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guess."
    "I'm sure it was a delayed concussion from the fall your partner told us about," she said. Then, her back to James, she mouthed, "If you need to talk, you can call me."
    Alex nodded.
    As though sensing he'd missed something, James returned to the bedside, eyeing his twin, who ignored him, before speaking again. "The department wants you to talk to a counselor."
    Alex frowned.
    "It's a matter of course," Brittany added, taking the edge off James's request. "Anytime something traumatic happens on the job, they send the officer to a counselor. James always makes everything sound so dire."
    He did, at that. "Who do I call?" she asked, still talking to Brittany.
    "There's Margaret Schroeder," James answered.
    Alex groaned. "Mad Dog Schroeder?" The woman was infamous at the station for her mood swings. She'd be gentle as a kitten one minute and a pit bull the next. "No thanks."
    "There's Ross Berman or Jane Reed," James continued. "Gillian McArthur. She's new, but I've heard good things."
    "What about Judith Richards?" Brittany asked.
    Alex remembered the name. "The one who used to work with Mom? I just saw her at the station yesterday morning."
    "Yeah, I think she still does some work there," James agreed. "I can ask."
    Brittany nodded. "Call her. She'll remember you. You used to talk to her about your nightmares when you were a kid."
    "Nightmares? When was this?"
    "You were little—" She turned to James, who shrugged. "First and second grade, maybe. Something like that. Anyway, Judy's great. She's the one who helped me get into the graduate program at Cal. She's dealt with some incredible cases. She's done a lot of work with ex-cons—she even had two patients who shot each other. She managed to talk one of the shooters out of killing her. She's also written some fascinating articles on criminal psych." She turned back to James. "Call and see if she's available for Al to talk to."
    He nodded but didn't respond. Then, he stepped closer to the bed with an ominous look. "I do have some questions to ask in an official capacity."
    "I'm sure they can wait," Brittany said.
    James let his mouth fall shut.
    "I can answer them," Alex offered, knowing he'd corner her sooner or later.
    James nodded and smiled satisfactorily at Brittany. "Did you know the deceased?" he asked Alex.
    Alex straightened her back and crossed her hands in front of her. "No. I think he came up to me in Noah's Bagels the day before yesterday. At least, I think it was him."
    "What did he say in Noah's?"
    "Nothing. He never had a chance."
    James frowned and made a note in a small spiral notebook he always carried. Alex had even seen him pull it out at a family dinner.
    "We got a call," Alex continued. "Roback came in and called me, and I left."
    "So, the dead guy—Loeffler—he never said anything to you?"
    "He called my name—that was it."
    "He said 'Kincaid'? That's it?"
    A nurse came through the door as Alex considered James's question. But he hadn't called her Kincaid. "I need blood," the nurse exclaimed as though they might each have a bag of it in their pockets.
    "Hers, I hope," Brittany joked, stepping back with her hands up.
    "Oh, sure, sacrifice me," Alex complained. "Haven't I had a rough enough day already?"
    The nurse chuckled, wrinkles forming exclamations around her eyes. "It's yours I'm after," she said, approaching the bed. Her gray hair was tucked up under what looked like a white shower cap, her white nurse's outfit snug over her full figure.
    "Are you sure? I think she might have a better sample. We're all related, you know."
    The woman ignored Alex, though her smile remained. She took Alex's arm and tied a tourniquet around her biceps.
    Alex watched the nurse draw blood, her mind on Loeffler. He hadn't called her Kincaid. That would've been the name he'd seen on her badge. It would've made sense. And yet he'd called her Alexandra. No one had called her that since her mother had died.
    "I've still got questions for you," James