The police code for homicide is 187. I know that code the best.

I sleep with my phone next to my bed, the ringer turned up so that it'll rattle against the bedside table and shock me awake when they need me down at a scene. The chief calls, I come. Simple as that. I've trained myself to hear it. I'm never deep enough in sleep to miss a message. The officers are always ready for the worst, and so am I.

It's 2:37 am.

I'm somewhere between nightmares when the first ring goes off, my ringtone as loud and piercing as the speakers can manage. For a second, I don't realize my phone is ringing, but in a matter of seconds, I'm less discombobulated. I fight through the haze of sleep and reach over, blindly fumbling in the dark until my fingers close around the case of my iPhone.

Squinting at the screen, I raise my cell to my ear. "Hello?" I mutter groggily.

"Carrigan?" A familiar voice says.

Matt Conrad. Police chief. NYPD. He's got a wife and two kids, probably even some friends, but I have a feeling I'm at the top of his speed dial. I'm a quick solution for a case, a valuable tool, or something like that.

By his tone, I know this can't be good. My heart picks up speed when I hear someone speaking into a radio in the background, and the three dreaded letters ring out. 1-8-7. There's been a homicide. There are plenty in a city this size, but if he's calling me, it's because I saw it coming.

"Hi," I groan, throwing an arm over my face. "Where am I going this time?"

Pleasantries are overrated. It's early— or late depending on how you look at it— and there's no point in acting like the situation is anything but dreary. Visiting a crime scene is far from a pleasant experience. There will be blood. I'll be asked lots of question. That's the deal. It's how it works.

"Homicide. Vic is Trenton Anderson. You were right, Carrigan. Ten gunshots to the chest. The whole thing was a savage murder. We need you to get down here and give the sketch artist a description of the killer."

Chief Conrad is a man of few words. Every sentence he speaks is concise, to the point, just ready to state it like it is. It's admirable, really, that he doesn't waste all of his time filling the empty spaces in conversation with pointless talking. We both don't say much. I think it's why we get along so well.

"How do I go about talking to a sketch artist if I wasn't there, Chief?" I yawn.

"You know full well that you were there." He lowers his voice. "Just not in the traditional sense. Forty-three cases you've solved. I don't believe in a god, not with the way these streets are, Violet. But I have my money on you. You tell 'em you live in the apartments across the street. I can handle the rest. We're counting on you for a solid lead."

We're counting on you. I could pay off my student loans if I got a dollar every time I heard that. It's not like Chief makes me do any of this; I came to him with what I could do, after all. The thing is, I can't walk away anymore. This is what gives me purpose.

I'm climbing out of bed now, my phone tucked in between my shoulder and my chin as I reach for a pair of jeans off the floor. For a second, the blood rushes from my head to my legs, leaving me dizzy enough to need to brace myself against the desk for support. The street light acts as my only guidance as I fumble for the light switch.

For a second there's only silence between the chief and me, my mind racing.

Every day there's a blur of deaths, each time my skin brushes another person's. It near kills me every time it happens. This one was a few weeks ago, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before the call came, dragged me out of my slumber, and sent me on another goose chase. He was a man I bumped into at the grocery store. I took a picture of him before I called it in.

I've never said a word to him, but I grieve for him all the same. Life ends, and no one can really say when. No one except for me. He's another person, gone before he's had a whole lot of time. It's unfair, but he's one of many. Somehow, it still gets me down.

Remarkably, I've also never seen my own death. I've started to wonder if I ever will.

"You with me, Carrigan?" Chief snaps me back to reality.

"Yeah," I say, rubbing my eyes. "I'm fine, Chief. Just tired."

"Aren't we all," he says drily. "Get down here as soon as you can. We're on the Lower East Side. I'm sending you the address now."

With that, the line goes dead.

I slide my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and exhale through my nose, searching for my leather jacket. It's a wardrobe staple I never leave the house without, along with the gloves I wear that usually prevent visions. It only happens the first time I touch someone. A handshake. My arm brushing yours on the subway. All of it. So much noise, every day and all the time. Drives a girl crazy after a while. If there's no skin contact, my head belongs to me for a few more seconds each day.

When it's too hot, I can't wear the gloves, and usually, it brings fresh hell upon me when the weather isn't accommodating. Since it's a cool night, I plan on wearing them. Problem is, I can't find them. After minutes of searching, I realize I'm running late and give up.

Here's hoping it won't bite me in the ass.

I grab my keys and head down the winding stairwell that leads up to my narrow little matchbox of an apartment. Leaving at an unholy hour has given me the skill of keeping my footfall light so that no one hears me as I go to and from the house.

The city truly never sleeps. There's the constant hum of traffic, the voices of people speaking in different tongues, and the beating of my own heart to keep my senses occupied. It's cold tonight, and the frigid air is cutting straight through my jacket.

When I'm on a time crunch, I take my motorcycle. I don't drive it unless I have to, since traffic in New York is awful most times of the day. The subway is too slow and eerie at late hours, so I steer clear. I find my bike in the garage and climb on, ready to be on my way.

I've hit my twenties. I go to college here like any other kid with her heart set on the big city. I know that I could easily settle down somewhere in the middle of nowhere, but this is my cross to bear. Death himself is my companion and a storm cloud looming over me. He holds my hand, reminding me that I am not, and will never be, a normal girl. I know this, better than anyone else, and I live with it. I picked a city like this to help people while my feet still walk the Earth, because hiding and wallowing won't make it go away.

Since most people are off the road, I speed through easily. It's never quiet, but I've learned to appreciate the moments where the noise has died down enough to be close enough. I get to the scene soon enough, and Chief Conrad is waiting, immediately turning his head the second he hears my bike.

I park along the street, taking long strides toward the yellow line of police tape. Chief acknowledges me, just a short jerk of his chin, and gestures for me to follow him away from the bulk of the crowds.

Right through the police line I go. I'm basically invisible and I like it that way.

"I need to make sure we have the same Anderson," he says quietly.

I nod, slipping my phone from my pocket and swiping my finger across the screen to unlock it. It occurs to me now that I never bothered with a passcode. Just wastes time, I suppose.

"That's him," he says gravely when he sees the photo I managed to snap. "It's a shame, he seems like he was a good man. At least the person who did this will be behind bars. Good work, Carrigan."

I shrug nonchalantly. I don't want him to know that I feel like I have to act on my visions and that the faces of the killers keep me awake at night. Each vision creates vivid portraits I'll never be able to forget. I've unfortunately also been gifted a great memory, which is the icing on the cake.

The sketch artist is a different one, per usual. It would only make me a suspect in a number of murder investigations if the same guy noticed that I always had a description of the man or woman who would later be in cuffs.

The killer looks like a family man. He has a chubby face and watery blue eyes, a beard. The thing that is most vivid about him is his tattoo: the names of his kids, I assume, painted in color on his forearm. He wears glasses, drives a minivan. Not the type to be guilty of something like this.

Then again, you never really know what a stranger is capable of.

I guess this Anderson guy must've really pissed him off. Some people snap like rubber bands. There's no trick for knowing who's the type to lose it.

Eventually, the artist closes his sketchpad and tells me I can go. That I've been helpful. That I should be proud of myself for being such a model citizen. What he doesn't realize is that I'm not better than the killer. I don't feel like a good human being.

There's something wrong with me, something really wrong with me.

Chief pulls me aside again before I can go, his eyes holding curiosity. I know the look. I know the question that comes after it. Frankly, I'm surprised he's never asked before.

"You've never told me how I die," he says. "Carrigan, I know that it scares the hell outta me to think that you've got my future in that head of yours, but I think it's about time I hear it."

His is a quiet end, the kind I wish I saw more. He dies in his sleep at ninety-five. When I tell him, the relief that floors across his face is evident, obvious. Carrying the weight of knowing his death could be violent would have been too much for me, so knowing that he would be getting the quiet death so many people wish for is less grief to drag behind me.

Chief is a lucky man, I suppose. At least his death isn't a secret I have to carry anymore. At first, I thought he didn't want to know. I guess most people can't fight the curiosity after enough time has passed.

Our conversation, however short it was, is interrupted by a man clearing his throat behind me.

He's in leather like me, a simple plaid shirt under his jacket. I know right away that he's a detective, just by looking at him. They carry an energy with them I've come to identify after working with Chief. He must be new because I haven't seen him around.

He flashes us his badge, tucking it back into his coat seamlessly as he extends his hand to the chief.

"Detective Joel Reed," he says, green eyes alight in the dark of the street. They contrast with his light brown skin sharply. Right away, I notice how distinct they are.

"Reed." Chief nods in recognition. "Heard the work you did in Seattle was something else. I was wondering when you would join our team."

"Just glad to be here," Reed replies.

He gives a small smile, the sort of smile meant to appear humble, but judging by the way he sets his shoulders and the confidence he exudes, I know right away that he knows he's good. He's self-aware, but not too cocky. He's probably a good guy.

Maybe.

If I were the type to let anyone close, I might find out.

"Who's this?" Detective Reed asks, glancing my way. I notice he towers over me, a good eight inches. I'm only average height, he's easily over six feet tall, so I have to look up at him a bit.

"Violet Carrigan," Chief supplies. "Intern. She's a good kid."

"Nice to meet you, Violet." Reed extends his hand for a shake, eyes crinkled at the corners, his scruffy jaw illuminated by his smile.

I'm not wearing my gloves.

If I touch him...

Oh, God.

I stare down at his hand for a second, then look back up at him. My heart starts going at a million miles an hour, and I feel like it's going to force its way out of my chest and explode.

I can't stall forever without looking crazy, so I swallow hard and let his fingers brush against my palm. Without any more hesitation, I squeeze his hand and shake.

The vision hits me like a train.