"The same bloody life," he said, stepping closer. "Just a different chapter. And I'm not reading the last page without you."
"You're full of shit," she whispered.
The episode was terrible. Gloriously, authentically terrible. The acting was wooden, the plot nonsensical (a subplot involving a stolen pigeon and a lap-dancing bishop), and the final shootout was filmed in what looked like a flooded carpet warehouse. The villain's monologue was interrupted by a coughing fit from the boom operator.
Erin was at the kennels, mucking out a stall. She didn't look up when he walked in. The air smelled of straw, diesel, and the particular sadness of a woman who had learned to build walls from the rubble of broken promises.
"Idiots," she murmured, eyes closed. "They killed off the best character in series three."
