[She is about to tell him that she knows he's alive, that it's because of her -- but then he cracks this laugh off and she's not sure what to think. He's closer to her and there's a hint of something in that laugh and it makes her quiet.

So she listens. Which, for Lydia Martin to stand there and just listen without color commentary - without her opinion or facts or more questions coming in - is a miracle.

Other things slide into the gaps. The fire for one... that explains a majority of why her waking nightmares were flooded with images and things she didn't really like touching. Burned skin, clumps of hair in the drain. It explains why she was drawn to the house - why she couldn't slip away from that pull of him.]

Thank you. [She feels it's important to express that she's grateful for the information, that he didn't lie or leave things out. That it is as much information as she can have from him.]

And I know he's alive. Peter. I know... because I did it. At least, I think -- it's like I was there, but I wasn't and when I try to think about it... [Her gaze fixes to his, hard and determined.] I don't like thinking about it.

Then Jackson died. He died, Stiles. And then I'm supposed to bring him something and you say that I did - that I do and that it fixes him and now he's ... now he has what he wanted. [Which, she's not even sure what it was.]

He blamed me. Jackson. Blamed me for why it wasn't working... and Peter said I was immune. [She nods.] I wish someone had talked to me. [That part is said softly, mostly to herself, because maybe it could've been stopped. Someone could've done something. Something different.]