Oh God, yes. She was suddenly and brutally tired. She fought off her own demons and stared into Carly's eyes. "He was a stranger to you."

Carly's breath hitched. "He knew, didn't he? It all makes such horrible sense. The way he pursued me, the way he looked at me. The things he said. We're two of a kind, he told me, and he laughed." She gripped Eve's shirt again. "Did he know?"

"I can't tell you."

"I'm glad he's dead. I wish I'd killed him myself. I wish to God almighty it had been my hand on the knife. I'll never stop wishing that."

"No comments, Peabody?"

"No, sir." They rode down in the elevator with Peabody looking straight ahead.

There was an ache, churning, pulsing, swelling, in every part of her body. "You didn't like the way I handled that."

"It's not for me to say, Lieutenant."

"Fuck that."

"All right. I don't understand why you had to tell her."

"It's relevant," Eve snapped. "Every connection matters."

"You punched her in the gut with it."

"So now it's my method that doesn't meet your standards."

"You asked," Peabody shot back. "If she had to be told, I don't see why you shoved it in her face the way you did. Why you couldn't have found a way to soften it."

"Soften it? Her father was fucking her. You tell me how you soften that. You tell me how you put that in a pretty box with a bow on it."

She turned on Peabody, and like Carry's, Eve's eyes were ravaged. "What the hell do you know? What do you know about it with your big, sprawling, happy, Free-Ager family where everybody gathers around the dinner table with clean faces and chirpy news of the day."

She couldn't breathe, couldn't draw in enough air. She was strangling. But she couldn't stop the words.

"When Daddy came in to kiss you good night, he didn't crawl into bed with you, did he, and put his sweaty hands all over you. Fathers don't jam themselves into their little girls in your tidy world."

She strode off the elevator, through the lobby, and out to the street, while Peabody stood stiff with shock.

Eve paced the sidewalk, barely restrained herself from kicking the duet of white poodles and the droid that walked them. A headache was raging, a rocket blast that screamed inside her skull. She could feel her hands tremble, even though they were balled into tight fists in her pockets.

"Dallas."

"Don't," she warned Peabody. "Keep back a minute."

She could walk it off, she promised herself. She could walk off the leading edge of the fury that made her want to scream and pound and rip. And when she had, all that was left was the headache and the sick misery deep in her gut.

Her face was pale but composed when she walked up to Peabody. "My personal remarks were over the line. I apologize for them."

"It's not necessary."

"It is. In my opinion, it was also necessary to be cruel up there. It doesn't make me feel any better about it. But you're not here to be a punching bag for my foul moods."

"That's okay. I'm kind of used to it."

Peabody tried a smile, then gaped with horror when Eve's eyes filled. "Oh, jeez. Dallas."

"Don't. Shit. I need some time." She bore down, stared hard at the face of the building. "I'm taking a couple of hours' personal time. Grab some public transpo back to Central." Her chest wanted to heave, to throw the tears up and out. "I'll meet you at Roosevelt in two hours."

"All right, but – "

"Two hours," Eve repeated and all but launched herself into the car.

She needed to go home. She needed to hold on and to go home. Not trusting herself, she set the car on auto and rode with her head back and her hands balled in her lap.

From the age of eight, she'd built a wall or her subconscious had mercifully built one for her to block out the ugliness that had happened to her. It left a blank, and on that blank she'd created herself. Piece by painful piece.

She knew what it was to feel that wall crumble, to have the cracks form so the ugliness oozed in.

She knew what Carly faced. And what she would go through to live with it.

The headache kicked like a tornado inside her skull by the time she drove through the gates. Her eyes were glazed with it, with the greasy churn of nausea in her belly. She ordered herself to hold on, to hold it in, and staggered up the steps.

"Lieutenant," Summerset began when she stumbled inside.

"Don't mess with me." She tried to snap it out, but her voice wavered. Even as she bolted upstairs, he moved to the house intercom.

She wanted to lie down. She'd be all right if she could just lie down for an hour. But the churning defeated her. She turned into the bathroom, went down on her knees, and was vilely ill.

When she was empty, too weak to stand, she simply curled on the tiles.

She felt a hand on her brow, cool. Blessedly cool. And opened her eyes.

"Roarke. Leave me alone."

"Not in this lifetime."

She tried to turn away from him, but he slipped his arms under her.

"Sick."

"Yes, baby, I know." She felt fragile as glass when he lifted her, carried her to bed.

She began to shiver as he drew off her boots, covered her with a blanket. "I wanted to come home."

He said nothing, only got a damp cloth and bathed her face. She was too pale, the shadows under her eyes too deep. When he held a glass to her lips, she turned her face away.

"No. No soothers. No tranqs."

"It's for the nausea. Here now." He brushed her damp hair back and hoped he wouldn't be forced to pour it down her throat. "That's all. I promise."

She drank because her stomach was quivering again, and her throat felt as if it had been raked by claws. "I didn't know you were here." She opened her eyes again, and the tears that burned in her chest flooded into her eyes. "Roarke. Oh God."

She pressed herself against him. Burrowed. As her body shook, he tightened his arms around her. "Get rid of it," he murmured. "Whatever it is, let it go."

"I hate what I did. I hate myself for doing it."

"Ssh. Whatever it was, you wouldn't have had a choice."

"I should have found one." She turned her head so that her cheek rested against his shoulder, and with her eyes closed, she told him everything.

"I know what went through her." She was better now, the worst of the sickness eased. "I know what she felt. And I saw myself in her when she looked at me."

"Eve. No one knows better than you, or I, what vile-ness there is in the world. You did what you had to do."

"I could've – "

"No." He leaned back, cupped her face so that their eyes met. There wasn't pity in his, which she would have hated. There wasn't sympathy, which would have scraped her raw.

There was simply understanding.

"You couldn't have. Not you. You had to know, didn't you? You had to be sure if she'd known who he was to her. Now you do."

"Yeah, now I do. No one's that good an actress. She'll see herself, again and again, together with him. Over and over."

"Stop. You couldn't have changed that, no matter how she found out."

"Maybe not." She closed her eyes again, sighed. "I swiped at Peabody."

"She'll get over it."

"I came close to losing it, right out on the street. I nearly – "

"But you didn't." He gave her a little shake before she could speak again. "You irritate me, Eve. Why must you beat yourself up like this? You haven't slept in over thirty hours. You've entered into a phase of this investigation that hits so close to a personal horror most people would run away or shatter. You've done neither."

"I broke."

"No, Eve. You chipped." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Then you came home. Lie down for a bit. Close your eyes. Turn it off."

"I shouldn't have told you to leave me alone. I didn't mean it."