“If you do that you won’t get much sleep yourself.”

“I’ll get by on naps, same as you’ve been doing. I can handle one night of bad sleep.”

He realized he wanted desperately to believe her. He did need some decent sleep.

The microwave beeped. Sierra opened the door and took out the bowl. The fragrance acted like a tonic on his senses.

“What is it?” he asked

“Artichoke and mushroom soup. I made it yesterday. You’re eating leftovers, I’m afraid.”

She pulled out a small grater, took some Parmesan out of the refrigerator and proceeded to grate a thick pile of the cheese on top of the soup. She set the bowl in front of him and handed him a plate with the buttered bread on it.

He looked at the meal. “I don’t think I’ve ever had artichoke soup.”

“First time for everything. Eat.”

After the first bite, he concluded the soup, the bread and the glass of wine constituted the best meal he had eaten in a very long time. When it was finished he helped her clean up the kitchen. He knew he was getting in her way more than actually assisting, but it was the principle of the thing. His mother would have been horrified if he hadn’t at least tried to help.

A short time later she hung the dish towel on a rack and looked at him.

“Ready to get some real sleep?” she asked.

He propped one shoulder against the refrigerator door and crossed his arms. “You’re sure you can guarantee that I won’t wake up in a nightmare?”

“There are no guarantees in life. But hey, you’re a badass cleaner from Las Vegas. You thrive on risk.”

“Not so much these days.”

“Take a chance on me, partner.”

He shook his head. “Sierra, I don’t think this is a good idea. A nap, maybe.”

“Listen up, Chastain. It’s not like we have a choice.”

She was right. He could sense the shadows tugging at him. Dealing with the light grenade had pushed him too close to the edge. His intuition told him that it would be better to go down while he still had some control.

“All right,” he said. He uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the refrigerator. “I’ll try sleeping on the sofa.”

“No, it’s too small. Take my bed.”

“I can’t—”

“My bed, North. Please. We do not have time to argue about this.”

She turned and led the way out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom. She did not turn on the light.

He followed because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Now that he had made the decision, he could no longer muster the energy required to push back the need to sleep.

He stopped in the doorway. In the shadows he could see that the down comforter, the quilt and the pillowcases were white. The walls were white. The lampshade was white. The wood-grain flooring was bare. The pristine room looked like a cross between the cell of a cloistered nun and a meditation chamber. He felt too big and way too grimy to sleep in such a room.