AN: Well, this is it. To those of you who consider my cliffhangers evil, I apologize in advance. Gotta set up the sequel somehow. :)

"Please sit down," said Mr. Kaplan, gesturing to the couch across from her. Liz could feel her eyes following her as she and Red sat. The other woman sipped at her tea, scrutinizing them over the rim of the cup. The skin on the back of Liz's neck itched at the silent attention. She wondered if Red felt it, too.

Finally, Mr. Kaplan leaned forward to set her teacup on the coffee table; Liz could just barely make out a few words in what looked like a woman's delicate handwriting circling her left wrist.

"How much confidence does the FBI have in your loyalty to the agency, Agent Keen?"

"You mean after Number Four waltzed in the front door calling my name or before?" Liz said, hooking her thumb in Red's direction.

"Point taken." She brushed some imagined lint from her skirt and settled back in her chair. "Mr. Reddington informed me that the gun in your husband's box is linked to an unsolved homicide investigation. An assassination."

"It is."

"And you determined this by having a bullet fired from that gun analyzed by the FBI?"

Liz's stomach started to sink. "I tried to. Everything came back classified. Red…" She hesitated, uncomfortable addressing him so informally in front of a long term associate who didn't. "Mr. Reddington was able to access the details for me."

"Do you think nobody higher up the food chain than you has been made aware of the results of the ballistics test, even if you weren't?"

"They haven't mentioned it," she said weakly, realizing even as the words left her mouth just how poor a reassurance that was.

Mr. Kaplan pursed her lips again. "This is textbook, Agent Keen. Your husband is about to disappear off the face of the planet without a trace. Who do you think they're going to look at first? For goodness' sake, they would have looked at you even if you hadn't given them a motive on a silver platter."

Liz swallowed hard. A quick glance at Red found his face an impassive mask, but there was a tightness to his jaw that gave away his unease. They'd been reckless, it was true, but what's done was done. They made their bed and now they had to lie in it. It had been worth it as far as Liz was concerned. For the finality of it most of all. That didn't stop her from feeling sick to her stomach.

"Obviously, there's no going back from this," said Mr. Kaplan. "And I'm not doubting that it was necessary—you know the players better than I do and if there was no other way to ensure your husband's silence, so be it. But none of this changes the fact that when you ran the bullet through their system, you raised all the red flags in the world. I'm good at my job, but nothing I can do will stop them from suspecting you when they realize he's gone missing.

"I'm not going to insult either of you by assuming you don't understand how serious this is. Vigilantism is certainly not something the FBI encourages their agents to partake in, but they manage to look the other way where Mr. Reddington is concerned often enough. You might be able to ride his coattails in that regard, especially if they think he did it himself, but you'll be walking a fine line, that's for sure. Taking a lot of chances.

"At the very least, they'll wonder why the hell you were OK with him executing your husband. Why you didn't turn your husband in instead. Why you didn't come to them with your suspicions through official channels in the first place.

"You could possibly avoid some of those suspicions by coming clean, telling them the truth or at least some version of it. For instance, you could turn in the box and the gun and tell them he disappeared, but be prepared to be interrogated thoroughly, or throw yourself on their mercy, claiming self-defense. Suffice to say, this probably won't end well, or easily. If they don't believe you, you're screwed."

Liz took a deep, steadying breath. She was stuck firmly between a rock and a hard place. She killed her husband not for a high and lofty reason like taking out a wanted assassin, but solely because of what he'd done to her personally, what he could do. Victor Fokin hadn't even been an afterthought when she pulled that trigger. She doubted she was a good enough liar to convince anybody she'd done it for less than self-serving reasons.

And having Red take the blame? As tempting as it might be to let him cover for her—and she didn't doubt for a second that he would—Mr. Kaplan was right. The FBI would still find it suspicious, maybe even more so than discovering she did the deed herself. They doubted her loyalty enough as it was; it would only give them more ammunition to support the theory that she had been in cahoots with Red from the day he turned himself in.

The mere thought of going through another polygraph test chilled her to the bone, especially considering the fact that she very much had something to hide this time. A lot of things. What if Ressler got creative with the questions she was asked? He latched on to her defensiveness about her soulmate once already. There was nothing to stop him from throwing Red's name out there as a possibility, even if it was just to rattle her, and then where would they be?

"But there's another option, isn't there? The two of you are just too afraid to bring it up. Something a lot less, well… Everything we do is risky, but it's a hell of a lot less like walking a tightrope every single time I go to work, just waiting for the day someone catches me in a lie." She turned to look at Red, who was watching her with undisguised surprise, obviously following her train of thought perfectly well. "We can keep doing this the way we've been doing this, keep working with them, and deal with the risk of being discovered eventually or…"

She let the sentence hang. After a moment, Red said what she wouldn't.

"Or we can disappear. Work from the shadows instead."

A long, silent moment settled over the three of them, the weight of Red's statement heavy in the air.

Now that the words had been spoken aloud, it felt like a seal had been broken and the temptation to take advantage of the opportunity to escape became almost unbearable. Because, really, she could run. She could leave all this behind. Sure, she would be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life, but wasn't she doing that already? Whether or not she liked to admit it, her reputation was tarnished within the FBI, and permanently at that. There would be a dark cloud of suspicion following her for the rest of her career even without Tom's blood on her hands.

"Running would make me look guilty, wouldn't it?" Liz asked.

"That's the problem, sweetie," said Mr. Kaplan, bluntly. "You are."

Ouch, Liz thought. As if she needed more evidence that Mr. Kaplan wasn't the type to sugar-coat things after how this conversation had gone so far. Although, she supposed she deserved it.

"OK. All right. Say we did this," she said slowly. "How would we go about it?"

Red didn't answer her for a long while, taking the time to collect his thoughts. He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully.

"The best thing we can hope for is a clean break. The fewer loose ends, the better. There are a couple ways to achieve that."

"What's the easiest?"

Red huffed a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. "The easiest, well…" He trailed off, smile fading as quickly as it formed. "Faking deaths is one of my biggest money-makers."

Seconds ticked by as the gravity of what he said started to sink in. She felt Red's sympathy and concern wash over her like a balm—it was clear on his face, even clearer echoing through her.

"It's not a decision to make lightly. You don't have to commit to it yet. If you disappear, we can make it look like one of my enemies kidnapped you. It'll buy you some time and help explain why I would lose contact with the FBI as well."

She nodded, turning the idea over in her head, considering the risks, the downsides.

"What about my dad?"

"You wouldn't have to lose contact with Sam. There are options," he said, "but this is your life, Lizzy. Whatever decision you make, I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. If you want to stay then we'll stay. If you want to run—"

"I think I want to run."

"You think you want to?"

"I do. I want to run. There's nothing for me here. Just mistrust and fear of discovery. They already judge me because of what they assume links you to me. Finding out about Tom would only make it worse, whether they believe I was justified in what I did or not. I can't add another secret I have to keep on top of everything. I can't keep piling lies on top of lies, secrets on top of secrets. Pretty soon I won't be able to keep it all straight."

"While we're on the subject of secrets," said Mr. Kaplan, "none of this is taking into account your other… complication." She looked pointedly at their hands, which even now were near enough to brush each other on the sofa. Both Red and Liz pulled away as if they'd been burnt. "Don't bother. I know that kind of connection when I see it. Congratulations, it's about time. I would send you a card but you don't have an address and the soulmate ones are always so tacky."

Liz locked eyes with Red and the corner of his lips twitched up in an uncomfortable hint of a smile. She snorted and his smile widened. The two of them being soulmates was turning out to be the worst kept secret this side of Ressler's resentment of Liz.

"Yes, yes, it's hilarious. For years, I managed to avoid any up close and personal knowledge of your amorous habits outside of your colorful anecdotes and in one evening I've become a hell of a lot more familiar with them than I've ever had any desire to be." She pinned them with her gaze again, curiosity warring with reproach in her eyes. "I know sometimes the pull can be overwhelming. I'm assuming that's the case with the two of you?" Red raised an eyebrow at her. "Right, I know, stupid question. I hope at the very least you were responsible."

"That's, um… That's not something we have to worry about." Liz swallowed around the lump in her throat. "It's why Tom and I were trying to adopt. I never told him the real reason, but I, uh… I think he figured it out. I think it's why he never forced the issue. Would have been a waste of time."

There was a softening behind Mr. Kaplan's eyes and her brows furrowed slightly. "I'm sorry," she said gruffly.

Liz shook her head, brushing off her concern. "Nothing to be sorry about. It just wasn't in the cards. Besides," she said, forcing a smile, "it's probably for the best anyway, considering, well… everything."

Liz felt a muted, longing pang in her belly and turned just in time to see Red reach out and take her hand. He ran his thumb along the back of it; she gave him a squeeze in return. So he felt it, too, then. He felt her longing and reflected it back. Would he want a child with her if they could? Maybe he would. What a crazy thing that was.

Her smile faded as a fleeting impression of a moptop little boy floated across the surface of her consciousness, a ghost of what could have been if she'd been able. What a mess it would have been if she and Tom already had a family when all this went down. Just as quickly, the image shifted and the boy was no longer tall and gangling for his age, but smaller, sturdier, blond with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

She formed an idealized image of what it meant to have a child at a young age, babysitting for her neighbors down the street. Having a child meant stability, family, unconditional love. It meant belonging to someone and having someone belong to you. It meant Christmas and birthdays and sore throats and skinned knees. It meant she could give someone everything Sam gave her.

If things were different, maybe she could let herself feel disappointed that she'd never have a chance to have a child of her own, a biological child. Or any child, if her life kept going the way it was going. Maybe she could even let herself feel disappointed that she'd never have that with Red, as absurd as it sounded for her to even consider wanting it with him to begin with. She didn't know him well enough to really mourn the loss of what might have been. She'd lose her mind that way.

Mr. Kaplan cleared her throat, bringing their attention back to her. "We should get moving as soon as possible. You'll have to remove your tracking chip, of course. Start building a false itinerary for the FBI to follow."

"I haven't completely taken leave of my senses, Kate," Red snapped; Liz felt his remorse spike through her as the other woman winced. "I'm sorry," he said. He hauled himself to his feet and held out a hand to pull Liz up next to him. The adrenaline rush of the past few days was wearing off, the exhaustion finally catching up with them.

"She's right, Lizzy. I'm afraid you can't take much with you. We'll have to travel light, at least in the beginning."

"That's fine, it's not…" She looked around her living room, remembered the shopping trips she and Tom took to choose the furniture, the knickknacks. She wouldn't be sad to see it go. "Most of this reminds me of him anyway."

He walked with her towards the stairs, a hand at the small of her back.

"If there's anything you need after we settle in, just say the name and it's yours."

"You don't have to—"

"Yes," he said, "I do. I'm responsible for most, if not all, of the chaos in your life. It's the least I can do. Truly."

"Agent Keen?" Mr. Kaplan called up the staircase after them; Liz turned to look down at her. "Take the bedsheets."

Liz flushed at the implication.

Red worked on stripping the bed while Liz moved around her bedroom and gathered up her necessities. He finished shoving the sheets into a trash bag and brushed off his hands.

"Where do you keep the fresh linens?"

"Hall closet," she said. "It's probably safer if I make it. The less evidence of you here, the better."

He nodded and turned on his heels, soon returning with a stack of folded sheets and pillowcases. She went about making the bed on autopilot, stopping only when her foot came down on something small and metal. Peering under the edge of the bed, she found Red's discarded belt where she dropped it earlier.

She stooped to pick it up.

"Here," she said, and held it out. His fingers brushed hers when he took it, a small smirk on his face as he looped it around his waist. When he finished with the buckle, he looked up and caught her gaze.

"We really don't have time," he said, regretfully.

"I know."

Red took a quick step forward, threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, and tilted his head to bring his lips to hers for a thorough kiss.

"Hold that thought. Once we get settled…" He studied her face, her eyes, her mouth. "There are so many things I can't wait to show you."

She darted forward to kiss him again and then, with agonizingly slowness, she let his bottom lip slide from between her teeth. "Likewise," she said. She felt him shiver against her.

The future was a terrifying prospect, but Liz found she wasn't nearly as afraid as she should have been. She had, quite literally, a partner in crime. At least she wouldn't have to face it alone.

The man sitting in front of an array of monitors looked up at the sound of the front door opening.

"Hey, man." The second man nodded in acknowledgement, dug around in the greasy paper bag he was carrying, and tossed a foil-wrapped sandwich into the first man's hands. "Thanks, I'm starved."

"Boy, did you miss one helluva show today," he said, around a mouthful of meat and bread and cheese.

The second man pressed his lips together, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. "What happened?"

"Well, for one, the husband's dead."

"Really?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "She fucking shot him, point blank in the head. And then she took Reddington upstairs and fucked him. Twice," he said, with a leering grin that turned the second man's stomach. He took in the crumpled tissues in the trash bin, the musky, musty scent in the air and his lip curled in distaste. "Oh, and get this: they're soulmates."

"Reddington and Keen?"

"Yep," he said, pleased with himself. "Here, take a load off and I'll show you." He took another swig from his hip flask, nearly gleeful as he went to work cueing up the footage to watch for the third time.

A single gunshot rang out, echoing through the unfurnished townhouse; the man at the monitors slumped forward onto the keyboard, his blood seeping between the keys.