Utterly conflicted, I keep clicking links, especially the ones about him and his parents.

Gina’s chowing on cereal in her effort to get rid of the cocktail buzz she’s still harboring when we get a knock on the door, and all I hear, after she goes to answer it, are the words “. . . apartment 3C . . . dead . . .”

My blood freezes in my body as I watch Gina close the door, put her hands over her face, and burst into tears.

“Gina!” I gasp.

“Miss Sheppard,” she chokes out.

An image of her smiling, just the other day, with her pets outside, hits me. One second my face is dry, the next it’s wet with tears. This scene, this fear, of huge, unexpected loss, has haunted me my whole life. It’s been there since my father’s death, even before I had reason enough to know it was there. A feeling of complete vulnerability. Of having your world always spin and never be still for a minute for you to get your bearings.

It turns out that Lindsey Sheppard, our neighbor a few floors down, was shot and killed by a group of young men driving by in a vehicle only an hour ago.

Miss Sheppard didn’t make it to the hospital alive.

Gina and I are so shocked that, after crying passionately for ten minutes and hugging each other, we turn on the TV and watch the news. I snivel, she snivels, we both snivel. I call my mom and ask if she’s all right. She asks if I’m all right. I lie and say that I am.

“I swear I will die happy the day I don’t see all this in the news,” Gina sighs wearily, grabbing the remote and switching off the TV. She flips open my laptop and settles next to me so that we can search the news online.

When the information we find is a repeat of what we watched on the news, she gives up and pads over to the kitchen.

I’ve got a ton of new Google alerts, which I’d set with the keywords Malcolm Saint. Impulsively, I click on a few and am led to a popular news and gossip blog. I scan the heading and today’s date and play the video. After a fifteen-second advertisement, I see Saint’s face flash onto the screen, and a slow, dull ache begins to grow in my chest as several pictures of him pop up on the video screen. He’s in a black suit, black tie, his hair slicked back, walking through a throng of people. He looks untouchable and mentally elsewhere.

The clips are apparently from earlier tonight, where he was present at a business function—and the corporate shark was remarkably alone, says a background voice. Speculation regarding whether he’s in his first serious known involvement with a young reporter has been storming the Net. . . .

“Maybe he was alone at the function, but I bet he’s not alone now,” Gina offers as she pours herself some water and promptly takes one of her sleeping pills.

Since my little crush seems to be developing into a big one, her words don’t make me feel good at all. In fact, after what happened to Miss Sheppard tonight, I can’t feel anything but wretched now.

“Don’t gooooo,” I whine, grabbing her arm as she heads to bed. “Gina, stay, I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Ah, you poor wee baby.” She pats the top of my head and says, “Good night.”

I sniffle a little more and try to remember the last time I saw Miss Sheppard. I’d been heading out, ready for my tour of the Interface building. She’d been walking her dog . . . and she’d been kind to me, as always. I feel bad for her dog, her cat. I feel bad for the entire world for being without Miss Sheppard.

Then I keep watching the news and listen to them speak of M4 venturing into pharmaceuticals.

I realize he’s this sexy daredevil and I’m this safe, scared workaholic who lives with her heart on her sleeve and therefore is always vulnerable. When you come out of your box, I’ll be waiting.

Oh, Rachel, what are you doing?

I charge to the bathroom and slip into the shower, tying my hair up so it doesn’t get wet. Guilt is such a volatile thing. I always feel guilt when somebody dies like this. Guilt for not doing more; guilt for being alive. We use so many defense mechanisms to cope. Anger, denial, tears, but my mechanism has always been action. Many of the actions I’ve taken in my life have been taken to combat my fears and numb the pain.

I never, ever expected they would lead me to a man. Much less this man. I pick out my lingerie with him in mind. White, because I know he’s experienced, but I’m not . . . and I want him to be careful. My dress? With him in mind. My black pumps too. Hell, I breathe right now with him in mind. And I comb my hair fast and hard until it gleams and falls behind me, and as I grab my keys from my vanity and look at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder who the sex-starved, desperate crazy person looking back at me is.

I’ve heard Saint has several places in Chicago, but the only one I know for certain that he’s been using lately is the huge penthouse crowning the top of a billion-dollar mirrored-glass skyscraper that overlooks both Lake Michigan and Michigan Avenue. I leave a note to Gina saying out tonight, just in case she wakes up and worries, then I head down to the lobby and outside to a taxi.

He may still be at the fund-raiser, Rachel, I chide myself. He may be heading somewhere else after that—and not alone.

But nothing I can say is really filtering through enough to change my course as I climb into the taxi. I feel like I’ve been at the end of a rubber band stretched to its breaking point and now I’m flying in the air, not knowing where I’ll land.

I just want to see him.

I tell myself that is all I want.

I’m not drunk.

I’m in full possession of my senses, but at the same time, I’ve lost them all.

From the back of the cab, I peer out at the looming high-rises, the shiny windows, the bustling streets, and then, with the big ol’ knot I get with anything Saint-related, the luxury high-rise where Saint is supposed to live as he gets a “bigger” place renovated comes into view.

Unease accompanies every click of my heels on the pristine floors as I cross the lobby. “Hi.” I approach the concierge, wondering what Sin will do when he sees me here. “Rachel Livingston to see Mr. Saint. He’s not expecting me.”

He assures me not to worry as he promptly dials a number.

Judging by how quickly he’s handling this, I assume this happens often.

He announces me, then instructs, “Please. Straight to the top.” A staff member by the elevators slides a key in, I suppose to secure top-level elevator access, and then he hops off and sends me on my way.

Oh wow, what am I doing?

Please god, don’t let him be with a floozy. . . .