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Both of them.
Finch has ruined both of them.
Taken their lives and added this sick, red tinge.
Seamore is dead to Kate’s left. A shard of glass gripped tightly in Kate’s right hand.
Finch has to pry the glass free, takes long moments stitching closed the bone-deep wounds across Kate’s palm, cutting through the flesh of her fingers. It’s not until Finch pours a second, liberal dose of alcohol across the hand that Kate gasps, finally filters back into the world, but sadly, now, all the pain to come with it. She pulls back her burning hand, glares at Finch before recognition dawns, and then, she makes the mistake of relaxing back against the headboard, the utterly incorrect response to Finch’s presence: that damn trust. After everything, she still lets Finch close enough to clean the blood from her face.
“Chasers,” Finch hoarses to the question in Kate’s eyes. “Smarter than the first team. One pair to draw the prey out. The others like foxes on the hunt.”
There’s silence as the bowl of water in Finch’s lap goes pink, red, most of it Seamore’s, she realizes with relief. And then Kate starts enough to nearly dye the bedspread.
“That’s why you got us out the first time? Of the car. Because you thought there’d be a second team to follow somewhere behind the first?”
“And what would you have done if there had been?”
Finch tells the truth. “Died.”
Kate looks livid. Finch sees the briefest flash of just the same thing she’d seen in the bathroom. Fierce. Elana was utterly wrong about this woman. Finch just hasn’t been able to go back through the memories, make sense enough, to decide if Elana was lying, or if the old bat really had no idea what beats deep in the chest of this mouse.
A roaring mouse.
Kate’s had a hand on Elisabeth since they got to the bed, even when she was unaware of the world around her, skin to skin; her body sought that. She cradles the still whimpering baby, rubbing soothing circles on Elisabeth’s stomach with one hand, the other reaching out now, twisting tightly in Finch’s shirt, jerking her forward.
“Then where would we be?”
Finch can’t look at her. Not until she’s forced to with another sharp jerk.
“You can’t die,” Kate hisses.
There’s something about that tone that Finch can’t ignore, that demands she look up, meet those eyes so similar to her own and yet there’s fourteen years of difference. Finch can’t die because that will mean, swiftly, inevitably that Kate and Elisabeth will die too? Or Finch can’t die because Kate gives an utterly irrational damn if she does? Even through the glare there’s that strange compassion, that liquid sincerity nearly cresting the lower lid: Probably both.
Finch gently unfurls the clenched fingers, checks to be sure the stitches haven’t popped and then, she can’t help it, just this small indulgence: She lays her hand atop Kate’s. She’s realized in this strange, dark moment, sitting here with three bodies in this hotel room, and a fourth in the parking lot, the sound of far off sirens filtering through the bullet holes in the door, the broken window… She knows what she has to do.
“I can’t die,” she agrees with Kate. Not yet. “But I’m going to have to kill you. Both of you.”