[The demon in him wants to laugh, but he manages to repress it in time.]

No.

You're outside, walking toward some sort of—chaos. Flashing lights, police cars. The man you're with steps away and says a strange word into his cell phone. Fusco?

You're trying to take stock of the situation—prisoners released, someone cut the power—when he whirls back around, meeting your eyes with a look that's stunned and grim and sort of pitying.

You know it's her. You know she's dead.

You feel... grief, but you don't have time for it, so you put it away. You compartmentalize.

You tell him you need to get Finch.

[A pause.]

I'm truly sorry.

[For once he can say that and somewhat mean it, at least while the memory is still there.]