When Stan and Joel arrive, I don't turn to face the door right away. Instead, I keep my head down. The stress headache has already begun. Pain that stems from the back of my head works its way forward like a wildfire. I get them too often for it to be anything but expected. The migraines are another fun side effect of the powers I barely understand.

"Nice seeing you again," Joel says, dropping down into the seat beside me. "I must say, we have got to stop running into each other. I might have to buy you a drink if this keeps up."

"I don't drink," I say quickly. It's not true, but he doesn't have to know it.

"Oh," he says, but it doesn't stop there. "So how about a soda then? Lunch?"

Stan nudges me from my other side. "He's charming, I would go for it if I were you."

I know that my face is probably turning red at this moment, so I defensively cross my arms and grip my shirt in my fists tightly. It's not like I want to reject Joel, but I feel like I have no other choice. He's nice and all, but if fate is to be believed, I will kill him if he falls for me.

Thankfully, the chief interrupts. "You three can discuss your social lives later, we have a case you need to get working on."

"Sorry," we chorus.

"What's the damage?" Stan asks, reaching for the case file off the desk. He turns it over in his hands and angles it so that Joel can look as he flicks through it.

"Murder investigation, of course," Chief says flatly. "When isn't it a murder investigation?"

Joel clenches his jaw, his face shifting from his playful smile to a somber look. This is the world-class detective the NYPD picked up. This is the man who might make it easier to change destiny. It's funny how one person can have two contrasting personalities.

I've always found it funny, how detectives can seemingly change from people to machines in a matter of seconds. It's such a simple alteration: the smile falling from one's lips, eyes switching off their glimmer of hope and disappearing into a stone-cold expression.

I can't help but wonder if I turn stone-cold too when the visions take over.

"Where?" Joel asks.

Chief gives an address, but I'm not hearing it. I'm so lost in my head that every word spoken, though I can hear it, doesn't register as anything other than white noise. Like static in the back of my mind.

Stan gets my attention. "Let's get going, Violet."

I trail behind reluctantly, wanting to stay. My hair falls loose from my ponytail, swinging behind me as I struggle to keep up with them. Joel leads us as we walk, his strides long and purposeful.

"What's the rush?" Stan questions, chuckling as he speeds up to walk beside Joel.

Joel gives him a determined look, the set of his gaze commanding authority. "We're gonna get this girl justice as soon as possible. I figure it's a good idea to have a sense of urgency."

I know I'm supposed to avoid him, but there's nothing about him at first glance that merits any dislike from me. He's nice, genuine. He wants to help people and save lives. He cares. For Joel, there's no detachment from the job. It's almost personal for him, personal enough to provide motivation.

When we get to the garage, Joel decides to drive. He's got a standard black SUV issued by the department: a simple car that doesn't stand out too much in the streets. Stan climbs in the passenger seat, so I head around to the driver's side to get into the back.

Joel's opening the door for me before I can reach for the handle.

"Something wrong, Vi?" He leans against the vehicle. "You've barely said two words."

That voice. His voice. The rumble of it is so distinct. I can't get him out of my head.

"It's okay, Vi... Just make it quick, and you'll walk out of here."

I recoil at the memory of his words flashing through my mind, fresh and loud as they were when I heard them spoken for the first time.

"Please don't call me Vi," I say quickly, my voice almost frantic. It comes out as one syllable more than coherent thought. "An ex-boyfriend called me that. I don't like it."

The dimples at the corners of his mouth are infectious. "Okay, guess I better change the association with the nickname. Maybe you'll hate it less if someone you like says it."

"What if I don't like you?" I blurt without thinking.

If he doesn't call me Vi, that's one less part of the vision to account for.

"Ouch." He gestures to his chest, patting his coat just above his heart. "That really hurts, Vi. Look, don't let a bad boyfriend ruin the nickname. I already call you Vi inside my head, so it's too late to change it."

"Looks like he's won," Stan calls from the front. "Now, would you get in the car so we can figure out what went wrong at that crime scene?"

Joel gives me a wink, swings open his door and unceremoniously plops in the driver's seat. He raps his fingers against the steering wheel, making ticking clock noises with his tongue as if to make me go faster. I pull my seatbelt across my chest and keep my eyes fixed out the window as the car pulls out of the parking spot.

New York is as chaotic as ever. People race in different directions, milling around like ants searching for food. They swarm as they cross the street, cut into traffic when it isn't their turn to cross. Tourists. Pedestrians. Each one with a story— one beginning and an end. An end that I just might see.

I swallow hard, trying not to think about it. For the average Joe, death is a lingering background thought. The sort of thing you know exists but rarely talk about, like gravity. For me, it's a force, a weight on my back, a reminder that I am never going to be normal.

I know I'm going to fall into a thought spiral. I pull myself out of it, gripping tightly onto sanity and hoping I don't slip into a never-ending panic of what-if.

Breathe, Violet, I think to myself. Breathe.

The drive consists of fifteen minutes of silence, with the occasional four-letter word as Stan hollers at rude drivers slowing traffic down. Joel never loses his patience, which only makes me more frustrated. He's too good.

He doesn't deserve to die.

He doesn't deserve to die at my hands.

I don't want to be a monster.

I don't want this story to end the way I saw it unfold. If I die before I'm holding a gun to Joel Reed, so be it. I will not let it happen.

Even though we're sitting in silence for most of the drive, my thoughts are louder than the ambient noise of the city.

We get there, and everyone goes quiet.

There's a look officers get when they're milling about a crime scene. It's clear if they feel a connection to the victim, if they know what they're looking for in a suspect, etcetera. The worst look though, the worst aspect of a crestfallen face, is when it's clear that this will be another case lost in the back of the filing cabinet. Another one that goes unsolved.

I've only seen it one other time. Every other case I've ever worked on went solved. This is a rarity.

I've never wanted a vision, let alone this much, in my life.

"Vic's name is Valerie Grant," one of the officers explains as he lifts the yellow police line tape for us to step under. "Twenty-five. Abrasions all over the body, neck down to the feet. Cause of death is a slit throat, presumably from a small handheld blade. Something unassuming, but sharp enough to cause damage."

Joel pokes his tongue in his cheek. "Got it, anything else we should know?"

The cop eyed the sheet covering the body once more. "I think she knew her killer."

"And what makes you say that?" Stan questions.

"It doesn't appear that there was any struggle before they were out of visibility. My theory is she and this guy took a shortcut to wherever they were headed. Seems planned, too." He shakes his head, a silent mourning sort of gesture. "Poor thing probably had no idea what was coming."

Stan stays back with the officer to ask him further questions, allowing Joel and me to mill about the scene. The crowds have cleared out, and only a few people remain. I watch them finish marking where Valerie was found and follow her corpse to the ambulance.

This is my cue. It's now my turn to do what I'm supposed to do. The whole reason I was enlisted on this case was to try and get answers where there didn't appear to be any.

She's in a blue body bag now, but it isn't completely zipped all the way. There's no one to stop me from reaching in. I have goosebumps just thinking about it. I don't want to touch a lifeless girl. I don't want to be doing this.

Summoning some courage, I manage to brush my fingers against her cold, lifeless ones.