Chapter One

It was the blood that woke him.

Clay Marshall's fingers were glued together, sticky and itching where the blood had dried. The heavy, metal¬lic smell of it clogged his nose, choking him with the stench of violence.

He stared at his dirty hands, disoriented and numb from shock. Fatigue dragged at his bones. Pain pounded deep inside his skull, worse than any hangover.

The water stain on the ceiling was a familiar comfort, telling him he was in his own bed. Now, if he could only remember how he'd gotten here.

As the fog of sleep cleared, the meaning of the blood began to take hold. Concern gnawed at the edges of his numb haze, nibbling away at the false sense of calm. Reality squeezed around him, shoving out his breath like a giant boa constrictor.

Clay sat up, trying to control the fear before it became full–blown panic. His clothes were stiff and dark with drying blood, as if someone had splashed a bucket of it down his front. He searched for the source of the blood, seeking out the kind of physical pain this much blood loss would create.

He ripped off his shirt and jeans only to find the skin beneath whole. His sheets were stained, but there was no pool lying where he'd been. Those smears were only from contact with his clothes.

Clay rushed to the bathroom on shaky legs and peered into the full–length mirror on the back of the door. No cuts. No gashes. Only a collage of bruises of varying ages and a body that was so thin he barely recognized it.

The blood wasn't his, and yet he could find no relief in that knowledge. It had to belong to someone.

The need to scrub it away arose, compelling him to stumble into the shower. Cold water hit him hard, driving the air from his lungs before it slowly warmed. He lathered himself from head to toe, watching in disgust as the rusty suds spiraled down the drain.

Even though the hot water stung, he still felt detached from the world, as though he were covered by a thick layer of foam, preventing anything from really reaching him. His head was clouded with confusion— o much so that he was only just now realizing that he was confused.

He dried off and headed for his kitchen, where the coffee lived. After three cups and twenty minutes, Clay's brain finally began to function. And with that relative clarity of thought came fear.

There were stains on his floor in the shape of his boots, leading from the kitchen door all the way to his bedroom. He followed them to where the bloody pile of clothes lay on the rug.

There was even more blood on them than he'd imagined. So much, he knew someone had to be dead. The question was who? And whether Clay had been the one to kill them.

A sick sense of dread settled over him, making the coffee in his stomach churn.

He had no memories of last night; he couldn't remember anything since lunch yesterday. The sun was streaming in through the windows, but as hard as he tried, there was simply a gaping black hole where the missing time should have been, as if he'd been asleep since then.

The blood proved otherwise.

Clay turned on the local news and barely breathed as the anchor moved from one story to the next. He wasn't sure what he expected to hear—reports of a building col¬lapse or a giant pileup on I– 5, maybe—but he knew what he feared: murder.

His hand shook as he surfed from one station to the next, seeking some sign of what he'd done. When they started repeating the same stories, he wasn't sure whether he was more relieved or scared. Maybe he hadn't hurt anyone. Maybe he'd saved someone's life and gotten them medical attention. Then again, maybe they just hadn't found the body yet. Or bodies.

This wasn't the first time Clay had woken up with blood on his hands, but he had no way of figuring out how to make it be the last time. The only person he could trust was his best friend, Mira. She was like a sister to him, and he couldn't stand the idea of burdening her with his problems.

Still, if anyone could help him solve the mystery, she could.

Clay dug his cell phone out of his bloody jeans and wiped it clean before dialing Mira.

Her voice was so cheerful and bright, it hurt his head. "Good morning, Clay. You're up early."

"Heya, squirt. I need a favor."

"Sure."

"I need to know if anyone in the area was killed last night."

The line went silent for a minute. "Uh . . . what?"

He hated lying to her, but there was no other way. "I saw a ton of blood on the sidewalk outside a club. I was wondering if anyone was murdered. Can you find out?"

"Where was it?"

Shit. He hadn't been thinking clearly enough to consider even such a simple question. He was even worse off in the mental department than he'd thought. "I don't re¬member. I was drunk."

"Clay," she said in that voice that told him she knew he was lying. "What's really going on?"

"Can you find out or not?"

She let out a heavy sigh. They'd been friends a long time—since they were kids—and he was not easy on his friends. Especially Mira.

"Hold on." Disappointment weighed on her voice.

Clay heard the clicking of keys in the background before she came back on the line. "There was a drug-r elated shooting that killed three. One fatal car accident. Three deaths from natural causes. That's all I could find."

"Any John or Jane Does?"

"You want me to hack into the morgue? That's a little dark, even for you. What's going on?"

"Nothing. Really. Don't worry."

"How can I not worry? You sound awful. Did some¬thing happen?"

The lie nearly choked him. "No. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"You're not a bother, Clay. You know I love you. Whatever you need, I'm there, okay?"

An unexpected spurt of emotion clogged his throat. She was the only person in the world he really cared about. He didn't know why she stuck with him when he was such a mess, but he was glad she did. "I love you, too, squirt."

"Then let me help you. The headaches, the blackouts—you need help."

The pile of bloody clothes popped into his mind, staring at him in accusation. Until he figured out what was going on, he wasn't safe to be around. "I'll be fine. But I'm not feeling so great, so I'm taking a sick day. Will you let Bella know?"

"Sure. Get some rest and call me if you need anything, okay?"

"I will," he lied.

Mira hung up the phone feeling sick to her stomach. Clay was getting worse. The bruises, the split knuckles, the dislocated joints. And now he wanted her to check death records? Even if her IQ had been cut in half, she would have been able to figure out what that meant.

He thought he'd killed someone.

Clay kept pushing her away, making up reasons why they could no longer hang out together. The more she tried to help, the harder he pushed.

If he wouldn't let her help him, she had to find someone who could. And there was only one man Mira knew who had even a chance at getting through Clay's thick skull.

What she was about to do would piss off her best friend, but that was just too bad. She owed him her life— even if he didn't remember— and if she had to suffer through his anger, so be it.

With her decision made, she dialed the phone.