Martin finished the bottle, gasping as the liquor scorched his throat, washing away the hint of blood in his mouth from a wound that wouldn't seem to heal.

His breath was visible under the parking lot lights. Winter still clung to the trees, heaped in the gutters and against buildings. The chill, salty air from the sound brought back vague memories of frigid winters and meager Christmases living in a one-bedroom apartment in Stratford with Aunt Norma. Working long hours after school to help keep a roof over their heads while Norma put in time at a nearby home for the elderly, then coming home to wolf down dinner and work on short stories until he passed out, exhausted.

Despite it all, he'd grown up in a loving home, which many weren't able to say. He'd had his problems, like anyone. But Stratford had been nothing like when he'd lived in—

—the Gingerbread House—

—the big old Victorian house in Barrows Bay. He still remembered very little of his life there. On the seldom occasion he thought back to that period, the feelings that arose were fear and confusion, the images blood and black smoke.

He rubbed the old scar on his palm. His right hand still stung where he cut himself with the glass. He'd changed the bandage again after a quick shower in the hotel tub. The blood hadn't soaked through this time.

"Dammit!"

Martin leaned over the railing. Sheila was downstairs, banging on the soda machine, dressed in a bulky green sweater and leggings.

"Need help?"

She looked up. "What I need is caffeine."

He grinned. "Pulling an all-nighter?"

"I figure if I'm gonna be awake I might as well get some work done."

"There's Diet Coke in my minibar."

"I see you've already partaken."

He raised the empty bottle. "When in Rye."

Five minutes later she knocked on the door separating their rooms. He opened it, saw that she'd removed her sweater and was wearing the overlarge gray Michigan University T-shirt she often wore to bed. He wondered if it meant anything but chose to ignore it, popped the tab on her soda and poured it into one of the clear plastic glasses from the tiny bathroom.

She took it, watched it fizz for a moment, then shrugged. "Hell, you might as well Irish it up."

"You sure?"

"After the night I've had." She glanced at the empty bottles on the dresser and her eyes welled with sympathy. "We've had. Martin, I'm so sorry."

"Don't," he said, crouching in front of the opened minibar. "Not tonight. Tonight, just drink with me. We've got plenty of time to rake over what happened with a fine-toothed comb."

He selected a Jameson and rose with it, unscrewing the cap. She held out her glass and he poured half into the mix.

"Make it a double, bartender," she said. He poured the remaining whiskey into the glass and stood the bottle with the others.

She sat on the edge of the bed. The TV was on, soundless. Some religious program. Save the children or something. Martin flicked it off and sat with her beside the bed, where he'd piled the pillows on the floor. The way they'd been left leaning up against the headboard reminded him too much of his bed at home—the scene he was drinking to obliterate from his memory.