"That's why I'm a negotiator, and you sit behind a desk."

"Do you offer this service to every victim you help?"

He didn't. Although he frequently checked on those he'd a.s.sisted, Nathan never had any personal contact after SWAT left the scene. That wasn't his job.

But Emilie was different. No, her case was different. Emilie was just another survivor.

Avery's lips twisted condescendingly. "Makes you think, doesn't it?"

"Makes me think you're an a.s.shole." Nathan stalked toward the door. "Remember what I said. Back off."

He pushed past the nosy officers trying to nonchalantly observe the argument, kicking a wastebasket as he left the squad room. d.a.m.ned Dalton Avery. He was a pompous b.a.s.t.a.r.d who never should have made detective. Nathan had no doubt Avery was the one talking to the press about Emilie.

How was her head injury? What had happened to send her into a panic attack?

Why did he care?

He didn't hear Ronson calling him until she grabbed his arm and shouted his name.

"Jesus." Nathan rubbed his ear. "I'm not deaf."

"You sure? I called you half a dozen times, and you just kept right on walking."

"Preoccupied."

"So I heard. You and Avery?"

"You read The Sun?"

"About Davis? Yep."

"Avery's the source-the leak."

"You got any proof?" Ronson looked hopeful.

"I don't need it."

"Well, I do. Unless we can prove it's him, I can't get him kicked off the case."

"It's good to know you'd like to."

"Did I say that?"

"You didn't have to." Nathan smirked. "Skilled at reading people, remember?"

"Right."

"Have you talked to her yet?"

"No," Ronson said. "We're headed to the hospital soon. Hopefully she's better than she was last night."

"What happened?"

"She called Jeremy Vance-the bank president-for help. She panicked and hit her head. She regained consciousness in the ambulance but freaked out. Fought the docs, too. Had to sedate her."

"You saw this?"

"Avery and I were there."

"Of course." Avery had given the reporter first-hand information.

"You should stop by and see her," Ronson said. Nathan was aware of her scrutiny as she waited for his reaction. "You established a connection. She might talk more frankly about what happened."

"Can't." The prospect of seeing Emilie again made Nathan happier than it should. "We just came off a long shift. I need to sleep."

"Just came to confront Avery?"

"Few things in life are black and white, but this is one of them," Nathan answered. "You don't throw a vic to the wolves because she p.i.s.sed you off."

"Very honorable. Pa.s.sing on much-needed sleep just to fight the good fight. I'm impressed."

Nathan didn't miss the innuendo in her tone. "Good luck interviewing her. I gotta get going."

"See you soon."

Nathan hurried to his car regretting his hasty decision to confront Avery. The argument had clogged Nathan's head with ideas he wanted no part of. He threw his Toyota Camry in drive, zoomed out of the parking lot, and merged onto the busy street.

Better to leave Emilie Davis in the capable hands of Agent Ronson. She didn't need Nathan's interference. His career was his life, and his interest in Emilie was in danger of crossing the line between professional and inappropriate.

Hospital beds had to be the most uncomfortable creations in the world. Emilie's back ached, and she was miserable no matter which way she twisted. She sat up and reached for her toes in an effort to stretch out her sore muscles.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" Sarah strolled into the room.

"Advanced yoga. What does it look like I'm doing?" She eyed the large handbag Sarah hauled around. "There better be chocolate in that thing."

"What do you take me for? Of course there's chocolate." She fished out a king-sized Hershey's bar and tossed it onto the bed. "You're welcome."

"I dare one of the nurses to try to confiscate this." Emilie tore off the wrapper and shoved a generous bite into her mouth.

Sarah settled in the chair Jeremy had vacated an hour ago. "Cops come back yet?"

"No." Emilie took another bite of chocolate. Her head throbbed when she chewed. "How bad was I last night?"

"Bad. I was afraid they were going to restrain you."

"I don't remember any of it."

"What do you remember?"

"The lights went out, and I panicked. I really thought the Taker was there with me."

"You were hallucinating."

"Maybe, but I know I saw his face. I've met him before."

"Fine," Sarah said. "Does that really come as a surprise? His infatuation with you didn't just materialize. Something about you obviously piqued his interest. Then his 'crazy' gene kicked in."

"But who is he? If I could remember where I first saw him, I could actually give Agent Ronson something useful." Emilie slammed her fist into the hard mattress. "All I do is sit around, looking over my shoulder, waiting for something to happen. I need to do something."

"You need to get help."

"Excuse me?"

"Come on." Sarah shook her head. "You're having flashbacks and hallucinations and panic attacks. You're consumed with stress. It's only a matter of time before you really do break down. And then you'll end up back in a d.a.m.ned psych ward."

Anger and embarra.s.sment flared up inside Emilie. She glared at Sarah, resenting her perfect life.

"Talk to someone professional. Find a counselor or a support group. There's got to be a bunch in the city."

"I don't want to tell my life story to a bunch of strangers."

"Who said anything about your life story?"

Emilie blanched at her slip of the tongue. "Never mind."

"No, no, let's get into this." Sarah scooted the chair closer to the bed. "Everything happens for a reason. Maybe this whole deal with the Taker is fate's way of getting you to face the past and finally deal with it all."

"I have dealt-"

"No, you haven't. You've put the divorce behind you, but you still harbor guilt for getting yourself into that position in the first place. And you haven't even touched the surface on your issues with Mommy Dearest."

"Claire has nothing to do with this."

"She has everything to do with it." Sarah's voice rose in the small room. "She's the reason you allowed yourself to be manipulated by a man like Evan in the first place. If she hadn't treated you the way she did, you would have never fallen for your-"

"Enough."

"Yes, it is enough," Sarah implored. "Enough running from the past. Face it."

Hot tears p.r.i.c.ked at the corners of Emilie's eyes. The door to her past held an entire well of pain, and to open it even a crack would bring everything crashing down around her.

"And there's more than just the Taker to consider." Sarah laid her hand on Emilie's arm. "Who helped him? What if it's someone you work with? You're going to have to go back to WestOne and deal with that."

"Jeremy'll be there to keep me straight."

"He can't always be there. And he's not inside your head. You have to help yourself."

Emilie stared at her hands. They were pasty white from lack of sun. Her fingernails were jagged from constantly gnawing on them. "I'm exhausted. Let me sleep for a while."

"All right. But think about what I said, please." Sarah slipped another chocolate bar underneath the inflexible pillow before she left the room.

Emilie lay down on the hard bed. All the fight had drained out of her. She just wanted to crawl under the covers and disappear.

It was a feeling she knew well. The same unyielding melancholy had struck her after the divorce and grew worse with each pa.s.sing day until she had succ.u.mbed to the misery.

She couldn't let that happen again. If she didn't fight for herself, no one would. Time to stop living in the past.

"The past is an important part of life." She repeated the Taker's words from the bank. "A split-second decision can change everything."

She rolled over. On the wall was a large watercolor, a reproduction of Cezanne's Le lac d'Annecy. Emilie preferred the Impressionist style of Pierre Auguste Renoir, but Le lac d'Annecy was lovely to look at with its soft blue water reflecting the peaceful green of the landscape.

Maybe she should start painting again. It had been months since she'd taken up a brush and put her emotions onto paper. Nothing was more therapeutic.

The room tilted. Emilie's head swam. An image of a large area with soft lighting and expensive hardwood floors burst into her mind. Emilie had felt out of place milling among Las Vegas's upper echelon. But there it hung-the painting she'd come to see. Renoir's Girl with a Straw Hat temporarily displayed at the Bellagio's fine art gallery.

It was December and unseasonably cool. The heat was up and the room crowded. The skin on the back of her neck p.r.i.c.kled with warmth and nerves. And then the strange man appeared at her side, asking questions in a quiet, sophisticated voice.

She'd had her first encounter with the Taker at the exhibit six months ago.

Chapter Sixteen.

"How long did you talk to him in the gallery?" Ronson and Avery had arrived only minutes after Emilie had her epiphany.

"I don't know. Ten minutes, maybe."

"Did he tell you his name?"

"Jim. That's it."

"What did he look like?" Ronson's tone was clipped, excited.

"Trimmed beard. Cropped hair, had some gray in it. Trimmed nails, expensive clothes. Silver ring on his right middle finger."

"Anything about his face that stands out?"

"Only his eyes and voice. I still think he disguised it."

"You can't know that." Avery spoke for the first time.