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course not," he backpedals. "I'm-I'm sorry. I'm articulating this incorrectly."
    "Yeah, now I see why you stick to monosyllables."
    "I just, I," he says, flustered. He takes a second, lips pursed as he tries to find the correct words. "I-- We're aware of how close you and Justice were. It is only logical, that due to the circumstances of his death, you would feel partially responsible." My back straightens. "And due to your feelings of culpability, you would locate an avenue to compensate for his loss, i.e. spending hours down here attempting to forestall crimes he would if he were alive."
    "So?" I ask, voice hard.
    "So, we're here to lift that burden. You don't have to carry this city anymore. You can go out with friends, take trips, even…date. Live your life. As Justin would want it." He turns back to the computer screen. "That's simply what I meant."
    "And how the hell would you know what Justin would want for me?"
    Once again he's silent, trying to find the words before saying, "He loved you. He'd want you to be happy. And you're not. This could be the first step toward it. Let us do that for you."
    I'm speechless. Shame has silenced me. He's trying to help me, and I'm giving him shit for it. "You don't get it. The only times this year I've been even close to happy have all been down in this room. Finding the right footage to take someone down. Helping the police piece together evidence. I almost felt like I was my old self again, for all that's worth," I say with a scoff. "Out there, all that bullshit, it's what makes me nuts. My friends treat me like a China doll, I'm not exactly corporate material, and as for men, hell there's nobody I would inflict myself upon." Nightingale glances at me, and I half smile. "Too broken. Think I always will be. But in here that doesn't matter. Hell, it might actually be a good thing. So you're not cutting me out of this. I'm helping you whether you like it or not. I know this city. I know the players. I have the connections. Nobody but us will know. I want to help. I need to help. Don't freeze me out. Besides, it's my house. My computer. I can always just call the cops on you for trespassing. The press would love that, huh? You have no choice."
    He sits as still as a statue for seconds, the wheels in his head turning. I wish I could see his eyes under the goggles. Wish I could read his face. Seems unfair he can read mine because I feel him studying it now. Then he turns away. "Fine."
    "The others won't mind?"
    "They won't care."
    "Good," I say with a smile. I scoot the chair over so our arms touch. He doesn't pull away. "So. Show me how to hack into the Defense Department then I'll make us some sandwiches. Sound good?"
    "Sounds great," he says after a pause.
    "Then let's get started."
    And for a brief second, he smiles too.
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
    Dog Days
     
    I get nightmares. A lot. Once a week on the good weeks and three on the bad. I wake up tangled in sweat stained sheets, panting like a dog. It's not always James Ryder tormenting me either, though he makes his fair share of appearances. No, sometimes it's Harry pressing a gun to my head or my mother shoving me off the Falls. Those I can handle. Some deep breaths, few minutes of television, and I'm back to my old self. No, it's the good dreams that ruin my day. The ones where I know it's a dream, that it's going to end, but I don't care because Justin's there and we're walking along the beach, or sailing, or just sitting on the couch talking like we used to. I always sense it coming to an end though. I beg and beg and cry and cry, and he just holds me, caressing and kissing my hair as I cling to him. Then he whispers, "I love you," kisses my lips and vanishes into thin air. It takes me a moment to realize he's gone, that he was never really there, and that I have to wake up now. When the veil of sleep lifts, it's as if the world has dropped out from under me again, and I can't stop crying because I still feel that kiss on my