"Luc," I don't clear my throat, letting the terror possess it. He wants me afraid.

I put my personal phone away in the pocket of my trousers alongside the ring, the last message I just sent to Estelle petrifying me more than what I am about to say.

Luc is dangerous. The police are coming. Don't make a scene but stay away.

"You said you had something you had to tell me," I shift my eyes, then look back at him. "The update. Hallway?"

"Right," Luc says, his eyes wide. He pats Stéphane's shoulder and starts to stand. I wait beside him, pretending to shift through my purse until he starts to head out the door.

Estelle is wiping down the kitchen cupboards, and I don't know if she's seen the message but maybe that's for the best. Her eyes have a way of betraying her.

In the doorway, I crush the heel of the slip-ons as I force my feet into them too quickly. They don't have a lot of traction, but any other day I would have worn sandals or heels. Any other day Spencer would have driven. Any other day, Caro would have been here, and then the bodies in the splash zone would double.

Luc opens the door and holds it for me. I shouldn't turn my back to him, but I don't know how to force him out the door first without causing suspicion. As I move past him. I run through the holds that I've used on Prentiss and Morgan and I enter the hallway.

Luc shuts the door behind him.

"What was it?" I ask, turning so that I'm facing the exit down the hallway.

Luc sighs, stepping closer to me, "Pat-"

I pull the gun out of the purse and leap back so I'm not within arm's reach. I aim directly at the centre of his chest and unclick the safety.

At least I have one thing to thank Rachel for. She taught me a lesson.

"Tabarnak," Luc says, staring at the gun. He swallows and raises his hands. "What are you doing?"

"I know you're the one sending the letters," I spit.

Luc's face erupts bright red. He stares at me, before shaking his head, "I promise. I swear. I've been trying to help you."

His gaze flickers to the gun and I tighten my grip.

"Turn around," I tell him. "Walk."

He does as I say, spinning on his heels and walking forward.

"The door to the left of the elevator," I tell him. "Open it and walk down the stairs."

"I don't understand," he says.

"The police are on their way," I don't lower my grip as we get to the door and he opens it.

Luc makes his way to the landing but stops. One hand on the railing, he turns around to look at me, "He slipped the border."

My heart thumps.

"You just want me to be afraid," I grit my teeth. "And I'm not afraid of you."

"But you fear him, don't you?" Luc peers at me. "Because I'm terrified of him."

He didn't slip the border. Legally, He can't cross the Canada-US border. The government isn't tracking His movements anymore, not since His parole ended in July.

It prickles in me though. That terror, that I felt in the basement. Right now, we are at the top of the stairs, about to make our descent below ground. I've always wanted a boogeyman, just the one. If everything could be traced back to Him, then if I could just forget it, if I could pretend it didn't bother me, then my whole life would be fine.

But it's not just Him. Our mother was neglectful and our father died of brain cancer after terrorizing my brothers for years. It wasn't just him that took advantage of my drunk and unconscious body, but strange men at bars during my undergraduate degree. Rachel blew up my fucking life and nearly killed me. I'm lucky to be alive every fucking day. Lots of things make me terrified, and I'm still alive.

I have more marathons to run, but I'm only getting stronger.

"Walk," I command.

Luc steps down the first few stairs. I trail behind him, from above. The elevator is too close quarters, and we are more likely to get stopped on different floors. Here, I can maintain distance, and elevation. He'd have to attack me from below.

We take a step, and then another, and then another.

Finally, we get to the door into the parking garage. Luc stops in front of that door, turning back to stare at me.

"Open it."

He obeys, opening the door and walking out.

As I enter, I scan my eyes over the cars nearest mine. Guest parking is mostly empty, and this way if anyone else leaves the building, they'll be far enough away that Luc won't–

"Cole!" Luc shouts, eyes wide and slightly to my left.

I don't fall for it.

Someone barrels past me tackling Luc. I lower my gun, waiting for the rest of the FBI to swarm in, hidden from around cars, and then I hear Luc scream.

Luc rolls the guy over, and I see his face.

HIS face.

He puts a knife to Luc's throat and Luc stops moving atop Him. From here, I don't have a clear shot.

Luc is the splash zone.

I can't breathe. I'm aware of it, consciously. My cheeks burn from holding my breathe but my fingers feel so frozen they've gone stiff. I stare.

"What are you doing?" He demands, staring at me. "Drop the gun."

And I do what He says, putting the gun down at my feet.

I can't think. Why can't I fucking think?

He's here. He's in white flesh and red blood, and he's underneath Luc with a knife to his throat and looking at me. I can't clear my damn head.

The FBI are on their way. Seven-minute response time, and it's been at least three. I can handle four minutes, can't I? Surely, I can count the seconds, but I can't remember how many seconds are in four minutes, and my mind is slipping over the multiplication and He is staring at me.

Onetwothree, onetwothree, onetwothree. I don't think I can even handle a second.

"Kick the gun under that car."

I can't move. I can't move at all.

"Doesn't that feel right?"

My eyes don't go to His, even though He's talking to me. I look at Luc, who stares at me. The slight twitch of his head. I need to kick the gun.

So I do, letting it scatter across the pavement. The safety has been clicked off, but the gun doesn't fire. I wish it would, even if just to clip me. Adrenaline induced mental clarity. Or even just an opportunity to bleed out right here, so what has happened to me doesn't repeat itself.

God, I've been living in this moment for years. I've been letting it repeat all the time.

"Get up," He orders Luc, who obeys, pulling himself upright. With a knife still pressed to Luc's neck, He orders us to walk. I do as He says, following Him to Spencer's car. Of course, He already knows which car down here is Spencer's. He's been following me.

It's been Him.

"Give me your phone and your keys," he orders.

I can't move my hands to my pocket. I take a step back, then another, and he digs the knife into Luc's throat. Blood spurts out and Luc gasps, reaching a hand up to grasp at the cut.

"You don't listen and he dies," He says.

And I obey, pulling out Spencer's keys and my work phone from my purse and hand them to Him. He doesn't want me calling for help. He doesn't want me tracked. I tell myself this is good, because it means He wants me alive.

I know it is bad, because I know what alive means.

I give Him the phone and He chucks it across the parking lot. Then, He unlocks the car door.

"Get in."

I look at Luc, with blood trickled down his throat and onto his shirt.

"Are you-"

"Speak French!" He roars, and I shut my mouth.

I stare at Luc, waiting. The risk is still his, with that knife. Not that I'm confident I can fight off Him when He has a knife anyway, but together we maybe could. If Luc was willing to risk it.

"Get in the car," Luc says.

I listen, opening the passenger door and sitting down in the seat.

He pulls out duct tape from his trousers.

Not again. Not again not again not again. My vision goes blurry as my eyes fill with tears. He's saying something to Luc, but I can't hear it. Then, it's Luc who reaches over. He starts to unwind the tape and I find my breath. Luc's hands tremble as he places it over my skin. He's going to fast. Surely he must be, or time is suddenly racing around me. Shouldn't every second feel agonizing, like last time? With my eyes, I implore him to slow down. We need more time. The average police response time is seven minutes.

But I didn't call the police. Garcia is sending the FBI.

FBI response time will be slower, surely, but I'm an officer. Surely, they'd send people in quickly. Right?

It happens, while the tape is pressing me into the seat like a tight hug. I place my hand on the metal clasp of the seatbelt and focus on the cold.

After I'm taped in, Luc drops my purse at my feet. Then, he bends over and buckles me in. The cold switches from one hand to the other, and the clarity returns. Tears leek from his face, down his eyes.

"We're going for a drive," He digs the keys out from his pocket and fumbles them on the ground. Bending over, He reaches for the keys and the knife leaves Luc's throat for just a second.

Then, Luc tackles Him.

The car door obscures my view, and I can't see them when I try to peer over the window. I wrestle, rocking back and forth to loosen the tape on my skin. It aches, peeling. It'll be easier once I'm sweatier, but I'm not sweaty enough, even baking in this car, even listening to the grunts beside me.

By the time I try to look in the side mirror at the ground, they aren't there anymore. Just a trail of red blood smeared on the ground, dragged around to the back of the car. The size of a body.

My eyes meet His through the rearview mirror.

He pops the trunk, and I grasp the metal buckle tightly as the car shifts in weight, rocking backwards. He slams the trunk shut. Then, He saddles up to the driver's side door. He joins me in the car, takes Spencer's keys and pushes them into the ignition.

I close my eyes, leaning back into the seat. Desperately, I wait for a thump from the trunk. A bump, a shout from Luc. If he is alive, he can try to kick out the taillight and stick his foot out for help. If he is alive, that's one more person to help me. If he is alive, then Luc Levesque will be able to hear my apology for doubting him, and he'll keep working for the RCMP and he'll continue to breathe in the hot summer air. He'll feel snow again.

There is no thump.

I tell myself that doesn't mean Luc is dead. It doesn't even mean he's unconscious or in serious trouble. I don't know whose blood it is, what mixture is Luc's and what came from within His body. No, Luc could just be lying in wait.

Only then do I choose to look at Him, and the blood smeared across His cheek. His clothes are black but I make out a darkness, even if it isn't explicitly red, staining his shirt. His hands are coated in blood. No slashed clothing.

And I don't think I can really believe in Schrodinger's cat.

~~~~~

My Dad went ice fishing recently, and he caught a couple of fish. Not a red herring among them, but that's fair. I already had one planned oop.

Mon pauvre petit Luc Levesque.