She realized the corporate and even the romantic concerns were mundane, probably her mind's attempt to ignore the real difficulty she was in. Because the people who wanted Obsidian were still out there. If she was in danger before, most likely she still was. But she didn't know what to do about it, so she was fretting about things that were far less consequential.

The cab stopped on Lexington Street in front of her apartment, a basement unit in one of the narrow, detached, tree-shaded houses that lined the street. She liked Lexington because it was only four blocks long and so attracted little traffic. Its sidewalks were menaced more by the Big Wheels and bicycles of the numerous children who lived in the neighborhood than they were by cars or trucks.

She paid the driver and got out. She'd been gone only, what, twenty-four hours? And yet the comfort and familiarity of the setting felt surreal to her.

She started up the flagstone walk toward the front door. A man called out from her right. “Excuse me, miss?”

She turned, surprised, because she hadn't noticed anyone there when she'd gotten out of the cab. The surprise turned to alarm. What if they'd found out where she lived? Ben said it would be easy. Maybe they were waiting for her here.

But the man, a slim Asian in shades and a green fleece pullover, was keeping a respectful distance. He said, “If I wanted to get from here to San Jose, would I be better off taking 101, or 280?”

By reflex, her mind started working the problem, considering variables, imagining possibilities. “Well,” she said, “it would depend on where you're going in San Jose.”

Something suddenly felt wrong to her. Why would a pedestrian ask a question like that?

Because of the way it's calculated to momentarily engage your mind. It would distract you from-

Something stung her in the neck from behind. She clapped a hand to the spot and cried out. Something was stuck in her neck. She tried to turn, but strong hands gripped her shoulders. She struggled and the world seemed to lurch. From somewhere she heard a door-a van door?-slide open, and the last thing she saw before everything grayed out was the man in the sunglasses and fleece pullover moving quickly and purposefully toward her.

30 YOU ALWAYS HAVE

Alex was home in bed, but his eyes were wide open. Ordinarily, he wasn't prone to napping, but he hadn't slept at all at the hotel and he badly needed a few hours right now.

He'd walked all around the house looking for a sign of what had happened the night before. And he'd found it, in the backyard: the woodpile was knocked over, and a short distance away, the grass was trampled down and slick with something dark and sticky he immediately knew was blood. A trail of flattened grass led to the fence, and he imagined Ben dragging a body. It had really happened. Ben had really killed someone right in their backyard. The violence was done, but the signs of its occurrence terrified him. He'd restacked the woodpile and hosed down the bloody grass, imagining how he would explain it to Gamez when he was back in that windowless room for questioning. “Blood? I didn't see any blood. The grass just needed watering. Sure, there are sprinklers, but I sometimes water it by hand.”

Finally, his exhaustion began to overwhelm his imagination. His eyes fluttered closed. He was in the backyard again, but he was a kid now, watching his dad water the garden. Katie was throwing a Frisbee to Arlo. A telephone was ringing somewhere…

He jerked awake. The phone. It wasn't a dream. Shit, he should have taken the damn thing off the hook. He picked up the handset. “Hello?”

“Alex, it's me.”

Ben. A sickening surge of adrenaline coursed through him. He paused, then said, “Leave me alone.”

“Alex-”

He put the handset back in the receiver and lay back down. A second later, the phone rang again. He ignored it. After three more rings, it stopped.

The trick, he decided, was to treat Ben as dead. Not to hate him, not to resent him, but just to place him in the same part of his brain where he kept his memories of Mom and Dad and Katie. Maybe he could even grieve for him. Then he could accept the loss, get over it, and move on. That's what he needed to do. Ben was dead. That was okay. That was good.

His agitation eased. His exhaustion rolled in again. He started to doze.

Someone pounded on the front door.

He sat bolt upright, total recall of that night in the bath flooding his mind.

“Alex!” he heard Ben call. “Alex!”

He thought about the gun Ben had given him. If he still had it, he might have shot through the front door.

He pulled a pillow over his head. He's dead. This is a bad dream. He's dead.

The pounding got louder. “Alex, open the goddamn door or I'll shoot the lock out!” Ben shouted. “You want to explain to the neighbors? The Levins? The Andrews? Mrs. Selwyn?”

Christ. Alex got out of bed and threw on a robe. He walked down the stairs and stood in front of the door. “Go away,” he called loudly.

“Open the door.”

“No! I don't want anything from you. Just go away!”

“Alex, I'm going to count to three and then I'm going to shoot the lock out. One.”

Good God, it was like when they were kids again. Except with guns.

“Two.”

“Okay, okay! Don't shoot, you idiot.”

He opened the door, and damn if Ben didn't have his gun out. There was a bandage on his head that gave Alex a surge of satisfaction. Ben put the gun back in its holster and walked in. Alex closed the door behind him.

Ben looked around. Alex realized he hadn't been in the house in, what, eight years? Something like that.

“Looks the same,” Ben said. He sniffed, his expression contemplative. “Smells the same.”

“What do you mean it smells?”

“In a good way. It smells like…”

“Like what?”

Ben shrugged. “Like home.”

Alex almost said, Well, it's not your home. Instead: “What do you want?”

Ben looked at him. “Your boss is involved in this.”

Alex almost laughed. “Osborne?”

“They blackmailed him. He was their inside man.”

“Good for you, Columbo. But it's too late. I don't even care. Just go.”

“Alex-”

“We're done, remember? Seriously. Go.”

“You don't understand.”

“No, I do. I'm on my own, and so are you. Just go. Just go, Ben. Get out of my house.”

He'd called it “my house” deliberately, but Ben seemed not to notice. “Alex, you need my help,” he said.

“No, I don't need your help, I don't want your help.”

“Yes, you do!” Ben shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “Yes, you do, Alex, and you're going to take my help! You're going to listen to me, and if you don't want my help then, fine. I'm not going to be responsible for any more deaths. You're going to listen to what I have to say, you're going to do what I tell you to do, and then if you don't, it's your fucking fault, you killed yourself, you committed suicide on your own and it wasn't my fault! None of it!”

They stood staring at each other. Ben was panting, the muscles in his neck straining. “You think I don't hurt?” he said. “You think I don't wish I'd driven Katie home that night? Why do you want to torture me with that? You don't think I'm tortured already? What do you want me to do, say I'm sorry? Beg for forgiveness? Set myself on fire? What do you fucking want?”

His voice cracked and he stopped. Then he spun and slammed his palm into the wall. Alex heard a huge crack! and felt the shock reverberate through the floorboards. A hole appeared in the wall, plaster dust drifting lazily out of it.

Ben stood like that, his shoulders bunched, his breath heaving in and out. Then he wiped an arm across his face and turned and looked at Alex. His eyes were red. “What do you want?” he said.