It doesn't add up. Meredith remembers that day and the state he was in, and something in her says she would have known, like that makes any sense at all, like she can look at someone and just tell if they're about to commit a murder. That doesn't seem right either. It's not a word that should have anything to do with him.

Looking over her shoulder at him, she waits to see if something changes, waits for disgust or fear to hit, but all she really wants is for him to hold her until this fixes itself or she finds some way to put it right. "So when you showed up here," she says, "when I was treating you... you were... But you didn't do it. You didn't kill her." The intention was there, though, and she's not entirely sure how to reconcile herself to that. The more she thinks about it, the less she believes he could have done it, but her mind's still spinning to keep up. "Was that what happened to your throat?" She has to tighten her hands into fists to keep from reaching out to trace her fingers over where the burn once was.