Fetching a crowbar from the trunk of the Seville, I carried it parallel to my leg, went back, and managed to pry the doors an inch apart.

A stale gasoline smell blew out. No Range Rover or any other vehicle. At least Milo could be spared the bother of a warrant.

My cell phone beeped. “Dr. Delaware? It’s Karen from your exchange. I’ve got a message from Dr. Gwynn that was marked priority. He asked if you can come by his office soon as you have a chance.”

“Dr. Gwynn’s a she,” I said.

“Oh...sorry. Louise wrote this one down, I’m new. Do you usually specify gender?”

“Don’t worry about it. When was the call?”

“Twenty minutes ago, just before I came on.”

“Did Dr. Gwynn give a reason for wanting me over?”

“It just says asap, Doctor. Want the number?”

“I know it.”

For Allison to reach out, it had to be something bad. Her grandmother. Another stroke? Worst-case scenario?

Even so, why call me?

Maybe because she had no one else.

Her message tape picked up. I drove to Santa Monica.

* * *

Empty waiting room. The red light next to her name was unlit, meaning no session in progress. I pushed open the door to the inner offices, proceeded through a short hall to Allison’s corner suite. Knocked on her door and didn’t wait for an answer.

She wasn’t at her desk. Or in one of the soft white patient chairs.

When I said, “Allison?” no one answered.

This felt wrong.

Before I could process that thoroughly, the back of my head exploded in pain.

Hammer-on-melon pain.

Cartoonists are right; you really do see stars.

I reeled, got smashed again. Back of the neck this time.

I sank to my knees, wobbled on Allison’s soft carpet, fought for consciousness.

A new pain burned my right flank. Sharp, electric. Was I being cut?

Heavy breathing behind me, someone straining with effort, blur of dark trouser leg.

The second kick to my ribs took all the fight out of me and I went down on my face.

Hard leather continued to have its way with bone. My brain rang like a gong. I tried to ward off further blows but my arms were numb.

For some reason, I counted.

Three kicks, four, five, six for good meas—

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 34

Gray soupy world, viewed from the bottom of a stockpot.

I drowned in my chair, blinked, trying to clear eyes that wouldn’t open. Someone played a trombone solo. My eyelids finally cooperated. The ceiling swooped down, changed its mind, soared miles above, a white plaster sky.

Blue sky. No, the blue was off to the left.

A smudge of black on top.

Pale blue, same exact color as the burned cork smell in my throat.

The black, Allison’s hair.