As much as I want to dive back into my daily routine, it's nearly impossible. My breathing isn't quite what it normally is, and everything down to swallowing some water to take my pills with is a challenge. Betsy helps as much as she can between her shifts at work. I refuse to let it get to me, and even though I've gotten an extension from my professors, I'm determined to get all my assignments done on time.

Joel's worried about me. He checks in, but his time with me face to face is limited by a new case he has. Since I'm not involved, he can't tell me much about it. It would be nice to help them finish the investigation, but Chief won't let me near H2 until I'm feeling better. He's probably going to lecture me when I return, and I'm not looking forward to that.

The bright side of being cooped up is that I can't have any visions. It's weird, getting through a day without at least one. I like it, even though I know I'm not helping anyone by hiding away.

The first thing I do when I wake up Friday morning is reach for my phone, almost instinctively. I'm not checking for the chief expecting a new murder suspect to be a described, but instead for Joel. I'm not afraid when it rings anymore. I'm happy because it's not always something bad waiting on the other end of the line.

Admittedly though, I'm worried about Joel. He seems different.

The chief says it's normal. When he came by to visit, Chief explained that Joel had to make a tough decision and that most officers look and feel the way he does after having to kill someone, criminal or not. I still worry. He's not sleeping well with the added weight on his shoulders. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, let alone him.

I'm hoping tonight will cheer him up, even if it's a bit out of my comfort zone.

Betsy gets home from the graveyard not ten minutes after I brush my teeth and get dressed. As she drops her coat in a heap on the floor, I walk over to the kettle and start working on her tea. I've learned to read people well from my psych classes, and there's every indication that she's had a rough day.

"I don't deserve you, Vi," she says as I hand her a mug. When she settles on a bad reality TV show to watch, I don't bother complaining and just listen as she vents about rude customers, men groping at her, and every other horror story that seems to occur weekly.

"I noticed Joel was over last night." She raises an eyebrow. "Care to explain?"

While I understand the implication, I still play dumb. I figure it's better to pretend that I have no idea what she's talking about than have her not believe the truth. The truth is that he didn't want me to be alone after I returned from the hospital. I didn't even have to tell him that I was scared of what I might see when I closed my eyes.

He stayed with me until I fell asleep. That was it.

Naturally, Betsy doesn't let it go. She relentlessly pushes for details until I finally cave.

"We grabbed food, hung out in my room and just talked. But we didn't have sex," I tell her. "I don't know him well enough."

"You know," she begins, sipping from her mug and peering at me over the rim of it. "You don't have to know someone well to have sex with them."

"Betsy—"

"I'm just saying. I'll drop it now."

Another thing to love about Betsy? She knows the limits I have when it comes to matters of my personal life.

Joel texts me later that evening, and I try to play it cool as I grab my phone. Betsy still notices right away, waiting expectantly for me to fill her in.

Joel: Heading out to the bar now. Want me to come get you?

Me: I'll take the subway.

Joel: Be safe, sweetheart.

I walk over to the coat rack and reach for my leather jacket, sliding my arms into the sleeves with ease.

"Meeting lover-boy?" Betsy calls, a knowing look in her eyes.

"Yeah," I tell her. "They're all going out for drinks."

"Have fun, Violet. I won't wait up," she adds suggestively.

I shut the door behind me and practically run down the stairs, not bothering to keep my steps quiet. I'm too excited for that. Thankfully, the subway car isn't too crowded, and the train ride doesn't feel like it takes forever.

They picked a dive not too far from the station. I've never been before, even though I've had a few invitations from time to time. The music is loud and blaring as I enter, stepping into the throng of people as I navigate my way to their table. Joel and a few other faces from H2 are congregated in the back corner. They're playing a game of poker, dealing in hard liquor, it seems.

"Hey, you." Joel lights up the second he sees me.

"Hi," I say quietly.

I go to reach for an empty chair, but Joel stops me, snagging my wrist and scooting back to make room for me in his lap. The next thing I know, I'm sitting there, our bodies perilously close. I can't hide my surprise, and Joel seems to get a kick out of it.

One of the men whistles. "I was wondering when that was going to get locked down. The new guy's been around a week and he's already scored the hot intern."

The table erupts in laughter.

I'm not sure how to respond, so I bite the inside of my cheek and keep my expression neutral.

"Oh, leave her alone," Joel replies, shutting it down. He squeezes my knee reassuringly before he picks his cards off the table again.

"Are you drunk yet?" I ask.

"Not drunk," he assures me. "And I won't be either. No one beats me at poker."

That remains true for the rest of the game. He has the least out of everyone there. The only reason they stop playing is that one of the younger guys vomits the entire contents of his stomach into the nearest trash bin.

Joel hands his cards over to one of the other men to put back in the box and looks at me, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. "I'm glad you came."

I smile genuinely. "Me too."

He reaches for his glass and swallows what's left of the hard liquor. A few of the men occupy themselves by watching the highlights of a sport's game on TV, but the individual next to me, who I later learn to be named Larry, engages me in casual conversation.

"What are you studying, girlie?" asks Larry, appearing genuinely interested.

"Sociology," I reply, feeling a bit shy discussing it for whatever reason. "I'm getting my Masters."

"Where?" Larry prompts.

"Columbia," I say.

"An Ivy League? Damn, Vi, you must be a genius," Joel remarks.

My cheeks go red. "I'm just lucky to have gotten in."

"I bet you deserved it," Joel says.

"Are you two going to be detective partners?" Larry asks, referring to Joel and me. "Like Sherlock and Watson?"

"I don't really think I want to be a detective," I admit. "I don't really know, to be honest. I'm not sure I'd be any good."

"That's bullshit," Joel blurts out. "She's the reason we solved the Grant case. Without her, we wouldn't have found the tape that recorded the murder."

Larry raises his eyebrows, raising his glass to me. "Well, you certainly are one impressive young lady then, for someone who thinks she wouldn't be any good."

"That's what I keep telling her." Joel can't fight the proud look on his face, it's written all over him.

"I say we drink to..." Larry trails off, waiting for me to introduce myself.

"Violet," I say quietly.

"To Violet." He raises his glass and a few of the other detectives join in.

My scarf is itchy around my neck and the bar is getting a little warm for me, but I find it best not to take it off and reveal the awful, yellowing bruises on my neck. Part of me wants to go, but I know it's probably best if I stay here.

Joel keeps his hand on my leg, talking and making an effort to help me feel included, but I'm not really part of the conversation. Inside my head, I'm thinking too much. I'm unnerved, to say the least. The closeness to Joel is great, the comfort of him is great, but he can't protect me from my own thoughts.

He's a great guy, and you'll be his downfall. Can you really live with yourself, Vi?

As the crowd winds down for the night, the bar grows quieter. By this point, it comes down to us, Larry, and a detective named Manny, who Stan used to work with on most cases. He and I haven't talked much. He's keeping to himself at the moment, anyway.

"You seem stressed," Joel says quietly. "Do you want to leave, sweetheart?"

He's not wrong about the stress, but I'd rather not tell him how uneasy I am. I don't want to ruin his night.

Larry returns with a round of shots. This time, there is an extra glass, presumably for me. I stare at the liquid sloshing in the cups, the smell of it burning my nose as I debate drinking it. I'm not sure I should have any. I've never had alcohol before in my life.

I want to give Joel a night off where he doesn't have to worry about me, and if some shots will help me loosen up, it might be worth trying.

Joel begins to tell Larry that I won't have it, but I cut him off by taking a glass hesitantly into my hand.

"I think the lady's made her choice, eh?" Larry elbows him playfully.

Joel frowns at me, obviously perplexed. "Vi?"

"When in Rome, right?" I say nervously, before tilting my head back and letting it burn down my throat. My whole face contorts into a grimace as the disgusting liquid sinks down into my stomach.

"Not much of a drinker?" Larry guesses.

I shrug.

"That's okay," Manny says as he pushes his wiry glasses up his nose. "Neither is Walsh."

I know this to be true because Stan once told me that he used to be an alcoholic, back before he met his wife. He quit for her and never relapsed. The story was cute and always made me smile. That's Stan in a nutshell— a man of kindness and sincerity. It would be nice to have him here, but we all understand why he can't be.

Joel reaches for a shot and takes it, looking almost unfazed by it. I must be a lightweight because I'm already feeling my muscles unclench bit by bit.

I reach for a second shot and try to disappear inside the tiny glass. After that, talking becomes easier, and so does easing up.

Later, when I go to get coffee for all of us to sober up a bit, I notice I'm not the youngest person in this bar.

I'm shocked to see that, sitting at the counter with a coloring book, is a girl not much older than five. The bartender pays her no mind, as though it's not unusual for her to be sitting there by herself.

"Hi," I say, bending down to talk to her. "My name is Violet. What's yours?"

She gives me a skeptical look, setting down her blue crayon and narrowing big blue eyes at me. "Daddy says not to talk to strangers."

"That's very wise of him," I say. "Where's your Dad now?"

Her blue crayon starts to roll and I catch it in my hand, extending it to her as a peace offering. She's a quiet little thing, tiny too like she's nothing more than a feather. I can't help but worry, especially considering where we are at the moment.

She's just a kid.

When she takes it, our hands brush, and I realize what a mistake I've made. All I can feel is my heart plummeting before the vision comes.