"Spain?" Vincent said, following me into my apartment.

We had walked in silence on the way back from the farm, both of us lost to our thoughts. I felt stupid for daring to go up to the Grayson farm and accuse both Michael and his father of being killers. I must have lost my freaking mind. Then again, what else is new? Hadn't I spent the last few days or more dreaming of dead people? Chasing ghosts! Maybe that was the curse Jonathan Smith had cast upon me when he had called me a witch? Maybe Grayson was right  -  the Smiths had been nothing more than a family of witches? I'd been cursed to go out of my tiny little mind. To spend the rest of my life dreaming about them until I went insane?

I pulled off my coat and dropped it onto the sofa. I heard Vincent close the front door and come into the living room. He looked at me.

"Spain?" he said again, obviously still mulling over what I had said out on the road. "You can't go to Spain."

"Why not?" I said, looking back at him.

"Because I'll miss you," he said half-jokingly.

"You'll be the only one who will," I said, bursting into tears.

"Hey, hey, hey," Vincent hushed, crossing the room and taking me in his arms. "Why are you so upset?"

"Because I'm losing my freaking mind, that's why," I sobbed against him. "I wish I had never gone back to the farm that day, I wish I'd never been anywhere near that road. I wish I'd never killed those people."

"I thought you said you hadn't?" he whispered, holding me tight.

"That was just me wishful thinking..."

"But what about those tyre marks and..." Vincent tried to comfort me.

"Like you said," I whispered, easing myself out of his arms, "they could have been left by anyone at any time. The mystery cow..." I tried to joke, but it was no good, and the tears started to flow again.

"Don't upset yourself, Sydney," Vincent said, wrapping his arm about my shoulder and easing me down to sit on the edge of the sofa.

"I'm such a mess," I cried.

"I think you're beautiful," he whispered, softly brushing the hair from my face with his fingertips.

"I wasn't talking about my hair," I sniffed. "I was talking about how I feel inside. I always do the wrong thing. However hard I try, I screw up. I just want someone to be proud of me."

"Your father, you mean?" Vincent said, as if being able to see right inside me  -  understand me.

I slowly nodded my head, tears flowing freely down my face now.

"If he can't see what an amazing daughter he has, then it's your father's loss," he said, pulling me close so my head came to rest against his shoulder. "We all make mistakes, no one is perfect."

"How do you know I'm amazing?" I said, trying to control the flood of tears. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're a kind person," Vincent whispered. "I know you care about things."

"How?" I asked him.

"Because I can see how tormented you are about those people who died," he said, taking my face gently in his hands and looking at me. "Most people couldn't give a damn about them. They were just nobodies. To you  -  even though you didn't know them  -  you're suffering because of what happened. And I don't think it's just guilt. You know that a wrong has been done and you know it has to be put right."

"I'd been drinking," I suddenly said. "The day I killed those people I'd been up at the farmhouse with Michael. We fooled about a bit and I had some whiskey. The control room was trying to raise me on the radio and I knew my father would be out looking for me. I panicked. I ran from that house, I was speeding and not concentrating on the road as I was too busy looking for gum to mask the smell of whiskey on my breath. It was then...it was then.... oh, God I'm so sorry for what I've done..." I bent forward, racked with uncontrollable sobs.

Vincent eased me up into his arms again. "Shhh..." he whispered.

"I have to tell you this," I cried. "I can't lie anymore. I can't bear it. My father, Mac, and Woody covered for me. They lied just like they lied about Molly and what really happened that night. My father believed he was helping me, but it's killing me inside. I'm dreaming of dead people, running around the place pointing the finger at innocent people. I just wanted to be a good cop...I just wanted my father to be proud of me for once..."

Holding me in his arms, Vincent looked into my eyes and said softly, "Being a good copper isn't just about turning up for work on time, wearing a clean shirt, walking around in the shiniest of boots, and demanding people's respect. It's about doing the right thing by the people we serve  -  despite what they look like, who they are, and where they come from and how they choose to live their lives. Deep down, you know that, Sydney. That's why you're struggling now. You know it was wrong to lie about the Smith family and how they really died. That's why you're searching for the truth  -  because you know that's what counts. All that matters at the end of the day is the truth. Without the truth, the Smith family will never have justice they deserve."

"I know," I whispered through my tears.

"And as for your father not being proud of you," Vincent said, "he should be ashamed of himself. Not only is he your father, but your sergeant, too. He should never have put you in this situation. I bet he's lying awake at night, his dreams haunted by the Smith family. As your sergeant and father, he should have set an example..."

"He was just trying to help me..." I started.

"He was just trying to help himself," Vincent said.

"I know you're right." I looked up at him. "He was more interested in saving himself from being embarrassed by me. And knowing that hurts more than anything. To know that he is so ashamed of me, he would risk his career and..."

"He wasn't ashamed of you ten years ago," Vincent cut in. "You weren't there that night your father, Mac, and Woody changed their statements to make Molly Smith look like she was out committing burglaries when, really, she was upset, desperate, and in search of the man she loved. They were police officers, if they couldn't have protected her in life, the least they could have done is protect her memory. Instead, they lied about that poor girl  -  made her look like a thief to protect whoever she had gone to meet that night. That isn't being a good copper. What they did isn't something to be proud of."

"You're really angry about that, aren't you?" I said, looking into Vincent's almost jet-black eyes. It wasn't just his eyes, his face had lost that boyish look and he suddenly looked older and drawn somehow. He looked how I felt, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"I'm angry for you," he said, looking away and standing up. "I feel angry for all those good coppers who go into work every day wanting to make a difference. It's people like your father who ruin it for cops like us. How will the public ever have trust in us, if we don't even trust ourselves to do the right thing?"

"But what can I do?" I said, knowing in my heart what Vincent said was true.

"If you want those nightmares to go away, if you want to stop seeing dead people every time you close your eyes, you have to tell the truth," Vincent said.

"But how do I prove it?" I said. "The statements have been submitted. The road has been cleared. The autopsies have been carried out."

"What about the incident from ten years ago?" Vincent said thoughtfully.

"No one is seriously going to believe that a dead girl came to me in my sleep and told me she was pushed into that well," I said. "They would lock me up, all right, but not in prison  -  more like the madhouse. We have no proof."

"We have those altered statements," Vincent said.

"We need more than that," I sighed. "As we already know, statements have a nasty habit of going missing or being rewritten. If only we could find out who it was Molly Smith was going to meet that night."

"Have any ideas?" Vincent asked.

"I thought I did," wiping the last of the tears from my face with the backs of my hands. "But that was a mistake."

"Perhaps we should sleep on it," Vincent

said thoughtfully.

"Perhaps you're right," I said.

Lost deep in thought, and scratching his chin, Vincent headed towards the front door.

"Where are you going?" I asked softly.

"To get some sleep," he said, stopping short of the front door and looking back at me.

"I don't want to be alone," I whispered. "I don't want those nightmares to come. Don't go just yet. Stay for a while. I could cook you some supper. I've still got half a packet of Jammie Dodgers left."

"Now you are twisting my arm," he smiled at me.

"We could listen to some music," I suggested.

"Like what?" he said, stepping away from the door and coming back into the living room.

"I don't know," I said, taking my iPod from the dock. "Let me have a look."

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