Beep. Beep. Beep. Isabeth listened to the heart monitor displaying Alex's robust heartbeat. She freely gave herself over to her mind as she watched the TV, Mennie Lewis jabbering away in front of Concord Memorial Hospital. Who was the person Yellman spoke of? One thing Isabeth was sure of was she wasn't it.

The man that had an unnatural infatuation with her was no more. Isabeth played fragments of the night over in her head. It had to be Harper or Faith. Faith, she thought. It had to be Faith! Egan. Who was this stranger?

"Umm." Alex moaned moving his head as it lay on a stack of pancake flat pillows.

Isabeth walked to his bed. She subtly smiled leaning over the bed rail. "How do you feel?" She stroked his black product-free mane.

"Where..." Alex coughed pulling struggling to pull himself up. "Am I?" His eyelids crept up, heavy from mammoth dose of diazepam shot into his vein.

"You're in the hospital," Isabeth removed a piece of lint from his eyebrow. Alex coughed. "Water." She reached back grabbing the salmon pitcher on the tray. She bent the stray placing it between his puckered lips. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he pulled in a long swallow of icy water. "You had a panic attack."

Alex pushed up his aching body. He threw his head back on the bounds of pillows as a sharp pinch stabbed in the bone of his hand. He raised his hand up; a clear cord dangled. "An IV. Really?"

"You collapsed. Stopped breathing. It could've been in your neck." Isabeth sat the pitcher on the tray and slid it back. "That's what happens when you stop taking your medicine."

"I don't need a lecture." He fiddled with the paper-thin sheet. "I'm sure Malachi will be in here to give me one."

"Maybe after he finishes paying your bail."

"I'm on bail!" He struggled to fully open his eyes.

"You're not handcuffed to the bed." Isabeth held back the curtain shielding the glass door. "See, no police outside your door." She released the curtain

"How much?"

"Does it matter?"

"The higher the bail, the guiltier you are perceived."

"Guilt does not factor into bail. Now, wealth an access to say—private planes does; that's way Judge Murdock sat it at..." Isabeth rubbed the smooth-tight skin of her neck, staring up at the tiles of the ceiling. "A million."

"Shit!" Alex sat straight up. "I'm going to jail."

"You're not." She pushed him back on his pillows. "Stop racing off the cliff. This is America. You're innocent until proven guilty. You hear that, INNOCENT." She softly held his face.

Alex wrapped his hand around her petite wrist, "Mental cases don't get that privilege." He pulled her hands from his face. "Plus, he had pictures."

"Pictures." She walked around the bed, "What kind of pictures."

"Of me..." he picked at the tape that kept the IV in place.

She slapped his hand off the tape, "Doing what?"

"Of me.... ch—"Alex tucked the hand IV hand under the sheet because if he saw it he'd pick at it. "Choking Fiona."

"Well, they're fabricated, of course."

"Who's going to believe that?"

"There's ways to prove if photos are doctored." She told. "We can prove their fake."

"That's just it. I don't think they are." He looked up at the television. A split screen of Mennie Lewis and Ted Strong with the banner, ALEX LEMEN: A WOLF AMONG SHEEP.

Isabeth grabbed the bulky remote sitting by his pillows and flipped the channel on Nickelodeon where reruns of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air took on their ten thousandth run. "You're not going to jail." She gripped the bedrail. "Trust me."

"What happened in Vermont? Yellman told you who was after Fiona."

Isabeth bit her bottom lip. She looked at the door, hearing the loud hectic noise of doctors, nurses, therapist, custodians, and dieticians; anyone could walk in at any time.

Alex pulled back the sheet and pile of blankets, "Lay with me." He patted the firm mattress. "Talk to me." Isabeth pushed down the rail, popped off her shoes and climbed in. His cold feet mingled with her warm feet absorbing her energy. He pulled her into him, lying on their sides. Isabeth dug her head in the pillows. "What happened?"

She tucked her hair behind her ear. "He's dead." She whispered.

"What?" He couldn't hear her over the heart monitor, blood pressure monitor, and outside noise that leaked in from the chaotic hallway.

Isabeth scooted in closer to him, "Yellman is dead. He slit his throat in front of us." She pulled her hair from behind her ear, turning on her back. She studied the bone-tinted tile on the ceiling, again, seeing if she missed something the first time. Lineless and sleek, the paint covered the ceiling. As if it was made that way. No crew lied out ratty sheets and rainbow splattered overalls spending hours on ladders dragging a brush from one side to the other.

His cold hand chilled her face. He peered at the confusion staining her eyes, "Someone killed him."

"Technically, no."

"What do you mean technically?"

"I mean." She twisted the heated blanket in her hands. "He cut his own...throat but he said he had to do it for serenity...of something."

"How does the make it technical?"

"He said gave her to him. It was his last words. Like, it was something he didn't do. Something he wished he did."

"Give her to him? If he wanted Fiona he could've just taken her. We were all drugged out. We wouldn't have known." Alex swallowed hard, the heavy dose of diazepam turning his throat into the Mojave. "We would've just assumed she split after we knocked out."

"Are you listening to what you're saying? If he wanted her he would have her even if Yellman didn't give her to him. You read Faulkner's The Sound of Fury and understood it. This I know you can grasp."

"Fiona..." He thought. "Was a pawn." He wrapped his arms around Isabeth's agitated body not caring about the pinch of the IV needle. He cradled her head against his pounding chest. She gripped onto him tighter and tighter with each minute that passed.

"We're playing checkers." He warm breath tickled her ear. "We're playing checkers."

Isabeth glanced at Alex's hand wrapped around her shoulder, "What happen to your hand?"

"I must've hurt my hand when I collapsed." He pulled his hand back tucking it under the blankets.

Isabeth sat up, "You have scabs on your hand and the bruises are healing." She pushed herself off the bed. "I'm going to ask you again, what happen to your hand and this time...don't lie."

"I told you the first time." Alex toyed with the blankets. "I must've hurt it when I collapsed."

Isabeth rubbed her strained eyes, "You're lying to me." She dropped her hands from her face. "I know you. You fiddle with things when you lie. You become defensive when you lie and you stick to your story with an air of arrogance. I know you too, just like you know me." She inhaled deeply. "You weren't working late that night or early, whatever it was and you for damn sure didn't hurt your hand today. My Aunt was right." Her eyes started to water and so did his. "I love you too much to see the truth."

Alex bit his jaw trying to hold back the wrong words that wanted to spill out his mouth. "And what is this truth you see."

"You're a deceiver." She flicked a tear from her cheek.