Leaving Seattle, again. Shane's got Ignacio's pocketknife in his hands, flipping it over and over. Una navaja, he murmurs, and she quiets him. "No more Spanish," she begs of him. Not tonight. Because she meant every word. And with her boys in the car and the lights sliding by, she'll think about every word, again, and replay it in her head, and she'll realize she meant it when she said goodbye. That that last hope she had is gone, is dead: It died the second he hung up on her and she realized she'd released him. Somewhere along the way, Esteban had been released.

He didn't care if she lived or she died. It wasn't a mystery or an option or a possibility: She called him, begged him for forgiveness, and he couldn't give it. The Esteban in her head, who knew her dark places and forgave them, the Esteban she could work every single time because they had no secrets, the one who could get Shane out of this and give her a home... That Esteban died, fed to the lion. She opened the box and there he was, dead to her. Looking for her. Consuming her. A door closed that she forgot she left open and a million possible lives were lost.

"Esteban, I want to thank you for our beautiful boy. I will always speak well of you, and I'll always tell him how much I loved his father. And how so, so fond of you I once was. You're gonna miss Stevie, and I'm so sorry for that... It hurts you. I know. And I'm sorry. But I'm the mom. And he needs me more. Good luck with your... Crime, and stuff... Okay. Bye."

All those words, instead of love. Instead of saying, "You were the second best at loving rollercoasters, out of all the men I ever met. I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to stay." Stevie sitting in Silas's lap, Shane playing with his knife, Andy staring at the road: Tonight she's allowed to miss him. Everybody's so tired they won't notice the tears falling, so tired she can barely feel them herself: Nobody can know it. She meant every word.

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