You tell Elizabeth enough to ruin the version of you she was trying to protect. Not every detail, not every crime, but enough that the room changes shape around both of you, enough that the air feels thinner, as if honesty consumes oxygen differently than lies. You watch her face the way you watch a market print: for tells, for delay, for the moment denial stops being believable. She does not forgive you. She does not leave immediately either. The in-between is worse than rage; it is the moral weight of someone still deciding what you are allowed to be to them. You want to fill the silence with explanations. You force yourself to stop, because explanations are often just another costume. You sit together on the edge of the bed. You don't ask her for forgiveness, and she doesn't offer it. You just wait for the inevitable. [[The Arrest|Wait for the sirens]]