But Joe Mills was going to be indicted, charged, prosecuted, jailed. Murdered. Trisha Seward was long gone. Angie Gower was long, long gone. And then it would be clean. He could have changed, he wants her to know. He was going to change, give it up. They would cancel out each other's emptiness. The new life could begin. Islands crawling back to the mainland. Until it changed, until things were set in motion.
"I don't want to be alone. That's what scares me. If my dad does die, I want to be with my mom."
"But his mom's dead," Stephen says.
The foster mother listens over Reddick's shoulder, trying not to imagine the other side of this conversation, as Reddick goes through Adrian's backpack. When she realizes what they're talking about, she chokes on it, wide-eyed.
Adrian's a runner. How far, and how fast, is the only question now. She closes her eyes, and begins counting.
"You went to kill Adrian that night, Trisha Seward got in the way..."
He's so disappointed. He sees her trying to connect the dots, to think her way back into his head, to put the pieces back together. To take a previously known wreckage and reassemble it. But his history is like Angie Gower, now. No identifiers, no sense. No through-line.
She's a monkey at a typewriter, laboring senselessly toward a story, because that is what Sarah Linden does. Worry at the pieces until they assemble themselves. It's a kind of running, away from the unending sound of pain. The pain of the unknown.
If you asked Eurydice, whether in the end she could let him go, she would say yes. It was better to burn. Better to see him again, see his true face and hear him sing; even if it tore them both apart.
But if you sat Orpheus down and told him the whole story, start to finish -- that it would end in misery, in endless jail, in a river of oblivion that goes around and around, in lingering tricks of the eye, afterimages, misfiring in the shadows -- he'd still go down. He wouldn't have a choice. It's not the incapacity for caring.
She could sit here in this car until the sun came up. Until the last beast fell to the rain. Until every girl was dredged up out of every pond in every city in the world. She could sit here, with this man she loves, trying to see herself in his eyes, until the end of time -- and the story would never assemble itself. There is no story. There is no meaning. Grief doesn't work like that. Every killing is an unraveling, an unanswerable question.