She was alone in the elevator, and she made sure no one was around to see her enter the basement. Her blood raced and her head pounded. She cut her arm on a piece of rock when she crawled through the hole in the wall. Just for a moment his voice startled her:
"Catherine …"
She wrapped her arms around his waist. His hands smoothed over her back and she could feel his breath in her hair.
"… I felt your turmoil."
"I've been so reckless," she whispered against his neck. "I wanted to bring our words closer together, but I forgot how different they are. In your world there is no hatred or violence. In mine it is an everyday occurrence."
"It was a lovely evening," Vincent reassured her. "For a moment I felt like a regular man, accompanying his lady. It is not your fault your friend got assaulted."
"No …"
She loosened her grip and leaned back in his arm. His deep-set, pale blue eyes looked into hers, gentle and patient. Her heart swell with love and sadness.
"… but it is my fault that you got involved. The police insist on talking to each of the guests at the party. When they couldn't locate you, they got suspicious. Vincent, you are their prime suspect for the attack on Joe. They think I'm covering for you. They may be staking out the apartment right now. I can't risk them finding you."
Her eyes teared up.
"We cannot meet again until the real assailant has been captured."
For a moment Vincent remained motionless. Then he closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against hers and drew in a ragged breath. She fought back her tears and wrapped her hands around his face. His skin was warm and fuzzed.
"I will get this man," she proclaimed. "Soon."
He sighed.
"I know. Be careful, Catherine."
She remained silent for a while, before she continued:
"Joe was trying to put a man behind bars, a dangerous man. His name is Mike Michaelson."
She hesitated.
"I believe Mary knows him."
Vincent's forehead wrinkled in confusion.
"Mary? I will ask her."
She slowly stroked his cheek.
"I will see you soon," she whispered.