"Maybe." Kane drew a breath. "But even if she did see her future, even if she believed she was running out of time, she could have been wrong, Faith. Psychics get it wrong all the time, even the best of them. She could still be alive."
Yes.
"I don't..." He shook his head. "I still don't feel her."
"I'm sorry."
"I almost envy you that voice in your head. At least you can tell yourself it's a connection, whether you really believe it is or not. At least you can tell yourself you have a piece of her."
"It's nothing to envy, believe me."
"Isn't it?"
"No. I don't have a piece of her, Kane. I don't even have a piece of me."
There was something forlorn in her voice, and not for the first time he had a sense of how hard this was for her. It was his turn to say, "I'm sorry."
Faith shook her head but didn't otherwise reply, and when she looked past him, the reflection of the fire made her eyes look vividly alive.
Green eyes, not blue. Red hair instead of blond. Slender fragility instead of athletic grace.
The intelligence was much the same, the occasional dry humor, but physically... Realizing where his thoughts had wandered, Kane felt a shock. He stared at Faith, conscious of his heart beating faster, of an emotion that was part longing and part guilt, and something else he dared not examine too closely.
"Kane?" She was looking back at him, puzzlement turning into awareness.
One of her hands began to lift as if to reach out to him, but then she clasped both of them tightly together in her lap. The neat red nails gleamed darkly.
Red nails.
Kane turned from the fireplace and from her, crossed the room to the piano, and sat down on the bench.
"Don't let me keep you up." His voice was much harsher than he had intended.
He had played no more than a few quiet notes when Faith rose from the couch with a murmured good-night and retreated to the bedroom. Kane continued to play but wholly by rote. He wanted to go after her.
But he couldn't.
He couldn't.
... Faith woke to bright morning sunlight slanting through the drapes and the sound of the piano being played softly. She had left her bedroom door ajar for no reason she wanted to explain to herself, and each time she had awakened in the night she had heard the quiet notes. She wondered if he even realized he had played the same song over and over again.
She rose and got ready to face the day. And him.
Showered and dressed, she nerved herself to walk out into the living room and say good morning in a steady voice.
Kane stopped playing but didn't move from the bench. "Good morning." His voice was as steady as hers, damp hair and fresh clothing evidence that he had showered recently, but she didn't know whether or not he had slept.
"I guess there's nothing new from Daniels?"
"No. But he should be here any minute."
Faith nodded, then retreated to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. She wasn't particularly thirsty but needed a moment to collect herself.
Something had changed.
She didn't know how it had happened or why, but at some point last night Kane had looked at her, really looked at her. For the first time, she thought, he had seen her clearly as something other than a means to an end. And once he had done that ... No. She would not think about it. But he's thinking about it. He's been thinking about it all night.
She slowly went back out to the living room. "I wish..."
"You wish what?" Kane's voice was almost controlled enough to hide the underlying note of strain.
He doesn't have to hurt like this. Tell him.. Faith tried to concentrate, but the voice had vanished like a soap bubble. Slowly, she said, "I wish I'd had those years of practice Bishop talked about. I wish I could concentrate, or focus, or do whatever it takes to make sense of this."
She set her glass on a nearby table. "I'm sorry, Kane. I wanted to be of some help, but..."
"You have helped, believe me." He got up and stepped around the end of the piano so they faced each other.
"Have I?" She had to ask, even though every instinct warned her she was risking too much too soon. "Or have I just ... complicated the situation? "
Kane took a step closer, as though pulled against his will. His hand lifted to her cheek, but froze before it touched her. Faith was suddenly conscious of her heart thudding, her breathing quickening — and of that suspended hand. Last night at the warehouse she had been unable to touch him because he'd been utterly unreachable. This time, she thought, he stopped just short of touching her because he suspected it would cause him pain.
"I won't," she murmured.
"You won't what?" He took another step, and his hand gently cupped her cheek.
"I won't hurt you." She wanted to close her eyes and press herself to him, to rub herself against him.
She could barely breathe.
"That's a strange thing to say." He sounded puzzled, but his eyes were on her mouth, darkening, growing intent, watching as his thumb brushed across her bottom lip slowly.
"It's important," she whispered, not knowing why it was. "Please believe me. I won't..."
"I don't care," Kane said, and kissed her.
Faith felt herself melt against him, her mouth opening to him, her soul opening to him. For the first time since coming out of the coma, she was completely and joyously sure of who she was and where she belonged.
The doorbell was so loud in the early morning quiet that it jerked them apart.
Kane was frowning a little and his voice was husky when he said, "Probably Tim. I'd better ..."
"Yes, of course," Faith managed to say.
He seemed about to touch her again, then swore under his breath and turned away.
Feeling suspended between joy and disappointment, and an odd sense that she had been a heartbeat away from understanding something that was desperately important, Faith watched him walk to the foyer and open the front door.
For an instant, seeing Bishop and Richardson standing there, she allowed herself to hope.
just for an instant.
Then Bishop spoke, his voice hard with control.
"I'm sorry, Kane. They've found Dinah."
CHAPTER 9
"She wanted to be cremated." Kane stood staring out the apartment window, through the recently installed blinds. "She wasn't claustrophobic in the conventional sense, but she told me once that she'd always had an absolute horror of being trapped in a small space, especially ... underground. I don't know why. Something in her childhood, I suppose."
Richardson watched him the way an expert watched a ticking bomb; without fear, but with the certain knowledge that the next second could bring destruction.
"It'll be a while yet, Kane. The M.E.'s office has had a busy week, and they're backed up. They might get it done in a week, but the lab is so far behind that the toxicology report will take at least three or four."
Just in time for Christmas, Faith thought.
She sat, silent and still, on the couch where she could see Kane. She thought of the refrigerated storage drawers at the morgue and shuddered. Which was worse? she wondered miserably. That chilled waiting, or the stainless steel table and sharp scalpels that would come eventually?
Not that Dinah would be aware of either, of course. She was out of pain now.
"They did a preliminary exam?" Bishop asked in the flat, almost disinterested voice that might have convinced a stranger he felt nothing about the matter.
"The usual one, at the scene," Richardson replied.
"Given where she was found, the M E. says establishing time of death will be even more tricky than usual, but his initial estimate is thirty-six to forty-eight hours, maybe longer."