“So now you’re off the hook?” I tossed the question over my shoulder.

Nick practically stepped on my heels. “Not if Bert’s really dead, I’m not.”

“Good news,” I whispered, in case the place was bugged. After all that had happened, nothing would have surprised me. Sometimes, paranoia is justified. “He’s a new man.”

Nick gave a sigh of obvious relief. “Well,” he said, “that takes care of the tax issues.”

I stopped again. In my mind’s eye, I saw my three-hundred-and-fifty-thousand smackers flying out the window. “What tax issues?”

“Not to worry,” Nick said quickly, and with the flash of a grin. “It happened after we were divorced. Just a little figure-juggling. The IRS never caught me, but, wouldn’t you know, they have a branch office in the train station.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Nick’s eyes twinkled. “Never cheat on your taxes,” he said.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. What else do they have in this train station?”

“Well,” Nick said, warming to the subject, “there’s a Bureau of Unreturned Library Books.”

I laughed.

“You’d better take back that copy of Catcher in the Rye,” he added, with a shake of his finger. “The one you swiped off the ‘forbidden’ shelf that time?”

Shit.

I had snitched the book when I was fourteen, and Lillian, Greer and I had hit the road before I could put it back where it belonged. I didn’t even remember what state we’d been in at the time, let alone the town or the name of the library.

“What happens if I don’t?”

“You don’t want to know,” Nick said, with a slight shudder.

“Hell,” I muttered, trying to remember what I’d done with the slim volume.

“Well, it’s not quite that serious.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said, and got the coffee started. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of yet another visit?”

“Where’s the boyfriend?” Nick countered. He stood behind one of the chairs at the kitchen table, gripping the back tightly.

“No idea,” I said. The reminder of Tucker touched some sore spots inside me. I’d kept thoughts of him at bay while I was busy digging through the Dumpster behind Sunset Villa, but now, thanks to Nick, he was right back in the forefront of my mind.

“He’s not a cop.” Nick said this ponderously.

“Have you been listening in on my voice mail again?”

“No. I’m reading your mind.”

“Well, stop. My brain is private. No trespassing.”

Nick raised both hands, palms out. “Okay, sorry.”

“Stay out of my head,” I said, in case he didn’t get it the first time.

“It’s a pretty scary place, your head. Especially when you’re dreaming.”

I stopped everything. Set down the coffee mug I’d just taken from the cupboard and turned to stare. Suddenly, the library book was not an issue. “You see my dreams?”