Every muscle ached. Miguel couldn’t remember his blackouts being this bad before. But then he could hardly remember anything about the dark lapses in time. No recollection of the minutes or hours when he slipped into the recesses of darkness. Or what caused them.

Well, that wasn’t true. His nightmare was proof of that. Atonement for his sin.

Using the edge of an end table for support, Miguel winced as raw pain lit a fire in the palms of his hands. Withdrawing them left a smear of blood on the wood in their place. His vision blurred at the sight of crimson fissures carved into his skin.

A metallic taste filled his mouth. Miguel focused on the sink. If he could just get there and run cold water over the cuts . . . splash his face . . . return to reality. The shattering of glass made him jerk around, sending his vision and the room careening. Miguel reached for something to hold him upright but found nothing except for air. He crashed to his knees, the pain jolting through his arthritic joints.

A shadow crossed in front of the window. Heavy footsteps slowed at his front door. Time seemed to still before his door swung wide open.

“Get out of here.” Miguel’s words came out thick. “I’ve got nothing to steal.”

“I’m not here to steal, amigo.” The man stepped into the home and into the moon’s waning glow. The light was just bright enough to expose the visitor’s ill intentions. “Where’s the painting?”

“Wh-what painting?”

The blow came quickly and sent Miguel’s brain rattling inside his skull. He slumped the rest of the way to the floor as warmth slid across his forehead.

“I won’t ask again.”

“Who”—the pressure behind Miguel’s eyes grew—“are you?”

The heat of the intruder’s breath curled around Miguel’s ear. “A collector. Where’s the painting Sydney stole?”

“Sydney.” Her name scratched against his throat. A glimpse of her face. Her blue eyes flashed in his memory.

The wide strokes of blue and green crashing over each other on the canvas. Tumultuous Ocean. Sydney had brought the painting to him. When? Last night? It felt so long ago. He squeezed his eyes tight. What happened? All he could remember were her eyes. Shocked. No, scared . . . she was scared.

And he was too late. Again.

SEVEN

THERE WAS A RUN in the carpet near the edge of the wall in Dr. Eddie Wong’s office. Lane had been focused on it since her appointment began almost an hour ago. Focusing on the pulled thread of the gray carpet was easier than focusing on Dr. Wong’s questions.