I still loved Mark. That much was obvious in the blur of the road ahead as I listened to Siri in the cupholder beside me and tried to keep track of Clarissa's taillights in the stop-and-go traffic. She'd offered a chauffeur, but I knew the second I woke up that it would be one of those days better spent alone in a car.

I spent each stretch of highway replaying the conversation with Mark, then trying to compose myself in time for the next rest-stop check-in. I'd pretend the glare of the sun wasn't stabbing my temples with a white-hot dagger long enough to convince Clarissa that I was a-okay, and then retreat to my car and start the cycle all over again.

Yep. I still loved Mark, and that would never change.

When I finally pulled up to the Somerville address Clarissa had given me, her black SUV was already parked in the driveway. I rubbed at my eyes one last time and hoped their bloodshot puffiness could be blamed on fatigue. Then I held my breath until my lungs screamed for air, and stepped out of my car.

She'd had multiple checkpoints to tell me I looked like shit, but she hadn't so far and she still didn't as we regarded the house. Two stories, with an octagonal, turret-like addition at the top, which was surrounded by a fence around the roof.

"You have half of the second floor and the attic," Clarissa said as we climbed the rickety wooden stairs on the right side of the building. She fished around in her pocket, then handed me a key as we stopped in front of number 202. "Welcome home."

Home. I supposed this apartment felt as close to that word as anything lately. We stepped over the threshold; the entrance room joined with the kitchen and the kitchen with a bedroom. I let my hand slide along the island as I passed. The wooden floor, which had bubbled up in several places, slanted slightly downward from left to right, as if the whole house had given one giant shrug and never quite settled back into place.

I stared at the furnishings already in place. A poofy couch with a television in the entrance, a tiny table in the kitchen, a king-sized bed in the bedroom. I pulled back the sliding closet door, surprised to find clothes hanging from the racks.

"These aren't really my style," I commented, pulling out an ominously short skirt and then a crop top with a plunging neckline.

"I'm not going to tell you what to wear," Clarissa said as I replaced the items. "Those are just suggestions."

I almost laughed. She should have just said what she meant: that she wanted me to dress like Tilda.

The attic was the exact opposite of the oppressively narrow staircase that led up to it. The octagonal structure had been divided into three large rooms. Two were completely empty, as if waiting for me to make them mine. The third was pitch black, and when I flicked on the light switch, only a soft, red bulb glowed to life from the ceiling.

"A darkroom?" I asked, stopping just inside the door. The chemical smell pricked my nostrils, and a sense of nostalgia squeezed my heart. For half a second, home didn't seem so elusive.

"Only seemed right, considering you're a photographer," Clarissa said, gesturing me back through the empty room on the right and leading me through a sliding door and onto the roof.

I understood the oddly-placed fence now; it was more of a railing. The whole right side of the roof had been converted into a patio, where I could watch the pieces of the neighborhood below or stare out at the skyline.

I spun a circle, taking in the skyscrapers—the Prudential building, the Hancock, the others not quite important or big enough to have names—and then the steady decline into residential housing. Finally, my eyes landed on a liquor store across the street.

A hollow laugh escaped me. "Perfect." Fucking perfect.

Clarissa followed my gaze with a frown. "Maisye, I need you to level with me. Do you have a problem?"

My laughter took on a life of its own, forcing me to smile for the first time in months. "I have a lot of problems, Agent Parker."

"Is alcoholism one of them?" she asked bluntly, apparently not appreciating my humor.

"No."

"The expense reports go through me. That includes room service. I know exactly how many bottles of wine you've drunk over the past three days." She leaned closer, raising her eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes. "They were expensive and on your dime. I'm about to get mixed up with a possible serial killer, so I treated myself. Sue me."

"How much of last night do you remember?"

Too much. All of it that I actually wanted to forget. I had no memory of getting into bed, nor changing into the jeggings and inside-out and backwards hoodie that I'd woken up in. Then again, the missing time might not have had anything to do with drinking at all.

But no way in hell would I ever tell her that.

"Maisye, I'm not trying to be a narc, but I need you on your toes. For your own safety."

I frowned out at the city. "Why don't you level with me," I said, folding my arms. "What kind of danger am I getting myself into? Am I going to die?"

She didn't answer right away, and when I turned to her, a scowl had etched itself deep into her mouth. "Not if I have anything to do with it."

"Well, you do," I pointed out. "So I'm holding you to that. Not that I really care anymore, but this wouldn't have been my preferred method."

She studied me in silence, her stare piercing me until I itched to turn away. "You shouldn't joke about things like that," she said. "I know you did a stint at Laurel Valley, and I know you were under constant supervision for over half that time. Suicide watch?"

I pushed off the railing, heading back inside. "Don't worry. I'm over it."

And I was. At least, I was over the part she worried about. I'd gotten myself to a point where I could grit my teeth and wait it out. I didn't want to die. I also didn't happen to care if I did. There was a difference.

I understood her concerns, but what had happened at Laurel Valley wasn't a suicide watch. It was worse than that.

I pounded down the stairs, my shoulders bumping the walls on either side. The steps felt like they might splinter under my force, and as I landed back in the lopsided kitchen, I fought the urge to laugh maniacally at my own misfortune. The killer part of it all was that I knew I would never have been able to afford this kind of place in a city like Boston on my own. I'd barely made rent on my studio in San Fran, and there I'd slept a foot away from the stove.

Stepping into Tilda's shoes was an upgrade.

The steady, refined click of Clarissa's heels on the staircase echoed like a mockery behind me, but when she appeared in the kitchen, I had my composure and a shred of dignity.

"I'll help you unpack," she said.

I waved a hand. "No, it's fine."

"It wasn't really a question."

I stared her down for almost a full minute, but part of her FBI training must have included staring contests or something, because I had to look away.

"Fine," I huffed, Mark's doubt from last night combining with hers to raise a flash of irritation. "But you can quit worrying. I'm ready for Donovan Cosgrave."