ridges of rock and the blue promise of the Pacific Ocean.

And finally Malibu, nestled like a jewel in the warm bosom of the other coast. More beautiful than any place had a right to be. Golden sunlight, salt tang in the air, bungalows in faded shades of mint and turquoise next to multimillion-dollar wonders of glass and stone, waves rolling surfers to shore in long, slow breaks. Twentyseven miles of beach and canyon, of palm trees and skies that promised never to cloud—except from wildfire smoke or mudslide rain. Celebrities huddled behind security gates while homeless philosophers dispensed wisdom outside organic cafés. Daniel hadn’t needed to read the license plate frame on the car ahead of him to know that it said, _{MALIBU: A WAY OF LIFE}. He hadn’t needed his map, either. He knew his way around.

It wasn’t that he remembered the shocking green swath of lawn fronting Pepperdine, or the white houses clinging to the cliffs. It wasn’t that he looked at the Pavilions grocery store and remembered shopping there, or saw the broad span of Point Dume and could picture swimming off it. It was a physical thing. Muscle memory, force of habit, his body knowing when to turn and which direction.

So he’d rolled with it, just followed that instinct until it led him right to Wandermere Road. The same address on the insurance card.

And now, as he looked out at the house, a two-story California Contemporary with lots of glass and a wraparound porch, he realized that somewhere along the line he’d gone crazy. Only a matter of time before he started seeing talking cats and mad queens. That was the only explanation.

Because he was looking at the Candy Girls house.

“Down the rabbit hole,” he said. He tried to laugh, but the sound died.

There was a wall that they had never showed on TV, and a tall security gate guarding the driveway. But what he could see of the house itself was the same: faded peach walls like early sunset, the porch Emily Sweet had stood on while her sister talked to her, the wood-spindle railing. He’d seen it all before on television, and in dreams he’d spoken to the woman who lived in it, a character from a cheap melodrama, a woman who did not exist, and besides which, it was supposed to be in Venice, not here, but here it was, standing between a bungalow and a Greek revival, right out the goddamn car window—

The honk of a horn shook him out of his trance. He glanced in the rearview, saw a VW Beetle behind him. He started to move before he remembered that Emily Sweet drove a Beetle.

No way.

The angle of the sun off the glass made it impossible to see clearly, but that profile, it could be . . . He pulled the parking brake and leapt out. Each step brought her into focus—her silhouette, the fine features of her face, fingers on the steering wheel, and then he’d reached her car, the angle better now. The driver was an Indian woman with wide, frightened eyes. He froze, and the woman who wasn’t Emily fumbled for the transmission, threw it in reverse. The VW shot ten yards backward with a whine.

“Wait,” he said, his hands out and low. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He had to flatten himself against the BMW as she blew past. The last of her he saw was her middle finger as she turned the corner, leaving him alone in front of a house that couldn’t exist.

Right. Right.

Get it together.

Daniel climbed hurriedly into his car. No sense having made it this far to flip out in the middle of the street. Play it smart. Better to park the BMW out of sight, walk back here, ring the bell.

Then flip out.

5

When he hiked back up from the beach parking lot, he expected to find the house transformed. It had been a figment of stress and lack of sleep and loneliness. His mind, already strained—to say the least—had gotten confused. He repeated it like a mantra, timing it to his steps, I’m just, confused, I’m just, confused.

But when he reached the address, there it was, large as life. Larger than. A California Contemporary with lots of glass and a wraparound porch.

Okay. Well. Be that way.

The gate was metal, about eight feet high, with a section that would slide aside to allow access to the driveway. A metal post held a small panel at car height. There was a keypad and a call button, which he pushed. It made a buzzing sound that he assumed was mirrored in the house. He waited a long moment, then pushed it again. No answer.

Guess I’m not home.

He must once have known the keypad combination that would open the gate, but that was gone with everything else. Daniel glanced up and down the block. It wasn’t the most opulent section of Malibu he’d seen, but it was still pretty damn nice; most houses guarded by a fence, Mexicans doing lawn work, probably private security rolling around. Best he could tell, no one was looking at him, but who knew.

Daniel stood on tiptoes, stretched up to grasp the lip of the gate. He jumped and pulled, managed to get his chin up to the edge and hung there, something below his stomach tingling. He twisted his grip to plant his hands like he was getting out of a pool. His feet kicked at the metal with a loud bong, giving him just enough purchase to get a knee up and throw one sneaker over. For a second his tailbone rocked against the sun-warmed metal, and then he pulled the other leg over and dropped clumsily to the driveway, the impact ringing through his knees and ankles.

That had been harder than it seemed like it should have been. He straightened, dusted off his palms and his jeans.

Now that he had an unobstructed view, he could see more differences between the house in front of him and the one on the show. Flower beds flanked the walkway here, though the flowers were embattled by weeds and grass. There was a porch swing, and although it wasn’t on TV, it seemed right to him. Expected.

The thought sent a chill through him. The whole place did. He was sweatier than the late afternoon sun could account for, and his head felt light. He had a powerful urge to turn around and head back the way he had come. Hop over the fence again, get in the car, and . . .

What?

Daniel straightened his back, wiped his hands, and walked to the house. He started up the steps to the porch, then stopped a few shy of the top. He had the strongest feeling that the next step would squeak. What did it mean if it did? If it didn’t? Which made him sane, which made him crazy?

It squeaked.

I know this place. I don’t know how that’s possible, what it means, but I knew how to get here and I know the sound of the trees rustling in the wind and that porch swing, I know I’ve sat on it before, and, god help me, I feel like I sat beside—

Emily Sweet.

His sneakers made soft suss sounds. He trailed his fingers along the railing, the wood smooth with salt air and paint and touch. At the first window, he cupped his hands to see inside.