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Sam finds the heart on his desk. The picture is grainy, but still identifiable. At first he thinks it's part of a case, and he's about to barge into Gene's office and demand to know what is going on and why he's only finding out about it now, but then he flips it over, and sees the patient's name and vital signs listed on the back. He secrets it into his bottom drawer, and sneaks it into his pocket at the end of the day.
The chocolates are waiting just outside his bedsit door. They're shaped like little toy cars. Sam cut into one experimentally, and it oozes warm blood down his fingers.
After dinner, he waits, watching his bottle of scotch grow steadily emptier.
The television flicks on of its own accord.
"Did you like my valentines, Sam?" The girl's smile is venomous.
It's all fake, he reminds himself. Just make-believe, an invention of his mind. But he hasn't washed the blood from his hands; he can't shake the suspicion that it's his own.