I went to bed two hours after my shower, but sleep has proved impossible to find. Tonight’s events, both in New Orleans and in my bedroom, have left me a twitching bundle of tension and hyper-arousal. I told Serenity the truth when I said I hadn’t been with a woman since Caitlin died. If I’m honest with myself, I haven’t felt pulled toward anyone with enough intensity to take that step.

But I am no ascetic.

Serenity was right about one thing. During the past weeks, I’ve sometimes lain in bed so tight with sexual tension that my mind runs through every past experience and every possible one as well. And living in close proximity with Mia Burke has pushed me there more than once, at least in my mind. I’d like to deny it, but even two years ago, when we worked together to save Drew Elliott, Mia let me know in no uncertain terms that she was a sexual being and was open to a relationship with me. I was sane enough then not to test her, and I still am—even with her sleeping down the hall every night. But in the sanctuary of my mind I have been with her many times, and nothing has made me more conscious of this fact than the arrival of Serenity, who has utterly changed the sexual dynamic in this house.

Tee was right about the Jungian thing, too.

She and I have been walking in the footsteps of our parents, and every bit as blindly as other human beings repeating the mistakes of their pasts. When I think of how self-righteously I’ve condemned my father, and of how quickly I reached for Serenity . . . when I’m not under a fraction of the stress he must have been in 1968. Of course, my father was married at the time, and I’m not. But despite Caitlin’s death, I have felt married right up until tonight. And yet . . .

Did I think of Caitlin even once as I pulled Serenity against me? No.

Lying in the cool darkness with only the hum of the air conditioner for company, I try in vain to erase the faces and figures materializing behind my eyes. Maybe the only answer is to embrace the visions and relieve myself. As I slip my hand beneath the covers, I wonder if Serenity is lying awake in similar torment in the guest room down the hall. She was shaking with desire when she stood over my dresser. Did she find sleep more easily than I? Or is she too touching herself at this moment?

As I follow that thread in my mind, a shaft of light cuts through the dark and falls across my bed. Turning, I see a shadow pass quickly across the light—then my door closes. I tense for a couple of seconds, but something tells me I need not be afraid.