"C'mon." Derek holds out a hand. "Let's go home."
"Yeah." After what seems an age she swipes her hand over her forehead and takes his hand.
She doesn't miss the way his eyes track the movement; the shadow in them tells her she must be smeared with blood. This is the moment that will haunt them both for years. For a split second, Lind sees herself as he must: thin and bleeding, fingernails ripped jagged; feral. He looks like he might be sick but he doesn't shake or flinch from her as he leads her away. They don't look back.
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