I wake up after one in the afternoon. One look at my clock reveals I've missed my morning lecture. I curse, groaning into my pillow. It's not like me to be late, but I guess the fact I haven't been sleeping well plays into it. I don't even recall turning off my alarm.

Even though I missed class, I have to get back to homework. It never ends in grad school, unfortunately.

As I read, flipping through the pages absentmindedly, I try my best to focus on the text. There are three chapters assigned this week, but I'm never going to retain any of it at this rate. My brain is too muddled, too overwhelmed with everything else that's going on.

I drag a hand through my hair, narrowing my eyes down at the same paragraph I've been reading for ten minutes now. None of it sticks, especially when I tug my fingers away, clutching a wad of mousy brown strands.

My hair is falling out.

"Great," I mutter.

I need to get things under control and fast. If I'm not careful, this will only escalate. I can't put my life on hold because of my abilities, or a murderer, or any of it. That isn't an option for me.

I toss the clump in the trash and settle back into my chair. It's like I've been rattled for too long, perpetually in a state of being shaken up.

Get it together, Violet.

After an hour of laboring through the book, I finally have some semblance of a grasp on the subject. The comprehension questions are grueling and long-winded, but they're a little easier than the first half of the work. I type, and type, and type, thinking that this is a lot like what my future will hold. If I stick with the NYPD, there will always be paperwork. Except, instead of some basic psychology, I'll be reliving my visions and the horrors of the job on-page.

I don't want to do it. Unfortunately, I feel like I have to. I can't abandon Chief and H2, not when I've finally found something that gives me purpose. If I walk away, my visions go back to being burdensome, and useless if I keep them to myself. There's no way I could do that. It would be selfish and wrong. How could I let that sit on my conscience?

The simple fact is: I couldn't.

As if I wasn't distracted enough, Joel calls me. I try not to sound frustrated or pained when I answer. I have good practice at that with Chief, so it shouldn't be too hard.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greets.

Sweetheart. He called me sweetheart. Whenever he says it, it rolls off his tongue so naturally. It's hard to fathom being the kind of person who would ever be called a nickname with such tenderness. He's too good to happen to me.

"It's good to hear from you," I say. "What's going on at the NYPD?"

"I'm working on the report for the Grant case right now," he answers. "Good news is he's confessed to both murders. We got him to sign off this morning without any trouble."

He doesn't sound elated. That kind of thing isn't an easy feat. In homicide investigations, it's almost unheard of.

"What's the bad news?" I ask.

"Grant won't tell us why," he says. "He hasn't said a word."

I can picture him sitting there in the grey, boxy interrogation room. I've seen him cuffed to a table before, and he's not the type to seem afraid. No matter who might speak to him, no matter which tactics detectives use, he won't budge. He's defiant, difficult. He gives them an inch, but won't let them take anything more than that.

"Should I come down to the station?"

"I don't think you could do anything," he says. "Don't worry about it, Vi."

I don't have the jurisdiction to talk to Grant anyway. I'm only an intern, after all. There's a stopping point in what I'm allowed to do, but I hate twiddling my thumbs. Yes, we got him to admit to killing his wife and daughter, but there's still a lot unknown.

I want to know what drove him to make a move like that. And I'm positive Joel does too.

Maybe that's why Grant is so determined to hold out on us— he wants one last power move. It's the only way he can keep control, even when he's been caught.

"I was actually wondering if I could come by and bring you lunch," he continues. "Is that okay? Are you busy?"

"I'm only doing school stuff," I reply.

"Can you afford a break?"

I should say no, but I want to see him. "I think so."

I can hear his smile. "How's pizza sound?"

"Make sure it's not pineapple," I say.

"Pineapple is easily the best pizza topping," he says, clearly offended.

"You're not winning me over talking like that."

"Damn," says Joel. "I don't wanna ruin my chances with you."

I go quiet.

He might've been lighthearted, but there's a touch of truth to that. He's into me, and I feel that way too. Nothing would ruin what's happening between us more than him knowing the truth. If I tell him why we can't be together, he'll never forgive me.

I can't lose him. The gravity of that scares me.

When I open the door to Joel, I can't fight the grin that spreads across my face. When I see him, I stop overthinking. He's not hurt right now. He's very much alive, and he's close enough to touch.

One of his hands is full with a box of pizza and a bag of breadsticks from the pizzeria down the street. "I didn't get pineapple, figured I wouldn't torture you."

I step to the side so he can come in, sliding the chain into place to lock the door. Part of it stems from utter paranoia, but I also like the idea of just having privacy. Betsy left for work this morning, so it's just us.

He sets the food on the counter and reaches for a couple of plates I left on the drying rack after doing the dishes. I lean against the side of the couch, feeling a little self-conscious in my pajamas. It's probably stupid to be insecure about it. I don't think he notices my attire, and even if he does, he doesn't seem to care what I'm wearing.

He puts a slice topped with pepperoni on a plate and hands it to me. When he looks up, I notice that his eyes are surrounded by dark shadows. He's obviously exhausted, yet he's here with me anyway.

"Long night?"

He takes a bite. "That obvious?"

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. I didn't have much time for sleeping." He clears his throat and scans the room, presumably for something else to talk about. His eyes fall on my laptop. "What're you working on?"

"Some questions about fight or flight response," I reply, casting a look over at the forgotten screen. "I haven't really started yet. The words just aren't flowing."

I take a nibble of my pizza, my stomach grumbling. The grease is enough to coat my fingers, but I welcome the junk food. The pizza itself is fantastic.

"Is that roommate of yours around?" he asks, reaching for a second slice.

"She went to work for the day," I say. "Then she'll probably hit the bar to recover from dealing with her annoying coworkers."

He chuckles. "I'm honestly considering doing the same. A few of the detectives were talking about going out for drinks Friday night. You in?"

"I don't know. You really want me there?"

"Of course I do. You don't even have to drink, I just want to see you," he says earnestly.

He's got his eyes wide, almost like a puppy, and I don't want to say no to him. I want to go out and have fun and be young. But the reservations I have about being near him, being with him, aren't so easily explained.

"Maybe," I finally say.

His whole face lights up. "Great!"

"But it's not a date," I press.

He doesn't falter. "One of these days, when we make plans, it will be."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know it's only a matter of time before I'm crazy about you," he murmurs.

The scary thing is, I'm intimately acquainted with what it will sound like when he tells me just how much I mean to him.

"I love you. I love you so much."

I have to save him. I don't know how I will, but I'm determined to do it. There's no way to fight it; I'm already falling in. It's been impossible to keep us apart and keep my heart out of it all along.

"What do you think of the pizza?" I say lamely.

"It's incredible," he responds. "And so is the company."

Eventually, our plates are tossed into the sink and we've curled up on the couch. His eyebrows are knit together as he flicks through the pages of one of my psych books. I'm typing, settling into a groove with him here. For some reason, he calms me down. He makes it easy to get on track.

When his arm slips around my shoulders, I let him tuck me close to him. It feels right. It feels good.

The afternoon fades away like this. Joel doesn't seem to expect anything of me. Sometimes, we speak, and most of the time, we remain the way we are, just being present. As I'm writing the last of my paragraph, he looks at me and then over at the clock.

"It's almost six, Vi," he says. "I better get going back to the station."

"Can I come with you?" I ask. "I want to read the report. And maybe we can get him to talk about why he—"

Joel cuts me off, resting his hand against my cheek, running his thumb across my lip. "I love that you've invested so much into the case, Vi, and I love how hard you've worked, but it's come to a close. He doesn't want to talk. All we needed was the confession and he signed. A guy like him isn't one for cooperating with police out of the goodness of his heart. We got what we needed, let's just leave it at that."

I mull this over inside my head and sigh. "Will you let me come anyway?"

"Yeah, Vi," he agrees. "If that's what you want."

I reach for my jacket and slide it over my shoulders. As I reach for my keys, Joel raises an eyebrow. "What do you drive? Is that a car key on your ring?"

"Motorcycle," I supply. "I've had it for a couple of years."

He looks genuinely surprised. "My Vi drives a motorcycle? You certainly don't look the type for that."

"A family friend offered to give it to me for free. I couldn't say no to that," I explain.

"You're one hell of a girl," he tells me.

"You're pretty great too."

Today's discussion in the car ride to the station revolves entirely around what to play on the radio. My go-to station is one that plays everything from modern pop to the occasional 80s hit. Joel is into the oldies, which consists almost exclusively of the likes of The Beatles and The Animals.

"Why not pop music?" I ask him, trying not to laugh at his obvious disgust for the latest Taylor Swift song.

"Because it's repetitive and annoying," he says. "Like honestly, what is this garbage?"

"It's not her best work, I'll admit, but it's not that terrible."

"This doesn't even exist in the same ballpark as 'Hey Jude' or 'House of the Rising Sun'," Joel grumbles, muting it after he can't take it anymore.

"You're like an old man in the body of a thirty-something-year-old," I tease him as he pulls into his usual parking space.

"I am not an old man," he defends himself. "Just an individual with superior taste in music."

"Right."

We walk to H2 together, our arms occasionally brushing. It would be so easy to take his hand. I would hold it if I could, but I'm not brave enough to reach out and lace our fingers together. I refrain, miraculously.

We take our time to reach his desk, milling through the hectic crowds of detectives anxious to go home to their families. Before I can. He pulls up a separate chair for me. Our knees touch under the table, like contact between us is inevitable. I wonder if he's doing it on purpose.

I use the arrows on the keyboard to scroll through the report. Joel hasn't missed a single detail in his work. All of it makes sense, every detail of the case is outlined clearly, but I still feel like there's a massive hole waiting to be filled.

Joel is staring at me, mesmerized. I almost want him to find something to do, but I like the attention more than I care to. When he reaches out to trace my face, my neck, my shoulder, I feel my breath hitch.

"Would you be willing to talk to him again?" I wonder. "Maybe we can get him to say more?"

His hand falls away.

"He's not a cooperative person, Vi," Joel says. "I doubt he's going to let up much more."

I know that Joel is adamant that he's done all he can do, but I don't feel that I have.

The idea strikes almost instantly.

"I understand," I say. "Thank you for everything."

"Anytime."

I turn around and give him a hug, my hand slipping inside his coat as I do. He hugs back, oblivious. His badge is right inside his coat pocket, and he doesn't notice when I take it from him. He releases me affectionately, and I feel a twinge of guilt.

He's going to be pissed when he figures it out.

"I'm gonna use the ladies room," I say.

He buys it. There's no reason not to. "I'll be here."

As soon as I'm out of H2 and into the hallway, I look at his badge, clutching it in a cold hand. Detective Joel Reed. Badge ID 347726. NYPD.

Showtime.

The floor where they keep prisoners locked up is only a flight of stairs away. I know that it would be pushing my luck to try and get him in a holding room, so I decide to just talk to him outside the cage.

The cop at the desk is a bored rookie on his phone texting. I flash the badge at him and he lets me walk by without question. I hurry down the hall, I try to remember which cell is Grant's from the paperwork.

I get lucky when I find him in 215, staring at the wall with his back to me.

"Kevin Grant?" I call, trying to sound brave. In reality, I'm freaking out. I'm standing face to face with a cold-blooded murderer and am definitely terrified.

I need answers. For Karen and Valerie, I need to be here.

"I know you," he says. "You're the girl working with that Reed guy. The one he wants to fuck."

My repulsion must be clear because he snorts, obviously amused.

"What can I help you with today, doll?" he drawls, his cold eyes narrowed at me.

"I just have a question," I say, swallowing hard. My voice is getting smaller, less assertive, and I try to mask my intimidation as best I can.

"What makes you think I'll answer?" Kevin steps closer to me. I'm close enough to the bars for him to reach out and grab ahold of me. Every instinct in my body is screaming for me to get back, but if I do that, then he'll know I'm afraid.

"Because you've got nothing to lose," I observe. "You're already going away for life."

He pauses, poking his tongue in his cheek. I study him, intrigued. He hasn't shaved in a few days, he's hungover enough for his eyes to be bloodshot. It's clear they haven't let him shower. The blood, Karen's blood, is still on him.

Christ. He doesn't even seem fazed by it.

Don't be afraid. Don't you dare be afraid.

"Ask away, then," he says, almost daring me. "Not like it'll hurt me. You aren't a real cop."

I swallow and then ask with an even tone, "Why did you do it?"

He laughs aloud. Like I've said something funny. He throws his head back and laughs so loud it echoes.

"What's so funny?" I demand.

"Do you seriously think that you, a girl who is far too young and pretty to even be a cop, can ask the same question your little boyfriend asked a hundred different ways and actually get an answer?" He cackles. "Oh my goodness, you absolutely did!"

I can't think of anything to say, so I don't say anything.

"I killed them," he drawls sadistically. "I took a pipe to that little skank's skull and I enjoyed it. I bashed her head in over and over again. She had the nerve to ask for more money. Wanted to 'study abroad' or some crap like that. Bled her mother and me dry, that one did. But I didn't kill her for the money, or the fact she was wasting half of it on alcohol and parties. I hated that little whore from the moment I met her. I just needed an excuse, that way I had a reason for when I finally couldn't resist it anymore."

My blood has run cold, like my veins are being pumped with liquid nitrogen. I'm not sure I'm breathing anymore. I can't stop myself from listening to this sick man talk. He drones on and on, enjoying himself, absent of human emotion.

"Now, Karen, she was wonderful. She never questioned where I was when I came home late. She gave me everything I ever wanted. The stupid bitch thought we were 'the perfect couple' even when I cheated on her." He scoffs. "She started asking questions about Val and asked if I was sure I didn't see anyone following us. I knew, oh I knew, that between the arrest and you two digging around, it was a matter of time before she put two and two together. Even someone as dense as she was could be a problem. So I handled her just fine."

That's enough. I try to move away, but he grabs the collar of my jacket and yanks me forward. My face slams into the bars, the metal rattles, and blood gushes from a cut above my eyebrow.

His breath is foul as it fans across my face. "Where are you going, doll? The fun's only started."

"Please," I whimper. "Please let me go."

"No," he says. "Like you said, I have nothing left to lose. You've been a pain in my ass, and I'm gonna love seeing Reed's face when he finds you all blue."

He wraps a hand around my neck, cutting my oxygen short. I'm on my tiptoes now, so much weaker than him as I try to fight his grip.

My vision fights through the lack of oxygen anyway, revealing he will die in this cell, shot in the head by Joel Reed. It does nothing to comfort me because I have no idea if I'm dead before it happens. I have no idea when or how it'll play out. I don't know if I'm going to die.

It's only been a few seconds without air, but my lungs are turning to stone and my vision is darkening around the edges. A few seconds feels like an eternity. Hot blood is running down my face, his fingers are digging into my skin, and my body is going limp because I can't fight anymore.

I can't scream.

"You know why I killed them, doll?" he cooes, patronizing me. "I killed them because it's fun."

I hear the door slam open as two sets of footsteps approach. One of them is Joel, the other must be the rookie who let me in. I can see in my peripheral that Joel has his gun raised, his voice ringing loud and desperate in the air.

"Violet!"

Everything is starting to fade out. I don't have the energy to resist the clutches of death.

"Let her go! Hands over your head!"

Kevin refuses. The weight of him is still on my throat.

"Let go or I'll shoot you!"

He doesn't let go, and Joel does exactly what he said he'd do.

The blackness creeps up and overtakes me as a single gunshot rings through the air.

My body crashes to the floor. I'm wheezing as sweet oxygen floods into my lungs. Sweet air, sweet life. I curl into a ball, unable to move. I'm so weak, recovering gradually.

I almost died today.

The other officer is calling for backup as Joel races to my side and takes me into his arms.

"Vi," he whispers, eyes frantic. "Vi, are you okay? Blink once if you're okay."

I shut my eyes as directed and croak, "I'm sorry."

He shushes me. "Don't talk, you'll hurt yourself. It's okay. You're okay."