By Mara's fourth day at the DeLuca estate, she had identified three things Vincent hated.

Being helped.

Being pitied.

And daylight.

The first two made sense.

The third didn't.

His bedroom remained dark twenty-four hours a day.

Heavy charcoal curtains covered every window from ceiling to floor.

Even during physical therapy, Vincent allowed only two lamps.

Mara had stopped asking.

Until Thursday.

"Stand."

"No."

Vincent sat on the edge of the bed, wearing black sweatpants and a gray T-shirt.

Mara held the gait belt.

"You stood yesterday."

"And today I'm not."

"Compelling argument."

"My leg hurts."

"Your leg hurt yesterday."

"Today it hurts more."

"Pain scale?"

"Go to hell."

"That's not a number."

"Ten."

"You're lying."

"Eleven."

Mara tossed the belt onto the bed.

For four days, she had watched him improve.

The fever was down.

The wound looked cleaner.

His sensation was returning.

His appetite was better.

But the moment progress became real, Vincent retreated.

It wasn't his body stopping him anymore.

It was something else.

"Fine."

Mara walked away.

Vincent looked suspicious.

"Fine?"

"Yep."

"You're giving up?"

"On today's therapy? Absolutely."

She crossed the room.

Toward the windows.

Vincent's entire body changed.

"Stop."

Mara reached the first curtain.

"Mara."

She turned.

He wasn't angry.

Not yet.

He was afraid.

That was new.

"What?"

"Step away from the window."

"Why?"

"You know the rule."

"I know Tony's rule."

"My rule."

"Why?"

His face hardened.

"Because I said so."

Mara looked at the curtains.

Then at the man who had spent four days fighting everyone trying to keep him alive.

Something clicked.

The darkness.

The isolation.

The refusal to stand.

The insistence on controlling every tiny thing because every important thing had been taken from him.

"You've been in this room for weeks."

"Move away from the window."

"No."

Vincent's voice dropped.

"Don't test me."

Mara laughed.

It was the wrong reaction.

His hand slammed against the mattress.

"I said don't touch those curtains!"

The shout echoed through the room.

Outside, footsteps stopped in the hallway.

Mara didn't move.

"Why?"

"Because they're mine."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

Mara looked at him.

"You know what I think?"

"I don't care."

"I think you survived whatever happened to you, and now you're hiding in here waiting to become exactly what your enemies wanted."

His face went still.

"Careful."

"No."

Mara stepped closer to the curtain.

"You can feel your foot."

"Don't."

"You stood yesterday."

"Mara."

"Your infection is improving."

His voice became quieter.

More dangerous.

"Take your hand off that curtain."

She hadn't realized she'd grabbed the fabric.

Now she did.

Vincent stared at her hand.

Mara's heart beat harder.

She knew she was crossing a line.

Maybe Tony had been right.

Do the medical work.

Don't try to fix what's inside his head.

But Mara had watched people surrender before.

Not die.

Surrender.

Sometimes the body remained alive long after the person decided they were finished.

She wasn't going to watch Vincent do it.

"You survived the bullets," she said.

His eyes snapped to hers.

She had guessed.

The reaction told her she was right.

"I'm not going to watch you die because you're afraid of daylight."

"Don't."

One word.

Not an order this time.

A plea.

Mara hesitated.

Then pulled.

The curtains flew apart.

Winter sunlight exploded into the room.

Vincent recoiled as if she'd struck him.

For the first time, Mara saw the bedroom clearly.

The dark wood.

The fireplace.

The enormous windows.

Beyond them, a snow-covered garden stretched behind the mansion.

Bare rosebushes surrounded a stone fountain.

In the center stood a small white gazebo.

It was beautiful.

Mara turned.

Vincent wasn't looking at her.

He was staring outside.

His face had lost all color.

"What did you do?"

His voice was barely audible.

Mara's anger disappeared.

"Vincent?"

"Close them."

She didn't.

"Close them."

His breathing changed.

Too fast.

Mara crossed the room.

"Look at me."

"Close the goddamn curtains!"

He swept everything from the bedside table.

A lamp crashed.

Medication bottles rolled across the floor.

Tony burst through the door.

His eyes went first to Vincent.

Then the open windows.

Then Mara.

"Oh, Christ."

Mara ignored him.

Vincent's pulse raced beneath her fingers.

"Vincent. Look at me."

He jerked his hand away.

"Get her out."

"Vincent—"

"GET HER OUT!"

Tony took Mara's arm.

"Come on."

She pulled free.

"No."

Tony's voice hardened.

"Mara."

She looked at Vincent.

He was still staring at the garden.

Not furious.

Destroyed.

And suddenly Mara knew she'd made a mistake.

Not medically.

Personally.

She had torn open something she didn't understand.

Mara closed the curtains.

Darkness returned.

Vincent turned his face away.

"Get out."

This time she obeyed.

Tony shut the doors behind them.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"I thought he was isolating himself."

"He is."

"Then why—"

"Because that's where Elena died."

Mara stopped.

"Who?"

Tony looked toward the closed doors.

"His mother."

The anger drained from Mara's body.

Tony lowered his voice.

"Vincent was nineteen. There was a family gathering here. Somebody came through the tree line."

Mara looked toward the bedroom.

"He saw it?"

"From that window."

Her stomach dropped.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it wasn't mine to tell."

Tony walked away.

Mara remained in the hallway.

For the first time since arriving, she considered packing her bag.

Not because Vincent frightened her.

Because she had hurt him.

An hour passed.

Then two.

At sunset, Mara knocked.

No answer.

She entered anyway.

Vincent was awake.

The room was dark again.

She approached the bed.

"I shouldn't have done that."

He said nothing.

"I thought I understood."

"You always think you understand."

Mara accepted the blow.

"Usually."

A long silence.

She adjusted his IV.

"I won't touch them again."

Vincent finally looked at her.

His face was exhausted.

"My mother loved that garden."

Mara stopped.

He stared toward the curtains.

"She planted every rose herself."

His voice was different now.

No cruelty.

No performance.

"She used to make the groundskeeper furious because she'd cut them before parties and put them all over the house."

Mara stayed silent.

"That morning, she asked me to help her."

His jaw tightened.

"I told her I had somewhere to be."

Mara understood where this was going.

"Vincent—"

"I was standing right there when it happened."

She didn't tell him it wasn't his fault.

People said things like that because silence made them uncomfortable.

Instead, Mara sat in the chair beside his bed.

Minutes passed.

Then Vincent spoke again.

"I haven't looked at that garden in seventeen years."

Mara glanced at the curtains.

"Then don't."

He looked at her.

"Not until you want to."

For a moment, something unguarded passed between them.

Then Mara stood.

"I'll get your antibiotics."

She reached the door.

"Mara."

She turned.

Vincent looked toward the window.

Then back at her.

"Tomorrow."

"What?"

His voice was quiet.

"Open them a few inches."

Mara didn't smile.

She knew better.

"Okay."

The next morning, she opened the curtains six inches.

A narrow blade of winter sunlight crossed the floor.

Vincent said nothing.

Mara prepared the gait belt.

"Physical therapy."

He glared at her.

She waited.

Finally, Vincent pushed the blanket away.

"You're unbearable."

"I've heard."

She helped him sit.

Then stand.

His left foot planted firmly.

His right leg trembled.

Mara supported his waist.

"Hold it."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Then fall."

He almost laughed.

Almost.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

Vincent remained standing.

Then his right knee buckled.

Mara caught him.

His arms came around her instinctively.

For one breath, they were chest to chest.

Neither moved.

Vincent looked down at her.

Mara suddenly became very aware of his hands.

His breathing.

The warmth of his body.

She stepped back first.

"Better."

Vincent sat on the bed.

"That's all?"

"What do you want, a trophy?"

His eyes stayed on her.

"No."

Something in the way he said it made her pulse jump.

Mara looked away.

She reached for the blood pressure cuff.

Then something slid beneath the bedroom door.

A white envelope.

Mara frowned.

"I'll get it."

She picked it up.

No name.

No seal.

Inside was a photograph.

Mara stopped breathing.

Ethan.

Her brother was asleep in his hospital bed at Midwest Cancer Institute.

The photograph had been taken through the partially open door of his room.

Recently.

Very recently.

Her hands began to shake.

Vincent saw.

"What is it?"

Mara turned the photograph over.

Five words had been written across the back in black ink.

WALK AWAY.

OR HE DIES FIRST.