“How you holding up?” Neil asked when the guard showed me into his office.

I was getting used to the organized clutter and sat across from him. “I’m good,” I said with a shrug. “Taking a little break from the PI business at the moment.”

“Is everything okay?” he asked, alarmed.

“Oh, yeah. Just nothing too pressing. So what’s up? Can I see him, or is he still in the medical unit?”

Neil glanced down before answering. “I wanted to tell you this myself instead of them telling you in the visitation area.”

My heart lurched in my chest. “Did something happen? Is Reyes okay?”

“He’s fine, Charley, but … he refuses to see you.” He tilted his head in regret. “He had the state deny your application.”

I sat in stunned silence a full minute and absorbed the meaning of what he said. A vise locked around my chest and was inching closed. My periphery darkened. I could barely breathe, and I needed out of there. “Well, I’ll be going, then.” I rose and headed for the door.

Neil rounded his desk and caught my arm. “Charley, he’ll change his mind. He’s just angry.”

I offered a smile. “Neil, it’s okay. Just … take good care of him?”

“You know I will.”

I walked out of the prison with a smile on my face and drove home fighting the suffocating weight of sorrow tooth and nail. Wetness slipped past my lashes nonetheless. It was pathetic. I contemplated my future on the way. What would life be like without Reyes Farrow in it? He could no longer separate from his body. He could no longer come to me, talk to me, touch me, save my ass every other day. After a lifetime of having him practically at my beck and call, I was alone.

By the time I pulled into my apartment complex, I realized in a most deplorable and humbling way that I was now one of those women, one of the hundreds of women who tried to see him, who tried in vain to get close. I was Elaine Oake.

I was nobody.

After trudging to my apartment, I fired up my computer and skimmed a few e-mail messages marked urgent, two from Uncle Bob. Deciding they could wait, I exited and checked my fake e-mail while making up excuses to hit the sack at 11 in the A.M. I wanted to be productive, but lethargy sprinkled with traces of depression was calling to me. A message from Mistress Marigold popped onto the screen. It was probably the exact same message she’d sent Cookie and Garrett. Barely interested at that point—and wondering if I really needed to ever take another breath again—I clicked on the link and read it.

I’ve been waiting a long time to hear from you.