The stabbing pains in the constant yammering ache were keeping her from deep sleep, especially at night, but she was trying to take less medicine. She was exhausted and stir-crazy, then just regular crazy on top of that from trying to hide that she was feeling well enough to walk around, count hours, and churn.

The urge to tip something over, to give a spur to the dragging clock, won out.

“Actually, I do need something,” she called out to him. He came back to her bedside. “I need to know what you’re going to do.”

The disappointment in Owen’s expression was the freezing part. He was furious. He was frustrated. But his reaction to everything had matured into a kind of acceptance. He was wounded, but somehow bored and ready to move on.

He sighed, but never raised his voice out of the soft near-monotone. “I don’t know. Losing cash by the quarter millions isn’t what I’m hired to do. Having not a fucking thing to show for it doesn’t help. No painting. No hint as to where it might be. Two dead people . . .

“If you won’t give up your partner, then it’s either you or me on the hook for this whole mess. But really, in the end, no matter what, it’s only me, isn’t it? I let this happen. I trusted you.

“Besides, everyone’s looking for you, so that’s a consideration. They’ll want interviews and press conferences. If they were to find you, in this—” He touched her cheek above the bandage. “I can’t be sure of what you’d say. Or what any of your family would say either. There’s not a lot holding this together.”

She didn’t let him trap her in a hard stare. Instinct warned that softer was better, shoulders dropped, eyes gently out of piercing focus on his. “I wouldn’t say anything. They wouldn’t say anything. I’d make something up about my face. You have to know that. You saved my life. You think I don’t know I’d be dead without you? Jonathan is not my partner. I’m sorry, Owen. I’m trying to remember something that will help us.”

She put a quiver on us for sparkle, then again on we and our and every word that made her part of a pair with him. “We will figure this out. It’s not our fault, neither one of us. He did this.”

She stopped babbling. He hadn’t relaxed into a single pleading word she’d said. The clock wasn’t plodding anymore. It was flying.

Owen ticked his head, only half a nod. There wasn’t nearly enough agreement in it to make her feel better.

Marcelline had forced her voice down to a pained rasp. “Actually, if it’s okay, can I have a couple of those Percocets? My jaw is killing me.”