She returns to the prison. This time, not as a daughter. As an inquisitor.

—You planned it all, didn’t you?

Aaron Nierling smiles. Almost fatherly.

—I just set the pieces in place. You did the rest.

—Henry? Peter Lance?

—A disciple. There are many.

—And why me?

—Because you are perfect. Precise. Brilliant. Cold when you need to be. Like me. And you haven’t accepted it yet, but you will. Because I raised you for this.

Nora stands. Looks at him as if it were the last time. Because it is.

—I’m not like you. And I won’t let anyone else be either.

Outside, she decides to take control of the narrative. She hands over all the recordings. All the documents. Talks to the press. Admits what she knows. What she doesn’t. And what she fears. But makes one thing clear:

—I’m not guilty. I’m the prey in a monster’s maze.

Peter Lance is captured weeks later. Wounded, delirious, with newspaper clippings glued to his body. All featuring Nora’s face. His “muse,” he says.