They wait until they're relieved by a handful of officers before heading back to the parking lot.

"Guilty people don't normally run, right?" Zandra says to Fred.

"Speak for yourself. You were plowing through this park earlier today," Fred says.

"Apparently plowing through this park," Zandra says, correcting him.

"Yes. Apparently," Fred says. He runs a hand over his buzz cut and scrubs his scalp with his fingertips. "I'll get this called in. We'll find her. You can't get too far in a stolen squad car."

"Don't forget her unmarked car, the Sunfire. You'll want to check that, too," Zandra says.

"Thanks. I don't need reminders," Fred says and waves an officer over. They talk briefly before being interrupted by shouting from the road running parallel to the park.

Zandra perks an ear toward the cacophony. That's not shouting. That's an engine revving. It belongs to a squad car barreling into the parking lot. Even at that speed, Zandra can see Charlie behind the wheel.

Fred and Herman scurry away from the car as it screeches into a fishtail across the parking lot. Zandra's not as nimble. The car clips Zandra's side as it skids past. She goes down to her knee, but the handcuffs and bad ankle throw off her balance. Zandra tips to the pavement.

A pair of squad cars slides to a stop in the parking lot, peeling off the road. They must have boxed Charlie in from either direction during her short-lived escape.

Zandra finds herself in the center of the 20 feet of pavement between Charlie's squad and the other two cars, hunched into the fetal position on the ground. Her body can't take any more, but it's soon forced to move. She feels the heat of someone standing over her. It's Charlie. And a Glock 22.

"Get up," Charlie says. Her voice is a little too calm given the situation.

The officers bark commands from their cover behind their squad cars. Charlie ignores them. Reaches down and grabs a fistful of Zandra's greasy hair.

"Fuck you," Zandra says as Charlie hoists her up by the head. Her scalp feels like it could rip from her skull.

Zandra gets the gist of what Charlie's trying to do. Take a hostage. Make some demands. Realize how fucked things really are and plug a bullet into her brain, but not before putting Zandra down first. Fairly standard stuff.

Which is all fine with Zandra. She thinks about David. About how if he can't swim upstream to her, she'll go downstream to him. Things might be better that way. They'd be dead as they were alive, tethered by similar fates despite the time and distance between them. They'd both go out in pursuit of the truth at the hands of something tied to the Carey family. Together again. Downstream. At Soma Falls.

Do it, Charlie. Pull the trigger. Make it easy. Suicide is too hard.

The officers don't give Charlie time to make demands. Her awkward attempts to get Zandra up off the pavement offer plenty of opportunities to unload into her head. And they do.

No. Please don't do this to me.

The explosive volley nearly saws Charlie's head in half. The contents empty onto Zandra like a bowl of spaghetti tipping over. Through the blur of gore, Zandra swears she catches a glimpse of David. In one long second, he drifts down the path to Soma Falls, slipping away from her once again. He hunches down to kiss Elle's lifeless forehead before slipping away.

Come back. I tried, David. I really tried.

But David doesn't come back. Instead, Zandra's attention is re-focused by an EMT standing over her on a gurney in the parking lot. Apparently, a good deal of time passed since Charlie's demise. Herman flanks the EMT, looking at Zandra with a concerned eye.

"David," Zandra says in a daze. She feels the weight of heavy blankets draped over her body. Their warmth feels good over her clammy skin.

"No, it's Herman," he says. "They say you're going to be fine."

This isn't over yet. The story doesn't end here, David. Promise.

Zandra squints and makes out the kind contours of Herman's face. "Herman. Yes, Herman," she says. "Would you mind doing me a favor?"

"Of course," Herman says.

"Take these blankets off me. Find the cigarettes in my pocket and stick one in my mouth," Zandra says, fully aware of the EMT's disapproving look.

Herman plants a cigarette in Zandra's mouth and lights it for her. The quick burst of flame looks like a flag burning atop its pole.

"That's better," Zandra says as her stiff body relaxes enough for her to sit up in the gurney. She delivers a violent hack into her sleeve. The motion shakes loose something small and shiny from the rancid folds of her purple gown. It's an empty casing from an officer's handgun. Must've rolled across the pavement and onto her clothes during the shooting.

She examines the casing and finishes her cigarette. The words "Crate 27" are stamped on the bottom near the primer.

"That symbol you etched into the knife you made for me, where did you get that from?" Zandra says to Herman. She thinks back to how it looked like a 27 with arms and legs.

"You mean the sigil?" Herman says.

"Sure, the sigil," she says.

"I make myself open so things come in to me. And sure enough, something did when I was grinding that knife for you. It was supposed to protect you. Did it?" Herman says.

"I don't know, but the knife sure came in handy," Zandra says and hacks into her sleeve as she slides off the gurney. "I hope they give it back to me."

It's only then that she notices she's not handcuffed. She stamps the cigarette out on the pavement and rubs her wrists. Like the rest of her body, they throb from the abuse she put them through. A long soak in the tub is going to feel great. She might never get out.

"Zandra," Fred says from across the parking lot. He walks over. "You're back. Good. How are you feeling?"

"How do you think?" Zandra says. "But I'm a lot better without those 'cuffs. I take it I'm free to leave?"

"No, you're still in our custody. You might've led us to Elle, but you left quite a mark. We'll see about what happens next," Fred says, his jaw as square as his haircut.

"You'd better find Charlie's car first. We'll be pissing into the wind otherwise," Zandra says.

"Already did."

"And?"

"And I'm not sure that's information that needs to be shared at this time," Fred says.

"I'll take that as a, 'Yes, Zandra, you were right about Charlie, thank you so much for your help,'" Zandra says.

"We'll see."

"Yes, we'll see."

But Zandra already knows she won't be the hero in this story. Somehow, she'll be back to being the witch of Stevens Point, especially when that list of indisputable charges from her romp through town comes to light. She'll have done the dirty, illegal work the police only wished they could get away with. But the police will take credit in the end all the same.

And she'll be the one labeled too stupid and reckless to have known the person hiding Elle was right in front of her nose. Not only that, but she didn't act fast enough to save Elle before Charlie killed the child. Nope, she was too blinded by the opportunity to put the hurt on the Carey family. She wanted to not find Elle in time. And that would soon morph into Zandra being the sole reason Elle isn't still alive. She might as well have been the one to kill her.

From there, it's as easy as people shouting "child killer" out a window as they drive past Sneak Peek.

If there still is a Sneak Peek. Zandra's high deductible insurance probably won't cover the repairs. And she sure as hell doesn't have the cash to pay for it herself. Maybe Stevens Point will put on a fundraiser as a thank you for her "psychic" services.

Yeah, right.

Zandra's allowed a bottle of water before Fred escorts her to a waiting squad car. They spend the night back at the police station, where Zandra unloads everything she discovered about the conspiracy to hold Elle for ransom.

Fred barely talks. He just nods and takes notes from behind a digital voice recorder. When they're finished, Zandra's issued a change of clothes and a shower before being shown to her cell. She's told the county prosecutor will decide which charges to file in the morning. The bail is already set well beyond anything Zandra can afford.

Sleep comes easier than it should. Zandra's safe and the near-empty jail is quiet. The deflated mattress is more comfortable than it ought to feel. Beats standing on her bad ankle.

The morning brings a passable breakfast, a harsh bout of nicotine cravings and news from a guard to get ready to leave.

"So they've decided not to go ahead with charges?" Zandra says.

"No, that's still happening. You'll have plenty of time to hear about those in your next few court dates," the guard says. "You're out on bail."

"Out on bail?" Zandra says.

"That's right," the guard says. "Even brought you a fresh pair of street clothes. Let's go."