Boston was about 250 miles. From there he could head west. No choice now. No explaining his condition and throwing himself on the mercy of the police. The only thing left to do was go to a place that scared the hell out of him.

Home.

W

hen her alarm went off, Sophie Zeigler was in her kitchen, drinking coffee and chatting with Mick Jagger like the old friends they were. Not that she knew him personally, but in her flowers-in-your-hair days she’d seen Mick and the boys play a dozen times, and her only lesbian experience had been scored by Beggars Banquet, so “old friend” seemed as appropriate a term as any. In the dream, Sophie had leaned over to refill her mug, and when she’d turned back, Mick had unzipped his leather pants and was peeing in her sink. He looked sheepish but didn’t stop, and she was thinking how this was the kind of stunt that turned singers into rock stars, and how tiresome it must be to maintain. It was one thing to be twenty-five and beautiful as you hurled a TV out the window of the Chateau Marmont, but once your pubes were curling gray, it was time to call a halt.

Then the drumming of his urine against the stainless steel sink became the droning buzz of the alarm, and the dream evaporated, the aroma of coffee seeming to float in its wake. She slapped the clock to silence. What a weird way to start the day. Everything she was dealing with, and this was what her subconscious had for her? Dreams about Mick Jagger’s sagging testicles, and memories of clumsy girl-gropings almost forty-years gone?

Sophie swung her legs out of bed, rubbed sleep from her eyes. Padded to the window and pulled open the curtains. Early sunlight bathed her garden and the green square of her lawn. Some people griped about L.A. not having seasons, but there were two: “gorgeous” and “absolutely freaking gorgeous.”

On a mat at the foot of her bed, she worked through a quick yoga routine. A couple of sun salutations, down-dog into cobra, just to limber up, build some heat. Caught her body in the mirror as she stretched, and smiled. People talked about sixty being the new fifty, but she was shooting for forty-five. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth while the water warmed up, then slipped out of her panties, kicked them into the hamper, and got in the shower.

God , that felt good. She turned, tilted her head to wash her hair. Okay, so. A long day. She was still dealing with the sheriff’s department, trying to maintain a stonewall that got weaker every day. Plus there was her more traditional work. Today she had lunch with a client, a rapper-turned-action-star who released records as Too G, but whose real name was Tudy, and who called his maid to squash spiders. That would be followed by the day’s main event, a “friendly chat” at Universal, who had somehow gotten Don Cheadle interested in the script already promised to Tudy. The tricky part was that they hadn’t signed papers with her client yet—blaming that on their lawyers, Hollywood Stall Tactic 514—so technically she didn’t have much to work with. And of course, Cheadle was a truly remarkable actor, while Tudy was . . . well, a rap star. But the Universal VP owed her. So, she thought as she turned off the water and pulled open the curtain, if she could remind him of that without overplaying—

There was a stranger leaning against her sink.

Sophie staggered back, fumbling for the wall, her thoughts scattering in different directions, processing the fact that she didn’t know the man, that he must have broken in, that she was naked and dripping, that he had something shiny and metal tucked into the front of his pants. Her hand slapped the shower tile, slipped, caught.

“Do me a favor,” the man said, “and don’t scream, okay, sister?” 5

Bennett smiled at the woman as she clawed at the wall for balance, her eyes going wide, breath gasping in. “Sophie. Really. Don’t.”

Her mouth fish-gawped, and he could see her thinking about screaming anyway, knowing she could get a shout off before he could stop her. Then, as her rational mind came into it, realizing that he knew her name, that this wasn’t a random break-in. That he had an agenda.

Which was the moment fear really bloodied its claws. “So,” Bennett said conversationally, “I was involved in this thing in Chicago that went badly.” He kept his eyes on hers, didn’t give her a second to look away. “I know. Who cares, right? Reason I bring it up is simple. My back is to the wall here. And since you spend a lot of time negotiating, I thought I’d make sure you understood that. You know what it means when someone’s back is to the wall?”

Bennett had broken in an hour ago, and had stood watching her sleep, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips were slightly parted. He’d thought about sitting at the end of her bed and waiting for her to wake up, but he wanted her clearheaded as well as vulnerable, so instead he’d gone into the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, and sat at her breakfast nook drinking it and waiting for her to get in the shower. It was all about theater in his line of work.

“Sophie? Do you know what that means?”

Her chin quivered, and it took her a moment to find her voice. “It means all options are on the table.”

“Close.” He rubbed his hands together so that she could see the white surgical gloves he wore. Her eyes shivered with images of blood and gleaming steel knives. “It means there are no constraints. Do you see the difference?”

She swallowed, nodded slowly. Her arms had settled at her sides, which he liked. Only very stupid people worried about modesty when he came calling. “I understand.”

“Good.” He pulled a towel off the bar, held it out to her. Basic technique to establish a power dynamic, kick a dog and then scratch his ears. Alpha had control; beta gratefully accepted what was given.

She hesitated. If someone had tried this in the boardroom, no doubt she would have fed them their teeth. But you aren’t in the boardroom, sister.

Sophie took the towel, wrapped it around herself.

“Now. I’m going to ask some questions. The smartest thing you can do is answer me. You do that, I won’t hurt you. You’ve got my word.” He gave her his best schoolboy smile.

“Okay.”

“Where is Daniel Hayes?”

Her mouth fell open again. “This is—I don’t understand.”

“Daniel Hayes. Your client and friend, the one you half-adopted when he was still living in a tower at Park LaBrea. Five-eleven, one eighty, likes piña coladas and walks in the rain?”

“Is he okay? What did you do to him?”

Bennett paused, stared for a long time. Then he said, quietly, “You know, you’re still a beautiful woman, Sophie.”

Her knees almost gave, and a whimpering sound came from deep in her throat. “I don’t know where Daniel is. I haven’t spoken to him since he left.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“About a week ago.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I can’t discuss it.”

Bennett laughed, honestly delighted. “Really?”

“It’s confidential.”