I get to the station the next afternoon, scanning my badge to unlock the door. It's a routine ritual now. I haven't been working here too long, but I already know the place like the back of my hand. It's hard to believe the PD is a recent fixture in my life.

The same pervert at the front desk has eyes that follow me, or more specifically, my ass, all the way down the hall. I ignore him, even when he tries to say something. I don't want to talk to him and risk seeing his death for more reasons than one.

There are a few doors at the NYPD and a maze of stairs to get to whatever destination you have in mind. There's the emergency response center, where a beehive of people takes the standard 911 calls. There's the section where they take all the standard cases with nothing too jarring.

And then there's H2.

Homicide Hub.

I've got my coffee clenched tightly in my sweaty palm, my messenger bag swinging with every step I take and bouncing against my thigh. Someone opens the door for me and gives me a simple smile. I smile back, weaving in and out of the maze of desks and ringing phones toward the chief's office.

"Carrigan!"

I turn, brightening at the familiar voice. "Stan!"

Stan Walsh is the only person I would actually consider to be my friend here. He has no idea who I really am or what curse I bear, which is probably for the best. All he knows is that I'm a young intern he makes smile. I know he has kids of his own, grandkids too, all in framed photos on his desk. He's older, sort of hunched over, but sturdy, and stronger than most his age. He's got wise eyes, kind eyes, the sort of eyes that remind me of my Grandpa Richie's.

He grins wickedly, letting me know he's going to tease me. "Did you see the new detective yet? Looks about your age."

I roll my eyes. "Stan—"

"I'm just saying." He holds his hands up defensively. "I think you should get out there more. School and this job aren't the only parts of life. Speaking of, how's that degree coming?"

"Good." I shrug a shoulder. "Got a C on my test today."

It's better than failing, even if I would've liked an A. It involved a couple of energy drinks and staying up all night to pass, but I flicked through flashcard after flashcard, leaning against my bed with a head that was pounding. Each painful pulse was undoubtedly because of what I now knew about Joel.

It sucks that I stayed up all night instead of picking it up in the morning as I'd initially planned, but the bright side was that I had done something productive instead of staring up at the ceiling and imagining Joel Reed being shot with a gun over and over again.

I blink back to reality, where Stan is staring at me expectantly.

"I'm sorry?" I say, frowning. "Got caught up in my head for a second there."

"I noticed," he replies. "I asked if you were sleeping okay. You look like hell."

"That obvious?" I cock my head. "I was up all night playing cards with the Grim Reaper. The scythe gives him a good poker face."

Stan shook his head, laughing under his breath. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Leave me a good sum in your will?" I offer.

"I'm not sure my kids would appreciate that," he jokes.

The great thing about Stan is that he's never touched me. He suffers from OCD, though it wouldn't be made readily apparent by the looks of his desk. It looks normal, nothing is eerily clean, but I know that the clutter is orchestrated intentionally. He controls the mess.

See, he has a thing about germs. He mentioned it casually after we had spoken a few times because he felt like he needed to explain why he didn't shake my hand. I haven't seen his death, and I'm more than content. I can imagine a happy future for him after retirement. He's sixty-seven, going on sixty-eight, and is planning to retire at seventy. Not knowing how he's going to die makes me feel relieved. It makes me feel like there's a relationship in my life that's normal.

"Anyway, I think the chief wants you to join him in his office," Stan says, then leans in close to my ear. "And the new guy is checking you out."

I peek over my shoulder, briefly catching a glimpse of the one and only Joel Reed. I barely make out the outline of his leather jacket and profile before I turn my head back, but it's enough to confirm it's him.

Stay away. Stay away and he can't make a murderer of you.

I make a beeline for Chief Conrad's office, my head dipped low, hair making a curtain to hide my face as I swing the door open and duck inside.

"Is Satan chasing ya?" Chief prods from behind his desk.

"No, the guy at the front desk gives me the creeps." It's a true statement. His name is John and he's sufficiently perverted. Every morning he's got a new innuendo, and it's unnerving, to say the least. I'm not lying in saying he makes me uncomfortable, just applying it to a different context.

"Right," Chief says unreadably. "I just want to go through your file again. There's also a case I need you to work."

Great. "Did one of my visions come true?"

"Not this time." He pauses. "I wanted to see what happens when we put you in the field for a murder investigation you didn't predict."

"What's that gonna do?" I slump into one of the chairs in front of him, resting my cheek against my fist.

"I want to see if we can trigger other premonitions," he explains, eyes never straying from his screen. "Plus, you are an intern and it might help to have field experience on your resume."

I look down at my lap. "But all my visions—"

"Are caused by physical contact," he finishes for me. "But I want to know if maybe you can see deaths after the fact, like through blood or DNA of some kind."

I screw my eyes shut. "Look, Chief, we've done a lot of good things together but I don't think that it works like this."

He sighs, a deep exhale through his nose. I can tell I'm not responding the way he wants, but I'm not sure he gets it. "Carrigan, it's just this once. You'll have other detectives with you. If it doesn't work, I won't push you anymore. You don't have to solve this. I just want to see if you can get us a lead. Can you do this for me?"

I have to admit I'm curious now. I don't normally go looking for ways to test my powers. I'd be lying if I said there was no interest on my end, but I don't know what scares me more about this: the idea of seeing a death after it's happened, or not being useful at all.

Reluctantly, I say, "Sure. Why not?"

"Great." He reaches over and pats my shoulder. "Thanks, kid."

"No problem," I manage to say. "Who am I working with?"

"Reed and Walsh," he responds. "They seemed like a good match for you."

I swallow hard. "Oh. Cool."

He doesn't know what I saw, and I can't tell him, which means I have to work with Joel. I try to remember how to breathe and ask who the victim is.

"She was in her mid-twenties. Her name was Valerie. Her head was bashed in and she was left naked in an alley."

My throat closes. It always does with these kinds of cases. And walking in close proximity to a man I'm destined to kill doesn't make it any better. My chin lifts in acknowledgment and I feel like a bobblehead.

"I'll call the men in," he says, taking his work phone off the hook. "Take a breath, Carrigan. Maybe a coffee too? You're looking pale."

I bite my lip until it cracks under my teeth, trying to keep myself together. I can't protest. I made my choice when I lied to Chief, and there's no taking it back now. Sucking it up is my only option unless I want to come clean.

I don't have the guts to come clean. At least not yet.

It's just one case with Joel, I remind myself. It doesn't have to be fate, not if you change it first. You can still keep him alive.