[She takes his hand, sits, just sort of lets it happen. She's trying to monitor herself a little, separate out what degree of her behaviour is normal and what the drugs are influencing, but really - when could she last comfortably describe herself as 'normal'?]

None of it makes much sense in retrospect. My behaviour was - compromised. For some reason I thought my inmate's life was owed to the hotel.

[She knows exactly what happened. The place drew her lost love and her guilt and her pain out of her, turned it into a rod for her back and brought it down until she was more than ready to hand over Erik to make it stop. But it didn't; it hasn't; it won't.]