I hit the ground running. My heels clattered against the linoleum as I sprinted through the building, whipping past rows of paper-framed windows while my head spun out of control.

Impossible. It has to be, right?

Victor couldn't have escaped. For God's sake, he was in prison, under lock and keyand the eyes of hundreds. He couldn't have broken out. We weren't in Alaska or something where he could vanish into evergreen forests. If this was Dimitri's sick idea of a joke, I was going to punch him in the carotid artery. Or knock his head against the wall. Hell, probably both. But, the tight, gut-wrenching knot in my stomach was telling me this was no joke, my instincts three steps ahead of my chaotic thoughts.

On one end, my head seemed to be shutting down and closing shop for the night, my sluggish, half-finished thoughts dragging their feet. At the same time, everything was in overdrive. My mind was sprinting a marathon.

Turns out, so was I.

I burst into my section, everyone else already mobile, the commander running the show. She stopped only when she saw me.

"Rose," Alberta exclaimed. She opened her mouth to say more, probably to inform me of the situation, but I cut her off before she got the chance.

"How?" I demanded over the slowly quieting din, half-panting. My hold around the doorknob tightened, to the point it threatened to snap. "How did that bastard escape?"


I watched the tape again, pacing, my knuckle pressed to my mouth as my eyes scanned the screen. Nothing had changed from the last time I watched, but I continued to play the surveillance back, prying it apart piece by piece like that would make new evidence magically surface. A girl could dream, right?

Any lingering fantasy that this was a joke had broken away as reality set in. The swarm of press buzzed outside like blue flies, my team and the jail officials high-strung as Alberta barked out orders for PD to catch Victor at all costs. Yes, it was definitely true. He'd broken out to join his buddy on the lamb. I'd known Dashkov was a warped, psychotic genius but breaking out of max security? What did I have to, chain him to a chair and lock him in a room 20 miles below sea level? A bitter voice in my head mocked, He'd probably escape from there, too.

I exhaled sharply, my head throbbing. "I can't believe this," I muttered. My piercing gaze vacationed from the static-humming screen to flit to Dimitri and the prison ward. "Tell me again, why wasn't he restrained?"

The ward's eyes narrowed. "Two doctors assured me that he was suffering from appendicitis," he said, the dark-skinned male looking fierce and insistent, not at all liking having his authority questioned.

"200 milligrams of decadron would give him an abnormal white cell count," I growled, picking up my pace, frustration driving me on. "It mimics all the symptoms."

I looked back at the security video once more, Mason rewinding to the beginning. Nothing changed. Victor, in surgical dress, shot up from the gurney he was on, taking out the three doctors without batting an eye. Clever enough to fake an ailment and knock out an unprotected medical team- Dashkov certainly lived up to his name.

"Christ," I muttered, running a hand through my hair as I tried to get a bearing on what to do now. I had to face it: Victor was out and coming for me, his partner trotting by his side like an obedient hound. Lovely. The duo was probably already making plans to break into my apartment in the middle of the night to scare me half to death- then finish the "death" part off. Boy, can't wait for that. I sighed.Only I could crack a joke at a time like this.

Suddenly, the ward exclaimed, "What is he doing?", the voice breaking me out of my mulling like ice water. I glanced up at the screen. I'd been rewinding the tape so much I hadn't noticed the grand finale. Victor stood below the camera, pressing something into his hand. He lifted the marred palm to the lens, blood drawing down in a thin line. In his other hand was a scalpel, an eerie smile curling his lips and lighting his pale eyes.

My jaw tightened as I averted my gaze to the wall, still traipsing. Knuckles white as my nails bit into my own, scarred palm, I muttered, "It's a message for me."


Darkness swallowed the city like a glutton, the light snuffed out under night's reign. In compensation, light bulbs flickered to life and glowed in huddled windows, the materialized fireflies springing up over the city. The sight reflected through my apartment's glass as I walked past, exhausted from bantering with the two idiots. "For the last time, I don't need protection."

Like me though, they were holding their ground. Metaphorically speaking. "We're not going to let him play with you like this again," Mason said, leaning against my couch with Mark hovering close by. Mia had the squad car fired up below. They might as well have the whole department light a bon fire and stay the night.

I shot Mason a sharp look. "He's not ," I said icily, walking between their small tunnel. I swung the door open, resigned. "Come on, go and get some sleep, Mark."

"Hey, I'm fine," the elder law enforcer said, looking ready to stand post outside for days on end.

I felt frustration build up in me. "You know if I was a guy, you wouldn't be worried like this!"

"You're not a guy," Mason said stonily.

I could have thrown my hands up in defeat. "No, I am a homicide detective," I stated, pressing a hand at the base of my throat. "And he is not going to kill me."

Frustration turned out to be just as contagious as my apprehension from earlier. Mason rarely lost his cool, but he snapped for the second time in 24 hours under the mounting pressure. "Really?" he demanded, voice rising to an almost-shout. "Because he almost did last time, just look at your hands!"

I felt my eyes harden in an instant, the obsidian orbs turning to slate. Mark could practically see the sparks fly between us- and not in the romantic way Mason always envisioned. He laid a hand on Mason's shoulder, silently telling him to back off; Mason, however, was still burning with an agitation that could have rivaled my own. I could understand his worry behind that anger, but I wasn't about to keep any of them from getting shut-eye. God knows we needed all the rest we could get. I turned to Mark, the only sane one in the room, pleading, "Please, take him out."

Mark weighed me with eyes beyond his years. Finally, he nodded, quietly telling me, "We'll be outside." He nudged Mason's shoulder gently, the only push he needed.

Mason sighed slightly, all of his anger unraveling and dispersing with that exhale of breath. He held up his hands, resigned. "Fine, fine, be like that." Mark headed out first, Mason turning around and walking backwards out. "But if you have a boyfriend coming over, we'll know, how's that?"

I scoffed. "Oh, I'm terrified, wouldn't want that secret getting out."

I shut the door after them, locking and chaining it (twice) before pressing my head against the oak. I paused. There was no sound in my apartment but the quiet, distant hum of traffic, my breathing slowing to match the same pace. I stayed like that for several minutes, trying to put my haywire thoughts in order before I seriously drove myself crazy. Victor's name and face kept running through my head like an ESPN news banner, never mind all the envisioned scenarios my mind conjured up. God, my mind really sucked sometimes.

No matter how much I tried to shove them away, I was comforted to know I wasn't fending for myself alone tonight. I closed my eyes and swallowed, curling my hands in, making them relax. I hadn't realized they were quivering until then. Calm down, I chastised myself. He's not here. Calm down and let the others take care of it for now.

Yeah. If I only I followed my advice as much as I gave it.

I straightened and, trying to act like a normal human being, began keeping my hands busy, picking up my cluttered home. It was better than acting like an irrational, impulsive idiot and setting out after Victor. And believe me, the urge was there. I could coax Lissa and Dimitri on staying on the sidelines, but forcing myself to follow their example was easier said than done. The only resolve stopping me was the fact it could literally be the death of me. That kind of thing ruined your weekly plans, and fast.

So, instead, I tried to conjure up my maternal instincts and clean something for once. It was instinct for girls to cook and clean, right? I hardly fit the Snow White, Modern Housewives image but even I didn't have an excuse for the horror scene in my bedroom. Clean-and-polished Lissa would have a heart attack. And coming from a medical examiner that had seen Saw-worthy crime scenes, that was saying something.

Hours passed. After taming the clutter, I did the rare deed of breaking out the vacuum cleaner. Yeah. I was seriously desperate to get my mind off things. I don't think I'd vacuumed since the Foster case last month that had me about pulling out my hair. Real sanity, Rose.

But, as it turns out, I didn't have much time to sterilize my house in the end. 15 minutes into it, I heard a knock on the front door over the ancient drone of my dust-covered vacuum. I frowned a little, shutting it off and glancing at the door distrustfully, knowing anyone from Victor Dashkov, Mason, to Bozo the Clown could be on the other side. Propping up the handle, I walked over, grabbing my pistol off the side table before looked out the peephole.

It wasn't at all who I was expecting.

I blinked. Descending from my tiptoes, I took a step back and dismantled my tiny protection system, opening the door both surprised and apologetic. "Hey Jill, I'm sorry, did the vacuum wake you?"

Jill Mastrano, a dainty 23-year old with beautifully wild curls and piercing green eyes, stood at my doorstep. She was my across-the-hall neighbor and currently dressed in flannel pants and a thrown-on, beaten cardigan layering a white tank. "No, no," she said reassuringly, despite her disheveled appearance. "I was up studying and heard you," she explained.

My eyes darted over her shoulder for a second before I ushered the college student in, not about to turn her away. "Come in, come in." She was like a younger sister in some respect. I ransacked her liquor supply at least once a week; that kind of thing practically screamed family. "How's law school going?" I asked, creaking the door shut.

"Awful," she answered truthfully. "Remind me again why I wanted to be lawyer?"

Despite my ramped-up edge, I found myself laughing as I locked the door and padded back across the small living room. "I know right, where the hell was I on career day?"

I rolled back the still vacuum to put away when her voice chimed in, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

I stopped, taken aback, and looked over at her again. "Uh, yeah. Yeah. Why do you ask?" Lord, I hoped I wasn't making the 10 o'clock news along with Dashkov.

She tilted her head. "You always vacuum when you have a really tough case," she said, her intelligent, lawyer-worthy side showing.

I glanced at the vacuum, not noticing the habit before. I looked around, pondering. "Huh." If I was crammed with these kinds of cases all the time, I'd have the cleanest apartment in the city. At the same time, I was pretty sure I'd never get any housework done if I wasn't stressed. And so answers my mother's question on why I'm not married yet.

There was another knock on the door, both of us glancing over. "Christ," I murmured, Mason's face flitting through my thoughts. Maybe they did invite the whole police squad down for a keg party. My apartment manager wasn't going to be happy with the commotion. Jill, the polite, honest girl that she was, reached over to open it, my jokes sobering instantly. "No!" I commanded harshly, the girl's hand flinching back. Rightfully, she was bewildered, but moved aside as I picked up my gun and- ignoring her growing startlement- glimpsed out the peephole.

It was my second surprise visitor of the night.

A string of curses flitted through my head as I caught sight of the person outside, slowly closing my eyes and slamming my forehead against the door. Sad part was, it wasn't my almost-murderer at my doorstep- but I was still toying with the idea of jumping out my 4-story window.

"Crap," I muttered under my breath, knowing I'd never make the leap. Remembering Jill, I straightened and threw her a weary, not-too-comforting smile before hesitantly opening the door. A fierce, tiny woman- who, on the outside, didn't look like a threat in the least- stood out in the hall. "Mom," I answered curtly, hanging out the partially-agape door.

The auburn-haired, ex-CIA agent assessed me for a moment over the wrappings of her scarf. Then, striding in between Jill and I and ignoring formalities, she bluntly stated, "You should get a better security system. And that lip stick doesn't suit you at all, Rose, it's too light for your skin tone."

My smile froze over in an instant as Jill gave a small, half-wave, not about to get tangled with my family bantering. Completely understanding, I nodded to her, mouthing "bye" as she slipped out. I shut the door, alone with another personal nightmare. A nightmare I reluctantly loved, but didn't have to like. "Always nice to see you too," I replied dryly, noting I'd have to change my lipstick as well now. I might as well purge my entire beauty surplus.

"Victor's all over the news," she said in a business matter, making herself at home in the adjoining kitchen and kickstarting my coffee pot despite my echoing "Are you serious?" exclamation in the background. I wasn't keen on her taking over my apartment like a military base. But, as usual, she ignored my comments, leaning against the counter with crossed arms. "You're being mentioned as well."

I groaned, both at her and the fact I was being looped into the public story. "Great. Is that what you came to tell me? You could have sent a text."

"I came because you're being hunted by a murderer," she said without batting an eyelash like it was normal small talk between family members. I guess for us, it kind of was. "If you had any sense you would have gone off this case from the start."

I bit back a snappy retort, repressing my flaring temper. Janine Hathaway could push buttons like no other. "Yes, well, it's a little late for that now. He won't kill me, Mom."

"He almost did last time thanks to your carelessness."

I could have beaten my head against the wall. It was like Lissa's frustrating lab all over again. "Gee, thank you for that motherly support," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm as I walked over and finished putting my vacuum away. "Really, you should right a nurturing book, you're killing me with all this encouragement."

"Don't try to be cute, this is serious."

"You don't think I know that?" I exclaimed, ducking back out of the closet. "He's trying to kill me- again. I'm not taking it lightly."

Her face remained perfectly blank, turning it to the window. "I hope Mia and Mason's alright out there."

I might as well be a ghost, or at least staple my lips shut. It's not like she listened to me anyway. Or cared. "Dashkov's not after them, Mom," I said, walking across and picking up my keys from the coffee table.

She frowned slightly, picking up my behavior instantly. "And where are you going?

I grabbed my trench coat off the rack, shoving my gun into my pocket."Someplace you're not."

"Rose, be reasonable about this," she said, her tone denouncing like I was a child threatening to run away from home.

"I'm not five, I can take care of myself, believe it or not. And I can do it without your charming company." Unlocking the door, I strode out, ignoring my mother as she stared at the hinges slamming in her face. Okay, maybe I was being a little childish- but, to be fair, it was either leave or see if my Mom could still dodge a bullet. We didn't exactly have a warm mother-daughter relationship. Her being away 99% of my childhood kind of killed that; I didn't need her "worry" now.

Pushing out of the carpet-hissing building a few stories below, I walked out onto the city streets, bundling myself against the biting air of an October night in Boston. Cars lined the pavement, and I knew in two of them my coworkers were eying me from the shadows, perplexed. I didn't glance at any of the tinted windows, walking on among the swirling leaves and gutters.

At least for once I had a good idea where I was going.

Five blocks over, as the houses gradually grew nicer thanks to cliché rich sections of the city, I strode up to a mahogany glazed-door, the glowing address reading 1173. It might have been the middle of the night, but I knew she'd still answer. She had worse cases of insomnia than I did.

Sure enough, after one ring of the doorbell, Lissa opened the door, dressed in a rosy silk top and bleached white jeans. I gave her one of my typical looks as the wind swirled around us. "Why do you always look like you're about to do a photo shoot?"

Her lips twitched up. She guided me in, her house a reflection of her high-class family name. After 20 years, I was used to it, immune to the subtle glitz and glam of the Dragomirs. I might have looked like a poor servant girl next to them, but hey, there's always give-and-takes in friendship. That and I couldn't care less about a dumb Faberge egg that probably cost more than my yearly salary. Lissa walked ahead into her kitchen, pouring me a small glass of champagne before stopping, dumping it out, and handing me a beer instead. I smiled. She knew me so well. "Thank you," I said, taking off my jacket.

She simply smiled back, walking over back to the reports on her counter. Glancing around the kitchen while swirling my drink (she'd redecorated and refurbished since the last time I was here), I slowly trotted over towards her before my eye caught something on the floor. I about choked on my drink, appalled and exclaiming through coughs as I pointed, "Oh god, what is that?"

Lissa looked genuinely hurt as she said, "Shh, you'll scare him."

"He's alive?" I walked around slowly in a circle, keeping a good distance as I eyed the thing, not sure what the hell to make out of it.

"His name is Bass," Lissa said happily, like she was introducing me to one of her coworkers. "An African Spurred Tortoise. I had him since he was like this big." She made a small pinch with her fingers, walking over to the fruit bowl.

I looked at the huge, weather-battered shell taking up half the aisle. "I've known you since first grade, I would have remembered a 200-year turtle laying in your house."

"Tortoise," she corrected. "And he's only 34."

"Not my point, Liss."

She half-smiled, explaining, "Technically he was Andrea's. He kept him at Dad's house up in Maine and dropped him off back in August since he's going back to Africa for another year."

Andrea was Lissa's older brother and a researcher who traveled to all kinds of crazy places. It still didn't explain the turtle to me though. Lissa plucked a strawberry, walking back over to Bass and saying, "Oh and he's partial to British strawberries."

Bending down, a superhuman feat in her skinny jeans, she dangled the food in front of the brown-spotted shell, the turtle retracting its head back in. Lissa cooed to him, trying to get him back out. I watched, spectator to Lissa's failing attempts to bond with an inanimate shell. If I hadn't been so baffled by the whole thing, I'd probably burst out laughing. "Wow, great pet," I commented. "Really interactive, I bet."

"Mhmm." She patted the tortoise's back lovingly.

I shook my head in wonder and tossed back my beer, walking around the other way toward the guest bedroom. Even I could only handle so much weirdness. "A pet tortoise," I muttered, still barely believing it, trying to nod along with it. "Lissa has a pet tortoise. Yeah, sure who wouldn't opt for a century old turtle over a German Shepard?" Her family, posh as it was, had some seriously messed up twerks, even from my vantage point.

I set down my glass on the table and flopped down on the down-fluffed, velvet sheets of the master bed, staring at the ceiling. The paint job was flawless, leaving no room to scrutinize. Unfortunately, it also allowed my mind to wander. At least I was a little more relaxed in her house than mine.

Like the security tape from earlier, I kept going back and rewinding to make sure my calculations were right. Yes, it'd only been one day. One day and I was reunited with Dimitri, met up with my serial killer, and was officially being stalked by him again. It was insane to even think about. "And he might even finish his goal in the same day. Talk about a kill streak." I ran a hand through my hair, wondering how long I could go without sleep, seeing as I wasn't going to get any anytime soon. I'd have to check with Wikipedia later.

There was another knock on my door. I opened my eyes and lifted myself up for a second before laying back down, my gaze roaming the eggshell ceiling. I played with my hands draped over my stomach. "Go away, I'm sleeping," I called, hoping it wasn't Bass coming into my room to cuddle. Lissa, ignoring my warning, came in, the steps of her heels practically trademarked. Though she didn't say anything, I knew she was probably raising a bemused eyebrow at me. I blew the fallen hair out of my face, still half-sprawled over the bed, knowing it was the farthest thing from a comfortable sleeping position.

There were footsteps and then Lissa laid down too, the mattress sinking next to me. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, her angel-kissed hair fanned out behind her. "Are we having a sleepover or is this your way to try to sleep with me?"

Lissa laughed, flashing her pearly-white teeth. "You're sleeping in my bed, remember? You don't see me sneaking into yours."

I smiled wryly, turning my attention back up. "What can I say, Liss? You're hard to resist. That and my bed isn't a thousand dollar Temperpetic." My mattress had the back support of cardboard.

She rolled her eyes before we lapsed into silence, both of us gazing up while shadows of smiles hinted on both of our lips. I scanned the paint again. Back when we were little, the ceiling used to be littered with glow-in-the-dark, stick-on stars and we'd point out made-up constellations like how other kids would point out cloud shapes. It kept us entertained for hours. I smiled wider at the memory, noting several places where small glue spots still stuck.

Being an only child, and Lissa being from a distant and busy family, we'd bonded like sisters. After all the roller coaster ups-and-downs of my chaotic life, being next to her like this again was like coming home. It was soothing. Warm. Peaceful.

A scuffle resonated from outside the door, shattering the tranquil trance. I rose myself instantly, the bells in my head going off. Lissa, surprised, got up with me, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. "No no, it's okay. It's just Bass." I glanced at her before back out, the veins in my neck showing visibly as I swallowed, every muscle in my body strained. My heartbeat had doubled in a second flat. Slowly, I let Lissa guide me back down, her doe-wide, jade eyes overflowing with concern before she laid back beside me.

Again, I tried to control my breathing, staring at the starless ceiling while my fingers brushed against my scars, the indents scorching like hot coal. I felt myself softly shake my head against the jasmine-bathed pillow, my eyes still on the heavens as my body gave a shaky, hollow laugh. Impossible. It has to be, right? That's what I thought before. But even though it was impossible, it was real.

And even though I laughed, I wanted to cry.

Laying down next to Lissa, raw fear gnawing me from the inside out, I whispered softly, "I've never been more scared in my life."

Poor Rose. She's been through so much. I love Bass though haha, I had to throw him in.

Oh God, it's been 3 months since I updated. Man I suck. At this point, I'll be shocked if any of you still know what's going on. Don't worry, I'll get through Dashkov and Rose and throw in some personal Dimitri time soon. You guys deserve at least that much.