When I took her in my arms she fell against me so heavily I wondered if she’d dropped back to sleep. In heels, she’s no giant. Barefoot, she barely reaches my shoulder. I kissed the top of her head. She patted my back, a curiously platonic gesture.

I steered her to a chair, filled a mug with coffee, put some ginger cookies on a plate. She’d bought them weeks ago. They’d never been opened. I keep telling myself to learn some serious cooking skills, but when I’m alone it’s whatever’s easy to fix.

She stared at the cookies as if they were some exotic curiosity. I placed one at her lips and she nibbled, chewed with effort, swallowed with a gulp.

I got some coffee in her and she smiled up at me woozily. “What time is it?”

“Two p.m.”

“Oh . . . where’d you go?”

“Just here.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“I had a catnap.”

“I passed out like a wino,” she said. “I don’t even know what time zone I’m in . . .”

Her eyes swung to the mug. “More? Thanks. Please.”

* * *

Half an hour later, she was showered, made-up, hair combed flat down her back, wearing a white linen shirt, black slacks, demi-boots with heels too thin to support a chihuahua.

She hadn’t eaten since tea with Grandma the previous afternoon and wondered aloud about protein. The choice was mutual and easy: a steak house in Santa Monica that we frequented when we needed quiet. Dry-aged beef, good bar. Also, the place we’d first met.

The air outside was a brutal seventy-five and we took her black Jaguar XJS because it’s a convertible. I drove and she kept her eyes closed during the trip, rested a hand on my thigh.

Glorious day. I wondered about the weather in Stockton.

I’d been there once, years ago, on a court-ordered evaluation. It’s a nice aggie town east of Sacramento, in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, with a river port. That far inland, all those flat fields, it had to be hotter.

By now, Milo would be sweating, probably cursing.

Thinking about Maui?

The case that had drawn me to Stockton was for Family Court. A recently divorced Croatian taxi driver had absconded with his three children only to be picked up three months later outside Delano, trying to rob a convenience store while using the kids as lookouts. Sentenced to ten years, he settled himself in jail and demanded joint custody and regular prison visits. The fact that the mother was a meth addict who started riding with outlaw bikers gave his claim enough substance to nudge the legal machinery.

I’d done my best to protect the kids. A stupid judge had wreaked havoc with that. . . .

Allison’s hand left my knee and pressed against my cheek. “What’re you thinking about?”