He rubbed his face and looked away, out the door of the room. The hallway, like the rest of the house, remained lost in darkness.

�You did listen at the meeting,� it said, knowing he had, even if the only reason had been to better understand her. �I think you could learn something from that.�

He shot the apparition a sour look.

�I�m not an alcoholic,� he growled.

�Uh huh,� it commented.

�What�s that supposed to mean?� he demanded. �I�m not. If I were, that bottle would�ve been empty on the first day. I�d have . . .� He stopped short in his diatribe, his mind�s eye suddenly picturing Diane, fragile and drunk, holding the emptied bottle, wanting more. His throat constricted. �What did I do?� he whispered to himself.

Harry was silent.

It had been totally unnecessary to call her in at the warehouse. Oh, he�d known she was there, yes, but she and Sipowicz were only supposed to be witnesses to his �death�. It had been his decision alone to make her its instrument; his need to see her one last time, to make her, force her to feel something, even if it was hatred, even if he had to confess to every murder in the city to get her attention. And even then he�d had to leave her no professional choice but to pull the trigger.

But her eyes . . . had he seen . . . ?

No.

She had just been doing her job. Detective Russell, the good cop. Diane the perfect.

Or not.

What had he done?

�So, would you say you were powerless over . . . something . . . and that your life had become unmanageable?� Harry asked quietly.

He flinched. The lie came to his lips automatically. He started to give it voice, then stopped. Who was he arguing with anyway?