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  She completed her loop and paused in the doorway. After a glance back at him, she peeked down the hall. "How long have you been here?"

  "Little over a year."

  "But you've been out of the hospital longer than that."

  "I spent six months in a transition house and about that in the cottage down by Capistrano."

  "That's a sweet place."

  "I've always liked it there. It's quiet."

  She nodded. "Mmm." After a another glance down the hall, she finally settled across from him at the table. "The police came to see me."

  "Ah." He kept his eyes on the coffee waiting for the onslaught of angry words.

  "That's all you're going to say?"

  "I have pastries." He lurched to his feet and collected the bakery box from the top of the fridge. After a moment's hesitation, he fetched plates and forks, too. He dared a glance at her face; she looked baffled.

  "I probably owe you a lifetime of apologies."

  "For what?"

  He slid back into his chair and opened the pastry box. "Ah, see, there's the rub. I don't remember."

  "Then why do you think you need to apologize?"

  "Well, I haven't seen or heard from you since they locked me up. It's been five years, Ellie." He gave her a half-hearted shrug. "I just assumed you'd washed your hands of me."

  She helped herself to a pastry, breaking it into pieces and unwinding the spirals of flaky dough. "Asher, what's my name?"

  Reaching for a Danish, he froze. Was this a trick question? "Ellie Davis?"

  "No, it's Lisa Elonda Davis. You went through this phase where you called everyone by their initials. I guess, for me, it stuck. It's L. E., not Ellie."

  "I'm so sorry, Lisa." He looked up to see her staring at him, those blue eyes sharp as broken glass. He got up and retrieved napkins, putting a handful on the table.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  "Oh, um, reading, thinking, trying to decide the next step."

  "No, I mean, what are you doing?"

  "Doing," he repeated. He sat down and took a sip of coffee. "Well, I do some Tai Chi and there's a treadmill and weights in the spare room. And Sharon keeps me busy."

  "Are you really screwing that little slut?"

  Asher flashed an angry look at her. "Don't talk about her like that. No. No sex. She wants to be a manager. I'm a practice run. She got me that commercial."

  "You're serious?"

  He kept his head down. "Baby steps. Gotta start from scratch. One day at a time," he chanted his mantra of platitudes.

  "Do you honestly believe that?" He thought her tone sounded more curious than accusing.

  "I have to believe something to get out of bed in the morning."

  "Oh, Ash, is it really that bad?" She reached across the table and took his hand. Her cool fingers sent an electric shock up his arm and right to his groin. He couldn't say how long it had been since a woman held his hand in companionship. His body was eager to respond. He pulled free and made a dash for the coffee pot. "More?" He brandished the carafe.

  Her eyes were warmer now when she looked at him, but there was a wariness there, too. "You didn't recognize me when you opened the door. Do you remember me now?"

  It would be too glib to now say that he did. It had only been a moment's confusion. She asked the question as if he was an Alzheimer's patient. If he'd seen her in shorts with a ponytail, he'd have known her right away.

  "You had a basset hound named Lucky when you were a kid." He put the carafe back and retreated to the doorway. He folded his arms and leaned against the jamb. "Gin rickeys. You hate flat fish. And you prefer the pizza in New York."

  Her face lit up. "Wow. You remember a lot."

  "I guess I forgot how beautiful you are."

  "Oh, please, don't start that shit."

  "No really, Lisa, you're stunning. I can't believe I never noticed."

  She gave him a patient smile. "You were wrapped up in other concerns."

  A sadness, filled with the regret over lost opportunities, sank into to him. "No. I just wasn't ever here."

  After taking a sip, she looked at him over her coffee cup, a puzzled frown wrinkling her well-shaped eyebrows. "What does that mean?"

  "I was Elsewhere. Never-never land."

  "You didn't want to grow up?"

  "No." He shook his head, looking past her out the window. "That's the really scary part. I think I wanted nothing—no responsibility, no commitments. What does that leave? Not relationships, that's for sure." His eyes wandered back to the gallery of people who had left his life through divorce, death, betrayal and rejection. What category did Ellie fall in to? "I don't think I even knew what to want."

  "But you do now?"

  He pulled his attention back into the present. "Yes. I want to do something I'm good at. And I think I was a good actor."

  She finally cracked a smile. "Yeah, you had your moments."

  "Thanks."

  "The cops said you were clean."

  He nodded. "Workin' hard at it."

  She was looking at him in a way that made his guts ache. Ellie had been his assistant since his first hit movie. She knew everything about him, likes, dislikes and all of his failings. Asher knew that she deserved the truth.

  "Ellie, um, L.E., Lisa, I mean, do you prefer Lisa?"

  She smiled in such a friendly way that just made it all worse. "For you, Ellie's fine."

  He dropped his eyes to stare at the worn floor tile. "OK, Ellie, the truth. I'm really glad to see you. I hope you're still my friend, but maybe you shouldn't visit right now." He waived away her response. "I'm pretty stressed out, and it's all I can do to stay sober. And you, my god, you're making me want you in every wrong way possible."

  He glanced up to see her look of surprise, then closed his eyes to get through the rest. "I'm sorry. Really sorry. I've linked sex and getting high in my head so one kinda means the other, and I'm not saying that should or could happen, but..."

  He heard her stand up and knew she'd leave now. Her fingers on his lips startled him.

  "Shh, Ash. It's OK. Just breathe."

  She was too close, and she smelled too good.

  "No."

  "Come here." She opened her arms. "Just a hug from a friend."

  His whole body shook as he let her embrace him. He held tight, glad for the human contact, and reluctant to release her when she stepped back.

  "You're living on sugar and caffeine aren't you?" she scolded.

  "How did you know?"

  "It's your default mode." She opened the refrigerator. "Sit. I'll cook you some eggs."

  "I can—"

  "Sit!"

  He obediently sat at the table and watched as she sorted through his pantry. She tossed her hair back with a shake of her head. The movement was achingly familiar to him.

  "We've been lovers for years, you do remember that, don't you?" she said over her shoulder as she chopped up some ham.

  "Yes, but it wasn't fair to you. It wasn't right." He studied her for clues that he was on the right track.

  She turned back to him, eyebrows raised, jaw set. "I don't know whether to laugh or slap you. Do you think I'm that helpless? If I didn't want to, it wouldn't happen. I'm no starry-eyed babe from Kansas, hon."

  He shut his mouth and watched her cook in silence, even though he could feel her stewing over something. No one else had used his stove, or filled his kitchen with friendship. It was a very nice feeling. Which of course started the alarm bells. Why was she being so nice to him after all these years of silence?

  She thumped down a full plate in front of him. "Hell, I've seen you through deaths, divorces and dengue fever. I know you, better than you do, or so it seems." She grabbed his wrist. "Look at me. Asher Thomas Blaine, you have never taken advantage of a woman."

  He had to take a breath before he could speak. "Thank you."

  She took her seat and picked up a curl of pastry. "You shouldn't be living alone."

  "I'm
supposed to be doing stuff on my own."

  "That doesn't mean alone. You've never been any good alone. Why isn't Sharon living here?"

  He nearly choked on his coffee. "Oh, God help me, that would never work."

  A smile softened her mouth. "You really aren't sleeping with her."

  Mouth full, he shook his head.

  "Can you stay with someone?"

  "No. I have to live here, pay the bills, do the laundry, all that stuff." He wolfed down the eggs. They were especially good. He wasn't sure if it was hunger or companionship that made them taste so wonderful.

  She shook her head, "You're doing it wrong. It's not a punishment, Ash." She popped another bite of pastry into her mouth and licked her fingers. "Please tell me you didn't fire Fred."

  "No, of course not. Fred's a godsend. If not for him, I'd be out on the streets."

  "Yeah, I know, he's my accountant, too. Good. So, he's still paying the bills?"

  "He does the complicated stuff, investment and what not. I have a checking account, and I pay the electric and I have one credit card..."

  She shook her head. "This isn't a healthy situation for you."

  "It's what the shrinks say I need to do."

  "Yeah, but I doubt they know what normal was for you before."

  "I had a normal?" He drained his cup. Even the coffee tasted better.

  "I need to give it some thought." She looked at him. "Would you do homework if I gave you some?"

  He nodded. "Sure, I guess so. I'm still trying to figure out this stuff with Pam and Alanna." He fetched the pot and refilled both their cups.

  She gave a short laugh. "Sweetie, that's for the police to do."

  "It all leads back to me." He had to clear his throat before he could speak again. Maybe it was because he was sleep deprived, but tears were threatening again. "Ellie, somehow it's my fault."

  The amusement drained from her face. "Jesus. Better make another pot and fill me in."

  Obediently he turned back to the coffeemaker, but he stopped in thought, carafe dangling from his hand. He and Ellie had a pattern—he screwed up, and she cleaned up. Was having her here a good thing or a bad thing? On the heels of Denny's angry rejection, she was balm for his pummeled ego. He glanced back to the table, no restricted substances there. And she was right, he hated being alone.

  She looked at him over her shoulder. "You OK?"

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I have no idea."

  Chapter 21

  Flames were brilliant against the night sky. Asher, wrapped in a blanket, sat on the fender of an ambulance watching the fire burst through his garage roof. His mind was totally blank, unable to comprehend more than the simple fact that he was alive and unharmed.

  Fire engines blocked the street filling the neighborhood with the deep rumble of their engines. Sleep rumpled, in robes and mismatched outfits, people gathered in quiet clumps to stare. Emergency lights strobed across the houses and faces of the neighbors. Hoses snaked across the yard from the hydrant, two doors down. Firemen yelled, walkie talkies crackled and the flames made a dreadful sound all their own.

  Bledsoe and Smythe arrived with lights flashing, but were unable to get close. After having to park a full block over, they wound their way through the hoses and emergency vehicles. Smythe found the chief and he pointed them toward Asher.

  "You OK?" Bledsoe asked him.

  Mesmerized by the fire, Asher was slow to answer. "Hmm? Yeah, just missing some eyebrows, I think."

  The flames weakened, spilling smoke across the yard. Snapping electrics arced out, and a pair of firemen dodged the sparks.

  Bledsoe stepped in front of Asher blocking his view. He grabbed his shoulders firmly until he had Asher's full attention. "What happened?"

  Asher shook himself out of his daze. "I heard something. I don't know, like fireworks, maybe? But not real loud, not like a gunshot. I went to look in the garage and when I opened the door...kaflooey."

  "You’re lucky you just lost eyebrows," Bledsoe said.

  Touching his tender face, he had to agree. The possibilities were frightening. "I ran out of the house, and the firemen were coming up the street. I don't know who called them"

  "That would be a good thing to know," Smythe said. She looked around at the crowd, then pulled out her cell phone to take some pictures.

  Bledsoe turned to look at the fire, and Asher’s attention dove back into the destruction.

  "That’s a whole lot of hate," Asher said softly.

  "Anything important in the garage?" Smythe asked.

  "I don't think so. Lawnmower, rakes, whatever came with the house. I never go out there, and I haven’t lived here long enough to fill it up with junk, yet."

  Smythe glanced at Bledsoe. "Not the most efficient arson I've ever seen."

  "Maybe he doesn’t want to kill me," Asher murmured.

  "Just punish you?" Bledsoe asked.

  Asher shot a worried glace at him. "I hadn’t thought about it that way."

  * * *

  Knudson stood on the porch watching in guilty silence. Although he hadn't seen anything tonight, he'd seen kids sneak into the garage several times before. They were a bad bunch—vandals, drug addicts, a pack of rabid wolves. He couldn't believe that Blaine didn't know they were in there smoking pot and drinking, having illicit sex. How could he not know? It had been going on since long before he lived there, when the house stood empty for months on end. He must know and condone it.

  Knudson glared at the pathetic man wrapped in a blanket and cosseted by the EMTs. They didn't know the evil that man was capable of, or they wouldn't raise a finger to aid him. The fire was his fault. He attracted that sort of element to this neighborhood. They were all in danger now because he never put a stop to the goings on in his garage.

  He pulled his robe tighter, despite the warmth of the evening. An hour earlier he had felt the flames all the way across the street. He'd been the first one to call 911. They made him stay on the line, asking him a million questions.

  Blaine was a fool. He hadn't even known his house was on fire. What if the bastard didn't know what was happening on his own property? He was probably drunk or high every night. Maybe he didn't notice the cigarette butts in the driveway or the beer cans in the gutter.

  The detectives arrived, and Knudson watched them get out of the car and stroll over to Blaine. They knew. They didn't care if he was injured. Knudson's eyes wandered back to the fire, and he decided he had a greater responsibility. Maybe this would finally get that devil's spawn out of the neighborhood.

  Chapter 22

  Early the next day, Asher took a cab back to the house to inspect the damage. He'd spent the tail end of the night at a hotel but hadn't gotten any sleep. Since he had departed in his underwear and a blanket from the EMTs, he promised a bribe to a bellman to buy him some clothes. The jeans were fine, but the hot pink, polyester, button-down shirt was definitely not his style. He needed to find his wallet and take care of some business.

  Standing on the sidewalk, he surveyed the soot-stained house. The front lawn was crushed and mucky. After a surreptitious glance up the street, he ducked under the police tape draped across the front porch. No one had said he wasn't allowed in.

  The front door was ajar. Firemen had still been coming and going when he'd left in the wee hours. The living room carpet squished underfoot. The walls were streaked with water stains and smears of smoke. The stench of wet ashes and soggy things that should never get wet was nauseating.

  A glance at the kitchen showed muddy footprints and open cabinets. He needed to get the house secured against light fingers and looky-loos. The tiles in the hallway were buckling. The floor gave underfoot, making it feel like he might go right through to the crawl space. When he walked into the office, which shared a wall with the garage, he was shocked by the destruction. He halted in the doorway, stunned. Only a few charred studs remained of the wall on the garage side. Sunlight shone through a ragged hole in the ceiling. The
bookcases were leaning haphazardly, their veneer melted off and the pressboard swollen with moisture. Their contents was scattered across the floor. DVDs were melted and all the papers were sodden lumps. The binder he'd labored over, recreating the year of lost time, was ashes and a puddle of vinyl.

  The photos, on the opposite wall, were singed and warped. He stared at them, surprised by the emotions that welled up. It all seemed too symbolic, his past up in flames. In his head, he knew that the past was over and done, but his heart still hoped to relive a little of that glory. Reality bludgeoned him with a sledge hammer. His hands shook as he took down the photo from his first big movie. He laid it in a puddle on the scorched desk, fingers lingering on the frame. The image was streaked and blurry, but he could see the flirty smile and sexy pose. The person he was, the things he'd achieved were gone, burned to ashes and smashed into the mud.

  "Asher?"

  He jumped at Denny's voice. He hadn't heard any footsteps. The look on Denny's face told him he wasn't here for condolences.

  "There's a rumor that you're doing this shit to get on the news."

  Asher stared at the beam of sunlight poking through the roof. It lanced down like a spotlight landing on a crumpled pile of neon green papers. He couldn't look at Denny right now. The scope of destruction had swamped him. He took a long, shaky breath.

  "Will you believe me if I say no?" Methodically, he took the next picture down. The photo had buckled and was pressed to the glass, the image distorted. Asher tipped the frame trying to resettle it, even though there wasn't any hope for it.

  Denny snatched the picture out of his hands and shoved a newspaper at him, one of the supermarket scandal rags. "Look at this."

  The paper was folded open to a picture of Asher, wrapped in blanket, talking to the detectives. He glanced at the page number. "Page 12, not bad, I guess."

  "Do you understand how serious this is?"

  Asher turned back to the wall. Denny grabbed his arm and spun him around. He squeezed Asher's shoulders in an angry grip and shook him. "Look at me!"