Your gun is in your hand and you’re aiming it at the woman. You squeeze the trigger and fire.

The bullet rips into her shoulder, sending blood streaming down her tattered shirt. She stumbles back and you grab your husband’s arm, tugging him back with you and towards the car.

Neither of you speak as you get in the car and begin driving away from the precinct. Shaking, you cast a glance at Walter, noticing the tight hold he has on the steering wheel. “Do…?” You swallow hard, voice threatening to break, but force yourself to continue. “Do you think they’re all dead?”

Walter is quiet. His mouth is set in a firm, grim line and his fingers are clenched so tight, his skin blanches. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Haunted. “At least one of them is seriously hurt. Maybe dead.”

“I’m sorry.” You stare at your hands; at the gun you’re still clutching, the barrel now hot from the shot fired.

His hand comes to rest on your knee and he grips tightly before saying, “It’s not your fault.”

“But it’s related to the statue, isn’t it?” You take a deep breath, because panic is rising up in your throat and threatens to choke you. Then you take another deep breath, because you think you might start hyperventilating. “My fault. I could have done things differently. I should have done them differently.”

Walter’s grip becomes more firm. “Don’t blame yourself for this, Ray. You did what you could with the information we had available.”

“I thought the people who had died would come back to life.” Your mouth dries and you whisper, “What about Martin and Paul? Is Grant safe?”

Walter doesn’t respond with words, but he slides his hand a bit further up your leg, the grip turning a bit more possessive. It’s enough to make you feel marginally better and you’re able to sit in silence for a few more moments before asking quietly, “Where are we going?”

“The only place I can think of,” Walter answers. “The place where the statue was buried.”