kalinda gets the event. kalinda got to walk into the courtroom with the gun still clicking, kalinda gets the blood on the floor and the immediacy and the knowledge. kalinda, in her grief, pursues that knowledge. looks both corpse and perp in the face. kalinda gets the record and the details of the picture. kalinda gets to have been there.
diane gets the man. diane’s grief runs deepest, diane lost the most, diane gets ownership: “i loved him. my best friend is dead.” diane gets the legacy of will gardner on her shoulders, his thirst for power and his pettiness and hotheadedness, and gets to take his best and worst pieces into herself as part of mourning him, as part of loving him.
alicia gets the narrative. but this narrative is not about her—deliberately, precisely constructed to not be about her, happening while she was somewhere else and not picking up her phone. but she is our protagonist, and she has to wander into the empty crime scene, the unswept broken glass and the puddles of blood on the floor and ask for answers. not “what happened?” but “what does this mean to me?” alicia gets the responsibility of the story, and here that means she has to try to inhabit a story that is not hers. that she knows doesn’t belong to her, that she has to make it hers anyway. alicia gets subjectivity. no matter how flawed her separate scripts are, alicia gets to rewrite.