I call Stan again on the way out to the car. At this rate, I'll be filling his voicemail box with an endless slew of concerned messages. I want him to answer. I need him to answer. In my isolated existence, I have very few people closer than arm's length to me. He is one of the few. He's so important to me that the thought of him dying breaks something open inside my chest.

I call him again just before we arrive. No answer.

"Stan," I say after the automated greeting plays. "I need you to call me as soon as you get this. Something terrible has happened and I need to know you're okay. Please get back to me."

For a second, everything is playing out at a normal speed. I get out of the SUV, my shoes hit the pavement, and the overcast sky looms over my head. We cross the police line with the flash of Joel's badge and approach the white sheet coated in drying blood. The man is curled up on the sidewalk, and they're doing the best they can to keep him away from prying eyes.

Just as Joel kneels to lift the sheet, someone calls out, "Wait!"

We turn to see one of the cops, out of breath as she rushes over. "There's been a mistake."

"What?" I say, cocking my head.

"That man isn't NYPD at all," she explains, flustered. "There was an error made when we looked at his badge. He's part of the Newark homicide department."

Sure enough, neither Joel nor I recognize the face under the blanket. He's a stranger, and it's such a deep relief when I see that. It's also a little frustrating, bearing the stress of wondering as we made the trip here. Surely someone should have double-checked.

"Have you contacted the Newark PD?" Joel asks.

"We're on it right now," she confirms. "I'm so sorry for dragging you all the way over here. My unit rushed to contact you before I'd given approval."

"It's alright," Joel assures her, his patience everpresent. I can tell he's just as happy as I am that we're not burying a friend today.

We're not out of the woods yet. Stan is still absent and hasn't contacted anyone. At least I know he's not the victim here. I'll be waiting for his response anxiously until I have some sort of reassurance, though.

We walk back to the car without speaking. Joel is talking to Chief, filling him in on what just happened. I stay quiet out of respect until Joel hangs up.

"It's horrible that an officer was killed," I say.

"It really is."

"I was so scared," I admit. "I didn't know what I was going to do if he was gone. It terrified me, Joel. It really did."

He leans a little closer to me. We're facing each other instead of driving away.

"You have nothing to be scared of," Joel assures me. "Nothing at all."

"Don't I? I feel like everywhere I go, I'm surrounded by death. It's so screwed up."

There's a long pause, a contemplative lapse.

Before he starts the engine, as the windshield wipers swipe across the glass, he takes my hand and starts talking. "When I was eleven, my brother, AJ, got hit by a car on his way home from school."

I glance up at him, surprised by his story. I'm genuinely curious where he's going with this, so I squeeze his fingers tighter to let him know it's okay to continue.

Joel is holding my hand.

He's holding my hand, and I'm okay with it for some reason.

"My sister was in junior high because she's three years older than me, so she took the bus home because her school was further away," he continues. "I was out that day because I had the stomach flu, so AJ was walking home alone. The driver wasn't paying attention, and she hit him and killed him."

"Joel," I whisper. "It's not—"

"Don't tell me it's not my fault." He clenches his jaw. "I've heard that enough. He was my brother and I was supposed to stay with him, but I know that it's silly to think I could've stopped it. None of us could've known what was going to happen. At the funeral, I asked my mom why good people die too soon. And you know what she said?"

I shake my head.

"She looked at me, and she said 'J, good people die because, sometimes, the world ain't fair, and there isn't anything we can do about it.' I'll never forget that because when you work a job like this, it's hard not to get caught up in all the bad."

Hearing about his brother has shed a whole new light on him. In a way, it humanizes him more, adding another layer of depth to a man just as complex as anyone. He's clearly haunted, but I wouldn't know it without him telling me. He doesn't let it break him and I can't imagine how. Knowing grief and loss is a terrible thing.

He goes on, "I'm telling you this so you won't blame yourself for what happens, whether it be in an investigation or the other parts of your life. That's not a burden you need to carry. The fallen detective is in a better place and his killer got what he deserved."

Joel's sense of justice is concrete, black and white.

I wonder what he would make of me.

"As for the case, we are gonna put Kevin Grant between bars. Got it?" he says.

"How do you propose the two of us do that?" I ask.

"If he really killed her, we'll catch him," he states confidently. "The truth doesn't stay buried, even if we think it will."

His words replay in my head long after he's said them.

Back at H2, it seems everyone has collectively released the breaths being held. Anytime someone is threatened, the whole unit is thrown off. The NYPD is much like a family, brought together by a job and bonded by a shared set of experiences. Murder and bloodshed are unspeakable horrors that bring people together.

Joel and I are at his desk once more, evaluating what we know, when a familiar figure approaches.

"I heard you were looking for me," Stan says.

My face lights up. "Stan!"

"In the flesh," he replies. "Good to see you both."

He looks tired, his arm wrapped in a sling. The broken wrist explains why he was missing, and why he was too occupied to answer my calls. When he's weary and injured, Stan appears so much older than he ever has before. It's strange seeing him this way.

"I was doing some yard work," Stan explains before we can ask. "I fell off a ladder and broke my phone and arm in the process. My wife and I were in the ER all night. I didn't have a chance to contact anyone."

"That's okay," I say, even though it really did freak me out. "I'm just glad you're here. I'm really glad you're here."

"You can't get rid of me that easily," Stan remarks wryly.

We don't linger on the sentimentalities after that. Stan runs off the speak to the officers responsible for holding Grant to see if he said or did anything noteworthy in the time before he left. Meanwhile, Joel leaves to talk to the coroner, and I work on finalizing the details regarding an older vision of mine.

When the day is slow and the leads are few, H2 is, technically, a nine to five job. Meaning, we're free to go later that evening. None of us seem to have found anything new, which is frustrating. There's no point sitting around, so we find ourselves leaving during rush hour. It's a highly unusual thing when there's an ongoing investigation, but it happens infrequently.

I arrive back at my apartment after a grueling encounter with busy traffic. The streets were clogged and I would normally take the subway, but since I drove my motorcycle this morning, I was forced onto the road.

Betsy is taking a nap, so I have the living room to myself. I sit down on the couch, half watching a show on TV and studying for an exam later this week. Weirdly, my mind is thinking about Joel, about our fingers threaded together in the car when he confided in me about AJ. Despite what I've tried, he's getting closer to me.

I'm starting to think it's time to change tactics. Fate is worming its way in, and I can't seem to change it.

As much as I don't want to admit it, I'm attracted to him. It's so hard to fight that part of me that wants to fall for Joel Reed. I want to let myself feel the way I do, but that terrifies me. I don't know what to make of it, not even a little.

I want to talk to him. I have this overwhelming urge to speak to him, about anything at all. He has this effect on me, one that brings light to my thoughts, one that makes me feel like things might be okay. It's been a draining day, even if I haven't experienced any new visions. He can make me feel better, somehow. I know he can.

Before I can stop myself, I'm dialing his number.