You there? Look, I’m sorry to tell you through the door, but the next death threat? It’s directed at me. The deadline’s Thanksgiving at midnight. Leo is safing the entire house now with SFPD—they want to check everything because of how it went down with Molly Clarke. They’re starting on the ground floor. But you’ll have to open up soon.” “Still here. Look … I realized something today. In session. I yammer on about honesty and accountability all the time, but I wasn’t being fully honest with myself. Or with you. And if we can’t do that with each other, then what’s the point, right? If we can’t share everything. Including the ugliest, most shameful truths. So.” “Okay. Here goes.” “When I thought I was gonna lose you, I felt utterly helpless. And terrified. I couldn’t imagine what the next fifty years would look like without you in them. Or maybe I could and I didn’t think they would be fifty years worth getting through. But more than that, with everything you were going to go through and you being scared and in pain and I couldn’t do anything—I couldn’t do a fucking thing to lessen your … your … Sorry.
