This, Molly thinks, is what she really wanted Russell here for. If she weren't so hurt, she'd try to draw him up onto the bed beside her, curl against his chest, let him hold her while she tells the last of her story, recording be damned. As it is, she isn't sure she could handle that, and she hates it, how wounded she feels, how damaged, so far from her usual self that there's not a thing to be done about it. Rather than dwelling on that, she tries to stay focused on the movement of Russell's thumb against her hand as she continues, the one thing that might be keeping her at all steady.

"The floor," she replies. "It was just a few seconds. His hands were around her throat, and then... she'd put a screwdriver into his head." It's the part after that she remembers more vividly, his body crumpling to the floor like letting out a breath after having been holding one, the blood still on her hands as she called for an ambulance. She doesn't say any of that, though, instead glancing up at Russell with a worried look. "You aren't going to charge her with anything, are you? Lisbeth. She... I swear, I'd be dead if it weren't for her."