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everyone began assuming I was. “This is the big love for me. I’ll never love another man. Not ever. This won’t end for me—even if you end it. I’ll still love you the way I’ve never loved anyone in my whole entire life.”
    “But—”
    “Shut up,” she said, placing her hand over my mouth, “and make love to me again.”
    The soft, incessant knock on the door brought me up out of the underworld, but as I stumbled toward the door, part of me remained submerged.
    When I opened the door, Lauren rushed inside and closed it behind her.
    In my groggy, half-conscious condition, I took her in my arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. At first she resisted, but then kissed me back, her body going limp into mine, my body responding to hers.
    It wasn’t until she pulled away that I became fully aware of the waking world I was in now, and realized that I didn’t have two arms to wrap her up in and that my body couldn’t respond to hers.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”
    My shirt was off, my right shoulder and upper arm exposed. She stared at it, then at the other gunshot wound scars on my upper body.
    I felt as exposed and as ugly as I ever had, but before I could make a move to get a shirt on, she took what was left of my arm in her hands and gently kissed it with her full, soft lips.
    As she did, I felt my body responding to hers again, and realized that maybe it hadn’t just been part of the dream. What was going on? How could I be . . .
    The only time I had experienced anything like this before was last year while I was working a case for a woman who reminded me of Lauren. Like then, I wondered if this were some sort of phantom response, the way I could feel my right hand itching sometimes, or if I were experiencing the first faint flutterings of—what? Hope?
    She looked down at the wrinkled mess of bed, at the books lining the spot where she used to lay after we made love, her moist body spent and emanating warmth.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s late. I shouldn’t have come, but someone’s following me again and I didn’t think you’d be here.”
    I stepped over to the chair beside my bed and wrestled my t-shirt back on, the heat of embarrassment like the sting from a slap on my face, realizing she was seeing how difficult this simple act was for me.
    “You thought I’d be following you?”
    “No,” she said. “Maybe. I don’t know what I thought. I was scared and I didn’t know what else to do. I’m supposed to meet a man tonight to recover something of mine that was misplaced, but as I was leaving, I got the sense someone was following me.”
    “Recover something you misplaced?”
    “Yeah. Why?”
    “Who’re you tryin’ to kid, kid?”
    “What?”
    “You’re forgetting who you’re talking to,” I said. “Reshuffle and deal again.”
    “You’re right,” she said. “The truth is, it was stolen and I’m paying to get it back.”
    “That’s a little better, but not much. Go ahead, you can do it. Say the ugly little word.”
    “What?”
    “Try the whole truth. It won’t hurt as bad as you think.”
    “I’m tired, Jimmy. And I’m scared. I’m sorry I busted in on you like this, but I don’t feel like fighting with you. I couldn’t keep up.”
    “Who’s blackmailing you, Lauren?”
    “I’m going now. I’m glad it’s not you who’s following me. I really am. I actually thought you might still hate me so much that—”
    “I don’t blame you for what happened to me.”
    “I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . . Why would you? How could I have—”
    “It’s nothing. Doesn’t matter. Still loopy. Half asleep.”
    “No,” she said. “I want to know. Have you forgotten I’m the injured party?”
    “Interesting choice of words.”
    She shook her head. “I’ve got to go.”
    She turned to leave.
    “Wait. You better let me tag along. Blackmailers really are the lowest sort.”

Chapter 8
    Lauren was right. Someone was following