She could see him relax. That was good… and that was bad. He probably thought he had a clear field.

They spent the meal and perhaps an hour afterward talking, Will probing for details of her life, Alicia dodging and countering with a steady stream of questions that forced him to talk about himself.

The upshot of the evening was Alicia gathering a portrait of a decent man who liked beer, bass fishing, and basketball; a dedicated detective who’d managed—at least so far—to avoid the deep cynicism that seemed to infect most big-city cops.

And Will? As they left the restaurant, Alicia doubted he knew much more about her now than he had when he’d walked in.

As Will drove her home, Alicia watched his hands where they gripped the wheel. Strong hands, and strong arms. She wondered what those arms would feel like around her. She rarely minded being alone, in fact, most of the time she was too busy to realize that she was alone.

But there came times, at night, mostly, when she felt an urge to cling to someone, to feel protective arms around her, when she simply wanted to be held.

She was feeling relaxed and safe as Will pulled to a stop in front of her apartment. And she was torn: Ask him in or not?… ask him in or not?

And then a beeper sounded.

Will checked his belt. “Not mine.”

Alicia fished hers out of her shoulder bag, and felt the mood shatter as she recognized the number on the display.

Hector’s floor. Only one reason they’d be calling her at this hour.

“Will, can you take me over to St. Vincent’s? Fast? I mean, really fast.”

He replied with squealing tires.

SATURDAY

SATURDAY

1.

1.

After only three hours sleep, Alicia was back in the hospital, this time in the Pediatric ICU. Little Hector Lopez had crashed last night—grand mal seizures and respiratory arrest. She and the house staff had pulled him through—just barely.

Will had hung around for hours downstairs in the waiting area. He didn’t know Hector, had never laid eyes on him, yet he’d seemed genuinely concerned. Finally Alicia convinced him to go home.

He’d hugged her and wished her luck, and she’d watched him go, thinking this was someone special.

But now she was watching Hector, unconscious, a slim ribbed endotracheai tube snaking from his mouth to a larger tube, his bony chest rising and falling in time to the hissing rhythm of the ventilator at his bedside.

She heard a knock on the glass partition to her left and turned to see Harry Wolff gesturing to her from the other side. She’d called him in on consult regarding the seizure. He’d done a spinal tap. Hector’s central nervous pressure had been up, and the fluid had looked hazy. Not good, not good…