Paige felt weak. Dazed. She glanced around the room. Everything in here was gray: the walls, the floors, the furniture, the two-way mirror thingy. It was difficult to get her bearings.

She’d been in here for hours, answering question after question. The same question after question.

And then the pictures.

Oh God, she was too late. Teresa Cavasos was already dead. The pictures. They were still sitting in front of her right now, but Paige had turned them over.

Detective Schliesman had put them right in front of Paige so casually. They were gruesome. Horrific. The woman had died from being stabbed, after being severely beaten.

Paige knew what a beating like that felt like. The debilitating pain that throws your entire body into a panic. Hearing your own bones break and knowing there was nothing you can do about it. Your own blood filling up your nose and mouth until you wonder if you might choke on it.

It was impossible for Paige to ever forget it. She didn’t need a picture to remind her.

But more disturbing than the violence of it all, more disturbing than the fact that the detective had obviously wanted to catch Paige off guard —and had succeeded— was the content of one of the pictures Schliesman had shown her.

Like she was playing some sort of twisted game of solitaire, Paige flipped the middle picture over and studied it again.

Paige had drawn that very image a few weeks ago. It was sitting in the portfolio where she kept all the drawings from her sleep.

With all the bruising, Paige hadn’t realized she had drawn Teresa Cavasos twice: once when she was alive and once when she was dead. Although her clothing had been a prominent part of the picture she’d drawn of Teresa in the parking lot, only the top part of her collar was in the other picture she’d drawn of the woman’s death.

The same as the photograph she was looking at now.

But it was obviously the same shirt, now that Paige was studying it. No wonder Detective Schliesman had asked her so many questions about the clothing in the photo. It was what Teresa had been wearing when she died.

Paige needed to call a lawyer. Through the exhausted haze of her mind she knew that was true. Schliesman had known Teresa Cavasos was dead the entire time she’d been questioning Paige. She must have been hoping Paige would confess or say something incriminating against herself.

Paige vaguely wondered if saying ‘hey, I drew a picture of this exact death scenario too’ would be incriminating enough for the detective.

She didn’t know how to get a lawyer. Who to call. Was she allowed to use her phone now? Could she leave the room? She knew the door was still locked.

God, she just wanted to see Brett.

Not as her lover or to fall into his arms. Just to see someone who didn’t think she had killed some poor woman in a horrible way. Just to see someone whose colors weren’t an angry, accusatory red.

Or the chilling gray of this entire room. Paige turned the picture back over and wrapped her arms around herself.

After showing her the pictures, Schliesman had started asking her more questions about where she’d been last Thursday, before a knock on the door had interrupted them and the detective had left.

Paige had been so distraught over the pictures, over finding out she was too late, over realizing she had also drawn Teresa Cavasos dead, to even remember last Thursday or where she’d been on that day.

She’d asked to see Brett again. If he was here, he would help her. At least he would be a friendly energy off of which she could feed. Someone to help her focus.

Someone who could hopefully help ward off the panic attack Paige could feel stalking its way closer.

She wrapped her arms around herself tighter, but knew it wouldn’t be the barrier she needed. She wanted to get out of this room.

A few minutes later the door opened. Instead of Schliesman, another detective with wavy blond hair and a much less angry aura walked in. Followed by Brett.

She wasn’t sure what exactly she had expected from Brett, certainly not any romantic greeting, but he stayed far back against the wall as the other man walked closer and took a seat.

“I’m Detective Alex Olivier, from the homicide department. And I think you already know Detective Wagner.” He gestured to Brett.

“Yes,” Paige nodded. “He and I met last week.” And made love two nights ago.

And now he was standing on the other side of the room like he could not care less what was happening with her. Even his colors were colder.

She’d been through a lot today, but she was afraid this was what would tip her over the edge. So ridiculous to think coldness from someone she wanted warmth from would be what did it.

“Like Detective Schliesman said, we’ll be taking over the case now that it is officially a homicide.”

“Have you been listening to what I said to Detective Schliesman?” she asked the surfer looking detective.

“Yes. For almost all of it.”

“Both of you?” She looked pointedly at Brett.

He looked away. Paige had her answer without Detective Olivier saying a word.

Brett had sat behind that mirror and listened to everything that had been asked of her, knowing what Schliesman suspected her of. Oh God, he had known it was a homicide the whole time, had known they were trying to set her up, and had done nothing.

Maybe he’d actually thought she had something to do with it. Paige wrapped her arms around herself, for warmth and because she was afraid she might shatter into a million pieces.

“Miss Jeffries,” the detective moved closer. “I understand it’s been a difficult day for you.”

“I’m going to go get you some water.” It was the first thing Brett had said to her. She didn’t even look at him.

But the other detective nodded. “Good idea, Brett.”

Brett knocked on the door and left when it opened electronically. Paige looked at the man sitting across from her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“Olivier. Alex Olivier. I’m a homicide detective.”

Exhaustion washed over Paige. First, all the questions by Detective Schliesman, then finding out Teresa was dead, then seeing her dead in the same method Paige had drawn?

And then Brett.

Brett walked back into the room, two water bottles in his hand. He put one in front of Detective Olivier and crouched down next to Paige, opening the other one.

“I’m not thirsty,” she said, staring at the collar of his shirt. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes. And she totally ignored the deep blues surrounding him. He was troubled.

“You need to drink it anyway,” he said, gently disengaging her fingers from where they were clasping her arms.

Paige shivered slightly. His touch. How could she still feel such heat at his touch? How could she still want to lean towards him —towards his strength— and rest against him after he’d amply shown how little she really meant to him?

She brought the water bottle up to her lips and sipped. He was right, she had needed the water. She drank down nearly the entire bottle.

He stood, his fingers running unobtrusively along her arm as he stepped back.

She slid away. He could not be gentle now. Not when her heart was lying in pieces around her. He needed to go back over to the wall and blend back into the gray. She had to focus on keeping herself together, not on him.

Detective Olivier slid the other water bottle over towards her, but Paige didn’t open it. “The last question Detective Schliesman asked is probably the most important one for you to answer. Unfortunately, you were pretty upset when she asked it.”

“Which question was that?”

“Where were you last Thursday?”

“Is that when Teresa Cavasos went missing?” she asked.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss any specifics. But if you could just think about where you were on Thursday.”

Paige closed her eyes and worked her way backwards: the night with Brett, the art show, preparation.

For the first time since she’d found out Teresa was dead, Paige felt a slight release in the pressure built up in her body. If whatever happened to Teresa happened on Thursday, there was no way they’d be able to think Paige had something to do with it.

A knock on the door startled Paige. Both Detective Olivier and Brett looked over at it sharply. Brett opened it.

“Gentleman, I’m Christine Thomas, Ms. Jeffries’ attorney.”

Paige was surprised. She hadn’t ordered an attorney, despite this one being delivered, like a pizza. But the woman’s aura was pretty clear, even if constantly moving. She was a multi-tasker, but had good intentions. At least right now.

She walked to the table and shook Paige’s hand, giving her a reassuring nod.

“We’d like all questions to desist immediately and for my client to be released unless she’s being formally charged,” Christine told the men. She didn’t sit down.

Detective Olivier sighed. “Ms. Jeffries has not been charged. She’s always been free to go at any time.”

Paige looked at the detective then Brett then her new lawyer. She’d been free to go all this time? Why hadn’t Brett told her that?

Maybe because he thought she’d been guilty of murder.

“I can see by my client’s face that’s news to her,” Christine said.

Paige shook her head. “The door was locked.”

The lawyer put a hand on Paige’s shoulder. “Are you ready? They can’t keep you here any longer.”

Paige stood. “Yes, but there’s one question I want to answer before I go.”

“What was the question?” she asked.

“Where I was on Thursday.”

“You don’t have to answer that, Ms. Jeffries,” Christine told her. “It’s not an admission of any sort of guilt not to answer the question.”

“But if she does answer, and has a good alibi, it goes a long way towards us eliminating her as a suspect,” Detective Olivier put in. Brett had come to stand closer to the table, although Paige still didn’t look him in the eye.

“It’s okay,” she told Christine. “I want to.”

The lawyer nodded but looked ready to jump in at any time.

“Last Thursday, I spent the entire day surrounded by a dozen people at the Barnes Gallery preparing for my art show that happened Friday night. We were there at least twelve or fourteen hours, long past midnight. My agent Hunter Barnes, and any number of assistants, can verify this.”

“I think that pretty much eliminates my client as a suspect,” Christine told them. “We’ll make sure you’re given the contact info. But right now, I’m taking Ms. Jeffries home.”

Paige stood and followed Christine out the door. She could feel Brett’s eyes on her the whole way.

* * *

Back at his desk, Brett stared at the computer screen, but didn’t actually see anything on it.

The look in Paige’s eyes in the interrogation room was the only thing he could see right now.

The most Brett could do to help her had been to stay away. To let others —whose neutrality could not be called into question— determine that she was not responsible.

But that look in her eyes.

Anger he could’ve handled. She had the right to be pissed off at how Schliesman had blindsided her with the news of Teresa Cavasos’ death. Had the right to be furious at how they’d accused her of wanting attention. Had a right to be angry when she found out the man she’d just spent the weekend doing incredibly intimate things with, had been listening to the entire conversation and doing nothing.

Even though there was nothing he could’ve done that wouldn’t have made it worse.

But she hadn’t been angry. She’d been hurt.

That look in her eyes.

Brett rubbed his hand over his face, exhausted. He should’ve done something earlier. Should’ve insisted he and Alex go in instead of letting Schliesman try to set Paige up. Should’ve pulled the damn fire alarm for heaven’s sake. Anything to stop what was happening to her.

But Brett knew deep inside he hadn’t done any of those things because he’d wanted to see how Paige would answer the questions, how she would react to the news of Teresa’s death.

He wanted to know what the hell was going on with these pictures she drew.

If Brett hadn’t been there to see it with his own eyes, he would’ve never in a thousand years believed she had drawn it in her sleep. And Paige was wise enough to know not to mention that detail to anyone else. She’d learned her lesson from drawing herself.

Then a thought hit Brett: had she drawn the picture of herself in her sleep also? She hadn’t mentioned that. Of course, she wouldn’t have mentioned the sleep drawing at all if he hadn’t literally stumbled onto it.

He planned to ask her.

Alex walked over to Brett’s desk. “Just got off the phone with Hunter Barnes. Jeffries’ alibi checks out. She was with multiple people all day Thursday, actually most of the week.”

“Okay.”

Alex snickered. “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re pretty relieved to know your lady friend isn’t involved in a homicide.”

Brett never had any question about that. What he didn’t understand was the drawing. Brett and Alex both studied it where it sat on his desk.

“It’s strange, right?” Alex said. “How did she draw it if she didn’t know Cavasos? Why would she draw it?”

Drawing a random person in her sleep was weird.

Drawing a specific person in her sleep who had been abducted and killed in the very outfit she’d been wearing at the time went straight into Bizarroville. Brett knew there was no way he could mention it. Ever.

“She’s an artist.” Brett shrugged, attempting to be as casual as possible. “World renowned. Maybe her brain works differently than other people’s. Like she said, she saw Teresa in the parking lot and drew her later. Her subconscious picked her out to draw.”

“Well, Paige’s subconscious made a hell of a choice.”

“That’s for sure.”

“As far as I’m concerned, we’ve eliminated her as a suspect unless something changes,” Alex said.

“The captain will be less than thrilled.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, nodding. “Yeah. He doesn’t like her.”

“He doesn’t like that she gets special attention from higher ups.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t like that about you either. So watch your back.” Alex gave a little wave before walking back to his desk.

Brett didn’t care right now about the captain’s lack of love for him. What he cared about right now was Paige.

That look still haunted him.

When she left today he hadn’t been able to go after her like he wanted. Hadn’t been able to drive her home, explain his actions, ease that look in her eyes.

He hadn’t been able to go after her then, but he’d damn well be there as soon as he could.