I padded down the long corridor, to the room number Vecchio had given me, wondering if it was at all common that he would arm a near-stranger with his weapon, and all but hand-letter an invitation for them to use it on someone.

Outside the open door, I let myself ease against the wall. I had no intention of going inside. Detective Vecchio had said the guy was asleep anyway, and being greeted by the sight of a private room doubtless near-identical to Kara's was not what I needed to see at the moment--no matter how fuzzy my vision.

So I relaxed to the side of the doorway. The gun hung heavily in the pocket of my coat. It was the same coat I had worn last night. In fact, I realized that I had not had the chance to change my clothes, or even shower since the evening before with Victoria. At the Shelbyville police station they had only managed to let me get in a face-and-hand wash with the gritty dispenser soap places like that use. The equivalent of rubbing sand on yourself, clean via friction.

I decided not to think further on the subject, but despite my mental road-block, the thought slipped through that I must smell atrocious. At least I had had the opportunity to comb through my hair when we had been back at the house.

How much time passed between when I began standing outside and doing my version of guarding the room and when its occupant called out to me, I don't know. I was sort of foggy and away thinking about being at home in my bed, the Saint snuggled below on the floor.

"Who's there?" Vecchio's partner called in a haunted whisper.

I answered him in my mind only, pleading. No one. Please, no one. Now go back to sleep.

"Who is it?" and I thought I heard a quiver of fear. Slight, but definitely there. Still, I did not answer.

"Victoria?"