Guilt wracked me for the next several days, enough that I couldn't even bring myself to call Donovan to thank him for letting me stay the night and recover. I hadn't even had the heart to give him more than a smile when he dropped me off at my apartment the next morning. I sat at the kitchen table, absently sipping coffee that I knew wouldn't pull me out of my fuzzy trance, no matter how black it was.

For a moment, I let myself believe that if I wanted it enough, I could will my body into cooperation. That infertility was just a mental block, and if I poured my soul into it, I could make myself what Donovan needed me to be.

A knock at the door shattered the illusion. I blinked, staring at it. Donovan, Ciar, or Clarissa? I didn't really want to see any of them. My life had started to revolve around them, like some holy trinity, and I needed a break for my own sanity.

I automatically picked up the phone, as had become a habit over the past few days. Dialed the California number I knew so well. Listened to one ring. Then another.

Another knock interrupted, but I listened to the third and fourth rings without even thinking about getting up.

Just as the final click indicated that Mark wasn't going to pick up, someone called through the door with another pound.

"Boston police, open up!"

I shot to my feet, heart pounding. After a second, I remembered that they probably didn't bring news of a loved one's death. Just Ciar's possible murderer status.

I didn't know if I felt worse about that.

This time the door rattled with the force of the pound from the other side. I scurried forward and yanked it open, coming face-to-face with Officer Lansing.

"Officer." I tried to give him a genuine, helpful smile, but even I knew it was strained. "How can I help you?"

He eyed me, probably judging the zombified circles under my eyes or my rat's nest of tangled hair.

"Maisye Haywood." It was almost a question. "I need you to come with me."

"Why?" Was I in danger? Ciar's next target?

"We found the murder weapon."

"And?" I asked, noticing for the first time that his right hand had come to rest on his holster. The other fidgeted with the back of his belt.

He stayed solemn. "Turn around please, Maisye."

I put two and two together just as I heard the familiar jingle. "Wait, are you arresting me?"

"Turn around. I don't want to involve your neighbors."

No. This couldn't be right. How could the murder weapon have possibly incriminated me? I didn't even know Nero. I hadn't liked him, but I hadn't killed him.

The officer gave a tiny jerk of his head, offering me one last chance to come quietly. I wished Clarissa was there to tell me what to do. Fight or surrender?

Go with him. She'll sort it out the second she finds out you're in jail.

I turned around.

The click and zip of the cuffs as they tightened around my wrists echoed, a memory of the street race. My head swam as he walked me out to the squad car, sat me down in the back, and then strode back around to the driver's door.

I couldn't look out the window as we passed the place I knew Clarissa or her subordinates would be parked by the curb. I stared at my feet, hastily shoved into that muddy pair of sneakers I'd never cleaned after my post-arrest blackout.

I stopped breathing. The blackouts. How did I know I hadn't killed someone during one of them? I sat in the back, quietly panicking and wishing for the comfort of a hand, anyone's hand, on my shoulder. I needed someone to tell me it was going to be okay.

I didn't kill anyone.

But as he led me into the station with my hands behind my back, I wasn't sure of anything anymore.

We passed the guard at the door, then the booking station. As we marched by the large window of an interrogation room, I caught sight of a familiar shock of dark hair inside. Ciar.

My mind whirled out of control as Officer Lansing sat me down in the room next door and removed one of my cuffs, clipping it to the table instead. He disappeared, leaving me alone.

"I didn't do it," I muttered into the sudden silence. "I didn't do it. I didn't do it I didn't do it I didn't—"

I slammed my fists into the table, clenching my jaw against a tide of tears. "I didn't do it," I whispered, my voice breaking.

What were they asking Ciar in the next room? Had they already told him I was a killer? Maybe that was his plan all along. Maybe he set me up. Maybe I wasn't guilty.

"Maisye."

I looked up as the door slid open, and a woman I didn't recognize sat down across from me. In one hand, she held a plastic bag. In the other, a Manila folder like the one Clarissa used to carry the photos of Donovan's alleged victims.

What if he was just like me? Falsely accused?

"Maisye," she said, surprisingly gentle. "Is there anything you want to say?"

I shook my head. "I didn't do anything." I think. I tried to sound as confident as I wanted to be, but it was no use against a trained police officer.

"Do you recognize this?"

She set the plastic bag on the table, some sort of pocketknife inside. Its blade was still open, its handle smeared with mud and blood.

I almost cried with relief as I shook my head. That was solid proof in my favor. If it had been a knife from my kitchen, I might have believed them. But I had never owned a pocketknife in my life, never even seen this one. It was too old to have been purchased during a blackout—so how would I have known where to find it in that state?

My connection to Tilda wasn't paranormal. She wasn't really external, and she didn't give me knowledge I didn't already have. She was a piece of my brain, she shared what I knew. She couldn't have found this either.

"Then can you tell me how your fingerprints ended up all over it?"

"What?" I sat up straighter, my back cracking. "That's impossible. I didn't do it! I wasn't even—"

"Where were you the night you were arrested for street racing? Where did you go after you and your friend were released?"

"Home," I insisted. That part was the truth. I just didn't know what had happened afterward.

"And you stayed there?"

I nodded, firmly ignoring the memories of mud tracks all over my kitchen the next morning.

"All night?"

Another nod. I didn't do it.

"Are you sure?"

It was a stupid question, one she didn't mean as an actual question but as a threat. A final chance to change my mind and tell the truth. She had no idea how valid it was.

But "I don't remember where I was that night" was beyond incriminating.

I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded one last time, willing the impending tears not to leak past the seal of my lids.

Drugs. Reckless sex. They will tempt you.

Why not murder, too?

What did you do? I asked Tilda, willing the answers to come to the surface in droves of forgotten memories.

Nothing.

My mouth popped open. I made a sound, but it wasn't even close to a full-fledged word. Where was Clarissa? Shouldn't she be saving my butt by now? Surely she knew I'd been carted off in a squad car. The FBI could override local law enforcement.

Right?

Then again, she'd pretended to be my friend the first time Officer Lansing had shown up. Maybe interfering here was blowing her cover, too. But what good was I as an informant if I got thrown in jail? Again?

As if on cue, a knock at the door stole my interrogator's attention. She rose and slipped out, leaving me staring at my reflection in the one-way mirror and wondering who was on the other side.

Please be Clarissa.

I waited for what seemed like hours, listening to my own heartbeat and wishing the officer hadn't taken the knife with her. I'd seen spy movies. I could have used it to free myself and go about my spy business.

You're not a spy. You're a sorry stand-in for a real agent.

I stared at the face in the mirror—Tilda's face. Tillie. I blinked, and I watched her blink, but my mind drew no connection between those two events. She was real. I wasn't. She watched me with the impassive disgust I deserved.

She was still glaring when the door opened again. Two officers this time, both wearing tight frowns.

Tilda winked.

One of them reached for my cuff, inserting the key. It fell away from my wrist with a click. For a moment I just sat there, sure they'd made a mistake. But the other one jerked his chin toward the door, a clear invitation to go.

I stood shakily and followed them out, only to find Ciar waiting in the hall.