The tap was still running when Torres pushed open the restroom door.The sound echoed off the tiles — steady, rhythmic, like a clock marking seconds.She paused in the doorway for a moment, watching Kate bend over the sink, splashing cold water onto her face, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
“Figured I’d find you here,” Torres said softly.
Kate looked up in the mirror, startled.Her face was wet, her hair darkened at the temples.She reached for a paper towel, her hands shaking slightly.“I didn’t mean to—”
“What?Cry in front of the boys?”
Torres stepped closer, letting the door swing shut behind her.The smell of cheap floral air freshener filled the air.
“You don’t need to apologise for being human.I’ve seen guys puke in that bullpen after less than what you’ve been through today.”
Kate gave a weak smile.“Hardly comforting.”
“Didn’t mean it to be.”Torres folded her arms, leaning back against the tiled wall.“You want to tell me what that was about?The tears, the drawer — all of it?”
Kate hesitated.She’d trained herself not to talk about personal things on the job.The Bureau had a way of turning grief into paperwork — a line on a psych eval, an entry in a case file, before you knew it, you were on extended leave or waiting for a review board.But something in Torres’s tone — direct but kind — loosened her defenses.
“It’s hard to explain,” she said finally.“That message —Green Gables— it’s… it’s from when I was a kid.”
Torres nodded once, slow and encouraging.“Go on.”
“When I was about ten,” Kate said, “there was a cartoon version ofAnne of Green Gableson TV.Sunday mornings.It was this gentle, old-fashioned story about a redheaded orphan who talked too much and dreamed too big.My mom used to tease me that I was just like her — running around with my head in the clouds.”
“We read it in grade school.Aloud.”Torres gave a little shudder.
A wistful smile crossed Kate’s face.“I never actually read the book.But I loved that tv show.I wanted to live inside it.I wanted to find my own Green Gables — someplace quiet and perfect and mine.”
Torres tilted her head.“Was home life… you know…loco?”
“Not at all.I was an only child, my mom and dad loved me, and they loved each other.The only tension was… well, if I tell you what the message means, you’ll see.”
“I’m all ears.”
"One Sunday, my dad helped me build a treehouse in our backyard.I grew up outside Chicago, in a leafy suburb, with a big sycamore in the garden.Clapboard house with a cute name.”
She paused, swallowing.
“What was it called?”
“The house?Mulberries.”She sniffed.“My Dad was usually working weekends, but that day he stayed home.It felt… special.Like a secret between us.We spent the whole morning sawing, hammering, arguing about whether the ladder should be rope or wood.When we finished, it was all crooked and lopsided, but it stood.I climbed up there and told him it was Green Gables.”
Torres blinked.“I was going to saysweet,” Torres said.“But how comes it’s on the bottom of a drawer in a Manhattan crime scene?I mean, surely that’s just a coincidence, isn’t it, or…”
Kate looked at her.“I don’t… I can’t…”
Sensing she was about to break, Torres squeezed her arm.“Ok, ok, too many questions, honey. Take your time.”
At length, Kate found she could continue.“It was more than sweet,” she said.“It was rare.My dad… he wasn’t around much.He was a scientist, always at his lab.He worked on embryonic stem cell research — this was back when it was just starting to become controversial.My mom used to call it his ‘holy crusade.’”She smiled faintly.“They did argue about that.Constantly — the hours, the broken promises.She wanted him home more.I think I’d stopped expecting that by the time I was nine.”
Torres didn’t interrupt.She just watched her, arms still folded, patient.
“That Sunday was different,” Kate continued.“We had lunch on the porch, the two of us.He told me he’d make a sign for the treehouse — carve it himself, paint the letters green.Green Gables.I waited all week for it.But it never came.”
Torres’s eyes softened.“He got busy again.”
Kate nodded.“Always.By Monday, he was back at the lab.I remember standing under that treehouse the next weekend, staring at the empty space above the door where the sign was supposed to hang.I knew then he’d never finish it.He didn’t mean to disappoint me — he just couldn’t help himself.Work was who he was.It wasn’t just something he did; it was how he existed in the world.”
Torres hesitated, then asked quietly, “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
