She sits on the edge of the bed to watch, feeling... surprisingly little, actually. Curious, more than anything; her unease has subsided a little because whatever's in here, it's at least an answer.

(There must be, she suspects, a journal somewhere; she knows her own inclinations, and if she were leaving Mulder she would have written about it. She knows, because she is writing him now, letters about the inevitable way she'll leave, sooner or later. Weeks, months. But maybe not-- maybe years. Will she ever show him that notebook, the things that crossed her mind as she lay dying? For all she knows it's tucked into this little box.)

But when she opens it, the first things she finds are unremarkable. A passport-- hers-- and a stack of cash, maybe a thousand in varying denominations. A little paranoid, but comprehensible. A ring of unidentifiable keys, maybe for file cabinets or safety deposit boxes-- and then...

Her brow furrows. There's a driver's license, out-of-state, but it's not hers-- no? The picture, she realizes, is herself-- with bleached hair and a fake name, and under it a stack of others, mostly expired-- fake names and disguised photos.

She looks up at him, obviously bewildered.