“Oh, I have a copy—here.”

Emma fishes the folded photocopy out of the pocket of her jacket. They have to go through the tiresome process of calling Pradeep and transferring the paper into Simon’s cell. Once it’s in his possession, Simon scans the paper, even sniffs it.

“That last line is quite something,” he notes.

Emma bears down on her reaction. “Remember, I’ll be reading your reply. It’ll be really tedious if I have to make you reword it.” She thinks of something else. “And say that you’re considering his offer, about donating.”

The look Simon gives her is withering.

“What did he call it? A professional exchange between friends.”

“Do you know how the reply will be collected?” He writes while he speaks.

“We’re about to find out.”

“How lovely for you.” Letter completed, Simon lifts the edge of his papers to find an envelope. “Will you stake out the collection point? Will you shoot the Butcher with your gun? Or is that Agent Cooper’s prerogative?”

Emma ignores that. “Don’t stick down the flap on the envelope. I want to read it.”

He makes a production out of folding and inserting the letter, addressing the envelope, then turns in his chair. “Catch.”

The envelope spins along its narrow edge as he tosses it through the bars. Emma surprises herself by snatching the envelope out of the air before it hits her in the chest. It is direct contact: the first time something has passed between Simon and herself without any intermediary. The spark in his eyes tells her the significance isn’t lost on him. Do not take anything he offers you. She imagines she can still feel the warmth of his hand on the paper in hers.

She opens the flap and reads the letter. Refolds it and tucks it back into the envelope.

“Satisfied?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He makes a little sneer when he says it. “Does this mean you’ll bring a celebratory picnic lunch next time you visit? I request croissants. I do remember croissants very fondly.”

Emma stands, gathering the bottle and the envelope, feeling almost formal. “If we catch the Butcher, then this might be my last visit, Simon. But thank you for your help. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure Kristin is taken care of.”

“You don’t have any power. You’re not even an agent.”

She straightens. “Then I’ll do everything I can, as a human being.”

“You’ve been a fascinating subject, Emma.” He cocks his head. “You hate the feeling that Huxton might have been integral to your development as a person, don’t you?”

Emma senses the truth of that knocking around hollowly inside her ribs. “Yes.”

“A girl created by a serial killer who hunts serial killers.” Simon’s lips curve in a quiet smile. “Farewell, dear Emma. Thou wert lovely to the last.”

He turns back to his desk then, picks up a felt pen, and begins writing, suddenly as distant to her as some far-off mountain peak, all covered in ice.