's ever allowed to smile without a huge asterisk hanging over it.
While the cops cheer and get the wheels moving, Sarah digs through the cigar box: One crystal pendant in particular draws her interest. Downstairs, Holder walkies that there's another body possibly in Mills's trunk, given the blood all around, and she screams not to open it.
A long sequence of Holder breaking into the car as she beats it down the stairs to him, to stop him. He breaks the window, popping it from the cab, just as she's arriving.
First the skin crawling, and then the tears, based solely on her sad eyes, and then before you know it, you know what she's about to say. The whole story is laid bare. The only story we are ever telling.
"Don't look inside. Just come over here. Walk directly to me. Please. You don't need to be here."
And for a moment you're Sarah Linden, begging him not to look. And you're Stephen Holder, connecting the dots, unable to not look. Either way, it's not true until he looks: Orpheus as Schrödinger.
Either way, the show just keeps telling you the same story, stories within stories, of what happens when you do. That toxic free-radical cloud around looking, and not looking, and the moment before you look: The naked lunch on every fork. Is Kallie dead? Yes, and no. Not until we know.
Is there anyone in that trunk? Yes, and no. It is empty for a second; it is full of only faith.
She wrote it every day on herself, too poor for ink and too proud and too wise to make it permanent: A tattoo is one decision, but what she did was every day. Every day she would open her eyes, and remind herself that faith is all we have. A promise she'd inscribe upon her flesh, every single day.