He's leaning on the door frame, head down, like a suitor come to call. But he is not welcome, not at all.
"It's not a good time..." She keeps her voice from trembling, but only just.
"Is that right?" Keat's smug assertion tells her she's been caught red-handed. "Oh I love this song." Always slipping from my hands... He hears the line and smirks, almost laughs. "Got your photos developed." He holds out the envelope to her, and she looks at it for a long moment.
But there's no way she could resist. The truth will out. And the truth will set her free.
She fumbles with the paper, hoping it's nothing. Hoping that it's something that can wait until morning. Gene is waiting for her in the bedroom, and she can't believe she's even standing here, looking at... Looking at what?
Pictures of Sam and Annie. Pictures of Gene and Ray, leaning on the Cortina. Pictures from Sam's camera, obviously.
And in the midst of these memories, one photo is reversed. Keats' handwriting is neatly printed on the back, and in case she couldn't read the words, he speaks them aloud.
"I think we've found our grave."
And just like that, her reality fractures. She flashes back to that moment, standing in the cell in the darkness, watching her own unconscious body asleep on the hospital bed, a BBC news cast playing in the background,
'Police in Lancashire say a body found in a shallow grave on farmland may be that of a police officer.'
She sees the weathervane with the silhouette of Old Man Time that has been haunting her dreams. She sees the ghost. The young man with half a face, turning to look at her, his one good eye pleading with her to help him.
"Farringfield Green. Lancashire."
How does he know that? How can he tell from just one photograph of a farmhouse? There's a pressure in her head and in her chest, a raw ache that feels like fear.
Keats crosses the threshold into her flat, as if he can smell it coming off her in waves.
"Be careful, Alex. Be very -- careful."
How could he not tell her about this? How could he fail to explain this part to her? Is it because she didn't ask the right questions? Is he standing there, waiting to bed her, knowing that she doesn't have all the facts, that he's still, still hiding things from her?
She doesn't even want to look at him right now. Because she's weak, and her heart will throw over her head if she has to show him these photographs. He will have more convenient lies, more explanations. He will draw her farther from the truth, without even meaning to.
Her coat is in her hands and she's moving, running... Down the stairs and out in the night, somewhere far away from the warmth of his body and that soothing voice.
He has his reasons, and she knows he thinks they're good ones. He's proven that time and time again. He thinks he's protecting her, but in truth, he's destroying them both.
Right now, she just has to get away from him, to think. She doesn't even know where she's running to, she just knows she has to get out.
And it's so difficult to remember Molly's face.
She tries to hold onto the memory, but it's slipping through her fingers like so much sand.
The bedroom is close to the front door. He stands behind the door, unashamedly trying to hear over the music. All he can tell is that it’s a man’s voice – and even if he couldn’t, he’d know who it was. Who else would bang on her door at midnight, at that exact moment?
The conversation doesn’t seem to last long. He waits, listening for proof that Keats is gone, waiting for Alex to come back to him.
And then, just waiting for the sound of her front door to close, or her footstep in the kitchen. Or her voice, telling him to come out.
The longer he waits, the more his heart sinks. But no. She’s coming. She told him to wait in the bedroom, that she’d get rid of whoever it was. She’ll come. Where would she have gone at this time of night? And anyway, she’d believed him. It was going to be OK. She leaned against his chest, and…
…and she’s not coming back. He waits until the next song on the tape is almost done, and then walks out of the bedroom. The front door stands wide open. He walks through the kitchen, into the living room. She’s not there.
No answer, of course. He picks up his coat, and leaves, closing the door behind him. What else can he do?
Disappointment trumps anger, though there’s plenty of both. Disappointment, mixed with desperation. He drives home with the leather of his gloves creaking against the steering wheel, he’s holding it so tight.
She was the last piece of this. Stop fighting, and stay with him, and they’d be all right. He thought they were there. He thought she trusted him. She was so close, he can still feel the weight of her head on his chest.
But now she’s gone, and he knows that was the last chance for them. She’s still in the middle, but now it’s down to him and Keats. Two kings on either side, with the pieces between them. Just one last battle to come before the board gets reset. One way or another.