My heart pounds, steadily thumping in my chest. For a second, my whole body tenses, and my eyes shut as I anticipate the vision to hit me like a freight train. But it doesn't happen. Nothing comes.

I hold on a little tighter, and bile sours my mouth. Even now, nothing.

It's not going to work. I don't know if I really thought it would, but somehow, I'm still disappointed.

I pull away, stepping back in slow motion, trying to will a vision to come to me.

It's the first time I've ever felt this way. The first time I have ever wanted to watch someone die. And it's not working. Then again, that level of unfairness shouldn't be a shock to me. Nothing about my situation has ever been fair.

"Any leads on the perpetrator?" I hear Stan ask.

"He was smart," the cop replies. "We've got almost nothing on him. Whoever he is has a clean record. God, even the scene is perfect. Not a thing out of place. Ain't ever seen anything like it. There's no indication there was any penetration. Any idea why the killer would make it look like a rape? "

As I listen to the cop describe a killer, my heart plummets. This guy was sadistic— a killer who planned everything out, making the murder perfect, clean, crisp and down to the detail.

I realize that they have nothing. No leads. No idea where to go. He covered his tracks and made it look like a sex crime when it wasn't. There's so much here that doesn't quite add up, making things even more muddled and confusing.

I feel like the only one who can bring her justice. A vision would give them something to go off of, some means to identify who did this, but the sad truth is, I have nothing.

My phone starts buzzing, and since it's Chief Conrad, I have to answer. "Hey."

"Carrigan," Chief says. "Any visions yet?"

"I didn't see anything," I mutter in frustration. "I couldn't get anything out of it."

The chief sighs on the other end of the phone, the receiver picking up on the noise of his cheek scratching against the microphone. "You did all you were expected to do. Just let Reed and Walsh handle the rest."

But I can't bring myself to walk away from the case. I can't just abandon the task at hand. It sounds strange, having this sort of devotion to a woman I've never met, but I feel loyal to her. I feel like I have to help her in whatever way I can.

"I don't want to let them handle the rest," I tell him. "Is there any way I can assist in the investigation?"

He pauses for a second. I imagine he's got that frown on his face like he's thinking it over. "You have no obligation to uphold here. You don't have to do anything."

"I want to help," I press. "Please let me help."

"Fine, Carrigan," he replies. "If you insist, fine. Just don't do anything reckless."

I wasn't sure he'd give in, but the fact he did makes me feel somewhat victorious. "Thanks, Chief."

"Don't mention it, kid."

With that, he hangs up. As I'm slipping my cell back into my pocket, Joel taps me on the shoulder.

I can tell whatever he's got for me isn't good.

"We've got nothing on Valerie," he says. It's like he's having trouble believing it himself. "I hate being stuck like this on a case. The last thing I want is to have to consult the FBI on this."

When it comes to H2, Chief wants most of the stuff to be handled by the local authorities. He rarely brings in government officials if he can help it. All the detectives know it's a last resort, and it's clear the idea of it doesn't excite Joel one bit.

"Well don't tell me the bad news," I mutter sarcastically.

Joel pushes a hand through his cropped, dark hair. "I think we should talk to forensics one more time before we call it a day, make sure we didn't miss anything."

We both know it's a lost cause. It's obvious there's not gonna be much to go off of. When you work a job like this day in and day out, it's pretty clear what options are available and when.

The conversation could be over by now, but I don't think he's planning on leaving my side just yet.

"So, Vi," he starts.

Oh no.

I know that I don't want to be like the person we're trying to catch. I don't want to be a cold, faceless killer. I know that I could easily become one if I'm not careful with the Joel situation. My mind starts to buzz with possible excuses, ways that I can leave before he gets to know me any better. He won't realize it, but it's for his sake. I can't let him get close to me.

"I think I'm gonna go home," I interrupt, as an ominous gust of wind cuts right through my jacket and chills me to the bone. "I'm gonna do homework or something. Call me if you get a lead."

I start walking, but he puts an arm out in front of me and stops me mid-step. He notices my eagerness to leave immediately, and he looks... hurt. Regret pools in my gut. "Why do you do that, Violet?"

"Do what?"

"Act like I'm some awful person to be around."

"You're not," I say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. I feel like someone has crammed socks down my throat, like the secret I'm holding is trying to force its way up and out into the open for the world to see. "I just..."

"You just feel like shutting everyone out?" he guesses. "I know this is a heavy case, so if you want out, we can arrange it."

"That's not it," I say. "I just need to go. It's been a long day and I need a clear head for us to get a good lead. Don't worry about it."

The sky above us, already gray and overcast, cracks with thunder as the first drops of rain begin to fall, soaking my clothes and hair in minutes. It's only making things trickier for me.

"Can I drive you back to your apartment?" he asks, shivering from the bad weather. "It's freezing out here."

"I'll take the subway," I reply, wiping at my eyes and only succeeding in smearing obscene amounts of mascara all over my hands.

"Vi—"

I don't let him finish, I'm darting away as fast as I can before he can finish his thought, trying so desperately to find a solution to my problem without being completely and utterly horrible to him. The truth is that I wouldn't mind getting to know him if things were different. In this life, neither of us can afford that.

The subway station is crowded as ever. My sneakers squeak as I board the train car, my fingers clutching handrail tightly, as far away from anyone else's skin as possible. I text my roommate, Betsy, on the way and tell her I'll be back soon.

For some reason, I think about her death on the way home. She dies in her forties. Cancer. Even if it sucks, at least she won't be a case on the chief's desk. She'll get a proper burial and she'll have lived long enough to see and do most things.

Unlike Valerie.

I barely know Valerie. I couldn't tell you a single thing about her, but that doesn't mean that I don't value her life.

After seeing so much death in my lifetime, it's hard not to question if any of us make a real impact. Even so, doesn't every life mean something?

Walking from the subway station to my apartment is a less than pleasant endeavor, but I know there's no point in complaining about it. Careful not to slip as I climb the stairs, I watch my feet and walk slowly. My hands are still shaking and my teeth are chattering when I unlock the door.

Surprisingly, it swings open before I've finished turning the key. On the other side is Betsy, her blonde waves pulled up into a bun. She squints at me, obviously taking in my appearance.

"Your friend Stan came by yesterday, by the way, when you weren't home. He's a nice old dude, a little out there, though." She pauses, giving me a once-over. "You remind me of my cats when I used to try and bathe them. Did you walk home?"

I take a few strands of my hair in my hands and begin to wring them out. "Not in the mood, Betsy."

She pauses the TV in the middle of her soap opera, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, now I have to know what put you in a bad mood. Is the guy at the front desk bugging you?"

"No more than usual," I deadpan, kicking my shoes off next to the door. "It's just a new guy at the station."

"Oh, yeah?" She arches a brow. "Is he hot?"

"Why is that relevant?"

"Just answer the question."

I groan. "Stop."

Dismissively, I stride over to my bedroom and yank my sopping wet shirt over my head. As I scramble about the room trying to find something comfortable to wear, Betsy leans in the doorway and follows my frantic movements with a wry smile on her face. She knows I'm blushing.

"Well? I asked you a question."

"He's decent," I admit reluctantly. He is hot, but she doesn't need the ammunition. "It's not really him that's bugging me though. I can't talk about it."

The only person who knows what I can do is the chief. Betsy thinks I'm just an intern at the station because of my major, which is better than her knowing the truth. My mother thought my frantic babbling about how I predicted the death of my grandfather was from the trauma of finding his dead body. Nothing more.

He was my first vision. The one who started it all.

She wouldn't believe me if I told her what I could do anyway. She has no idea to this day that her child is an abomination.

"You can't talk about anything," Betsy observes. "Everything is vague details and secrets from you. We've lived together for a year, Vi."

"I'm sorry," I tell her, genuinely meaning it. The divide between me and the people in my life is overwhelming, but there's only so much they can know about me. I could just be crazy and the deaths could just be coincidences. The thought that I could be crazy is terrifying, but what's even scarier is the idea that it's not my brain just making things up. Either way, I can't share.

I wonder if there are other people like me. People who can do things.

I hope not. I don't want anyone to feel the way I do.

"I'm liberal, you know." She playfully punches my shoulder. "I'm open-minded."

"It's not an issue of open-mindedness," I tell her as I pick my dirty clothes off the floor and drop them into the laundry basket. "I've sworn to confidentiality about my cases anyway. The problem is that, with this one, there are no leads. It irks me because life isn't fair to perfectly nice people. I wish there was more justice. I wish innocent people didn't have to die."

Innocent people like Joel.

"What does the new hot guy have to do with the bad day thing?" she asks me. "Wait... is he one of those horndogs?"

"Horndogs?" I chuckle.

"I coined the term and I like saying it," she says defensively. "Now, explain why he bothers you."

"He asked me to go to lunch with him."

She considered this, clearly at a loss. "And how was that a bad thing?"

"I just don't think I'm ready for a relationship," I say. "Plus, I barely know him."

"How is being single forever not enough time to be ready? And isn't the point of a date to get to know someone?"

I sit down on the edge of my bed, contemplating it. I wouldn't mind him buying me lunch if this was a normal situation. But it's not. I'm not like Betsy. I don't get to just curl my hair, put some makeup on, and go out and be normal.

"How about we stop talking about boys?" she suggests, reading my expression. "I think we both need time off from guys."

"Did it not go well with that Joey dude?"

"He's not really my type," says Betsy.

That's all she has to say for me to understand that she doesn't really want to talk about it. I drop the issue just like she did for me. We have a great coexistence. We aren't really friends, but we work well together. She gives me my space, I give her hers.

Sometimes I wish we were closer, but it's hard for me to be close to anyone when I know what's going to happen to them.

We watch a few movies on Netflix for the rest of the night, not doing much of anything. It offers a minimal distraction to me, but in the back of my mind, I can still hear Joel telling me he loves me and the sound of a gunshot.

I won't kill him. I won't. And I won't let him get any closer to me.

"You good, girl?" Betsy asks as the credits roll on our first film.

"Yeah," I fib. "I'm fine."