Kate stepped into the ICU. From the large station in the middle of the unit, the clerk watched Kate approach. “She’s in bed five,” the clerk said, flipping open a file folder.

“Thanks,” Kate said to the top of the clerk’s head.

She walked toward Leah Roberts’ room. The ICU had an unearthly quality to it, vibrating, beeping, and humming around the silent, prone forms of the patients whose own bodies barely kept them alive. Fear showed in the grim lines on family members’ faces. Hope moistened their eyes. For whatever reason—whether it was the miracles the hospital touted in their annual fundraising campaign, fate, God, or just pure medicine—the patients lying in these beds were still alive. That was the first, all-important step.

“Ms. Lange?” A dark-haired police officer stepped away from the wall by Leah Roberts’ room.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Gabriel, with General Investigative Services.” She held out her badge. “I’m one of the detectives securing Ms. Roberts’ room.”

“I’m defense counsel for Ms. Roberts,” Kate said. “Were you the detective who arrested my client?”

“Yes.”

“I thought she was under heavy sedation.”

Detective Gabriel studied Kate. “She woke up.”

Kate glanced into the room. Bent & Lange’s inaugural client watched them from the bed, her face so pale that even from the hallway, Kate could see the ghostly blue constellations of her veins.

“You advised Ms. Roberts of her right to remain silent?”

Detective Gabriel crossed her arms. “Yes. Her parents were in the room with her, as was a nurse.” From the corner of her eye, Kate could see an older couple watch her from Leah’s bedside.

“So she said nothing to you?”

“Nothing that was relevant.”

Kate paused at the detective’s choice of words. “What, exactly, did she say to you?”

Detective Gabriel raised a brow. “That is up to your client to inform you until you receive our disclosure file.”

Well, it was worth a try.

She stepped around the detective, walking softly into Leah Roberts’ room. “Hello. I’m Kate Lange.” Her gaze took in Leah’s parents, who gathered protectively around their daughter’s bed, and then moved to her client. She was struck by Leah Roberts’ size. The young woman’s feet came close to dangling over the edge of the hospital bed. Faint smudges of black marred her downy hairline. Tubes ran from her chest, hands and God knew where else.

Harry Owen was a good shot.

The revolver felt so smooth, so sleek. So powerful. Kate’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Do it,” Kate’s oldest foe urged. “Do it.” She smiled at Kate. “You know you are just like me—”

“Thank God you are here,” Leah Roberts’ mother said. She reached out to shake Kate’s hand. “I’m Susan Roberts. This is my husband Tim.”