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"He wouldn't try," I state with the utmost tolerance. "He doesn't try. Trying is for people who might fail. It would be done on a random day by a man you've never met, and on the following Sunday he'd be at church or playing with his kids. There wouldn't even be a body. Yours would just be gone, and your mother would never get answers."

Charles's pale expression tells me he's finally caught up. God...

"There's a box in your sock drawer," I say. "Navy. Under my sweater. I found it in November, put it back exactly where it was, and never told a soul, not even Daphne.” Daphne was my friend at the hospital, who very ironically worked at the morgue as a technician. She joined the staff not long ago, but somehow our paths crossed and we hit it off right away. She was the only person I can say I enjoyed hanging out with during breaks on my shifts. “I've been waiting since Christmas for you to get on with it. If you'd done it in April instead of waiting to get down on one knee in some picturesque setting, then all this would be moot. Then again, it wouldn’t bode well for Julien, either..."

"Then fight it. With me. Together."

"Charles, if you are anywhere near me when this starts, he will kill you. Not to punish me or to send a message but because you'll be in the way, and he removes things that are in the way, then nobody will be able to prove a thing." My breathing is so loud in my ears. "I need you to go. For good. New number, new place. Don’t tell me where. Ideally, change teams and move to the west coast. Sorry it had to come to this."

He picks his jacket up off the chair, but doesn't put it on.

"A year," he argues. "You do your year, and when it's done, I'll be here."

I huff. "That's not what I'm asking. That’s not safe."

"I know what you're asking. I'm not doing it," he says.

Exasperated, I nod but say nothing. Then I leave because I have a shift at the hospital and my patience has run out. Charles keeps calling after me, but I tell him we'll talk tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, I'll have my wits back together.

I glance at my phone, wondering when my father is going to summon me, but there's been nothing in the past two days. At the hospital, there are enough distractions, thank goodness. It's a long shift. The scaffolding collapsed on a site and we had several broken limbs and two requiring emergency surgery. That's just the first few hours, but I don't mind this at all. When I'm at work I'm in the zone, and I try not to think about my personal life. A huge bonus right now.

It's almost midnight when I finish and change. My mind is racing and I'm exhausted. I walk straight out to the parking lot toward my car, trying not to think about Laszlo Novak, but to my utter surprise I see the very man—yeah, him—standing right opposite my car. He's leaning against what is most likely his vehicle with his arms folded, waiting.

What the fuck.

He's obviously waiting for me.

What is he even doing here, and how does he know where I work?

"Doctor."

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"You were going to say something, but the answer's still no."

Why is my heart racing all of a sudden? It's dark, but I would recognize this man anywhere. He has a particular aura about him. He has a paper cup in each hand. He offers me one. Coffee, probably.

"Cortado. Two sugars, which is a crime."

I don't take it. But I take a good look at him because I didn't the last time, not properly. That day there was a spade by a fountain and my brother in obvious distress and I couldn't have picked this man out of a lineup if my life depended on it.

I can now.

He's not the biggest man out here, and he doesn't need to be. He's clearly the type who gets up at some ungodly hour to earn a body like that, which is annoying on its own. His hair is dark and thick, a bit curly, short at the sides and longer on top, and I want to get my hands into it, which I resent immediately. The jaw is a problem. The nose has been broken at least once and set by someone very good, so it's almost too perfect, and the little bit that isn't is somehow worse. Then the eyes. They have no business being that blue in a face that dark, and right now they are fixed on me. Every instinct I have says look away. I don't. I've never lost a staring contest to a man in my life, and I'm not starting with this one.

The worst part is that he's beautiful. Not handsome. I could deal with handsome. This is worse. He knows he's beautiful, too, standing there in a coat that cost more than my rent, holding two coffees like he's posing for something. Meanwhile, I've just walked out of that building looking like roadkill with my hair shoved up in a pen. I want to wipe the look off his face almost as much as I want to straddle him.

I study him too long and hate myself for it, because my ovaries have clearly decided something the rest of me didn't agree to. In my belly, the butterflies have woken up without asking me first, and my reproductive system is taking a gander at this man—this criminal, this stalker, this lunatic who somehow knows exactly where I work—and giving him a standing ovation. My body has betrayed me, and my ovaries are leading the coup.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Twenty-two minutes. There was a moth situation."

"Don't be entertaining. I've had a long day."

"I know about the accident." He drinks from the cup I refused. "Get in the car."