The dots start connecting one by one, the longer Crabb sits there in stunned silence—the never letting her touch his face is just the tip of an iceberg with the power of hindsight. There are still missing pieces, bits of information they just don't have at this point in time, but there's enough to paint a picture.

(Somewhere in the room, Endo Gall is this close to a heart attack.)

The sounds of scandal erupt anew with every strike, with every word out of Smith's mouth. Crabb doesn't care about that. Crabb doesn't care about how many people are watching this right now. She tosses back another half of the glass, wipes her mouth, pushes herself off the stool and rolls her shoulders.

"Yeah, well, ain't like he was gonna go telling me, was it?"

And then she grabs Cragen by the front of Tom's cheap suit, yanking him up away from where he's half-collapsed against the bar after those hits, and slugs him hard enough that something audibly cracks.

She doesn't even let him fall to the floor. His knees give, but she keeps hold of his shirt.

"You— after the bridge— you slimy bastard!"