He never made a sound, except for grunts and the pistonlike sound of his breath. I knew he was going to kill me; I knew every second because I'd seen what he'd done to the woman in the desert. When he was done, he would kill me.

Tell me what you know!

I lost hope.

I lost myself.

And then, when he had what he wanted, he shoved my head into the ice-cold water, and held me down to die.

I woke up screaming, or thought I did, but when my head was clear enough to register sound I realized it was just a thin, desperate moan vibrating in the back of my throat. I curled up on my side, drawing my knees to my chest, and realized that I wasn't wearing my new heavy silk sheath dress anymore. I wasn't wearing anything. The sheets clung cool to my damp skin, and I grabbed for them and wrapped them closer.

Someone in the room. My heartbeat hammered fast. I licked my lips and whispered, "David?" but I already knew that it wasn't, it couldn't be. David was far, far away, and he couldn't help me. Couldn't be with me, any more than he'd been there in the darkness of that cave while hope died.

Without meaning to, I slid my palm down from my chest to my abdomen, where a flicker of light remained. I am with you, something whispered, and some of the panic in me eased.

A light flicked on across the room, and revealed a sleepy-looking Quinn. He was reclining in a chair, feet up on a rich damask hassock, book folded open on his chest, a pair of reading glasses on the table next to the lamp.

Gun beside the glasses.

"Hey." His voice sounded rusty. He sat up, blinked at the book as it slid down to flop shut on his lap, and readjusted on me again. "How's the head?"

One big bruise. "Fine."

"The doc said you had a mild concussion, so somebody should stay with you. Lewis needed rest. You sleep okay?"

"Fine." Not. But I wasn't going to admit it to him.

He grunted and ran a hand over his face. Quinn was the kind of man who got more attractive from a day's growth of beard stubble, not less. "Yeah. You always whimper like that in your sleep when you're fine?"

"Mostly." I kept it cool and distant. "Clothes?"

"Sorry, I didn't figure you'd want to sleep in the three-grand dress. It's hanging in the closet." He was looking at me oddly. I wondered what my body language was saying. "Lewis took it off you, in case you're wondering."

"Thanks. You can go now."

"And you think I take your orders?" He sat up, kicked away the hassock, and holstered the gun. The glasses went into a pocket of his jacket, the book onto the table. "Coffee?"

"I want you to go." The panic was coming back, speeding up my nerves like a slow electric shock. "Go now."

"Sweetheart, I'm not going-"

"Go!" I screamed. It had the raw edge of panic. He froze. Watched me. I struggled to get my breath under control. "Just get out, okay? I want to dress."

He reached into the closet and retrieved three hangers draped with fabric, tossed them on the end of the bed, along with a sealed bag tied with a white ribbon. "You've got a selection," he said. "They cleaned your old stuff. I think they even threw in some new underwear and shit."

His eyes were dark and far too knowledgeable. "Get the fuck out, Quinn."

"I'll be in the bathroom. Oh, by the way, there's somebody outside the door, so don't bother. You won't get far."

He went in and shut the door. I crawled out from under the sheets and ripped the ribbon off the bag, shook out clean underwear, and stepped into them with a deep sense of relief. The skirt had been laundered and pressed; even the knit top looked like shiny and new. I slid my feet into the designer knock-offs, carefully bagged the midnight-blue Manolos, and draped the bag over the hanger with the silk dress.

"Okay?" Quinn's voice came through the door. I sat down on the edge of the bed, aware of a thousand pinpoint aches, of exhaustion, of an unsettling trembling in my hands. Of a headache that would kill me on other, less eventful days.

"Yeah," I said. "Fine."

He opened the door and stood there for a few seconds, watching me. I didn't look up as I focused on combing tangles out of my hair with my fingers. It was futile; the curls were back with a vengeance. Quinn wordlessly ducked back into the bathroom.

A sleek faux-ivory brush appeared under my nose. I looked up to see that he was holding it out. I took it and began dragging it through my curly hair, wishing I could make it straight again, wishing I could make everything straight again.

Straight and clean and simple.

"Better?" he asked, when I put the brush aside. I nodded. "Toothpaste and lotion and all kinds of crap in there. Probably ought to check it out."

I didn't move. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Ask Lewis."

I would, while I was hitting him repeatedly with my fist. Hitting something sounded really, really good right now. Not Quinn, though. Quinn would hit back.

I got up, fought off the various grinding aches and pains, and went into the bathroom to inspect the damage. On the bright side, it wasn't as bad as if I'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight; on the dim side, it definitely gave me a piratical, dangerous look. No makeup available; I did my best with lotion and toothpaste and mouthwash, ran the brush through my hair until the curls became glossy black waves. I needed sunglasses. That would complete the picture of the battered wife.

When I came out, Lewis had arrived, and he'd brought reinforcements. As in, Myron Lazlo, Charles Ashworth II, and Gnarly Guy, whose name I learned was Rupert McLeish. They also brought breakfast in the form of black hot coffee and some truly excellent pastries, which I cheerfully accepted; no sense in going on a hunger strike, especially since I planned to kick the ever-loving crap out of them the first chance I got.

Out the expansive windows, Las Vegas was still lit up like Christmas, but the clock reported it was nearly four a.m.

"So," I asked around a mouthful of muffin, "have you blown the kid's head off yet, or are you saving that for the big finale?"

The Ma'at had taken up seats in the various comfortable armchairs, except for Lewis, who-stubborn as usual-remained standing, braced by his cane. Quinn manned a strategic vantage point in the corner. I'd settled on the edge of the bed that was closest to the breakfast tray.

"We don't find any of this amusing, Miss Baldwin," Ashworth said severely.

"Really?" I said, and raised my eyebrows. "Neither do I, but I figured it was right up the rich-white-guy humor alley. And just a comment, but don't you guys ever take off the suits? 'Cause it's kind of strange. Really."

Lazlo, Ashworth, and McLeish were all still in conservative business attire-blues and grays, with perfectly knotted silk ties. Still perfectly turned out. Lewis was, as always, informal. He'd given up the denim shirt in favor of a ratty old NYU T-shirt with a hole at the neck. No flannel. I kind of missed the flannel look for him.

Lazlo looked over at Quinn. "Has she been cooperative?"

"Sure." That was nice of him, but then, being a cop, he probably had sliding scales of cooperation. I hadn't actually tried to hit him with a blunt object, at least.

Lazlo turned his attention back to me. "That was quite a display you put on in our lobby, Miss Baldwin. What exactly was the point of that?"

I was starting to wonder myself; Rahel still hadn't appeared to save my ass, and I was starting to suspect that I'd been robbed. "I wanted out."

"You might have asked nicely."

"You might have said no."

Lazlo's lips curled faintly, and he and Lewis exchanged a look. "We regret the extreme measures taken to subdue you. I trust you are feeling better?"

"Much." I noticed Ashworth wasn't providing the apology. "Nobody else got hurt, right?"