Her hands are jittery, gun pointed at his head. He keeps changing shape, back and forth between the man and the monster. All the pieces fit just right. It wasn't that he was the lost love, the married one, the one that got away: It's that he was the right one regardless of all that.
She loved Rick, but she never managed to get on that plane.
People like us, maybe they are meant to be alone. But two people like us, maybe it cancels out. Or maybe they could have been different, or made each other different. Part of her body goes one way, part of her body goes the other way. She can't focus. She can barely hear him.
But the question is, why did she let Pastor Mike talk to her? Why did she learn to love Ray Seward, when the act of saving him had nothing to do with that? Why can't she draw that line? She gets too close: She sees herself in every victim, true. But also in every monster.
"Oh, for Christ's sake. Don't you people know how to use a phone? He's not here, he left twenty minutes ago. Ask his girlfriend!"
They left together, she says, and he lets her close the door. A few steps away, and lightning strikes him. Almost at the same spot it struck her, twenty minutes ago.
Stephen pounds on the door, demanding to know where the lakehouse is. Sure, now, that he's solved it all. And he has, if you're asking those questions. But those are no longer the questions.
It doesn't matter where Sarah is. It doesn't matter where Skinner is. It certainly doesn't matter where Adrian is; he hasn't mattered for three years. What matters is why, and how long it's going to take.
"You had to take that case this morning. That changed everything. Why couldn't you walk away? Things would be different right now. For both of us. I don't expect you to understand."
She does not. Specifically the part where he murdered 21 girls. How could she understand that? How could anybody understand that? She feels herself getting hoarse, hysterical; she reels it in.
"How do I even know that you're taking me to Adrian? Or that he's alive?"
He understands. It's dubious. But he said Adrian was alive; that's how she should know.
"You used to trust me implicitly, Sarah."
It sounds at first like he's weaving a narrative, trying to spook or hypnotize her, and she barks at him to stop. But soon enough, you can start to see how the pieces still line up, for him. How he takes the jagged-edge bits of his world and puts them in his pockets. It isn't as insane as killing scores of girls at an incredible rate, but it's not that far off: