Denby's eyes flew open. He was in a strange bed. To his astonishment, he wasn't alone.

There, sleeping peacefully with her head resting on his outstretched arm like a pillow, was Diane. This was a dream he'd had many times before, and it took a moment before he came to accept the reality of her presence.

Yes -- it is true. This is no vision. Diane's delicate face was only inches from his. Her arms were tucked up like wings tight against her body, and her hands were clasped under her chin as if she were cold.

Then he remembered where they were and all that had happened back at her apartment. But he couldn't recall how she ended up in his room, let alone his bed.

All his nights spent following Don around had made him a day sleeper, as if he were working some sort of perverse swing shift. It wasn't at all unusual for him to be wide awake at four in the morning, and now he was most assuredly... wide awake.

To take his mind off of his growing desire, he attempted to unravel the mystery of her.

Harry understood women very well. Whether it was because he grew up with a house full of them, or just part of his ability to read people, he wasn't sure. But, more often than not, it was a curse rather than a blessing. For, while he understood them, he didn't know what to do with what he knew. His youth had been spent in prideful attempts to manipulate and conquer, and he regretted the broken lives he had left behind him.

Harry had known that his wife would someday leave him, and when she left with his partner five years ago, he wasn't surprised. He was, however, devastated.

He'd become a pariah in his own squad, unable to cope with both the loss and the humiliation. They didn't know what to do with him. Sure, there are all kinds of programs, counseling clinics and support groups for cops who lose their partners to the job. But losing your wife to your partner was taboo -- goes against the code, and no one would speak of it.

For all his brilliance, he no longer believed in anything, or anyone. An ugly crust began to form over his soul, fed by scotch and sorrow, and he dressed it up in glib sarcasm. Whenever the mood hit him, he would parade his philosophies like a gaudy monument to betrayal.

To his chagrin, Diane wouldn't join his parade, even though she had every reason too. Her partner was lying to her, even using her, and Diane never wavered in her commitment. Harry knew that Jill's need for Don would supersede her both her judgment and her dedication to the job. She was weak and he could read it in her eyes. Yet, even when Diane had everything to lose and nothing to gain, she had stayed steadfast.