If he really thought about it, Peter would have to admit to himself that it shouldn't have been so easy.
If he really thought about it, he'd have to confront the dread that hasn't left his stomach for the last twelve hours.
If he really thought about, he'd have to wonder exactly what he and Leight are dancing around.
But he doesn't want to think about any of it, least of all why Leight didn't push the issue of him leaving and forgoing all involvement in this case. He doesn't want to think about it because it all worked out so well (too well), and he doesn't want to think about why.
He just wants to relish the facts: Leight hasn't forced him to the airport, hasn't forced him to give up the case, hasn't forced them apart.
In fact, Leight has done such a one-eighty that he even asked for Peter's help with the case. That's why Peter is downtown at the police station, knocking on the glass door to the Captain's office.
"Come in," the Captain calls.
His voice is still hoarse. The wrinkles around his face are more pronounced than usual, and there are dark, heavy circles beneath his eyes. He clearly hasn't allowed himself any sleep since this case started.
Peter half wonders if there wasn't anything more than platonic between the Captain and the Lieutenant, but he stops himself at the craziness of that thought. Clearly, he tells himself, he needs more sleep, too.
"Oh, Peter," the Captain says a bit hazily, "I didn't realize it was you."
"Oh." Peter leans against the door, suddenly somewhat self-conscious. "I won't be long. Mal just wanted me to give you his notes."
"Sit," the Captain orders. He waits until Peter sits in the stiff-backed chair across from him. "Why didn't he just email me the notes? That's what he normally does on longer cases."
"He said it wasn't secure. He's avoiding the Internet altogether."
The Captain nods as if he understands though it's obvious he doesn't. He was never the most tech-savvy member of the team.
"So." Peter swallows around the lump in his throat.
He can't bear the hollow haunted look in the Captain's eyes. He reaches for the messenger bag he brought with him. It would be a standard messenger bag, if it wasn't for the rectangular orange decal on the front, which bears the word "REPENT" in violent white letters.
The bag belongs, of course, to Leight. He sighs, pulls it open, and extracts a manila file folder. It's thin. He can tell it only contains a few sheets, but he doesn't know exactly how many because he isn't about to open it and count.
He can feel the weight of the offensive flash drive in his pocket, resting on his thigh. It shouldn't be there. Neither should the cloud of doubt that surrounds him. He blinks, but nothing changes.
He hands the folder to the Captain. "Here it is."
The Captain takes the folder. He sets it on the desk in front of him. He doesn't open it. "Have you read it?"
Peter shakes his head.
"Has Leight told you anything?"
He shakes his head again.
"What have you figured out?"
Peter waits a beat while he calculates the risks. He stares at the Captain, and he decides the man is unlikely to say anything to Leight.
"This case is connected to an old case, from before I met Mal. Mal knows who the killer was, but he didn't catch him, for whatever reason. They've been enemies for a long time—well before the first murder, I'd wager. It's personal. He chooses victims just to get under Mal's skin. Both you and Mal think I'll be next."
"You will be," the Captain murmurs, so deadly serious, "unless Leight finds him. Fast."
Peter looks around the room, frustrated. "I'm not leaving."
"I wouldn't expect you to." The Captain smiles tersely. "But you should."
"Tell me why, then. Mal won't say anything. He says it's better—safer—if I don't know anything."
"I can't tell you everything," the Captain says after a moment. "I don't even know everything. But I will tell you that everything you've guessed is correct. The other case—it was five years ago. It was the first case I ever worked with Leight. He got involved because it was personal. You see, Eleanor Leight, the victim, was his sister."
There. Peter's suspicions confirmed. The victory is hollow.
"He solved the case almost immediately. The trouble was finding the killer." When he sees that Peter is about to ask a question, he shakes his head.
"No, I won't tell you the killer's name. I know it, yes, but Leight is right about that—it really is better if you don't know." He resets.
"Leight spent months searching, but this guy—well, Leight called him 'excessively clever.' I took that to mean he's at least as 'clever' as Leight (though Leight would never admit it). We couldn't find him. It took a long time to convince him that it was time to give up. I asked him to help with other cases because I thought it would be a good distraction for him—that it might help. It didn't, really. I never asked, but I knew he still spent all his free time searching for this man. He didn't stop, didn't learn to let go, until," the Captain meets Peter's eyes too damn meaningfully, "he met you."
Peter looks away. He doesn't want to hear this. He tries to focus. It's damn near impossible. "Leight knew the killer before?"
"Yes," the Captain nods. "It seems they were friends once, but something happened about ten years ago."
"Do you know what happened?"
"Yes, but it wouldn't be right for me to tell you."
Peter shuts his eyes. "Can you tell me anything? A hint? Something?"
"All right," the Captain nods. Cryptically, he asks, "You remember the butterfly we found at the scene?"
Peter nods.
"Remember the name of the species?"
"Tisiphone abeona," Peter recites dutifully.
"Now," the Captain looks stern, searching, almost like a schoolteacher teaching a particularly important lesson, "what do you know about Tisiphone?"
"You mean the Erinys? The Fury? That Tisiphone?"
"From Greek mythology, yes." The Captain nods, waiting for it to sink in. "What do you know about her?"
"There were three Erinyes: Alecto, Megaera, and Tisiphone," Peter remembers. "They were born from drops of Uranus's blood. They were the female chtonic deities of vengeance. They were avengers, punishers, executioners."
"'Tisiphone' comes from the Greek phrase 'avenger of blood.' She went after murderers." His brow furrows, and he stares at the Captain as he struggles to put the pieces together.
"The killer—whoever he is—he doesn't think Mal is Tisiphone, does he?" It doesn't fit unless he's baiting Leight—which of course he is—but it still doesn't seem right.
"No," the Captain puts on the smallest of smiles, and it's downright disturbing to see the expression the Captain's weary face, "he doesn't."
"Then," the cogs turn, and Peter really wishes he didn't have to think about this, but, "the killer thinks of himself as Tisiphone. His murders are acts of vengeance."
"Go on."
"I," he shakes his head. He wants to cry or scream or bury himself in Leight's embrace. "Mal wouldn't kill anyone."
Leight's words ('don't doubt that I will kill him') come floating back to him unbidden. He shakes his head more violently.
His eyes are burning.
The flash drive is heavy.
He can't do this.
"He wouldn't." He won't believe it. He wants this case to go away. He wants Leight. "Would he?"
"Peter, look at me."
Peter looks. The Captain's so calm, but Peter can't help being terrified.
"To the best of my knowledge," the Captain continues, "Leight hasn't murdered anyone, but it isn't the actual act that matters. It's causation, and perception thereof. By this logic, all Neptune's waters couldn't wash Leight's hands clean."
.
.