Nothing would bring them back. They were gone.

But she was here. Right here, right now, she was alive in her house in Portland, Oregon. She could feel the hardwood floor beneath her bare feet. She could feel the softness of her sweats against her skin. She could feel her heart beating in her chest, slow and steady. She could still feel hope and joy, though for the longest time she’d thought they had fled her life forever. She could still have feelings for other people.

Like Felicity and maybe her friend.

Like Joe.

She stood back, looking at her gleaming kitchen, taking as always keen pleasure in order. Tomorrow she’d mess it up again cooking for her new friends. The thought gave her enormous pleasure.

A meal for chicks, unlike the cooking she’d been doing for Joe and his friends.

Grilled zucchini dressed with a balsamic vinegar reduction, orange and fennel salad, mini lentil burgers, slices of provolone with wine jelly, baked radicchio with grated parmesan cheese.

Yes.

For dessert, raspberry white chocolate mousse. And, if they were to join the guys, she could make chocolate-espresso cheesecake. Or a big pan of apple crumble, with brandy butter. It was one of her favorite party dishes and could make grown men weep.

Well, maybe not Navy SEALs, probably a little brandy butter wouldn’t make them weep, but still. It would be fun to watch them put that first bite in their mouths.

She had brandy, didn’t she? In some cupboard somewhere. The cupboards of this house were deep, so she went to get the powerful flashlight Joe insisted she keep handy. He’d chosen it for her and the light could probably be seen from the moon.

The brandy was under the sink, hidden in the back. The trusty super flashlight lit it up as if it was on stage. So, okay, there was the bottle of brandy. Brandy butter tomorrow night.

Tomorrow night would be fun.

Fun.

She rolled that idea around in her head. Having fun. It felt odd even saying the word in her head.

The girls over. Then going over to join the guys. Laughing at the grumpy ones who’d lost to Joe. Maybe they could go over in time to see the last couple of hands. She’d really like to see that. Watch Joe’s face, watch his hands holding the cards.

His hands. Joe had the most beautiful hands she had ever seen, totally unlike the hands of any man she’d ever known. Her dad had always had his hands manicured. She smiled gently. He’d been such a dandy, her father. They’d teased him about it. His suits were always well cut, he sometimes changed his shirt during the day. Shoes always polished, hair barbered twice monthly by the best guy in town.

He’d said once that he considered it a sign of respect for people but she also knew he liked being well turned-out.

Joe was the exact opposite. Everything he wore was clean, but well used and rarely ironed. Presumably when he started working that would change, but maybe not. His buddies Jacko and Metal wore work clothes, not suits.

Joe’s hair was getting shaggy and his hands definitely did not have manicured nails.

Those hands were strong, though. The strongest, most fascinating hands she’d ever seen. Enormous, callused, even rough. With large raised veins on the back that ran up his muscled forearms. Hard, tough hands. But delicate. When he fixed things or assembled them he had an incredibly delicate touch, gentle and steady.

Isabel went into her bedroom thinking about Joe’s hands. She’d never really thought about men’s hands before, but his fascinated her. Several times, watching him carefully repair something, she’d flashed on those big strong hands touching her. And she’d have one of those heat flashes that should have belonged to menopause but didn’t. They belonged to Joe.

Isabel set the flashlight on her bedside table and undressed by the light in the corridor. She liked the half-light. The room seemed mysterious yet cozy, her small collection of silver frames gleaming in the penumbra.

She undressed and folded her clothes neatly on the small button back nursing chair that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother back in France. Naked, she padded to the chest of drawers and took out her favorite nightgown—a full-length long-sleeved pale pink cashmere nightgown that had been a present from her mother. It was soft and warm and pretty and she loved it.

She hadn’t worn it since the Massacre. Almost as if wearing it was too great a pleasure for her, inhabiting the world of the half-dead. Something dark and cloudy had lifted inside her head and she saw the truth. Her mother would have wanted her to wear the nightgown. It had been given with love. Why had it lain in the back of her drawer all these months?

It was time, time to step once more into the land of the living.

The nightgown was voluminous and fell in soft folds to her feet. She hadn’t worn it in so long she’d almost forgotten about it. Isabel gave an experimental twirl, loving how it belled around her ankles.

How did it look? She wanted to see it by the light, but was too lazy to cross the room. The flashlight had more candlepower than the ceiling light. She picked it up, turned it on, bringing it around to the mirror and—

There was a monster at the window!

Black-faced, with insectoid eyes. So grotesque it took her a second to believe her eyes, like a devil that the earth had just spawned.

She screamed and screamed, dropping the flashlight, turning to run and bumping into the chest of drawers. Her heart pounded in her chest—it felt like it was bouncing off her rib cage. For a second, she couldn’t breathe through the panic and her chest squeezed.

“Isabel!” Joe’s deep voice at the front door. He pounded on it so hard she felt the vibrations in the floor. “Isabel, open up!”

Joe! Isabel ran to the front door, fumbling to punch in the security alarm, pull back the bolt. The instant the door was free Joe pushed into the room. He was bare-chested, in sweats, barefoot. A big black gun was in his right hand.

“Isabel!” He grabbed her shoulders, looked her up and down. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Her heart hammered and it took her long seconds to get enough breath to speak. “A man—” She wheezed in breath. “A man at my bedroom window!”

Joe picked her up, placed her against the door, one hand to her shoulder. “Stay here,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t move and don’t open to anyone but me.”

She nodded, swallowing convulsively.

“Isabel?”

“Stay here,” she whispered, throat raw. “Don’t open to anyone but you.”

“Good girl,” he growled and slipped out the door.

Isabel felt bereft the instant he was gone. It was crazy, he was just outside but she felt completely alone. Whatever Joe was doing, he was doing it silently. There was no noise at all, the silence so deep her pants as she tried to breathe sounded loud in the dark living room. She was still shaking so hard she put her arms around her midriff to hold herself together, otherwise she felt like she’d fly apart in a million pieces.

Joe was out there, searching for...searching for what? What had she seen? Instinctively she’d said she’d seen a man but actually all she’d seen was smooth darkness and insectoid eyes. Glasses but steampunk-like glasses.

Isabel closed her eyes, trying to fix what she’d seen in her memory. In her treacherous, treacherous memory. She couldn’t remember the event that shaped her life, how could she trust her own memory?

But she’d seen someone! Or something. It had been an instant, less than a second. By the time she’d drawn a deep shocked breath to scream, he—or it—had been gone.

Why would someone be at her window? She couldn’t think straight. Her system had gone into overdrive when she’d seen that—that thing. Staring at her.

Think, think! she told herself. Joe would want to hear what happened. Unless he’d caught the thing and dragged it inside. But if he didn’t, he’d want to know why she screamed.