[That night rises from his memories into the present, a drip at first, then a trickle, a stream, a torrent engulfing him in the darkness. The stampede of their feet down the stairs, the terrible crack of Sam's body striking the floor below. The worse crack of the trophy against his skull, the bloody crater left behind. The weight of him rolled up in the rug, tossed onto their amateur pyre, divided into trash bags.

Connor doesn't know where his thoughts stop and his words begin: all of it bleeds together, twisting out of his control. He thinks he might throw up, but what comes out of his mouth instead is an answer.]

It all happened so fast-- He fell over the banister, and we thought that killed him, but then he grabbed Rebecca so Wes--

[He chokes on the words but in the darkness makes a gesture in imitation of striking with an object.]

I didn't even see it happen, I just saw his head...it looked like all this smashed, rotten fruit or meat or something.

[He sits up suddenly, drawing himself into a knot with his head between his knees and his arms folded over his head. His breath falls roughly as if telling all of this exerts him. But whereas before he was afraid to talk, now he is afraid to stop, because doing so would open him to Oliver's judgment.]

I didn't even want to be there-- You've got to believe me. It was all part of Wes's stupid crusade to prove Rebecca innocent - to prove that it was Sam who killed Lila. I didn't want to do any of it--

[But he had. It was he who helped roll the body up in the rug, and he who delivered it to the woods, and he who hacked Sam Keating to pieces.]