She'd slipped for a while, in the beginning. When she'd first ended up here she was rabbit-scared, jumping at every sound, every movement he made. She was crushed by guilt, by pain. The days had been a misery, that had eventually slipped to joy. It became living because dying was the worst that could happen, and it already had. It became their life here, their daughter, their sons.

She had healed, and that's why now she stood in front of him, on his birthday, and held the file that had his autopsy report, the criminal report, and she asked him what he wanted to do. She's got to be strong where he can't, and she's got that covered - and that's why she stuck it in her purse, and then moved to follow him into the kitchen, shifting to wrap her arms around him from behind, resting her forehead against his back. "I think," she said lowly, "that we should call in a favor and ask Molly to watch the kids for the night and pay her double, and then we should get a hotel, order in food, and go through it. Don't bring it into this house, don't bring the kids into it." She swallowed hard. "And then we'll know what it is, and we'll move on. It's back in California, not here, and it'll never be here."