"What do you mean he's not here?" Alex demanded, facing down the other woman at the nursing station. "He was unconscious when I left here three hours ago!"

Narrowing her eyes, the bleached blonde shrugged looking over the red-head with an insolent glance. "Look, I wouldn't know. All I get is the charts and he's not on them."

"Well, did he get transferred? Released?" she questioned, her voice rising. A horrible thought occurred. "Die?" she murmured, looking suddenly stricken.

The older woman paused pursing her lips, a possible flicker of sympathy in her eyes. "I'm not supposed to release medical information except to next of kin."

A heavy sigh slipped out of Alex's lips as she fought the urge to cry. "He doesn't have any next of kin," she muttered.

Grudgingly the nurse, tamped a set of patient files on the desk, not meeting her eyes. She scowled. She didn't care much for the red-head, but she didn't much like the policy either…

"Might try home, chickee. Nobody died here today," she said, going back to filing with a loud clack of her gum.

Wondering what the heck she was thinking, Alex pounded for the fourth time on the heavy wood door. Okay, maybe the nurse was wrong, she thought. Maybe, she'd just wanted to get rid of her. Maybe, she'd lied. Hang, she couldn't blame her. She knew she was a pain in the butt…

But then, where was he? She refused to believe he was dead. Even the Firm would not be so callous as that she thought. Would they?

Yeah, they would, she thought with a grim twist to her lips. Be just like them…

She slammed her palm harder against the heavy oak door. "Open up, Michael," she yelled. "I'm not going away!" She slumped against the door in frustration.

Only to hear the rasp of the lock opening. "Yeah, I kinda guessed that," Michael rejoined dragging the door open. Guarded blue eyes met hers. "Come on in, Alex."

Stunned, she stared at him. Somehow she hadn't really expected him to be here, much less opening the door. "You're here," she whispered disbelievingly, taking in the deep furrows of pain lining his cheeks.

"Somebody has to be," he muttered wearily, limping back to the sofa. A file of papers sat on the coffee table. "Was there something you wanted, Alex?" he questioned.

Was there something she wanted? Anger blazed through her red hot. "Don't you think it'd be nice if you told someone you were leaving the hospital, Michael?" she ranted.

Confused blue eyes looked up at her, the stack of papers in his hand. "Who else would I have told, Alex? The doctors knew I was checking myself out, maybe they weren't happy about it, but they knew. Tristen's been reposted. Who else is there to tell?"

Hurt welled up in her eyes. "Me," she whispered.

"Why, Alex?" he questioned, not meeting her eyes, centering his attention on the papers he held, most anything but her. "You've made it more than clear you think I'm to blame for Gavin's death. I can't imagine you really caring one way or the other."

Shame flushed her cheeks as she contemplated his words. He was right. She had blamed him for Gavin's death. Not because he'd caused it, but because he couldn't stop it.

No more than she could've stopped his, her conscience whispered, reminding her of that long flight back from Menongue, when she'd thought they would lose him; holding him in her arms, feeling his blood on her hands.

He'd saved her life, not once but twice - nearly at the cost of his own. He'd come after her when no one else would.

"I was wrong," she whispered. Life was too short to waste on regrets, his or hers.

Light blue eyes met hers. "I am sorry, Alex," he said. "Gavin was never supposed to die."

Kneeling beside him, she gave him a sad smile as she wrapped her fingers around his, knowing exactly what she was letting herself in for. "The good guys never are, Michael. I'm just glad you made it back."

"That makes two of us," he muttered, tugging her to him.