Val stared dully at the mud-colored liquid in a Styrofoam cup a police officer had placed in front of her—instant coffee with a dash of instant creamer, which tasted instantly like turpentine. She sat alone in an interrogation room, shoulders slumped, hands in her lap, waiting for her lawyer. She picked at the bandage around her sprained wrist and tried to be happy she was still alive.
After she’d been arrested at the Pacific Science Center and Max had been rushed to the hospital, they’d carted her down to the police station and tried to wring her through the third degree before she lawyered up. For once, Sten was nowhere to be found, though she didn’t trust anyone in the Seattle PD—any of them could be his accomplice. She’d told her court-appointed counselor everything—everything that didn’t make her sound insane anyway, which meant leaving out the visions-of-the-future parts—and then he’d told her to sit tight while he corroborated her story.
She’d spent a restless night in jail, fully expecting to get shivved in the back, startled when she opened her eyes to rising sunlight and her still-beating heart. Now she sat and waited, exhaustion from her ordeal continuing to weigh her down, still expecting a cop to burst through the door and plug her full of lead at any moment.
She jumped when she heard the click of the doorknob, then relaxed a little when her lawyer, Joshua Samson, slipped into the room. The middle-aged man gave her a large smile as he entered, the top of his bald head glinting under the fluorescent lights.
“Good morning, Ms. Shepherd,” he said with pep as he took the seat across from her. “How are you—”
“How’s Max?” she asked, her voice still hoarse from the previous day’s choking.
“Still in the hospital. I can’t get any more information than that, I’m sorry. HIPAA and all.”
At least he wasn’t dead. It would be all over the news by now if he’d died. Please, God, don’t let him be dead.
“I do have some good news for you, though.” Joshua smiled again.
She leaned toward him. “You searched Norman Barrister’s financial records and found evidence he was using stolen money from an account in Dean Price’s name to fund his campaign?”
“Well…no.”
Val sighed and fell back in her chair. “Of course not.”
“The cops got a confession out of the accountant,” her lawyer said. “He confirms that Dean Price was siphoning money from Carressa Industries into an offshore account. Apparently the other man killed at the scene was helping him—Giovanni Dinapoli was his name. Career criminal with a lengthy record for money laundering, racketeering, identity theft, forgery, sexual assault, and a few other violent crimes to spice things up.”
“That’s the man Barrister killed,” Val said, “probably to cover his tracks, and blame it on me after he killed me. Or maybe Barrister planned to kill me and blame it on Dinapoli, then claim he killed Dinapoli in self-defense.” The Italian must have been the one giving Barrister information about the future, the one like Max and Val. He had to be. No one else made sense.
Joshua looked away. “Huh.”
Val narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you mean, ‘huh’?”
“Well…the initial forensics report from the scene contradicts your version of events.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Like how?”
“You say you shot Mr. Barrister, but ballistics reports it was Mr. Dinapoli’s gun that killed him, and also shot Mr. Carressa. And it was your gun that killed Mr. Dinapoli.”
“What? How is that—that’s not even possible. Max had my gun.”
He shrugged. “I’m telling you what they told me. They also say the car that exploded outside the Center was registered to Mr. Dinapoli.”
Val shook her head, speechless. Either the forensics reports were falsified or the scene was altered to match a narrative she didn’t understand yet. Why would the cops spend weeks trying to capture or kill her, just to let her off the hook now?
“I also talked to the Barristers’ lawyers,” he said. “I can’t tell you exactly what they said, but I can tell you that they have information that’s consistent with the police report.” Joshua leaned toward her and talked softly. “What I’m saying is—your version of events is significantly different than everyone else’s. So, as your lawyer, I’m suggesting that it’s in your best interests to stay quiet about your accusations against Norman Barrister.”
She scoffed. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Nobody will believe you, Ms. Shepherd. I’m being totally honest here. Maybe when Mr. Carressa gives his statement if—when he recovers, but right now it’s your word against everybody else’s. People will think you’re nuts. You won’t come out of this on top.”
“But Delilah Barrister asked me to help her. She said she had evidence of Norman’s dirty dealings. He was abusive and cheating on her, and she wanted out. What did she say?”
Joshua pressed his lips together and frowned like it pained him to speak. “She wouldn’t corroborate your story.”
Val grit her teeth. So now that Val had solved Delilah’s problem with a bullet to her husband’s head, she’d re-erected the perfect housewife façade. Which meant Val could kiss whatever evidence Norman’s wife might’ve had to incriminate Norman goodbye.
“Goddammit.” Val slammed her fist on the table, and Joshua jumped. “What about Robby, huh? Barrister killed Robby, or this Dinapoli guy did it for him. How are we going to prove that without connecting Chet to Barrister?”
Joshua shook his head. “I guess you can’t.”
She stared into the dark depths of her coffee as tears filled her eyes. “Then this was all for nothing,” she muttered.
He put a hand on her forearm. “I’m sorry, Ms. Shepherd. I do have more good news, though.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, wiping her eyes.
“The coroner ruled Dean Price’s death a suicide, so neither you nor Mr. Carressa will face charges concerning that.”
She shrugged. “At least one piece of evidence wasn’t tampered with.”
“Also, given the fact that Mr. Price conspired to steal money from his client’s company, the case against Mr. Carressa is now impossibly tainted. Once he’s healthy enough to retain another lawyer, it’ll be a slam-dunk to get the charges against him dropped. And the DA knows it. So”—he slapped his palms on the tabletop—“he’s not going to press charges against you, either. There’s no point if they’re almost certain to be dropped. That means you’re free to go.”
Her mouth fell open. “I can walk out of here right now?”
“Yep.” He gave her a triumphant smile. “The Pacific Science Center might bring charges for trespassing, and maybe criminal mischief and evading police, but given the extraordinary circumstances and media attention, I doubt it’ll go anywhere. In any case, they’re all misdemeanors.”
She looked at her lawyer, waiting for him to break into a “Just kidding!” sadistic laugh like Sten would have done. It made no sense. After everything that happened, and everything she knew, they were just going to let her go? Why? Why—God, she was so sick of that question. At this rate she’d never know.
Val stood up, limping a little on her injured leg, walked to the interrogation room door, and opened it. Some cops strode by and glanced at her like she was a celebrity in an airport, but no one stopped her. She looked at her lawyer.
“Do I owe you anything?” she asked him.
“A ‘thank you’ would be nice, but I’m used to being unappreciated,” he said with a wink. “Mind the reporters. They’re swarming outside.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I could use a ride to the hospital, if you want some free advertising.”
* * *
Val hustled past the flock of reporters camped out in front of the Harborview Medical Center, who swooped in with microphones as soon as they recognized her. Tempting as it was to scream the truth about Norman Barrister while she had everyone’s full attention, her lawyer was right—no one would believe her without Max or Delilah to back her up. She needed to touch base with him before she went on the record about anything. If he was all right. If he was awake. Her stomach lurched at the possibility that he wouldn’t wake up, that maybe the vision she’d seen of him dying in a hospital bed wasn’t due to Sten’s beating, but the gunshot wound. She buried the thought as she hurried through the hospital’s sliding doors, the clicking of cameras receding behind her.
She tracked Max to the intensive care unit on the second floor. Tired people filled half the waiting room, slouched in stiff-looking chairs. The few that looked up did a double take when they saw her, their eyes cutting back and forth between her and the television that droned in the corner showing news footage of her running into the hospital. She tried to ignore them as she walked to the check-in window.
“I’m looking for Maxwell Carressa,” she said to the receptionist on the other side of the thick window. The hint of fear that permeated her voice surprised her. She sounded desperate, and she couldn’t filter it out. “I heard he was here.”
Recognition flashed across the receptionist’s face when she looked up at Val. “That’s correct,” she said.
“Can I see him?”
The receptionist hesitated, knowing full well who Val was and her connection to Max. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said softly. “Only primary support caregivers and family members are allowed inside.”
“But…he has no family.” In truth, Robby’s sister, Josephine, was Max’s next of kin, though nobody but Max and Val knew that yet.
“I’m his family,” a man said behind her.
She turned to face an older gentleman, his craggy face warm and genial despite the expensive business suit he wore.
“I’m the closest thing he’s got anyway, as his emergency contact.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Valentine Shepherd?”
She nodded.
“Michael Beauford, CFO of Carressa Industries.” He held out his hand.
She hesitated a moment before shaking it. It was hard to trust anyone anymore.
“I’ve worked closely with Max for almost a decade. He’s a good kid, most of the time.”
“Isn’t he technically your boss?”
Michael laughed. “Not anymore. He was voted off the board after he became Seattle’s Most Wanted. Now he’s just a regular millionaire schmuck. So, you’re his…what? Girlfriend?”
Val opened her mouth, then closed it when she realized she didn’t know how to answer. She wasn’t really his girlfriend. They hadn’t known each other long at all—a blink in time compared to her relationship with Robby. She barely knew Max…That wasn’t true. She knew practically everything about him, and he about her. They’d certainly seen, felt, and tasted every part of each other. But what did any of that mean? She cared about Max, maybe more than cared—fleeting feelings that might fade now that the pressure that forced them together had lifted. And what did he feel for her? They’d had sex—great sex, many times—only because they had to, because that’s the way their power worked. By itself, it meant nothing.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” she finally said. “He hired me to look into his father’s death, to prove his innocence. In the process, I stumbled across a plot to steal his money. They tried to kill us, so we ran. I guess…we’re friends now.”
Michael lifted his eyebrows like he could smell her bullshit. “Okay…”
“How is he?” Desperation tingeing her voice again despite her attempt to keep it out.
“He had a piece of his large intestine removed,” Michael said.
Oh God. A lump grew in her throat.
“He’s recovering from the surgery now. Saw him about an hour ago. He’s still real groggy, kept falling asleep while I was talking to him, but the doctors say he’ll make a full recovery.”
Val realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled as a smile grew on her lips.
“The cops have been waiting around for a chance to question him.” He cocked his head toward a couple of plainclothes men Val hadn’t pegged as police when she’d entered. Now she noticed their intense glances in her direction as dead giveaways. “Until Max can talk for more than two minutes without passing out, I told them to go to hell.”
Val grinned at that. “He needs another lawyer. Can you get that for him?”
“Already done. The cavalry is on its way.”
She bit her lip. “Can I see him?”
Michael nodded. “I’ll take you inside. He might still be out of it, I’ll warn you now.”
At the receptionist’s desk, he got her a wristband that allowed her entry into the ICU area. Val followed him through sterile white corridors until he reached a nondescript room. He rapped on the door, waited a beat, then opened it.
“Max?” Michael poked his head in. “You’re not getting your colostomy bag cleaned right now, are you?”
When there was no answer, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Val followed close behind. They walked into a room with yellow walls, the morning sun bathing everything in a warm glow through white window curtains. In an adjustable bed flanked by beeping equipment, Max lay in a blue hospital gown with his head turned toward the window. An IV snaked out of his arm and into a drip bag at his side.
“Max?” Michael said.
Slowly Max turned his head to look at them. Seeing him move sent an irrational thrill through her—proof that the entire hospital hadn’t conspired to lie to her, like that was possible now.
“Your friend is here,” Michael said, stepping aside to reveal Val.
Max looked at her blankly, then smiled when his brain caught up with his eyes. “Hi,” he said to her in a weak voice.
She smiled back. “Hi.”
After a few seconds of silence where Max and Val stared at each other, Michael cleared his throat. “Okay, well, I’m going to wait outside while you two talk ‘business,’ as ‘friends.’” He waved once and left, shutting the door behind him.
Val pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. Her gaze traced his cracked lips, sallow skin, black and blue cheeks, and heavy eyes. Despite it all, as when they’d been in bed together, he looked content. Happy, even.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I didn’t die,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “You didn’t die, either. That’s a lot better than I thought we’d do.”
“That is amazing.” And suspicious. “I sort of told Michael that you hired me to look into your father’s death and exonerate you, so you might want to stick to that story.”
“Sure. It’s not so far from the truth. You did find out who killed my father.”
“Yeah, about that—my lawyer was pretty confident the DA’s office will drop the murder charges against you. Dean blew up their case.” Val grinned. “So when you get released from the hospital, you’ll probably be able to go home.”
“Oh.” He frowned and looked away.
Damn him, he still wanted to confess. “I’ll help you get settled while you recuperate.” She touched his hand, and he looked at her again. “I think you’ve suffered enough, Max.”
He searched her eyes with his, then lifted his arm and brushed his fingertips against her bruised cheek. “Where’s Norman?”
“Dead.”
“Good.”
Val cupped Max’s hand in hers, turned her head, and kissed his palm. The smile returned to his face. She laid her head on his chest, closed her eyes, and listened to his heart, loving every beat. Loving him.