I sat down. As she squeezed my hand, I recounted what I'd found and what I'd learned from Bert Harrison and Condon Bancroft. She listened with her fingers at her mouth.

“Whoever's behind this is relentless,” I said. “I want you to move somewhere else temporarily.”

She sat up completely. “What?”

“Just for a while. I'm not safe to be around.”

“We moved so you would be, Alex. How could anyone know you're here?”

Thinking of the brake lights, I said, “I'm sure no one does, but I just want to be careful. I spoke to Milo. You can move into his place. Just till things ease up.”

“It's not necessary, Alex.”

The dog was completely awake now, shifting his glance from Robin to me, his brow wrinkles deeper. The confusion and fear of a kid watching his parents fight.

“Just temporarily,” I said.

“Temporarily? If this person's done everything you think he has, he waits years! So what kind of temporary are we talking about here?”

I had no answer.

She said, “No. No way, Alex, I won't leave you. To hell with him—he can't do that to us.”

“Robin, she was pregnant. I saw what he did to her.”

“No,” she said, eyes brimming. “Please. I don't want to hear about it.”

“Okay,” I said.

She pitched forward as if falling and grabbed my shoulders with both hands. Pulling me closer, she held on tight, as if still off balance. Her cheek was up against mine and her breath was in my ear, hot and quick.

“It's okay,” I said. “We'll work it out.”

She squeezed me. “Oh, Alex, let's just move to another planet.”

The dog jumped from the couch to the floor, sat down and stared at us. Whistling noises came from his compressed nostrils, but his eyes were clear and active, almost human.

“Hey, Spike,” I said, reaching over. “He been good?”

“The best.”

The affection in her voice made his ears go up. He trotted up to the edge of the couch and rested his flews on her knee. She caressed his head and he lifted his chin and gave her palm a long, wet tongue swipe.

“You could take him with you,” I said. “You'd have constant masculine attention.”

“Put it out of your mind, Alex.” Her nails dug into my back. “We probably won't have him much longer, anyway. I got a call this morning from a group called French Bulldog Rescue. Very sweet lady over in Burbank—you wrote to the national club and they forwarded it to her. She's putting out feelers, says these little guys are almost never intentionally abandoned, so it's just a matter of time before the owners call to claim him.”

“No one's reported him missing so far?”