Taylor smiled tentatively at her friend. “It’s okay, Val, I’ll say it if you won’t. I know you think I’m making a mistake.”

Val shook her head. “I don’t think you’re making a mistake. I think the same thing as Kate—that you should follow your instincts. I just hope you’re willing to listen to those instincts no matter what they tell you.”

Val’s final words on the subject had stuck with Taylor well after her friends waved good-bye and boarded their plane back to Chicago. The words were in the back of her mind later that evening, as she worked alongside Derek late into Sunday night. They had stuck with her all week, during her trial, as she cross-examined the plaintiffs’ witnesses.

And they still echoed in her head that Friday morning, as she sat in that damn L.A. traffic.

Taylor tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. She checked her watch again, growing more agitated by the minute. She had never once been late for court. But lucky her—this morning there had been a detour on Wilshire Boulevard that had led her to the freeway, where she had no clue where she was going.

Taylor peered out the windows, looking for any sort of sign or street name she recognized. By now, she had turned against the PT Cruiser. What, the stupid thing couldn’t have a navigation system?

Traffic suddenly began to move. This turned out to be even more problematic for Taylor, who had no idea where she should be moving to. Figuring this was no time to be proud, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed up Derek for directions. He answered from his post at the courthouse, relieved to hear that yes, of course she was still coming and no, she had not run off to Lake Como, Italy, to do backflips with the boys off George Clooney’s yacht.

As Taylor jotted down the directions Derek gave her on a valet sticker she found in the glove compartment, she went over the day’s strategy. Never one to miss an opportunity to multitask.

“Just make sure the exhibits are ready to go, one on top of the next,” she told him as she precariously balanced a phone, a pen, and the steering wheel all at once. “I don’t want to give the witnesses any time to think between questions.”

“Do you really think Frank’s going to keep putting them on the stand?” Derek asked on the other end of the line. “They’re all doing so horribly.”

Glancing up at the road ahead, Taylor spotted the exit she was supposed to take. Thank god. She guided her car toward the off ramp, still holding her cell phone with one hand.

“You and I may see that,” she answered Derek, “but Frank seems to be living in crazy—”

Suddenly, she was cut off as another car shot out of nowhere into her lane, trying to make the exit ramp. With barely any time to react, she yanked the steering wheel to the right, trying to get out of the car’s way, swerving into the next lane and—

—felt the jolt of an impact as another car hit her.

Everything happened in a lightning-quick blur: the wheels of the PT Cruiser spun out as Taylor’s head struck the driver’s side window and everything spun around and around and around and then—

The car suddenly lurched to a stop in a ditch on the side of the road.

Taylor’s airbag exploded.

Well, at least the stupid PT Cruiser had those.

WITH A GROAN, Taylor pulled her head away from the inflated airbag. She gingerly touched the side of her head where she had cracked it against the window. While it felt quite painful, she didn’t feel anything warm, icky, or gushing, which she took as a positive sign. She then began mentally running through a checklist: fingers moving, toes moving, all teeth appeared to be intact.

After what felt like only seconds, Taylor heard a frantic knock to her left. In her daze, she turned in the direction of the sound and saw a middle-aged man wearing a light blue suit and a Mickey Mouse tie at the driver’s side window. The man yanked open her car door.

Taylor’s first thought was that she, Taylor Donovan, was about to be rescued by a man in a blue leisure suit and Mickey Mouse tie.

Her second thought was that she, Taylor Donovan, didn’t need to be rescued by anyone.

Her third thought was that she was oddly thinking of herself in the third person, and that couldn’t be a good sign.

The Mickey Mouse guy stuck his head into the car. “Miss! Are you okay? Are you all right?”

Taylor smiled reassuringly. No worries, man. After all, she was Taylor Donovan. Confident that, through her customary humor and wit, she could show just how unfazed and confident a person Taylor Donovan was, she held up her cell phone for the Mouse man to see.

“Could I be more of a cliché?” she asked jokingly.

And that was the last thing Taylor Donovan said before passing out cold.

“I’M TELLING YOU, I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. I feel great.”

The doctor scribbled something in his chart, ignoring Taylor’s assurances. She sat on the edge of the examination table, thinking that the Los Angeles emergency room certainly must have had more important things to worry about than the little bump on her head. Wasn’t there some Lindsay Lohan “heat exhaustion” crisis to tend to?

Taylor had already called the courthouse and, luckily, the judge had been very understanding. He had agreed to recess the trial until Monday and told her to take care of herself for the weekend. Now if she could just get out of this darn hospital.

The doctor finally finished his scribbling and snapped his file shut.

“Well, you have a concussion, Taylor. And that means I can’t release you for the next twenty-four hours unless you’re under the care of another adult.”