If Allison were anything, anyone other than herself, maybe she would reach out for the couch, a chair, the edge of a table. Something. Anything to steady herself from what feels like a wave that won't stop slamming her full in the face. A yawning chasm only opening wider with each of his words. But Allison Hargreve isn't anything, anyone else, and she doesn't do weakness.

Not unless she's choosing to share it. To trust someone with it.

She duped a whole world. Twice over.
Once in the future; once in the past.

No one could ever tell.

It's tempting. So tempting.

There at the edge of the fingertips of her shuddering mind when he does it again. When he speaks, and it feels even more like somehow, she doesn't exist. Like he's looking at her, but she's not even there on the other side of his gaze. Lumped into the plurality of the family that hasn't even existed as the whole of themselves on this world for the length of whatever the hell it is they are talking about now. Obliterating out weeks and months she'd thought he'd felt -- thought? -- the same about everything, after everyone has had just been gone.

Because for some reason Luther is implying,
Luther is saying -- "There are more people?"

When in the hell was there even time? How absolutely stupid had she been?