Part 237 (1/2)

did howl occasionally, but that could have been in response to Michael's

singing. When they were both wrapped in towels, Michael searched

through the linen closet for his hair dryer. He found it, and a frying

pan he'd given up for lost.

He dried Conroy first, though the dog had yet to forgive him. ”You

ought to thank me for this,” Michael told him. ”One whiff of you and

s.l.u.t dog's going to crumble like an oatmeal cookie. She won't even look

at that stuck-up German shepherd.”

It took Michael thirty minutes to mop up the flood of water and dog

hair. He was about to try his hand at salad making when he heard a car

pull up. He hadn't expected her to take a cab. He'd imagined her

arriving in a limo, or some spiffy rental car. As he watched,”she

pa.s.sed bills to the driver.

There was a breeze to ruffle her hair and the boxy cotton s.h.i.+rt she

wore. Its size and mannish style made her appear smaller and only more

feminine. He watched her draw a hand through her hair, brush it out of

her face as she looked toward the house. She'd lost weight. He'd

noticed that at the airport. Too much weight, Michael thought now.

She'd gone from looking slender to almost unbearably fragile.

There was a hesitation in her he'd never noticed before, in the way she

walked, in the nervous glances she sent over her shoulder. He'd been a

cop long enough to have seen that same kind of controlled panic many

times. In suspects. And in victims. Because she looked as though she

might bolt, he opened the door.

”So you found it.”

She stopped dead, then s.h.i.+elding her eyes from the sun, saw him in the