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constantly." He turned his voice high-pitched and shrewish.
    Imitated, "'You keep whopping me and I'm gonna tell Parker on you.'"
    "But she never did. Because if she had, you wouldn't be working here…in this city." Poe waited a beat. "She was using big-time when she died. Who'd she get her stuff from?"
    Minors shrugged. "Maybe Lewiston."
    "Not if he dropped her."
    "Then I don't know."
    "Who'd she get her stuff from when you knew her?"
    "Lewiston."
    "She told you that?"
    "Yeah." Angrily, he said, "Parkerboy made her what she is today."
    "A corpse?"
    Minors turned crimson, stammered, "No, no, I'm not saying…I'm not implying Mr. Lewiston had anything to do—"
    "Stop sweating, Trent. He ain't in the room."
    Minors looked over his shoulder. "All I meant was…well, she wasn't using heavy until she hooked up with him. He turned her into a crack whore."
    Poe noticed that Minors had dropped his voice a notch.
    As if the walls had ears.
    And maybe they did.

    She had wanted to pretend she was sleeping, but Steve had caught sight of her open eyes.
    "You still up, baby?" he cooed.
    She said nothing when Steve sat down on the edge of the bed and loosened his tie. Out of her corner vision, she saw him lower his hand, felt him stroke her shoulder. An instant wave of revulsion pushed through her body. But this time she was determined not to withdraw from his touch.
    Make him think you're getting better.
    Jensen continued to caress his wife. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
    She shook her head no.
    "Another rough night, honey?"
    They're all rough.
    "I'm fine."
    Her voice was a hush.
    Jensen checked his watch—five in the morning. Reluctantly, he stopped petting her. Stood and took off his shirt. "Nasty night out. We found someone in the desert. And lots of paperwork. That's what took me so long."
    She nodded.
    "It was…hard. This one in particular. Not that you have to worry about it. Some hooker who went with the wrong guy…obviously."
    He realized he was gripping his shirt, nails digging into fabric made wet by his sweaty palms. He bit back panic and tried to smile.
    "Forget I said anything, Alison. I'm…running off at the mouth. I'm stupid sometimes."
    No response.
    She knew he was aching to talk, to find an outlet for his troubled soul. Shouldering everything for so long. And still blaming himself for her illness. Silly. Because she had been decompensated long before he had started cheating.
    But back then, she had hid it better. Still, she was certain that he had his suspicions.
    She had been twenty when they had married; he had been thirty-two. Thinking about their wedding pictures. They had made such a handsome couple. When she combed her hair, she supposed they still looked good together.
    Jensen drew back the covers of the bed. "You're still wearing your bathrobe, honey."
    "Too lazy to change," she whispered.
    "That can't be comfortable—"
    "I'm fine—"
    "It's so bulky, Alison," Jensen said. "Let me get you your silky nightgown. The one you say is so soft against your skin. Now, do you want the purple or the pink?"
    "Pink's fine."
    "Hey, it's fine with me, too." A weak smile. "You look great in pink, hon."
    She swung her legs over the mattress, about to get herself upright. Steve was right there with a chivalrous arm. "Let me help you."
    This time she shook him off. She straightened and looked him in the eye. "I'm not an invalid."
    His face was wounded. "Of course not, Alison. I didn't mean—"
    "Forget it."
    Her voice sounded harsher than she meant.
    "I'm sorry, Alison. You know me." Another weak smile. "I just love to baby you."
    She felt moisture in her eyes, but couldn't let him see. To distract him, she let her robe slip to her feet, boldly allowing him full view of her fine form.
    He gasped, a sharp intake of breath piercing his lungs. Whispering, "God, you're beautiful."
    She looked away, but then returned her eyes to his face.
    Eye contact. Tentatively, Steve moved toward