Luckily, the 911 operator was able to trace the number and get the address to Terry's house that way, because I have no idea where I am.

The nausea and disorientation that plagued me during my last few months working as an ER nurse is back. I can function on autopilot, like I did back then, before I quit, but everything seems like it's happening to someone else, like I'm someone else, watching myself go through these motions.

I don't remember how I got back to the foyer, but I'm kneeling beside Julie now, trying to check her vitals, trying to get Terry to stop cradling her head. But he won't, and it doesn't matter. She's dead. Beyond reviving. And the nausea curdling inside me is so strong, I'm barely holding onto consciousness.

The wailing of sirens is growing louder outside. I stand, take a step back to make room for the paramedics rushing into the house through the wide open doors.

Somehow they manage to get Terry to let go of Julie and give them room. They're asking me something and I'm answering. But none of it is registering.

Two uniformed cops come in, followed by two plain-clothes detectives. I'd recognize them anywhere, because I've seen so many detectives while I worked at the ER. They all wear wrinkled, ill-fitting suits, and have grim, angry expressions on their faces. It isn't easy to face death everyday. I couldn't.

"My brother, he did this," Terry is all but yelling at the cops. "Eric Worthington. Go find him. He's not here, go find him. He did this."

They're trying to calm Terry down, but he's only getting more and more agitated, saying the same thing over and over again, and each of his accusations lands in my heart like a knife stab.

They've covered Julie with a sheet, but it's not hiding all the blood. The blood that's nearly black against the white and red-checkered tiles of the foyer.

"Eric Worthington. He did this!" Terry is screaming. "He's insane. A psycho. And he hates me. He did this to hurt me. Oh, Julie! I loved her so much."

Terry drops to his knees, burying his face in his hands. Probably to hide his tears. Though I saw none.

"What's going on here?" Eric asks and the sound of his voice makes my head snap upwards, cuts right through the fog that is my thoughts.

I thought I was just imagining hearing his voice, but he's standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of khakis and a white polo shirt, his hair wet and combed back.

I run to him, the need to feel his arms around me, his body pressed against mine all I truly know. But it doesn't last.

Terry grabs my arm, rips me from Eric's embrace, and lunges at him. They're wrestling, Eric holding him back by his shoulders, Terry trying to land punches but failing. I'm shaking harder than I ever have, hot tears running down my cheeks.

"Stop it! Please stop it!"

The uniformed cops are trying to pry them apart, eventually succeed in pulling Terry back, locking his arms behind his back.

Then Eric is holding me again, and I'm not shaking anymore.

"Get him away from her!" Terry yells, a cop still holding onto his arms. "He'll kill her too. He's a psycho."

But it's Terry who frightens me, not Eric.

"Are you Eric Worthington?" one of the detectives asks.

"Yes."

"Where were you last night and early this morning?"

Eric frowns at him, but I can see the strain, the fear beneath it. "I left this house before midnight last night, and I just got back."

"Your brother is accusing you. You'll need to come to the station for questioning." The detective beckons one of the unfirmed officers closer.

"No," Eric says, releasing his hold of me and taking my hand. "I'll take her home first, and then come to the station with my lawyer. I had nothing to do with this and you have no grounds to hold me."

He turns to me. "Let's go."

I let him lead me out of the house.

"Don't go with him!" Terry yells after us, causing another shiver to run through me. Eric grips my hand tighter.

The detective runs after us. "You can't just leave."

"Watch me." Eric swings open the passenger door and motions for me to get inside. "You can't detain me, and I'm not going voluntarily."

He sounds so sure of himself, so in control, so in command. But there's a greenish undertone in his face, which is paler than I've ever seen it. As pale as the faces of the relatives whose loved ones died on one of the many, bloody ER tables. I know that look. It's not an act. Eric had nothing to do with this.

The detective makes no further attempt to stop us.

Then we're driving away, gravel from the driveway pelting the car because he's going so fast. And I wish I was still as certain of his innocence as I was a minute ago.