The kitchen was a cook’s dream. Six-burner Viking stove, butcher block countertops, a window on the back wall to an avocado tree in an enclosed yard. There were dishes in the sink with food crusted on them. The lid of a stainless steel trash can was propped open, the garbage explaining the smell. There were liquor bottles on the counter, mostly bourbon, some Irish whiskey. The way they were arranged, the level of booze in them, he could tell that someone had been doing some serious drinking. Binge drinking. Lose-yourself-inan-amber-sea drinking. And he had a feeling it had been him.

The bottle of Blanton’s still had a couple of inches left in it. He opened a cabinet—knew just which one—and took out a rocks glass. The smell was melting caramel; the taste was melting gold. He closed his eyes and felt the familiar, lovely burn. Better. Better.

Okay. What do you know?

Well, first, this was his house, and he was Daniel Hayes. Those two facts were now solid. Which meant the BMW was his car, and that for some reason, he had driven it cross-country to that lonely Maine beach. The same beach, it appeared, where he’d gotten married to Laney Thayer.

So where was she?

No way to tell exactly how long he’d been gone, but at least a week. And what, four days since he woke up without his memory? Four days was a long time for someone to be missing. She must have gone crazy. Been calling the police, the hospitals. Maybe she was running the cops ragged right this second. That would explain the dishes in the sink, the housekeeping.

If that’s true, she might have called to see if you were back. You should check the—

He found the answering machine on the other side of the counter. The cords were frayed, and the plastic body was shattered like someone had jumped up and down on it.

Right. No messages, then.

Daniel refilled his glass, then returned to the front hall. Like everything else in the house, the staircase was striking without being gaudy, wooden steps rising from polished marble with airy grace. Whatever worries they might have had, money wasn’t one of them. At the top of the stairs, arbitrarily, he chose left.

The master bedroom. Holding the glass like a totem, he stepped in.

The room took up half the second floor. Windows on three sides gave way to sweeping sunny vistas, the backyard, trees. There were more photographs, but he didn’t think he could handle more pictures right now. The bed was a full-size, smaller than he’d expected. A size that belonged to couples who chose to touch when they slept. The covers were neat. His end table held an alarm clock, a lamp. He opened the drawer: lip balm, lambskin condoms, a dish filled with coins, a Gregg Hurwitz novel. It felt like something was missing, but he couldn’t have said what.

Laney’s side table had a pile of scripts a foot high. She’d been looking for her next project, wanting to cash in the Candy Girls cred for a meaty role in a serious film. It had always made him smile, the look on her face while she read scripts. Totally unaware of the outside world as she leaned against the headboard, pages held in both hands. Her lips moving and face trying on the emotions of the characters. Sometimes he’d put down whatever he was reading and watch her, catch an advance screening.

The memory took his legs away. His hands shook as he raised the glass to his lips. He took a long swallow, then coughed.

More. There had to be more.

He forced himself up, a little wobbly. Walked into the bathroom: sunken tub, enclosed shower, the lighting an actress would demand. A window looking out onto the avocado tree in the backyard, the leaves so green they looked wet. Daniel moved to the counter, picked up a small container of moisturizer. When he opened the top, a sweet lemony smell rose, like the best dessert in the world, like a night in a Caribbean hammock, like lying down beside Laney, the smell of the stuff mingling with the smell of her, the way she turned on her side and made soft noises and reached back, fumbling, to grab his arm and pull it around her, draping him across her like a favorite blanket. God, they had fit well together, their bodies were made for it, and even after all the years, the feel of her skin against his set him to tingling. As luxuriously comforting as a hot shower.

The bathroom had gone bleary and wet. Daniel wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He set the skin cream on the counter, went back down the hall.

The next door opened into what looked like a guest room. Tasteful, but emotionally resonant as a hotel suite. He didn’t bother, just closed the door and went into his office.

It was a third bedroom they’d converted, ripping up the carpet and putting in shelves. Three walls were covered floor to ceiling with books and bound scripts. A pale wood desk sat in front of a window looking out to trees and the street. The desk had a photo of Laney looking dynamite in an evening gown, a stack of unopened mail, a crystal statue, and a closed Dell laptop.

The statue was the one from the photo downstairs, the one he’d been holding while he stood at a podium. An abstract curve of sweeping glass. At the bottom there was a small plaque, which read:

BEST WRITING IN A NEW DRAMA CANDY GIRLS “Broken Wings” Daniel Hayes

Huh.

Huh.

On second thought, maybe it wasn’t a lurid melodrama aimed at

teenage girls.

Well, that explained some things. The way he kept jumping into stories—making up tales for the people around him on the highway, the pleasure he’d felt writing in his journal, his “script” at the MRI clinic. He set the award back on the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down.

It felt . . . like home.

For the first time he could remember, he felt at home. No, he didn’t have all the answers yet, but they were coming, each one triggering the next. Just sitting here they were coming. Looking at the wall-to-wall bookcases, he remembered putting them in, doing the work himself. Years ago, sweating in the heat, Drive-By Truckers singing about Daddy playing poker in the woods they say, back in his younger days. The smell of sawdust and the whine of the circular saw. They’d had the money to hire a professional, but he wanted to do it. There had been a time when carpentry had paid his rent, before sitting at a desk started to become more profitable than building one.

This was where he belonged. This chair, this desk, this computer, those windows with their view of paradise, the ocean just visible over the swaying trees, the broad, quiet street, with the work trucks of gardeners and the sheriff’s department squad car—

Fuck!

The cruiser was parked two houses up pointing this direction. The lights were off, but he could make out the shape of a cop inside.

Daniel leapt from the chair and shot to the other window. A pale blue sedan that screamed “unmarked police car” sat at the security gate. As he watched, the window rolled down and an arm reached out to the call box. A bell chimed.