"I said get up!" The couch rocked with another swift kick.

"Jesus, Stacey," Val muttered. "I'm tired. Leave me alone."

"b.i.t.c.h, please. It's almost one o'clock in the afternoon."

Val moaned and forced herself to sit up. Her arm ached through the bandage wrapped around her elbow, dressing the st.i.tches she'd had to get after shoving her arm through the car window. A headache pounded behind her eyes, and her mouth tasted like spoiled milk. Then she remembered why she'd done this to herself. She'd killed a man.

Stacey stalked to the coffee table. "I'm officially tired of this," she said as she s.n.a.t.c.hed up empty beer bottles. "It's time for you to get your s.h.i.t together."

Val rubbed her temples and let out a long sigh. "Can you lay off? You wouldn't believe the day I had-"

"You wouldn't believe the hoops I've had to jump through to convince our clients we're still working on their cases. You know, the clients that aren't Nora Monroe and her missing daughter? If we don't work on other cases, then we don't get our fee and the mortgage doesn't get paid and I can't believe I'm the one telling you this."

Val stood and shuffled to the kitchen. She found a bottle of Tylenol in a drawer, poured herself a gla.s.s of water, and downed a couple of pills, like they'd relieve her guilt somehow. "Monroe's the only life-or-death case we have. It takes priority."

Stacey dumped her armful of beer bottles in the recycling bin. "I understand that, but I think at this point we've done all we can. You said the police are finally looking for her, so let them take responsibility."

Val scoffed. "You mean let her die?"

"I mean this case is killing you. Look in the mirror, for Christ's sake. You're a mess-and not a hot mess, just a mess." She threw up her hands. "And where the h.e.l.l have you been disappearing to lately?"

"Where the h.e.l.l have you been? Every time I come home, you're not here. Why am I the bad one because I'm not around?"

"I've been juggling all our other cases, Val, while you've been getting blitzed. Where were you yesterday, before you stumbled home and drank yourself into a stupor? What happened to your arm? Just be honest with me, for f.u.c.k's sake!"

Val looked away. She took a deep breath, her shoulders slumped. Stacey was her best friend. She deserved the truth. Maybe her reaction wouldn't be as bad as Val feared. "I was with Sten."

Stacey's mouth fell open, her silence a subst.i.tute for a thousand questions.

"Sten agreed to help me with the investigation. In return, I agreed to do him a favor."

Stacey folded her arms and glared at Val. She nearly whispered the words, "So you trust a man who almost killed you, but not me."

"I had to. There was no one else-"

"You had me!"

"No I don't! I don't have you!" Tears welled in Val's eyes, and she grabbed her head as if it might explode. "You don't understand what it's like to be violated, to be used, to be alone, to be angry and sad all the time, or to love someone who doesn't love you! You have no f.u.c.king idea!"

Stacey folded her arms and took a long, trembling breath. "But Sten understands?"

Val rubbed her wet eyes with the palms of her hands. "Yes."

They stood in silence for what seemed an eternity. Stacey's arms stayed folded as she regarded Val with a new skepticism. The kitchen counter separated them, but it might as well have been a hundred-foot chasm.

Stacey's voice had a cold edge. "I'm sorry you can't deal with what happened to you in a healthy way. And I do, in fact, know what it's like to love someone who doesn't love you. I'm intimately familiar with that feeling, actually."

Val felt her cheeks heat up as a fresh lump grew in her throat. Was this the end for them? They'd been through a lot together, known each other almost their entire lives. But after the chaos last year with Delilah and Norman Barrister, after Robby's death, after Max entered Val's life, things had been different. They'd both changed in ways that were beginning to seem incompatible with the other.

A chime from Val's cell phone interrupted the painful standoff. The special double-chime. Oh no. Val rushed to her phone.

"What's that?" Stacey asked.

Val tapped her phone awake and maneuvered as quickly as possible through the menu. "I set my phone to double-chime if Margaret's name popped up on a Google Alert."

Their showdown temporarily suspended, Stacey unfolded her arms and bit her lip as Val pulled up the alert-a news article, just posted: "Local Woman's Body Found-"

"No," Val whispered. "No. No. No." She dropped her phone and ran to the TV, flicked it on, and scrolled through the menu with shaking hands until she found a network airing the local news. Stacey and Val watched the screen together, both slack-jawed.

A blond woman in a clear rain slicker addressed the camera as police lights flashed behind her in the rain. "Sources confirm the body that washed ash.o.r.e this morning as that of a local woman named Margaret Monroe, first reported missing two weeks ago. No word yet on the cause of death, though foul play has not been ruled out..."

They found Margaret on a rocky beach, just as it had been in Val's vision. Val had killed a man the day before by changing his future, but no matter what she did, she couldn't save Margaret. Everything she'd done had been for nothing. A sob exploded from Val's chest, so powerful her whole body spasmed. A tsunami of grief poured forth, out of her mouth in wails and into her cupped hands. She cried so hard she thought her body might turn itself inside out. Stacey's hand touched her shoulder, but instead of turning to her friend for comfort, Val ran up the stairs and shut herself into her room.

All she saw was death. Sometimes she caused it. Only twice had she been able to change it-she'd saved Stacey from drowning years ago, and Max from being beaten to death by Sten. She hated her ability. Hated it. It cursed her with the knowledge of terrible things to come, dangled the possibility of changing the future for the better, then crushed that hope. A vow of celibacy might not be so bad. At least then she could pretend she had a normal life, without knowledge of the future to torture her.

Val didn't know how long she lay on her bed, impotently crying. A voice of reason in the back of her mind told her to put on her big girl panties and get up, but the voice wasn't strong enough.

A soft knock sounded on the bedroom door. "Val?" Stacey opened the door a crack. She held their home phone, the one they used for business. "There's someone on the phone for you-Michael Beauford, I think he said his name was. I told him to call back later, but he says it's urgent."

Val sat up. If one of the only people Max trusted was calling her concerning an urgent matter, she'd better d.a.m.n well answer. She'd be putting on her big girl panties sooner rather than later after all.

Working to steady her voice, Val took the phone. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Valentine Shepherd?"

"Yeah?"

"You might not remember me, but we met last year when Max was shot and-"

"I remember you. What's urgent?"

He sighed. She heard a deep strain in his voice. "It's too much to explain over the phone. You need to come here."

"Where?"

"Harborview Medical Center-the psychiatric ward."

Chapter Twenty-two.

The psychiatric ward of the Harborview Medical Center glowed with natural light. The sun's rays softened through frosted gla.s.s skylights that warmed the pale wood decor. As Val walked through the lobby, she sensed the facade was meant to be inviting and comfortable. It almost worked. From somewhere inside the ward, a woman screamed. Val jumped.

She ignored her unease and forged ahead, scanning the area for Michael Beauford. Val turned and saw him walking toward her, a man in his late fifties wearing an immaculately tailored suit, though his laidback demeanor made him seem approachable nonetheless. The genial expression she remembered from last time they met had been replaced with somberness. Knots of worry stiffened his shoulders.

"h.e.l.lo again," he said in a friendlier tone than she would've had given the circ.u.mstances.

Val took in the ward's pretense of safety, its fake promise that everything would be all right despite the screaming. She swallowed back a lump in her throat. "Max is here."

Michael nodded.

"What happened?"

"Well..." He seemed to consider how honest he should be. A slight shrug of his shoulders told Val he'd settled on the brutal truth. "He overdosed on pain pills. The docs aren't sure if it was an accident or an attempted suicide. Given how badly the paramedics say he trashed his condo, they're leaning toward the latter explanation."

Val rubbed her mouth in what she hoped looked like thoughtful contemplation, and not barely contained panic. She thought Max had finally achieved the perfect life-perfect house, perfect fiancee, freedom, respect-even though she'd seen and sensed the cracks in the mask he presented to the world. But suicide? Max had tried to kill himself before, when he'd been under the thumb of his brutal father. But whatever gave them their prophetic abilities also wanted him to live, and he'd somehow always survive to stay trapped in a life he had no control over.

Val looked past Michael at the far wall, a pleasant shade of yellow. "He's had a hard life," she said, her voice strained with tears she struggled to keep in.

"I know. I figured as much about a decade ago."

Val met his gaze and saw deep wisdom in his eyes. Did he know Max killed his father? She guessed he did, but also knew why, and stood by Max anyway.

"His fiancee found him?"

"Actually, his neighbor found him. Max's dog was raising holy h.e.l.l, so the neighbor went over to investigate, let herself in, then called an ambulance. Good thing the desire to shut up a yippy dog is more powerful than social decorum. Otherwise, Max would be"-he swallowed, and for a second fear dominated his friendly eyes-"he'd be dead."

So this time Max's dog served as the agent of fate. She didn't even know he had a dog. It occurred to Val that Michael still hadn't told her why he'd asked her to come. "Where's Abby?"

He knotted his brow, again considering how he should answer. "I don't think they're together anymore."

At this news Val's tears leaked out. She cupped her head in her hands and quietly cried. She had ruined his life. She wouldn't leave him alone, but wouldn't be with him, either, and those decisions ended with him in the psych ward. After a minute she took a deep breath, lifted her head, and wiped her tears away. "You want me to apologize?"

"No," he said as if she'd suggested something ridiculous. "I want you to get him to talk."

"Talk to who?"

"Anybody." He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Listen, I don't know if what he did was an accident or not. But now he's stuck here, and the doctors won't let him out until they're sure he's not a threat to himself or others. Problem is, he won't talk to anyone-not me, or the doctors, or Abby. The only reason I'm here is because I'm still listed as his emergency contact. In that capacity, I called you. I know you two have...something. Something he doesn't have with anybody else, not even Abby. Normally it wouldn't be any of my business, but"-he lifted his hands-"here we are."

Val pulled at her hair. She wanted to talk to Max, but she didn't know what to say. She feared she'd make things worse, though she wasn't sure how that was possible.

"Please," Michael added, sensing her hesitation. "He'll rot in here. You're my last chance to convince him to save himself."

After a long pause in which Val considered what she or Max had left to lose, she nodded. She had to try. Michael gave her a weary smile, then exchanged words with the front desk clerk. A couple of minutes later, a nurse emerged from a Staff Only door and led Val into the main section of the ward.

The part of the psychiatric hospital that actually housed all the patients looked similar to the lobby-soft light, pale wood with rounded edges, yellow walls. The only significant difference was the sea of blue hospital gowns and slumped shoulders that marked the patients. Most seemed lethargic, probably on sedatives. TVs dotted the periphery of the room. Val flinched when she spotted a photo of Margaret on one of the flat screens, a segment of a local news program in progress. She forced herself to look away, but the wound had already been salted.

The nurse stopped and pointed to a spot along the far wall, next to a window. Max's head poked up from a chair paired with an empty table, his black hair a sharp contrast with the pale blue gown that sagged off his body. He slouched in his seat, his back to her, unmoving. The nurse retreated to give them privacy.

Taking slow, measured steps, Val circled around him until she could see his face. She gasped at the man in front of her. It was Max, but in the most broken state she'd ever seen him. The normal tan of his healthy skin had turned a sickly shade of white. His sharp cheekbones hollowed out his face, and dark rings circled his hazel eyes. He stared dully out the window, totally lost in his own thoughts.

"Max?" Val said quietly.

His gaze cut to hers and sharpened as his mind snapped back to the present. He sat up in his chair and hugged his chest. He didn't seem sedated, thankfully. Just lost.

"Hey," he said. His voice sounded hoa.r.s.e, she guessed from the tube they'd shoved down his throat to pump his stomach.

"Hey," she replied.

Last time they'd exchanged greetings in a hospital, it'd been euphoric. After barely surviving a standoff with Norman, and then Sten, they'd been happy to be alive. Now, not so much. He squirmed under her gaze and looked away, as if he was embarra.s.sed. h.e.l.l, Stacey had told Val she was a mess only a few hours ago, and she hadn't bothered to clean up since. Max wasn't alone in looking like s.h.i.t warmed over.

Val took a chair adjacent to Max at the table. "Michael called me."

"Oh."

"He's really worried."

Max didn't respond. He glanced at her bandaged elbow but didn't ask about it. She searched for the right words while he ran his fingers along a scratch on the table's surface. Both his hands had bandages wrapped around his palms.

"What happened to your hands?" she asked.

"Cuts," he said flatly.

"How did that happen?"

"Gla.s.s."

On purpose, or accident? Were the cuts deep? Were they serious? So many questions she wanted to ask, things she wanted to say that clawed at her throat to get out. But he was the one who needed to talk, not her. "Will you have scars?"

He responded with a slight shrug. A minute of silence pa.s.sed where she picked at her own bandage around her elbow. Her heartbeat steadily increased as a howl tried to work its way up from her chest. Maybe she could hug him, or hold his hand. Just touch him. G.o.d, she wanted to fold him into her arms with every fiber of her being. But she couldn't. He clearly didn't want her there, no matter what Michael thought.

Without lifting his eyes from the table's marred surface, he said, "I'm sorry about Margaret. I saw it on the news."

Val gave her head a tiny shake. "We...tried." She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.

"And I'm sorry about what happened at the Mountain Lodge. I"-he swallowed; it looked painful-"overreacted."

He still wouldn't look at her. His hands shook and his shoulders stiffened as if he nursed a secret ball of pain. She realized he must be going through serious withdrawal, feeling terrible nausea and aching. But he didn't mention it. She wanted to cry for him, to wail and gnash and scream at the world in his place, if it would lessen his own agony. She'd even make a scene in the middle of the ward if he asked her to, or if she thought it would do any good. But instead he sat there, saying nothing. Maybe the direct approach would work better.

"Why are you here?" Val asked, her light tone a contrast to the weight of her words.

"I like the chocolate pudding they serve."

She spat out a laugh, delighted for a fleeting moment by his small attempt at levity even if he'd only said it to dodge her question. He didn't return her smile. His mouth stayed locked in a frown.

Val rested her hand next to his on the table, the familiar desire to touch him nearly overwhelming, as always. She drummed her fingers instead. So far, she was doing a s.h.i.t job of convincing him to save himself. "How long are you going to stay here?"

He looked at her hand, still avoiding her eyes. "I don't know."

He wasn't talking. Val had to talk. What was she going to say? Whatever it was inside her trying to get out, she couldn't delay it any longer.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about what happened to me." She took a labored breath, her heart thumping hard. "It wasn't fair of me to ask for your help and then keep you in the dark about all the...details."

Max finally met her eyes, though his face remained impa.s.sive.