Natasha knows Emily Holt and her mom tried to leave town. That’s the most recent news, and the images conjured by the piecemeal story are almost impossible to process. Down by the warehouses. Jan Holt’s Chevy Blazer smashed against a brick building. Emily crushed by the crash. Or maybe…before impact.

Natasha doesn’t want to think of Emily like that. Doesn’t want to think of Melanie, Tammy, Kennedy. And absolutely does not want to think of the fact that she’s the one who told the others the story of Daphne. She’s doing a good job imagining a dam, resisting the huge glut of guilt that will drown her if she allows it. Quincy Manska helped. She more or less convinced her daughter none of this is her fault. And while Natasha means it when she says the killer is possibly a woman, that doesn’t mean she thinks it’s the ghost of a seven-footer. In fact, Quincy and Natasha talked about a lot more than Daphne’s backstory, long after they heard the news about Emily Holt. It’s hard to know how much they’ve slept, how much they’ve talked, and just what they might’ve dreamed. But somewhere in the piqued discussion, Quincy suggested Natasha believes it’s a woman because she wants it to be. Because there’s a side of Natasha that wants everything of note to be a woman. Good, bad, ugly, doesn’t matter.

Natasha got fired up about this:

I’ve been surrounded by powerful women my whole life, she said. From you to Coach Wanda. From the girls I play with to the ones I play against. This isn’t about what I want, Mom. This is about what I’m sensing, what I’m feeling, what I just…believe. The man who got caught beneath Kit’s bed? Yeah. That was a man. And that wasn’t the killer. Women are smarter, Mom. Craftier. And whoever is doing this is using a tool that literally fucking crushes people’s bones. And they’re not leaving a trace of evidence as to what that tool is. You think that’s a man? No man is that careful.

Still, Natasha doesn’t know, of course. And does it matter? Housebound, all the same. And Quincy about the house, drink in hand, reinvigorating the discussion at a whim, more than once with the police officers who were once stationed exclusively outside but now sometimes stand inside the house too.

That’s one of the scariest parts of all this to Natasha: the way Quincy goes in and out of remembering the Daphne story. It’s as if, seconds after talking about it, she forgets again. Then, at the fridge, putting more ice in her drink, she suddenly remembers again. And with each memory, there’s a momentary thrill, a woman recalling something specific to her city, her life. But that thrill dies quick. Crushed, it seems, in seconds.

Daphne.

Natasha wishes she never heard the name.

And while she won’t allow the dam to break, she’s never felt worse in her life. Is this horror? Is this what people mean when they use the word “traumatic”? Funny how it doesn’t feel immediate. After all, she’s Natasha still, isn’t she? She can still make a joke, can’t she? Watch! She’ll go make one to the officer by the front door now. Just watch him laugh. Yes. Just a couple Samhattanites going about their days, far from being able to recognize what this experience is going to do to them in the long run. Far from experiencing the PTSD, the unchecked anxiety, the fatigue. Teammates are being killed daily. The entire city is on edge. Dad won’t let Natasha put the television on because the news is literally only about the ballers. Natasha’s own face has been broadcast, as team photos and pictures from games are used nightly. She saw herself for a second before Dad swiped the controller away. She saw a video of her (Natasha herself!), dribbling the ball like an ogre, like Frankenstein, up the right sideline before pulling up for a baseline three.