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CONTENTS

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ChapterOne

The moon was enormous—ripe, red-gold, hanging low in the sky. From the flowering jacaranda, the
mockingbirdwasscolding.Chjjjj...chjjjj...chewk.

Peter stumbled up the brick path. His foot caught and he went down, on his knees, breathing hard. His
handswerewhiteblursonthewarmstone.Hetriedtofocus,andhecouldseetheinksplotchesofblood
—hisblood—runningdownhisfaceanddrippingontothebricks.

Hisstomachroseinprotest.Swallowingdownhisnausea,hepushedbacktohisfeet.Theblackvelvet
leaves of the elephant ears seemed to twitch, listening, as his footsteps scraped unsteadily up the path,
pastthesundialandpalelyglimmeringstatues,pastthesolarlanternsfuzzilyglowing.

Theshadowscastbythejacarandastretchedchillanddarkinthewarmsummerevening,butthedarkness
edginghisvisionhadnothingtodowiththedeepeningnight.Therewasbloodinhiseyesnow;hewiped
atituncertainly.

Peterreachedthetopofthelong,shallowgardensteps.ThebackentranceofConstantineHouseloomed
beforehim,andhestaggeredforward,feelingforhiskeys.Heleanedagainstthedoor,restinghisheadon
thepaintedsurface,fumblinginhispockets.Hepushedakeyintothelock;itturned,andthedoorswung
open,spillinghimintothehallway.

Halfblindwithbloodandpain,hewovehiswaydownthehallwaytowardthemainexhibitroomandhis
office.HisfootcaughtontheOrientalrunnerandhewentsprawling.Somewhereinthedistanceanalarm
bell was clanging. He opened his eyes. Dimly, as though looking through a telescope, he could see the
coolwhitemarblefaceofKwanYingazingdownathim.Sheheldalittlevase,pouringnothingnessout
overhispoundinghead.Butitwasn'tnothingness.Itwasnectar.Invisiblenectartofeedthehungryghosts.

Far,farattheotherendofthetelescope,theserenefaceofKwanYinreceded,grewtinierandtinier...
untilatlastitpinchedoutlikeamatchsparkinthenight.

****

He was chuckling, a deep, sexy sound as he pushed Peter back on the satiny cushions. Was this for
real?Washegoingtogothroughwithit?Peterblinkedupashistiewasunfastened,tossedaside,his
shirtunbuttoned,laidwide.Theeveningbreeze—scentedofsmogandjasmine—feltcoolagainsthis
overheated skin, like the lightest breath. Unlike their own breathing, which was hot and heavy and
strainedsounding.Gaspsandgroansthatwerepureskinflick.ForamomentPeterwasthrownoutof
themood,hisnormalself-consciousnessandreticencereassertingthemselves.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to see the other's face in the summer darkness, but a warm weight
lowereditselfbesidehim.Theirmouthslocked;theircocksrubbedrigidlytogether.

OhGod.Thatfeltgood.Thatstifflengthofsoftskinandhardness—hardasbone—asdesirethrobbed
through Peter, his heartbeat echoing in the pulse of his cock. So much sensation at once. It was
overwhelming...butgood.Warmbreathandthetangofsweatoncleanskin,thetickleofchesthair

againsthisnipples,theglideofmusclesaspowerfularmspulledhimclose,legswrappingaroundhis
own. Yes, it was really happening, and he wanted it to happen. He was happy to let go, loosing his
doubts,hisconcerns,hisanxieties,becausethisjustfeltright.Andherefusedtosecond-guesshimself,
tofreezeup.Hehadwaitedalongtimeforthis.

Alongtime.Alifetime.

Because this was Cole. Cole. His heart seemed to swell with emotion, happiness filling his chest
becauseitwasColewithhim.Together.Thewaytheyweremeanttobe.Finally...

****

Peter'slashesstirred.

Heopenedhiseyes,andthefirstthinghesawwasthecop'shardface.Hewasn'tsurehowheknewthe
manbesidehisbedwasacop...hedidn'tknowhim.

Ordidhe?

Hewasbig.Notfat.Big.Tall,broad,muscular.Likeabull.Oneofthosebeautifulsleek,powerfulbulls
theyuseinbullfighting.LikeIsidoreBonheur'ssculptures.Lean,fiercefeatures...smoke-darkhair,hard
blue-grayeyes,andathinmouththatlookedinclinedtosarcasticasides.

Even on that first glimpse under the fluttering of eyelids, Peter felt a jolt of alarm, the knowledge that
somethingwasseriouslywrong.Heopenedhismouthandafunnysoundcameout.Thenanotherfaceslid
into view. A woman's face, calm and professional. A nurse. She said soothingly, “It's all right, Mr.
Killian.You'regoingtobeperfectlyallrightnow."

Shesoundedverysureofit,andherelaxed.Hedidfeelallright.Hefeltwarmandfloating...relieved
thatthehard,unfriendlyfacehadgone.Evenhappy.He'dbeendreamingabout...He'dbeendreaming.It
wasconfusedandfarawaynow.Heletitgo.Leteverythinggo.

****

Thesecondtimewastherealawakening.Heopenedhiseyeswithastart.Therewasanothernurseathis
bedside,andshesaidsomethingtohim,somethingcalming,somethingreassuring.Heresponded.Things
gotalittlefuzzyandthensharpenedagain.Hisroomseemedfullofpeople,andadoctorwasthereasking
himquestions.

Itwas...confusing.Tiring.Hisheadached.Alot.

"Whathappenedtome?”hemumbled.

"You'vegotaconcussion,Mr.Killian."

Hethoughtthatover.Itwasn'tananswer,wasit?Orwasit?“How?”heasked.

"Youwereinjuredduringarobbery."

Arobbery.Like...amugging?Hecouldn'tseemtoremember,althoughitdidn'tseemlikethekindofthing
onewouldforget.Itwasallverybewildering.Hewantedtogobacktosleep.

"Idon'tremember,”hesaid,andhiseyelidsdriftedshut.

Thenexttimeheopenedhiseyes,thebull—thecop—wasback.

Thethinmouthcurledintoanunfriendlysmile.“Well,Peter,wemeetagain."

"Yes,”Petersaid,tryingtofocus.Hisvisionwasoff.“DoIknowyou?"

Therewassilence.Thegray-blueeyes—whichlookedmoregraythanblue—narrowed.“Areyousaying
youdon't?"

Peter'sheartbegantopound.“No."

"No...?"

"Idon'tknowyou."

Anothersilence.Anothersmile—arathercynicalone.“Isthatso?"

"ShouldI?”Petermanaged.Histempleswerenowstartingtopoundintimewithhisheart.Allatoncehe
feltveryill.

"Whatdoyouremember?"

"I...” Peter stopped. He had the sensation of sand sucking away beneath his feet. “Who are you?” His
voicesoundedfaintandfarawayeventohimself.

The other laughed, and then the dark face re-formed itself in a sneer. “Honest to God. You've got to be
kidding.You'renotseriouslygoingtotryandpullthat?"

Peterstaredathim;hecouldn'tthinkofanythingtosayevenifhecouldhaveforcedwordsoutoverhis
rising panic. This couldn't be happening. This ... Something was wrong. And he could not let this guy,
whoeverhewas,knowhowverywrongthingswere—thatmuchheknewinstinctively.

"Ithinkyoushouldgo,”hesaid.

"Oh,youdo?”Unimpressed,thecooleyesstudiedhim.“Why?Ifyoudon'tknowwhoIam?"

Petersaidhonestly,“BecauseIdon'tlikeyou."

Anotheroneofthosehardlaughs.“Iseeyoudoremembersomething.Whatelsedoyouremember?"

Peteropenedhismouth.Nothingcametohim.Thiswasimpossible.

Wait.Heknew...thenursehadcalledhim“Mr.Killian”andthisassholehadcalledhim“Peter.”Andthe
doctorhadsaid...somethingaboutamugging.

"It's...IknowwhoIam.But...some...detailsare...vague."

"How convenient.” Unfriendly mockery. “Well, let me refresh your memory. I'm Detective Michael
Griffin. LAPD Robbery and Homicide Division.” Griffin pulled a flat wallet-looking thing out of his
jacketandflashedaverylarge,veryofficial-lookingbadgeinfrontofPeter'snose.

Peternarrowedhiseyes.Thismadesenseuptoapoint.Hehadbeenknockedout—inarobbery—soit
wasreasonablethatthepolicewouldinterviewhim.Right?ButDetectiveGriffinwasactinglikePeter
wasthecriminal,andclearlytheyhadsomekindofhistory.

And that was very hard to believe. Peter doubtfully studied Griffin's face. Peter was a law-abiding
person. He knew that about himself. He had no doubt whatsoever on that score. Maybe he couldn't
remembereverything,butheknewhewasnotthekindofpersonwhogotintotroublewiththelaw.

Right?

Andanythingelsewasoutofthequestion.

Ah.Sothatwasanadditionalsomethinghenowknewabouthimself.Helikedguys.Hewas...gay.And
comfortablewiththeidea.

But maybe Griffin didn't like guys who liked guys? Maybe that was the problem with Michael Griffin.
AlthoughhowwouldheknowaboutPeter'ssexualpreferences?Petercouldn'timaginehimconfidingsuch
a thing to ... well, really to anyone. Nor did Griffin seem like the kind of guy anyone would want to
confidein.EvenhadhebeenPeter'stype.Whichhewasn't.EvenifPetercouldn'tquiterememberwhat
histypewas,hewasquitesureGriffinwasnotit.

"Isyourmemorycomingback?”Griffininquired.

"Iwasknockedout."

"Ohright.Andnowyouhaveamnesia.That'sthestory?"

Griffin did not like him either. That was clear. And Peter did not feel well enough to deal with it. He
closedhiseyes.Openedthem.Said,“Canwe...talkaboutitlater?"

"You're not curious about what happened to you? I'd think you'd be very curious ... since you can't
rememberanything,right?"

Peterwatchedhim.“Iwasmugged?"

"Tryagain."

Petertriedagain.“Iwas...robbed.”Griffinwasfromrobberyandhomicide,sothatwasasafebet.

His thinking processes must have been transparent, because Griffin said slowly, “You're guessing. Or
you'repretendingtoguess."

God.Thisassholewastoomuch.Peterclosedhiseyes.Hecouldn'tdealwiththisrightnow.

Silence.

Whenthesilencestretched—whenGriffindidn'tgoaway—Peteropenedhiseyesandsurprisedanodd
expression on the detective's face. Mostly suspicion, or maybe wariness, but there was some other
emotionthatPetercouldn'tread.ItvanishedthemomentGriffinsawthatPeter'seyeswereopen.

"Whydon'tIhelpyououtwithafewpoints?Yourname'sPeterKillian.Youdon'tliketobecalled‘Pete.’
You'rethirty-fiveyearsold,unmarried,anativeAngeleno.You'rethecuratoratConstantineHouse.Isthis
ringinganybells?"

Peterlickedhislips.Therewasahorribletasteinhismouthandhisheadwaspoundingsickly.Heknew
hedidn'twanttohearanythingmore.Heknewheneededto.

"You'vebeencuratorthereforalittleoverthreeyears—duringwhichtimethemuseumhaslostslightly
overahundredthousanddollarsworthofantiquitiesandartobjects."

Griffin paused politely. Peter moved his head in slight negation. He couldn't have spoken even if he'd
known what to say. His heart was thudding as though he'd found himself cornered by an attack dog—
whichwaskindofhowhefelt.Griffinwasn'tquitebaringhisteeth,butsomehowtheeffectwasthesame.

"Twonightsago,forreasonsknownonlytoyou,youwentdowntothegrottointhebackofthemuseum
garden and, to all appearances, surprised thieves in the process of removing a priceless, tenth-century
paintedmural."

Tenthcentury.Averybadyear—allonehundredofthem.The“LeadenCentury”asdescribedbyCardinal
Baronius.ThedarkestoftheDarkAges.

"Whatwasapricelessartifactdoinginagrottointhebackofagarden?"

Griffinignoredthatfeebleprotest.“Apparently,youwerestruckovertheheadandleftunconsciouswhile
thethievesmadeoffwiththewallpainting—atwhichpointyouregainedconsciousness,madeyourway
backtothemuseum,andtriggeredthealarmsbynotdisarmingthesecuritysystemwhenyouletyourself
insidethebackdoor."

As Griffin spoke, Peter had a dizzying and fleeting impression of images. A small cave ... flashing
shadows...voicesechoinginargument...thedelicatelinesandmutedcolorsofapainting...tworiders
onhorseback...Chinese,yes.Atombpainting...yes.Hedidremember...

Heremembered...something.

IttookafewsecondstoabsorbtheimplicationsofGriffin'sflatpronouncement.

"Youdon'tthinkthat'swhathappened?"

"Ithinkit'sconvenient.Likeyouramnesia."

Peterletthatsinkintoo.Hehadthedisconcertingsensationoftryingtofeelhiswaythroughthesmoke.

"YouthinkIwasinvolvedintherobbery?”hemanagedatlast.

"Wereyou?"

"No!Ofcoursenot."

"Ithoughtyoucouldn'tremember?"

Petertriedtositup.Notagoodidea.Quiteabadidea,actually.Despitetherailing,henearlyoverturned
rightoutofthenarrowhospitalbed.Hisstomachoverturnedtooashisbrainseemedtoslamtheroofof
hisskull.Dimly,hewasawareofGriffingrabbinghimandputtinghimbackagainstthepillows.Griffin
saidsomethingtohim,buthecouldn'tmakeitout.MaybeGriffinrangforhelp,becausehecouldheara
buzzer going off. Peter felt sick and woozy and cold all the way through. He needed to make Griffin
understand,neededtoconvincehim,andhealreadyknewthatwasgoingtobeahopelesscause.Griffin's
mindwasmadeup.HebelievedPeterwasguilty.

Thentheroomwasfullofpeople.Thereseemedtobealotofnoiseandactivity.Somewherebehindthe
wallofsound,hecouldhearDetectiveGriffinprotesting—andbeingoverridden.Peterputahandtohis
head,touchingsomekindofbandage;hisskullfeltlikeitwasabouttosplitinhalf.Someoneleanedover
him;therewaspinchinhisarm,andsuddenlythecommotionfadedout.

Itwasquietagain.Warm.Dark.Therewasblacktiderushingtowardhimandhesteppedouttomeetit.

****

Mouths locked, their cocks awkward, poking, stiff as they moved against each other. A slow wriggle
that turned into humping—uncomfortable, embarrassing—but then slowly, rhythmically finding
themselves in step, moving faster, faster, picking up a frantic kind of speed. No longer awkward or
strange,justgive-and-take,alovelyreciprocity.Hecouldhearthehard,steadypoundingoftheheart
beatingagainsthisown.Ahuskyvoicespeakingagainsthisear...Thewordswerelost.Butthatwas
allright.Evenwithoutthewords,thiswaswhathehadbeenwaitingfor,whathehadwantedforso
long.

Whyhadhebeenafraidofthis?Whyhadhethoughtthiswasn'tpossible?

****

"Cole?"

Hewoke,startled,tosterilesilence.Hadhespokenaloud?

"So,ProfessorPeabody,Iguessyourmemoryiscomingback?"

ProfessorPeabody?Heopenedhiseyes.

Blueskyandclouds.Thatwasnice.Strangebutnice.Ah.Fluorescentlightsbehinddecorativediffuser
panels.Heturnedhishead—verycarefully.Medicalparaphernalia...andafacehe'dhopedhe'ddreamed
up.Although...givenhismostrecentdreams,maybenot.

Detective Griffin was at his bedside once more, faithful as any lover. Well, he'd known that reprieve
couldn'tlast.Griffinhadbeenano-showyesterdayevening,butherehewasbrightandearly,asthough

standinginforPeter'snearestanddearest.Thatwasunsettling,nowthatPeterthoughtaboutit.

"Whyisn'tanyonehere?”Peterasked.

"I'lltrynottotakethatpersonally."

"Imean...my..."

"Your?"

ButPeterhadalreadyfigureditout.Therewasn'tanyone.Nofamily.Friends...Helookeddoubtfullyat
Griffin. Those blue-gray eyes that didn't seem to miss anything. Even if Peter had a crowd of friends
queuingupoutsidetheroom,Griffinwouldnotbelettingthemintillhegotwhateveritwashewanted
fromPeter.

Whichwaswhat?Aconfessionofguilt?

WhenPeterdidn'tspeak,Griffinsaid,“Iguessyou'rewonderingwhereColeis?"

"Cole?"

The flash of impatience was almost concealed. Not quite. “You woke up asking for him. Now you're
pretendingyoudon'tknowwhoheis?"

Hehadtotreadwarilyhere.“Iwashalfasleep."

"You'retryingtotellmeyoudon'trememberCole?"

Cole.DidheknowwhoColewas?Hecouldn'tpicturehim.Andyetthenameseemedimprintedonhis
consciousness.Tooimportanttoforget.

Andyethehadforgotten.

Peter'sstomachknottedwithtension.Hewasslidingoutontosomeverythinice;hecouldfeelthechill.
WhatdivisiondidGriffinworkfor?Robberyand...homicide?Wasthatwhathe'dsaid?Petercouldn't
remember.ButtherewassomethingaboutCole.Hecouldfeelit.Somethingbad.Somethingtoopainfulto
bear.

"Whoishe?"

"ColeConstantine?He'sthegreat-great-grandsonofMacBrideConstantine."

Petermusthavelookedblank,becauseGriffin'ssarcasticmouthquirkedandhesaid,“CaptainMacBride
Constantine.ThefounderofConstantineHouse.Thesaltyoldseadogwhorippedoffallthosetreasures
fromforeignclimesanddraggedthemhometoSouthernCalifornia."

"WhatisColetome?"

Griffin's slanted eyebrows rose. “Good question. For one thing, he's your employer. Well, one of them.

He's on the trustee committee for the museum. And"—he seemed to be scanning Peter's face closely
—"youwerecollegeroommatesandbestfriends."

"Whatelse?"

"Youtellme."

Peterstared.Griffinhadathin,cruelface,hethought.Hiseyeswerewintry,likeoldice.

"Hassomethinghappenedtohim?"

"Likewhat?"

ThetensionknottingPeter'smusclesseemedtowrenchtighter.Hewasafraidnow—startingtoshakewith
it.

"Like...somethingbad.”Heblurted,“Ishedead?"

Griffinlaughed.“Worsethanthat.He'smarried."

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterTwo

"Youreallydon'trememberanything?”Romashouted.

Shewasasmall,slimwomanofaboutfortywithhazeleyesanddarkhaircutinwhattheyusedtocalla
pixie.Apparently,sheandPeterweregreatfriends;shehadturnedupatthehospitaltocollecthimand
wasnowflyinghimhomeinhergreenvintageMG.Shedrovewell,ifterrifyinglyfast.

Hehedged,callingovertherushofwind,“It'scomingback."

"Butyourememberme?"

"Sortof."

Notreally,ifhewasbrutallyhonest.Hehadbeenrelievedtofindthathedidapparentlyhavefriends.His
hospitalstay,thoughrelativelybrief,hadbeenlonelyandnerve-rackingtillRomahadshownupclaiming
long acquaintance. He had to take her word for it. He liked her, though. Liked her directness, liked her
easy acceptance of his plight. He could believe they were friends even if he couldn't recall that
friendship.

Shelaughednowathisobviousdiscomfort.“Inthatcase,Iguessyourtrustisflattering.”Shesparedhim
a glance—Peter wished she wouldn't, given the bat-out-of-hell speed they were traveling at down the
210.Havingjustescapedthehospital,hedefinitelydidn'twanttowindupthereagainanytimesoon.So
therewassomethingelsehenowknewabouthimself.Hedidn'tliketakingchances.

"Anythingyouwanttostopforontheway?Jessicaisstockingthepantryforyou,soyou'llbesetforthe
nextfewdays."

Jessica, he had already gathered, was Roma's partner. He had no recollection of her either. He had no
recollection of anyone, though there was no organic reason for this lapse according to the doctors. He
remembered the year, the month, and who was president. He remembered who won the fourth round at
Wimbledon; he remembered seeing Duplicity—although he couldn't remember the circumstances of
seeingthefilm.HerememberedtheArtLossRegister.

He remembered pretty much everything, provided it had no personal connection to himself. Which
indicated, according to the hospital's resident psychiatrist, that his memory loss was psychosomatic.
Amnesia,asitturnedout,prettymuchonlyhappenedinbooksandmovies.IfPeterwasn'tremembering,it
wasbecausehedidn'twanttoremember.

Eitherthator,asDetectiveMikeGriffinsuggested,Peterwasfaking.

"Ijustwanttogethome,”Peteranswered.Hehadnoappetite.Thehotsummerwindblowingagainsthis
facewasmakinghisheadhurt,althoughheshouldhavebeensufficientlymedicated.

"Comingrightup!”RomapressedthegasandPeterclosedhiseyes.

****

Constantine House was located in La Cañada at the junction between the 210 and 2 freeways. Built in
1880byretiredseacaptainMacBrideConstantine,theVictorianmansionoverlookedtenacresoflive-
oakforestandaseriesofcarefullycultivatedgardens.

Peterhadbeenhopingthathisfirstsightofthehousemighttriggerhismemories,butthoughherecognized
that it was a charming architectural hodgepodge of styles and influences, it did not resonate with him
personally.Itmighthavebeenthefirsttimehelaideyesontheornatebrickchimneys,fish-scaleshingles,
stained-glasswindows,curvedwoodbrackets,andcornerturretcrownedwithanenormouscopperfleur-
de-listhatdefinedthegrandoldVictorian.

"Idon'tlivethere,doI?”heaskedastheMGwoundupthecamellia-lineddrive.

Romashookherhead.“Youliveinacottageintheback.Didyouwanttostop?"

Heshould,ofcourse.Heshouldgostraighttothemuseum.Attheveryleast,heneededtoknowwhatwas
goingonwiththeinvestigationfromtheperspectiveoftheothervictims,butevenmorethaninformation,
he craved silence, privacy. He'd been under a magnifying glass from the moment he recovered
consciousness,andhealreadyknewenoughabouthimselftoknowthathewasnotcomfortablewiththis
muchattention.

"I'llseehowIfeellater."

Romanoddedandtheyspedpastthepastel-coloredhousewiththecoloredwindowsshininglikejewels
inthebrightsunlight.Withthejacarandatreesinfullpurpleblossom,itlookedlikeafantasylandscape.

Itseemedstrangelyunpopulatedtoo.

"Isthemuseumopen?"

Romareplied,“Ninetofive,everydayexceptChristmas.Parkingtwodollars."

"Isitclosedwhilethepoliceareinvestigatingtherobbery?"

"NotthatIknowof.”Sheshothimaquizzicallook.

"Itseemsalittle...deserted."

"It'snotexactlyDisneyland,youknow."

"Isupposenot."

Wasthemuseumafiscallysoundenterprise?Hehadtowonder.

Thedrivewoundbehindthemansion,pastthestatuaryand“ancient”gardenandboxwoodmaze.Roma
turnedofffromthemaindriveandheadeddownasmallsideroad.Petersightedadiminutivetwo-story
CaliforniabungalowbuiltintheCraftsmanstyle:darkwoodshinglesandmultipanedwindows,sloping
roof,palestonechimney,taperedporchposts.

"Here we are. Not a scratch on you. Well, at least no more scratches than you left the hospital with.”

Romapulledtoaneatstoponthehalf-moondriveinfrontofthehouseandgrinnedathim.

"Thanks.Really.Iappreciateit.I'mjustfeelingalittle..."

"Fragile?”Shepattedhiskneeandthenopenedherdoor.

Peterfollowedhermoreslowlyupthestonestairs.Thefrontdoorwasunlocked,andtheywentinsidethe
bungalow.

Hisimmediateimpressionwasoflemonoilandfreshflowers.Thedooropenedontoasmalllivingroom
with a hardwood floor, coffered ceiling, and a large stone fireplace. The furniture was tasteful and
comfortable. Earth tones and cherrywood. Botanical prints were artfully arranged on one wall. There
were a number of silver-framed photos on the low credenza. Peter recognized Roma among the other
strangerscapturedforposterity.

Everyitemintheroomseemedhandpicked:anartnouveauwallsconce,awrought-ironumbrellastand,a
framedEdwardWestonphotograph.Helookedaround,hopingsomethingwouldclick...butnothingdid.
Itwasaprettylittlehouse—ashowpiece—butitcouldhavebelongedtoanyone.

Anarcheddoorwayledintothekitchen,whereJessicawasputtinggroceriesaway.Shewastallandthin
with tiger-framed glasses and curly red hair. She came to greet them, kissing Roma lightly and hugging
Peterhard.

"Welcomehome!"

Peterhuggedherback—uncomfortablebutgrateful;Jessicahuggedlikeshemeantit.

"Howareyoufeeling?"

"Good,”heassuredher.Andifhesaiditoftenenoughitmighteventuallycometrue.

JessicaandRomaexchangedlooks.Romasaid,“Hestilldoesn'trememberanything."

"Nothing?"

Hebegantoqualify,awkwardwiththis.Withthemknowingsomuchabouthimwhenheknewnothing.
“It'snotthatIdon'tremember.It'sthateverythingissortofjumbled.”Plushedidn'tremember.

"Gosh,”saidJessica.“Youmeanyoustillcan'trecallwhathappenedthenightthemuralwasstolen?"

Petershookhishead.

"Nothing?"

Heshookhisheadagain.

"Yeeouch,”saidJessica.

"Yousaidit.”ThatwasRoma.SheandJessicawereexchangingthosemeaningful—butindecipherable—

looksagain.Itmadehimuneasy.Asthoughhewasn'tuneasyenough.

"Ifyou'llexcuseme,IthinkI'llchange.”Whywasheaskingtheirpermissiontochangehisclothes?Itwas
bizarretofeellikeastrangerinhisownlife.Yethedid.

Heleftthemtoit,theirmutedconversationfollowinghimdownthehallwaythoughthewordswerelost.
Perhapsjustaswell.

WilliamMorrisoliveleafwallpaper,aStickleylibrarytable,aNewHavenClockCo.shelfclock.The
housewasfilledwithasmallfortuneinantiques.Hisown,ordidtheybelongtothemuseum?Aniceperk
forthecuratorofConstantineHouseifthebungalowcamefurnishedwiththeselovelyobjetsd'art.

Andwhywasitthathecouldrememberthenameofthemanufacturerofa1904clockbutnotthenameof
twoofhisclosestfriends?

This was his home. Presumably, it reflected his taste to some extent. It seemed comfortable, pleasant
enough—immaculate. Not so much as a newspaper on a table or a coffee mug in the sink disturbed the
magazine layout perfection. Was that because he was a neat freak or because someone had tidied up
beforehegotoutofthehospital?

Studyingthedust-freetabletop,hewonderedifthepolicehadsearchedhishome.Ifso,therewasnosign,
nospilledfingerprintpowder,noemptieddrawersorransackedcabinets.Butperhapshehadhisfriends
tothankforthat.

Atthefootofthestaircasewasaframedpictureofthehousefloorplanandnexttothataframedblack-
and-whitepictureoftheoriginalhousein1908.Thebungalowdidn'tlookmuchdifferentnow,although
the plants in the garden were much larger. He examined the floor plan. Four rooms on the first floor:
diningroom,livingroom,study,kitchen.Twobedroomsupstairs.Itwaslikeadoll'shouse.

Oradiorama.Hewentupstairs,unbuttoninghisshirt.Hisbedroomwasascleanandimpersonalasthe
rest of the house. A brass bed, ceiling fan with etched globe lights, a folding floor screen featuring a
doubtful frog gazing up at a bland heron. Again, not so much as a stray shoe or comb marred the
perfection.

He tossed the shirt into the laundry, opened the closet, and blinked. His clothes hung in two neatly
laundered and pressed rows—grouped by style and color. Could he really be this organized? It didn't
seem...natural.

He selected a brown polo shirt and a pair of stone-colored chinos. He didn't appear to own a pair of
simpleLevi's.

ThewindowacrossfromthebedlookedouttowardConstantineHouse,thehalf-raisedblindsknocking
gentlyinthebreeze.Throughtheopenwindow,heglimpsedtheornatechimneysandgablesofthemain
housebehindthepurpleblossomsofthejacaranda.

All at once Peter felt very tired ... deflated. The bed looked comfortable, and he thought briefly about
lyingdown.Therewassomuchtoabsorb,andnoneofitmadesense.Oratleast,nothinghelearnedmade
himfeelbetter.Noneofitmadehimfeellike...himself.Whoeverthatwas.

Turningfromthetemptationofthebed,hecaughtaglimpseofhisreflectioninthemirroroverthedresser.
Hestaredinfascination.Ifhe'dexpectedsomekindofsurprisedrecognitionnowthathewasonhishome
turf again, he was doomed to disappointment. If anything ... he kept expecting someone younger. Taller.
Just...different.Why?Whatcouldthatpossiblymean?

What he saw was a man a little above average height, decent build, brown wavy hair cut short, green
eyes. He looked ... ordinary. Like anyone, only ... primmer. Yes. Like a librarian. Like the kind of
librarianwhoonlyexistedinmovies.Hehadn'texpectedthat.Hadn'texpectedtolook...soneat.Well,he
didneedashave,but...hewasso...conservative-looking.Wasthatwhohewas?Hedidn'tfeelthat...
controlled.

Hepushedtheovalswivelmirrorawayandwentdownstairs.Inthelivingroom,hepausedtoexamine
thearrayoftastefullyframedphotographsonpolishedtabletops.Whothehellwereallthesepeople?

RomaandJessicaweretalkingquietly.Theybrokeoffwhentheyspottedhim.

"Everythingallright?”Romaaskedtoocheerfully.

"I...Yeah."

He could feel them making the effort not to look at each other. Jessica said, “There's chicken and wild
ricecasseroleinthefridge.Allyouhavetodoisheatit."

"Thanks.”Hegazedatthemratherhelplessly.“Look,it'sweird,Iknow.Buttherearesomephotosinthe
livingroom.Wouldyoubeabletotellmewhothepeopleinthephotographsare?"

"Ofcourse!”Romasaidquickly.“Ithinkweknowmostofyourfriends."

Hefollowedthemtothelivingroom.Jessicapickedupthelargestframe,aformalphotographofacouple
inoutdatedweddingclothes.

"Thosewereyourparents,”Romasaid.Apologetically,sheadded,“They'renolongeralive."

Breakingitgently.Buthealreadyknewthat.He'dgotthatmuchinthehospital.Nosiblingseither.

And so it went. “This is Ray Stevens and Paul Cheney at Alpine Village Oktoberfest. This is Bob
Rodriguez,Jess,me,andyouattheAbbotKinneyFestivaltwoyearsago.Thisis..."

With the exception of Jessica and Roma, he didn't recognize anyone. And yet, nothing rang false. The
names were even vaguely familiar—as though these were people he had known a long time ago but
couldn'tquiteputafaceorvoiceto.

Whatdiditmean?Didhereallynotwanttoremember?

Romapickedupanotherphotoandofferedit.“ThisisSortilege.”Itwasaphotoofhimandahorse.A
big,black,uglythoroughbred.“He'syours."

"He'smywhat?"

"Yourhorse.YoustablehimdownatGriffithPark."

Jessicasaid,“Hewasaracehorse,buthecouldn'trunwhenpeoplewerewatchinghim."

Peterlaughed.

"Seriously.Hewaslikearocketonthetrack—providedthestandswereempty."

"Hehasissues,”agreedRoma.“Soyouboughthim."

"HowcouldIaffordanex-racehorse?"

Romashrugged.“Youknewhisowner.YouwereatUSCtogether.”Hergazewascurious.“Youbelongto
someprivateridinggroup.YoumeeteveryThursdayeveningdownatGriffithParkforasunsetride,and
thenyouwindupataMexicanrestaurantforchipsandmargaritas."

Heclosedhiseyes,tryingtopictureit—feelit.Nothing.Nada.

Whenheopenedhiseyes,theywerewatchinghimanxiously.Henoddedatthephotoofayoungerversion
ofhimselfandatallblondmanofaboutthesameage.

"That'sCole,”Romasaidwithoutinflection.

SothatwasCole.Hestared,fascinated.Colewashandsome,noargumentthere.Liketheleadingmanin
aglitzysoapopera.Hehadawonderfulsmile,wideandwarm.Peterfeltzerogazingatthatwhiteflash
ofteeth.

"Andhe'sanoldfriend?"

Didshehesitate?“That'sright.YouroomedtogetheratUSC.Hehelpedyougetthisjob."

"Andhe'sMacBrideConstantine'sgreat-great-grandson?"

"Yep."

Hewasn'twrong.Roma'svoicewasbriskandcolorless.Eithershedidn'tlikeColeorshedidn'tlike...
thewayhefeltaboutCole.

HowdidhefeelaboutCole?Whycouldn'thefeelanything?Howlongwasthisemotionalblackoutgoing
tolast?

"Andhe'sonthemuseumboardofdirectors?"

"Right."

Shedidn'tlikeCole.Hehadbeenright,evenifhewasn'tsurehow.“AndColeandIare...close?"

She certainly hesitated then. “At one time. I don't know how things are now. You don't talk a lot about
him.”Sheadded,“Butthenyouneverdid."

Peterbithislip,thinking.“WasI...?AmIseeinganyone?Atall?”Itwastheatallthatprobablygavehim
away.Itwasprettyobvioushewasn'tseeinganyoneonaregularbasis,sincenoonehadturnedupatthe
hospitaltoholdhishand.

"Notsteadily.Yougooutwithfriends.Youhaveanactivesociallife."

Whatdidthatmean?Bookclubsandblinddates?

Jessicavolunteered,“Yousignedupforoneofthosedatingservices.Match.com,Ithink."

"I...did."

"Yougooutalot.Thoughusuallynotmorethanoncewiththesameguy."

Heabsorbedthatslowly.

"That'syourchoice,mostly,”Romaputin.

Hehadthefeelingshewastryingtotellhimsomethingabouthimself,buthecouldn'tforthelifeofhim
thinkwhatitwas.Thathewashardtoplease?Hardtogetalongwith?Aworkaholic?Hislifesounded...
lonely.Itfeltlonely.

He looked at the other photos. Mostly group pictures. Cole—an adult Cole—was in a couple of those
groups.

Hisfacemusthaverevealedsomeofwhathewasfeeling,thoughhethoughthewashidingitwellenough.
“Youshouldliedown,Peter,”Jessicasaid,puttingahandonhisarm.

"Yes,”Romaagreed.“You'resupposedtogetalotofrest.”Shepattedhimtoo.Apparentlyhewasmaking
themnervous.Theyweregoingtobeginflutteringinaminute.

"Andafteryou'verested,youcanhaveanicesupperand..."

"Andanearlynight,”Romaconcluded.

Theyweretryingtohelpobviously.Nottheirfaultthathewasfeelingworsewitheverykindword.

"Yes, I will.” He gathered energy for the social ritual, thanking them for everything—uncomfortably
aware that there was probably more to thank them for than he knew. He promised to rest and eat and
thankedthemsomemore,usheringthemgentlytowardthefrontdoorandthenouttothetidyfrontgarden.

"Callifyouneedanything,”Romatoldhim.

"Areyousureyouwanttostayhereonyourowntonight?”Jessicaworried.“We'vegotplentyofroom,
youknow."

Romasaidquickly,“That'sanidea."

Anditwas.Abadone.“I'msure,”Petersaid.“I'mfine.I'mlookingforwardto—Ijustneedalittletime

onmyown."

They appeared sympathetic and uneasy, but they went—reluctantly—with many admonitions to take it
easyandnotworryandrestandeat.

At last they had tucked themselves into Roma's MG and were speeding away as though auditioning for
stuntdriversinanactionflick.

Peter watched them go, and when they were out of sight, he found his keys and went out through the
garden,walkingslowlyuptothemainhouse.

****

AportraitofCaptainMacBrideConstantinehungintheentrancehallofConstantineHouse.Atthetimeof
hisportraitsitting,thecaptainhadbeeninhissixties.He'dbeenaroundtheworldseveraltimes—andit
appearedtohavebeenlousyweatheralltheway.Beneaththecaptain'scap,paleblueeyesstareddown
anylandlubberwhothoughthewasgettingintothemuseumwithoutthepriceofanadmissionticket.The
snowyhairandlongwhitebeard,theruddycheeksandsmallmouth,gavetheoldmantheappearanceofa
piraticalSanta.

Beneath the portrait was a reception desk, and at the reception desk sat a girl scowling at the phone
ringinginfrontofher.

Shewasabouttwentyandpetite.Herhairwascutinaglossyblackbobandhereyeswerelargeandblue.
ShelookedlikesomethingcraftedinaDutchtoyshop...tooperfecttobereal.Likealittledoll.

AsPeterwatchedhermakeapetulantsnatchforthephone,hernamecametohim.Mary.Hefeltarushof
relief.Itwascomingback.Hismemorywassluggishlystartingtofillintheblanks.MaryMontero.

Mary, Mary Quite Contrary. He didn't care for her, but she was the daughter of one of the trustee
members.DennisMontero.Maryhadbeenhiredasaninternforthesummer,butthathadbeenawashout
andPeterhadrelegatedhertoansweringphonesandfiling.

Itwasnotapopulardecision.

CatchingPeter'sapproachoutofthecornerofhereye,Maryglancedup.Shelookedstartledtoseehim.
Andnonetoothrilled.

He managed a perfunctory smile and a “carry on” nod, as he continued to his office—and that was the
secondflashofmemory.Herememberedwherehisofficewas.

Ormaybeitwasjustcommonsense,becausethereweren'talotofoptions.Thebottomfloorsoftheold
mansionhadbeenconvertedtoexhibitrooms,andtheywerestuffedwith...well,junk.

A lot of junk. Some of it relatively valuable, like the collection of jade trinkets, some of it, like the
mummifiedcrocodile,moreappropriateforawhiteelephantsale.

He turned left at the marble statue of Kwan Yin. He passed a carefully preserved eight-feet-long giant
squid,abatteredmummycase,andacollectionofAlutiiqmasks.

It was not your ordinary Los Angeles cultural attraction, certainly. Although it seemed an accurate
representationofthemesshislifewascurrentlyin.

Peterturneddownanotherhalldecorated—ifonewaswillingtousethetermloosely—withaseriesof
grimpaintingsbyacontemporaryofHansHolbeintheYoungerwhomadeHans'sworklooklikethestuff
ofThomasKincaid.

Hisoffice—PETERKILLIANwasblazonedonasmallbrassplaquebesidethedoor—wasattheendof
thehall.Thedoorwasnotlocked.Hadheleftitunlockedorhadthepoliceinvadedhissanctum?Given
theinstinctiveuneasehefeltonfindingitunlocked,hesuspecteditwasnotusualforhimtoleavehisdoor
open.Itwasagoodbetthepolicehadbeentherebeforehim.

Pushing open the door, he found himself looking into a large and lovely sitting room that had been
converted into an office. And a nice office at that. The furniture was antique but comfortable. Large
windowsoverlookedthecamelliagarden.

He knew, without having to look, that beyond the camellias was a small grassy knoll. Stone steps built
intothehillsideleddowntothegrotto,whichhadoncehousedtheChinesewallmural.

Astrangefeelingsweptoverhimandhereachedforthedeskchair,sittingdownheavily.

Afterafewsecondshefeltbetterandlookedaround.Onthewallswereseverallargephotosofpeoplehe
didn'trecognize.Takenatmuseumfunctions,heguessed,judgingbyhisownsmilingpresenceinseveral
pictures.

His gaze fell on the desk before him, taking in the old-fashioned bronze desk set, which included an
inkwell.Surelyhewasnotsomekindofcrankwhowrotelettersbyquillpen?Butno,hislaptopsatright
thereinthemiddleofthecleareddesk.

Hestaredatitforsometime,feelingvaguelyqueasy.Notthathewouldbestupidenoughtohaveanything
onhislaptopheshouldn't,but...itstillgavehimaweirdsensationtothinkanyone—oreveryone—had
hadaccesstohisprivatecommunicationsforthepastthreedays.

Afteramomentortwohemovedtoopenadeskdrawerandfounditlocked.Hecheckedhiskeyringand
thekeywasthere.Heunlockedthedeskandfoundeverythinginitsplace.Ifthepolicehadsearchedhis
office,theyhadbeendiscreetaboutit.

Removinganebonyletteropener,hebegantogoslowlythroughhismail.

Therewereacoupleofrésumés,aninvitationtoacharityfunctionattheGetty,anoticeofanartgallery
exhibition—andatonofjunkmailthatMs.Monterowassupposedtoweedoutforhim.

Hetossedthemailbackintohistraytodealwithwhenhefeltmoreontheballandbegantogothrough
hisdeskdrawersinearnest.Surelysomethingherewouldtriggerafewrecollectionsoratleastsupplyan
answer or two. He came across a foldout brochure for the museum. It looked fairly old—and, as
surmised,thedatewas1997.Wellbeforehistime.Therewasasmallcoloredphotoofthegrottoatthe
bottomofthegarden.Hecouldjustmakeoutthefadedtintsofthestolenmuralinthebackground.

Foralongtimehestaredatthephoto.Whythehellcouldn'therememberwhathadhappened?Itwouldbe

onethingifhe'dinjuredhisbrain,butthedoctorssaidtherewasnophysicalreasonforthisblank.

AtlastPeterdroppedthebrochurebackintothehangingfile.Ashedid,henoticedacoupleofsnapshots
looseatthebottom.Hedrewthemoutandstared.ColeConstantineonwhatappearedtobehiswedding
day. Cole, beyond handsome in a severe black tux. Cole obligingly nibbling wedding cake, kissing the
bride,andposingwithbestmanPeter.

Peterstaredatthephotos,athisownemptilysmilingface.Hisheartbegantothudinsicktattoo.Hefelt
ill.Automatically,hetossedthephotosbackintothefile,closedthedrawer,andlockedit.Whatwasthe
matter with him leaving those pictures where anyone could find them? What was the matter with him
keepingthosepicturesatall?

Herestedhisfaceinhishands.Hisheadached.Whatabadideathishadbeen.Hewasn'treadytodeal
withthis—whateverthiswas.

Butitwasveryobviouswhatthiswas.Picturesofhismarriedbestfriend.Eroticdreamsofhismarried
bestfriend?Itwaspathetic.Evenifhecouldn'trememberanyofit,itwaspathetic.

Therewasanoisefromthehallway.Peterlookedup.Atallblondmanstoodframedinthedoorway.He
wasverytanned,hiseyesindigoblueinhishandsomeface.Heworeababybluepoloshirtandjeans.

Cole.

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterThree

"Ididn'texpectyouintoday,”ColesaidasPeterroseautomatically.“Shouldn'tyoubetakingiteasy?"

Cole had a light, pleasant voice, and Peter suddenly remembered that he'd sung in the men's chorus at
USC. His memory was definitely returning, and that was the good news. The bad news was he wasn't
readytofaceCole.He'dwantedalittlewarning.

"I...Thanks,”Petersaiddisjointedly.“ButIcan'tjustsitaround."

"I don't know why not, with what you've been through. How are you feeling?” Cole still stood in the
doorway as though waiting for permission to enter Peter's office. No. As though he felt a need to keep
distancebetweenthem.

Peterfelthisfaceheat,andhewasn'tevensurewhy.“I'mfine."

"I'll take your word for it.” Cole's smile was quizzical, attractive. “Then you do remember what
happened?"

HowwouldColeknowaboutPeter'smemorylapse?Butofcourse.DetectiveGriffinwouldhavebeenin
contactwithhisemployers—inthiscasethemuseum'sboardoftrustees.ColewouldknowthatPeterwas
claimingamnesia.He'dprobablyheardwhatDetectiveGriffinthoughtofthatclaim.

"No,”headdedinhisowndefense.“It'snotunusualtoforgeteventsjustpriortoaheadinjury."

"Iguessthat'strue.Butthatcop...saidthatyousaidyoudidn'tremember...anything."

"Therearesomeblankspaces."

Colewasfrowning,watchinghimclosely.“Likewhat?"

"Just...”PeterstaredatthegoldbandglintingonCole'shandandabruptlylosthistrainofthought.

"Just...?"

Whathadtheybeentalkingabout?Suddenlyhecouldn'trememberwhathehadwantedtosay—howodd
wasthat?Itwasn'tasthoughhehadn'thadtimetogetusedtotheideathatColewasmarried.

"Pete,”Colesaidsoftly,andPeter'sgazeliftedtomeetCole's.Herememberedthecop—Griffin—saying
he didn't like to be called “Pete,” but Cole used the word like a pet name, and Peter felt no objection.
HowwouldGriffinknowsuchathinganyway?

"Sorry.What?"

"Youshouldn'thavecomeinsosoonafterbeingreleasedfromthehospital.Theboardisgoingtothink
you'rewellenoughtofaceuptosomekindofinquiry."

Peter'sbrowsdrewtogether.“I'mmorethanhappytotalktotheboardifthat'swhattheywant."

ButColewasshakinghishead.“Badidea.Bettertoletthepolicefigureoutwhat'sgoingon.Especiallyif
you'renotclearonthedetails."

IttookhimafewsecondstoworkoutwhatColeseemedtobesaying.“DoyouthinkIhadsomethingto
dowiththesethefts?"

Colelookedtakenaback.“Ofcoursenot.ButI'mnottheproblem.Therearetwoothertrustees."

DennisMonteroandSallyOrchard.ButColewaschairman,asbefittedthelastsurvivingdescendantof
CaptainMacBrideConstantine.

Asthoughreadinghismind,Colesaidreluctantly,“Ican'tbeseentobeusingmyinfluencebecauseofour
personalrelationship,Pete.Youknowthat."

"Right."

He spoke automatically, saying what was expected. But really ... when the hell should one's personal
relationshipbetakenintoconsiderationifitwasn'twhenone'sfriendwasfightingforhissurvival?Wasit
wrongtofeellikemaybeCole'spersonalknowledgeandfaithinhimmightbeexpectedtosurfaceinhis
favornow?Wasitwrongtofeelalittlechilledbythisstrictlackofbias?

AssumingColedidreallybelievehewasinnocentandwasn'tjustsayingsooutofpoliteness.

Peter'smouthdriedandhehalfstuttered,“Cole,IsweartoGod...Ididn'thaveanythingtodowiththe
muralbeingtaken.Ihaven'tstolenapennyfromthemuseum.Iwouldn't."

Cole looked uncomfortable. He glanced over his shoulder as though afraid Peter's ragged voice was
echoingthroughthemuseum.“Iknowthat.I'vealreadytoldyouIhavetotalfaithinyou."

Peter nodded. He was appalled to realize his lips were unsteady. He could not—could not—bear for
Coletoseehimcry.AndapparentlyColecouldn'tbeariteither,becausehelookedaway.Thenhestared
downathiswatch,saying,“Look,gohomeandrest.Youlooklikedeathwarmedover."

"I'mallright.”Peterpinchedthebridgeofhisnosehard.

Therewassilencebutforthesprinklersoutsidehiswindowjettingsilverwaterintothebrightsunlight.

"Ofcourseyou'renot,”Colesaidsoftly.

Peter lowered his hand and Cole was gazing at him with an impatient blend of sympathy and affection.
BeforePetercouldthinkofanythingtosay,Colesaidinnormaltones,“Damn.I'mmeetingAngieforan
earlydinner,orI'dwalkovertothebungalowwithyou."

ForamomentPeterwasn'tsureifhe'dmisheardthatmomentoftendernessornot.HegazedatCole,who
offered another flash of that white smile. “Come on, buddy boy. Get going.” And as Peter gazed
undecidedlyathisunopenedlaptop,tryingtochoosewhethertotakeitorleaveit,“Thatwillallwaitfor
adayortwo."

Reluctantly, Peter rose. Cole was already walking away down the hall. Peter locked his office and
followed him back out past the Ripley's Believe It or Not-style exhibits: a stuffed kangaroo, a seven-
tieredplatformofantiqueJapaneseHinadolls,andatwo-handedbroadswordthatwasnearlyastallasa
smallman.

Astheypassedthefrontdesk,MarylookedstraightthroughPeterandgaveColeabrightsmile.

"Goodnight,Mr.Constantine!"

"Night,sweetheart."

Sweetheart. Someday some unamused female was going to haul Cole up on sexual harassment charges,
Peterthoughtwithaflickerofirritation.Hesaidnothing,suspectingthiswasatimeworncomplaintofhis.
Marycertainlydidn'tseemtomind.ShewasstillbeamingafterColewhenPeterglancedbackfromthe
doorway.

Uponmeetinghisgaze,shelookeddownatthepapersonherdeskthatshehadbusilybeenpretendingto
shuffleattheirapproach.

Thesunshineseemedverybrightandveryhotastheystoodonthefrontsteps.Peter'sheadwaspounding
quitedesperatelynow,andhethoughtperhapsColewasrightaboutgoinghomeandlyingdownforthe
restoftheafternoon.

"Everythingwillworkout;you'llsee,”Coletoldhim.“Idon'twantyoutoworryaboutanything.Justtake
iteasyforafewdays."

PeternoddeddullyandColepattedhisshoulder.Hewentbrisklydownthestepsandstrodeacrossthe
greensquaresoflawntotheparkinglot.Peterwatchedhimgo,unmoving,andwhenatlasthesawCole's
Mercedesleavetheparkinglot,heturnedandwalkedslowlybacktothebungalow.

Themockingbirdwassingingashelethimselfinsidethesilenthouse.

Hewanderedintothekitchen,openedthefridge,andstaredatthefoil-coveredcasseroledish.Heclosed
thefridge.

Ridiculoustofeellikethis.Tofeel...soalone.Therewasanenormousdifferencebetweenbeingalone
andbeinglonely.Thefactthathewasstrugglingtoseethedifferencehadtobearesultofhisheadinjury.
Hewasovertiredandovermedicatedandbehavinglikeanass.

He left the kitchen and went into his study. A copy of Georgette Heyer's The Masqueraders lay on the
tablenearthewingbackchairthatgazedoverthegarden.Hepickeditupandabookmarkfellout.

Heglancedatthepage.

Therideatanend,itwasCharlesandPeterwiththem;theymighthavebeenbloodbrothers.

Hewascomfortedbytherealizationthatherecognizedthispassage.Heknewthebook.Itwas,infact,a
favorite,onehehadreadmanytimes.Hewasremembering,slowlybutsurelyitwasallcomingback.He
glanced at the bookshelf, and Heyer's romance titles were all listed there, from A Civil Contract to

Venetia.

Thiswashishome.Hisworld.Hewassafehereevenifhedidn'tyetrecognizethatfact.

Petersatdowninthechair,pickedupTheMasqueraders,andbegantoread.

****

HedraggedPeter'strousersdownandnuzzledhiscrotch.Peter'sheartknockedfranticallyathisribs.
Slowly,lingeringly,hemovedhishandsovertheother'slong,leanbody—broadback,firm,muscular
buttocks,hard,strongthighs.Beautifulbody.Thesleekglideofmusclesbeneathbrownskin.

Ahot,wetmouthclosedoverhisthickened,stiffcockandPetergroanedastheother—asCole—began
tosuck.Thatslickheatpulledathim,drewhimon,settingoffatinglingatthebaseofhisspine,tiny
explosions of delighted sensation. So good. So unexpected. Peter shifted around so that their cocks
weredeepineachother'smouths.Hardtoconcentrate,though,becauseitfeltsogoodandhewanted
tomakeitjustasgoodfor...forCole.

Focus. God. Focus. But it was hard to focus because that wicked, knowledgeable mouth was doing
suchdeliciousthingstohim.Itwaslikehecouldn'tformhislipstomakesuction,letalonewords.He
settledforawhimperthatwouldhaveembarrassedhiminlessnakedcircumstancesandakissforthat
other beautiful cock. All the while those feverish lips continued to work him with tongue and breath
and the rumor of teeth. Peter was shivering from toes to crown, eyes fastened shut while that
wonderful, warm, wet drag went on and on, sucking and sucking until at last he was delivered,
screamingtensiongivingwayinspurtsofrich,salt-sweetcream.

****

Peter opened his eyes, shivering despite the day's languid heat, aware that he had come in his sleep.
Beneath his chinos, his shorts were wet and uncomfortable. Christ! Was he fourteen? Because that had
beenthelasttimethathappened.

Andsomeonewasknockingatthefrontdoor.

Confused,herosetoofastand,headswimming,wenttoanswerthatimpatientsummons,pullingouthis
shirtashewentthroughthekitchenandlettingithangout.

Reachingthefrontdoor,heunlockeditandpulleditopen,uncomfortablyawareofthelittlecrinklesall
acrossthebottomofhisshirtfront.

DetectiveGriffinstoodonhisporch.

"Iwasbeginningtowonderwhetheryou'dskippedtown,”hesaidafterapause.

"Iwassleeping."

Griffindidn'tseemtohavearesponsetothat.“CanIcomein?"

"DoIhaveachoice?"

Griffin'sgrinwasunexpectedlyattractive.“Sure.Fornow.Beeasiertogetitoverwith,wouldn'tit?"

"Forwhom?"

Thegrinwentalittlewiderandalittlemoredangerous.Petersighedandmovedaside.Griffinfollowed
himintothelivingroom.

"Niceplace,”GriffinsaidfrombehindPeter.Hemovedquietlyforabigman.

"You'veseenitbefore,haven'tyou?”ThequalityinthesilencebehindhimmadePeterturnaround.Griffin
was staring at him narrowly. “Are you trying to tell me you didn't search this place while I was in the
hospital?"

ThesetofGriffin'sshouldersseemedtorelax.Afaintsmiletuggedathismouth.“Nobody'ssearchedyour
house.Oryouroffice.Sofar.Ihaven'tevenaskedforasearchwarrant.Yet."

"Why'sthat?IthoughtIwasyournumberonesuspect?"

"Yeah, well ... I've been wrong before.” His blue-gray gaze met Peter's levelly and then dropped to
Peter'scrotch.ItoccurredtoPeterthathewasstandingthereinsticky,wetbriefsandabadlywrinkled
shirt.

Astrangemomentpassed.Peterhadavividsenseofdéjàvu.Hesaidatrandom,“Wouldyoulikeacupof
coffee?"

"Sure,”Griffinsaidgenially,theacceptancesurprisingPeterevenmorethanhisownofferhad.

"Haveaseat,andI'llputapoton."

Griffintooktheleatherclubchairbythefireplace.“Funnyhowwestillsaythat,”heremarked.“Nobody
putsapotonthesedays."

Peterwentintothekitchenandturnedthecoffeemakeron;thenhewentupstairsandchangedoutofhis
clothesyetagain,thistimeoptingforsweatpantsandaT-shirt.Inthebathroom,hesplashedcoldwateron
hisflushedfaceandtoldhisreflection,“You'reafraidtobeonyourown."

When he came downstairs again Griffin was back on his feet, staring out the window at the bird-of-
paradise.HeglancedoverhisshoulderatthesoundofPeter'sfootstepsandsaid,“Iwasstartingtothink
youweretryingtomakeabreakforit."

"Whydoyoukeepsayingthingslikethat?Idon'thaveanyreasontoflee.Ihaven'tdoneanythingwrong."

"Howdoyouknowifyoucan'tremember?"

"BecauseIknowmyself."

Griffin'smouthcurledinoneofthosesardonicsmiles.

Peterbristled.“I'mstartingtotakethispersonally.AmIhonesttoGodyouronlysuspect?"

"Prettymuch,yeah.”Griffinwasstudyinghim.“You'restillclaimingyoudon'trememberanything?"

He said what he'd said to Cole only a short time earlier. “You must have spoken to my doctor. It's not
unusualwithheadinjuriestoforgethowtheinjuryoccurred."

"I'mnotjusttalkingaboutthenightoftherobbery."

"ThenIdon'tknowwhatyouaretalkingabout."

Griffincontinuedtoeyehiminthatjaundicedway.“Allright,”hesaidatlast.“Ithinkit'stimewehada
littlechat."

"Let'schatinthekitchen.Thecoffeeshouldbeaboutready."

Awarethathewassimplystalling,thathedidn'twanttohavewhateverconversationthiswasgoingtobe,
Peterturnedandheadedforthekitchen.

He didn't have to turn to know that Griffin followed him. The measured tread of his footsteps on the
hardwoodfloorraisedthehaironthebackofPeter'sneck.

ThedetectiveleanedagainstthelongcabinetnexttothebreakfastnookwhilePetertookcupsoutofthe
cupboard.Griffin'ssteady,impassivegazemadehimself-conscious.Hedidn'tlikeit—andherecognized
thatitwasoutofcharacterforhim.

"Howdoyoutakeit?”Itwasaperfectlyreasonablequestion,andyetforsomeinsanereasonhefeltthe
backofhisneckgrowingwarm.

Itdidn'thelpthatGriffinseemedtohavetomakehismindupaboutsomethingbeforeanswering,“Milk
andsugarifyou'vegotit."

Didhe?

Aquickglanceinthefridgeverifiedthathedid.JessicaandRomahaddonewellbyhim.Hehadenough
foodheretothrowadinnerparty,werehesoinclined—andcouldrememberwhomtoinvite.

Hequicklypreparedthecoffee,awareallthetimethatGriffinwaswatchinghim.

"Soexplaintomehowthisamnesiathingworks.Howisityouknowyourwayaroundyourkitchenand
howtofixacupofcoffee,butyoucan'trememberwhoIamorwhatyouweredoingThursdaynightinthe
grotto?"

Peter carried the coffee cups to the breakfast nook. Since Griffin made no move to sit, he stood too—
though on the other side of the nook—and sipped his coffee. He could practically feel the caffeine
workinginhisbloodstream.

Griffinpickeduphismug,swallowedamouthfulofcoffee.

Peter said wearily, “Look ... I don't know why. If you talked to my doctor, then you already know that
there isn't any organic reason that I can't remember. I just ... I guess I don't ... want to. That's what the

hospitalpsychiatristsuggested,anyway."

"Well,that'ssureashellconvenient."

"What do you want me to say? I don't know!” Peter's voice rose and he slammed shut on it. Getting
hystericalwasn'tgoingtohelp.

Griffintookanotherswallowofcoffee,watchingPetercoollyovertherim.

"Iwanttoremember,”Petersaid.“Notknowingwhathappenedisdrivingmecrazy."

"SoI'msupposedtobelievethatyousufferedtraumaticshockorsomethingthatnightandnowyoucan't
rememberwhathappened?"

"Iguess.Idon'tknow."

"You'renotalotofhelp,ProfessorPeabody.Butthen...that'skindofyourMO."

Peterhadbeenabouttotakeamouthfulofcoffee.Heloweredhiscupsharply,nearlyspillingtheliquid.
“What'sthatsupposedtomean?"

"Aboutayearagoyoureportedanumberofsmalltheftsfromthemuseum.Icaughtthecase."

Griffin had already told him this much in the hospital. Obviously more was coming. Peter resisted the
temptationtospeak.

"Thissoundfamiliaratall?"

"No.I'dassumedIwouldhavefiledapolicereportatsomepoint."

"That'sright.Youfiledapolicereport.Yourstorywasthatuntilyoubegancross-referencingdatafrom
theoldmanualcatalogsystemtothenewcomputerprogram,youhadn'tnoticedthatanumberofsmallbut
valuableantiquitiesweremissingfromthecollection.Youclaimedyouinitiallythoughtthemissingitems
mighthavebeenmislabeledorplacedinstorage.Butwhen,afterextensivesearching,youwereunableto
locate them—and when more items disappeared—you decided that someone was stealing from the
museum."

"Youkeepusingwordslikestoryorclaimed.ImplyingyouthinkI'mlying."

Griffinraisedhisbrows.Hesaidblandly,“Let'ssayIreservedjudgmentonthatpoint."

Peter swallowed his immediate furious response. He managed to say in an almost reasonable tone of
voice,“WhywouldyouthinkIlied?Whatwouldbemymotiveforstealingfrommyownmuseum?"

"Thesameasanyone'smotivewouldbe.Money.Ahundredthousanddollarsisovertwoyears’salaryfor
you.It'snotyourmuseum,afterall.You'rejustanemployee—likethegardenerorthegirlwhoanswers
thephones.Andapparentlythere'sbeensomediscussionofreplacingyou.Maybeyouthoughtyou'dbetter
—"

"What?"

Peterstaredathim,unbelieving.

Theechoofthecop'scallouswordsseemedtoreverberatethroughhisbrain.Therewasastrangerushing
sensation in Peter's head—as though a wind tunnel had opened between his ears. The floor seemed to
drop out from under his feet. Griffin grabbed his arm, and for a few odd seconds, Peter's face was
pressedintothedetective'sstarchedwhiteshirtfront.Warmcotton,somevaguelypineyaftershave,andthe
steadypoundingofGriffin'sheart...

Blindly, he pushed Griffin away, feeling for the back of the wooden bench. He lowered himself
awkwardly,bracinghiselbowsonthetableandrestinghisforeheadonhishands.

"Allright,”Griffinsaidroughlyafteramoment.“Somaybeyoudidn'tknowthat."

"Goaway,”Petersaidfrombehindhishands.

"What does that solve?” The truculence in Griffin's voice was undermined by something ...
defensiveness?Guilt?“IfIgoaway,Ijusthavetocomebacklater."

Peterstruggledtocontrolhisvoice.Hemanaged,“Getout,willyou?"

Afteralongpause,Griffinwent.

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterFour

The grotto was at the bottom of the oldest section of the garden. It was man-made, although it looked
naturalenough—likeasmallcavecoveredinfloweringvines.Outsidetheentrancewasakoipond.The
redandgoldfishlayquietlyinthebottomofthegreenwaterasPeterstoodbesidethepoolstaringinto
thegrotto.

Therewasn'tmuchtosee.Yellowandblackpolicetapestretchedacrosstheopenmouth.Theinteriorwas
lined with tile and bits of colored glass that sparkled in the pale light from the solar lamps slowly
winkingonastheeveninggrewdark.

Theuglybaresquarewherethemuralhadoncehungwasabouttenfeetlongandsixfeethigh.Noteasy
movingsomethingofthatsize.Itwouldtakemorethanonemantogetitsafelydownfromthewallofthe
caveandcarryitoutofthegrotto—anditwouldrequireavehicletotransportitmorethanafewfeet.The
groundswereprivateandlockedatnight,sohowhadtheydoneit?

Peterwalkedaroundthebackofthegrotto,passingthroughthegroveofweepingwillows,comingatlast
toafencewellconcealedbehindabamboowall.Hefollowedthefencetillhecametoapadlockedgate
markedEMERGENCYVEHICLEACCESSONLY.Thegateopenedontoadirtroad.

Thethievesmusthaveparkedouthereafterthemuseumhadclosedfortheeveningandeveryonehadgone
home.Itwascertainlyquietanddeserted—evenatthistimeoftheevening.

Therealquestionwas,whywasn'ttheremoreofasecuritysystem?Who,inthisdayandage,reliedona
padlockandasinglesecurityguard—aguardwho,ifPeterknewanythingaboutit,spentmostevenings
watchingTVinthegatehouse?

Wastheresponsibilityforthesecurityofthemuseumandgroundshisalone?Haditbeenhisdecisionto
leavethemuralessentiallyunprotected?Ifso,nowondertheboardwasdiscussinghisremoval.

Assumingitwastrue—thatitwasn'tsomethingGriffinhadmadeuptorattlehim.

He'dliketobelievethat,but...

Ithadcarriedtheringoftruth.Lookingback,hethoughtthatGriffinhadprobablyregretteddroppingthat
bomb. Something in his tone ... some vast discomfort when he'd had to witness Peter's reaction. You'd
expectacoptobeprettyhardened,butGriffinhadn'tenjoyedseeingPeterpoleaxed.

Which was interesting, because he didn't mind baiting Peter about suspecting him of stealing from the
museum.Sowhathadbeendifferentabouttellinghimhisjobwasinjeopardy?

Peter turned away from the pasture and started back up the hillside. The garden smelled wonderful at
night.Thecamelliashadnoscent,butthefragranceoftheheirloomrosesdriftedonthewarmbreeze.He
cut across the grass to the steps. The solar lanterns threw triangles of light across the bricks. In the
jacarandatrees,amockingbirdwascalling.

Chjjjj...chjjjj...chewk...

Peter'sstepsfalteredandhestoodstill.

Herememberedfallingonthesteps,rememberedtheshockofseeinghisownbloodspatteringthestones.
Hestoppedandlookeddown,andsureenoughtherewerelittleraindropstainsintheporoussurfaceof
thebricks.Foraninstanthewasbackthere,thescentofmowngrassandfreshbloodinhisnostrilsand
thecallofthemockingbirdinhisears.

Andifhepushedalittleharder...pushedpastthatveilofforgetfulness...whathadheseen?

Theglitterofstarsbeyondthepaleflickeringofthejacarandablossoms.Hehadcomeoutsidefora
breathoffreshair.Heoftenwalkeddowntothegrottoatnight.Helikedthesilence,thepeace.Butit
hadn'tbeensilent.Notthatnight.Crickets...frogs...Thatwasallright.Butheheardvoices...voices
wherenovoicesshouldbe.Thegroundswerelockedatnight.Onceinawhileteenagersjumpedthe
backfence.

That'swhathehadthought.Kids.Kids—maybevandals.Hecouldhearthemtalkingashedrewnear
the grotto. Talking ... or arguing? He drew close and he saw oversize shadows looming against the
glisteningwallsofthecave...

Andalreadyitwasslippingawayagain.Likeadoorclosingfirmlyinhisface.Thisfarandnofurther.

If only he could remember. If he could just come up with something he could give Griffin, some solid
pieceofevidencesothathewouldstopwastingtimetalkingtoPeterandstarttryingtofindoutwhowas
behindthesethefts.

Therewasanoisebehindhim.Peterwhirled,readyfor...hedidn'tknowwhat.Ithadsoundedlikethe
scrapeofashoeonbrick.Buttherewasnoonebehindhim.

Theshadowswayingonthegrasswasfromthetreelimbsmovinginthebreeze.Right?

Hestoodthereforamoment,watching.Nothingmoved.

Andifsomethingdidmove,whatwouldhedo?Heglancedaroundforsomethinghecouldusetodefend
himself ... a fallen branch, a loose brick, a rock. One thing about Constantine House, the grounds were
wellmaintained.Noweaponsavailableunlesshewasgoingtoyankasolarlanternoutofthegroundand
trytodefendhimselfwithit.

After a long, fraught moment, Peter began to feel foolish. The mockingbird seemed to confirm this
opinion,chatteringathimfromhighinthebranchesabove.

Heturnedandwentquicklyupthesteps.

Whenhereachedthebungalow,hereheatedthecasseroleleftbyJessicaandRoma.Itwasgood,buthe
wasn't hungry. He ate a few bites, dumped the rest into the trash, and settled for a glass of milk and a
coupleofpainpills.Hisheadwasachingagain,mostlyduetorushingbacktothebungalowbeforethe
bogeymancouldsnatchhim.

Wellandtrulydisgustedwithhimself,Peterretrievedhisbookfromthestudyandwentuptoreadinbed.

****

Hisdreamswerestrangeandtroubled,anddespitethetabletshe'dtakenbeforebed,hebegantofighthis
way out of sleep—which was how Peter became aware of the faint but persistent gnawing sound from
beneathhisopenwindow.

Inhisdream,thegnawingturnedintoratschewingatthewoodensidingofthehouse...andasratswere
absolutelyunacceptable,Peterwokeandopenedhiseyes.

Foramomenthelaythere,eyespickingouttheoutlineoffurnituresilveredbymoonlight.

Thereitwasagain.

Amutedscratchingsound.

Whatthehellwasthat?

Herose,crossingsoftlytothewindow,andlookeddown.Abulkyfiguredressedinblackstoodonthe
crescent-shapedpatiobusilyworkingatgettinginsidethebackdoor.

For the space of a heartbeat Peter was rooted in place, disbelieving. Disbelief gave way to alarm. He
crossedtothebed,fumbledthephone.Heneededlighttodial,andfuzzywithconcussionandpainpills,
heautomaticallyswitchedonthebedsidelamp.

Fromdownbelowcametheclangofmetalonstone,andthenasoundthatwasprobablyoneofthelarge
geraniumpotsgettingknockedover—potteryhittinghardbrick.Petergotbacktothewindowintimeto
see the bulky figure—ski mask concealing hair and face—racing across the grass to the outstretched
shadowofthetreesinthebackofthehouse.

Peterangledaroundtryingforabetterview,buthesawnooneelseontheterrace.Hegotbackovertothe
phoneanddialed911.

Theemergencyoperatorassuredhimapatrolcarwasinthevicinityandwouldreachhimshortly.

Peterthankedher,hungup,andbegantodressswiftly.Hewouldneedtocalldowntothegatehouseand
letthenightwatchman,Donnelly,knowthatthey'dhadananotherintruderandthatthepolicewereonthe
way.

Ashedressed,hebegantowonder.Granted,ConstantineHousewasn'tFortKnox,butitseemedtohim
thattheirsecuritywasbeingbreachedwithalarmingmonotony.Andwhyhisbungalow?

Dressed,hesatontheedgeofthebedandphonedDonnelly,butnooneansweredthegatehouseline.The
oldmanwasprobablysleepinginfrontofhistelevision.

Petersighed,hungup,andwentdownstairs.

Forthefirsttime,hebegantoconsiderthetheftsfromthemuseumitself.Hehadassumedtheitems—all
smallenoughtoslipintoapocketorpurse—hadbeentakenduringbusinesshours.Therewasasecurity
system, but it was outdated and it only encompassed the outside perimeter doors. But the fact that

intrudersweregettingontothemuseumgroundsafterhoursopenedanotherunpleasantpossibility.

What if the thefts were happening after hours? What if someone was bypassing the security at the main
houseandgettingintothemuseumthatway?

Only four people had the access code for the outside perimeter: Donnelly, museum trustee Dennis
Montero,Cole,andhimself.

Atleast...onlyfourpeopleweresupposedtohavetheaccesscode.

He shoved his feet into a pair of Vans and went down to the kitchen, turning on the overhead light to
examinethebackdoor.Sureenough,aperfectcirclehadbeenetchedintotheglasspanebesidetheinside
doorknob.Thecirclemusthavebeenreadytopopout,becauseasPetertouchedthedoorknobtoreassure
himselfitwasstilllocked,theovalofglassfelloutontothebricksandshattered.

Itglintedlikebrokenpiecesofmoonontheterrace.

ThehairprickledonPeter'sneck.Closecall.Veryclose.Whatwouldhavehappenedifhehadn'twoken
whenhedid?

Butwhatsensedidbreakingintothebungalowmake?

Helethimselfoutthefrontandrandownthelongcamellia-lineddrivetothegatehouse.Amarkedpatrol
carwasalreadysittingoutsidethetallirongates,exhaustturningredintheglareofitstaillights.Donnelly
wastalkingtotwouniformedofficers.HespottedPeter.

"They'resayingyoucalledinaprowler,Mr.Killian?”heaskedasPeterreachedthem.

Peternodded,outofbreathfromhisjog.“Itriedringingdownhere.Whydidn'tyoupickup?"

Donnellylookedtakenaback.“IguessIdidn'thearthephone‘cozIwasstandingouthere."

Peterturnedtothecopwhowaslisteningtotheirexchange.“He—theprowler—rantowardthebackof
theproperty."

"Doyouhaveadescriptionofthisprowler?"

Peterresistedthetemptationtopointoutthattheprowlerwouldprobablybetheguyrunninglikeabatout
ofhell.“Big.Hewasdressedindarkclothesandwearingadarkskimask."

ThesecondcopnoddedandsaidtoDonnelly,“Youwanttoopenthesegatesandwe'llgocheckitout?"

"There'sagateinthebackleadingtotheoldfireaccessroad.He'llhavegoneoutthatway."

"I'lltakethefront,Ramirez,youtaketheback,”thecopsaidtohispartner.

RamireznoddedandwentbacktothepatrolcarasDonnellymovedtoopentheautomaticgates.

Peter stood shivering while the tall gates slid slowly open. “He tried to get in the back door of the

bungalow."

Donnellysaid,“Hemusthavethoughtnobodywashome.Probablythoughtyouwerestillinthehospital."

"Probably.”Yes.Thatmadesense,didn'tit?Peterwishedhefeltconvinced.

The gates open, the uniformed officer came through and followed them to the little security cart that
Donnellyused.Petergrabbedaseatinthebackandtheyshotawayuptheroad,thecartenginehumming
asthoughtheywereoffonapleasurejaunt.

TheypulledupoutsidethebungalowsoPetercouldgetout.Donnellyeasedhisgirthoutofthelittlecart
andledthesecondcop,OfficerSimon,acrossthegrassanddownthehillsidetothegrotto.

Peterlethimselfbackinthecottageandputthecoffeemakeron.Ifhewasgoingtobeawakefortherest
ofthenight,hemightaswellbewideawake.

Donnelly and Simon returned within ten minutes, and Peter led them around the back to see where the
intruderhadbrokentheglass.

"Theglassisontheoutsideofthedoor.”ThecopwasgivingPeterastrangelook.

"ItfelloutwhenItouchedthedoorknob."

"Whywouldyoudothat,sir?"

IttookPeterafewsecondstounderstandwhatOfficerSimonwasgettingat.Hefelthimselfchangecolor
inawaveofirrationalguilt.“Iwantedtomakesurethedoorwasstilllocked.Itwas...reaction.IfI'd
stoppedtothink,Iwouldn'thavetouchedit,obviously."

Thecoplookednoncommittal.HeproceededtotakeallPeter'sinformation.Bythetimetheyhadfinished,
hispartnerhadrejoinedthem.

"Nosignofanyone,”Ramirezsaid.

"Ididn'tfakeabreak-in,”Petersaid.“Someonetriedtogetinheretonight."

"Nooneissuggestingyoufakedabreak-in,sir,”Simonsaidwoodenly.

"What'dIsay?”Ramirezlookedaroundforenlightenment.

"Nah,noproblem,”Donnellysaid.Inanapparentspiritofhelpfulness,headdedtothepolice,“Nowayis
thebosstryingtopullastuntlikethis.Hejustgotoutofthehospital.It'snaturalhe'dbejumpy."

This,reasonably,ledtoexplanationabouthowPeterhadlandedinthehospitaltobeginwith,andbythe
time the cops finally drove away, Peter was sure they were convinced he was either a nut seeking
attentionoracriminalwhohadjustoutsmartedhimself.Eitherway...notgood.

Donnellyalsodeparted,promisingtopatrolthegroundseveryhour,andPeterfinallyturnedoutthelights
andreturnedtobed,wherehespenttheremainderofthenighttossingandturning—andsittingupevery

timeafloorboardcreaked.

****

Itwasarelieftoopenhiseyestosunlight.

The morning was growing warm by the time Peter woke, still tired and a little groggy, and for a few
momentsherestedinthecleancottonsheets,listeningtothesweetbirdsong,thelullingrustleofleaves
outsidetheopenwindow,thehissofsprinklers.Drowsily,hisfingersfumbledwithbuttonsofhispajama
pants,reachinginside,touchingthevelvetwarmthofhisgenitals.Hecomfortedhimselfwiththefamiliar
motions,usingthepearlofmoistureattheheadofhiscocktoslickhisstrokes.

Cole,hethought.Cole...

But,unsettlingly,itwasDetectiveGriffin'sfacethatkeptinterposingitselfbetweenPeterandthefantasy
Cole.HeclosedhiseyesagainsttheimageofGriffin'slean,hardface,thestormyblueeyessodifferent
fromCole'sbrightbluegaze.Griffinwasthelastpersonhewantedtothinkof.

Especiallyinthiscontext.

Sohowweirdwasitthathecouldn'thelpwonderingwhatitwouldbelikewithhim?Didhehavesome
hitherto-undiscoveredkinkforSandM?BecauseitwasimpossibletopictureGriffinbeinganythingbut
themostbriefandbrutaloflovers.

TheweirdthingwashisincreasingcertaintythatGriffinwasgay.Fromwherehadthatconvictionarisen?
Griffin had said nothing to indicate his sexual inclinations, had he? Did Peter have any reason to think
Griffinwasanythingbutheterosexual—andGodhelpthewomaninvolvedwiththatbastard.

But...hadheandColeeverreallydonethis?Doneanything?Thedreamsweresovivid,soreal,but...

A glance at the clock warned him he was going to be late. Punctuality being something apparently
hardwiredintohim.

He moved his hand faster, just the right grip, the right angle ... the quiet relief of his hand pumping in
steady rhythm that was almost reverie ... pumping ... and then the fiercely sweet outcry—hot, wet
ejaculationsplatteringbellyandthighs,soakingintothethincottonofhispajamas.

Heclosedhiseyes,feelingthatreleaseechoingthroughhisoverstrungnervesandbody,andthenrolled
outofbedheadingfortheshower.

Itwaswhenheopenedthemedicinecabinetlookingforshavingcreamthathespottedthesmallbrown
bottleofZoloft.Hisnamewasontheprescription.

Whatthehell?Antidepressants?Maybetheymadesensenowthathislifewasfallingapart,butbeforehe
gotwhackedonthehead?

Forasecondortwo,hestareddownatthebottle,tryingtoreconcilethedrugswithwhatheknewabout
himself—what he felt he knew, anyway. In the end he was forced to conclude it was simply another
mystery.

Hedressedinawhitetailoredshirt—heseemedtohaveanendlesssupplyofthem—andbrowntrousers,
breakfastedonDanishandcoffee,andwalkeduptothemuseum.

The parking lot was empty, the building still locked. He let himself inside and stood there gazing in
dismayattheblinkingredlightofthealarmsystem.Andthen,quiteeasily,thecodecametohimandhe
puncheditin.

Thegreenlightflickedon.

Thereliefwasalmostasoverwhelmingasthepreviouspanic.Hewasremembering.Itwasallcoming
back.Firstinbitsandpieces,andnowingreaterchunksofrecollection.

Heunlockedhisofficeandwentinside.

Had anyone been here since the day before? It all looked exactly as he'd left it. Was this feeling of
paranoiaduetotheremaininggapsinhisrecollectionorwasthereareasonforit?

Heopenedhislaptop.Thesign-inscreencameup.Hestaredatit,frowning.

Then...heclosedhiseyesandjusttyped.

Andjustlikethathewasin—andblinkingatadesktopbackgroundofhimselfandCole.Therewereother
peopleinthephotoaswell,butthecenterofattentionwasobvious—andembarrassing.

Andallatonceitwasasthoughsomeonehadsplashedabucketofcoldwaterinhisface.Whatwaswith
himmooningoverhismarriedcollegeroommate?

Washereallythislonely?Thisobsessed?Becausefromthestrangeperspectiveofanoutsiderlookingin
atPeterKillian'slife,thisjustseemed...pathetic.

Thefirstthinghedidwaschangethedesktopbackgroundtoagenericpictureofwoods.Astheautumn
woodlandsceneflashedup,replacingthephotographofhisfatuoussmilingfacegazingatCole'sprofile,
hefeltanalmostphysicalrelief.Likeaweighthadbeenliftedoffhischest.

Peterspentthenextfewhoursreacquaintinghimselfwithhisworklife.Itwassomesolaceatleasttosee
that however screwed up his personal life was, he was efficient and thorough when it came to his
professionallife.

Ashewentthroughe-mails,moreandmorecamebacktohim.Andnotjusthisworklife.Heremembered
allkindsofthings.Thedoorhadswungbackopen—andthistimeitstayedopen.

Whenhehitthegaps,itwasalmostdisconcerting.Butperhapssomeofthesewerenormalgaps.Noone
couldrememberthedetailsofeverymeeting,everyphoneconversation,surely?

Heclickedthroughthemailinhisin-box.Hehadbeenworkingwithacoupleoflocalschoolstoarrange
tours,andSallyOrchardwasdemandinganumberofanswersonquestionsrelatingtotheannualcharity
balltobeheldthefollowingmonth.

Hecheckedthefilesonhisdesktop.Itlookedlikehehadstillbeenworkingoncatalogingthemuseum's

collections.ThatsupportedwhatGriffinhadsaid—thatPeterhaddiscoveredthetheftswhenhebeganto
movefromthemanualcatalogsystemtotheelectronic.

Whathadhenoticed?Whathadtippedhimoff?Somewherehemusthavemadenotes.

Certainlythere was nothingthreatening in anyof this. Nothing thathe should havewanted or needed to
forget.Infact,therewasremarkablylittlepersonalinformationinhisofficeorhiscomputer.Norwasit
likemuseumcuratorwasahigh-riskjob.Mostlyitwasplanning,displaying,andcatalogingthemuseum's
myriad collections, which certainly seemed to be how he mostly spent his days. He also planned and
oversawtoursandorganizedprogramsandtheoccasionalworkshop.Thatwasaboutit.NoIndianaJones
stuffforhim.

Hisphonebuzzed.Hepickeditup,andtheperfectandroidvoicesaid,“Mr.Constantineonlineone."

"Thankyou,Mary."

Sheclickedoff.Hetookabreathandsaid,“Peterhere."

"Pete.” The warmth in that voice made him close his eyes. “I tried the bungalow, but you weren't
answering.IthoughtIorderedyoutotakeiteasy."

Ordered?

"Ifeelbetterworking."

"Peter."

Indulgent. Affectionate. Knowing. Yes. That was why he kept hanging on. But hanging on to what? A
dream.Becausesureashellnomemoryofanythingmoretangiblethanafewbrotherlyhugswascoming
backtohim.

Alittlemorebriskly,Colesaid,“Howareyoufeelingtoday?"

Peterrepliedcrisply,“Fine,thanks.Muchbetter,infact."

"Afterlastnight'sadventure?Areyoutryingtopretendyou'reSuperman?"

"No,ofcoursenot.Ifeelfine.Howdidyoufindaboutlastnight'sattemptedbreak-in?"

"Donnellycalledme.Idon'twanttochewyourass,Pete,butyoureallyshouldhavecalledmeyourself."

Heshouldhave.Andthefactthathehadn'twasmoreproofthananythingthathewasstillawaysfrom
backtonormal.

"Iwasgoingtocallfirstthing.Itwastwoo'clockinthemorning.Ididn'tseethepointofdisturbingyou
and...Angie.”Angie.Thatwasit.Yes,itwasallcomingback.Thegoodandthebad.

"Iunderstand,but—"

Heblurtedout,“Mymemoryisstartingtocomeback."

TherewasapauseandthenColesaidheartily,“Excellent!"

"Yes."

TherewasanotherpauseandthenColesaid,“Well,sinceyouarefeelingbetterandsinceyousayyour
memoryisreturning...theboardoftrusteeswouldliketomeetwithyouthisafternoon.Areyouupfor
that?"

Peter'sheartsank.“Ofcourse."

"It shouldn't be ... Well, obviously there are questions. Things to discuss. But I don't anticipate any
problemsforyoupersonally."

"Allright."

ThefactthatColewasbotheringtosaythisindicatedtoPeterthathedidindeedanticipateproblemsfor
Peter.

"We'llseeyouatfourintheconferenceroomthen."

"Yes."

Coleclickedoff.Peterhungupandjumpedasthephonebuzzedagain.

"Yes?"

Marysaidtersely,“Thepolicearehere."

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterFive

PeterlefthisofficeandwalkedtotheendoftheshorthallintimetoseeDetectiveGriffincrossingthe
main exhibit room. A group of special-ed students was touring the museum, and one of the boys was
makingloudbirdsounds.

Griffinwatchedthemwithoutexpression.

Petersaid,“You'reherebrightandearly."

Thehardbluegazeturnedhiswaylikeanartillerybatteryzeroingonatarget.“Iheardaboutyourbreak-
in."

"AndyouthinkIfakeditinordertothrowsuspicionoffmyself."

Griffin laughed. Not only was his laugh unexpectedly appealing, something about it struck Peter as ...
familiar.“Iadmititdoesn'treallyseemlikeyourstyle."

"What do you think my style is?” He threw that over his shoulder as he started to turn away, but his
attentionwascaughtbyGriffin'sexpression.

He hadn't been sure before, but now—something about that lazy, knowing appraisal—he was certain
Griffinwasgay.

Griffinsaid,“Ithinkyoudon'tliketotakechances.Ithinkyou'recarefulandthatyouthinkbeforeyouact.
You'dknowenoughnottoknocktheglassoutonthewrongsideofthedoor."

Petergrimaced.“Ididknocktheglassout,butitwasanaccident."

TheyreachedhisofficeasGriffinresponded,“Right.ButIdon'tthinkyouhavealotofaccidents.Which
iswhyIhavetroublewiththescenarioofyouhappeningtowalkdowntothegrottoattheexactmoment
thieveswereyankingoutthatmural."

"Coincidenceshappen."

"Nottoguyslikeyou."

"Careful.Thoughtful.Crooked."

Griffinsmiledthatlazysmileagain.“Anyway,that'snotwhyIdroppedby."

"WhyamInotsurprised?"

"Ihavenews.Goodnewsandbadnews.Whichwouldyouliketohearfirst?"

Petersaidhonestly,“Idon'tknowifIcantakebadnewsrightnow."

Griffingavehimalong,unreadablelook.“Youhaveapartialalibiforthenightoftherobbery."

Petersaggedbackagainstthewall.“Ido?"

"Don'tsoundsosurprised."

"I'mnotsurprisedIhaveanalibi.I'msurprisedyoubotheredtolookforit.Ididn'tgettheimpressionyou
hadanyinterestinprovingmeinnocent."

"It'snotmyjobtoproveanything.Myjobistocollectevidenceandarrestthemostlikelysuspect."

"Whichyou'vedecidedisme."

Griffin stared at him for what seemed like a long time. “You think I'm being unfair to you? Trying to
railroadyou?"

He probably got excellent results with that intimidating stare. Peter refused to be intimidated. “I don't
know.Youseemtohaveyourmindmadeupaboutme."

"Iconsidermyselfaprettygoodjudgeofcharacter."

"AndyouthinkI'mathief?"

HewassurprisedwhenGriffindidn'timmediatelyanswer.

Afterapause,Peterasked,“What'smyalibi?"

"YouwereatGriffithParkhorsebackridingwithfriendswhoyoulaterwenttodinnerwithatVivaFresh
Mexicanrestaurant.Apparentlythat'showyouspendallyourThursdayevenings.”Hemanagedtomakeit
soundlikethekindoflame-assthingPeterwoulddo.

Thereliefwasconsiderable.Except...thelookonGriffin'sfacewasnotreassuring.Infact,ifitweren't
sounbelievable,he'dhavesaidGriffinlookedslightlysorryforhim.

Hemadehimselfask.“Sowhat'sthebadnews?"

"DonaldHerschel,alocalpawnshopdealer,identifiedyouasthemanwho'sbeencominginforthepast
twelvemonthssellingitemsthatshoweduponthepolicereportyoufiled."

AperfectandutterstillnessgrippedPeter.Somewhere,alongwayoff—possiblyinanotherlifetime—he
couldhearthatkidinthemainexhibitroomsquawkinglikeafrightenedbird.Fartherinthedistance,a
phonewasringing,mutedandmusical.

Hislipsfeltstiffashesaid,“It'snottrue."

Griffinsimplylookedathim.

Peterwasshakinghishead,denyingit,denyingthepanicthatwasthreateningtoclosehimdown.“There's
somemistake."

"Maybe.Hepickedyououtofaphotolineup,butwe'dliketoseehowhedoeswiththerealthing."

"Therealthing,”Peterrepeatednumbly.“A-alineup,youmean?"

"Right."

Heswallowedhard.Histhroatfeltfossilized.

"Atapolicestation."

"Yep."

Petercouldn'tseemtotearhisgazeawayfromGriffin's.Hesaidfinally,dully,“Ineedtogetalawyer,
don'tI?"

Griffineyedhimdispassionatelyforwhatfeltlikeaverylongtime.“Yes,”hesaid.“Youdo."

****

Timeflew.NotbecausePeterwashavingfun.Notevenbecausehewasbusy,thoughheworkedthrough
themorningandafternoon.Whetherhetrulyaccomplishedanythingwasdebatable.

AfterGriffinleft,Peterphonedalawyerfriendwhorecommendedanotherlawyerwhothenreferredhim
to a criminal lawyer. Peter set up an appointment with the criminal lawyer for the following morning,
whichwasthesoonesthecouldget—althoughthelawyerassuredhimthatifPeterwasarrested,he'dbe
theretobailhimoutbeforehismugshotwasdry.

FarfromreassuringPeter,thisbroughthometohimthefactthathewasprobablygoingtobearrested—
andthathehadnothingtomakebailwith.Heearnedaverymodestincome.Itwassufficienttohisneeds,
mostlybecausehislivingexpenses—rentandutilities—werecoveredbyConstantineHouse.Heowned
noproperty—unlesssomeonewasinthemarketforaneuroticex-racehorse—andtherewaslessthanfour
thousanddollarsinhischeckingaccount.

PeterthankedMr.StephensonofStephensonandCraneLawOffices,hungupthephone,andmadestraight
forthemen'sroom,wherehespentthenextthreeandahalfminuteshavingdryheaves.

When he'd recovered sufficiently, he returned to his office and tried to work, but the struggle to
concentrate was exhausting. Given the gaps in his memory, it would have been exhausting anyway. But
silentpanicwasnowhisconstantcompanion—practicallyasecondpresenceinhisoffice.

He was so anxious about the impending police lineup—and this lunatic pawnshop dealer who had
misidentified him—that he had little energy to worry about the meeting with the board of trustees
scheduledforthatafternoon.

Itwasalmostashockwhenhelookedattheclockandsawthatitwas4:02.

Maryhadnottoldhimthetrusteeshadarrived.Hewonderedwithasurgeofhopewhetherthemeeting
hadbeenpostponed,butwhenhewalkeddownthehalltotheconferenceroom—formerlythemansion's
diningroom—hefoundthethreetrusteeswerenotonlyalreadythere,theywerebeginningtochecktheir

watches.

SallyOrchardwasaheavyset,middle-agedwomanwhomadeapointofdoingnothingwithherhairor
clothes. If she had ever worn makeup, it would have been in the interest of scaring little children on
Halloween. Peter could remember a series of long and silly skirmishes with her on a variety of petty
issuesovereverythingfromthemuseumelectricalbillstoapersonalparkingspaceforSally.

Dennis Montero—one of the four people who had access to the museum security code—was a small,
portlymanwhovaguelyresembledapig.Notanuglypig.Acute,roly-poly,piggy-bankkindofpig.Peter
had always got on well with Dennis, and Dennis smiled in greeting—and then looked guilty—as Peter
enteredtheroom.

Peterbarelyregisteredtheothertwo,hisattentionbeingfocusedonCole,whohadapparentlybeentrying
tofindhim.

"Thereyouare!”Colewassmiling,hisblueeyeswarmbuttroubled.

"Sorry.Ilosttrackoftime."

Sallysniffeddisapprovingly.Colesaid,“Weunderstandyou'rebusy.Haveaseat,Peter."

Peter took a seat at the long dark dining table that now served as conference table. Sally was clicking
downthemeeting'sminutesonherlaptop.

Coleclearedhisthroat.“Firstofall,”hesaid,“theboardwantstomakeitveryclearthatwe'repleased
with your work at Constantine House. Your knowledge and ability is unquestioned. Your energy and
enthusiasmforworkingwiththepublichasbeeninstrumentalinbringingthemuseumoutofthered.Ithink
we'dallagreewiththat."

ColelookedpointedlyatSally,whosniffednoncommittallyandcontinuedtypingonherlaptop.

Petermanagedtofindwordsinthedrydesertofhismouth.“Thankyou."

"However"—Colestaredatthefilebeforehimasthoughitwerethemostfascinatingthingintheworld
—"thepastweekhasbroughttolightsomedisturbing...information."

"I'm not stealing from the museum,” Peter said. It came out more harshly than he intended, and Dennis
jumped.

"Noone'ssuggesting...Thatis..."

ColelookedatSally,whoraisedherheadfromherlaptopandsaidinthatheavy,pompousway,“Ithinkif
you'lllookatthisobjectivelyforamoment,Killian,you'llagreethatwehavenochoicebuttosuspend
youpendingtheoutcomeofthepoliceinvestigation."

PeterlookedatCole.Coleseemedunabletoholdhisgaze,hisowneyesdarkwithemotion.

"It'shardformetolookatitobjectively,”Petersaid.“IknowI'minnocentofanywrongdoing.I'mtheone
whowenttothepoliceayearago.NoonewouldhavebeenawareofthetheftsifIhadn'tbroughtthemto

theattentionofthepolice."

"That's not true,” Sally said. “The thefts were bound to be discovered eventually. It's probable"—she
correctedherself—"it'spossiblethatyouhopedtoshiftanysuspicionfromyourselfbybringingthematter
totheattentionofthepolice.Afterall,theinvestigationdidn'tgoanywhere."

"Sothefailureofthepoliceismyfaulttoo?"

Colesaidquietly,“Peter,thisisn'teasyforanyofus."

Peterstaredathimindisbelief.“No,butIthinkwecanagreethatit'sahellofalotlesseasyforme."

Cole'sfacetightened,andPetercaughthimselfbeforehesaidanythingelse.Thiswasn'thelping;itwas
probablymakingitworse.AndmaybeColedidn'trealizehowpersonalthisbetrayalfelt,althoughhe'd
have to be pretty stupid not to. But maybe he was stupid. Maybe that was one of the things Peter had
forgotten.

Forallheknew,thiswasjustanexcusefortheboardoftrusteestogetridofhim.Herememberedwhat
Griffinhadsaidabouttherebeingdiscussionofterminatinghiscontractwiththemuseum.Somaybethis
wassomuchsmokescreen,andthebottomlinewas,hewasoutregardlessofwhatthepolicefoundor
didn'tfind.

Still, he couldn't help saying, “Everyone seems to forget that I was attacked and injured during the
robbery.IfIwasinonit,thatwasn'taverygoodplan."

"Youweren'tkilled,though,”Sallypointedout.She'dhavebeenahitwiththeSalemwitchtrials,Peter
reflected.

"Isee.SoyouthinkI'driskbraindamagetotryandcovermytracks,isthatit?"

"No one thinks that,” Cole said, although it was obvious from Sally's expression that, that was exactly
whatshethought.“Thisisn'tatrialoraboardofinquiryoranythinglikethat.We'rejusttakingthenormal
stepsanyorganizationinourpositionwouldtake.Assoonasyou'reexonerated,you'llbereinstated,of
course."

Sallyclickedbusilyawayatherlaptopwithoutcomment.Denniswaslookingathiswatch.

Petersaidtersely,“Verywell.I'llabidebyyourdecision."

Notthathehadanychoice,buttheotherthreelookedvariousshadesofrelieved.

They began gathering up their notes and paper cups, and Peter stood motionless, wondering if he was
supposedtohandoverhiskeys.Probably,sincehewassuspectedofrippingoffhisownmuseum,buthe
wasnotgoingtovolunteer,andapparentlynoneofthemthoughtofit—oriftheydid,hadthegutstoask
himforthekeysflatout.

Heturnedandlefttheconferenceroom.Hecouldhearthemurmuroftheirvoicesbeforehewashalfway
downthehall.

****

"I'm so glad you called!” Roma screamed over the roar of wind as they tore down Sunset Boulevard,
weavinginandoutofrush-hourtraffic.“We'vebeenthinkingaboutyou."

Jessica,herhandtohertiger-framedglassestokeepthemfromblowingawayinthegale-forcebreeze,
noddedeageragreement.

"Thanksfordoingthis.Iappreciateit,”Petersaid.“Ididn'tknowwhoelsetocall."

"We'dhavekilledyouifyoucalledanyoneelse,”Romacried.“Thisissomuchfun.Suchagreatidea!"

Petersmiledweakly.Hedidn'tknowifitwasagreatideaornot,butatleastitwasanidea—sofarthe
only one that had occurred to him. Whoever this Donald Herschel was, this pawnshop dealer who
DetectiveGriffinclaimedhadidentifiedPeterasthesellerofstolengoods,heclearlyhadPetermixedup
withsomeoneelse.Photosweren'treliable.AndinevitablyHerschelwouldbetryingtomatchthePeter
of the physical lineup with the photo he'd seen. But if presented with the living, breathing Peter, surely
he'dseehismistake?

Andifhedidn't?

Well,ifnothingelse,Peterwantedalookathim.MaybeHerschelwassomeonehe'dhadsomedealings
withthroughthemuseum?Someonewhohadagrudgeagainsthimorthemuseum?Asfar-fetchedasthat
seemed,itwasn'tasfar-fetchedastheideathatPeterwouldbefencingstolenarticlesfromConstantine
House.

Ithadn'ttakenhimlongtotrackthepawnshopdownthroughtheInternet.SunsetBoulevardJewelryand
Loan,proprietor:DonaldHerschel.Hours:tenthirtya.m.toeightp.m.

Withsomefancymaneuvering,Romamanagedtosecureaparkingspaceonthecrowdedstreet.Sheand
Jessicawentinsidetopretendtobrowseasthey'ddiscussedonthedriveover.

Peterwaitedinthecar,givingthemtimetopositionthemselves.Theshopwasquiteabitlargerthanhe'd
expected.Itlookedsuccessfulandbusy.

Helookedathiswatchandgotoutofthecar,crossingthestreet.

Ashewasbuzzedinsidethesecuritydooritoccurredtohimthatinanoperationofthissize,Herschel
mightnotbethere.He'dbeenexpectingalittlehole-in-the-wallwithanagedShylock,jeweler'sloupeat
ready,waitingbehindabatteredfrontdesk.

Therealitywasalarge,well-litshopstuffedwitheverythingfromtelevisionstomusicalinstruments.An
assortmentofriflesandhandgunswerelockedincabinetsalongonewall.Therewasanenormousglass
caseofjewelryinthefrontoftheshop.JessicaandRomaweretalkingtoaslenderyoungmanabouta
man-sizedharp—somewhereanangelwasapparentlyinhock.

Anothermanstoodbehindthecounter.Tallandbroad-shouldered,hehadlongdarkhair,thinningontop
andafull,darkbeard.HisautomaticsmileofwelcomediedatthesightofPeterwalkingdownthecenter
aisle.

"Whatareyoudoinghere?”hedemanded.

"DonaldHerschel?"

"YouknowdamnwellwhoIam.Whatareyoutryingtopull?"

"I'mnottryingtopullanything.Iwanttoknowwhyyouliedtothepolice."

"Liedtothepolice!”Herschellaughed.“You'rekiddingme,right?"

PeterglancedatRomaandJessica,whowerewatchingwithdismay.Definitelynotgoingthewayanyof
themhadhoped.

"AreyoutryingtotellmethatI'vebeeninherebefore?"

"Areyoutryingtotellmeyouhaven't?”Herschellaughedagainandnoddedatthesecuritycamerainthe
corneroverthecounter.“It'salittlelateforthat."

Petergazedintothesecuritycamera.Hehadn'texpectedthat,but...itdidn'tchangeanything.Heknewhe
had not stolen from the museum or tried to pawn his ill-gotten booty. “You have me confused with
someoneelse."

"NoIdon't.AndI'lltellyounowwhatItoldyouthelasttimeyoubroughtthatjunkinhere.Idon'tdealin
stolenpropertyandIdon'tdealwithcrooks.Nowgetoutofmystore.I'mcallingthecops."

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterSix

"Why?”GriffinaskedwhenPeteropenedhisfrontdoorlaterthatsameevening.

Peterrepeatedwarily,“Why?"

Griffin moved forward and Peter stepped back, allowing the detective into the bungalow. It wasn't as
thoughhehadmuchchoice.GriffinwasbullyinghiswayinsidewhetherPeterwanteditornot.Hejabbed
hisfingerinPeter'schest,emphasizinghispointwitheachpoke.

"You know something, Killian, you really are pretty stupid. Cute, in a stick-up-the-ass kind of way, but
stonestupid.”Peteropenedhismouthbutdidn'tgetachancetospeakasthecopcontinued,“Whythefuck
wouldyouconfrontawitnessinthecasebeingbuiltagainstyou?"

Peterhaltedhisretreat.“Forthatreason.Becauseyou'rebuildingacaseagainstmeandit'sagoddamned
lie.AndIdon'tcarehowmanyfakewitnessesyoucomeupwith—"

"You think I'm manufacturing evidence against you?” If Griffin had looked furious before, he looked
combustiblenow.“Areyounuts?IfIwasmanufacturingevidenceagainstyou,doyouthinkI'dhavetold
youwehadawitnesswhocouldlinkyoutothepropertystolenfromthemuseum?"

"Whatthehelldidyoutellmeforifyoudidn'twantmetodoanythingaboutit?"

Peterknewthatwasn'tareasonablequestion,sohewasastonishedwhenGriffinroared,“Soyoucould
hirealawyer.Soyouwouldn'tbebroadsided."

"Whythehellwouldyoucare?You'vebeentryingtostickmewiththisfromthebeginning."

"Youknowwhy!Soquitfeedingmethathorseshitaboutnotremembering."

"Idon'tremember!”Whatthehellweretheyyellingabout?Peterwasn'tcompletelysure.Heonlyknew
thatthelevelofanger—onbothsides—didn'tmakesense.

MaybeGriffinhadthesamethought,becauseallatoncehewasice-cold.

"Idon'tknowifIfeelsorryforyouorI'mactuallyalittlegladtoseeyougetwhatyoudeserve.Youwant
tosticktothatidiotstory,gorightahead.ButI'vegottotellyou,thatamnesiabullshitmightworkinthose
romancenovelsyou'resofondof,butit'snotgoingtoflyinreallife.Whateverthehellitisyou'rehiding,
youbettergiveitupandcomeclean.Oryou'regoingtowindupinprison."

Andonthatnote,Griffinwheeledawayandslammedoutofthehouse,leavingPetergapingafterhim.

ThedoorGriffinhadbangedshutdriftedopenagain.Petercloseditabsently,thinkinghard.

EveryencounterwithGriffinseemedtoindicatethatheandPeterhadhadsomepreviousinteraction—
andithadtobesomethingmoreintimatethanPeterreportingmuseumthefts,giventhedetective'slevelof
hostility.PeterputahandtohischestwhereGriffinhadpokedhim.Eventhat,thatlevelofphysicality,

seemedindicativeofamorepersonalrelationship.Andthatcommentaboutromancenovels.Howinthe
hellcouldGriffinpossiblyknowhereadromancenovels?

Unlessthepolicehadsearchedhisbungalowwhilehe'dbeeninthehospital?ButGriffinhadsaidno,and
whyshouldhelieaboutit?Hewasbluntenoughabouteverythingelse.

Yetanothermystery,butthisoneniggledathim.

Unabletorelax,Peterprowledaroundthebungalowforatime,beforedecidingtogouptothemuseum
andretrievehislaptop.Ifnothingelse,hecouldcatchuponsomee-mail.

Cricketschirpedinloudchorusashecrossedtheotherwisesilentgarden.Thescentofflowershungin
thestill-warmair.

Peterunlockedthebackdoorofthemuseumandlethimselfinside,punchingthesecuritycodein.Inthe
eeriegreenglowoftheemergencylights,themuseumlookedevenmoremacabrethanusualashewalked
quietlydownthehallwaypasttheexhibitstohisoffice.

He put his laptop in its case, locked his office, and returned to the main hall, his footsteps echoing
emptily.

Beforeheresetthesecuritycodehepaused,listening.Allwasquiet.Whatwasheexpectingtohear?

Peterleftthemuseumandmadehiswayquicklyacrossthegardenbacktohisbungalow.

Hereheatedanotherportionofchickenricecasseroleandsettleddownatthedeskinhisstudytowork
butinsteadfoundhimselflistingoutallthepossiblesuspectsinthemuseumthefts.

FirstonhislistwasMaryMontero.Butthatwasmostlybecausehedidn'tcareforthekid.Ascriminal
mastermindswent,she'dprobablybetoobusyfilinghernails.Granted,shewasatthemuseumalldayand
certainlyhadaccesstotheexhibits.Furthermore,herfather,DennisMontero,wasoneoftheonlypeople
withtheafter-hoursaccesscodetothemuseum,whichmeant—atleastintheory—thatMaryhadaccessto
thecodeaswell.ButthefirsttheftshadoccurredbeforeMarywasworkinginthemuseum.

DennisMontero.Well,Peterhadalwayspeggedhimasindolentandaffable.TheMonterosappearedto
beaffluent,thoughwhoknewaboutthefinancialdetailsofotherpeople'slives.TheMonteroscouldbe
strugglingbeneaththecomfortablecountry-clubsurface.EvensoitwasdifficulttopictureDennisdown
inthegrottodirtyinghisownhands.He'ddefinitelysubcontracthislifeofcrime.

Donnelly,thenightwatchman,certainlyhadaccesstothemuseumandgrounds.Hemightbehardupfor
money;Peterdidn'tknowhimwellenoughtospeculate,letalonedrawconclusions,there.Theoldfellow
hadalwaysappearedtoenjoyhisjobforwhateverthatwasworth.ApparentlynotmuchsincePeterhad
lovedhisjobtoo,butthepolicestillviewedhimasviablesuspect.

Cole...Well,thatwasridiculous.However,forthesakeofargument...yes,onceuponatimeColehad
been hard up for money—relatively speaking—but all that had changed when he wed Angie. Angie
Rowland was a very wealthy young woman. It seemed pretty unlikely Cole would have to resort to
stealingfromhisownmuseum.

Anyway, it didn't have to be anyone with after-hours access to the museum—nor anyone on staff or
workingatConstantineHouseinanycapacity.Thetheftofthewallmuralcouldhavebeenpulledoffby
professionalartthieves,andthepilferingfromthemuseumcouldpossiblybeoccurringduringbusiness
hours.Granted,itwasn'tprobable,butitwaspossible.

Clearlyitwasn'twhatDetectiveGriffinthought.ButGriffin...

Peterkeptcomingbacktothatcrackaboutromancenovels.HowdidGriffinknowthat?

It was about ten o'clock when the doorbell rang. Peter rose from his desk and went to peer through the
peepholeinthefrontdoor.

Cole.

Brieflyheconsideredtellinghimtogetlost,butnotonlywasColetechnicallystillhisemployer,Peter
feltabittercuriosityastowhatColethoughthecouldpossiblysay.

Heturnedthelockandopenedthedoor.Colesteppedinside.

"Wehavetotalk."

Peter moved aside and Cole brushed past him. He smelled of aftershave—Armani Code—and, very
faintly,whiskey.

Inside,Colelookedaroundnarrowly;didhethinkPetermighthavestolenitemsfromthemuseumlying
aboutthebungalow?HelookedhaggardashiseyesmetPeter's.

Peterfoldedhisarmsacrosshischest.“Whatdidyouwanttotalkabout?"

HecouldhearthecoldnessinhisvoiceandcouldtellfromCole'swincethatheheardittoo.

"IfyouthinkI'mhappyaboutwhathappenedtoday,you'rewrong."

"Idon'tthinkyou'rehappy.Butyousureashelldidn'tliftafingertostopit."

"HowcouldI?"

Howcouldn'tyou?Peterthought,butColesoundedgenuinelypained,sohesaidwearily,“Look,Idon't
wanttofightwithyou."

"That'sthelastthingIwanteither."

"Wouldyoulikeadrink?"

Colenoddeddistractedly.“Thanks."

Peter went to the liquor cabinet, realizing as he did so that he knew what Cole drank—two fingers of
Johnny Walker Black Label on the rocks—and he also knew that he would find a bottle in his liquor
cabinet,wherehekeptitinhopethatColemightdropby.

Hepouredtwodrinksandcarriedthemintothelivingroom.Colewasstillstanding,gazingdownatthe
collectionofphotosasthoughlookingforanswersinthosefreeze-framedfaces.

Peterhandedhimhisdrink,theirfingersbrushed.Coletossedthewhiskeybackintwolongswallows.

"Again?"

Colemovedhisheadinthenegative.Heturnedtheglassnervouslyinhishand.“Areyoustill...?Doyou
stillreallynotrememberanything?"

"You don't believe me, do you?” Peter studied him curiously. Why would Cole think him capable of
makingsomethinglikethisup?

"Youwere...You'vebeenvery...unhappy."

"Unhappyenoughtoturntoalifeofcrime?"

"Ofcoursenot."

"Thenwhatareyoutalkingabout?WhatamIsounhappyabout?"

Colesaidawkwardly,“Isupposeanumberofthingsinyourlifedidn'tturnoutthewayyouwanted."

Wasn'tthattrueofeveryonetoadegree?WasColesuggestingthatPeterdidn'twanttorememberbecause
hewasunhappyanddisappointed?About...what?

"Idon'tunderstand.Ihavegoodfriends.AjobIlove.”YetasPetersaidit,herememberedtheZoloftin
thebathroomcabinet.Clearlysomethinghadnotbeenrightinhislife.

Asthoughreadinghisthoughts,Colesaid,“Butitwasn'tenough.Youwerelonely."

Suddenlyitwashardtomeethisgaze.“Maybe."

"I'msorryforthat.SorryifIhurtyou.Itwasn'tintentional.You're...you'reoneofmyoldest...oneofmy
closestfriends."

Ithadtobeasked.“Isthatallweare?Friends?"

TheAdam'sappleinCole'sthroatjumped.“Yes.God.I'msorry.Butyes.We'veneverbeenanythingmore
thanfriends.”Hesaiditveryfirmly.

"Whyareyousorry?"

Coleseemedtohavetroublemeetinghiseyes.“Because..."

"Iwouldhavelikedmore?"

Henodded.“It'salongtimeinthepast,butyes.Atonetimeyouwouldhavelikedourfriendshiptobe
more."

Peternodded.Hethoughtofthedreamshe'dhadbeenhaving.Suchvivid,detaileddreamsofhimselfand
Cole.Fantasy,notmemory.Butveryrealforallthat.Apparentlyhewasalotmoreofaromanticthanhe'd
realized,carryingatorchforhisbestfriendalltheseyears.Romantic...ormaybejustanass.

"I don't know why,” Cole was saying. “I've never ... had any curiosity that way. I don't know what you
thoughtyousaw."

"NeitherdoI.”Hedidn'tmeanitinsultingly,buthecouldseefromCole'sexpressionthewayitsounded.
“Imean...Idon'trememberfeelingthat.IknowI—It'sobviousIhadfeelingsforyouatonetime."

"Yes."

AtonepointColehadclearlybeenoneofthemostimportantpeopleinhislife.Presumablysomeonehe
trusted—someonewhotrustedhim.Butthathitontheheadmusthaveknockedsomesenseintohim.

"Wasitaproblemforus?Myfeelingsforyou?"

"No.God,no.We'dresolvedallthatyearsago.Backincollege."

"ThenwhydoyouthinkIwassounhappy?"

Cole looked even more uncomfortable. “It's just an impression. Things changed after my marriage last
year.Weweren'tasclose."

"Well,wewouldn'tbe,right?"

Cole's eyes met his. “That's true. And maybe you had come to terms with it. But you seemed distant ...
worried."

"Couldn'tithavehadtodowiththetheftsatthemuseum?"

"Perhaps."

Perhaps? Was it his imagination or was Cole something of a narcissist? Because somehow Peter had
troublebelieving—notthatColewasn'tanattractiveguy;hewas.But...seeinghimthesepastfewdays,
asthoughforthefirsttime,well,Peterreallydidn'tfeellikeColewasallthatmuchhistype.

MaybeitdidhavetodowiththatfatgoldweddingbandonCole'slefthand.Maybeithadtodowiththe
factthatColehadn'tstoodupforhimwiththeboardoftrustees.OrmaybehisfeelingsforColehadbeen
mostly infatuation that he was finally—and high time—growing out of. Whatever it was, as Peter
scrutinizedtheotherman,hefeltoddlydispassionate,evencool.

"Cole,whydidyoucomeherethisevening?"

Coledidn'tanswer.

Peterthoughtheunderstood.“Iappreciateyourconcern,butatthispointit'suptothepolice."

"Yes.”Colecontinuedtowatchhiminthathard-to-decipherway.

"Oristheresomethingelse?"

"Suchas?"

"I don't know.” Peter said slowly, “Detective Griffin said that there had been some discussion of
replacingmeatthemuseumbeforetoday."

"What?"

"HesaidthatevenbeforeIbecameasuspectinthemuseumtheftsthattherewastalkofterminatingmy
contract."

"He'ssayingittogetariseoutofyouorsomething.It'snottrue."

Peterhadnotthoughtitwastrueeither,untilhelistenedtoColedenyingit.ThenherealizedthatGriffin
hadapparentlygotitright.ItwasrightthereinCole'stone.Itwasn'ttheideahewasshockedat,itwasthe
factthatGriffinhadfoundout.

"Idon'tunderstand.”Anddespitehisbesteffort,Petercouldn'thidehisupset.“I'veworkedmyassofffor
themuseum.Yousaidyourselfwe'refinallybeginningtoseeaprofit."

"Pete"—ColerestedhishandsonPeter'sshoulders—"it'snottrue.Idon'tknowwhyhetoldyouthat,but
ofcourseit'snottrue."

AndthemoreColedeniedit,themorePetercouldseethatitwastrue.

Chilled,hesaid,“That'sgood.I'vebeencompletelyloyaltoyouandthemuseum.I'dbedisappointedto
thinkmyloyaltywasn'treturned."

Cole'shands,stillrestinglightlyonPeter'sshoulders,begantokneadgently.“There'snothingforyouto
worryabout.Nooneisgoingtodisappointyou.Assoonasthismessgetsclearedup,you'llhaveyourjob
back.Trustme."

"I'dliketo."

"Youcan.Ipromiseyou.”Heseemedtore-collecthimselfandletPetergo.“Everythingwillworkout.
You'llsee."

"GriffinseemstothinkI'mgoingtobearrested."

"Idon'tbelievethat."

Peter had no real response to Cole's optimism. He'd have liked to believe Cole, but he tended to think
Griffinhadtheinsidetrack.

"IfIamarrested—"

"That'snonsense.Youwon'tbearrested.”Abruptly,Coleheadedforthefrontdoor,andPeterfollowed
himslowly.

If he was arrested, it was obvious that Cole would feel himself unable to help—all part of that
antifavoritismthing,apparently.

At the door, Cole hesitated. His blue eyes gazed deeply into Peter's. His whiskey breath fanned Peter's
mouth.Itwasalittleweird,actually.WasCole...?DidColewanttokisshim?Peterwasn'tsure,butit
sortofseemedlike...

Colesaidalittlehuskily,“Goodnight,Peter."

"Goodnight."

Peterclosedthedoor,lockedit,andwonderedwhatthehellthathadbeenabout.

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterSeven

Peter knew what the result of the lineup would be from the moment he arrived at the police station
Wednesdaymorning.Hecouldfeelitinthewayhewasgreeted—evenbyhislawyer—andinthewayhe
was escorted down to the waiting room. It was obvious that this was pretty much a formality. Mr.
Stephensonhadasgoodassaidso.Infact,he'dactuallysaidhewasn'tsurewhythepolicewerewasting
everyone's time with a lineup since Donald Herschel had already identified Peter, before, during, and
nowafterhisimpromptuvisittothepawnshop,asthemanwho'dtriedtosellhimstolengoods.

PeterwonderedifheshouldapologizeforwastingMr.Stephenson'svaluabletime.He'dhavebeenhappy
toskipthelineuphimself.Atleasthedidn'thavelongtowaitbeforehewassummonedtojoinaqueueof
eightothermenapproximatelyhisheightandbuildwaitinginahallway.Theywereledinsidealongbare
roomandinstructedtofacewhatwasclearlyatwo-waymirror.

Avoiceovertheloudspeakeraskedthemtoturntotheright,backtocenter,andthentotheleft.Theywere
eachaskedtospeakaninnocuousline—Peterhadalreadyforgottenwhattheysaidaboutthreeseconds
afterward.

Theywerethankedfortheirtime,escortedbacktothewaitingroom,andDetectiveGriffinappearedfor
thefirsttime—Peter'slawyerintow.

Peter saw it in Griffin's face. He was absolutely prepared, so it was a little shock to feel that wave of
light-headedness washing over him as Griffin told him he was under arrest. He managed to hide it, he
hoped,standingsilentwhileGriffinputthehandcuffsonhim.

"Isthisnecessary?”Stephensonsaid,soundingmostlybored.“Myclienthascooperatedeverystepofthe
way.He'salreadyinpolicecustody."

"We've got procedures to follow, counselor,” Griffin said, snapping the handcuffs closed. “Sorry,” he
addedbrusquely—andthatwasdirectedtoPeter,thoughhebarelyregisteredit.

"I'llarrangebailproceedingsaswe'vediscussed,Peter,”Stephensonsaid,movingaway.

Peternodded.Hefeltlikehewaswatchingitallhappentosomeoneelse,andthatwasprobablyjustas
well.Heembracedhisinnernumbness.Ifhecouldhaveclimbedontoanastralplane,he'dhavedoneit.
HethoughtGriffinmighthaveaddressedacoupleofotherremarkstohimbeforehewashandedoverto
theuniformedofficerwhotookhismugshotsandfingerprints,butitwaslikelisteningtosomeoneacross
abusystreet.

Hespenthoursinacellwithasullen-lookingAsiankidwhoappearedtobetattooedovereveryvisible
inch of his hide and an elderly drunk with a busy mustache who was snoring for all the world like a
cartooncharacter.

EverysooftentheIllustratedManwouldgetup,shriekingobscenities,andslamatthebarsofthecell,
andthesleeperwouldsnortloudlylikehewasabouttogointorespiratoryfailure.

AtlastPeter'snamewascalledandhewasescortedtowhereRomaandJessicawaitedforhim.

Hemanagedatersethanksbeforegoingtocollecttheenvelopeofhispersonalbelongings.

"Youdidn'tthinkweweregoingtoleaveyoutorotinthere,didyou?”Romademanded,wrappinghimin
abighugashereturnedtowheretheypatientlywaitedforhim.Shemusthaveseenthathewasfighting
forhiscomposurebecauseshesaidbriskly,“God,thisisadepressingplace.Let'sgetoutofhere."

"Youshouldhavecalledusfirstthing,”Jessicasaid,takingherturnathugginghimtightly.

"Iwashoping...”Peterdidn'ttrytotrytofinishit.He'dbeenhopingforamiracle.Hehadn'tgotit,butthe
nextbestthinghadhappened:hisfriendshadstoodbyhim,andhe'dneverbeensogratefultoseeanyone
inhislife.Infact,hewasverymuchafraidhewasgoingtomakeahugefoolofhimselfiftheydidn'tget
outoftherefast.

HesatinthebackoftheMG,eyesclosed,whileRomarocketedthemhome.Thehot,drywindblowing
againsthisfacefeltcleanandcomforting.

Whentheygotbacktothebungalow,itwasnearlyfiveo'clock.He'dspenttheentiredayinjail;itfeltlike
amonth.Likealifetime.

He excused himself and went upstairs to shower, standing under the warm spray for a long, long time,
lettingthecleansingwatersluiceoverhisheadandshoulders.

Hefeltmarginallybetterwhenhewentdownstairs.RomaandJessicawereinthekitchen.Theyhadfound
theflaskofcoldbrewinthefridgethathe'dputintherewhatfeltlikeayearagoandweredrinkingiced
coffee.Peteroptedforwhiskey.

"Hungry?”Jessicaaskedbrightly.“There'splentyofchickenricecasseroleleft."

"Maybelater.”Therewassomethingfunnyaboutthewaytheywerewatchinghim.Newly—andpossibly
rightly—paranoid,heasked,“Whatisit?"

Romanoddedatthetable,andhesawthattherewasalettertherewiththeofficialstampofthemuseum.

"Itcamewhileyouwereintheshower,”Jessicasaidinastifledvoice.

Peterreachedfortheletterandrippeditopenbeforehehadtimetothinkaboutit.

DearMr.Killian.

Hiseyesscannedtheneatlytypedpage.Itwaspoliteandperfunctory.TheConstantineHouseBoardof
Trusteeshadconvenedinanemergencymeetingtoreachtheunanimousifregretfuldecisionthattheymust
terminate his contract with their organization—effective immediately. He had ten days to vacate the
bungalowinwhichhecurrentlyresided.

HiseyesweredrawnagaintothatweirdlyformalDearMr.Killian.

"Whatisit?”Romademanded,althoughitwasclearfromhertoneofvoicethatshehadaprettygoodidea
whatitwas.

Hehandedhertheletterandwenttostareoutthewindowoverthesinkatthetrees.

"That lousy son of a bitch Cole,” Roma snarled. “When are you going to see him for the manipulative,
selfishbastardthatheis?"

Not that Peter was feeling particularly high on Cole at the moment, but this did seem a little out of the
blue.

"HowisitCole'sfault?"

"Don'tdefendhim!”RomaandJessicayelledinchorus,andhestaredatthem,bewildered.

"ForGod'ssake,Peter!Colehastradedonyourfeelingsforhimforyears.Hegivesyoujustenoughto
keepyouhangingon—withouteveractuallygivingyouanything.Hegotyoutoworkforhiminsteadof
takingthejobinBoston..."

"Boston?"

"Howcanyounotrememberthis?"

Goodquestion.Heopenedhismouthandcloseditagain.

Jessicasaid,“You'dagreedtotakeajobatamuseuminBostonfornearlydoublethesalarywhenCole
askedyoutotakethepositionhereatConstantineHouse."

"I—"

"You,”Romasaidflatly.“Andyou'llwanttonoticeColedidn'tcomeupwiththejobwhenyouneededa
job;heonlysuggestedConstantineHouseafteryou'dalreadyacceptedanother,betterposition.Whenhe
sawyougettingaway."

"Gettingaway?”Peterechoed,staringather.

"That'sright.OhmyGod.”Sheranbothhandsthroughherdarkhair,causingittostandupintufts.“You
havenoideahowbadlywewantedyoutogo—asmuchasweloveyou—justtogetawayfromhim.But
ofcoursehecouldn'tletthathappen."

"Whatareyoutryingtosay?"

"Roma'sright,”Jessicasaidcalmly.“Wedon'tknowwhatCole'sstoryis.Weonlyknowhimthroughyou
—but that's plenty. Maybe he's truly conflicted or maybe he's just so self-centered it's pathological, but
every single time you start to move on, he finds some way to drag you back. Do you know how many
relationshipshe'sspoiledforyouovertheyears?Justbycrookinghislittlefinger."

Peter was shaking his head. “You're wrong. He told me last night there was nothing between us—and
thereneverhasbeen."

"Andashesaidithesmiledintoyoureyesandheldyourgazeandbrushedyourarmwithhishand.Peter,
we'vebeenwatchinghiminactionforyears.Heplaysyoulikea...a..."

"Maestro,”Jessicasupplied.

Petertrailedoff,unwillingtobelievewhathewashearing,althoughitwasobviousfromboththeirfaces
thatthiswasatruththeyhadbeenlongwantingtodeliver.“Evenifyou'reright...evenifit'strue,how
doesthat"—henoddedattheletternowlyingonthetable—"haveanythingtodowithit?"

"Because Cole totally controls that board. If you're being terminated, then that's Cole's decision. For
whateverreason,Colewantsyougone.Eitherbecausehethinksyou'reguiltyoraliabilityorbecausehe's
afraidofthescandal.Oralloftheabove."

"Orbecauseyou'retoomuchofatemptation,”Jessicaputin.“Idon'tthinkthatmarriageisexactlyagrand
passion."

"Coleisnotgay,”Romasaidshortly.

"Wedon'tknowwhatColeis."

"Otherthanamanipulativebastard."

"Onthatwe'reagreed.”Jessicalookedsympathetic.“I'msorry,Peter,buttherereallyisapatternhere,
andit'sbeengoingonforalongtime.Everytimeyoumeetsomeoneanditseemslikeyou'rehappy,Cole
findssomewaytoyankyouback."

Romainterjected,“Hegivesyoujustenoughthatyoustarttothinkmaybeyoudoreallymattertohimafter
all.We'veseenthisagainandagain.Imean,Iwasactuallygladyoucouldn'trememberColeafteryougot
hitonthehead.That'showbaditis."

Onethingwaspatentlyclear.Theybelievedeverywordtheyweresaying.Andthatbelief,thatcertainty,
waspainfullyconvincing.Peteraskeddully,“Whenwasthelasttimethishappened?ThatIstartedseeing
someoneelseandCole...yankedmeback?"

"It'sbeenawhile.Aboutsixmonths.Youwereseeingsomeoneyoumetthroughwork,anditseemedlike
itwasgoingreallywell.AndthenColestartedhavingmaritalproblemsandheneededabuddy'sshoulder
tocryon.Andthenextthingweheard,youweren'tseeinganyoneanymore."

"WhatwasthenameofthisguyIwasseeing?"

RomaandJessicawerebothshakingtheirheads.“Youdidn'tsay,”Romasaid.“Infact,youwerekindof
mysteriousaboutit.Wethoughtmaybeitwassomeoneyou'dmetataconference."

"Maybesomeonemarried."

"Great."

Roma said darkly, “I don't think you'd get involved with someone married. It's not like you haven't had
plentyofthatalready.Ithinksubconsciouslyyoudidn'twantColetoknowyouweregettinginvolvedwith
someoneagain."

"Youwerereallydepressedafterward,”Jessicasaid.“Imean...notjustdown,butdown."

PeterthoughtagainofthebottleofZoloftinthebathroom.

"And that's not like you,” Roma put in. “You've always been very positive and optimistic. Just a really
enthusiasticperson.”Sheadded,“Ifalittleslowontheuptake."

Heshotheralook,andsheofferedalopsidedgrin.“AndIsaythatwiththegreatestaffection."

"Yes.Iseethat.”Hesighed.“Iappreciatetheconcern.Andthehonesty.It's...Don'ttakethisthewrong
way,butIhaveenoughtodealwithwithoutthis."

"Butyouneedtohearthis,Peter,”Jessicasaidearnestly.“YoucannottrustCole."

ItwaspracticallylikeoneofthoseTVinterventions.Hesaidtiredly,“Iwon't.Idon't."

Roma was glaring at the letter. “This is typical of the no-balls way that gutless jerk would handle
somethinglikethis."

Heappreciatedtheirsympathy,butreallythiswasjustmakingitharder.Hesaid,“Thankyoufortelling
me.Imeanthat.Tobehonest,Idon'tknowwhatIfeelforColeanymore.”Attheirexpressions,hesaid
hastily,“ExceptthatIknowIdon't...feelthat.Idon'tlovehim.AndIknowthatwhateverhefeelsfor
me"—thiswasthepartthatstillfeltraw—"it'snotenoughtoinconveniencehimselfwhenI'mintrouble.”
Hefinishedtherestofthewhiskeyinhisglass,andtheburngoingdownhisthroathelped.

Therewasapause.“Whydon'tyoucomebackwithus?”Jessicaurged.“Youshouldn'tbealonetonight."

Peter shook his head. He dredged up a smile, which he hoped looked more reassuring than it felt. “I'll
sleepbetterinmyownbed,andthat'swhatIfeellikeIneednow.Agoodnight'ssleep."

Theydidn'tlikeit,butintheendtheyhadtoaccepthisdecision.Evensohehadtopromisetoremember
toeattherestofthedried-outcasserole,notgetdrunkbyhimself,andcallifheneededanything.

When the MG had sped away, leaving the sound barrier lying broken in the dust, Peter headed for his
study.Drawerbydrawerhewentthroughhisdesk,convictiongrowingwitheachmoment.

"Thoseromancenovelsyoulove."

"Soyoucouldhirealawyer.Soyouwouldn'tbebroadsided."

"Sorry."

He found what he was looking for in his address book. There was just a large initial M under the G's.
Largeenoughtotakeuptheheightoftwolines.WhoeverMwas,hehadbeensomeonePeterdidn'twant
tolosetrackof.

He rang the number. It rang and rang and then an answering machine picked up and Detective Griffin
curtlyrecitedthephonenumberandinstructedhimtoleaveamessage.

Peterhungup.

After a moment he realized tears were running down his face. He wiped them away impatiently. One
mysterysolved.

ForashorttimeheandMichaelGriffinhadbeenlovers.

So that was really a relief because it was the uncertainty eating at him, right? And here was one
uncertainty explained at last. Good news, really, despite the incontrovertible proof of the fool he had
been, so no sense sitting here sniveling. He had probably made worse mistakes than that, starting with
passingupthejobinBoston.

Hestartedasthephoneathiselbowrang.

Hepickeditupandanswered,onlytodiscoveritwastheLosAngelesTimeswantinganinterview.

Hedeclinedandhungup.

Now Griffin's fury at his amnesia made more sense. Or did it? Why exactly was he so angry at Peter?
He'dapparentlydonethedumping.Itwasabitunclear.UnlesshereallydidthinkPeterwasrippingoff
hisownmuseum.Wasthatwhyhe'dbrokenitoffbetweenthem?DidhebelievePeterwasathief?

Thephonerangagain.

Peterpickedup.Anothernewspaper.Thebloodwasinthewater,andthesharkswerecircling.

Peterdeclinedtheopportunitytoappearasnewsworthychum—lesspolitelythanhehadturneddownthe
Times—andhungup.

Hewasstillstaringatthephonewhenitrangyetagain.Anunpleasantreminderthathehadmorepressing
problemsthanthefactthatMikeGriffindidn'tlikehimanymore.Peterwasjobless,soon-to-behomeless,
andprobablygoingtoprisonfortheft.

Hetookthephoneoffthehook.

****

Itwasn'tuntilPeterwasscrapinghisdinnerplateintothetrashthathesuddenlyregisteredtheabsenceof
hislaptoponhisdesk.Hewentintothestudy,andsureenoughitwasgone.

Aquicksearchofthebungalowconfirmedwhathealreadyknew.Hislaptopwasgone.

Heartpounding,mouthdry,hecalledCole.

ItseemedalongtimebeforeColecameontheline,andthesickknowledgeroiledinPeter'sbellythat
Colemightsimplyrefusetospeaktohimatall.ButatlastColegotonthelinesoundingfriendlybutwary.

"Peter!Howgoesit?"

"Youmeanasidefromyourfiringmetoday?Well,Iwasarrested.ButIguessyouknewthat."

"Iknow.IheardyourfriendsRomaandJessicawereabletoputupthebailforyou.IwishIcouldhave...
Well,youknowthat.Buttheconflictofinterestbetweenthemuseumand—"

"Thanksforyourconcern,”Peterbitout.“Butthat'snotwhyI'mcalling.Mylaptopismissing."

"Oh.”Colesaidawkwardly,“Someoneshouldhaveleftanoteforyou.Thatlaptopismuseumproperty,
asI'msureyourealize."

"Forchrissake,Cole.You'reactinglikeI'msuddenlyanenemy.LikeIcan'tbetrusted—"

"No,no.It'snotthat,”Colebrokein.“Itoccurredtous,toDennis,actually,thatthepolicewereprobably
goingtoconfiscateyourlaptopanyway,andwewantedtodownloadeverythingwemightneedbeforeit
disappearedforGodknowshowlongwaitingforyoutogototrial."

"Waitingformeto...”Peter'svoicegaveoutatthecasualreferencetohisfuturetrialdateandprobable
fate.

"Pete.”Colestopped.Hesaidcarefully,“Wehavetoberealistichere."

Petercouldn'thavespokenhadhislifedependedonit.

"AngieandIaremoresorrythanwecansaythatthingshaveworkedoutlikethisforyou.Wedon'tthink
youstolefromthemuseum,but..."

AngieandI?

"Right.Thanks."

"Wehavenodoubtthatyou'regoingtobeproveninnocent,butI'msureyouseewhatadifficultposition
thisisforme.Regardlessofmypersonalfeelings,myfirstresponsibilityistothemuseum."

"Yes,Igotthat.Iassumeyouwantmetoturnovermykeystoo?"

"Yourkeystothemuseum,yes.There'snohurryaboutthebungalow.Youstillhaveninedaystovacate."

Petersaid,“That's...kindofyou.Ninewholedays.Canyouwaitforthekeysuntiltomorrowordidyou
wantmetobringthemtoyourightnow?"

Apause.Colesoundedverysubduedashesaid,“We'vebeenfriendsalongtime,Pete.Trytolookatthis
frommyperspective."

"Through your ass, you mean? Because that's what you're talking through.” Peter slammed the receiver
downwithashakinghand.Thephoneranghalfaminuteafterthat.Heletitringuntilitstopped,andthen
hetookitoffthehookoncemore.

****

Ittookhimalongtimetorelaxenoughtofallasleepwhenhefinallycalmeddownenoughtogotobed.

He wasn't sure what woke him. The squeak of a floorboard? A shadow cutting across the band of
moonlight through the window? Whatever the warning, Peter's eyes jerked open on the knowledge that
someonewasinhisbedroom.

There was a moment of sheer and paralyzing disbelief, and then some instinct urged movement, and he
rolledofftheedgeofthebed.Themattressnexttohisheadjerked,heheardtheweird,squishedsoundof
asilencedshot,thenanother,thenanother.

Horrified,herecognizedthatsomeonewasshootingathim.Unbelievably,someonehadjusttriedtokill
him.

Therewasn'ttimetothinkitthrough.Hereactedautomatically,grabbingthebrassclockoffthenightstand
andthrowingithardatthetallsilhouetteilluminatedinthemoonlight.Itmadeapingasitconnectedwith
theintruder'shead.Hestaggeredbackandfired,hittingthelampnexttothebedafewinchesfromwhere
Peterwascrouchedandgettingoffanothershotintothewallbehindthenightstand.

There was nowhere to go. Peter dived beneath the bed. The shooter came around the side of the bed,
steppingonthesmallroundrugbesideit,andsomeinstinctguidedPetertograbtherugandyankhard.
Themanwentdownfiring.Plasterdriftedfromtheceilingandawindowbroke.

Peter was out from under the bed desperately wrestling for the gun. He knew he was fighting for his
survival,andthattheonlyrulewastosurvivethenextminutes.Itwasquickanddirtyandbrutal.Using
bothhands,hewrenchedthegunoutoftheman'shandandthrewitacrosstheroom.Theshooterpunched
himinthehead.Dazed,Peterletgo,andthemanrolledawayandscrambledforthedoor.Hisfootsteps
thuddeddownthestairs,adoorslammedandPeterscrambledovertothephone.Therewasnodialtone.

Hethoughthisattackermusthavecutthephoneline,andthenherememberedthathehadtakenthephone
offthehookbeforebed.

Legswobbling,hewentdownstairs,replacedthephone,andcalled911.

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterEight

"Thatisabeautofashiner,”afamiliarvoicesaidadmiringly.“What'stheotherguylooklike?"

Peterlookedupfromtheearnestfaceoftheyoungfemalecoptakinghisstatement.MichaelGriffinstood
besidethekitchentable,hisblueeyestakinginPeter'sbatteredface.

Peterheldanicepacktohisrighteye,swollenandalreadydarkening.Inadditiontotheblackeye,hehad
abruiseonhisjaw—aswellasotherlessvisiblepartsofhisanatomy—achippedmolarwherehisteeth
hadcollided,andtwosetsofscrapedandbloodiedknuckles.

Hesaidbitterly,“Whatmakesyouthinktherewasanotherguy?MaybeIdidthisshaving."

Griffin gave a harsh laugh, but it was a sore spot with Peter. The crime scene personnel currently
wanderingaroundthebungalowhadbeenunabletofindwherehisassailanthadbrokenin.Thewindow
of the kitchen door was still boarded up and no other windows had been broken. Nor had either of the
locksonthedoorsofthehousebeenpickedorbroken.

NooneactuallycamerightoutandaccusedPeterofriggingthewholething,butthefactthathewasthe
primarysuspectinthetheftofaveryvaluablepaintingwasobviouslybeingtakenintoaccount.

Griffin flashed his ID to the female officer. “Thanks. I'll take it from here. This is part of my ongoing
investigation."

Sheslidoutofthebreakfastnook,leavinghernotes,andGriffinslidintotakeherplace.HeeyedPeter
unsmilingly,“Youokay?"

"Great."

"I'mserious.Doyouneedmedicalattention?"

Petershookhishead.

"Okay.Sowhathappened?"

Somuchforsympathy.NotthatPeterexpectedit—although,knowingwhathenowdidabouttheirformer
relationship,maybehewasunconsciouslylookingforsomesign...buttherewasnothing.Henodded—
gingerly—attheuniformedcopwhowasdisappearingintotheotherroom,andGriffinsaid,“Iknow.Let's
hearitagain."

Petertolditallagain.Howhehadwokenoutofasoundsleeptofindsomeoneinhisbedroomandtwenty
secondslaterfoundhimselffightingforhislife.

"Whatwokeyou?”Griffinasked,watchinghimclosely.

"Idon'tknow.OratleastIdon'tremember.Ithappenedsofast.Iwasonlyhalfawake."

"Whatmadeyourolloutofthewayofthosebullets?"

SoGriffinhadalreadybeenupstairs,alreadyheardwhattheinvestigatingofficershadtosay.Thiswas
probablyjustaformality.Healreadythoughthekneweverythingheneededto.

Petersaidwearily,“Ihonestlydon'tknow.Therewasashadowoverme,andIjust...jumpedoutofthe
wayatthesametimehestartedfiring.”Headdedwithoutheat,“Iknowyoudon'tbelieveme.Iknowyou
allthinkthisispartofsomeinvolvedcoverstory."

"Ididn'tsaythat."

"You don't have to.” He stared through his good eye at Griffin. It was so weird knowing what he now
knew.Hewished...hewishedhecouldremembertheirformerrelationship.HewishedGriffindidn'thate
himsomuch.

NotthatGriffinwasactinglikehehatedhim.Tonighthewasallbusiness,coolandprofessional.

"Theycan'tfindhowhebrokein,”Petersaid.

"Maybehedidn'tbreakin."

"Yes,thathasalreadybeensuggested."

Griffinofferedthewolfishgrin.“Hasit?That'snotwhatImean,though.Idon'tthinkyou'restupidenough
toimaginesomethinglikethiswouldworktodivertsuspicionfromyouforthetheftofthemural."

"AndyetyouthinkI'mstupidenoughtostealfromthemuseumandthenreportittothecops."

Griffin'sgazeheldhisown.“No.Idon't,frankly."

Petersatupalittlestraighter.“Youdon't?"

"No.” Griffin added, “That doesn't mean that having gone to the police about the thefts—establishing a
precedent—youcouldn'thavearrangedtohavethemuralstoleninanattempttomakeitlooklikepartof
thesamepattern.Thiswasaverydifferentkindofcrime.Theearliertheftswereallsmallitemseasily
pilfered.Takingthemuralrequiredplanningandapartner."

Petergaveashort,disbelievinglaugh.

Griffineyedhimforanassessinginterim.“ButIdon'tbelieveyouwereinvolvedinthateither."

"Youdon't."

"No."

"Thenwhatdoyouthinkisgoingon?"

"Ithinksomeonewantsyoudead,Peter."

Peteropenedhismouth,buthecouldn'tthinkofwhathewantedtosay.Thetruthwas,asshockingasit
wastohearitaloud,hehadalreadyfiguredthatmuchout.

Griffin was watching Peter's face as he continued, “Either because this someone thinks you know
something, or because it's too obvious you don't know anything and will make a better scapegoat dead
thanalive.”Heglancedovertheuniformedofficer'snotes.“Let'stakeitfromthetop."

Griffin was thorough, no doubt about it. By the time he had finished reviewing Peter's account of the
night's events, the crime scene personnel had cleared out and the windows were growing light. Peter's
bruised and pummeled body was beginning to ache. He hurt from his face to his left foot—where he'd
accidentallykickedthedresserwhilehe'dbeenwrestlingonthefloor.Hewassotiredhecouldbarely
concentrate—butnowaywashegoingtospendtherestofthenightinthebungalow,andhesaidsoto
Griffinasheatlastconcludedtheirinterviewandrose.

"Wheredoyouplanongoing?"

"Ahotel."

Griffinwasstaringathim,hisexpressionunreadable.“Whathotel?"

"Idon'tknow.WhereverIcangetinthistimeofnight.”Heglancedatthewindow.“Morning."

Griffinsaid,“I'llmakeaphonecallandgetyoubookedintotheBestWestern."

Asgallantgestureswent,itwasn'tmuch,buttirednessandpainhadloweredPeter'sresistanceandhewas
gratefulforanysignofkindness.“Thanks."

Griffinbrusheditoffuncomfortably.

Peterblurted,“Iremember,Mike."

Griffinlookedguarded,wary.“Ohyeah?Whatisityouremember?"

Petermethisgazestraighton.“Noteverything.ButIknowwestartedseeingeachotherafterIreported
themuseumthefts.Whydidn'tyoujusttellme?"

"Because we shouldn't have been seeing each other,” Griffin replied shortly. “I crossed more than a
coupleofprofessionallineswhenwestartedgoingout.Youwantthetruth?Ithoughtyouwerepretending
youdidn'trememberaboutusforyourownreasons."

"Whatreasons?"

Griffinraisedashoulderinakindofwho-knows-with-yougesture.

"Whydidyou...?Isthatwhyyoubrokeitoff?Becauseitwasaviolationofprofessionalethics?"

Griffin'sfacetightened.“Ithoughtyousaidyouremembered?"

Peter admitted, “It's more that I finally managed to put two and two together. I don't remember...” He

couldn'tseemtolookawayfromMike'sblue,blueeyes.Hotcolorfloodedhisfaceashegotout,“I've
beenhavingthesedreams...andIthinkthey'reaboutyou."

"Youthink?"

Peter said, “I know it sounds idiotic, but ... the doctors were right. I think I didn't remember because I
didn'twantto—becauseitwaspainful.I'vebeentakingaprescriptionforanxietyanddepressionsince
December."

Therewasafunnybreak.

Mike'sbrowsdrewtogether.“You'reonantidepressants?"

"IquittakingthemafterIgotoutofthehospital."

"Hell.You'renotsupposedtojuststoptakingthatstuff,youknow.Ifsomeonegetsholdofthatinformation
...yourcredibilitycouldbefurtherdamaged."

"Iknow.Judgingbythenumberofpillsinthebottle,IthinkIwasintheprocessofweaningmyselfoff
them.Anyway,thepointis,acoupleoffriendstoldmethatafterwebrokeup,Iwasprettydepressed."

Mikewasstilleyeinghimskeptically,butsomethinghadchangedinhisface.Someofthehardnesshad
gone.

"Andthosedreams...IkepttellingmyselftheywereofCole.EveninmydreamIkepttellingmyselfthey
wereofCole,butIcouldn'tseemy...mylover'sface.Iguessmysubconsciouswastryingtoshowme
that it wasn't Cole I was with. Once I realized"—his color heightened, but he said it anyway—"the
dreamsareofyou,yeah.Whydidyoubreakitoffwithme?"

Surprisingly,therewascolorinMike'sfacetoo.Hesaid,“Ifyou'rereallynotplanningtostayherefor
what's left of the night—and I wouldn't, if I was you—let's go back to my place. We can talk without
gettinginterrupted.Ihavetobeatthestationlaterinthemorning,butyoucanstaythereandsleepwithout
worryingaboutanyonebreakinginandtryingtocapyouagain."

Asinvitationswent...Well,atleastitwasaninvitation,andthebestonePeterhadhadinalongtime.

****

Mike lived in a condo in Flintridge. On the outside it was just an innocuous, pink stucco, two-story
building,andPeterwastootiredtopaymuchattentionashefollowedMikeupstairs.

He remembered the inside, though—or at least it felt familiar. But maybe because it was pretty much a
generic bachelor pad: comfortable furniture, plasma TV, and an impressive stereo system. There was a
largetankoftropicalfishagainstonewallandacoupleofniceoilsoftheoceanontheother.

"Youwantabeer?"

Peter shook his head, watching without interest as Mike disappeared into the kitchen. He reappeared a
fewmomentslaterandsatontheotherendofthesofa.Hetookalongswallowofbeerfromthebottleand

sighedappreciatively.“Man,it'sgoodtobehome."

Yes. It must be nice. Peter didn't think he would know that feeling again until he finally regained his
memory.

Hesaid,“Sowhatmadeyouchangeyourmind?"

Mikeraisedalazyeyebrow.“Aboutwhat?"

"Youdon'tthinkI'mguiltyanymore?InthehospitalyouactedlikeyouthoughtIwasguilty."

Miketookanotherswigofbeerandseemedtoconsiderthequestion.“I'mnotgoingtopretend.I'dhave
beenhappyifyouwereguilty.Iwasmadashellatyou.Atthewaythingsendedbetweenus."

Petertriedtotakethisin.“Butyouendedthem."

"Yeah. I did.” Mike seemed to weigh his words. “I liked you a lot, Peter. I thought ... Well, it doesn't
matter.Butbeforelongitwasobviousitwasn'tgoinganywhere,andthatitneverwouldsolongasCole
waspartofyourlife."

"Therewasn'tanythingbetweenColeandme.Colesaidhimself—"

"Idon'tknowwhatColetoldyou,andmaybeyouweren'tsleepingtogether,buthehadyouonaveryshort
leash.You'vebeeninfatuatedwithhimsincecollege,andfromwhatIcouldsee,helikedandencouraged
that."

Peterwasshakinghishead,rejectingthis.“He'smarried."

Mikesaiddryly,“IknowallaboutCole'smarriage.Iheardaboutitindetailfromyou.Thethirdtimeyou
brokeadatewithmetogolistentoColewhineabouthismarriagewaswhenItoldyouI'dhadenough.
That you were going to have to decide whether you wanted a relationship with me or with Cole. You
choseCole."

"I...choseCole?"

Mikesaidwearily,“Notinsomanywords.Yourargumentwasthatyouweren'tgoingtobehandedany
ultimatums. And my argument was I wanted a real relationship with you—or to at least to explore the
possibilitiesofhavingone—butthatIdidn'twanttoworkaroundCole'sschedule."

Petersaidslowly,“ButifColewasgoingthroughabadtime..."

"Yep,”Mikesaidcurtly.“Iwasn'tverysympathetic,andI'mstillnot.IthinkColeConstantineisauser
andamanipulator.Andprobablyaclosetcase.IthinkhemarriedAngelaRowlandformoney,andIthink
hegotwhathepaidfor.ItoldyouthenandI'mtellingyounow,he'sbadnews."

"Andyoucouldn't—"

"No,Icouldn't.LikeIsaid,Ihadfeelingsforyou."

Petersaidresentfully,“Yousuredidn'thavetroubleclosingthedooronme."

"YouhavenoideahowIfelt.Youdidn'tmakeanyattempttofindout.YouchoseCole,andthatwasthat."

"IthinksixmonthsofZoloftsaysotherwise."

After a hesitation, Mike said, “Obviously, I didn't know that. I still don't. That is, you might have been
takingantidepressantsforalotofotherreasons."

But Peter was pretty sure, even if the details were still fuzzy, that the tension of trying to balance his
changingfeelingsforCole—hisgrowingdisillusionmentandfearthathewasindeedbeingmanipulated—
andlosingMike,whoheknew,evenwithouthiscompletememory,hadbeenspecial,someonehecould
havereallycaredfor,wastheexplanationforhisturningtochemicalrelief.

Herubbedhisachingtemples,andMikesaidgruffly,“Whydon'tyougetsomerest.We'lltalkwhenIget
hometonight."

Peterraisedhishead,scowling.“Sleep?YouthinkIcansleep?Mylifeisatrainwreck.”Hegaveasour
laugh. “I've lost my job, I'm being kicked out of my home, and I've been arrested for grand theft and
charged with a felony. I'm probably going to go to prison—if someone doesn't kill me first. How am I
supposedtosleep?"

"What'sthealternative?Athirty-daysupplyofNoDoz?"

"You'reallheart."

Mikesighed.“Whatdoyouwantfromme?You'reindeepshit.AndifItellyouwhoIthinkisresponsible
forit,you'renotgoingtobehappy."

Peterstared.“YouthinkColeisresponsibleformybeingarrested?"

"IthinkColehasbeenstealingfromhisgranddaddy'shouseofhorrorsforsometimenow.Andsodoyou,
Isuspect, which iswhy after initiatingan investigation, you suddenlygot cold feet.For the record? It's
anotherthingwearguedabout.”Headded,“WhichiswhyIthoughtyoumightbefakingamnesia.Ithought
youmightbetryingtoprotectCole."

"Fakingamnesia.YouhonestlythoughtImightfakeamnesia?"

Aflickerofself-consciousnesscrossedMike'sface,buthesaid,“AndifyouweretryingtoprotectCole,
Ithoughtthatputtingpressureonyou,makingyouthinkyouwereasuspect,mightgetyoutocrack."

"YoudeliberatelyletmethinkIwasasuspect?"

"Unfortunately,myplanbackfired."

"You'requiteabastard,”Petersaidcivilly.

"IneversaidIwasn't.ButI'mnotasbigabastardasyourbestbuddyColewho,Ithink,hiredsomeoneto
tryandkillyoulastnight."

"No.Noway."

"Idon'tthinkhe'dhavetheballstodoithimself."

Peterstoodup.“Coledidnotbreakintomyhouse.Hedidnothiresomeoneelsetobreakin.Youdon't
knowwhatthehellyou'retalkingabout!"

Mikewasunmoved.“Here'swhatIthinkisgoingon.IthinkyouwalkedinonthemiddleofColeandan
accomplicecartingoffthatmural.Ithinkthat'swhyyoudon'twanttorememberwhatyousaw."

"If that were true"—Peter swallowed, and the persistent ache in his temples turned into a sick, heavy
thuddingbehindhiseyes—"thenyouthinkColeorthisaccompliceattackedme.Whywouldn'thejustkill
methen?Whywouldhewaittohavetohiresomeone?"

"Maybehedidn'tknowforsurewhatyousaw.Maybehewasalittlesqueamish.Maybehe'sevenalittle
fondofyou.Buthe'snotfonderofyouthanheishimself.Ithinkhebegantoworryaboutyougettingyour
memoryback.Ormaybeit'smorethathesaw—orbelievedhesaw—youwerebecomingthefocusofour
investigation,andhedecidedtosetyouup."

"Bykillingme?Wouldn'tthatdefeatthepurpose?"

Griffinsaidcalmly,“Ithinkthere'sbeenanongoingdifferenceofopiniononwhattodoaboutyou."

"Betweenwho?"

"Coleandhisaccomplice."

"Who'sthisaccomplice?"

Mikesaidnothing.

Peterdroppedbackdownonthecouch.“Well?You'vetoldmethismuch.Goaheadandhitmewithit."

"Ithinkitoughttobeprettyobvious."

Peter fell silent, thinking. He was so god-awful tired. It was difficult to string sentences together. Let
aloneactuallythinkbeforehespoke.

"Comeon,”Mikesaid.“Useyourhead.Wheredidtherealevidenceagainstyoucomefrom?"

Petersaidslowly,“Herschel.Theguywhopickedmeoutofalineup.TheguywhoclaimedIapproached
himtryingtosellstolengoods."

Mikedidn'tagreeordisagree.“See,theproblemwithHerschel'sstoryis,ifit'snottrue...thenwhatdoes
he have to gain by such a lie? It could be Cole is paying him to frame you, but the fact that he
coincidentallyownsapawnshop—andhasmorethanafewunsavoryconnections—leadsustospeculate
thathismotiveisalittlemorepersonal.Likeausefulcoverstoryforhimself."

"ColeisworkingwithHerschel?"

"WebegantolookatMr.Herschelmorecloselywhenhecouldn'tcomeupwiththesurveillancetapeof
youthatheoriginallyclaimedhehad.Hisstorywastheyreusetheoldtapes,whichiscommonenough,
but claiming he had it and then backtracking aroused suspicion—especially since I was pretty sure you
weren'tstealingfromthemuseum."

"Prettysure."

"Whatdoyouwant?”Mikesaidirritably.“Ididn'tthinkyouwereguilty.ButI'vebeenwrongbefore."

Petercontinuedtoworkitout.Reluctantly,hesaidatlast,“AndthereasonHerscheldidn'thavetobreak
intonightwasbecauseColegavehimthekeytomyplace?"

"Iwouldn'thavebeensurprisedifthey'dplantedsomeitemsinyourbungalowtomakeitlooklikeyour
accomplicesdouble-crossedyou—orfearedyouweredouble-crossingthem.Ican'tsayIexpectedthem
totrytotakeyouout."

Peterroseagain,brushingagainstthecoffeetableashewenttothewindow,staringout.

Hedidn'twanttobelieveit,but...toomuchofitmadesense.

He remembered telling Cole his memory was coming back, and Cole had immediately arranged for a
convening of the museum trustees—and Peter's suspension. Roma and Jess were right. Cole ran that
committee.NothinghappenedthatColedidn'twanttohavehappen,soifPeterhadbeensuspended,itwas
becauseColewantedhimgone.

"Idon'tbelievehewantedmedead."

Mikesaidnothing.

Peterturnedbacktofacehim.“Idon'tbelieveit!”Hisownangersurprisedhim.“Hewouldn'tdothatto
me.Hewouldn'thavereasontodothattome."

"No?Wouldyouhavegonetoprisonforhim?"

Peteropenedhismouthandclosedit.

"You're a good friend, and God knows you're loyal, but you're not stupid. Generally. And even if Cole
waswillingtotakethechancethatyouwouldkeepyourmouthshutoreventakethefallforhim,Herschel
isn'tthetrustingtype."

Petershookhishead.

Mikeignoredthissilentprotest.“I'lltellyousomethingelse.Herschel'sgotacasefullofgunsinthatshop
of his. I'm betting one of them is going to turn up missing. First thing today, I plan on getting a search
warrant."

Petersatdown,restinghisfaceinhishands.Hewasn'tcrying.Hefelttoonumbfortears.Tootiredtofeel
muchofanythingatall.

HowinlovewithColehemusthavebeentohavechosenhimoverMike.Funnythathecouldn'tseemto
rememberthatfeelingatall.

"Hey.”Mikeroseandwentovertohim.HesqueezedPeter'sshoulder.“I'msorryitworkedoutlikethis,
okay?"

Hadn'tColesaidsomethingsimilar?Petersaidlistlessly,“Yeah."

"It'snot...Idon'tenjoythis.WhatIsaidearlier?Idon'treally...wantyouhurt."

Peternodded,stillnotlookingup.He...couldn't.Therewasjusttoomuchtodealwith,totryandmake
senseof.Toomanylossesintwenty-fourhours.

MikestoodoverhimforamomentwhilePeterstruggledforcontrol.

"Don't,Peter,”Mikesaidatlast,andtherewassomethinginhisvoice—aroughnessintendedtodisguise
anemotionMikedidn'twanttofeel.

"I'm okay. Just...” His voice cracked and he shut up because he'd embarrassed himself enough times
alreadyinfrontofMikeGriffin.

Tohissurprise,Mikesatdownnexttohimandpulledhim,withimpatientkindness,intohisarms.“Cryif
it'llmakeyoufeelbetter,”herasped.“Buthe'snotworthit."

Peterlookedup,managinganunsteadysmile.“No,butyouwere."

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterNine

Mikestaredathim,notmoving—notevenblinking.“Youhadachoice,”hesaidfinally.“Andifyouhad
secondthoughts..."

"Icouldhavewhat?Areyoutellingmethedoorwasalwaysopen?"

Mikeseemedtoexperiencesomekindofinwardstruggle.“No.Thedoorwasn'topen."

"So?IfI'drealizedI'dmadeamistake...?"

"Isthatwhatyou'resaying?"

It seemed sort of odd to be cold-bloodedly discussing it when he was right here in Mike's arms. Peter
angledhisheadandcutoffanythingmoreMikemighthavehadtosaywithakiss.Itwasnotthesmoothest
move he'd ever made, his mouth landing off-center on Mike's. But it was surprisingly sweet—and,
astonishingly,Miketastedfamiliar.Hetastedlikespearmintgumandwarmmale,andthememoryofall
thosedreamscamerushingback.Except...maybeitwasn'talldream.

Mike'spowerfularmswrappedaroundhim,pullinghimstillcloser,andPeterslidhishandsintoMike's
thick,softhair,tryingforabetterapproachthistime.HecouldfeelMikesmilingwrylyagainsthismouth
—andthenMike'slipsparted.

Theirtonguestouched,parted.Tonguetag,hethoughtdizzilyatthesoaringrushofthatcontact.Andyou're
it. He flicked his tongue again, and Mike's tongue—wet and hot—pushed delicately back. They were
kissing deeply, hungrily then, kissing like it was a matter of life and breath, pressing closer, noses
bumping,eyelashesskimming,teethgrazing.Therewasawonderfulreliefinbeingwanted,knowinghe
waswanted.

Peterdidn'thavetohavehismemorybacktounderstandhowmuchthatmusthavemeanttohimsixmonths
earlier. To be wanted, appreciated, desired, after Cole's careful maneuverings. Cole, affectionate and
teasingandalwayskeepinghimatarm'slength.WhereasMike...Mikeheldhimcloseandkissedhimlike
Peterwastheonehe'dbeenwaitingforallhislife.

AndPeterhadbeenstupidenoughtolethimgo.TochooseColeandallhishang-upsandproblems.Why?
Habit?Loyalty?Orsomethingmorecomplicated?ThefearthatmaybeMikewastryingtomanipulatehim
too?ButitsoundedlikeMikehadhadrightonhisside.ThatPeterhadbeentheunfairone—evenifhe'd
actedoutofloyaltyandfriendshiptoCole.ExpectingamanlikeMiketosithomepatientlywhilePeter
ranofftoholdCole'shandeverytimeColehadacrisis?NowonderMikehadtoldhimtofigureitoutor
getlost.

Peterhadmanagedtogetverylostindeed.Thatwasobvious.HegroanedagainstMike'smouth,andMike
brokethekisstoeyehimwatchfully.“Ifthisisn'twhatyouwant,youbettermakeitclearnow."

"I'mthinkingofthetimewelost,”Petersaid,hismouthtinglingfromtheassaultofMike's.“I'mthinkingof
whatagoddamnedfoolIwas."

"Yeah,wellifyou'dstuckwithme,youwouldn'tbeinthemessyou'reinnow,that'sforsure."

"I'mdepressedenough,okay?Noneedtoputtheputthebootin."

"No.” Mike's grimace was rueful. “You know, if I'd known you were ... If I'd known about the
antidepressants...Idon'tknow.Itneveroccurredtomeyouhadanyregrets."

"IthoughtI'dblownit.Thatyouwouldn't—"

"Mybarkisworsethanmybite."

"Yeah?"

"Well,no.”Mike'sgrinwaslopsided.

PeterbangedhismouthontoMike'sagaininakissbothurgentanddeep.Hishandswenttothebuttonsof
Mike's collar, and he began undoing them as quickly as he could. Mike grabbed Peter's sweatshirt and
tugged upward. Peter took over, wriggling out of it as Mike finished unbuttoning his own shirt, hands
droppingtohisbeltbuckle.Therestoftheirclotheswentflyinginamatterofseconds,andthentheywere
slidingtoaheaponthefloor,handsslippingovereachother'sbodies,kissingoncemore.

ThecoffeetablerattledasPeterbumpedintoit,andMikereachedoutblindly,shovingitaway.Peter's
dreams and memories were colliding as they rolled together in a tangle of legs and arms. Mike's heart
wasthunderingagainsthisownchest,andhewasacutelyawareofthesmoothnessofbareskinandthe
crackleofsofthair,thehardnessofmusclesandbone—andthehardnessthatwasneither.

"OhmyGod,Iwanttofuck,”Petermoaned.

Mikestoppedkissinghimandlaughed.

Peteropenedhiseyes.“Whyareyoulaughingatme?What'sfunnyaboutthat?"

"You. You were always so prim and proper. I practically had to seduce you every time.” Mike asked
huskily,“Haveyoubeenwithanyonesinceme?"

Petershookhishead.“Idon'tthink...No.I'msureIhaven't."

"Ihave,butI'mclean."

Peter blinked at him, not following—trying not to mind about the fact that Mike had been, reasonably
enough, still seeing people, still sleeping with people. It occurred to him what Mike meant and he
blushed.

"Yeah.Iwantto.Iwantyouto."

"You want me to—” Mike needed no second invitation. His hand was between Peter's thigh, and his
mouthwaslatchedontooneofPeter'snipples,andPeterwascryingoutandarchingagainsthim.

"Mike...OhChrist..."

Mikesuckedandthenbitgentlydown,andPetergaspedandgrabbedforMike'shead,pullingitcloser
evenashewassquirmingattheintensityofpleasure.OneofMike'shandswasonPeter'sballs,squeezing
themgently,teasingly.Nowonderhe'dbeendepressed.Givingupthis?Forwhat?

Whenwasthelasttimehe'dhadthis?

Noquestion.Mikehadbeenthelasttime.Mike,whodespiteappearancestothecontrary,wastenderand
coaxingandsweet,whoseducedwithfingersandtongueandsoftwordstillPeter—despitetheachesand
pains of his fight with the midnight intruder—was feverish and panting and aching for more—and then
more.

Andthenallatoncehewasonhisown,hisbodychilledbythesuddenretreat.

"Where'd you go?” Peter lifted his head, and Mike was crossing the floor in three big steps from the
bedroomandthrowinghimselfdownontopofPeteragain.

"Righthere.Weneedthis.”Heheldupthetubeoflubricant,andPetershudderedwithanticipation,letting
hisheaddropbackagainstthecarpet.

"God.Yes.Doit."

Thegelwascool,startlingbutnotunpleasant.Mike'sfingersslidalongPeter'scrack,stroking,andPeter
swallowedhard.

"Relax.I'veneverhurtyouyet,”Mikewhispered.HiseyesseemedtowatcheveryquiverofPeter'sface
asheslippedinsidePeter'sbody.

How strange, Peter thought dreamily, even as his body moved to accommodate that invasion. Detective
MikeGriffin'sfingerisinmyhole.MikeGriffinisthrustinghisbig,fatfingerinandoutofmyass,and
I'mlyingherecooingathowgooditfeels.

"Youlikethat?”TherewasasmileinMike'svoice.

Petersmiledtoo,althoughhedidn'topenhiseyes,justfocusedonthesensationofMike'sfingerpushing
intohim,drawingout,slidingbackin.“Ohyes."

"Ohyes!”Mikemimicked,buttherewassomethingindulgentinhistone.Heslidanotherfingerin,taking
histime,pettingandstroking,andPeterwriggled,tryingtofeelthattouchmoredeeply,moreintensely.

"Ithinkyoushould...IthinkI'dlike..."

"That'swhatIlikeaboutyou,ProfessorPeabody.Yourwaywithwords."

Peter'seyesopened.“Don'tcallmethat.Don'tmakefunofme."

HewasastonishedwhenMike'sfacechanged.“I'mnotmakingfunofyou.Atleast...notlikethat.You're
just...funny.Sortofcute."

"Cute?"

"Inanuptight,buttoned-downway,yeah.”HerubbedhisnoseagainstPeter's.“Very.Ilikeyou.Itoldyou
that.Ilikeyoualot."

Peterrelaxedagainundertheseministrations,andthenMikewasurginghimup.“Here.Yourideme.It'll
be easier on all those bumps and bruises.” They were trading places on the floor, Peter awkwardly
straddlingMike'ships.Hewasdefinitelyfeelingthebatteringhehadtakenearlier,butitdidn'tmatter.

Hefelt for Mike'serection, pressing thehead of his cockagainst his ownwell-oiled hole. He lowered
himself down, and he could feel Mike shaking a little with the effort of holding still. Mike's thick cock
scrapeditswayin,awelcomeburn,andthenMike'shipspushedupandhecouldfeelthesoftnessofthat
silkybodyhairagainsthisass.

"Sorry.Okay?”Mikemanaged.

Peternodded.Toofullforwords,hethoughtgiddily.

AndMikedidfillhim.Thatthick,longcockstretchedandstuffedhimsothathewastrembling,working
torelaxandacceptandallowtheintimacy.Mikeslammedrightupintohisbody,hardthrustspenetrating
deeply,thenwithdrawing,toshoveinsideagain,strokingovertheplacethatmadePetergaspeachtimeat
theblazeofpleasure.

"IlikewatchingyourfacewhenIfuckyou,”Mikegrated,rockinghiships.

Peter laughed shakily against the burn behind his eyes, because he was thinking the same thing. Mike's
facewaswonderfultowatch.Hehopedthatthiswasthebeginningofsomethingandnottheend...

Pressurebuiltinsidehim,andthepulseinMike'scockwasechoedbyhisownheartbeat.

"I'mgoingtocome...”Didtheysayitatthesametime?

Peter came first. He hadn't even been looking for that yet. He'd just wanted the closeness, the sense of
belonging...buthewascomingallright.Thetensionsoaredandthenbloomed,likegingerorsomemore
exoticspicerushingthroughhisbloodstream.

Andthenhewasshiveringwithit,wantedtocurlupinthemeltingreleaseofitandclosehiseyes.

Mike was still thrusting into him—fierce, deep strokes—and Peter could take it now, no problem. He
watchedMike'stautfacethroughhalf-closedeyes,neverwantingtoforgetthis...homecoming.

ThenMikegaspedsomethingPetermissed,andthenextsecondhewascomingandPeterwasfeelingthe
shock of wet heat in his own body. Mike, chuckling unsteadily, tugged at him, and Peter was only too
happytocollapseontopofMike'sbrawnychestandclosehiseyes,feelingabsurdlysafeinthepowerful
armsholdinghimtight.

****

"Hell.I'mlate."

Peteropenedhiseyes.Ittookhimafewblinkstoplacehimself.Oh,right.HewasinMike'sbedroom—in

Mike'sbed.Mikewassittingontheedgeofthemattress,hisbroadbrownbacktoPeterashepulledhis
wristwatchoffandsetitonthenighttable.

PeterreachedalazyhandtobrushdownMike'sback,butMikeroseanddisappearedintothebathroom.
Peterheardtheshowerrunning.

He didn't remember how they'd got from the living room to the bedroom, but he was glad he wasn't
sleepingonthefloor.Hewasinenoughpainasitwas.Hesatup,bitingbackayelp,andmanagedtopull
onhispants.Itwasnotafunprocess.

Hehobbledintothekitchenandputthecoffeemachineon.

Helookedattheclock.Nearlyeleveno'clock.Hestillfeltgroggy.

Theshowercutoff.HeheardMikeleavethebathroomandgointothebedroom,heardtheslideofcloset
doors.

Mikewalkedintothekitchen.Hewaswearingblacktrousersandnothingelse.Hewascombinghiswet
hair,andhewasthesexiestthingPeterhadeverseen.Hefeltalittleself-conscioussuddenly.Alittleout
ofhisleague.

Hewaspainfullyawarethat,unlikehim,lifehadnotstoppedforMike.Mikehadmovedon.Andsex—
even some relatively spectacular sex—didn't change that. Mike had plainly said that the door had not
remainedopen.

"Coffeeisnearlyready,”hesaid.

"Idon'thavetime.”Mikecontinuedtocombhishair.“Whatareyourplanstoday?"

"I'm supposed to meet with my lawyer.” Peter's gut was knotting up at the recollection of everything
hangingoverhim.MaybeMikewasrightaboutColeandHerschel,butinthemeantimePeterwastheone
facingtrialandjailtime.

"Okay.Whydon'tyoucomebackhereafterward?"

Peter'sheartrosealittle.Hemanagednottoask,Why?becausehewasn'tsurehewantedtohearMike
saysomethingaboutitbeingsafer.HewantedtothinkMikewantedhimforthepleasureofhiscompany.

"Ineedtopickupsomethingsfromthebungalow."

"Allright.”Mikedisappearedintothelivingroom.

Slightlydisappointed,Peterpouredcoffee.

Whenheturnedaround,Mikewasrightbehindhim,andhejumped.

Mike laughed. “Hey, I'm the good guy, remember? I'm on your side.” He was dressed completely now.
FastasSupermaninthequick-changedepartment.HehandedPeterakey.“Here."

Petertookthekeyandputitintohispocket.“Thanks.Thanksforeverything,infact.Forlettingmestay
herelastnight,andfor—"

Mikekissedhim,effectivelyshuttinghimup.

"You'rewelcome.Begoodtoday."

Andwiththathewasgone.

****

Itwasnotagoodday.

Latemorning,Petermadehisappearanceintheoverlyair-conditionedofficesofStephensonandCrane.It
wasimmediatelyobvioustohimthatMr.Stephensonhadsufferedsomekindofcrisisoffaith.Ormaybe
itwasacrisisofconfidence.Eitherway,itdidn'tlookgoodforPeter.

Afterafewcostlyminutesoffencing,Mr.StephensonbluntlyinformedhimthattheDAwaspressingfor
themaximumpenalty,whichlikelymeantuptosixteenmonthsinastateprison.

When Peter could speak again, he protested, “But I haven't been convicted. I haven't even gone to trial
yet."

Mr.Stephensondidn'tseemtohearthis.GiventhefactthatPeterhadnopreviouscriminalrecordandthat
his employers had spoken up on his behalf, there was a possibility he would get off with the lighter
sentenceofoneyearincountyjail.Provided...

"What?” Peter meant, What in the hell are you talking about? But Mr. Stephenson seemed to think he
meantheneededmoredetailsonhispleabargain.

"Provided,” Mr. Stephenson said briskly, “you plead guilty, thus sparing everyone the expense and
scandalofatrial."

"ProvidedI—areyoujoking?"

Mr.Stephenson'sexpressionindicatedhewasnotjoking.“Hearmeout.It'sanextremelygenerousoffer.
Themuseumhasindicatedthattheywillwaiveyourpayingfinancialrestitution,whichyouareclearlyin
nopositiontodo."

"ButIdidn'tstealthemural.Ididn'tstealanything!"

Clearly,allMr.Stephenson'sclientssaidthat.

Peter said, “I don't understand why you're throwing in the towel. From what I understand, the main
witnessagainstmecan'tevencomeupwiththeincriminatingvideotapes."

AbruptlyheseemedtohaveregainedMr.Stephenson'sattention.“Wheredidyouhearthat?"

"Fromthepolice."

"Ah.”Mr.Stephensonwasshufflingpapersonhisdesk,asthoughgettingthemtoalllineupproperlywas
of vital importance. “Well, that may be true, but it's also true the police believe they have an airtight
case."

Notallthepolice,butthatwasn'tsomethingPetercouldshare.

WatchingMr.Stephensonrearrangepaperssomemore,Petersaid,“Don'tyoufinditsuspiciousthat‘the
museum’iswaivingmypayingfinancialrestitution?We'retalkingasmallfortune."

"Afortuneyouhavenohopeofrepaying.Ifinditagestureofrarecompassion.Mr.Constantine,speaking
onbehalfoftherestoftheboard,testifiedastoyourlongfriendshipandthefactthatyou'vebeenunder
considerable strain for a number of months. In fact, I believe he'd have been happy if we could have
eliminatedanyjailtimeforyou,butunfortunatelytheDAwon'tconsiderit."

PeterstudiedMr.Stephenson,whoseemedtobeavoidingmeetinghisgazedirectly.

"Isee,”hesaidfinally.“Andyouthinktakingthisdealisinmybestinterests?"

"Ido,yes.”Mr.Stephensoncontinuedtostareatthepapersonhisdesk.

"Thank you for your advice,” Peter said. “You can tell ‘the museum’ that you tried. However, I'm
absolutelydeterminedtotakemychancesinacourtroom."

Stephensondidlookupthen.“That'samistake,Peter.Believeme,wedonotwantthiscasetriedinopen
court."

Thatwasobvious.

"Iappreciateyouradvice,”Petersaid,“butI'llbeseekingnewlegalrepresentation."

Mr.Stephenson'smouthwasstillopenwhenPeterclosedthedoortohisoffice.

****

He drove back to Constantine House and parked in front of the bungalow. Inside, everything looked
perfectly normal—barring the broken window in the kitchen and the bullet holes and knocked-over
furnitureinthebedroom.

Peterquicklypackedacoupleofchangesofclothingandafewotherthingshewouldneedforthenext
few days—hoping that Mike would be agreeable to his staying on for that long. He pulled open his
underwear drawer, lifted up a stack of undershirts, and spotted what at first looked like an enameled
teacupwithvaricoloredstylizedflowers,mushrooms,andfoliageonacreamanddarkbluebackground.

Finally,hepickedupthesilver-giltandcloisonnéenamelteaglassholderbyitsscrollhandle.Hishand
begantoshakeandhehadtosetthecupdown.Hehadnoticeditsabsencefromthemuseumcollection
severalmonthsago.Oneofthefirstitemsthathehadnoticedmissing,infact.Itwasn'tinthesameclass
asthestolenjadeorthemuralthathadbeenremovedfromthegrotto,butitwasanicepieceofworkand
worth three to four thousand dollars. It was also an easily recognizable piece bearing the stamp of the
20thArtelandtownmarkforMoscow.NowonderColeandHerschelhadthoughtbetteroftryingtomove

itrightaway.

Petercouldjustabouthearthereverberationoftheprisondoorclangingshutbehindhim.

Any minute now the cops were going to show up with their search warrants and a list of all the items
missingfromthemuseum.HowmanyotheritemsfromConstantineHouseweresaltedinhereamongthe
itemsrightlykeptatthebungalow?

Heneededtoactquickly.Alarmingly,theonlythinghecouldthinkofwascallingMike,andafterabrief
strugglewithhimself,thatwasexactlywhathedid.

MikepickeduponthesecondringandPeterbarelywaitedforhimtoidentifyhimselfbeforesaying,“Are
yousomeplaceyoucantalk?"

"Yeah. Listen. Bad news. We didn't find the gun at Herschel's. We're going through his records now.
Maybesomethingwillturnup,but—"

"It'sworsethanthat.Ithinkmylawyerhasbeenboughtoff.I'vebeenadvisedtopleadguiltyinorderto
receivealessersentence.It'slike...theyalreadyhavemeconvicted."

"You'renotgoingtojail.”Mikesoundedsodefinite,Peterfeltaflickerofhope.

"Mike, it gets worse. I stopped at the bungalow to pack a few things, and I-I found a cloisonné glass
holder—oneoftheitemsIoriginallyreportedmissingtoyou."

Therewasdeadsilenceontheotherendoftheline.

"Idon'tknowwhattodo.ShouldI...?WhatshouldIdo?Someone'sgoingtoshowupherewithasearch
warrant."

"Yeah.Thesearchwarranthasalreadybeenissued."

"OhGod.ShouldIcallsomeone?Reportfindingit?"

"You'vecalledme."

"Iknow.But..."

Mikesaidbrusquely,“Look,I'llhandleit."

"How?"

"I'lltellyouaboutitwhenIgethome."

"That's another thing.” This was the hard part. Peter sucked in a deep breath. “I can't go back to your
place. I ... How can I? This ... conspiracy is going to drag you down too. You can't be seen to have a
personalconnectionwithme.Youknowwhatthatcouldmean.Youcouldruinyourcareer.Youcouldlose
yourjob."

Therewassilence.Mikesaidcrisply,“We'lltalkwhenIgethome."

"Mike—"

"Listen.Ithinkyou'reworththerisk,allright?Nowgobacktomyplaceandtrytokeepalowprofile."

Itwashardtospeakaroundthetightnessinhisthroat.“You...don'thavetodothis."

"Iknow.Iwantto.Sostopworrying.I'llseeyoutonight."

Mikedisconnected.

[BacktoTableofContents]

ChapterTen

By the time Mike made it home, Peter was just about climbing the walls. He transferred his attentions
happilytoMike.

"Nicetoseeyoutoo,”Mikesaid,breakingfromthekisslongenoughtodumpabagofChinesetakeouton
thefloornearthedoor.HeturnedbacktoPeter,whoslippedhisarmsaroundhisneck.Mikeslidhisfree
handdownthebackofPeter'strousers,hisbarehandpalmingandkneadingPeter'sass,drawinghimeven
closer.

"I'vegotaplan,”Mikesaidbetweenfrantic,hungrykisses.

"Metoo."

Mikemaneuveredthemtowardthesofa.ThearmhitPeterbeneathhisbutt,andtheyfellbackwardonto
thecushions—andthenontothefloor.

"Ouch."

"Sorry,”Mikegasped.

"Thisisbeginningtobeahabit..."

"Thataproblemforyou?"

PeterraisedhisheadandmetMike'sglintinggaze.Heshookhishead.

"Good.”Mikekissedhimagain.

There was mutual fumbling with buttons and zippers, a lot of flapping and kicking out of unnecessary
clothes,andthentheywererockingandrubbingagainsteachotherwithananimalenthusiasmthatmost
peoplewhoknewPeterwouldneverhavethoughthimcapableof.Maybehewasn'tcapablewithanyone
butMike.

MikenippedPeter'schinandthenkissedhimhardandwet,whilePetergroundhishipsagainstthestiff
erectionpokinghiminjustabouteveryvulnerableplaceofhisanatomybuttheonethatcounted.

ThrustingpowerfullyagainstPeter,MikereacheddownandhisfistclosedaroundPeter'sbobbingcock,
pumpinghimwithpleasurableefficiency.PeterarchedhisbackandgroanedintoMike'smouth.

The next moment he was coming in hard, creamy jerks. Mike kissed him harder as though in
congratulations.Hewasstilldoingthebumpandgrind.Petershiveredintheaftermath,hiscockgivinga
last spurt. Mike's hand turned gentle and soothing. His wet fingers stroked Peter's flank, and Peter
shiveredpleasurably.

Then,afewsecondslater,Mikewascomingtoo,andPeterfeltmoreliquidheatsplashinghimfromchest
tobelly.

Theylayonthefloorbreathinghard.Peteraskedfinally,“Yousaidyouhadaplan?"

Mikenodded.“Yourswasn'tbad,though."

Peterhuffedalaugh.Rubbedhisnose.“IsthatChineseIsmell?"

Mikesnickered.Heexpelledalongbreathandsatup.HewasonhisfeetandreachingdowntoPeter.

"Let'seat.I'lltellyouwhatI'vegotinmind."

TheydishedouttheChinesefoodinthekitchen.Spicy-hotgarlicbeefforMike,andplainchickenchow
mein with crispy noodles for Peter. Either that was a happy coincidence or Mike remembered what he
liked,andthatflatteredPeterprobablymorethanitshouldhave.

Mike put a bottle of Tsingtao beer in front of Peter and sat down across from him. “So how is your
memorynow?"

Petergavehimaself-conscioussmile.

Mike laughed. “I didn't mean that,” he said. “Although...” His expression softened fleetingly. “Yeah, I'd
likeyoutoremember.Wehadsome...timesworthremembering."

AndifPeterdidn'twindupinastateprison,maybethey'dhavemore.

"It'slikeI'veplateaued,”Peteradmitted.“AtfirstitseemedlikeIwasgoingtogetitallback,but...nowI
thinkalotofitmightbegoneforgood.Ican'tseemtorememberanythingaboutlastweek,andI...”He
gaveMikeanapologeticglance.“ItseemslikeI'veblockedouteverythingaboutyou."

"Well, that doesn't sound physical. Those are two completely separate chunks of time. If you're not
remembering,it'sbecause—"

"Idon'twantto."

Mikesaidwithunexpectedsensitivity,“Maybeyoucan'tyet.Maybeit'smorethanyou'rereadytodeal
with."

Peternodded,reachingforhisbeer.

"Soyoudon'trememberanythingaboutthenightthemuralwasstolen?"

Petershookhishead.“EverysooftenIgetaflash...likeaseriesofimpressions.IknowIprobablyjust
walkeddownthereforabreathoffreshair.Iusedtodothat—sitonthestonebenchnearthekoipondat
nightandjust...watchthestars.IguessImusthaveheardorseensomethingthatnight,andthethieves
musthaveseenmebeforeIcouldgetbackuptothehouse."

"Whoknowsthat?Thatyourmemoryofthatnightisstillablank?"

"Mylawyer.Prettymucheveryone."

Mikeseemedtoconsiderthis.“Okay.Well,here'swhatIwantyoutodo.IwantyoutophoneColeand
tellhimthatyou'vegotyourmemoryofthatnightback.Tellhimyou'veremembereditall,everything."

"You'rekidding.ThatsoundslikeanideaI'dcomeupwith."

"Iknow,”Mikesaid.“That'swhyIthinkhe'llbelieveit."

"He'lljustaskmewhatIsaw."

"Itdoesn'tmatter.Youtellhimthatheknowsdamnwellwhatyousaw—andwhatyouheard.Don'tlethim
bullyyouintogivingupdetails.Tellhimyou'regoingtothepolicewitheverythingyouknow,unlesshe'll
payyouonemilliondollars."

Peterchokedonhisbeer.Whenhecouldbreatheagain,hesaid,“Onemilliondollars?He'lllaughinmy
face."

"Hisoldladyisworthtentimesthat."

Peter knew his gut reaction was not a logical one, but he heard himself protest, “That's true, but Angie
controlsthepursestringsprettytightly."

"I don't blame her,” Mike said dryly. “But Cole can get the money. I think you're forgetting how he
supplementshisincome—andwhohispartneris."

Yes.Hewasstillresistingbelievingthat.Why?Itwasobviouslytrue.Whywasitsohard—sopainful—
to accept that his friendship with Cole had been mostly one-sided? That he had spent years loving and
servingadream.Ormaybehehadjustansweredhisownquestion.

"AndafterIaskhimforthemoney,thenwhat?"

"Tellhimtobringyouthecashtonightatthegrotto.Nineo'clock.Tellhimifhe'sevenfiveminuteslate,
yougostraighttothecops."

"Nineo'clockatthegrotto?He'sgoingtoknowthat'satrap."

Mikesaid,“No.He'sgoingtothinkit'sexactlythekindofsillystorybookplotyou'dcookup.Hethinks
you're a fool, Peter. And he knows that you've been in love with him a long time and that—more than
anything—youwanttobelievehecaresaboutyoutoo."

Petercouldn'tholdMike'sgazeanylonger.

"Allright.I'lldoit."

He could feel Mike's scrutiny. “I'm not going to lie to you. We're taking a risk here. He may just let
Herschelhandleit,inwhichcase...we'regoingtohaveafewinterestingminuteskeepingyoualive."

"Hewon'tdothat.”Peter'stonedidn'tevenconvincehim.

"Or,ifhe'sgotballs,he'llturnyouovertothecops.Ifhedoesthat...it'sgoingtobebad.They'llhaveyou

forextortionaswellastherestofit."

"They'llhaveyoutoo."

"Icantakecareofmyself.You..."

"Whatoptiondowehave?"

"Wehaveotheroptions,”Mikesaidseriously.“Youcouldtakeyourchancesincourt,forone.Mostofthe
caseagainstyouiscircumstantial.ThemostdamningtestimonyisHerschel'sID,andwithalittletimewe
canthrowsignificantdoubtonhiscredibilityasawitness."

"Butinordertodothat,youhavetorevealyourhand,don'tyou?"

"Revealmyhand?”Mikewasfaintlyamused.“Whyyes,Iwould.ButI'mgoingtorevealittonighttoo.
That'snotmymainconcern.Mymainconcernisthatthere'sapossibilitythatyoumightloseyourcourt
caseandendupdoingtime."

Peterheardhisowngulp.

"Yeah. That's my thought,” Mike said. “You won't do the kind of time you will if you're nailed for
extortionaswellasgrandtheft,butevenifyoujustwoundupincounty...no.Ontheotherhand,wecould
keepdigging.Wecouldstallforafewdays.Youcouldhideoutherewhiletheinvestigationcontinues.
TheproofagainstConstantineandHerschelisthere,wejusthavetofindit."

"Butifyoudon'tfindthatproof...andIgototrialandlose...”Peterclosedhiseyes,thenopenedthem.
“EvenifIdon'tlose,Idon'twanttowasteallthosemonthstothis.It'sanightmarehavingthishanging
over me. You don't know. I have no place to live. No job. And what museum will hire me? How am I
supposedtosurvivefor...howeverlongbeforemytrialdatecomesup?I'dratherdothis,takethischance
andmaybebeabletostartworkonhavinganormallifetomorrow."

Mikesaidseriously,“Areyousureyoucandoit?"

Peter'sjawtightened.“Whatdoyoumean?YouthinkI'llpanic?I'mnotacoward,Mike.AndI'mnotas
stupidasyouthink,evenifIhavemadesomedumbdecisionsinmypersonallife."

Mike shook his head. “I don't think you're a coward. And I don't think you're stupid. No. We're talking
aboutyousettingupColeConstantine.Areyousureyoucanhandlethat?Becauseforaverylongtime,
Constantine'sbeenthemostimportantpersoninyourlife."

Petersaid,“ColestoppedbeingthemostimportantpersoninmylifethedayImetyou."

Mikeblinked.

"Iknow.”Petergrimaced.“Morethanyouwantedtohear.Butit'sthetruth.Meetingyouwasthebestthing
thateverhappenedtome.Youdidmeafavorwhenyougavemethatultimatum,eventhoughIdidn'tseeit
atthetime.IthinkIhadprettywellworkedthetruthoutformyselfbythetimeIgotsomesense—literally
—knockedintome.”Herose.“Talkingmakesitharder.Let'sgetitoverwith."

"Okay.Ifyou'resure.”Mikewasstillgivinghimasortofquizzicallook.

"I'msure."

Mikeroseandgrabbedhiskeysfromthecounter.“Youcan'tcallfromhere.We'llhavetofindaphone
booth."

Theyfoundaphoneboothinthevalley,andPeterdialedtheRowlandmansionwhileMikeleanedagainst
thesideofthebooth,headclosetoPeter'sashelistenedin.

Amaidansweredthephone,andPeteraskedforCole.

The maid asked who was calling. Peter looked at Mike, who nodded infinitesimally. His breath was
warmagainstPeter'scheek,andPetercouldseehowlonghiseyelasheswere.

Thereseemedtobeadelayontheotherendandthenacoupleofclicks.WerethepolicetappingCole's
phone?OrwasColejusthavingthecalltransferredtosomeplacewherehecouldtalkinprivate?Cole
cameontheline,andPeteralmostjumpedatthesuddennessofthatfamiliarvoiceinhisear.

"Pete,wherehaveyoubeen?Thepolicearelookingforyou.They'vefound—I'msorry,youmustknow
thatalready.”Beneaththeregretfulwarmth,Coledidn'tsoundsorry.Hesoundededgy,alittleimpatient.
LikePeterwasapainintheassfornothangingaroundtogethimselfarrested.“Whenthepolicesearched
thebungalowthisafternoon,theyfoundanumberofitemsmissingfromthemuseum."

"Iknow."

"Pete.Listentome.You'vegottogiveyourselfup.Whatthehellareyouthinking?You'renot...you'renot
cutoutforlifeontherun.I'llhelpyouhoweverIcan,youknowthat.We'llgetyouagoodattorney."

"LikeStephenson?"

Therewasalittlehesitation.Colesaid,“Stephensonseemslikeagoodmantome,butifyoudon'tlike
him, we'll find you someone else. You have to realize, though. You're in a bad spot, Peter. There's a
mountainofevidenceagainstyou."

"Plantedevidence."

Colesaidinthetoneofsomeonehumoringanut,“Ofcourse.Butthebottomlineis...thingslookverybad
foryou,andrunningawaylikethis,well,youmustrealizeyou'rejustmakingitallthatmuchworse."

ApartofPeterfeltabittersatisfactionthatColewassopredictable,thathewasmakingthiseasy.Butthe
otherpartofhimfeltsick.SickthatColecoulddothistohim,sickthatColehadtakenallhisadmiration
andaffection—sayit,love—anduseditagainsthim.

"DidyoutellStephensontoinstructmetotakethepleabargain?"

"You'regettingsidetracked,”Mikesaidverysoftly.

"Idid,Peter.”AndColesoundedregretfulandkind.“Andhetoldmehow...howwildlyyoureacted.You

don't seem to realize we're all trying to act in your best interest. You don't seem to realize the trouble
you've got yourself into. But if you want another lawyer, I'll see what I can do to find someone who'll
workhardertoseeyoudon'thavetodoany...er...jailtime.Butyouhavetogiveyourselfup.Youhave
tofaceuptothis."

"Stopit,Cole,”Petersaid.“WebothknowIdidn'ttakesomuchasamarblefromthemuseum.”Hefelt
Mikerelaxbesidehim,sawthenodofapprovaloutofthecornerofhiseye.

"Peter.Theyfoundenoughevidenceto—"

"Iknowexactlywhattheyfound.AndIknowwhoputitthere.Listentome.I'veregainedmymemory."

Anotherbeatthatfeltlikeamisstep.“Excellent,”Colesaidheartily.“Allthemorereasontocomeinand
talktothepolice.Weallwanttogetthismessstraightenedout...”HiswordsdiedoffinthefaceofPeter's
stonysilence.

"Idon'tthinkyouunderstand,”Petersaidcoldly.“IremembereverythingIsawthatnight.AndIdon'tplan
ondoingoneminuteofjailtime."

"Well,that's...I'mnotsurewhat...”Coleseemedtogiveupmidsentence.

Mikemouthed,Offerhimthedeal.

"Sinceyou'veprettywellalreadyruinedmynameandmycareer,I'mwillingtomakeadealwithyou."

Silence.

"I'llgivemyselfupandpleadguiltytostealingfromthemuseuminexchangeforonemilliondollars."

Colelaughed,althoughitsoundedslightlyhysterical.“Thatknockontheheadmusthavescrambledyour
brains.Thisisclearlyadesperateattemptatblackmailontopofyourothercrimes.Listen,oldfriend,I
suggestyoucountyourselfluckytheboardisn'tdemandingyoupayrestitution.That'swhatSallywanted."

"Onemilliondollars,oldfriend,orItelleverythingIknow."

"Whyareyoudoingthistome?”Coleaskedangrily.“Draggingmeintothiswon'tsaveyou.Thepolice
willseethisforwhatitis!"

"That's why I'm willing to make a deal. According to Stephenson, I'm going to prison either way. This
way at least my future will be secure when I get out. Either pay up or I tell everything I know—and I
knowquiteabit.Icoveredforyouforalongtime,Cole."

"Y-y-youcoveredforme!”Colewasstutteringhisastonishedoutrage.

Mikewhispered,“Don'tdebateit.Wrapitup."

"I'llmeetyouatthegrottotonight."

"Ican'tgetamilliondollarsbytonight!Areyoucrazy?"

"I'lltakeadownpayment,andwe'llarrangehowyou'regoingtopaythebalance."

"You'reoutofyourmind.Thisisri—"

"AskHerschelforthemoney.I'msurehecanlayhishandsonsomequickcash."

Mikewasnoddingapproval.DeadsilencefromCole.

"Tonight.Nineo'clockatthegrotto.”Peterhungupthephonehard.

"Okay?”Mikeaskedbrusquely.

Petershookhishead.HiseyesmetMike'sandthenhelookedaway.“Yeah.It'sjust...IguessIhoped..."

Mikesnorted.

"Hesoundslikehe'sgoingtoturnmeovertothepolice.Ifhedoes,I'msunk.Webothare."

"Theywon'tturnyouovertothecops.”Mikesoundedveryconfident.

"Iwould."

"That'sbecauseyou'relookingatthisfromthestandpointofaninnocentperson.”Miketouchedhisarm,
indicatingtheyshouldheadbacktothecar.“Anyway,ifhedoesreportyourextortionattempt,I'llgeta
callandwe'llabort."

****

They did not get a call, however, and at seven o'clock, Peter and Mike drove behind the back of
ConstantineHouse,hidthecar,andclimbedoverthebackfenceintothemuseumgrounds.

WhilePeterwaitedinthegrotto,Mikedidaquickreconnoiterofthegarden.

"Allclear,”hesaidwhenhe'dreturnedtowherePeterwasnervouslypacingupanddown.

PeterwatchedwhileMikesetupthetaperecorderhe'dbroughtfromwork.

Mikeshowedhimwheretostand.“Saysomething."

"Ihopethisisn'tamistake,”Petersaid.

MikepressedStopandthenPlay.Peter'svoicesaidfaintly,“Ihopethisisn'tamistake."

"You'llhavetospeakalittlemoreloudly,”Miketoldhim.“Constantine'svoicewillcarry,butyoursis
softer.Sospeakup."

Peternodded.

"Howoftendoesthesecurityguardmakehisrounds?"

"Donnelly is supposed to patrol the grounds every hour, but"—Peter shrugged, his eyes meeting Mike's
—"I wonder now if there was a reason the museum security was so lax. I always put the board's
resistance down to cheapness, but now I think Cole must have actively discouraged investing in decent
securitytomakeiteasierforhimtopilfer."

"Ithinkyou'reright."

At eight o'clock, they heard the whine of the security cart at the top of the hill and a few seconds later
Donnellyzoomedbywithoutevenglancingdownatthegrotto.

PeterandMikespentthenexthalfhourtalkingdesultorily,andthenMiketoldPeterthey'dbettergetinto
positionincaseColewasearly.

PeternoddedandMikefadedintothedeepshadebesidethegrotto.

"Mike!”Petersaidsharply.

Mikeappearedagain.“What'swrong?"

"Ijustwantedtosay...eitherwaythisgoesdown,thankyou."

"Thankmewhenit'sover,”Mikesaidbrisklyandsteppedbackintohisconcealment.

Peter was left on his own in the grotto as the night deepened and cooled. Moonlight sifted through the
jacaranda,castingoddshadowsoverthegrassandstillwaterofthekoipond.

Chjjjj...chjjjj...chewk,scoldedthemockingbirdfromoverhead.

And just like that ... like a key turning a lock, tumblers clicking over ... Peter's memory came flooding
back.

HehadbeenthinkingaboutMike.ThinkinghowgooditwouldhavebeentocomehomeandfindMike
waitingforhim.Thinkingofthosehot,wickedthingsMikeusedtodotohim—andwouldneverdoagain
becauseMikedidn'tdosecondchances,andPeterhadblownit.Buthe'dhadacoupleofdrinksthatnight,
and as he walked down to the grotto, he was thinking that maybe he'd try to call Mike. Maybe use the
excuseofthecontinuingtheftsatthemuseum,becausesomethinghadtohappenthere.Ithadtostop.Had
to.And...becausehewantedtoseeMikesobadlyitwasworthtakingthechancethatMikewouldtell
himtogotohell.HewouldtakethechancebecausemaybeMikewouldsay—likehe'dusedto—"Why
don'tyoucomeover?”Ithadbeenabeautifulnight,theairsweetwithflowersfromthegardenaboveand
themusicofthecricketsandthefrogs,andhe'dheardvoicesfromthegrotto—

Coleappearedinthemouthofthegrotto,andPeter'srecollectionsbrokeoff.

"Don't look so surprised,” Cole said. “This was your idea, remember?” He tossed Peter a bundle of
moneywrappedinplastic.

Petercaughtthebundle.Ittookhimasecondtoreconcilethepastwiththepresent.SoColehadcomeon
hisown.Hehadnotgonetothepolice,andhehadnotsentHerschelinhisplace.Maybeitwasgoingto
beallrightafterall.

Peterfoundhisvoice.“Howmuchisit?"

"Fifty thousand dollars.” Cole added coolly, “You'll get the rest after you turn yourself in and plead
guilty."

"That's...notwhatweagreed."

"That'sthedeal,though.Onceyoukeepyourendofthebargain,we'lldepositthebalanceofmoneyinan
offshoreaccountforyou."

Absorbingthis,Peteralmostlaughed.Notabadmoveontheirpartatall.OncePeterhadbeenarrested
andpledguilty,noonewouldlistentohisprotestswhentherestofthemoneydidn'tsuddenlyappearina
mysteriousoffshorebankaccount.He'dhaveeffectivelydiscreditedhimselfbythatpoint.

Colewaswatchinghimclosely,waitingtoseeifheswallowedit.

Petersaid,feigningreluctance,“IguessIdon'thaveanychoice."

"No,youdon't."

"Allrightthen.We'lldoityourway."

"Yes, we will. Which means Stephenson is handling your case again—and this time you take the plea
bargainlikeagoodboy."

"I'mnotgoingtojail."

Colesnorted.“Foronemilliondollars?Ithinkyou'lldowhateveryouhaveto,don'tyou?"

Peter said bitterly, “And you're okay with that? With me going to prison? All these years I thought we
werefriends.Thebestoffriends."

"Wearefriends,”Colesaidcurtly.“Donwantedtokillyou.I'mtheonewhoinsistedweshouldjustpay
youoff.Isavedyourlife,sodon'tforgetthat."

"'Justpaymeoff.’YoudorememberthatI'mthevictiminallthis,right?I'mbeingpaidofftotaketherap
foryou.YouandHerschel."

Cole'sgazeflickered.“Iremember."

"Andbeforeyoutakecreditforsavingmylife,didyougivehimthekeytomybungalowsohecouldtryto
killmelastnight?"

ThatseemedtosparksomethinginCole.Hesnapped,“Hewasn'tsupposedtotrytokillyou.Howcan
youthinkI'dagreetothat!Hewassupposedtoplantafewitemsfromthemuseumtoguaranteethepolice
wouldhaveenoughtostrengthentheircase.ThatbastardGriffinapparentlyhadsomedoubtsevenafter
Donidentifiedyouinthelineup."

"HerscheltriedtoshootmewhileIwassleeping."

"I know. I know.” Cole even looked a little queasy. “But that was not the plan. Don's impulsive, but I
neveragreedtothat.Never.Noonewantsyoudead,Pete,leastofallme.Ifyou'resmart,you'llsimplydo
thejailtimeandcollectyourmoney.Thinkwhatyoucandowithfiftythousanddollars."

"Letaloneamillion."

"Uh...yes."

Peter smiled, though it wasn't much of a smile. All at once he was very tired of this game they were
playing—andofCole.Heraisedhisvoiceslightly,saying,“That'sgottobeenough,surely,Mike?"

ColewhippedaroundasMikesteppedoutoftheshadowsbesidethegrotto.

"That'lldoit,”Mikeagreed.ToCole,heclarified,“ForbothyouandHerschel."

Coleseemedtoactuallysway,asthoughshockhadknockedhimbackonhisheels.HestaredatMikein
disbelief.HeturnedtoPeter.“It'sasetup?"

WhenPeterdidn'tanswer,herepeatedinastunnedtone,“Yousetmeup?"

Mikesaiddryly,“Seemsonlyfair,doesn'tit?"

Coleignoredhim,speakingdirectlytoPeter.“Howcouldyoudothistome,Peter?"

"Iguessitwaseasierknowingthatyoucoulddoittome."

TherewasarustleofbushesbehindMike.

"Don'tmove,”aharshvoicesaidasMikehalfglancedaround.Mikefroze.

IttookPeter'seyesafewsecondstoadjusttotheflickeringlight,andthenhemadeouttheburlyfigureof
DonaldHerschelstandinghalfinshadow.LightgleamedoffthebarrelofthegunhewasaimingatMike's
back.

Forwhatfeltlikeaverylongtime,noonemoved.Noonespoke.Oneofthekoiinthepooldriftedlazily
tothesurface,gulpingforair.

ItoccurredtoPeter,onsomeverydistantplane,thatthepondmustneedtending—andthatheandMike
wereprobablygoingtodieinthenextfewseconds.HisgazefoundMike's.

Herschelsaidinthatsamehardtone,“Youdumbbastard.Didn'tItellyou?Itoldyouitwasgoingtoturn
outtobesomekindoftrap."

Coleblusteredsomeprotest.PeterwasstillstaringatMike.HewashopingthatHerschelwouldshoot
himbeforeMike,becausehereallycouldn'ttakelosingMikeagain,notevenforthefewsecondsbefore
hediedhimself.

Mikelookedrightbackathim.Helookedutterlycalm,utterlycool.“It'sundercontrol,”hesaidtoPeter
—andheactuallysmiled.

And to Peter's utter astonishment, the grove was suddenly ablaze with lights. Cops were seemingly
springing out from behind every bush and rock, and Herschel was being ordered to throw down his
weapon.

For a tense moment, Peter was sure Herschel would open fire like someone in a bad TV movie, but
instead he tossed his gun into the koi pond. It landed with a heavy plop as uniformed officers moved
forward.

"Itoldyou,”HerschelsaidtoCole.“Youneverlisten."

****

ItwasMikewhowalkedPeteruptothebungalowasHerschelandColewerehandcuffed,andlistened
stonily to their rights being read to them. As they reached the top of the stairs, Peter could see red and
bluelightscuttingswathsinthewarmnightair.Therewasaveritablefleetofcopcarswaitingupthere.

MikehadnotchosentosharethatinformationwithPeter—thefactthattheyweregoingtohavebackupfor
theirlittlecharade—butitwashardtofeelresentfulabouthavinghislifesaved.Maybelater.Maybeafter
he'dhadtimetoacceptthefactthathewasgoingtobeokayafterall.

"I've got to go down to the station to interrogate these assholes. It's probably going to take most of the
night,”Mikewassaying.Hebrokeoff.

PeterlookedhiswayandfoundMikewatchinghimalertly.

"I'mlistening."

It wasn't easy to tell in the eerie flashing light of the police cars, but he thought Mike's expression
changed.“Youokay?"

Peternodded.Hehadnoideaifitwastrueornot.Toosoontotell.

Mikenoddedtoo,asthoughthisconfirmedhisownthoughts.Hedidn'tsayanythingelseuntiltheyreached
thebungalow.Peterfumbledforhiskeys,gotthedooropen,andfeltaroundforalight.

The living room looked weirdly untouched. He had that sensation again of being in a museum. He had
lived here for how many years? And he had never felt as at home here as he had in Mike's apartment.
Suddenly,hewonderedwhattheywereevendoingthere.

Mikeclearedhisthroat.“Hey."

Peterlookedathim.

"You...youdidgreattonight."

"Thanks.Sodidyou."

Maybethewrynessshowed,becauseMikesaid,“Peter,Ididn'ttellyouaboutthebackupbecauseyou're
notverygoodathidingyourfeelings."

"AndyetyouthoughtIwascapableoffakingamnesiaandstealingfrommyownmuseum."

Mikegrimaced.

"Itdoesn'tmatter,”Petersaid.“You'reright.Iprobablywouldhavegiventhewholethingaway.”Hegave
ashortlaugh.“IthoughtHerschelwasgoingtokillyou."

Mike'sgazeslidbacktohis.“Sorry.Imeanthat."

"It'sokay."

"You...er...gottherestofyourmemoryback,didn'tyou?"

"Yes.”Peterwassurprised.“Howdidyouknow?"

Mikeraisedadismissiveshoulder,anditoccurredtoPeterthathewasnervous.Hewasn'tsurehowhe
knew,buthedid.Somethingelse:Mikewashovering.Hewasn'tmuchofahoverer,butitwasclearhe
didn'twanttowalkaway,andPeterfelthishoperise.

"Notsure.Somethinginyourvoicechanged.Yourstancetoo."

"I remembered, yes.” Not that it really helped. Other than to clarify exactly how much he had to be
depressedabout,becausesixmonthsagoMikehadbeenverydefinitethatitwasoverbetweenthem.And
Mike was not a man given to easily changing his mind—despite the fact that he was still standing in
Peter'slivingroomlookinglikehewasn'tsurewhattodowithhimself.

"Sowhatareyourplansnow?"

"Well,I'mstilloutofajobandaplacetolive,butatleastI'mnotgoingtojail."

Miketookadeepbreathandletitoutslowly.“Ifyouneedaplacetostay—Imean,untilyoufigureout
whatyouwanttodo—youcanstaywithme."

InthepausethatfollowedMike'swords,Petercouldhearthedistantcrackleofpolicecarradios.

"Mike, I'm sorry about before. When you told me to make up my mind and decide if I wanted a real
relationshipwithyouorapretendrelationshipwithCole,andIchose...Itwasabigmistake."

"So you said before.” Mike sighed. “Hell. I guess I could have been a little more tactful. A little more
patient."

"Icouldhavebeenalittlesmarter."

"That'sforsure.”Mikerelentedslightly.“ButmaybeIcouldhavebeenalittlemorehonesttoo,because
whatwehadwasworthsomeextraeffort."

Petergatheredhiscourage.“Was?"

Mikestaredathimforwhatseemedalongtime.“Is,”hesaidfinally.

One word. And such a little word to contain so much hope. Peter said carefully, because if he had this
wrongthedisappointmentwasprobablygoingtokillhim,“Ithoughtthatdoorwasn'topenanymore."

"So did I.” Mike shrugged. Then, as he studied Peter's face, his wolfish grin appeared. He reached for
Peter.“ButI'vebeenwrongbefore."

THEEND

[BacktoTableofContents]

JoshLanyon

JoshLanyonistheauthorofnumerousnovellasandshortstoriesaswellasthecriticallypraisedAdrien
Englishmysteryseries.TheHellYouSaywasshortlistedforaLambdaLiteraryAwardandisthewinner
of the 2006 USABookNews awards for GLBT fiction. In 2008, Josh released Man, Oh Man: Writing
M/M/FictionforKinksandCa$h,thedefinitiveguidetowritingforthem/morgayromancemarket.Josh
livesinLosAngeles,California,andiscurrentlyatworkonhisnextmanuscript.

Visitwww.loose-id.comforinformationonadditionaltitlesbythisandotherauthors.

Document Outline

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Josh Lanyon
[Back to Table of Contents]

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