Meanwhile, Naomi sighed dreamily. “Actually, cute doesn’t really describe Derek, does it? He’s more hot and sexy than just cute. And dangerous, you know? Wouldn’t mind getting some of that myself.”

The crass words were so incongruous coming from her mousy little mouth, I just shook my head. “You know, hon, I have no idea why Layla thought so little of you, because you’re so much like her.”

She gasped and her cheeks began to blotch. Guess I had struck a nerve.

I continued. “I’m sure if we call the police right now and tell them that you made a mistake, they’ll understand.”

“It’s no mistake,” she cried, and her lower lip popped out in a pout.

“Okay, you stick with that story, but I suggest you start looking over your shoulder, because something’s going to come back and bite you on the ass.”

With that, I walked out, grabbed my coat from the gallery rail where I’d draped it earlier, and ran all the way to my car.

The drive home was touch and go, emotionally speaking. I knew Naomi was full of crap, but my mind kept drifting into possible scenarios that could very well be true.

I thought back to the first night I’d met Derek at the Covington Library, the night Abraham died. Derek had been stalking the crowded main hall, an outsider observing the goings-on of the wealthy and influential people who filled the space. More than once I’d caught him frowning at me from across the wide room. Later, in Abraham’s workroom, he’d found me covered in blood and accused me of murder. It was a strange beginning to what had become a lovely friendship—and more.

But now I recalled that Layla Fontaine had been there that night. Had she and Derek met there? Maybe they’d attended Abraham’s show as a couple.

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered. Then something else occurred to me and I pounded the steering wheel in disgust.

Layla had been in Edinburgh for the book fair. Now I recalled several nights when Derek had been unable to see me. I hadn’t given it a second thought at the time. Why would I? I thought he had obligations at Holyroodhouse Palace. Now, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe he and Layla had been frolicking all over Edinburgh while I . . .

Oh, God, at this rate I would be insane before I got home. So I didn’t go home. Instead, I drove through the city, to Pacific Heights. I was feeling just perverse enough that driving up and down astoundingly steep hills might actually soothe my jumbled brain. Or at least give me something else to obsess over.

When I first moved to San Francisco, I considered it my civic duty to practice my hill driving. I realized after doing it a few times that it was actually fun in a strange and crazy way, and always provided a nice distraction.

Tonight, I had a breathless moment going up a treacherous hill on Filbert Street where I stalled out and had to alternate between the emergency brake and my fancy foot-pedal work. And prayer. It wasn’t pretty, but it was exhilarating and I made it to the top of the grade.

Because of all the one-way streets, I had to circle around, taking Leavenworth to Chestnut to Larkin before I was able to drive down beautiful, touristy Lombard Street with its absurdly winding turns, vivid pink hydrangea bushes, neat green hedges, and incongruous palm trees. The night was clear, and as I took the first turn, a carpet of city lights undulated toward the shining pillar that was Coit Tower standing sentinel at the top of Telegraph Hill.

With the next turn, I could make out the ebony surface of the bay. Many miles beyond the water, the vague outline of the Berkeley hills was silhouetted against the night sky.

At this time of night, there were only a few other cars making the descent, so I eased off the brake pedal and drove briskly around the two remaining sharp, twisting curves for which the redbrick-paved street was justifiably famous.

Years ago, when my parents had first brought us kids here, we piled out of the car and clambered down the stairs that lined both sides of Lombard. I’m sure we were shouting and pushing and laughing all the way. When we got to the bottom, we crossed and climbed up the other side of the street, stopping every few steps to turn and gaze out at the incredible view of the city, with the blue waters of the bay and Alcatraz Island beyond. I remembered thinking how cool it would have been to live in one of the houses that lined the crookedest street in the world. Now, as I drove down, I thought how awful it had to be to deal with the daily onslaught of tourists and the constant line of cars, the photographers, the screaming kids.

Despite the ubiquitous tourists and the cars and the kids, I loved San Francisco. Who wouldn’t fall a tiny bit in love with a town where you could walk into a bar and sit down between a Trotskyite and a drag queen and wind up three hours later at a Giants game with both of them? For a place that was remarkable for its lack of pretension, San Francisco was unashamedly self-indulgent. San Franciscans adored their town. One of the first things a new resident learned was that San Francisco dwellers capitalized the t and the c when referring to the city of San Francisco. This was The City. And while most cities didn’t require full participation, San Francisco did.

I smiled as I coasted down Filbert again, feeling much better than I had earlier. The hills had done their job.

I headed for home, and less than fifteen minutes later drove into my parking garage. I found my space, turned off the engine, and rested my forehead on the cool plastic hardness of the steering wheel.

Unfortunately, the reeling thoughts of Derek and Layla were back in full force and I knew I wouldn’t survive the night if I didn’t find another distraction. So I pulled out my cell and called Robin.

The next morning, I woke up puffy and so exhausted I didn’t want to get out of bed. I felt hot and wondered if maybe I had a fever. Everything hurt and I was certain I was coming down with a cold or the flu.

I lay in bed, pondering the night before. I’d been an embarrassing mess. And good friend that she was, Robin had rushed over to keep me company. She poured wine and listened to me rant. Occasionally, she would remind me that Layla and Derek together was all a big fat lie, and I would agree and thank her. Then I’d go off on another tirade. I think we laughed a lot. I hope so.

I guess I didn’t have the flu, after all. I had a bit of a hangover. We’d finished a full bottle of wine. Or rather, I’d finished it. I think Robin had nursed one glass, just to keep me company. She really was the best kind of friend.

I climbed out of bed and trudged to the kitchen, where I downed two ibuprofen, then started the coffeemaker and stumbled off to the shower. I let the water pour over me for a long time, trying not to think. But it was impossible; all sorts of errant thoughts kept filtering through.

I examined every word Derek had ever said to me, picking them apart, searching for ulterior meanings.

I stared at myself in the mirror. The truly pathetic thing was that I was doing all this to myself, clear in the knowledge that Naomi was lying. What kinds of torture would I be going through if I’d actually believed she was telling the truth?

It was a sickness and I hated it.

I buried myself in work, dragging Guru Bob’s book out of my bag to begin the restoration. It was a beautiful little gem and I was happy and honored that he trusted me to do the job, but my heart wasn’t in my work today.

Nevertheless, hours later I’d photographed every inch of the book and taken it apart, piece by piece. I saved every bit of sinew and thread I could salvage, spreading the pieces out across my worktable, mapping it on wide strips of white construction paper. I loved my work, but I was tired and cranky and wanted to take a nap in the worst way.