#tmedit

"I have to do this-" "-for your family," she finishes. "Yes, I understand. I'm with you." "No," he says, abrupt and disjointed, so unlike his familiar, smooth cadence of speech. If he's lying to her, he's doing it in a way he's never done before. In a moment he has no need to lie to her. No, she agrees with him silently. "Not just for them." She looks away, unable to bear the agony of the truth in his eyes. He may as well be prostrated at her feet for judgment, and that's not fair. Not when they're in the endgame. She doesn't want to see him like this; it hurts her far too much. "Jane, don't-" "Call me by my name, Teresa." His words are final. Almost cold in their direct delivery. Then, he softens. "Just this once." She remembers her mother reading her Irish folklore, the fair folk, the power of a naming. She had laughed it off in her youth. Now, though, in this precious little moment, she understands how a name can hold the power of life and death. "Patrick, don't do this," she says softly. He tucks her deeper into his side, changing their embrace. Now, instead of her holding him, he has enveloped her. "When the game is ending, he will wait to kill me until he is absolutely certain he has broken me. You are the only path to his desired outcome of this game, Teresa. He can burn the CBI to the ground. Torch my house in Malibu. I will battle him until he's six feet under unless he gets to you." He inhales deeply, his face buried in her hair. "Please," he begs, voice breaking, "you have to be safe."