This takes place a couple of months after Diane's shooting of Denby in the warehouse. Diane has been having a hard time forgetting his death.

Time? Eyes try to focus. 2:00 a.m. Groan.
When had sleep become a luxury only others could afford?
“MacBeth doth murder sleep.” Don’t go there.
Hands reach for water glass, pills; pull back. What’s the use.
Pills losing their effect
Lot of good they do anyway
Unconsciousness only signals the projectionist in her head that IT’S SHOW TIME!
and the images begin to flicker against the screen behind her lids.
This film needs a major remake; is there a screenwriter in the house?

Okay, you know the routine. Sit up. Swing legs over side of bed. Rake hand through tangled hair.
Every night, never changing. Something doesn’t happen soon she might have to go looking for her old friend Jack. No! that road has been traveled - been there done that. No!

Open window, let air in. Good idea. Haven’t done that before - could be the charm that gets her out of this private Twilight Zone. Let’s try it. Shade up. Window sends out sharp complaint; doesn’t like being disturbed. Tough. There. Open. Take deep breath. Better. Cool wood feels sooo good against forehead. Numbs the pounding. Muffles the echo of old gun fire inside her head.

Deep breath. A breath sucked up from the darkness inside. God, never felt so hollow, so disconnected. Sudden thought. If I look in the mirror, will I see me? Almost tempted to put it to a test - almost.
Beyond the window the street stretches right, left. Sirens, car noise in distance. Nothing moving on her street. Behind darkened facades people are tucked snug in their beds, with visions of - - body flying back, smacking into stone floor - STOP IT!

A sound comes, harsh and hard from the building across the way. What? - just a cough. But a cough woven out of pain. So much pain, that she clutches her chest in sympathy. A man’s cough. It seems to go on forever. Stops. Exhausted silence. Where is he? Her eyes strain. There. Third window up. Movement.

Cop instincts on full alert. This can’t be good. Vacant building. Has been for months.
Blood pounds - at last something to make her feel alive. Fingers fumble at buttons, zippers, shoelaces. Slow down, slooow down. Mental checklist - flashlight, gun...bullets...finger tightening on trigger, muscles screaming from the recoil. No! No! No! What is past is past. This is NOW! Dammit!

How did she get here? Funny, only had blackouts when drunk. An adrenaline-high. Eyes adjust to the dark, aided by streetlight filtering through broken windows. Upstairs, boards creak. Flashlight? No, makes too good a target. Back against the wall, feet feel their way up. Teeth clench as stair groans in protest. Up…up…up. Third floor. Head inches up, clears the landing. Through the banisters a door, bare floor, window, her apartment building. This is it.

Last step. Ears almost bleed from the strain of listening. Cross hall, gun up. Cant’ catch breath. Wait a beat. Now! Fast. Crouch. Gun pointing, sweeping room. Streetlight faintly illuminates room parts, hides others. Whoever had been here is gone. She can feel the emptiness. Flashlight clicks on. Catches something in its beam, catches her eye. Something with a hint of shine, but dull. On the windowsill.

What is it? Can’t quite make it out. Metal. Held between thumb and forefinger she examines it in the flashlight beam. Sound of running feet over bare boards. Jerking back, shoulder bruising against the window frame. Fingers open, metal hits floor. Gun out, chest level. Mouth goes dry. High-pitched squeak. Rats! Shaky laugh. Whoa, Stephen King moment!

Gun away, flashlight searches and finds the object, coldly starring up at her. A misshapen eye. Kneel. Pick up. Recognition. Bullet. Impact-flattened. Memories flash - bullets recovered from crime scenes. Bullets altered by their brief acquaintance with walls, cars, bones...Kevlar. Puzzlement. Here? How? Why?

Freeze! It’s the flashlight’s night for discoveries. In its light, in the thick dust of the floor, an impression...shoe print...two. Toes face the window, directly under sill. Keeping them company an empty bottle of Chivas. The wearer had stood here for a time...doing what? Not a great view...watching?...what? Eyes raise, look out through dirty, broken panes, through the window, and into…her bedroom.

Gooseflesh rises on arms, ant-trailing down her spine. Clutched in her hand the bullet burns with her heat, as if to recapture her attention. Hey, remember me? A calling card?
Down on the street, on cue, coughing. A cough as from lungs badly bruised and battered. A man’s cough. Receding.