were filed at the time of the renovation of Barakov’s office.”
He spreads the plans out next to the laptop. “Unless you’re Spider-Man, there’s only two points of entry. The way we came in and the way we went out.”
“So if we don’t catch Isabella in the stairwell or lobby . . .”
“She didn’t enter the building,” Zack finishes.
We resume play. Ten minutes go by, then another ten. It’s past Isabella’s appointment time.
“What about the parking garage below? Any cameras there?”
“No. I swung by there after picking up the plans. There are no cameras on or in the garage, so no visual records. But there’s also street parking and several nearby lots.”
I reach over and click the mouse to fast-forward. Within a few minutes, the video comes to an end.
I set my cup down on the coffee table. “How do we know she wasn’t late? Or maybe Barton or the doctor did something to the footage?”
“I’m the one who stipulated the start and stop times. The file was emailed to me within minutes. That kind of seamless editing would have taken longer to pull off. But I think you’re onto something about the parking. Where did she park and what the hell happened to the car?”
“The police must have run the plates.”
Zack’s eyebrows rise, expressing his lack of confidence. “I’m gonna check myself.” He looks at his watch, then gazes out at the darkening night sky.
He stands up, a flush of concern flashing in his eyes. “I have to go,” he tells me. “I have an appointment.”
I know what it is, so I make it easy on him. It’s the second night of the full moon.
“And I should get home before I turn into a pumpkin. Thanks for dinner.”
“Anytime.”
I wonder where he spends those three nights a month when the beast emerges. It’s curiosity, though, not alarm. I make no comment, just gather my stuff and go. Relief replaces the concern in his eyes as he shows me to the door.
I pause on the way out. I have to ask, “Do you still feel we’re on the right track with Barakov?”
I get the shrug. “The dots don’t seem to be connecting. And he did volunteer the security footage. Still, where there’s smoke . . .”
“There’s usually fire,” I finish. “You check on the plates and keep going through the evidence we’ve got. I’m going to do a little more digging into Barakov. Let’s touch base tomorrow after lunch.”
Zack agrees and I leave. I wish I had a stronger sense of whether Barakov is or isn’t involved in the disappearances of Amy Patterson and Isabella Mancini. For the moment, I’m sitting squarely on the fence.
I back out of Zack’s driveway and onto the road. In my rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of a car parked down the street. Sarah’s silver BMW is unmistakable. Is she here to seek refuge during the full moon or to finish her earlier conversation with Zack? Perhaps she’s his
Zack may consider Sarah an ex. He might consider whatever the two of them had casual. I doubt it’s the same for Sarah.
By the time I get home, the sun has set. The moon, full and bright, shines down from the night sky and spills into the garden. After patrolling the house and the grounds, I perform my evening ritual: set up the coffeepot for tomorrow morning, go through the mail I picked up on the way in, pour myself a glass of wine. The wine I take with me into the bedroom, where I slip into one of a dozen Chinese silk sleeping gowns that I own. I take my hair down and shake it out, letting it fall about my shoulders and flow free. I contemplate a long soak in the bath, but I’m tired and decide against it.
Instead I wander out onto the deck. The night air is cool, but my skin is warm, my face flush. I’m tired, yet restless. I curl up in the old porch swing. Its rocking motion, like always, comforts me. I lean back, sip my wine, and breathe in the fragrant night-blooming jasmine. The motion of the swing lulls me. My thoughts drift to Zack.
I think about what might have happened if I’d let things in the kitchen continue just a few seconds longer. I think about the way he moved, the way his body felt pressed against mine. I remember the way my body responded. How my breasts felt heavy. How my nipples peaked and hardened.
I couldn’t ride the sensation then, couldn’t give in to it. But here, alone in the dark, there’s nothing to stop me. I sense a familiar wetness between my legs.
I gulp my wine and squeeze my thighs together.
I tell myself it’s been too long since I’ve had sex. It’s release I need, plain and simple, not Zack. Anyone will do. Anyone can scratch this itch. Anyone.
I set my glass down on the deck and stretch out, letting my head fall back. I drop the walls, letting the glamour fall away, releasing my power. The air stirs around me, rustling the nearby leaves. My already warm skin becomes even more heated. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, letting the fragrance of the garden flowers fill my lungs. It triggers a memory of another place, another time—a time when everything was possible. When life was uncomplicated and pleasures existed without bounds. If I listen hard enough, I can almost hear the faraway ocean, taste the salt in the air, feel the hands on my body, strong and sure.
CHAPTER 8
I’d had a restless night, drifting in and out of sleep. Now as I lie in bed watching the sun filter through the windows lining the front of the carriage house, I know any possibility for real sleep is over. Stifling a yawn, I brace myself and throw back the covers. A run is the last thing I want, but my body knows it’s just what I need. Within minutes I’ve changed into my workout clothes and am out the door heading down Sunset.
The fog is thick and the streets are wet with dew. It feels more like fall than spring. The wide, palm-lined street is silent save for the sound of my running shoes slapping against the pavement. This is one of the oldest neighborhoods in San Diego, and unlike Michael Dexter’s, most of the Craftsman-style homes with their low- pitched rooflines, overhanging eaves, tapered support columns, and generous front porches have been carefully maintained. They were built in the early nineteen hundreds when I was in another town, living under another name. But I can appreciate their beauty now.
I take my normal route, merging onto Fort Stockton, then going left onto Hawk before taking another left onto West Lewis. I run past the Historic Business Center. A small coffee shop is in the process of opening. All of the other shops are still shut up tight. Back onto Fort Stockton, I continue on to Presidio Park. I wind my way through a series of paths while keeping an eye out for the homeless that sometimes occupy the area. Although I know how to defend myself, my powers don’t extend to superstrength or superspeed. I’ve often wished they did. Hell, I don’t even have superhealing, not like a vampire or a Were. Demeter didn’t want to make it that easy on me. I’ll heal from anything, but I do it the old-fashioned way, like a human, with time and pain.
By the time I get back to the house, the fog has lifted. I start the coffee I’d put up the night before. While I wait for it to brew, I whip up a glass of orange-mango juice with a little protein powder. Smoothie in hand, I trek out to the front of the estate’s drive in search of the newspaper. I find it once again in the rosebushes instead of on the concrete. How the kid can miss twenty feet of driveway, yet manage to precisely place the paper in the center of a rosebush day after day, I’ll never know. I manage to retrieve it without suffering any damage from the thorns, then tuck it under my arm and set out to check the property.
I fish the keys from the pocket of my warm-up jacket, let myself in the front door, and disable the alarm. I swallow the last of my smoothie, leaving the glass on the entryway table along with the paper and yesterday’s mail before heading upstairs. It’s a path I’ve walked hundreds of times. I check the doors and windows. I make sure there haven’t been any plumbing mishaps. Twice a week I water the plants. But not today. My sweep of the downstairs goes quickly. In less than ten minutes I’ve done my duty, secured the house, and am on my way back to the cottage.
I scan the morning headlines on the way. The first thing I see, on page one of the
