Fugitive Color

Fugitive Color

Z. A. Maxfield

Fugitive Color Copyright © April 2010 by Z. A. Maxfield All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. eISBN 978-1-60737-575-3 Editor: Judith David Cover Artist: Justin James Printed in the United States of America

Published by Loose Id LLC PO Box 425960 San Francisco CA 94142-5960 www.loose-id.com This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication To the folks at Zamaxfield's Cyber Cafe, my Yahoo Group. Writing can be a lonely business and I am so grateful for the book recommends, the silliness, and the support. I thank you with all my heart.

~ZAM~

Chapter One The moment Max woke up on the couch in his studio, he noticed his painting had changed. On the face of it—though it had no face—he thought it looked… similar…to the one he'd completed the night before. There was no doubt it was his work. Except when he'd gone to sleep the night before, that pair of feet he'd painted had been in a relaxed third position. Now they were poised to jump. There was no mistaking it. Muscles bunched under translucent skin. The angle of the ankles was slightly more open, a wider V-shape, as it were, and energy was concentrated in them, tension building, alluding to a leap, springlike, into the air. Max walked to the window and pressed his forehead into the still-cool glass. It was early morning. Barely light. When the sun hit the side of his loft apartment building, the wall of glass that made up one entire corner of the studio would warm the room and make it almost impossible for most people to work. But Max always felt cold lately, so it couldn't happen soon enough for him. Shadows still lurked behind the boxes of supplies and the rows of finished canvases waiting to be framed or reworked. He hadn't been happy with his work in a long time. He picked up the altered piece and put it with the most recent ballerina studies in his collection of unfinished paintings. He then walked across the studio and took out a portrait he'd done of Elena the winter before. It was Elena's delicate and ethereal beauty that had earned him both a comparison to the work of Degas and his reputation as a man who had a fascination with the adolescent female form.

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The first, Max was ready to admit, probably didn't bother him too much. Because whether the comparison was favorable or unfavorable, both he and Degas painted ballerinas. So the similarity was apt, in the way that it was apt to compare King Henry the Eighth to Burt Bacharach. It was certainly accurate that at one point or another, they had both composed love songs. Yet any fascination Max felt for the adolescent female form was solely devoted to the ballerina and really had nothing to do with gender at all. It owed everything to the apparent fragile beauty that covered the iron framework of a superior athlete and to the grim determination to endure pain, manifested on a dancer's ravaged feet. Max liked to add, for the record, that he liked male ballet dancers far better. However, he didn't have one who lived up the stairs on the third floor of his building, had summers off from school, and modeled for a fee that was more like babysitting money than a professional model's wages. In short, Elena, whose body graced over half of the canvases currently in his studio. Whose torn feet had so moved him that he'd created a whole series of paintings showing the terrible trauma to the axis on which his sylphlike ballerina spun. Elena had been missing for three days. The police had already knocked on neighborhood doors asking if anyone had seen her. Soon they'd be knocking on his door again, asking more pointed questions. He would, if he were in charge. He was a single white male in his late thirties. He was quiet; he kept to himself. He distrusted technology. He liked to paint adolescent ballerinas. Even though he sold his paintings and made an excellent living—a terrifying, obscene amount of money that he had little use for but to live well and assist charitable causes—he rarely ventured out. Rarely had anyone in, either, except his models. Even Max had to admit he liked himself in the role of person of interest.

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Not that he'd done anything wrong. He'd never so much as sketched Elena's pinkie finger without the presence of her grandmother, who sat knitting in a small tufted chair he'd gotten especially for her when it became clear that she got stiff in the Italian leather sofa he kept for his own use. Elena called her Abuelita Nonna, a nod to her Hispanic-Italian heritage. In an envelope on the worktable, there were still bits of yarn that Nonna had cut for fringe and not used. For the life of him, Max couldn't remember the last thing he'd said to Elena, and it bothered him now. Had he told her to take care? Had he commented on the weather? Was there a boy? Had she sparkled just a little bit more brightly? Had she been afraid of something? Was she subdued? Depressed? It seemed he ought to be able to remember what they'd talked about the last time she was here in his studio. That he couldn't broke his heart. The police were still treating it like a missing persons case, but Max had the sick, cold fear that it was more than that. He knew she was close to her family, and they doted on her. She wouldn't have left them without a word. When his coffeemaker surged its last puff of steam, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup. Police cars had pulled into the parking lot behind the large protoindustrial building that housed his loft. Sooner or later the police would knock on his door. Anything—and everything—he told them would have to be the most perfect truth he'd ever told if he wanted to be believed. Max looked back at the painting he'd finished the day before. Truth was in short supply. He wasn't sure if he'd know it even if he heard it. He found he was having trouble believing even what his eyes could see. Because the night before when he'd finished and signed that painting, the feet weren't about to jump. Yet now, they were.

*** Sumner Ellison looked around the studio where he sat in a small blue velvet chair and wondered again if its owner, Max, could sense how unusual all of this was. When Lieutenant Cruz had sent him here, it was clearly a fishing expedition.

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Even in tiny Sea Crest, it wasn't likely that he would go out to a person's home and do a police sketch, and frankly, he never worked without his computer. But here he was, with his pencils and his giant sketchpad, like in the old movies, listening to Max Lancaster give a description of the man he'd seen with Elena Genovese. Genovese had been missing since the previous Saturday, seventy-two hours before. Now Sumner was trying to draw a composite sketch of a man both the artist Max Lancaster and the grandmother had seen with Genovese in the days before her disappearance. “No,” Max was saying, “I think—no, I'm sure—his hairline was lower, he had a widow's peak, and it stuck up, so you could see it.” “I see,” said Sumner, making a minute adjustment. Max Lancaster. If Sumner ever hoped for anything in his life—and all in all he was a pretty satisfied guy—it was that Max Lancaster had nothing to do with the disappearance of a missing girl. Just sitting across from him, sitting in the room surrounded by all of his paintings, gave Sumner a serious thrill. When Sumner had been a student at CalArts, Lancaster spoke there often. He'd given a lecture in which he'd described the process of finding a true passion, that which makes an artist want to look at something over and over again, in as many ways as it takes to really see it. He'd talked about the human form, and specifically the dancer's body, and why it fascinated him; especially, he'd said at the time, he was captivated by the dual nature of arduous work and the necessity to make that very work appear effortless. Sumner had written arduous effortlessness in his binder that day and scribbled it pretty much every time he'd doodled and daydreamed ever since. Now, confronted with the man himself, he really, really wanted Lieutenant Cruz to be wrong. “That's good,” Max was saying without looking at him. “The upper lip was a bit fuller, maybe.” Max was squeezing his own upper lip with two fingers of his right

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hand, giving him the look of a fish. His eyes rested on everything in the room but Sumner's face. “Is something the matter?” Sumner asked, knowing it was his job to get Lancaster to talk. They'd sent him in here, an artist, to lull Max Lancaster into careless conversation. They hoped that, under the guise of getting a sketch of the man Lancaster said he'd seen with Elena the day of her disappearance, he, Sumner, could open a dialogue about the girl. His lieutenant saw him as a kind of Trojan horse, carrying a kindred spirit, another artist in whom this particular suspect might confide. “Hm, what?” Max started. “Certainly something's wrong.” “Did you…care for Elena?” Sumner asked carefully. “Yes. I did. She was a sweet girl.” “Did you and she…?” Max could not mistake his meaning. “Me?” Max asked him, his hazel eyes wide. “No, of course not.” “Sorry.” Sumner turned the picture around. “Like this?” “Yes,” Max said. “He had an oval face, almost round, but ever so slightly oblong.” He framed a space with his hands. “You must be going crazy to do this yourself. You'd probably do a much better job. It's not like you couldn't have sketched this guy,” Sumner replied. Max folded his hands in his lap. “I wouldn't have done a good job.” “I'm sure—” “Really,” Max said. “What I paint isn't so much reality, is it?” He lifted his hands to indicate the work that surrounded them. “Well. We all have our thing.” Sumner tried not to imagine them in some Norman Rockwell-style triple self-portrait with him painting the artist who painted the missing girl. While Max talked about the unknown young man's physical attributes, Sumner was discovering Max's. His hair was tan in that it was neither blond nor

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brown, yet tan was a massive oversimplification for hair that had more shades in it than Sumner could count. It was cut short and crisply, and stood up in front in an artlessly contrived way that he thought just might be natural. Bedhead. He had a lean, tanned face, squarish and strong, with a jaw like Hemingway, more fitting on a sportsman than an artist. He was colorless though, as though he rarely went out, and pale freckles stood out on his skin. His hazel eyes danced with a yellowish spark that made them seem more green than brown right then. Sumner had seen him before, when he'd had him sign a lecture program at school, and at the time they had looked as brown as coconuts. “It might be best if I tell you something,” Sumner said. “What?” Max nearly jumped. “We've met before.” Sumner watched his reaction. It almost made him laugh. He could see Max trying to figure out where, and when, and how. He frowned as he combed his memory for Sumner, in case forgetting him would be an unpardonable sin. “You spoke at my school. CalArts. I asked you to sign my program.” “Ah.” Max looked relieved. Did he drink at parties and not remember? The lieutenant would surely be interested in the answer to that question. “Does that happen a lot?” Sumner teased. “Are you forgetful?” Sumner couldn't have imagined it. Max paled. “No,” Max muttered, getting his coffee cup. “More?” he asked Sumner politely. Sumner refused; his mug was still half full. “I do meet a lot of people.” “Well.” Sumner shrugged, embarrassed now. “But I'm surprised I don't remember you,” Max told him. “Why?” That was the natural question, wasn't it? Except it seemed Max didn't expect it at all. He looked away. “No reason, I guess. I usually have a good memory for faces. For details. Your boy there”—he pointed at the sketch—“he had one eyebrow that was higher than the other. It quirked, but naturally, if you know what I mean. I

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thought it was insouciant at the time. Rather dashing. I should think I would have remembered your face.” Sumner blushed. “I wore a beard at the time. And my hair was long.” Max nodded, as if he was replacing those things on Sumner's image as he looked. “You must have looked like a thousand other starving art students at the time.” He smiled. “I remember I always looked one bong hit away from a good long nap in art school.” Sumner smiled back at him. “Alas, I've already forgotten I'm talking to the Man. What's the statute of limitations on the inhalation of marijuana? Not that I'm implying—I will state for the record—that I ever inhaled.” Max sat down across from Sumner again, this time slightly more relaxed. “I'm really not the Man,” Sumner said, although they both knew that wasn't entirely true. Max smiled a real smile when he looked at the sketch again. “No,” he said. “You're genuinely an artist, aren't you? I'm amazed that little Sea Crest has a real forensic artist.” “Well, I freelance for this county and Lake County. Sea Crest, as you can imagine, isn't big enough for its own forensic art department.” “I imagine.” Since Sea Crest was only about two square miles of spectacularly unspoiled coastal real estate, it hardly had the need. “What about cheekbones?” Sumner asked. Max smirked. “Do you mean am I for or against?” “High or low or round?” Now that the room was warming up, so was Max. “High, but not prominent.” He got out his own sketchpad and a soft pencil and illustrated what he meant, and again Sumner felt the deceit. He has to know this is all a charade. He could easily have sketched the boyfriend and just turned it in. They worked together in companionable silence for a time.

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“By now you've probably realized I'm here for more than just the sketch,” Sumner said finally. “I know.” “I have three major agendas.” It couldn't hurt to be up front. The lieutenant told Sumner to do whatever it took to establish a rapport with Max without compromising the department's case. If there should turn out to be a case. “And they are?” “I'm supposed to sketch this guy.” Sumner held out the sketch, which, he had to admit, already paled in comparison to Max's. “I'm supposed to get you to confide in me, so that I'm the good cop in that good cop/bad cop equation they might want to set up later.” Max's eyebrows went up, and he frowned a little. “And the third thing on your agenda?” “I guess that would be finding out the nature of your relationship with Elena Genovese. Was she your muse? Was she your lover? Was she both?” “Were you told to find that out?” “Yes,” Sumner told him. “And I want to know. For me.” Max looked away. “No, she wasn't my lover. Just a beautiful, spirited girl with a will of steel who pushed her body so hard it suffered. All so that when we watched her dance, we would sigh.” He looked down. “Is that what you wanted to know?” “Yes. No. Did you want her?” Max rolled his eyes. “I don't think much of your gaydar, Skippy.” He laughed. “I remember you with a beard and long hair. Back then…you had hungry eyes.”

*** Lieutenant Cruz gave Sumner a hard stare. “You told him you were there for information?” “He seemed to be the kind of person who would level with me more if I was honest, I think.”

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“You think,” Cruz said. “Yes. I think if he warms up to me, then I can ask him things you couldn't possibly ask. For instance, he's gay. He never went out with Elena, didn't have an affair with her. I believe him.” “So you believe he's not our guy?” Sumner pressed his lips together. “Or what?” Cruz pressed him. “I believe he didn't have an intimate relationship with Elena,” Sumner finally said. “What do you mean by that?” “I believe that sex isn't the only reason people kill, sir,” Sumner said. And maybe Lieutenant Cruz realized Sumner was really, really hoping it wasn't true. “And you should know something else, sir.” “What?” “I've met Lancaster before, while I was at school. I thought… I was hopelessly in love with him.” “What?” Cruz demanded. “I'm sorry, sir; I should have told you before.” Cruz was still blinking away the fact that Sumner had just outed himself. “I'm—” “Do you still have feelings for him? Do you have a history? Did you—” “Me? No, sir,” he said. “I just had a crush. I went to hear him speak more than once. Got him to sign my programs. He didn't even recognize me until I told him.” Lieutenant Cruz was thinking. Sumner could see him trying to figure out how to turn that stupid admission into an asset. “So,” Cruz said, “you have a reason for seeing him again if you should try to renew your acquaintance?” “Excuse me?”

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“I'm not talking about going undercover and spying on him.” Cruz waved a hand. “I'm talking about finding out more than anyone else in the department can by talking to him like a friend.” “Talking to him like a friend.” Sumner thought about it. “And then reporting the contents of our conversations back to you.” It sounded even worse to Sumner when he said it than when he thought it. “Yes. It's an ongoing missing persons investigation. He knew the victim. He lived near her. She trusted him. He spent hours painting her in his studio. He's our most likely person of interest so far. In the absence of a boyfriend…” “What about the boy we sketched. It matched the one we did with the grandmother almost exactly.” “That can mean a lot of things. Maybe there was a boy. Maybe there were lots of boys, but I still like Lancaster for this. You have a chance to help me, Sumner.” “I—” “You have a chance to help Elena. I expect if you think about it like that, you'll be persuaded to take it.” Cruz's eyes held no doubt.

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Chapter Two On Friday Max picked up the phone on the third ring, cursing a little as he smeared blue paint on its matte black finish. “Hello?” “Bad time? I'm sorry.” A man's voice. Max thought it sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. “No, I just smeared paint.” Max paused. “Can I help you?” “Yes.” The voice hesitated. “Yes, this is Sumner, the sketch artist from the department?” “What can I do for you, Sumner?” “I wondered…” Max waited what he thought was the appropriate amount of time and heard nothing. “Are you still wondering?” Sumner gave a slight chuckle. “No, I wanted to know what you're doing tonight.” “I see.” Max wondered too. Now. “Why?” “I wanted to see if you'd like to have dinner with me. Maybe.” “Is it going to be dinner? Or are you continuing an investigation?” “It has to be both, Max. And I think we both know that. It's not like I can separate the two.” “So I'm going to have to be wary of what I say, since you'd be responsible for reporting it to the police as part of your job,” Max stated. “Yes.” “Are you asking me because you want to? Or because they told you to.”

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A pause. “I told them I wanted to. And then they told me to go ahead.” “Do you even know how to lie?” Max felt lighter suddenly. “No. Not really.” Sumner snorted when he laughed. How fun. “Truth is beauty.” “I just opened a tasty cabernet sauvignon. It will probably still be around if you're here within the hour, but I warn you, I have no food whatsoever.” “What were you planning to eat?” “Cabernet sauvignon.” “I'll be there,” Sumner told him, and Max could hear rustling noises, as though the kid was putting on a coat. “Within the hour.” “See you then.” Max hung up. He went to the kitchen cupboard and discovered an open box of Ritz crackers in which some of the wax paper tubes were still sealed. Next he discovered a second bottle of cab. Of all the emotions that should have been flooding him knowing that the handsome young Sumner was coming over, the one he least expected to be feeling was relief. For days he'd been burning up his nervous energy, frantically trying to paint— by memory—everything he knew about Elena. The crushing sadness that he was losing even that, that his recall was faulty only days after her disappearance, eroded the foundation of his sanity. He'd spent every waking minute scrubbing the simple sketches onto canvas: bare, spare studies in acrylics, some focusing on a single aspect of Elena, some of her dancing from photographs. He tried to overlay the new, the things that had changed between the photograph and the recent reality of Elena from his head and his heart, and he despaired. He reached for it even as it vanished. Like clawing at air when you fall off a cliff. Each new day the sun rose over his failure. There could be only one explanation. He was repainting his work over while he slept, and it was beginning to turn…macabre. He'd taken to drinking and working furiously. He spent hours and hours in his studio, using coffee and loud music to keep himself awake and

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finally, when that failed him, booze and exhaustion to help him sleep. He hoped to fall into bed so tired he couldn't or wouldn't get up until morning. Max longed for the amnesty of sleep, and when it fled, he woke heartbroken, knowing what he'd find. He lay unmoving, cold under the covers, afraid to set his foot down on the floor. He needed the time to psyche himself up before looking at what he'd painted the night before. Now he knew without a doubt what he'd discover. For six days in a row, Max woke to find his paintings transformed in some fundamental yet usually subtle way. But last night's ballerina had gone from smiling and transcendent to grotesquely exanimate. As though her body performed the steps, but she was no longer alive to direct it. He couldn't bear it. Each facet of the ugliness at the center of his fear struck the canvas like light hitting the hard brilliance of a diamond. And still he couldn't stop painting. He couldn't bear to look at them. He couldn't hide them from himself, and he knew he shouldn't hide them from the police. But he would hide them, at least until he could talk to David. His brother would help him make sense of what was happening to him. And if indeed he was losing his tenuous hold on reality at last, his brother would ease his way, help him and care for him, and see that he didn't harm anyone. But David's acceptance, his unstinting patience with Max's emotional instability, was worse than the problem itself. When Max was a runaway train, veering dangerously out of control, Davy could step on board with the ease of long familiarity and unclouded focus and pull everything back onto the tracks. It was hard to feel anything but gratitude. Except sometimes, just lately, he wished for a spectacular crash, if only to be done with it. Max knew to be careful what he wished for, but he was exhausted and frightened and simply…finished. He stowed that painting, the one of Elena as an elegant dancing corpse, along with the five other canvases that were his (and yet weren't) in the big broom closet in the studio, his place for canvases and cleaning

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equipment and seasonal clothes—his place to leave things best forgotten—and returned to the kitchen. There he waited for the arrival of the beautiful boy with hungry eyes who made him want to believe that the sun could rise on a day when he didn't have to be afraid. And he wondered, for the first time ever, about giving up entirely and telling someone besides his brother the truth. Max knew that Sumner was quintessentially the last person in whom he should confide. But Sumner drew him in with his thoughtful silences and his yearning eyes. Soon someone would ask him where he was when Elena disappeared, and he'd have to tell them. What if his worst fears were confirmed? What if I really am crazy? What if I could harm someone and not be aware of it? Max clenched his shaking hand and unclenched it as he reached for his wine. It really would be better for everyone—including himself—to find out as soon as possible.

*** “Seriously,” Sumner told Max, and it wasn't just the wine that loosened his tongue. He was nervous and babbling because when he'd arrived, Max had seemed terribly tense, bobbling the wineglasses in shaking hands, evasive and uncertain. He'd watched Sumner with his extraordinary hazel eyes as if deciding what to make of him. Only now, after a couple of glasses of the cabernet, some food, and a barrage of meaningless chatter—mostly stories of Sumner's painfully inept adolescence— was Max visibly beginning to loosen up. “So anyway, I was a total geek, right? It was the summer between my junior and senior year in high school, and I was taking this life drawing class through a junior college summer program for gifted kids.” Max was already laughing, sitting where he was on a cushion on the floor, eating the spicy shrimp burrito Sumner had picked up from the tiny mom-and-pop Mexican place at the end of the block. “That's a little young for life drawing. At least for an American kid.”

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“Don't I know it? I was pretty sure which way the wind blew for me back then, but like I said, total geek. My mom used to buy me the same golf shirts my dad wore, and those Levi's with what she called a skosh more room in the thigh. I had to wear them belted up to, like, here.” He gestured to his chin. “And in walks Girard Alphonse LeGrand.” He gave that all the French he had and then some. “Oh, Girard LeGrrrraaaaand,” Max murmured. “Well, I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say into each life a little Girard must fall.” “Yeah, well, Girard was completely self-possessed. He dropped his robe and draped himself over the Victorian fainting couch, and we all started to sketch him.” Sumner could almost see LeGrand. The art school smells of oil and acrylic paint, retarder, and the faint traces of turpentine in Max's studio room brought it rushing back. “Fuck, he was gorgeous, and he had this thick, amazing uncut cock. All the guys I knew, 'cause I still wasn't, like, out there looking at people, were cut. He kept eyeing me, you know, when I would look up? There he'd be, with his eyes on me. I kept thinking, first of all, what the hell? I mean he was so hot. And I was so…not.” “I'm certain you're exaggerating,” Max said kindly. “And I'm equally certain that the real truth was far worse than I remember it,” Sumner teased. “Anyway, I'm sketching this guy, and I've got the world's biggest boner.” “I admit that might be something I'd want to see.” “Well, not the world's biggest, you know, but…my biggest, longest, strongest…” Even as he said it, he could feel his cheeks heat up. “You know what I mean.” “I do.” Max gave him a break. “Go on.” “So finally, I can't take it anymore, see, and I go to the bathroom. I'm thinking I'm going to do a little deep breathing, maybe a few recitations of the periodic table…”

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“Which is sure to help, periodically.” Max sipped his wine. “Right, but then Girard followed me in and—” Max put a hand up. “Wait, does this story have a happy ending or a sad ending?” “That depends on what you think is happy.” “Did you end up in despair, or jail, or as a mockery of the associated student body?” “No,” Sumner told him, flushing with pleasure to be able to share something so personal with this man who had been his idol. “Hey! Let me tell it; it's my story. Anyway, he comes in there and grabs me by my golf shirt and yanks me into the stall.” “Oh yeah?” “Oh, yeah. And he blows me and does this thing, you know, where he's holding my thighs together and sort of fucking my ass crack with no penetration. His cock is leaking, and it's getting slick and sliding along over my skin, hitting my balls, and I'm like, dude!” Sumner followed his laughter and the crest of the story down onto his back on the couch. Max lifted the corner of his lips, the first smile he'd given Sumner all evening. “Dude, indeed.” “C'mere.” Sumner motioned Max over. Max shifted until he sat with his back against the couch, resting right where Sumner's shoulder had fallen. Sumner reached a hand out and laid it on Max's head, curving his fingers, stroking deeply and untangling the slightly messy hair. Max seemed to groan with pleasure, pushing into his touch as though he needed it. “I'm supposed to get you to confide in me,” Sumner whispered. “So I'll start. I had the biggest fucking crush on you when I was in art school.” “Really. How remarkably strange.” Max furrowed his brow. “Why?”

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“I don't know. I just… I do recall those hungry eyes watching me. I'm surprised I didn't take what was offered.” “Do you often?” asked Sumner, dying to know. “Do you usually take what's offered?” “Mostly,” Max admitted. Sumner chanced a hand on the side of Max's remarkable face and held his breath. “So it's a mystery.” “What?” Max turned with a sudden jerk to look him in the eye, and the spell was broken. “What, what?” “What's a mystery?” Max asked, and Sumner remembered the reason he'd come in the first place. Sumner's shoulders sagged. “Well. I was going to say the mystery of the abstinent artist, because back in the day, I worked it like I was trying to sell it to you, but you passed me right by. But I guess we had better talk about Elena.”

The wine had Max pleasantly buzzed, and they had yet to open the second bottle. The food was delicious. Just right. Homemade tortillas wrapped around chargrilled shrimp, pico de gallo redolent with jalapeños and fresh cilantro, with shredded cabbage that added the perfect cool, peppery crunch. Perfect flavor and not too much to eat. After the second glass of wine, it had even stopped tasting like wood shavings, and he'd begun to enjoy it. “I don't know anything about her disappearance. But you can ask me anything, even if it's got nothing to do with Elena, if you'll stay with me tonight.” Sumner's muscles tensed. “That sounds a little…quid pro quo-ish.” Max rubbed his face with the heels of his hands, careful not to allow his spicy fingers near his eyes. “I suppose there aren't a lot of options for me.”

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“Well, thanks a lot,” Sumner said, only half seriously. His phone rang, and he sat up to pull it out of his pocket. “Sumner Ellison.” Max watched Sumner's face as it paled and shuttered closed. “Thank you,” Sumner said bleakly and ended the call. He took Max's hand where it rested on the couch. “I don't know how to… That was one of the guys on the Genovese case. They've found Elena.” Max sagged with relief. “That's great! I hope to fuck she has a good reason for putting us through all this crap.” He frowned at Sumner, mostly because he didn't seem too excited. “What?” Sumner squeezed his hand so hard it was painful. “I'm so sorry. She's dead, Max.” Max stared at him numbly. All the blood drained from his head until he felt both sick and dizzy. “She can't be dead,” he said. “She's only…what? Sixteen?” “Her body was found on the Chaparral Private Golf Club property.” Max shook his head. “No.” Sumner pulled him into a rough embrace. “I'm so sorry.” “This is crazy!” Max said, still fighting it. “This is so fucked up.” “I know.” Sumner held on as waves of turmoil shook through Max's body. “I know.” Max tried to absorb the pain of losing someone so young. Elena. Electric. Vibrant. Promising. Gone. “Do you have to go now?” Max asked. His voice sounded funny. Scratchy. “Not… I don't know,” Sumner said. “I'm only a freelance artist. They'll have forensic technicians, crime scene investigators. They won't use me anymore for the investigation.” “So your job is—”

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“Essentially? Over.” Sumner gave him a look that froze Max's heart. “The police will take it from here.” “I see.” Max's skin grew cold. He lifted his eyes to the man sitting on his couch. “Do you still want me to stay?” Sumner asked him. Max nodded and closed his eyes. Begging seemed so inadequate. “Please don't leave me alone.” Sumner swallowed hard. He pulled out his phone again. “I need to call Lieutenant Cruz back, then. I have to make sure I won't be fucking anything up.” Max gave a soft laugh, although it sounded as bleak as he felt. “As it were.” “Yeah.” Sumner lowered his gaze. Max got up and went into the loft's tiny kitchen to open the second bottle of wine. He went numbly through the motions of searching for his corkscrew and using it to nick the seal, a bad habit because half the time it worked and half the time, like now, when he tried to remove the thick metal foil, its sharp edge cut the crap out of him. He stared for a minute at the blood from his thumb, numb to it but registering the color as it welled up on his skin and dripped on the counter. Plop, plop, plop. He could hear Sumner speaking quietly; the sibilant sound crawled up his spine, raising goose bumps on his arms. “Yeah, I don't know. I don't think so. He really seemed… He thought she was still alive, I'd swear to it. No, he says no. Fine.” Sumner stopped arguing. “I just thought you should know.” Blood pooled as Sumner stepped up behind him. “Hey.” Sumner frowned as he pulled a paper towel from a roll mounted on Max's wall. “Here.” He wrapped Max's thumb up. Heat radiated from Sumner's body until it felt as though they were touching, even though they weren't. Still. Max felt ice cold. “Thank you,” Max said thickly, picking up the bottle in his undamaged hand. “What did they say?

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“I'm officially unofficial.” “Fired?” “No.” Sumner shook his head. “Just sort of released from anything involving Elena's case. As of now. But Max?” “Mmhmm?” “Where were you last Saturday night when Elena went missing?” Max's mouth went dry, and he stiffened. He gave the wine to Sumner, along with the corkscrew, and watched him open it. “I thought you were off the case.” “Really. I am. I just want to know. To talk. Like we said.” “I'm sorry, Sumner. I have no idea where I was.” Max turned away and headed for the living room, where he returned to the floor in front of the couch. Sumner followed him with his refilled wineglass, taking a seat next to him. Staring at him. Trying to see…what? Sumner seemed to want more, but Max didn't oblige him. Sumner took a sip of wine and broke the silence. “How can you not know? It wasn't even a week ago.” “I just don't know, all right? I've been sleepwalking. So I was here. Essentially. Or I could have been.” Max wanted to cry as he shattered the illusion of a normal evening with a nice man. “I could have been anywhere.”

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Chapter Three Sumner couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. Was he supposed to believe this? Was he supposed to believe what this man—this artist he'd had the hots for forever—was telling him? Because no way. No fucking way. He tried to give Max the benefit of the doubt, but sleepwalking? Next he would say he was hypnotized or that he'd eaten too much candy. That he had amnesia. How lame. “So let me get this straight. You're telling me that since last Saturday night, you've been what? Having trouble sleeping?” Max sighed. “It's more than that. Follow me.” He headed for his studio, past the half wall that separated it from the rest of the apartment. The only light in the room was a faint glow that came from the security lights in the parking lot, which made it hard to see anything but dark shapes until Max flicked a wall switch and brought the track lighting overhead to life. He walked to the broom closet and spoke to Sumner while he rummaged around. “This is why I asked you to spend the night.” He brought several canvases out and crossed the room to lean them against the wall opposite the windows, lining them up next to one another. “What?” Sumner looked at all five pictures, his heart softening and swelling with the recognition of Max's talent. “Oh, man. I love your work, Max.” He was shaking his head. “I've always loved it.” He minutely examined the one of Elena's face. The one where she looked… “This one's creepy, though.” “I know,” Max mumbled. “When did you paint it?”

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“Last night.” Max looked at him oddly, like he had more to say but was waiting for Sumner to ask a question. “Last night?” Max bit his lip. “Look, swear to me that you aren't already convinced I committed this crime. That you're not just biding your time waiting for me to say something to incriminate myself.” “Max. Even if I were just biding my time, there's nothing—” Max caught Sumner by the shoulders. “Swear to me that—maybe—it wouldn't be your best-case scenario to find the killer of that girl right now, to find out that it's me and make yourself a hero.” Sumner broke Max's grip on him and stepped back. “My best-case—What are you even talking about? I don't understand you. I'm not a cop.” “I just need one person who's on my side right now. Can that be you?” Sumner thought about it. “No. Not if you want up-front promises. Not if you talk about sleepwalking.” Sumner wasn't buying it. He needed to hear more. “Fine.” Max turned to the window. “Then I guess you'd better go.” “Max?” “It's fine. I'm fine. Don't worry. I'll be here when the police need to talk to me.” Sumner heard an eerie finality to that statement in Max's voice. He studied the set of the man's shoulders. They hung dejectedly, as if he were too tired to hold them up anymore. “Max. You have to trust me.” Max turned to him, frowning. “Like you trust me?” “Just…talk to me,” Sumner said. “I want to believe you. Start at the beginning. What happened last Saturday night?” Max went to the first painting and pointed to it. “I painted this. But I swear by all that is sacred when I went to bed that night, those feet—Elena's feet—were in brand-new ballet slippers.”

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“What?” Sumner stared at the ten-by-fourteen canvas of a pair of feet in ragged and worn toe shoes. Max turned the picture around. “Elena wasn't here that night, but for some reason I was… I couldn't sleep. So I painted from a photograph.” He tugged a photograph of Elena, standing en pointe in her brand new pink toe shoes against the corner wall of windows in the studio, out from under the wood stretching the canvas. “She was here with Abuelita Nonna on Saturday afternoon, goofing around and breaking in her shoes. Roughing them up so they would be more pliable. I painted from this. These are Elena's feet.” He held the photo out. “In her new shoes, and that's what was on the canvas when I went to sleep on Saturday night.” Sumner looked at his face, saying nothing, trying to ascertain the truth of his words. “And this.” Max held up the portrait with the battered shoes. “This is what was on the canvas when I woke up on Sunday morning.” Sumner took more than a few minutes to digest this. Max remained silent. Sumner's gaze never left the painting in Max's hand. “So what you're telling me, I think, is that you believe you're repainting your work in your sleep?” Max looked at the painting in his hand. “Yes. That has to be what's happening. It's my work. It is, isn't it?” Sumner sat back on his heels to examine the first painting more closely. Then he got up and took one of the random canvases out from where it was stored against the wall. “Mind if I use this for comparison? You remember painting this one, right? You have no doubt?” “Yes.” “I'm not an expert. But it certainly looks the same. And coupled with the fact that you say it's your work, it's hard to refute, isn't it?” “Yes. But I don't remember painting those old toe shoes at all.”

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“Are you waking up with paint anywhere on your body? Is your studio different from how you left it the night before? Is anything disturbed, either in your studio or…anywhere?” “Not that I can tell.” Sumner hissed. “How is that even possible?” Max scrubbed at his hair. “I don't know. But what other explanation could there be? It's my work.” Max expelled a long breath and slumped into a leather chair. “You don't know how good it feels to tell you this.” “What do you mean?” Max picked up his wine. “I've been trying not to sleep,” he admitted. “How long has this been going on?” “Since Sunday, when I woke up and found…that.” Max indicated the painting of Elena's feet. “Sunday?” Sumner asked. “Yes. Since the mysteriously aging toe shoes.” “And you're saying that they've all been redone? That you think you've subtly altered all of them in your sleep?” Max nodded miserably. “I don't think; I know.” “I hope to heaven you have a halfway decent alibi for the night of Elena's disappearance,” Sumner whispered. “Because I think you're going to need one.” “Even if I did”—Max swallowed hard—“who would believe me?” Sumner shook off Max's bleak question for the moment and placed the paintings side by side. He worried that his admiration for this artist eclipsed his common sense. “Did you ever sleepwalk before?” “Yes.” Max looked at his hands. “Off and on my whole life. I was in preschool, or so they tell me, when I started. My brother always made it his personal crusade to see to it that I didn't harm myself. My mother didn't realize he was staying

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awake at night watching over me for a while, but when he kept falling asleep in school, she put two and two together and gave us separate rooms. Mine had a motion sensor, so an alarm went off in their room if I got up.” “Your family will back this up?” “My parents died last summer, but my brother will. He teases me about it sometimes.” “I'm sorry about your parents,” Sumner said. Max got up to look out the window, but not before Sumner saw there were tears in his eyes. “For what it's worth. I don't see anything in you that would make me wonder if you're capable of harming Elena. The way you looked at her. The way you saw through her skin to the essence of what made her beautiful. You're incapable of that kind of cruelty, Max. Even if I have doubts about everything else, I truly believe that.” Max cleared his throat. “This is so fucked.” Sumner didn't stop to think before walking up behind Max and wrapping his arms around him. “You wanted me to stay to see if you sleepwalk?” Sumner guessed, resting his cheek against Max's soft hair. He breathed in the smell of man and spice and wine. “Yes.” “Is that all?” “No.” Max turned and slid into Sumner's arms. “No,” he whispered against Sumner's hair.

“That's not all. I want to forget. I want to feel safe. I want

someone—” Sumner initiated a simple, caring kiss. He brought his hands up to curve over Max's shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace. At first he wanted to convey comfort, brushing the skin of Max's face lightly with dry lips and pressing their cheeks together. He felt Max's eyelashes flutter against his closed eyelids. Max's scent teased him, part red wine and part acrylic paint extender. Breath, spicy and rich from their dinner, rose between them, begging him to taste Max's lips

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again. Sumner pressed his mouth to Max's and teased the seam of his lips open with a delicate swipe of his tongue. Max dove into the kiss, his whole body shuddering. When they broke for a breath, Sumner pressed their foreheads together. “You're not alone.” Max buried his face into the junction of Sumner's neck and shoulder, breathing damply against his skin as he pressed kisses there. Heat coiled in Sumner's cock as it filled and pressed against Max's. When Sumner reached around and sank his hands into the firm muscles of Max's ass, pulling him flush against his body and leaving no doubt how aroused he was, Max broke their kiss and glanced up at him. “Are you sure?” Max asked. “This could be trouble.” Sumner couldn't resist taking another kiss from Max's full lips. “I was in trouble before I came here the first time.” Max put a little distance between them. “You were? Why?” “Because I knew exactly what I wanted from you. I should have told Lieutenant Cruz to find—” “Shh.” Max shifted his hips, brushing his rigid cock against Sumner's and eliciting a moan from somewhere deep in Sumner's gut. “I'm glad you didn't.” Sumner smiled and shook his head a little, embarrassed now that it was true confession time. “I wanted you the first time I ever saw you at school. There was no way in hell I'd turn down the opportunity to meet you.” Max stepped back and sighed. “I'm sure the reality has been something of a letdown.” Sumner caught one of Max's hands and held it to his throbbing cock. “Hardly.” Max kept Sumner's hand and pulled him away from the studio and into the open living area of the loft. When they got to the bed, Max turned to Sumner. “I didn't hurt Elena.” Max shook his head. “I'd know… I would know inside myself if I could be capable of something like that, wouldn't I? I'm not.”

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“Shh, no. You're not,” Sumner replied because he had nothing else to say. He wanted to believe Max, but it didn't matter. All along he'd been trying to ignore what he knew in that moment. He hoped that Max wasn't mentally unbalanced, but he knew Max would be incapable of murder. When he looked at Max, all rational thought flew from his head and all that existed for him was the fullness of Max's lips, the curve of his jaw, and the impending discovery of what hid beneath the man's clothes. Sumner told himself he was sure there was a reasonable explanation for Max's eerie paintings as he was removing Max's shirt and licking his skin. He told himself Max was telling the truth. That Max was somnambulant when he was anxious and under duress. That Max was someone he understood and could trust. But none of that was entirely true, and it all paled into insignificance when he unbuttoned Max's jeans and his hard, heavy cock spilled into Sumner's hands. The awful truth was that Sumner wanted Max no matter what. Sumner pulled the remainder of Max's clothes off and breathed him in as he lowered his head, nuzzling into the sparse, springy dark hair. He couldn't get enough of the scent that teased him, concentrated there in the musky folds of delicate skin where Max's leg met his hip. He brushed and bumped and tasted every square inch of Max that he could get until his own jeans were unbearably tight. Sumner squirmed around, removing and tossing his clothes off the bed until he was naked and Max was begging. He straddled Max and asked for condoms and lube. Max's eyelids lowered until his eyes were half-closed, almost shyly, as if he were embarrassed by his shaking hands as they reached for the night table, where he retrieved a tube of lube and a foil-wrapped packet and placed them in the palm of Sumner's outstretched hand. After that, he looked away briefly, but when Sumner rolled a condom onto Max's cock, his gaze snapped back. “This okay?” Sumner indicated his desire to ride Max's cock by giving it a pump or two with his lubed hand. Once again Max smiled shyly at him.

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“Yeah, I…” Max closed his eyes and moaned when Sumner tightened his grip. “Hell, yeah.” Sumner prepared himself quickly and held Max's cock in position, groaning as he began to work his way onto it. He wasn't a frequent flyer, and Max didn't seem to be used to topping, even from underneath. But as soon as Max surged up, Sumner forgot about everything because they quickly found a rhythm together and it was damn good. Sumner leaned over for a kiss, bracing his hands on either side of Max's head. For some reason, he wanted Max to look at him, so he nudged him with his knees, throwing off their pace. Max's eyes opened to meet his just as his hips shifted and his cock brushed over Sumner's sweet spot. Sumner bit his lip, jerking a little with surprise. His cock leaked a string of precum onto the skin next to Max's belly button. It hung there, connecting them until Max dabbled his finger in it and brought it to his mouth. After that, neither of them looked away until it was just him and Max and everything he'd wanted since he'd first seen Max Lancaster speak at school. Sumner didn't care how he'd gotten there or how the investigation went or what would happen in the end. Except for Max, wanting to please him, wanting to be close to him, Sumner didn't much care about anything else at all.

Max had stopped trying to decide whether fucking Sumner Ellison was right or wrong when he'd let Sumner peel away his clothes. He had a lot on his mind that he wanted very badly to forget, and Sumner was a weapon of mass distraction. Swept away by Sumner's urgency, Max was surprised and shy when sure hands had rolled a condom down on his cock. Sumner sank onto him, enveloping him in all that living heat, and his mind went blank and fuzzy like he was under a new fall of silent snow. Bliss. Far from having the usual effect of dampening his passion, he found that Sumner's admiration filled him with the desire to step up, to be in reality the man

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Sumner imagined he was. Max could fall hard for someone like Sumner. He was something fresh and rare, someone whose trust and loyalty had to be earned by more than celebrity and talent. He had a core as fine and strong as Elena's, and as pure. Max rolled Sumner beneath him. He slipped his arms under Sumner's knees, and, drawing them up, went deeper inside him with each thrust. Sumner made a strangled, encouraging noise as Max leaned over to kiss him. “More?” Max whispered as he pushed into Sumner hard enough that he had to brace his hands on the wall behind his head. “Not sore?” Sumner locked his ankles behind Max's back and ground out, “I want as much as you've got.” Max braced himself on his elbows and grabbed onto Sumner's hands, lacing their fingers together tightly and gripping hard, adding his strength to Sumner's resistance so he glided farther in and out of Sumner's warmth. Sumner was already flushed and panting, giving up little gasps and grunts of pleasure as Max fucked him hard enough to wipe all conscious thought from both their minds. “Max.” Sumner gasped and clung, crushing Max with legs that felt like iron. Max lost himself, diving over and over again into the warmth of Sumner's beguiling body. He gave himself wholly to the chaos of Sumner's prolonged release as ropy, thick ribbons of cum jetted between them, painting Sumner's skin. Max shuddered and grunted, his teeth clenched, and his eyes still open and on Sumner's as he ground hard and slid into heaven. Sumner's hands wrestled from his, then clapped onto Max's cheeks as he drew him down for a searching kiss. “Shhit…Max,” Sumner whispered against his lips. “Fuck… Max. Shhhhhh…hush.” It took a while before Max realized he'd been soaking Sumner with his tears.

***

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Max was cold when he felt Sumner peel away from him. Their sweaty skin stuck together like bread dough. He watched Sumner as he searched for and found the bathroom. He was still eyeing the door when Sumner emerged with a damp towel. When Sumner pulled the sheet from Max's legs, he shivered. The towel was warm, though, and Sumner's tenderness, his generosity threatened Max's hard-won cool. Max swallowed. “Thanks for this,” he said as Sumner cleaned him gently. Sumner merely smiled. Max needed to fill the silence. “So. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most pathetic loser you ever fucked—” “Zip it,” said Sumner implacably. “Someone you love died.” Max turned his head back to the pillow when his eyes started to burn. “Can I get you anything?” Sumner asked, tossing the towel aside. “I seem to be lacking body heat.” Max shivered uncontrollably, as if saying it gave it substance. “Here.” Sumner slid into the bed behind him. His body gave off warmth as Max fitted himself into Sumner like a spoon. “Thank you.” Sumner took his hand and kissed the knuckles. “You're in shock, you know?” Max tightened his grip. “I'll be the prime suspect.” “Person of interest.” “I think I'm going to be sick,” Max said quietly. Sumner shifted to let him out of the bed.

*** Max found Sumner in the kitchen opening cupboards when he finally had the courage to go looking for him.

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“Better?” Sumner asked, continuing to search. Max ignored the question, but even so he felt his cheeks heat. “What do you need?” “I found a box of tea bags; I was looking for a kettle.” “I have one of those taps,” Max told him. “On the sink, the red button.” “Max. Half of the point of tea is making it. There's nothing transcendent about pushing a hot water button.” “I'm sorry. I usually transcend with Booker's.” “It's late anyway. We should sleep.” Sumner caught Max looking at him with a frown on his face. “Are you worried you'll sleepwalk again?” “Yes.” Max felt obligated to own up to his fears. “And I'm worried that I won't. That I'm simply crazy and I don't remember what I do when I'm out of my mind.” Sumner looked through him, Max thought, probably making his confession unnecessary. Sumner had given that some thought. Of course he had. But he didn't seem afraid. Only resigned. “I'll be right here.” Max nodded. “Do you think we could set it up so that if I do start moving around, you'll wake up and see what I do?” “I'm a light sleeper; it will wake me if you get up.” “Thank you. This has been—” Max broke off. “It's nice of you to stay.” Some of Sumner's tension seemed to leave his body as he shook his head and grinned. “It's been my pleasure.” He ran a hand down Max's arm. “You have no idea.” Max looked down and away again, feeling a blush warm his cheeks. What was it about Sumner that made him feel like the untried kid? He walked away, past the paintings, shuddering when he came to the one where Elena's face was so still. “Tell me about that painting.” Sumner spoke from just behind him.

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Max didn't know if it would help or hurt to talk about it. He thought he'd try it and see. “Acrylics,” he began. “I painted it…was that only yesterday?” His hand shook as he picked it up. “Was it?” “I hate it.” Max shuddered. “I can't imagine ever doing anything like that of Elena; she's so vibrant. I have the photo I used.” He fumbled with the painting, turned it, and retrieved the photograph of Elena from behind the wood as he had before. It was a candid shot, maybe a year old, because her hair was quite a bit shorter than the recent photos of her suggested. Elena had been caught dancing blissfully against the backdrop of the sunny studio windows. “Maybe you were expressing—I don't know—your worst fears when you altered it. Maybe if you paint in your sleep, you work out things that are bothering you.” “If I paint in my sleep? Yes. If.” “I'm sorry.” Sumner put his hand on Max's shoulder. A gesture of comfort. “It's my work, but I don't have any memory of painting her face like that. I can't imagine it. It's so…wrong.” Max breathed out a long sigh. “Fuck, I could use a drink.” “Where do you keep it?” “Lately?” Max turned and walked toward the bedroom. He hoped his body language didn't show how hopeless he felt. “Nightstand.”

Sumner filled a mug with hot water and dropped a tea bag into it. When Max returned, he got a cut crystal glass out of the cabinet. He tried not to think of how close this was to his best-case scenario and how far off it was at the same time. He watched Max as he poured himself a shot, then downed it and poured another on its heels. The thought that Max might be an alcoholic came to him.

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All kinds of thoughts had occurred to Sumner. Of course they had. Putting aside sleepwalking, Max could be psychotic. Or he could simply be lying because he'd killed a sixteen-year-old girl. No. Max couldn't have killed Elena. Not ever. It wasn't in him. It wasn't there in his art, ever, even when he claimed to be painting unconsciously. There was never any cruelty in his work. Only despair. Max might have had an alcoholic blackout, or he might be insane. And still, none of that could touch the magnitude of Sumner's passion for him, nor did it begin to address the reckless nature of the decisions he was making that night. When at last they headed for bed again, Max leaned heavily against Sumner and curled against him like a big dog seeking contact—scratches and comfort—from his master. “You sleep next to the wall.” Sumner sat on the edge of the bed and waited while Max scooted in. “That way if you get up, you'll have to go through me.”

*** Sumner was still wide awake when the first rays of light came through the many windows of Max's bedroom space. He liked the windows a lot; they were wide and tall, richly covered in silky cream sheers and some kind of mossy green fabric pulled back by ties. The spaces where the window coverings didn't meet let in beams of light to dot the floor. Unlike Max's studio, where the windows were bare, these gave a distinct richness to the deceptively simple design of the loft. Wood floors. Lots of space. Sparse furniture with clean lines and a big bed pushed up against the wall. It couldn't have been less like the man himself. Simple and uncomplicated. Even soothing. He wondered who decorated it, because Max didn't seem capable of anything so peaceful. Sumner could feel Max nestled against his back and heard his gentle snoring. Max had fallen asleep spooned up against him and had moved little through the night. Sumner could say that definitely because he'd been unable to sleep at all.

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Sometime in the quiet darkness, it occurred to Sumner that even if Max hadn't killed Elena, he could still be a lying, manipulative man. He might still be capable of using Sumner and his connection to the police, accepting his hero worship, and fucking him because he was frightened and bored. Playing with him because Sumner was so obviously willing to be played. The ceiling fan stirred the air lazily, blowing minuscule bits of dust and tiny fibers around to be spotlighted in the sun's rays. As a bona fide neat freak in his own home, these straggling, defiant bits of earth flotsam pissed Sumner off. He wondered how many ended up in Max's paintings, trapped like insects in amber. All philosophical thoughts fled when Max's hand slid around to explore his morning wood. “Mm,” Max said against the nape of Sumner's neck. “Just the thing I need. How nice.” Sumner slid forward, dropping his feet to the floor. “It's likely the police will be coming to speak with you first thing this morning.” “Way to ruin a mood.” Max flopped back onto the pillows. “A mood?” Sumner turned to look at him. “In case this hasn't started to process yet, trained, professional law enforcement officers are going to visit you with an eye toward solving the murder of a sixteen-year-old girl as fast as they possibly can.” Max's second grab for him ended incomplete when Sumner stood. “If you can't think of a better story than 'I might have been sleepwalking,' then I think you'd better—” Max froze in place. “You think I may have done it.” Sumner wanted Max to see the jeopardy he was in. “It's not important what I think, Max.” “Are you out of your mind?” Sumner jerked back. “What?” “What kind of person sleeps with someone they think murdered a sixteen-yearold girl?”

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“This isn't about me.” Sumner walked to the window to look out at the parking lot below. “And you don't know what I think.” Max shook his head. “I didn't get up last night, did I?” “No.” “So now you think the whole fucking thing is in my head.” Sumner frowned. “I didn't say that. I didn't say I thought—” Max loomed up beside Sumner and turned him to get right in his face. Heaven help him, Sumner couldn't stop himself from pushing his back against the window to get away. “You're afraid of me.” Sumner let the silence between them draw out for a long time. “Yeah,” Sumner finally said. “I am. But not for the reason you think, Max.” Max let out a noise—a hiss that turned into a nasty chuckle—and shook his head. “Don't let that stop you from making coffee,” he said as he entered the bathroom.

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Chapter Four “Hello?” As always, Max had to make himself sound more cheerful than he felt. “David? It's me, Max.” “Maxi? What is your indolent ass doing awake—” Max heard a crash and some fumbling. David broke more cell phones that way. He finally came back on the line. “At this time in the morning?” “I—” “What's the matter?” David's tone went from conversational to alarmed. “You sound—” “You know those last few paintings I did? The ballerina studies?” “Yeah, hell yeah. I think they were your best work so far. Let me head for the other room so I don't wake up April.” Max heard the way David whispered and then listened to the sound of footsteps and more rustling in the background. “Didn't I read somewhere that the girl went missing? Brat. She's the toast of the art world, and she does a runner. She's probably with some pimply-faced boy who told her he loved her.” Max found it almost impossible to say the words loud enough for his brother to hear. “You're going to hear about this on the news anyway. She's dead.” “What?” “She's dead.” Max swallowed. He couldn't seem to wrap his mind around it. “They found her. The body—” “Oh, shit, Max. She was just a baby.”

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“I know.” “Is there something we can do for the family?” David asked. “Are they… Do they need money or anything? For the costs? Some sort of help organizing things?” “I don't know.” He hadn't even thought of that. Trust David to think of mundane things and the people left behind. “I'll feel around. They may not speak to me.” “Why not?” David asked. “Wait. Was she murdered? Aw, Max.” “Yeah.” Max tried hard not to cry. “They think—” “The fact that you're a well-known artist should be enough to light a fire under the cops to solve the case. It could become a cause célèbre.” “I don't think they're going to find that necessary,” Max said. “Why not? Did they already catch who did it?” David asked. “Good grief, it was the boyfriend, wasn't it? It's always the boyfriend. Poor kid.” “No, David.” Max clenched his fist around the phone and forced himself to say the words. To confess his shame that he needed rescuing. Again. “I'm at police headquarters, and they're going to interview me. They think I did it.”

*** Max sat in the empty interrogation room and waited. Keeping a guy like him waiting, he figured, was a pretty good strategy, although he didn't think that's why they'd left him cooling his heels. He wasn't used to sitting around; he needed something to do with his hands, and they'd left him with nothing, not even a paper and pencil. David told him to invoke his right to an attorney. He said, “Demand a lawyer. Don't open your mouth until you have counsel present.” And that's exactly what Max did. David always knew what to do. It was unfortunate that Max always needed David to know what to do, but…there it was. Max had asked for a lawyer; specifically, he'd asked if he could call his brother even before they'd taken him into this nondescript little room, having informed the

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officer who was handling him at the time that his brother was a lawyer and worked, currently, as an aid to one of California's senators. That request was granted. But they'd subtly ignored his requests for water, bathroom privileges, and respect. By now, David had probably called someone local to come represent him and dropped everything to be here as soon as he could drive down, simply because that's the kind of brother he was. Max had leaned into that and taken it for granted; he'd relied on David more than ever since their parents' deaths. He'd once asked David if he ever resented playing Theo to his own tempestuous Vincent. David replied with his characteristic kindness that if his being Theo to Max's Vincent made it possible for Max to escape Vincent's fate, then it would be perfectly all right by him. Just currently, however, Max felt cursed. He'd woken up only the day before with his arms around Sumner, happy for a change. Hopeful. He thought if he confided in Sumner and put his secret fears to careful scrutiny, he might be able to explain them, even laugh them off. In the course of things, that had backfired spectacularly, resulting in his being taken into police custody for questioning by one Lieutenant Cruz. And that was going to go oh, so very badly. After Abel Jameson, his lawyer, arrived—a well-dressed pit bull David sent like an FTD floral delivery—they began asking him questions. When they finally stopped, both he and Jameson realized they thought they already had everything they needed for a slam-dunk case. They'd made him go over every memory, every tiny disagreement, every complaint Elena had ever shared with her friends with regard to his treatment of her. How he'd made her stand for hours and not given in to her wheedling him for soda and bags of chips while she posed. How he'd argued with her lately because her schedule had gotten tighter and he'd had to paint more and more from photographs. Her parents had been dismayed, he discovered in the course of his interrogation, by his interest in her. He'd guessed that it had taken Elena's grandmother's considerable power of persuasion and, of course, her continued

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presence on the scene to help them relax when Elena posed for him. But even though they'd grown to believe that his intentions were—if not pure, then not prurient—the police still twisted everything to make him seem like some sort of predator. Everything was filtered through their desire to solve the case and their willingness to believe they were looking at the right man. Consequently every word he'd ever said, every Post-it note he'd left, everything Elena had that belonged to him, everything she'd left in his loft, by accident or because she'd given it to him, became part of the case being built against him. They'd impounded his car. They'd gotten his phone records and his bank statements. The money he'd started to put away for Elena from the sale of his paintings all added up—in the eyes of the police—to a net they could and would close around him. He looked at the mountain of evidence bags. They took each thing, one at a time, and confronted him with it. Currently Lieutenant Cruz pushed a bag across the table toward him with a yellow sticky note inside it that read, in his own writing, “Elena, I saw you sneak off for coffee with Ajax. It's Saturday afternoon, you heartless chit, and you've left me pining for my muse. I hope your beloved barista burns your grounds.” It had seemed funny at the time. Max reached out and casually flicked the plastic bag holding the note across the wide metal table. He'd teased her; of course he had. He'd had a fun, flirtatious friendship with both Elena and her tiny grandmother, whom he often called his Venus, teasing her that they should rid themselves of the youngster and start painting a real goddess among women, someone who could put the skinny young ballerinas in their place. Nonna had giggled prettily and pinkened under his attentions exactly as Elena had, yet both of them realized he wasn't interested in women. Everyone knew that.

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Max searched in his imaginary closet full of emotions and found only resignation. This was fucked. Totally and completely fucked. He was very probably going to be jailed for the rest of his life or even executed for the murder of a little girl he'd genuinely loved.

*** Sumner didn't know why he stayed in Max's apartment. They'd had twentyfour hours during which they'd fucked or Sumner had watched the exhausted Max while he slept. Finally the police had come, as both he and Max had known they would, to take him into headquarters for questioning. That had been Sunday morning at about dawn. Sumner and Max watched helplessly as the police had swarmed and removed everything that could possibly pertain to Elena. While the police were raiding it like latex-gloved locusts, Max's bedroom still smelled like men and sweat and sex. Sumner felt his cheeks burn as police officers he'd worked with gazed at him with barely concealed distaste. Sumner had glanced over and caught Max's amused expression. Max looked from the police, as they asked their questions, to Sumner, who probably appeared to him to be nervous and distracted, and shrugged as if to say, “What can you do?” Max appeared very blasé. They'd gone over the place in the minutest detail, leaving a mess of emptiedout cupboards and drawers in their wake, along with a fine dusting of latent powder. The place was total chaos, and for some reason, Sumner had stayed behind to do what he could to clean it up. Max may have sauntered out behind the police on a cloud of false bravado, but that was for show. Sumner had seen through his act to the terrified man within. Sumner didn't have a nonchalant bone in his body about Max's interview with the police. When a key turned in the lock, Sumner hurried to the front door, only to find the man coming through it was…not Max. Like Max. But not. Dark where Max was light, but with the same exact features, the hazel eyes, the chiseled cheekbones,

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the same wry twist to luscious, full lips. They were the same height and build, but this man was several years older and dressed in clothes that Sumner was fairly certain Max's wardrobe didn't contain. A dress shirt with French cuffs, a cashmere sweater, jeans with creases that seemed to have been engineered to fit his body alone. “Who are you?” the stranger asked, dropping his keys in the bowl on the console exactly the way Max did. “I'm Sumner.” Sumner placed the empty wine bottles he had picked up into the recycling bin. “I'm trying to clean up—” “David Lancaster, Max's brother.” The stranger held out his hand. His eyes were warm as he looked over the room. “What a mess. It's very nice of you, helping to tidy up…Sumner?” “Ellison, Sumner Ellison.” Sumner shook David's hand and then wrapped his arms around himself. “I was here when the police came and took Max in for questioning. I thought when he came home, he'd appreciate…” “I'm sure he will,” David said kindly. “I'm here to pick up some personal things for him, and then I'm going to go over to the police station.” “Have you heard anything from him?” Sumner asked. “Are they going to let him out?” “He's still in custody but hasn't yet been charged. They have seventy-two hours to formally arrest him or cut him loose. I think they'll probably charge him. Then it will probably be tomorrow morning when he's arraigned and bail is set.” Sumner studied the floor. “They really believe he did it.” “I once believed that if I put a tooth under my pillow a fairy would put a silver dollar in its place. Just because you believe something doesn't make it true.” Slightly reassured, Sumner looked up into David Lancaster's eyes and found them kind. “That's right. At any rate, I know Max didn't kill Elena.”

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David sighed. “I'd like to see to it that he has a sketchbook and some pens. He gets so agitated when he has nothing to do with his hands.” Sumner shook his head. “I'm afraid they're not going to allow you to see him. I called, and they told me he couldn't see anyone but his attorney.” “I'm counting on my personal charisma and the fact that I work for the immensely popular senior senator from this very state to get me certain privileges.” David put his arm around Sumner's shoulders. “I'm sure that will do the trick, but I'll have her call them personally if that's what it takes. I'm not above that sort of thing in the pursuit of my goals.” Sumner smiled then. “It's good he has you.” “That's what I tell him all the time.” David looked around the room again and removed his cell phone from his pocket. “Now you need to stop cleaning up this mess and go do something young and carefree. I'll tell Max to phone you as soon as he gets out. I'm going to call his housekeeper, Guadalupe, and see if she can come over and right this mess. She adores him, naturally, since he's our golden boy. She always has. She'll be fiercely determined to eradicate any indication that the police were ever here. They were lucky she wasn't here when they came.” “He has a housekeeper?” Sumner didn't know why that surprised him. The house was clean. It merely seemed that if someone took care of him, Sumner would think that Max wouldn't seem so…alone. David smiled fondly. “Yeah, she worked for our mother for years. She's only taken over the care and feeding of Max recently, since our mother and father passed away. You don't honestly think he'd clean his own house, do you? At any rate, she'll have this place whipped into shape in no time.” “That's nice. I had trouble figuring out where things should go.” The telephone rang. “Shit. That's been ringing off the hook. After the first few crank calls, I just let it ring.” “And so you should. Fuckers. I'll have that disconnected as soon as possible.” David went to the phone and unplugged it. “As for where things go, Lupe has a

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system, which she'll probably take with her to the grave.” David walked past Sumner toward Max's bedroom. “For heaven's sake,” he said, wrinkling his nose on nearing Max's bed. “Were you two getting busy when the police came? How droll that must have been.” He went to the windows and began to open them, pulling back and tying the curtains. When he got to the last one, he pulled the curtains back and searched on the floor, around, leaning over and looking under the bureau. “Was it kinky last night? I can't seem to find this last tie.”

*** Max was once again left alone in the interrogation room. He had the suspicion his brother had arrived; at least he thought that could account for why everyone was looking so annoyed and treating him with such deference. That fucking drapery tie. On a scale of one to ten, ten being the best idea he ever had, his brilliant plan to paint Elena as an homage to the famed Grande Odalisque by Ingres was probably a negative seven. It would be—had been—impossible to convince the police that he'd painted the odalisque portrait of her while she wore a leotard. That her entire body was covered, that he had imagined her anatomy, and that he painted what he thought she must look like under her clothes. It had proved equally impossible to tell them that he didn't actually care what she looked like naked, and that on top of everything else, she had her grandmother knitting benevolently in her customary chair nearby. He'd tied that tieback—that damn drapery tie—with the tassels hanging down her back as a kind of focal point. He wasn't reinventing the wheel. He wasn't repainting Ingres's extra-vertebrae girl. He'd just liked the idea, right then, in the moment. And how could he have foreseen, how could he have imagined that Elena would be murdered? That the tie used as a lark would be tested for trace evidence and his cells and hairs would be found, woven in the very threads he'd woven around Elena's throat the day he'd painted it? Elena as Max Lancaster's Odalisque was seated, not reclining on a fainting couch, and the focus was on that straight, slim back and the tassels that adorned it.

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Her face was turned half away and passive, like in the original painting, but Elena's amazing spine was what he wanted to display. It was a complex, visibly bumpy ladder of bone and muscles and nerves that centered her body even as the tremendous forces of classical ballet, the leaning and stretching and twirling, threatened to pull it apart. Elena's steel-in-silk spine had drawn him in as inexorably as her feet had, driving him to paint it. Elena Genovese…so dazzlingly lovely, so slim and erect and graceful. Max wanted to cry again. He would cry eventually, but not here, not among these people who believed he'd killed that beautiful girl. After the Odalisque painting was complete, which had required several long and grueling sittings for Elena because he'd done that one in oils, Max had allowed Elena to take the tieback, a silky, twisted cord in a deep, smoky olive color, to wear as a sort of scarf, as she'd done in the picture, with a slim black nondescript sort of dress she planned to wear to a high school dance. He'd thought at the time it was a rather dashing, bohemian choice, and he'd given it to her with his blessing and the gratitude he felt at having her model for him. Elena had worn the thing for a few weeks, making it a signature statement piece in her teen wardrobe. Max had his masterpiece, and his muse had her fashion statement. Then someone had gone and wrapped it around her throat, choking off her air, squeezing and pulling the cord until all that vitality, all that beauty and life, were gone as if they'd never been. If Max had eaten, he'd have been sick on the spot. As it was, the terrible coffee they'd finally offered him threatened to disgorge. Lieutenant Cruz entered the room. “Mr. Lancaster, could you stand up, please?” he asked politely. “What is it?” Max asked. “Is my brother here?” “Max Lancaster,” Lieutenant Cruz began. “You are under arrest for the murder of Elena Genovese…” While Cruz Mirandized him, Max reeled with shock. Not that it was so surprising. He was certain that if he were on the outside looking in, his arrest

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would make perfect, horrible sense. They felt they had their case sewed up; it lacked only that elusive motive, but they were trying on several for size, the current favorite being jealousy of the time Elena spent being a carefree high school girl. But even he knew investigators didn't need a motive; it only served to help in a case, and more murders were solved without them than anyone ever suspected. He would be processed, he was told, and then he could see his brother. Someone would be bringing him a sandwich and a bag of chips. When asked, he told them he preferred corn chips. Crap.

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Chapter Five “I think you're making a mistake,” Sumner said again, not afraid to stand toeto-toe with Cruz on this. “I know I'm only a freelance sketch artist, not a cop. But if you go ahead with this, you're probably letting the real killer go free.” “You realize I don't have to tell you anything, right? But for the record, we ordinarily don't arrest guys unless we know we can make a case.” Cruz pushed him back to sit in the visitor's chair in his office. He walked around to his own chair behind the desk, which seemed, to Sumner, taller somehow. As though Sumner were sitting in a kiddie chair. He didn't think that was unintentional. “Did you know he keeps a very pricey sports car locked in a storage garage? It's a Maserati GranTurismo S. You know how much a car like that costs?” “No.” Sumner swallowed. “One hundred twenty thousand dollars,” Cruz informed him. “It goes from zero to sixty in five-point-two seconds. I looked it up. Watched an informative twominute video at the Maserati Web site. Now if I could just save three years' worth of my annual salary…” “What does his car—” “It's hard to imagine putting a nice girl in the trunk of a car like that. It's hard to imagine she'd fit. But she must have because we have hair evidence to confirm she was in there.” “He could not have harmed Elena. No matter what you tell me, I won't believe that.” Sumner clenched his hands on the arms of the chair. “Pixie dust.” “It's a mistake.”

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“It's not a mistake. It's science.” “Anything can have a girl's hair on it. Girls leave hair everywhere.” “That's just sad, Ellison. If we go over the body and find carpet fibers from a Maserati? Even pixie dust won't make that go away.” Sumner pressed his lips together. “I'm sorry, Sumner, if your involvement with Lancaster has made this difficult for you.” “This isn't about my involvement with Lancaster.” Sumner heard Cruz snort. “Not entirely. I was there, Cruz, both when he found out Elena was dead and when he found out how she was murdered. The shock on his face—” “I don't have the time it would take to explain why the look on his face isn't important to me. I've seen things you can't imagine, and if there's one thing I know? It's that people lie every day. Both to each other and to themselves. I like you, Sumner. I think you're a good kid, but don't waste any more time on this. Let the police do their work, and then let the courts handle the rest.” “But—” “I need you to leave now,” said Cruz, getting up. “I'm sorry, son, really. But I have a job to do.” Sumner left his office and walked down the bleak hallway. Everywhere people seemed busy, phones rang, copiers hummed, and men and women went from desk to desk, exchanging file folders and low-voiced conversations. He headed for the exit, but on the way out he caught a glimpse of Max. Two officers led him, in handcuffs, toward the elevators. “Max.” The second he said it he realized he shouldn't have. Max heard his name and looked up, but whatever look of welcome he had on his face died when he saw who it was that called to him. “Sumner,” Max said coolly. He turned to the officer who had a hand on his arm. “Can I have a second?” He got a nod.

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“Max, are you…?” Sumner realized the absurdity of asking Max if he was all right before he got out the words. “Is there anything I can do?” “My brother is here somewhere; he'll see to things.” Instead of meeting his eyes, Max looked over Sumner's shoulder, and for some reason it hurt. “I tried to clean your place up a little.” “It must be a mess.” Max ignored the officer who gave him a grunt and a tug. “I hear that Guadalupe will be on the case shortly. When you get home, it should be put back to rights.” “When I get home,” Max echoed. “You will.” Sumner wanted to grab his hand and hold it, but he didn't dare. “You will, Max.” Max gave the barest of smiles. “Thanks, kid.” Sumner felt dismissed. He felt like a child who pulls on the coat of his idol and gets spectacularly ignored. “See you around.” The elevator bell chimed, and Max turned away.

*** The accommodations were spartan at best. Max had to hand it to his new little corner of the world, though. His jailors hadn't been too rough, and he'd been left alone in a cell. If it hadn't been for the noise and the smell, he'd probably have been able to close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else. A monastery or an insane asylum. Maybe then he could have enjoyed the solitude. Because he'd been processed on a Sunday, he was required to wait until Monday for his arraignment. It was scheduled for the morning cattle call, his brother told him, and his attorney would see him there. He would most likely be released on bail but might be required to wear an electronic surveillance device. His attorney would work out the details with the DA's office. The minute Davy arrived, he'd said, “Don't panic.” He'd grinned the same grin he'd worn when they'd read their science fiction and fantasy books together as kids.

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They had both said, “And carry a towel,” at the exact same time. Max looked into Davy's eyes then and felt such peace. Davy would take care of things. As for the rest, it was up to him to wait. Max flopped back and threw an arm over his eyes. The thought of spending the rest of his life like this, enclosed in this small space, subject to the rules and regulations of others, wasn't even comprehensible to him yet. That kind of future would require that his spirit be ground down over a long period of time by daily reality checks. He knew he couldn't conceive of such a thing right then, any more than he could conceive of living in a world without land masses or air. What bothered him right then was the look on Sumner's face when he'd seen him at the station. Fuck. How he wished he'd come around that corner ten minutes earlier or ten minutes later. Any time, in fact, when Sumner couldn't see him being led, handcuffed, off to jail. That had been a moment of intense personal shame, and that was saying a lot considering he was Max Lancaster and he'd sort of made personal shame his standout competitive event. But Sumner's face had that look— that, say-it-isn't-so-Joe face—worn by children and mothers only when a man has completely exceeded their worst expectations in some epic and spectacular way. When all chance at being redeemed in their eyes is lost. Until that very moment, Max didn't realize just how important Sumner's good opinion was to him. He actually thought he'd given up hope from that quarter when Sumner admitted he was afraid. Still. The heart will go on its mad dash to find a reason to believe the best of a bad situation, and Max had held something optimistic inside himself until he'd seen Sumner standing there, crushed. Max rolled over to face the wall. No matter what he did here in this tiny cell, whether he stayed awake or slept or walked around or went barking mad, at least he couldn't harm anyone. That had to count for something. Davy would bring him some art supplies, and then he could draw. He'd gone to Alcatraz as a kid on some field trip and recalled seeing that one of the prisoners had

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painted. The keepers of that peculiar museum had arranged a tableau to decorate his cell. Perhaps, Max thought, he'd become known as a prison artist or could teach art to his fellow miscreants. Which was funny because one of the many, many charities that could count on him each year for a large donation was the Arts By Offenders program of the Koestler Trust in the UK, for which he'd been both a charitable sponsor and a mentor over the years. It was a safe bet that his notoriety would put the price of his work through the roof, even though he could never benefit from it. Elena would have. That was ironic. Earlier in the year, Max rewrote his gallery contracts to place a percentage of his earnings from the Elena paintings into a trust for her, although at this point it didn't amount to more than a few thousand dollars. He'd hoped to be able to give it to her as a graduation gift, figuring maybe she'd buy herself a little prom-queen convertible and a semester or two of college tuition. He would have liked to see her driving around town with the top down, carting around a load of her friends, being carefree and youthful. Now he feared it made him look that much more guilty. With the police going over his finances so closely, they'd noticed it and hammered him with questions. Why would anyone, they asked, set up a trust for a person he wasn't involved with in some way? Yes, why? Max lay on his bunk while he forced himself to even out his breathing. He cleared his mind. Using the noises in the jail as a kind of backdrop for his imagination, which he had always been able to command at will to take him where he wanted to go, he imagined that he was alone in some sort of industrial building, listening to the manufacture of widgets. Anywhere but where he was. It wouldn't hurt him to be in prison. It was just another thing. He wasn't married to his freedom. He didn't long for the sun or the sky. Whatever happened was fine. Because long before incarceration would have a chance to take its toll, he was sure he would die of a broken heart.

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*** Sumner sat across from Elena's grandmother. Her room, a tiny bedroom in the loft apartment directly above Max's that she shared with Elena's family, was a land where time stood still. The entire apartment couldn't have been more different from Max's had it been in another world. Unlike the open floor plan of Max's apartment, which gave it that loft cachet, the Genovese apartment was partitioned like a normal house, with floor to ceiling walls separating the living spaces. It had traditional community areas: living room, dining room, kitchen. The bedrooms of the family members could be found down hallways to the right and left of these. Elena's grandmother led him to the left and down a long hallway to the room that was clearly her domain. Antique furniture and diminutive tapestry chairs had been placed around a sitting area, daintily waiting for smaller people than Sumner to come and sit in them. It felt like a dollhouse. “What can I do for you?” She clutched a damp lace handkerchief in her wrinkled hand. “My name is Sumner Ellison, Mrs. Genovese. I just wanted to talk to you about Max Lancaster. I thought maybe you could help me.” “Call me Nonna.” Her speech was lightly accented. “You're the artist who drew the picture of the boy I saw with Elena, right?” “That's right, Nonna.” “They say it wasn't him, that Max did it.” She wiped her eyes. “Do you believe them?” “I don't know what to believe. I can't think so good right now.” Her gaze drifted to a small writing desk where she kept a picture of Elena, taken when the girl was probably around age six. “What did you think of Max?” Sumner asked gently. “When he was painting Elena. I understand you were with her most of the time?”

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“All of the time,” she stated flatly. “I was with her every time, all the time. It isn't proper for a young girl to be in a man's apartment alone.” “That's true,” Sumner said. “But, Nonna, Max wasn't that kind of a man. Did you know that?” “You mean he liked men, yes?” “Yes.” He worried for a moment that she found the subject distasteful, but she simply shrugged. “I know. Still. It isn't always about how things are. A woman's reputation can depend also on how they appear.” “Very true,” said Sumner. “And I didn't want anyone to have any doubts that my Elena was a good girl. Her mama and papa work, so I watch.” She brought the handkerchief to her eyes. “Watched.” “I'm so sorry,” Sumner told her. “I know she didn't sneak around. I was once a young girl. I would have known. It's hard to pull the wool over the eyes of an old sheep.” Sumner grinned at her. “I'm certain. And from the way that Max speaks of you, he likes you very much.” She nodded, and her eyes filled once more with tears. “He bought me a chair for his house so I would be comfortable. He was very kind to me. To Elena he was never anything but a gentleman. No one in this house believes he could have had anything to do with this awful thing.” “He'll be so very relieved to hear that, ma'am. They've arrested him.” “They told me.” Nonna grimaced. “The police. I told them what I thought. They made up their own minds. I hope they come to their senses.” “About the boy in the sketch I did…” “I don't know who that is. He's not a boy from school or one of the young men I've met who had eyes for my Elena.”

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“Both you and Max saw her with him?” “Yes,” she said. “We were looking out the window of his studio. Waiting for her to come home from school. She was going to pose in her new shoes.” Her lips pressed firmly together. “I see.” “We saw her walking with him, whoever he was,” she said. “He kissed her on both cheeks, like an Italian boy, and then she came inside and he left.” “The police don't know who he is?” “Not yet. At least, that's what they told me. But they don't seem to be trying so hard. They think that Max is the one. Stupid men.” Sumner rolled his eyes. “I know. I tried to tell them too. They dismissed everything I said because they think I…” Sumner didn't want to say too much. “Do you care for him?” asked Nonna shrewdly. “Yes. When we met, I thought…” Sumner swallowed hard. “I thought I was so lucky.” She smiled. “He is a good man. The police will find out eventually.” “Yes.” “They will find out the truth. Don't let Max lose hope.” “Thank you. Is there anyone who may know who the mystery boy might be?” “Maybe her friend Anne. They had no secrets from each other.” “Do you have her number?” Nonna's face fell. “I don't, but my daughter, Elena's mother, would have it. It would have been in Elena's phone. Anne Jackson. She was in dance with Elena at the academy. If you leave your number, my daughter will call you. They took time away today. They will be there tomorrow when Max goes before the judge.” “Thank you, Nonna.” Sumner rose and wrote his number on piece of note paper at the writing desk. When he turned back, she was weeping softly into her handkerchief. “I'm so sorry for your loss, Nonna.”

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“Thank you.” When he started for the door of her room, he could see her struggle to rise from her chair. Maybe she had arthritis in her knees? He put out a hand to stop her. “No, Nonna. I'll see myself out.” As pointless as it seemed, when he left Nonna's room, Sumner looked for Elena's. He felt every inch the intruder. When he located it, he entered, then closed the door soundlessly behind him. Elena's room contained the furnishings typical of any young woman. She had a brass bed with attractive, if juvenile, bedding. More Pottery Barn than Walmart. It seemed finer than the things he'd had as a teenager. Richer, somehow. Thicker fabric, fluffier pillows. Sumner looked over the cluttered tops of her dresser and desk and briefly scanned the bulletin board where she'd pinned pictures of her friends. The boy he'd sketched wasn't among them. They were all girls, mostly dance pictures or small strips of pictures from photo booths. He wondered which was Anne and lifted the loose corners of several of them. Many were signed. Sumner searched until he found one that said Anne on the back—a particularly impish redheaded girl—and pulled it off, accidentally dropping the thumbtack. When it hit the desk and spun, the clatter seemed deafening in the silent room. He froze, looking behind him at the door. Either Nonna didn't hear him or she wasn't inclined to investigate. He let out the breath he'd been holding. Acting quickly, he opened her closet door and got a waft of some fragrance he thought was lavender, like the sachets his mother and grandmother placed in drawers. It seemed to be coming from heavily padded satin hangers and made him inexplicably sad. The room itself was like a jewel box, created by loving parents for their most prized treasure. Everything was neat and orderly, as if she'd understood her good fortune. It was definitely not the way he'd kept his room. His sisters were no neater, so unless they'd begun making teenage girls differently than they had in the past, Elena could be considered extraordinary. He went through the drawers in the desk, assuming the police had done the same when she'd disappeared. He didn't know what he was looking for. He went to

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her bed and sat, looking through the nightstand drawers. While he was going through a stack of CDs sitting next to a player on her desk, he began to notice she had a number of discs that were mixed and burned with the same label. Ajax10101. Even as Sumner chided himself for violating the girl's privacy, he removed one from the stack and put it in his pocket. There was no sign of a computer or a laptop. Maybe the police had taken the electronics. He checked the backs of the pictures hanging on her walls, his own favorite boyhood hiding place, and didn't find anything. He looked under her pillows and under her bed; the only thing he found was a half-empty package of Lindt truffle balls. The sight of that chocolate candy stabbed at him. He dropped the bed skirt back into place and stood. It was as painful as it was unremarkable. A secret stash of chocolate in the room of a teenage girl. As Sumner eased back down the hallway toward the door, he heard Elena's grandmother crying. Sighing deeply, he looked through the peephole before opening the front door and then left the Genovese apartment behind.

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Chapter Six “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” said Cruz when Sumner arrived at the courthouse for Max's arraignment. “What?” Sumner asked. He had come wearing a hunting hat with flaps and aviator sunglasses that obscured a large part of his face. He knew it was absurd, but Max's face when he'd seen him at the station was so crestfallen. “Are you supposed to be trick-or-treating? What's with the disguise?” “Look.” Sumner lowered his voice. “I'm not sure Max Lancaster would want me to be here, all right? He doesn't seem to—” “None of my business,” Cruz told him. “Just go in and sit in the back and shut up.” “Thank you.” Sumner started to walk away, but Cruz caught his arm. “You seem like a nice guy. I can't figure you for a murder groupie. There are lots of nice—” Sumner pulled free of Cruz's grip. “I'm here for Max. I don't believe he's capable of this.” Cruz rolled his eyes. “Murder groupies never do.” Sumner felt his cheeks heat. “Cheer up, Cruz. You only have to prove it to the jury, not to me.” Cruz leaned into him and hissed in his ear. “You think I like this? That getting a conviction is all that matters?” Sumner lowered his eyes.

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“I think you need to get a grip.” Cruz backed up when Sumner flinched. “Somebody crushed that little girl's windpipe, probably while he was looking her right in the eye. If it was your boyfriend, I want him in jail. If it wasn't? I want whoever did do it. That's all I've ever wanted.” Sumner looked at his shoes. “I'm sorry.” Cruz sighed. “I know you are, kid. I am too. Go find a seat.” Sumner left him and slunk into a row in the back of the small courtroom. Nothing about it reminded him of the dramas he'd seen on television. He took in the scene; Mondays were as busy as things would ever get for the tiny seaside community. The prosecutor shuffled a handful of files on his desk. Max watched as the public defender went through his own files. One by one, the defendants were led to stand before the judge, hear the charges against them, and to plead. They looked by turns defiant, angry, frightened, and bored. The officers of the court looked bored too, like they'd already heard the worst that humanity has to offer and couldn't be shocked by it anymore. When it was finally Max's turn, Sumner slid even lower into his seat. He could feel Max's eyes travel around the room as he was led in handcuffs from where he'd been waiting on a bench against the wall. Sumner assumed Max was looking for David Lancaster, who was sitting a few rows in front of him. He knew the moment Max found his brother by his relieved sigh and the slight relaxing of his shoulders. David nodded to Max, and Max smiled. A well-dressed man came forward to flank him. Compared to the public defender, Max's attorney looked calm and jovial, as if this were a mere formality, a minor mistake to be cleared up by the stroke of a pen as soon as he was able to find the time. Sumner tried to hear the words that the prosecutor and Max's attorney were saying, but a woman next to him was talking to her girlfriend in Spanish, holding forth as if she were reading War and Peace aloud. Eventually he heard Max plead not guilty to the charge of murder in the first degree. That surprised Sumner. The

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DA thought he could prove that Elena's murder was premeditated. How did he come to that conclusion? While the players in the front of the courtroom argued about whether Max was a flight risk, Sumner held his breath, waiting to see Max's reaction to what the judge had to say. He heard the words well-known, ties to the community, and family from Max's attorney. But the prosecutor talked about Max's money. And about the existence of a boat—which the DA made sound like a serious flight risk even though Max's attorney called it nothing more than a dingy for fishing. They argued about possible danger to the community and Max's well-connected foreign friends and colleagues. There was much posturing by both sides as they went back and forth until the judge ruled, setting astronomical bail and requiring an electronic surveillance device and directing Max to relinquish his passport. All the while, Max remained impassive. Even though Sumner looked for the minutest trace—a twitch, a flinch, a jerk of muscle—that might be a clue to what Max was feeling, he saw nothing. Max hadn't betrayed a single emotion since he'd locked eyes with his brother. He seemed to have complete faith. The prosecutor didn't look unhappy. Max's defense attorney stood by coolly as they led Max away. He might even have given his opponent a friendly wave on his way out. Max would be returned to the jail to be processed back out. They were shuffling through the next case when Sumner ducked out of the courtroom. He was looking for Cruz when he heard his name. “Sumner.” David Lancaster laughed and popped the brim of his hat with one finger, dislodging it. “Are you one of the Hardy Boys?” Sumner grabbed for it as it fell. “I just… I think I embarrassed Max when I saw him being booked.” David's face turned solemn. “I don't think it was you, exactly.” “He seemed upset, and I was sorry for that. I wasn't at the station to see him; I was just there at the wrong time—”

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“I'm sure he understands.” David took his shoulder and began to lead him to the elevators. “And I'm sure he'll be grateful that you donned this foolproof disguise.” He grinned. Sumner shrugged. David's grip was firm, and he had little choice but to go where David Lancaster led. He thought that was probably the reaction most people had to Max's brother. “I wanted to talk to you. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?” “Yeah, sure.” Sumner looked back at the courtroom once. “How long do you think it will be before they let Max out?” “It will be hours yet.” The elevator doors opened, and they entered together and kept their voices low as it descended to the lobby level of the courthouse. “If not, you can bake him a cake with a file in it.” “Metal detectors,” Sumner said matter-of-factly. “Cakes with files are so last century.” “What do people do now?” “It's mostly all about helicopters and flash grenades these days.” “No shit?” “Yeah.” David's eyes were so warm. They disarmed Sumner completely, where Max's challenged and drew him in like a tractor beam. “You gonna do that for my baby brother?” David teased. Sumner found his smile for the first time that day. “Nope. Can't fly. Got no money. It's all up to you and the legal eagles.” David continued his teasing until they exited the building. “Where's there coffee around here?” he asked, looking up and down the busy street. Sumner jerked his head to the right. “This way.” He couldn't stop himself from asking the question that was uppermost on his mind. “What's going to happen next?”

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“Next? We'll find a way to prove he had nothing to do with this.” David continued to walk beside him as though he didn't have a care in the world. They entered the small coffeehouse and ordered, waiting for someone to abandon a table so they could sit. Sumner couldn't think of anything to say, but David must have decided he needed reassuring. “Max is in good hands with Abel Jameson, his attorney. Abel doesn't like to lose.” The corners of David's mouth lifted in a trace of a smile. “I wish I were as optimistic.” “Is there something you're not telling me?” David asked, looking Sumner over. Sumner shook his head. “You haven't known my brother very long, I take it.” “No.” Sumner hesitated. “I work as a freelance sketch artist for the police department. I was working on a sketch of some boyfriend of Elena's before they found her body. I… We got to know each other.” “Really?” “Yes. I only just met him.” David's eyebrows stayed up, but he said nothing. Sumner flushed. He knew he didn't have to explain. “But I'd seen him before. He spoke at my school several times.” “I see.” “I admit I had a thing for him.” Sumner slumped a little. He noticed a man with a laptop gathering his papers and equipment, so he edged over to lay claim to his table as soon as he stood up. “I don't have a lot of concrete reasons to believe that he didn't harm that girl,” he said finally. “Well. I've known him forever, and he didn't,” said David implacably. “How was he holding up mentally?” Sumner met David's eyes. “I'm not sure I know what you mean.” “Well”—David turned the paper coffee cup in his hands—“Max has always been a little high-strung.”

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“He did seem nervous,” Sumner said carefully as he slid into a chair on one side of the table. David sat in the other and immediately began wiping the table's surface with a napkin. “Well, that's understandable. Of course it is. He was worried about Elena. He really cared for her. Even put some money in trust for her from the paintings. Little good it will do her now, I guess.” “It's so sad.” Sumner stared at his coffee without drinking it. “Look. I want to level with you,” David told him. “When Max was a kid…he…well sometimes he had trouble sleeping, you know?” “He told me he sleepwalks.” “He told you?” David sat back and frowned, then leaned forward again. It would be impossible to mistake his urgency. “Oh, crap. He's not doing it again, is he?” “Yes.” Sumner picked up his coffee to hide his nervousness. “He's been sleepwalking for several nights since Elena's disappearance.” Not a flicker of response showed on David's handsome face. It was so like Max's that Sumner found it eerie, yet he knew David was surprised somehow, even upset by his revelation. “Did he tell you that?” “Yes.” David's tension, if anything, rose. “Did you see it? For yourself, I mean. Did he do it while you were there?” “No.” “So…it may have just been his fear talking.” David blew out a breath. “I was hoping he'd finally gotten control of that. Why didn't he tell me?” “I don't know. Maybe he just—” “I'll bet it's been happening since our parents passed away last June.” David hung his head. “I know he's seemed on edge. He probably wouldn't tell me.”

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“I don't know. He asked me to be there with him to see what he did. Why wouldn't he ask you for help?” David shook his head. “He's not like that. He knows I have a family. I live in Sacramento, and I travel constantly.” “Maybe he didn't want to worry you.” “But I am worried,” David told him. “I'm worried now more than ever.” “Why?” David looked out the window of the coffee shop. He seemed to weigh each word. “How much of this will get back to the police?” Sumner lifted his chin. “Depends on what you tell me, I guess. Have you ever known Max to be a danger to himself or others?” “No, of course not.” David bit his lip. “No. But when he was a kid, sometimes…” Sumner felt his heart speed up. “Look.” He stood up, feeling confused. “You really don't have to tell me anything.” David caught his hand. “Maybe you can help me.” He pulled Sumner back down. “Maybe you can help Max.” Sumner was silent for a long time. “I will if I can.” “Fair enough.” David looked at his hands for a time as if he were trying to decide how much to say. “When Sumner was little, sometimes when he was sleepwalking, he did…unpredictable things.” “Harmful things?” “No, nothing like that. Well…no, not really.” David scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Crap! Why is this so hard after all these years? I used to watch out for him when he was up at night. Did he tell you that? He was so… Our parents thought he hung the moon, you know? And when he did anything unpredictable, inevitably…” His face tightened. “Anyway, I always tried to stay alert. One night I

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was so tired. I'd studied late the night before. I just… I dropped the ball, Sumner. He… We had a pet bird, a blue and yellow macaw, and—” Sumner got up so quickly his chair slid back and fell over. He righted it, all the while feeling the eyes of everyone watching him. “I don't want to know this,” he mumbled, picking up his coffee. David shook his head. “It wasn't his fault, Sumner. Accidents happen, don't they? He didn't know what he was doing. He loved that bird. We all did.” Sumner started to stumble away. “Just…don't, okay? I know you're trying to help. Just don't.” Once he was outside the coffee shop, Sumner took a deep breath. It was one thing to be afraid of something, to let it spook you but hope it wasn't true. To believe it couldn't be true. It was another to look it in the eye, and right then Sumner didn't feel close to capable of that. He kept his eyes on the ground, walking toward the courthouse, and winced when he bumped up against a solid mass of flesh. “Sumner?” Cruz caught him before he could fall. “Are you all right?” “I'm…yes. No.” He looked into Cruz's eyes. “What is it?” Sumner panicked. Should he share the information he'd just received? Should he tell Cruz what David Lancaster told him about Max in confidence? Sumner weighed his personal stake in the outcome against the need to protect others. The moment David had spoken of Max's sleepwalking—and his bird—Sumner's bravado shattered. It took him past his grief, past his faith, until he felt like he was clinging to an ever-shrinking iceberg of hope in tropical waters. Maybe it wasn't hope he was clinging to but delusion. “Accidents happen, don't they?” Sumner looked back the way he'd come, but he didn't see any sign of David Lancaster. “Max has a past,” he whispered. Cruz gazed at him thoughtfully. “What?”

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“A history.” Sumner saw Cruz through a haze of pain. “Dig into Max's history.” He brushed past Cruz then and ran to the parking garage where he had left his car. Once there, alone with his thoughts, he allowed himself to feel the full impact of David's words. “It wasn't his fault. He loved that bird. We all did.” Shit.

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Chapter Seven Having satisfied themselves that Max was at home and unlikely to cause problems, the police left him—with his electronic monitoring ankle cuff—in his apartment building in David's care. Guadalupe had spent the day working her magic. The place looked exactly the same as it ever had. Max dropped his keys into the bowl on the console. Behind him, David did the same, then went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Thank heaven you have beer; I thought I'd die of boredom,” David drawled. He twisted off a cap and handed a bottle to Max, then opened one for himself. “You're the one who chose a career in law,” Max reminded him. “Yes, but you don't see me eking out a living as a public defender, do you?” He walked past Max and flopped onto the couch. He slipped off his elegant leather loafers and lifted his stocking feet to the coffee table. Max stayed where he was in the open kitchen. He held his beer and looked around him, disoriented and almost light-headed with relief. “It's good to be home,” he murmured. “Ah, kid.” David patted the couch beside him, and Max obediently crossed the room to sit. “I worried that I wouldn't be allowed out on bail.” “You didn't need to lose sleep over it. There wasn't any reason for them to remand you. You're a first-time offender; you have ties to the community; you own property here. You have family. Your work is all here. You're innocent until they prove you guilty. The rest was the DA's office posturing.”

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“Still…” Max looked down at the rug that delineated the living room space, and he breathed in the scents that made up his home. He could smell the powder Lupe used in the vacuum cleaner to freshen the air; she must have used leather cleaner on the couch too. Something about that made him feel vaguely comforted. “Still nothing. They have a difficult case to make ahead of them. Everything they have so far can be explained away. They're not going to get a judge to deny you bail solely on what they've gathered so far.” “I didn't do it.” “Well, of course you didn't.” David shook his head. “You don't think I believe you did?” “I guess not.” “Of course you don't,” David repeated. “We're going to have to hire a private investigator to find out everything we can about Elena's movements—” “No.” “No?” David blinked. “What do you mean no? We have to know everything about her last few days. Our best hope of getting you off the hook is to find out who else may have killed her.” Max's beer threatened to come back up. “It's not right to poke and pry into her life. She's the victim. When I think how frightened she must have been, how awful—” “Unless we find out who killed her, you're going to be a victim too. Is that what you want?” Max got up abruptly. “When has this ever been about what I want? I want Elena alive. I want her to walk through that door and make fun of my taste in music and try to drink my beer.” He turned toward the bedroom so David wouldn't see the tears in his eyes. “I'm tired, Davy.” “All right.” David stood and drank down the last of his beer. “I'm so sorry, Maxi. It will have to come down to finding out who did this, and I'm not going to lie

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and say I won't do everything I can to get you out of it. I took the liberty of having your phone shut off. You don't need the press and the fucking crazies on top of everything else. Turn off your cell phone.” He threw the bottle into the kitchen trash. Max turned. “Maybe I should just—” “Don't you say it,” David told him as he picked up his keys. “Don't you even think it. You didn't do this. I'm not going to let you go to jail for something you didn't do.” “Davy.” Max hesitated. “It's been happening again.” David moved forward in a rush and pulled him into a fierce hug. “It doesn't matter. I know you didn't do this.” Max returned his hug. “Thank you.” He wanted to stuff his fist in his mouth so he wouldn't just blurt out all of his doubts. “Thank you.” “Get some sleep,” David told him. “Or paint something beautiful. Leave the worrying to lawyers.” Max almost grinned. “At last, a use for lawyers that doesn't include tying them to something and dropping them into deep water.” David glared at him as he opened the front door. “Better stop telling lawyer jokes,” he growled. “We're going to be your new best friends.”

*** Max was asleep long before his usual bedtime, but fitfully. He woke several times during the night, only to discover that minutes, not hours, had passed. Finally, at about one in the morning, he got up and went to the kitchen for a beer. The ankle cuff chafed his skin. Beyond the large windows of the studio, there was little to see but the empty silence of fog. The pure dead eeriness of it caught at him, tearing away at the part of his life that seemed civilized and routine. Maybe the man who killed his ballerina, his beautiful Elena, was out there. He'd harmed someone so precious to Max that his loss of faith, painful though it

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was, couldn't begin to compete with his grief. He couldn't stop asking himself questions. What had Elena been through? Had she known her killer? Had she looked into her killer's eyes? Was it someone she loved? Someone she trusted? Had the light in her own eyes faded with the final realization that she was going to die? Whoever he was, he was probably sleeping. Max pulled a chair over to the window and peered into the darkness. Whoever he was, Max thought as his heart crumbled to ash, unless it was me.

*** Sumner fidgeted while he waited for Cruz to finish up on the phone. The man was speaking in monosyllables, but Sumner could tell he was agitated by the way he raked his hand through his hair. He couldn't imagine why Cruz called him in at six a.m. anymore than he could begin to understand why he'd come. But he had. Something in Cruz's voice— “Sumner.” Cruz stood up and closed the door. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” Sumner murmured something appropriately noncommittal. Cruz sat down at his desk. “There's been another murder.” “What?” Sumner didn't think he'd heard correctly. “Another young girl's body has been dumped on the Chaparral Golf Course.” Sumner just stared. He had no clue how to respond. “Even though the body was dumped last night, the time of death puts the murder when Lancaster was in custody.” “That's…” Sumner thought about it. “That's great. For Max, I mean. It proves—” Cruz cut him off. “It doesn't prove anything.” “How can you say that?” Sumner leaned forward. “If Max Lancaster was in custody when this girl was killed…”

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“They're going through the evidence now, but I believe they'll find it's a copycat.” “How do you know that?” Cruz pursed his lips. “I was at the crime scene half the night. The evidence was off.” “Off how?” asked Sumner. He really didn't understand. “Manual strangulation for one thing, and her clothes, they just seemed… I don't believe it was the same guy. This girl wasn't a dancer; she was older, harder.” “But, couldn't Elena being a dancer be—I don't know—just some sort of weird coincidence.” “I don't think Elena was killed because she was a dancer, I think she was killed because she was Lancaster's muse and something went wrong. Maybe she finally told him she didn't want to pose anymore. They'd been leading up to that. She wanted to spend more time with her friends, being a kid, but the popularity of the portraits of Elena, the series he did in oils, and the price they were commanding, meant there was a hell of a lot of money involved. Plus, as you yourself are aware, he's a charismatic guy. Maybe she wanted more from him than he could give her and they had a fight about that. I don't know. I think this new girl is somebody whose killer wants us to think it's the same when it's not.” Sumner got to his feet. “There are a lot of assumptions in your theories, Cruz. Max can, and does, paint from photographs when he needs to. And Elena's not going to be interested in a guy Max's age when she can have guys that look like the boy from the picture I drew. Max didn't lead her on—” “How do you know that? You never saw them interact. Maybe he flattered and flirted with her to get her to pose. Maybe the average kid isn't mature enough for her, so this attractive artist comes along and he starts telling her how beautiful she is, maybe that he wishes she were old enough for him.” “He can't have. Nonna would have shut anything like that down immediately.”

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“Nonna?” Cruz's eyebrows rose. “Elena's grandmother.” “You seem awfully familiar with her all of a sudden. I thought you only met her when you sketched that kid.” “She lives in Max's apartment building, and I went to talk to her about Elena.” When Cruz shot him an annoyed grimace, Sumner waved it off. “Feel free to sue me. She said he never did anything improper, and she would know. She's old-school. She chaperoned the two of them every time.” “Are you trying to tell me you don't think Elena, a teenage girl, could possibly get around parental supervision? Even the kind dished out by old-school grandmothers? Come back to earth, Sumner. I have a jail full of kids who shock the shit out of their parents every day.” “Why did you even ask me here? You must have had a reason, and it can't be to simply reiterate your theory that Max Lancaster killed Elena Genovese, regardless of any evidence to the contrary.” “You need to tell me why you told me to dig into Max's history,” Cruz said grimly. “I've been wondering what you meant by that since you said it.” A sudden wave of guilt washed over Sumner. “Forget it. I didn't mean anything.” Sumner had regretted saying anything almost the instant it left his mouth. He'd been up half the night, knowing his temporary loss of faith in Max would come back to bite him in the ass. Even if there had been some sort of accident, Max would never have covered it up. David…maybe. Max wouldn't have been able to hide his guilt or his shame, but David might see it as his duty to try to divert suspicion. Maybe. “Yes. You did. When you bumped into me, you looked scared, and now I'm asking you what you know that you didn't tell me. I can compel you to tell me, I can charge you with obstruction if you don't, although I don't think it's in either of our best interests for me to do that.”

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“I don't understand why you're working so hard to prove Max did this. It may be the simplest answer, but that's not always the right answer, is it?” “More often than not, Sumner, it is.” Cruz sighed. “But more important, I want to preempt any attempts Lancaster's lawyers make to get the case jettisoned on his behalf simply because we have another murder. The two may not be connected at all.” “But why?” Sumner asked again. “Why Lancaster? Why not just some serial killer, or the boyfriend, or some anonymous pervert who decided he likes pretty ballerinas?” “What if Lancaster's the pervert who likes pretty ballerinas?” Sumner shook his head. “Even if he loved pretty ballerinas, it doesn't prove he kills them. I simply don't buy it.” “But yesterday you did. I saw it in your eyes,” Cruz reminded him. “No. Never. I never believed he murdered Elena. Look, if you looked into Max's past and you didn't find anything—” “I didn't say that,” said Cruz. “In fact, I found a lot of things. It wasn't hard to track down the reason that the Lancasters had a special alarm installed inside Max's bedroom when he was a kid.” Sumner looked down. “I see you've heard the stories.” “David Lancaster told me.” “Did he also tell you that pets in the area went missing and were sometimes found dead?” Sumner's eyes snapped open. “Pets? More than one?” Cruz let out a sigh. “So it's true then.” “What the hell?” Sumner leaned forward. “You played me?” “I just guessed, Sumner, but you gave me the answer.”

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“I don't know what you know; how can I know if it's true. Shit.” Sumner ran a hand through his hair. “It's too early for this crap.” Cruz shuffled papers on his desk, a sure sign he was getting ready to dismiss him. “I'm sorry. I really am. But the pet thing is true; the neighborhood did experience a rash of pet thefts right about the same time Lancaster's parents had an alarm company install a specialty alarm on their house. It's a matter of public record because the Lancasters had to file the alarm permit with the police.” Cruz folded his hands like a doctor who needed to deliver bad news. “You know how these things work, Sumner. You know what we look for. Lots of these guys start small, with animals. Lancaster looks good for this, and I don't want to lose him because some copycat came along.” “But the other girl wasn't a dancer,” Sumner whispered. “Her name was Isabelle Allen,” Cruz said grimly. “And no, she wasn't. But I don't think it's about that for Lancaster.” Sumner shook his head. “I can't help you.” “You'll be considered a hostile witness by the DA.” “I can't believe this of him.” Cruz just shrugged. “We're done here anyway. I just wanted to know what you knew, and now I do.” Sumner got up, yanking his laptop bag over his shoulder. “I'm aware that you think I'm an idiot.” He bit back the desire to say it was mutual. “I believe you're wrong about Lancaster. But if you're not and something—some accident—did cause Elena's death? I'm not going to smuggle him out of the country in the trunk of my car or anything. Just so you know.” Cruz's voice stopped him before he could get to the door. “Sumner—” Sumner turned. “What?” Cruz stood uncertainly; regret and something like concern passed over his homely features. He tilted his head to one side and shrugged. “Be careful.”

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*** Sumner knew that going to Max's apartment at six thirty in the morning, even armed with coffee and pastries, wasn't going to win him any friends. Max didn't seem like the early morning type, if Sumner was any judge. He wondered if Max's lawyer knew yet about the second murder, and what kind of drama was playing out in the district attorney's office. Cruz was convinced he had his man, but would he be able to convince the DA when it became known there was a second victim? To Sumner's surprise, Max answered the door right away. “Yes?” Max stood in the doorway wearing only jeans, spattered with paint. His expression was unreadable. “Hi. I didn't think you'd be—” Sumner blinked at him for a minute. “I brought you breakfast.” “Why would you do that?” Max didn't invite him in. Sumner didn't have much of an answer for him. “I—” “Look,” Max said warily, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I'm sorry if you got the wrong idea.” Sumner frowned. “I didn't.” “What?” “I didn't get the wrong idea. You did, if you think you can just brush me off when I brought breakfast at this hour in the morning.” He pushed his way past Max and into the kitchen. He could see light from beyond the partition wall that delineated Max's studio. He'd obviously interrupted Max's work. Maybe he'd get to see what he was working on. “I don't mean to be rude, kid, but—” “Then I suggest you begin by calling me Sumner, which is my name,” Sumner said evenly. Max's coffeemaker was going, but Sumner still pressed a piping hot latte into the man's hands. “Sumner. You shouldn't be here.”

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Sumner looked up from the croissants he was plating. “Where should I be?” He lifted them to offer one to Max, who took it, and then Sumner sauntered into the studio. The familiar scents of paint and canvas and the aroma of the coffee he brought teased his nostrils. Once again it reminded him pleasantly of art school. He turned to look at the canvas on Max's easel and froze with shock. “Sumner—” “You're painting me?” The canvas was heavily imbued with a peculiar shade of blue, done in Max's inimitable spare style. It lacked the lyrical grace of the ballerina portraits but was a masterpiece of unspoken emotion. “Why?” Max walked to the window. “I don't know.” “I don't look…” Sumner approached the painting. “I look unhappy.” “I kept thinking about how you looked at the station.” “I see.” Sumner turned his attention to Max, who was squinting into the early morning light. “Is that how you see me? As pathetic?” “Disillusioned, maybe. Disappointed. Dispirited.” Max sipped his coffee. “For the record, I'm a black-coffee man.” “All right. I'll try to remember that.” Sumner looked at the painting again. “You made me look younger than I am.” “Maybe. A little.” “Young and pathetic. Great.” Sumner shook his head. “Just when I think this can't get any worse.” He took a sip of his coffee to buy himself time to think. His gaze returned to the portrait. He was a fool. He turned and walked back the way he'd come. “Keep the goodies.” “Sumner.” Max followed him back out past the kitchen. “Wait—” “Look.” Sumner turned on him. “You can call me kid and paint me like I'm some big-eyed orphan begging for quarters. Just…never mind.”

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Max trapped Sumner between his outstretched arms against the door before he had a chance to open it. Sumner turned in his almost-embrace, leaning into the wood as far as he could get, and still Max's breath fanned his face. Max's eyes searched his. “I don't know why you want to be here.” Max's voice was quiet and uncertain. “Except that once you had a crush on some artist you liked.” “I want to be here because I found out I liked the man as well. I should have known you'd never see me as a colleague.” He looked back at the studio. “I'm nowhere near as talented as you are. But I'm not your fucking twink, either.” He paused while he waited for Max to digest this and take his hands away. “I'm leaving; I can see myself out.” Max kept his hands firm on the back of the door. “You were scared of me. You said so yourself.” “I know.” Sumner sighed. “I'm sorry for that. I wish—” His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door at his back. Max muttered a curse, and Sumner moved out of the way so they could answer it. Max's brother David stood there, along with Abel Jameson, his attorney. “In all my years as a defense attorney, I've never seen anything quite like this,” Jameson snarled without waiting for a greeting. “There's been another killing. Another girl, found near where they found Elena.” “What?” Max looked at Sumner. “It's what I came to tell you,” Sumner admitted. David pushed past all of them and into the kitchen. “Here's the crazy thing. They aren't dropping the charges against you even though the second murder happened while you were in jail.” The three of them followed David. “That's—” Max looked at Abel. “Why not? I couldn't possibly have killed someone while I was in jail.”

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Sumner spoke up. “They believe the two murders are unrelated, even though the second murder was made to look like the first.” He finally had everyone's attention. “Cruz told me he thinks it's a copycat.” “Was it?” Max asked him. Sumner shrugged. “From what I understand.” “Isabelle Allen was dumped at the Chaparral Golf Course, like Elena.” David poured himself a cup of coffee from Max's coffeemaker, but before he drank it, he offered it to Abel. Abel shook his head. “This girl was strangled as well, but not, I understand, with a curtain tie.” Abel leaned against the counter. Max shuddered. David watched him closely. “Did you get any sleep after I left?” “No.” Max lowered his gaze. “I worked.” David uttered a curse. “Max, you have to take care of yourself; this is only the very beginning. If you allow yourself to get run down, if you fail to eat or sleep, you will do yourself more harm than good. You know that. It could make things worse.” Max lifted his chin, and a tense look passed between the brothers. “I know that. I know what happens when I don't take care of myself.” “I didn't mean—” “Yes, you did.” Max didn't elaborate, but something hard went unspoken between them. Sumner could see the change it made in the way they stood together, David unyielding, Max defiant. “You're worried that I'll appear even more insane than—” “Hell yes, I'm worried about that.” David snapped at him. “Hell yes. It's my job! Especially now that Mom and Dad are no longer around to protect you. I promised them and I promised you that I'd take good care of you, and I've never once let you down. You have no idea what I've done, what I'd do…”

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Max paled and stepped away from David. His eyes went from his brother to his attorney and came back to rest on David. “What?” He was clearly distraught. “What have you—” Sumner took his arm gently. “Come on, Max, maybe it's time you slept a little. We can finish our discussion later.” Eyes almost exactly like Max's looked to Sumner for explanation. He shrugged. “You're right. I didn't get much sleep last night. I don't know why… Maybe too much freedom.” Max's joke fell flat. “Don't be a jerk,” David warned him. “I have an appointment first thing with the district attorney,” Abel said. “I just wanted to come by and tell you I'm doing everything I can. Try to relax.” “Right.” Max slumped against Sumner. “I'm going with you,” David told Abel. “Another murder while my brother was in jail should be reason enough to rethink this whole thing. I'd like to know what the hell is going on.” Abel headed out the door, but Max put a hand on David's arm. “David—” David interrupted him. “Are you sure it's wise to have Sumner sleeping here?” Sumner caught the look that passed between them. He couldn't say why, but it alarmed him. “I'm staying.” Max shrugged, and David shot him one last glance before he departed. Max's eyes followed David as he left the apartment in Abel's wake. Sumner saw Max frown. “Is something the matter?” “No,” Max said thoughtfully. “I guess I'm just tired.” He took another sip of his coffee, gave himself a visible shake, and sighed. “Look, I said I would stay, but if you really don't want me to—” Sumner indicated the door. “I—” Max licked his lips. “I wish you wouldn't leave.”

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“What is it?” Sumner took a cautious step forward and caught Max's free hand in his. “I'm still afraid to go to sleep,” Max confessed. “Ah, Max.” Sumner pulled him into a rough embrace, and in return Max gave him a hard squeeze. Sumner turned his face into Max's neck, ignoring the rasp of stubble on his sensitive skin. In minutes Max's grip changed into something sensual, and heaven help him, Sumner wanted it. Sumner gave himself up to the sensual pleasure of skin whispering over skin as Max and he rubbed noses, seeking kisses and contact. “Sumner.” Max brushed a tentative kiss on his forehead, his lips trailing their way down the side of Sumner's face toward his mouth. Sumner answered by pressing more fully against him, slipping a hand into the waistband of Max's jeans. “Yes.” He leaned against the counter when Max cradled his face with both hands and swept his mouth open with a hungry kiss. Whatever that kiss was asking, whether it was for the moment, for security, for companionship, or for more than those things, Sumner knew the answer was yes. Max took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

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Chapter Eight Sumner was already dragging his jacket off his shoulders when Max caught hold of the fabric to help him. He tried to memorize Sumner's face; it was a little flushed, a little wary. He pressed his lips to Sumner's again while nudging him into the room with his hips. “Here.” He helped Sumner pull a long-sleeved T-shirt off. He laughed and ran a hand through Sumner's hair after his head popped out of the neckhole with a tug. “Your hair…” “You have paint.” Sumner licked at a patch on Max's neck. He tilted his head and smiled, making Max's heart quicken. He slid his hands to Sumner's shoulders, so he could pull him close and pressed his face into the right angle of Sumner's neck where it met his shoulder. All at once, Sumner's faith in him made him angry. His muscles tensed, and Sumner frowned. “Max?” Max remained silent. How could he tell Sumner that his kindness was breaking his heart? “What is it?” Sumner stood warily. “While I was in jail, I thought at least—at least—I couldn't hurt anyone.” “And now you're afraid you will?” “I have, haven't I? In some ways, it's all my fault. Someone copied Elena's murder? That's related, isn't it?” “Yes, but—”

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Max pushed away from Sumner and sat on the bed. “It all comes down to using my skill to sell Elena. To my selfishness and my poor judgment. It all comes down to me thinking that I could touch something innocent…capture it in all its vitality and not destroy it in some fundamental way. I can't bear to do that with you.” “Max, don't push me away. If nothing else, I'm not innocent.” “But—” “You can't think like that. The way you painted Elena was like…loving her. It was a caress, an homage, and a way of showing how extraordinary you believed she was. Elena was as much an artist as you are. She worked hard to perfect her own art. She would have understood what you saw in it.” “She did understand, I think. The oils were less pretty portraits than they were examinations of her structural integrity. She understood that I wasn't always going to capture the beauty that is ballet from a distance.” “Of course she did.” Sumner sat beside Max and began to stroke gentle circles on the tight muscles of his lower back. “I think she enjoyed the ugliness at the heart of what she did, in a way.” Max closed his eyes, and his head dropped back. “She told me that the series I did of her feet were her favorites, although I liked the ones in the series After that showed how she looked leaving the theater after a performance.” “I remember how unglamorous they were.” “As if she'd left everything vital on the stage.” A tear slipped down Max's cheek, and Sumner thumbed it away. “There was so much more for her to do. In two or three years she would have come into her own, and ballet companies would have fought over her. She was truly gifted.” “I'm so sorry, Max.” “This is like trying to catch a falling knife.” Max tried to shake off his mood, but it was useless. “I keep thinking, if I hadn't tried to touch that, if I hadn't examined it, deconstructed it, explored my fascination with it…”

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“I know you feel responsible.” Sumner sighed. Max felt Sumner shift behind him until he was in a position to wrap both arms around his chest and pull him in tight. “I know you're afraid. Just…come here. Let's put it away for a while.” “While we can,” Max amended. “Because we can.” Sumner growled. “Because I believe in you. Because when you learn to see yourself through my eyes, it will astonish you how truly beautiful you are.” “Shit,” Max choked out. “When you say things like that…I can't—” “Shh.” Sumner drew him down onto the bed and bent over him. Max allowed him to unfasten the buckle on his belt. Cool air swept over his skin as Sumner began to slide his jeans and shorts off. Sumner kissed his way down Max's body, teasing with his tongue as he followed the line of hair that arrowed from Max's chest down his belly. Max tentatively put a hand in Sumner's hair. He savored each sweet, slick glide over his tense muscles. “You really want this?” Max's mouth was dry, and his voice sounded like it came from somewhere else. “Shh.” Sumner licked a line up Max's inner thigh. Max hissed when he felt a delicate puff of hot breath over his balls. Sumner sucked one into his mouth and swirled around it before letting it go with a pop. “Just relax, all right?” “Yes.” Max dropped his head back. Max stayed still while Sumner's mouth worked its magic. Sumner's hand found its way around Max's ass to grip him tightly for a moment, and then a finger teased down to his hole. “Oh, fuck, Sumner.” Max's spine arched as Sumner claimed him. He felt Sumner's throat muscles close around him and gave in to the pleasure of the young man's tender touches. Sumner pulled on his hips, indicating that Max could fuck his mouth, and he did just that, wrapping his hands gently around the back of Sumner's neck and guiding himself into the depths of that electrifying wet heat. He felt pleasure zinging up his spine and wanted to lose himself in it, to forget

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everything and drag Sumner's head so close he'd vanish into the boy's sweetly sucking mouth. When he felt the sizzling jangle of impending orgasm, he took a deep breath and eased up a little. “Coming,” he warned, but Sumner didn't back off. Fingers tightened on his ass until he knew he'd be marked as Sumner pulled him in deeper. Max shot his load into the sweet heat of Sumner's throat, shuddering and panting as Sumner caressed him, took everything he had to give, and then let him go with a soft thud. Sumner crawled up the bed and dropped down to lie beside him. He grinned at Max and rubbed their noses together. “You,” Max said, not knowing where he was going with it, just wanting to say something. “Yeah, and you,” Sumner agreed. “I'm such a bad bet, Sumner.” Max sighed as he ran a hand through the hair on his chest. “I'm about to go to prison for—” “Max.” “No, listen,” Max snapped and turned on his side until they were eye to eye. “Anything could happen. We have to be practical. If anything happens to me or if I… If you need something, David's numbers are all on the fridge. You call him if…” “Shut up, Max.” Sumner put his hand on Max's head and stroked the hair there until Max leaned into his petting like a dog. Sumner's other hand slipped around Max's body to tease at his ass again. “Right now? All we have to do is find a way to exhaust you so you can sleep. And I have a plan.” Incredibly, Max felt his body begin to respond. “Oh yeah?” “Yes.” Sumner began unbuttoning his own jeans. “A grand and adventurous plan. One that involves lube, a condom, and my dick in your ass.” Max couldn't help the smile that bubbled up inside him along with a warm feeling in his heart. Sumner was a good person, and he cared. He looked even younger than usual while he waited for Max's response.

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“Sounds crazy, but it just might work.” Max knew Sumner couldn't possibly grasp the desperation of his situation because he hadn't been through this before. But Max had. There was nothing worse than the not knowing. The feeling that underneath his skin, under everything he thought he felt and believed, he could be hiding a monster. He felt his throat burn. Sumner made short work of the clothes he still wore, tossing them to the floor beside the bed. He teased Max with skillful fingers. Max closed his eyes and, straining into Sumner's space, arched back into his hand to get more contact, more pressure, more penetration. It took so little effort to allow Sumner to chase away his doubts. Sumner coaxed him onto his stomach, then dripped cool lube down his ass crack. Moments later, Sumner's fingers entered him again, gliding in and out of his puckered flesh. He felt pure pleasure buzz up his spine when Sumner hit his sweet spot and groaned, mashing his face into the pillow. He pushed his hips back to get him to do it again. Sumner's other hand caressed his shoulder, massaging and restraining at the same time. He let go and gave in to the sensation, floating on a cloud of contentment as Sumner continued to tease and flick and fondle him. Max groaned and rocked his hips, urging Sumner's fingers deeper and deeper still, but suddenly all he felt was cool air where the warmth of that hand had been. “No.” Max chased the warmth, lifting his hips until Sumner's cock nudged at his hole. Max pushed back, hard, relishing the first fiery burn, the throb and ache that took his mind away from anything but the searing, soaring pleasure of a man's cock filling his ass. Sumner's thick, rigid erection stretched and seemed to lengthen, nudging away all conscious thought. “Tight,” Sumner growled as he used his hands to urge Max to slow down. Max was having none of that. He pushed against Sumner with all his strength, even as he willed him to take control. “Do it,” he almost sobbed out. “Go.” Sumner changed his grip then, lifting Max's hips and pumping hard. Max felt Sumner's balls slap against his own. He dropped his head on his forearms and let

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Sumner take him hard and fast, urging him on with clenching muscles and tight little moans. “Shit,” Max cried into the bedding. “Ah, shit. More.” “Gotcha.” Sumner bit into the skin of Max's back, marking him. Max's mind finally pulled free, and his body took over. Blood sang in his ears as he took all Sumner had to give him, yet he begged him for something more. Something indefinable that was playing out of reach. Sumner's body at his back reassured him in a way that nothing else had for months. Maybe years. Max reached out, needing a different kind of physical connection to Sumner. He groped around and found Sumner's hand. Their fingers intertwined, the grip hard and white-knuckled, and something desperate overflowed within Max that he couldn't name. As Sumner rocked into him, Max's cock skimmed against the bedding, and he felt a flush of pleasure begin all over again. Sumner fucked him relentlessly, almost brutally, taking advantage of his youth and Max's flexibility. At last he wrapped his hand around Max's neck and jerked hard into his ass, staying as deep as he could get. Sumner bit Max hard, and he combusted, jerking as his orgasm hit him, arching back onto Sumner's cock. His body, completely out of control, contracted and froze around Sumner like a fist. Max shivered under the heavy breath that moistened his back as he lay with Sumner's heart pounding hard against his skin, his dick throbbing deep inside him. The rough way Sumner held him down made him contract around it all over again. “Max.” Sumner crushed him in a sloppy embrace, and they stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity, listening to the sound of Max's heart as it slowed to its regular rhythm. Sumner rained gentle kisses on the back of his neck, eventually relaxing his grip from punishing to cherishing. Max drifted on a sea of broken images, mostly things he wanted to paint but probably wouldn't remember in the

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morning, starting with the way Sumner's hand had looked linked and laced— knuckles white while their passion surged and eddied around them—with his own. The bed groaned when Sumner got up to make his way to the bathroom. He returned minutes later with a damp towel and a dry one. “Here.” He rolled Max over and wiped him down. “That's nice,” Max said hoarsely. He couldn't seem to make his voice work at all. He gave Sumner an affectionate pat on the arm, causing Sumner's lips to lift in a faint smile as he put the dry towel over the damp bedding and threw the wet one on the floor. Max reached for him. “I'm so tired.” “I know, Max.” Sumner scooted up behind and let Max nestle into his strong young body. He continued moving almost imperceptibly to rock him. “Go to sleep. I'll be here.” “I'll finish your picture later,” Max murmured. “I'll make it happy.” Sumner's breath teased the skin of Max's neck. “You make me happy, Max. Paint my face however.” Sumner sighed. “It's you that makes me happy.”

*** Sumner glanced at the clock when he woke—2:30 in the afternoon. Max was in his arms, snoring softly. Stripes of light from the window nearest the bed were lengthening on the wooden floor. He nuzzled in as Max undulated against him. “Hey, lover,” Max murmured, rolling until they faced each other. Sumner got a sweet kiss and then a deeper, more possessive one, then backed off. “I have to go out for a while.” “Too bad,” Max murmured against his skin. “I was making plans.” “I won't be long.” Sumner swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I just have something I need to do.” He pulled away but leaned back in to kiss Max on the forehead.

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“I want to finish your portrait anyway.” Max sighed when Sumner rose to his feet. “Make you pretty.” Sumner snorted. “I'll be back in an hour or two.” He found his jeans where he'd dropped them and pulled them on, along with his shirt. At the bedroom door, he gave Max a cheeky grin. “Don't start anything good without me.” Max lay on the bed in the tangled sheets, looking like a bad angel. He gave Sumner a sultry look and cupped himself. “I'll try to be patient.” “You do that.” Max winked. Just as quickly, Max lost his teasing air and gazed at him uncertainly. “Sumner?” “Yeah?” “I might love you, maybe,” Max told him. “Probably.” Sumner's heart blew open, scattering happiness throughout his body. He could barely breathe, much less speak. He ran to the bed, hopped on, and kissed Max instead, telling him without words what he probably knew already anyway. On the way out, he made himself stop by the kitchen to program David's numbers into his phone, then left the apartment wearing a stupid grin.

*** Even though Sumner had grown up farther south, in Marin County, he was aware that Sea Crest had only one high school—a low, flat institutional building that was part of the school complex housing all the offspring of Sea Crest, from kindergarten to the twelfth grade. The insular community served fewer children every year, it seemed, as the younger generation graduated from high school and went off to college, then found jobs in larger towns and big cities. They returned only to visit their parents and to show off their kids. The median age in Sea Crest was around fifty, and only a handful of people like Max Lancaster, artists and others who looked for an

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unspoiled place to live and weren't dependent on outside work for their incomes, relocated there anymore. Sumner had chosen Sea Crest for its beauty, and only his work as a sketch artist for two local counties and his ability to endure an impoverished lifestyle made it possible for him to live there. In such a small place, Sumner reasoned, he'd be able to find out fairly quickly who Anne Jackson was, and if he could manage it, even have a word with her. Someone had to know who the mystery boy was. After a while, a bell indicated that class was over for the day, and students began to emerge from the building. They filed out from all directions and headed for the street or the parking lot. As the obvious high schoolers passed, Sumner began asking them if they knew who Anne Jackson was. He got several strange looks and a couple of shrugs, until finally someone pointed out a rather petite redheaded girl in shorts and a tank top. He recognized her from the photo in Elena's room; she was more mature now, but she still had the same pixie face. She stood laughing and giggling with two boys who looked as if they'd died and gone to heaven. “Anne Jackson?” asked Sumner, trying to offer his best I'm-not-a-creep smile. She looked like the girl in Elena's picture, but older, and maybe tougher, a little. As though life had thrown her a curveball that had hit her hard. Not a surprise, after what happened to her best friend. “Yeah,” she said hesitantly. She wore her hair in pigtails under one of those newsboy caps. From her build, he spotted her immediately as another of Elena's dancer friends. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a minute?” he asked. “I got your name from Elena's grandmother. I'm a friend of Max Lancaster's.” He held his breath. If this girl thought Max had killed Elena, then she'd probably yell fire and he'd likely be seeing Cruz again from the other side of the interrogation table. The boys with her moved forward, an unconsciously defensive maneuver that Sumner approved of. One of them jerked his head and called out, “You okay, Ajax?”

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She nodded in return, and Sumner at least knew to whom the mysterious name Ajax10101 referred. “How is Max?” she asked. She focused intensely on Sumner, waiting for his answer, and from her posture and her intensity, Sumner guessed that she didn't believe Max killed Elena either. “He's doing as well as can be expected. Having trouble sleeping. He's devastated.” Anne's eyes filled with tears. “That is so fucked up.” “I know. I have a couple of questions for you.” He waited until she waved goodbye to her small posse, and then he walked with her as she headed for the parking lot. When the boys followed at a menacing distance, Sumner turned to give them a smile. “Looks like you're being looked after.” Anne turned around to wave again. “They're sweet. I think that since the second girl was killed, they've all decided to go on alert.” “The police think that second murder was a copycat crime. Like maybe it was just an opportunistic thing; they knew about the first murder, and they saw their chance.” Sumner looked down. “I'm sorry to have to ask this, but Elena was seen with a man on Saturday right before she disappeared. The police had me sketch him from both Max's and Nonna's recollections, and I'm wondering if they had you look at the drawing to see if you knew who he might have been.” Anne frowned blankly. “That was Elliot.” “What?” Sumner didn't understand. “Elliot?” “The guy who walked Elena home on Saturday was Elliot. He's a barista at The Coffee Connection, where we go after school, but he has some second job too, I think. Elena and I went shopping for the whole afternoon on Saturday after dance class, and then we stopped there for lattes. We saw him there, that afternoon, before she—”

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“Did you identify him for the police? Do they know who he is? It might be important.” Anne's eyes widened. “Sure I told them. I know they talked to him; he told me about it. When they first contacted me, they told me she'd been seen walking with some guy, and I knew right then it had to be Elliot.” Sumner's chest was tight. “When was this?” Anne shrugged. “Sunday morning. That's when Elena's family really started to panic and the police came to my house to ask me questions.” Sumner felt his heart clench. “Sunday? But they didn't ask me to draw him until Monday…” At last Sumner understood how completely he'd been played. They knew exactly who the mystery kid was on Sunday.

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Chapter Nine “You lied to me.” Sumner smacked his fist on Cruz's desk. “Now wait just a damned minute.” Cruz shot to his feet. “I don't have to share every piece of information we have in an ongoing investigation with a freelance sketch artist.” “You sent me there with a lie on a fishing expedition,” Sumner fired back. “Yes. You knew that going in. And when you came back, you told me that you'd been in love with the man, which led me to question your objectivity and made it impossible for me to let you have any further information about the case.” That stung, but Sumner didn't back down. “News flash, Cruz: I have no objectivity.” “No kidding. Sit down.” Sumner pulled the chair back and sat down, still smarting from the realization that he'd been handled. “What the hell is this all about?” “Look, Sumner. I'm sorry. I was sorry at the time, and I wanted to tell you the truth. We've known about the Elliot kid since the beginning, and it's nothing. He has a rock-solid alibi. He worked the drive-through window at Jack in the Box that night from ten until two a.m., and his manager vouched for him.” “Shit. Are you sure of the time of death?” “We checked pretty thoroughly, junior.” Cruz snapped at him. “My patience is wearing thin here. At least give us enough credit to nail down the time of death in a murder investigation.” “All right. I'm sorry.” Sumner stood.

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“Sit,” Cruz ordered again, and Sumner complied. “I guess I haven't been very useful to you. I still don't believe that Max did it, and I think that a jury won't either, especially since there's been a second killing.” Cruz remained silent; his very stillness descended like a sudden cold spot in the room. “What?” Cruz scrubbed a fingernail over the chipped surface of his desk. “What do you know about David Lancaster?” “Max's brother?” “Yes.” Cruz was watching him like he was under a microscope. Sumner forced himself not to fidget. “He's a senator's aide, isn't he? In politics instead of practicing law?” “Yes. His family maintains residences both here and Washington DC. His parents left a large trust fund equally between the brothers.” Sumner said nothing. He had no clue where Cruz was going with this. Cruz opened his desk drawer and pulled a file folder from it. “I did some digging, asked around about the Lancaster brothers as far back as anyone could remember. Everyone says Max is the typical younger son, content to do as he pleases. Indolent. Dependent.” “So?” “So David was the family overachiever, the athlete, the scholar. David was always a fierce competitor academically and professionally. And the one thing that everyone says about David is that he's always been determined to take care of Max.” “So? That seems pretty normal to me.” Sumner frowned. “Maybe a little unbelievable in this day and age, but—” “One thing someone said stuck in my mind. Max's old neighbor from the house where he grew up said, 'David would kill for Max.'”

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Sumner shook his head when he understood where Cruz might be headed. “You can't seriously think that David killed Elena. Why? What reason would he have to kill the girl that was obviously Max's muse? The golden goose.” “I'm not suggesting David Lancaster killed Elena. What if he's the copycat?” “No.” Sumner rose and stalked to the window. “That's—” “Think about it.” Cruz followed him and looked over his shoulder at the parking lot. “What's the perfect way to prove that Max is innocent? Another murder while he's in custody.” “The man is an aide to a US senator! Max is his brother. He believes in his innocence.” “What if he doesn't?” Cruz's eyes bored into him. “What if he doesn't believe it at all?” “What?” Sumner stepped back. “What if he knows Max did it and—maybe—he had to help to cover it up?” Cruz pressed. “How far do you think David would go to protect him?” “You think he'd kill someone? That's crazy!” “Is it?' “This is all just talk.” “Everyone said he'd do anything for his brother.” Sumner tried to process what Cruz was saying. Cruz repeated it for Sumner. “Anything.” “I can't believe David Lancaster would kill anyone. For any reason. He's all charm and Italian shoes.” Sumner walked to the door. Cruz snorted in disgust. “Yeah, because nobody like that ever killed anyone.” Yanking open the door, he turned angrily. “You're the police. You've got to do your job. But I think you're fishing, and I have to ask myself why. What's got you so hot to throw all your resources at a fairly well-known figure in the art world and his politically connected brother? It reeks of publicity seeking. Don't think I'm going to

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help you. On the contrary, the more you push this, the harder I'm going to work to make you look like a fool.” “I'm trying to warn you, kid. That family is trouble, and you can't see past a schoolboy infatuation to—” “I admit I like Max. More than like if it comes to that. I love him. Nothing you've uncovered tells me that he's done this, and your conjecture about his brother is just sad.” Cruz's face grew stony. “I can't help you if you refuse to see what's right there in front of your face. I think Max is good for this, and I think the brother either killed that second girl or hired it done to cover up his brother's crime. You do anything to obstruct my investigation, and you'll be looking for your next boyfriend in jail. I hope I've made myself very clear.” “Perfectly clear, Cruz.” “And speaking of people who would do anything for Max, do you have a solid alibi for the night the second girl was killed? Because if David didn't do it, sooner or later I'll have to ask you some tough questions.” Sumner didn't dignify that with an answer. He pushed out the door of Cruz's office and left the building on a wave of righteous indignation. But as he wandered down the street away from the station, he had the opportunity to wonder about his staunch defense of a man he hardly knew.

*** Max went to work when he woke fully, losing himself in the process, disconnecting his brain and giving himself over entirely to the purity of color. Paint always helped him to transcend, to find a place where his day-to-day life disappeared and he could float on dreamy shades of soft blues, rich reds, outlandish yellows. He examined a puddle of gray that he was using to shadow the planes of Sumner's face. Gray was considered by so many people to represent something dull and uninteresting. Gray areas, shades of gray, old and gray. It was said to connote

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boredom, reality, mediocrity. And yet, to Max, nothing could be further from the truth. For Max, gray held a wealth of observable and dynamic properties. There was the cold gray of the fog outside his window at daybreak. There was the sad kind of gray that seemed to film over people who'd lost hope. There was warm gray, like the richly hued gray of a summer thunderstorm, yellow with the reflection of the hidden sun, rich and saturated with the rain that would make things grow, and there was the liquid gray in the irises of Sumner's eyes, inside the blue, where it changed depending on his surroundings and shone like quicksilver in the dark. Max heard the door open behind him and keys drop into the glass bowl in the hall. He continued working. “You're painting the boy wonder?” David went to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. “Make yourself at home,” Max shot over his shoulder. “I don't mind if I do.” David came to stand behind him, taking a long swig from the bottle. “That's so good. You've captured his hero worship for you completely. Geez, what a long damned day. What makes you romanticize him?” “Maybe I feel romantic about him.” “So it's like that?” “Like what?” “Come on, it's me you're talking to. I know the way you paint better than anyone in the world. You're falling in love with Skippy.” “Sumner,” Max corrected automatically as he dabbed a bit of gray into the hollows below Sumner's high cheekbones. “Yeah. It's like that.” Why hadn't he noticed before he'd painted this how worried Sumner had seemed that morning? “Whatever. I'm glad you have him. When you get out of this mess you're in—” Max turned abruptly. “What makes you think I'll get out of this mess?”

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“Well, of course you'll—” David frowned. “Max, you can't honestly think they'll put you in jail for this, for something you didn't do?” “Because they never put anyone innocent in jail?” Max put down his paintbrush and palette. “I think we're going to have to face some hard facts here. It's just possible I might go to jail. It's possible that I'll get the death penalty.” “It's possible Earth will be hit by a comet tomorrow and everyone will die but the cockroaches, Maxi, but I wouldn't call it likely.” David tried to hand Max his beer, but Max refused it. “Look. No way are they ever, ever going to be able to make murder one stick. That was posturing. And in the hands of a good lawyer—and Abel is very, very good—that second girl—Isabelle Allen's—murder is more than enough for reasonable doubt no matter what they throw at you. I don't know why the police have a hard-on to nail you for this. Maybe they just don't want to believe they could have a serial killer on their hands. I don't know. All I know is that I'm damn glad it happened. No jury is going to find you guilty now. No problem.” Max's heart sped up as he watched his brother sit on the couch. “That's… How can you be glad that a second girl got killed?” “I didn't mean glad, glad.” David flushed and put his beer down on the coffee table. “Shit. You know that.” “I don't know anything anymore.” Max sat on the coffee table facing him. “Nothing makes sense.” “Ah, Max. Come on.” David sighed. “Have a little faith. I am not going to let anything happen to my baby brother, right?” For the first time in his life, Max wasn't reassured by that. “David…” “Yeah?” David peered tiredly at him. Max took the time to really look at his brother. The convenience of the second murder gnawed at him anyway. He couldn't bring himself to be glad about it, but once David had given voice to his relief, Max knew he'd never get it out of his head. He'd never see that as anything but the most horrific piece of bad news. Even if it got him acquitted.

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“Nothing. Never mind.” Maxi shook off his mood. “I want to finish this up. What do you say you go get us some burritos or something and we can have dinner?” “No can do, buddy. I have to head back home tonight.” David got to his feet. “I've been gone too long as it is. I promise I'll come back if it seems like you're going to need me, but from what Abel tells me, you're going to be fine. You just have to be patient.” “And we all know how good I am at that.” Max got up and followed David to the front door. “I'm sure April will be glad to get you back.” “Not to mention one very pissed-off senator who is probably rethinking my Christmas bonus.” “You get a bonus?” “Yeah.” David rolled his eyes. “Not this year, or haven't you been watching the news? There's a recession. I'm lucky I have a job. Anyway, mostly it's just enough to cover—maybe—one of your line drawings on the back of a cocktail napkin.” “Just think how much my work would net if I died in prison.” David's hands snaked out and grabbed a fistful of Max's T-shirt, yanking it so hard Max felt the stitching stretch and pop around his neck. “Don't even joke about that, man.” “I'm sorry, Davy.” Max lowered his gaze, ashamed. “You're going to be fine. Count on it. Mom and Dad trusted me to take care of you, brother mine, and that's what I intend to do, no matter what it fucking takes. All right?” “Sure.” “I mean it, Max.” David growled. He didn't let up the pressure on Max's shirt. Instead, he gripped harder, twisting it tightly, until Max felt sure his skin would bruise. “Okay,” Max nearly whined. “Jeez. You're scaring me.”

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“You should be scared.” David finally released him, and he fell back against the wall with a thud. “You should be. I clean up every mess you make, and they just keep getting bigger.” “Davy!” “You know what the last thing Dad ever said to me was? Before they left? Before they had the accident?” Max's voice failed him, and he shook his head. “He said, 'You're a good brother. Take care of Maxi.'” “What?” “Not—for the record—You're a good son.” “I'm so sorry,” Max whispered. “I didn't know.” “Why should you know? Why should you care?” David rolled his eyes. “Why should you be aware of anything that goes on around you, ever?” “Davy.” “No!” David shouted at him. The facade of solicitude, of brotherly concern, was cracking, and Maxi was terrified of what he'd see behind it. His heart drummed in his ears. “I'm sorry they put that on you.” David was right in his face, giving vent to years of frustration, and Max was appalled. “You have no idea. The first time you ever picked up a pencil, my life was over.” “You can't mean that.” Max ached for him. He knew his parents had been charmed by his talent. He knew they favored him. How could he miss it? But this… “Mom and Dad. Guadalupe. Even the fucking bird preferred you until you killed it.” Max squeezed his eyes shut against a sudden rush of tears. He felt gut shot. “I know. I never asked…never wanted… I'm so sorry, Davy. I'm so fucking sorry.”

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“Shit.” Just like that, all the anger seemed to drain from David's body. “Shit. I know you are, Maxi.” “I don't think I did anything, really. I don't think I consciously—” “Golden boy.” David sighed and pulled Max in for a hard hug. “Of course you didn't, Maxi. I know that. You just can't help yourself.” “I would have done anything to change that, would do anything now, if I could.” “I know.” David pressed their foreheads together. “I know. We just need to get through this. I'll take care of you. Don't worry.” “I'm sorry I don't make that an easier job.” David backed away with a tense smile and picked up his keys. After shooting Max a reassuring glance back, he walked out the front door.

*** After David left, Max returned to his studio to give his painting of Sumner a long, critical look. There was no color equivalent for faith. For naïveté, for kindness, for trust. No pigment for hero worship, although he'd seen all of those on Sumner's face. In his eyes. Was it fair to allow Sumner to continue believing in him? To believe they had a future, when it was probably an unlikely scenario? He couldn't control the vague fear that something about this entire situation—Elena's gruesome death, his culpability, the second murder and its serendipitous timing—was simply wrong. It was not only impossible to feel elated by the news that someone lost her life, but add in the very fact that tiny Sea Crest, which up till then had very little crime and virtually none of a violent nature, had two murders in a single week. If they weren't connected… But everyone knew they were. And that's what bothered him. David's determination to protect him over the years had manifested in many ways. Since his parents had died, there was an almost desperate edge to David's vigilance. Now,

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horribly, Max found himself wondering how far he would really go. It worried him enough to wonder—if he painted David in his sleep—would his deepest, secret fears manifest themselves on the canvas? Would he paint things he didn't dare articulate, things he could hardly bring himself to think? What would find its way onto David's face if he didn't have the filters of daylight and happy childhood memories to mitigate the darkness he was afraid he'd find there? His cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. When he saw it was Sumner, he hesitated, giving himself a chance to shake off his mood. He answered after three rings and heard Sumner laughing. “Hope I didn't wake you up or anything.” “I was screening.” Sumner was silent for a second. “Glad I made the cut.” There was a shy smile in his voice that came right through the phone. Max asked the mother of all casual questions, as though he weren't under practical house arrest, tied to an electronic fugitive monitoring bracelet, under suspicion for murder. “What's up?” Sumner laughed again, and Max hoped it was from irony and not merely innuendo. “I wondered if you'd like me to bring you something for dinner.”

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Chapter Ten Sumner woke to the sound of Max's gentle snoring. He got up and headed to the bathroom. His body buzzed a little from wine and great sex; his legs still wobbled beneath him. He was sure he had a new crop of love bites on his chest, but as he ran a hand over his abs, he couldn't be sorry. He didn't remember if he'd put any on Max. If he hadn't, he'd have to rectify that. Maybe spell his name on Max's back in hickeys or some dumb-ass thing like that. Max had told him he loved him. “Maybe. Probably.” It wasn't a lot to pin his hopes on. Sumner wanted to put a collar on Max or punch a tag through his ear that said, “If found, return to Sumner Ellison.” The man needed a keeper, and Sumner wanted to be first in line for the job. And last in line. Sumner wanted to be the only one applying. He counted himself lucky that he'd been allowed this far into the artist's private world and wished he could find the right combination of earnest young admirer and indispensable helpmeet—something that would clinch the deal. He wanted Max to love him but worried the balance of attraction tilted a little too much the other way. Still. That portrait was something. He ambled to Max's studio and gazed at it. No one ever looked at him as closely as Max had the evening before as he'd finished it up. Yes. Sumner knew he looked a little naive, and maybe it showed him to be, if not pathetic, needy in a way that only applied to what he felt for Max. Maybe, whether he liked it or not, Max saw him clearly and painted what he saw. It was right there in the haunting image Max had finished and signed the night before.

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Max definitely knew Sumner was in love. Sumner stopped in the kitchen on his return to the bedroom and made himself a cup of tea. While he waited for water to boil—because the hot tap didn't provide him with thinking time—he flipped idly through a stack of postcards showing Max's gallery offerings. There were some seascapes that were lovely and a few studies of architecturally interesting buildings, but by far the most compelling pieces were the studies he'd done of Elena. Knowing Max changed how Sumner viewed the work. Most of what he painted could be unified by one theme: integrity. As if Max was compelled to search for strength, wholeness, and the solidification of all the inchoate parts of his personality and then to release it into his work. That which so completely eluded him in his life became clearly visible, time and again, on canvas. Sumner got his tea and headed back to the sleeping area and Max, who lay, naked and trusting, where he'd left him. Illumination came from a plug-in nightlight in the bathroom and arrowed directly from where Sumner stood to the object of his fascination. The ambient light from outside the windows hardly did more than caress Max's lithe body, outlining it with a faint glow. Max lay on his back, mouth and hands open and relaxed like a child's, snoring gently. His lightly furred chest rose and fell, his legs were spread apart, one bent slightly at the knee, and his cock—that amazing, fierce cock—lay pale and flaccid against his thigh. Lacking anything with which to draw him, Sumner settled for trying to commit the scene to memory: the way that the bedding bunched around Max's hips, the pillows jumbled next to his head, their clothes strewn haphazardly on the floor where they'd flung them in their haste. Max slept in the center of it all, like a tableau featuring some indolent god. The sound of his breathing was deep and even until he twitched and the muscles in his arms jerked and quickened. Sumner's

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attention was drawn to Max's face, where the eyebrows drew down into a frown. Sumner watched as he moved restlessly—and rose from the bed, his eyes open wide. Heart thudding, Sumner followed Max through the loft toward the studio. From the very first, Sumner didn't call out; he didn't say anything to let Max know he was there as they passed the partition wall. Sumner had been expecting this all along, and still…he hadn't. He hadn't really believed the stories of sleepwalking, never all the way through his skin, past his muscles and bones, to his brain. Yet the evidence was incontrovertible. Max was sleepwalking, taking out the tools he'd need to paint, and Sumner planned to watch and wait and see what happened. Sumner sat in the small blue chair that was the usual territory of Abuelita Nonna, completely ignored, maybe even unseen, by Max. He watched, fascinated, as Max turned on the bank of track lights over his easel and then walked once around his studio as if that were part of his ritual. A time he could use to survey his domain. He rummaged through his supplies, selecting and discarding them as he squeezed puddles of bright acrylic paint one by one onto his palette, adding retarder, mixing, frowning, and working as though it were the middle of the day. He gazed at the colors he'd created for a long time. Then he walked over to stand before Sumner's portrait and got to work. Every move Max made, every noise in the quiet night, held Sumner spellbound, on the edge of his seat, waiting for Max to wake up. How could anyone do all the things Max did just then, including accidentally dropping a paintbrush noisily onto a metal tray, and remain asleep? How did it happen that someone could have an entirely hidden life—an alien body of work—and not be aware of it? Yet Sumner would have sworn, would indeed testify, that Max wasn't aware of either the work he was doing or Sumner's presence in the room. He doubted that anyone was that good an actor, that they could remain indifferent to another

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human being so completely for so long. Even the act of ignoring someone required knowing they were there, and Sumner was prepared to swear Max was oblivious. Sumner had watched Max work only the night before, but this was different. He imagined he was seeing all of Max's usual mannerisms: the intense concentration, the tongue peeking from between his lips, the narrowed gaze, and the slight frown he wore when he transferred his vision to canvas. But they were intensified by the lack of need to moderate them. In a sense, Max worked uncensored when he slept, and everything he did was more vibrant, more violent, more authentic to the work. He moved with great slashing arms and made wild, emotional faces that were shocking in their naked passion. David had warned him. But he had never imagined anything so raw, so visceral. Sumner couldn't keep his disappointment from bursting like a bubble in his heart, seeming to stop it at the exact moment when Max finally finished his work. Because while Sumner watched over the course of an hour, Max successfully transformed the portrait of Sumner—the one they'd argued about just that morning—into a postmortem image of Sumner with his throat slashed and lying open, tendons and bone exposed, fully as grim as any autopsy photograph and twice as shocking. Then Max calmly cleaned up his studio, washed his hands, and returned to bed.

*** Given the light coming in from behind the billowy sheers, Max thought it must be barely dawn. He slid his hand across the cool bed and, coming up empty, opened one eye to look. He was alone. Too bad. He had a serious case of morning wood, the good kind, and rolled until it was under him, getting some friction from the crisp sheets. He breathed in Sumner's scent from the pillows, shivering a little in the cold and the aftermath of their recent lovemaking. He rolled back over and got up to look for him, hoping he was still there, hoping he hadn't gone out for coffee or something.

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A little morning nooky would be the perfect thing for warming up when the air was crisp. Max found Sumner sitting in Nonna's chair and discovered he liked it. He could see working with Sumner sitting there watching him—or maybe working next to him—really clearly in his imagination. Maybe Sumner could set up his own work in here, sit and sketch or paint as the fall turned into winter. Maybe they could gaze out the window together and watch the seasons change. It wasn't long before reality jarred the image. Even as he walked across the room, his monitor chafed his ankle and the memory of Elena's presence in the very same place intruded. By the time he stood over Sumner, his heart dragged, having fallen from his chest to somewhere farther south below his stomach, where he felt it clench in his gut like fear. It was then that he realized Sumner was just staring out the window. “Hey.” He knelt before the chair and made the further discovery that Sumner had been crying. Frowning, Max put a hand up to Sumner's face, ran a thumb along his high cheekbone, and captured the tears that fell silently. “What's happened?” Sumner's face softened for the briefest moment until his eyes filled again with pain. “You were asleep…and you got up and…” Sumner bit his lip. “You changed your painting.” “I changed—” Max broke off. He whirled and faced the easel where he'd left Sumner's portrait to dry. “Oh, fuck.” Sumner doubled over. He wrapped his arms around his waist as if he were holding himself together and sobbed like a child. Max bent over him, patting him gently. “Don't shit me, man. Did you see me do this?” When Sumner nodded, Max turned back to look at the portrait, taking in the way he'd removed every trace of life from the eyes and the wide, gaping gash in—he couldn't bear to think of it as Sumner—the image's neck. It looked like a second mouth, the flesh parted in a hideous parody of a smile. Wry, as if its lips quirked

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upward to one side, the portrait with its grisly injury mocked everything he'd ever believed about himself. “I need to call my lawyer,” Max whispered. Another sob escaped Sumner. Max knelt in front of him, raised his face, and cupped it with both hands as he tried to brush away the tears and snot that had to have been flowing freely for some time. Sumner turned his face away and raised his arm, wiping it across his eyes. Max could see him trying to get a grip on his emotions until he finally won out and faced him dry-eyed. He took a deep breath. “It still only proves that you paint in your sleep.” “I'm sorry, Sumner.” Max sank back onto his heels and took both of Sumner's hands in his. “But it's probably best if I turn myself in, don't you think?” “I don't know what to think. Why should you turn yourself in for painting a picture? That's all you did. That's all I saw. It doesn't mean that—” Max frowned as if trying to see something in the distance. “I don't remember hurting Elena.” Sumner yanked his hands back from Max's and folded them tightly together. “You didn't. I know you didn't! What makes you think you did?” “I must have.” Max could see Sumner was still trying to believe in him. It didn't matter. He didn't believe in himself anymore, and he couldn't take the chance of hurting Sumner further, either emotionally or—heaven forbid—physically. “I won't risk it. I can't risk you.” “It's my gamble to make. I don't believe you ever harmed one hair on any—” “I killed my bird while sleepwalking, Sumner,” Max said flatly. “When I was a kid. It was probably an accident; I did something that tangled it in some string and broke its neck. Davy saw me, but he couldn't get to me in time to stop me. When it was over, the bird was dead. I don't remember a thing. I could have killed Elena, and I wouldn't remember a thing. I don't want to take any chances. I shouldn't be—”

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“Why though?” Sumner asked him desperately. “Even if you hurt the bird? It doesn't make sense. Why would you hurt Elena? Why now? Why wouldn't you have been doing this all along?” “I'll leave that to the shrinks.” Max felt an inappropriate chuckle emerge. “Maybe I'm psychotic. A permanent guest at the Norman Bates motel.” “Don't you dare make jokes!” Sumner shoved him to the floor and stood. In his agitation, he walked to the window and turned back. “I can't bring myself to believe you killed Elena, and you simply could not have had anything to do with the other murder.” “You're willing to put your life on the line?” “Yes.” Sumner's eyes glittered with tears. “Yes, I am. I believe in you. I still believe. And I could help you. I could…I don't know, watch you. Or lock you in. We could put a lock on the door that takes a key, and I could—” “Can you hear yourself?” Max was appalled. He had to make Sumner understand the danger. He had to push him away, even if Sumner hated him for it. “I know for a fact that I've killed while I was sleepwalking. For the first time in years it starts to happen to me again, and Elena is dead.” Sumner held his hands up. “Stop!” “It could just as easily be you.” “No—” “Next time I could grab one of the curtain ties and wrap it around your throat…” Sumner turned his face away and pressed it against the glass as though he were trying to squeeze through it to escape. “Stop, I can't stand it.” Max felt sick inside but didn't stop himself. “Look, kid, I knew you wanted me when you were in school. That was convenient. I thought I could use that to find out what the police were doing about Elena's case.” “What?”

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“But it's no secret they were using you to get to me same as I was using you to get to them, so it's a stalemate. It's obvious you don't know anything, you're just a kid with a crush, and while I appreciate—” “A kid with a crush?” Sumner's shoulders stiffened. Fuck. That hit home. “I don't want you to be some cautionary tale on A&E's Most Notorious or something. You need to cut your losses here.” Sumner was silent for so long Max thought maybe he'd said more than he'd needed to say. Overkill. How ironic. “I'm a kid?” Sumner spat finally. “Time to look in a fucking mirror, Max.” “What the hell do you mean by that?” “Look at yourself!” Sumner told him. “You live this indolent lifestyle, painting and raking in the cash while David takes care of your day-to-day problems and Guadalupe takes care of your house. You don't even have food! You just float along letting other people tackle the things you find too pedestrian—” “You're way out of line, Sumner.” “Am I? You and your brother treat me like some rent boy, and I'm out of line?” “No one's ever—” “You think your talent gives you a pass. Your family spoiled you and your brother cleans up your messes and now you think you can just turn me off like a vibrator.” Sumner clapped his hands on either side of Max's face and looked him right in the eye. “But I see you so clearly, Max, and it is breaking my heart.” Max flinched. “What do you mean?” Sumner pressed their foreheads together. “Oh, Max… I know that you're fascinated by strength, that you pull things apart in order to study what makes them strong, whether it's Sea Crest's cliffs or old buildings or beautiful young ballerinas. I know you want to find that strength inside the core of yourself, and you can't stop looking for it, even in your sleep. You can't stop telling yourself the truth;

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you see yourself as clearly as I do, and you're trying to change. And you know what?” “What?” Max wasn't able to prevent himself from asking. “I know you can do it. I see who you are.” Sumner lifted his face for a kiss, but Max glanced up and saw the hideous painting behind him and pushed him away. “You know who you want me to be.” “I see your flaws, and I do not absolve you. But I see who you want to be. I love you for all the things you are, good and bad. I love you for all the right reasons. But you've scared yourself, and now you're trying to send me away.” “I am sending you away”—Max hardened his heart—“because I don't want what you have to offer.” Sumner glared at him in shock. “You bastard.” “Time to go,” Max told him. Sumner pressed his lips together and nodded his head once. He went to the bedroom where he'd left the rest of his clothes and gathered his things quickly and efficiently. Max had to hand it to him. His back was straight, and he even seemed relaxed. The heat coming off his body spoke of inner turmoil, but nothing showed on his face. Max watched, rocked by turbulence of his own as Sumner stood before his portrait. He wondered if Sumner would take it with him as some kind of dismal souvenir. The last thing Sumner did was open and squeeze out a tube of cadmium red medium onto the painting, across the face, like a sick gash of bright, fresh blood. He scrubbed his hand over it until it covered the hideous death mask in sheer red, so the face showed through like a ghost behind a cloudy crimson mist. And then he reached out and shoved Max back into the wall hard, putting his palm to Max's chest and leaving a bloody-looking handprint there. Max rested his head against the wall and waited.

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Would Sumner kiss him? Would he hit him? Sumner glared at him, such bleak unhappiness in his eyes that Max was tempted, then and there, to confess. He wanted Sumner. Loved him. Was trying to protect him, and Sumner would see that, someday, even if he couldn't see it right then. I love you. I need to know you're safe. Sumner wiped the rest of the paint off on his chest and left without a word. Max finally exhaled. It seemed impossible that he'd been holding his breath, but he certainly had; he was dizzy with it. Sumner had left with a slash of red paint on his chest to match Max's—a perfect, if grisly, reminder that Max had torn Sumner's heart out. Max looked down, touched his fingers to the slick red mess on his chest, and sighed. Twofer. It seemed he'd destroyed his own heart as well.

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Chapter Eleven Sumner got into his Jetta and headed north on the 101. At first he had no plan, only escape. Only to put as wide and dulling a distance between himself and Max as possible. He leaned into the numbness and took the winding, foggy road that overlooked the ocean, stopping every now and then to look at something that intrigued him or to think about where he'd come from. He drove until it was necessary to stop for gas, if not for food. By the time he got back on the road with a sack full of chips and soda, it was nearing noon. Soon, though, rain spattered down in fits and starts, and it was hard to tell the time at all. Checking his cell phone, Sumner knew he'd find no message from Max. “You're just a kid with a crush.” Max was serious about everything he'd said that morning. About turning himself in, about confessing to his so-called crimes. Cruz would be all too delighted to lay every single unsolved crime in Sea Crest at Max's doorstep, and before he'd even be aware of it, he'd be held responsible for everything from tagging the school to failure to pick up pet droppings. If Cruz could somehow tie David Lancaster in on those murders, the publicity could keep him going for a decade. Small-town cop nabs big-time politician. And the crowd goes wild. At best, Max would enjoy a lengthy stay in some sort of mental institution; at worst, he'd face life in prison or… The very idea carved a painful hole in the vicinity of Sumner's heart and burned like a brand. He stopped the car in a scenic turnout overlooking the deep gray, foamy ocean to sleep for a few hours. By the time he woke up enough to pull back onto the highway, it was fully dark and he'd killed an

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entire day going a couple hundred miles. More miles ground beneath his wheels until he was just south of Crescent City, nearing the Oregon border. Over and over Sumner asked himself if he was the crazy one. He doubted that he'd ever been able to see Max Lancaster without the filter of hero worship. But that was a filter, not an impenetrable wall. Why didn't anyone—even Max—believe Sumner could see Max for what he was? Max could paint him as a hopeless twink—a kid with a crush—all he wanted. He understood more than Max would ever know. Sumner's hands tightened on the wheel. Nothing had eroded his faith in himself as a judge of character and an observant man. Max couldn't have killed Elena. It was absurd. Leaving out all the strange things Max had done, even given his childhood accident—for lack of a better word—with his bird, Elena was not a young woman who would go gently into death. She was strong and quick and wiry. Scrappy. Filled with vibrant energy and determined. Awake, Max would never have harmed that girl. Sleepwalking, he could never have harmed her without coming away well and truly worse for wear. Sumner pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped. As he sat there, the wipers cleared away drops of rain, rhythmically squelching from one side of his windshield to the other. Water sheeted down the other windows and rolled in rivulets that blurred the wet pavement and made the light of the few cars that passed him pool like puddles of glistening red paint in their wake. He cursed himself once again for giving in to impulse, for avoiding further confrontation when it seemed likely he'd lost Max anyway. He'd gotten angry with Max's attitude and scared by that painting and left Max alone, then started thinking long after, when it wouldn't any good. What he knew in his heart was simple. Whoever killed Elena wanted Max to appear guilty. Whoever killed the second girl hoped that Max would shoulder the blame for that as well. That person's plan backfired because Max was in custody. Cruz had to be right, and two different people had killed those girls. David

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Lancaster certainly had the balls to cover up an accidental death. Even a murder. Did he have the stomach for a second murder if it was the only way to deflect suspicion and protect his brother? He was a man of action, but Sumner couldn't see him soiling his own hands. Yet…maybe. David Lancaster might go that far if it was the only way to win. Like the attorney, Abel Jameson, he was not a man who liked to lose. No one thought it had come to that, though. Not yet. But if David Lancaster knew Max was completely alone, that he was frightened and considering confessing to crimes he didn't commit, he'd be frantic to talk him out of it. Maybe he would succeed where Sumner had failed. Sumner took out his phone and dialed David Lancaster's home number. If David had gone home to his family and Max had pushed Sumner away, that left Max entirely, completely alone. Sumner got no signal on his cell and cursed. He continued driving in the worsening rain until he spotted a sign for a gas station and followed it. Once there he stood in the rain and pumped the quarters he'd dug from his ashtray into the pay phone. A woman's voice answered. “Hello?” “Hello. Hi.” Sumner nearly lost his nerve. “I wonder… This is Sumner Ellison. I'm calling for David Lancaster. This is in regard to his brother Max.” There was a long pause. “How did you get this number?” “Is this Mrs. Lancaster? April Lancaster?” “Yes,” the woman replied warily. “Max gave me the number. Is David there?” “David no longer lives here,” she told him sharply. “I'm sorry, I don't understand.” Sumner peered into the slick black night as though that might help. “David Lancaster no longer lives at this address. He may be reached at his cell phone or at Senator Richardson's office in Sacramento.”

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“But he said—” “I have no comment on our pending divorce. I have no comment on his brother's trial. Do not call this number again.” The line hummed when Mrs. Lancaster hung up.

*** Max didn't know how long he'd lain in bed frozen, listening for another sound. Something, some out-of-the-ordinary noise had penetrated the depth of his alcoholencumbered sleep and caused his heart to race, his awareness to pop like a balloon, as if a light had gone on somewhere in the recesses of his mind to bring him instantly alert in the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, the gauzy sheer curtains billowed on a gusty wind that carried the scent of the sea into his room. They shuddered and jerked suddenly, as they would have only if someone had entered the loft and closed the door behind. Someone was inside his home. Irrationally, Max's heart leaped with the hope that it might be Sumner returning to tell him to go fuck himself. That he knew that Max was innocent and had come back to help him prove it. As soon as the thought came to him, he realized that Sumner didn't have a key. But David did. And Guadalupe. And Nonna. Shit. Everyone has a key except for Sumner. Max slid from his bed and padded softly across the loft into the space defined by the living room furniture. He wore only a pair of jeans and his monitor, having passed out after a long day of self-pity and a bottle of vodka he kept in the freezer for martini emergencies. He crept through the living room and looked into the kitchen; nothing seemed out of place. When he entered the studio and flipped on the lights, the only thing that greeted him was his hideous portrait of Sumner. “Shit.” Max backed away from it. The red paint with which Sumner had tried to eradicate the image made it seem even eerier. It sat like a theatrical prop in a production where a murderer or a corpse appears behind a scrim, illuminated in the moment of revelation to unveil for the audience what's been hiding there all along.

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Was this his madness? To paint an exanimate Elena, a murdered Sumner, and then to kill them to make it come true? Or were those only his fears manifesting themselves in his sleep as Sumner had hinted. He stared at the portrait for a very long time, pacing to get one angle, moving to view it from another. It had been such a handsome picture. The image of a man who had more faith in him than he had in himself, and then, overnight, in his sleep, he'd turned it into the picture of a victim who's sightless eyes gazed back at him with recrimination. He reached for the painting, even though it made him feel almost dirty to touch it again, and picked it up, intending to put it away in the closet where he'd kept the other paintings he'd changed before the police had taken them as evidence. Max drew the closet door open, and everything clicked into place for him. The sound he'd heard, keys hitting the glass bowl in the hallway. An everyday, homely kind of sound. Such a normal sound, in fact, so completely below his conscious mind, that he picked it up only because he was sleeping and the noise was unexpected. The light from the studio barely made it into the farthest recess of the closet behind his coats, where he'd been stashing the work that made him sick to look at. When he'd pushed all the way inside, the light limned a pale face with dark hair coming out of the deepest part of the shadows like an apparition in an old blackand-white movie. “Hello, Max.” His brother grinned at him. “I saw you did a picture of our Hardy Boy. I'm sure that one is your most remarkable piece to date. How on earth do you come up with this shit?”

*** Sumner smacked his hand on the steering wheel, regretting the impulse that led him up Highway 101 instead of the I-5. He was driving as fast as he safely could on the slick roads, making each winding turn with precision, grateful he had a car that was engineered to handle well. More than once he startled someone behind headlights in the opposite lane, in oncoming traffic. Someone heading sleepily home from a long day or a night out.

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Stupid, stupid. Everyone had taken David Lancaster at face value. Why shouldn't they? He was Max's most ardent and established champion. He'd come with an excellent attorney, a bundle of money, and exactly the right note of concern. To protect his beloved baby brother whom he'd been taking care of for decades. But had he? Sumner cursed and tightened his grip when a truck rolled passed him so quickly a wash of air and water battered sharply against his car. He had to get back to Sea Crest, to make Cruz understand that it was time to ask a very different kind of question. Everyone knew who stood to gain by Max's death. It was common knowledge that everything Max owned would be held in trust for David's children. But who would administer that trust? Who had, in point of fact, been the administrator of the entire trust left by Max and David's parents? And what if Max was still alive, but in jail? What then? With the recent economic downturn and a pending—possibly acrimonious—divorce, something that could conceivably tank the political career of a senator's aide, there was a whole pot of motive just waiting for something to bring it to a boil. It would be two hours yet before he could make it back to Max's, and once again he looked to see if he got a signal. Fucking phone was dead. He'd never needed more coverage than he had, and never thought about what it would mean if he didn't have it. That's what came from growing up with the ease of instant access, of gratification only a fingertip away, and he'd taken it for granted. Next time he got a phone, he'd buy the same one they gave to James fucking Bond. Something that beamed up to satellites and could be connected in underground ice caves so he could get hold of Cruz to tell him what he'd learned. Something with GPS so he'd know how the fuck far he was from Max's loft. The more he drove, the more horrible sense the entire thing made. It was easy to extrapolate, really, that the death of Max's beloved bird might not even have

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been his fault. Who witnessed that? Max's parents as well as David? Or had David been the only one to see Max commit those so-called sleepwalking crimes? The more Sumner thought about the relationship between the brothers, the more light it cast on David's jealousy, his apparent devotion, the ease with which he entered and left Max's house, his knowledge of Max's work, his finances, and his weakness. At some point, Sumner was aware that he was clutching at straws, determined to exonerate the man he knew he loved, determined to mitigate his past transgressions and lay the blame for his crimes at someone else's feet. As irrational as it was, it still began to make a bizarre kind of sense. What if David had killed Elena? What if David had used Max's past and his intimate knowledge of Max's most basic fears to set him up now that he found he'd need more money than he had? With Sumner alive but in jail, his entire fortune would be David's to use any way he saw fit, and David's wife would be unable to touch it. The paintings would soar in value. David could turn his brother's misfortune into a platform in any political campaign. He could make it his mission to help the mentally ill, to make himself look like a saint next to his brother, whether Max was cast in the role of the sick man or the sinner. Sumner ground his teeth. Could anyone be that…duplicitous? To use his own brother that way? To kill a girl he'd never even met and then turn a bluff and smiling face, hire an attorney, all the while on the pretense of being the overprotective, concerned sibling, the best friend Max had ever had? What about Isabelle Allen? Her death seemed even more bizarre now. Was it really a random act, the crime of a copycat, or was something else at work that Sumner couldn't see? Finally Sumner drove past a familiar landscape, a row of lights that signaled a small enclave of civilization, remote beach houses. He figured he was about five miles north of Sea Crest. He found a weak signal on his phone and called the number for the Sea Crest Police Department.

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“Is this an emergency?” the operator asked him. “I don't know. I need to speak with Lieutenant Cruz. I need to tell him something about Max Lancaster's case. Can you put me through to him somehow?” “Who did you say this is again?” she asked dully, unimpressed. “This is Sumner Ellison. I'm the freelance artist who worked on sketches for the Elena Genovese murder investigation. I have information…” Sumner wondered, now, why he thought Cruz didn't know of David Lancaster's impending divorce. Did he know? Surely he'd done his homework. Had the papers been filed? “Please. I need to speak to Cruz.” “It's the middle of the night, Mr. Ellison. I'll see he gets your message as soon as possible, but I'll have to call him at home, and he'll decide whether he chooses to call you back. In the meantime, I can give you the number for the automated tip line for information regarding the murder of Elena Genovese. The family has established a reward for—” “I'm not interested in the reward. Give Lieutenant Cruz a message, please. Will you? Tell him David Lancaster is divorcing his wife, that she's bitter.” “Are you saying I'm supposed to call Lieutenant Cruz in the middle of the night to tell him David Lancaster's wife is bitter?” the operator drawled, hostile and sarcastic. “Look, I don't know if it changes anything.” Sumner cursed when a pickup truck in front of him hit a dip in the road and water splashed, reducing his visibility to zero for a moment. “But I think it does. Will you do that? Will you call him at home right now? I don't have his home or cell number or I'd—” “I'll call him. You need to give me a number where you can be reached,” she said, resigned. Sumner gave the number of his cell phone and hung up. Cruz would surely believe he was obsessed with Max and fighting the inevitable conclusion that Max wasn't the man Sumner thought he was. But he was a good cop, and he'd check into it. Maybe it meant nothing, but maybe Sumner was right. If Cruz was true to

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his words, finding Elena's killer was all that mattered to him, even if it meant he'd been on the wrong track all along. Sumner became aware that his teeth were chattering, either from cold because his clothing was damp or from adrenaline because he was afraid. He continued south on the 101 until he had to make the turn that led him to Sea Crest. Whatever happened, whatever the outcome of the investigation or the court case, whether Max Lancaster was found guilty or innocent of the charges, Sumner knew one thing: he was not going to abandon Max Lancaster ever again. Even if Max tried to send him away. Even if he'd lost all hope of Max Lancaster's love. Sumner Ellison was going to stand by him until…forever.

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Chapter Twelve “David?” Max asked stupidly. As if finding his brother in the closet, hiding behind his overcoats and ski clothes, was an everyday occurrence. “What the hell are you doing?” “Hiya, Maxi,” David said sheepishly. He wore the guilty expression of a child with his hand caught snitching cookies. “How awkward.” Max breathed a sigh of relief. “Fuck, Davy! I heard your keys hit the bowl, and I don't know what I thought, man. Jeez. You scared me.” “Sorry.” David emerged from the closet and stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “What were you hiding in there for? Come to check up on me?” Max turned his back on his brother and headed for the kitchen. “I need a drink.” “I came to see if Sumner was still here with you, but when I didn't see his car…” “I see. Somebody has to babysit the mad artist to make sure he doesn't go on a killing spree.” Max opened a mostly bare cupboard, got out a bottle of merlot, and hunted for his corkscrew. “I've got this, Maxi. Go put on some clothes. It's cold here. Your nipples are getting perky.” Max looked down. “Oh, yeah, well. Heaven forbid.” Max retreated to his room to find a sweater. He entered the living room, still pulling it over his head, sliding his arms through the sleeves, but David wasn't in the kitchen where he'd left him. He finally found his brother by the windows in his studio.

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“Here.” David held out a glass of the deep red, fragrant wine, and Max took it. “I'm sorry I scared you. It's…well, confession time. April's going to divorce me.” “Davy!” Max was shocked. “You never told me?” “It's all hush-hush right now. She hasn't filed the papers yet. I hoped we could work it out, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen.” “Why on earth? You never fight! You're the perfect couple.” “There was a woman in DC, and April found out.” Max gave him a shove that nearly caused David to spill his wine. “You idiot! What were you thinking?” David shook his head ruefully. “Obviously, I wasn't thinking. I told April it was a onetime deal, but she doesn't care. She says once a cheater, always a cheater, and she's not going to be one of those Washington wives who takes it lying down.” Max's heart broke for him. “The kids will be devastated.” “They think I'm still in Washington.” Max laid a hand on David's shoulder. “When this thing happened with you, I thought it was probably a lucky thing I can't go home. I figured I could stay here in town, pretend I was heading home, and then watch out for you. Make sure you didn't leave here again while you were sleepwalking.” “Again?” “Or…you know. Make sure you don't get the chance. If you did leave the house in that state—even to go for a little walk—if someone found you that way, it's going to hurt your case.” “I know.” “I had hoped Sumner would be here to make sure you didn't.” David went to the closet and picked up the portrait of Sumner with its slashed throat. “I guess this was a deal breaker, huh?” “I sent him away.”

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David sighed. “Aw, Maxi. You shouldn't have done that. That kid loved you. You can't believe that you'd—” “I don't know what to believe anymore, Davy.” Max dragged his hand through his hair, giving it a good tug while he was at it, to feel…something. To feel anything but the numbness of blind panic. “Maybe I did this shit. Probably I did. Who else could have?” David placed the portrait back on the easel. “This…” He seemed to hesitate, his glass hanging in his hand, halfway to his lips. “This is pretty grim, Maxi.” “The red paint was Sumner's doing. He tried to obliterate the image, but it's still there.” “Haunting.” David looked at him thoughtfully. “Tell me about it.” “What would you do if you knew you'd killed Elena?” “What kind of a question is that? I'd turn myself in. I'd make sure I could never hurt anyone again.” Sumner sighed as the wine tingled through his bloodstream, warming him. “A couple of times I've even thought about…” David waited for him to continue, but Max decided it would be better if he said nothing further. “Maxi.” David tilted his head in that way he had of looking at Max like he was a kid again, like he'd have to save Max's ass from some spectacular disaster or clean up a mess Max caused with their parents none the wiser. “It'll be fine,” Max told him, even though he didn't necessarily believe it. “I'll be fine. Do you think they'll put me in jail? Or will they lock me away, somewhere like a hospital?” “Don't do this to yourself, Max. Things will look better in the morning.” Max blinked at him. “I am so tired. Maybe we can go to the living room to finish this wine.”

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Max turned away from his portrait of Sumner because it suddenly hurt his eyes. He headed for the leather sofa in the adjacent room and flopped down, feeling nearly boneless. Soon enough David's body dropped beside his, wineglass in one hand, wine bottle in the other. He refreshed both their glasses, then picked up the remote to switch the television on and turn the sound way down. “Maybe there's an old movie on or something. We can watch it and drown our sorrows.” Max leaned back and closed his eyes. “Are you sure there's nothing you can say to make April take you back? Have you tried offering to go for couples counseling? Sex addiction therapy? Maybe if you fell on your sword—” “I promised her everything short of chemical castration. She's not interested. I wondered briefly if I should hire a PI. Maybe she's having an affair and is just as glad to be rid of me.” Max growled, “You know her better than that, David.” “Do I? Do you ever know anyone? I never believed I'd ever get into a situation where I'd cheat, but man. When you're in Washington, it's like a different world. Everything comes at you on a platter, and you start to think it's your due.” “I hear you. Artists have no shortage of opportunities. Did I tell you that I met Sumner that way? I didn't remember him at first, but he reminded me that I gave a lecture at CalArts and he was there; he had me sign his program. Very hungry eyes, as I recall.” “Shit. My baby brother, celebrity artist. Is that how you trick?” David nudged Max's arm, and he barely felt it. “Sometimes.” “Wastrel.” David nudged him again, harder. Max laughed at how numb his arm was. “Lawyer.” He was feeling very odd. Dizzy in that wrapped-in-cotton way he felt when pleasantly drunk.

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“If that's the worst thing you can accuse me of, I'd have to say for an artist you lack imagination.” “Well. Politician. How low can you go?” He snorted and shook his head, looking at his wine. It seemed more potent than usual, but he hadn't eaten anything for…all day and half the night. “You didn't bring food?” “Nope.” David flipped through the channels. “I could call for a pizza.” “Isn't it too late?” “I'll try,” David said, getting up. Max rested his head against the back of the couch and tried to keep his eyes open. His head felt swimmy, and his body rubberier than usual. If he had to get up for any reason, he wasn't certain he'd be able to. He heard David rummaging around and relaxed. David would find food, and that would help. Dizziness was a fact of red wine on an empty stomach. He let his eyes fall closed. They were so heavy. Sometimes it felt good to succumb to the pull exerted by alcohol. He listened to the television commercials. He was old enough to yearn for the days when pitchmen didn't shout at you about something clean or something wow at twice the volume of the program he watched. After a while, though, it was a background, and the leather couch a comfortable oasis on which he drifted, his mind at peace, at least for the moment. For some reason though, his body fought it, startling him with a shot of adrenaline, a sweaty surge of sweeping panic that flooded through his bloodstream, as if he were shaken awake from a sound sleep. He must have gasped because David said something, but he couldn't make himself answer. He tried to talk, but nothing came out. His mouth wouldn't move. His heart rocketed around in his chest, but his arms were like lead. He saw David out of the corner of his eye, and it took him more than a minute to realize that he was washing both their glasses.

*** “Answer, dammit!” Max's cell phone rang straight through to voice mail. It was entirely possible that Max turned it off for the sake of privacy, if he'd been receiving

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calls from reporters, or to work without interruption. Sumner tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. Even at this late hour, Max was as likely to be working as sleeping. He didn't keep regular work hours. Max didn't do regular anything. Sumner could see the edge of Sea Crest, with its stilt houses precariously perched on the cliffs overlooking the bay and the beach motels looming behind them like a silhouette, a black framework overlaid with lights, in the distance. The pouring rain added to the illusion as he turned onto the road that would lead him to Max's loft. A cat darting past the Dumpster behind Max's place caught his attention and made his heart race. When he'd parked, he willed himself to close his eyes and count to ten. Two emotions warred within him. He was probably being ridiculous. Every sound, every movement in the shadows made him jump, and as yet there was no real reason for his caution. As far as he knew, Max was inside his loft and David Lancaster was everything he said he was except he was going through a breakup. It didn't necessarily follow that he wasn't every bit as genuinely concerned for his brother's welfare as he claimed. On top of that, Max wanted Sumner out of his life. He'd gone to great lengths—painful

lengths—to

see

that

Sumner

stayed

away.

As

Sumner

contemplated this, he noticed that none of the cars in the loft's small parking lot looked like David's sporty Lexus, and none were obviously rental cars. Suppose he'd been wrong about David Lancaster? Suppose he barged into Max's loft to tell him about his brother's divorce and Max already knew? Sumner hesitated, leaving the motor running. He gazed up at the window of Max's studio. It was unlit except for a faint glow from the hallway that led to the living room. While he watched, a shape seemed to detach itself from the shadows and move across the room, clearly illuminated as the shape of a man for a moment when it reached the window. Then it disappeared altogether.

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Max was definitely up and moving around. Decision made, Sumner parked his car and got out. He locked the door behind him with a press of the button on his key ring. In the rain everything took on a slightly sinister hue, gloomy yet glistening. Things shimmered and changed even as he looked at them. The fog of his breath, backlit by the security light coming from the rear entrance of Max's building, hung before him, obscuring his vision. He approached cautiously, quietly eased into the building, and took the stairs to Max's loft. When Sumner got to the door, he discovered it was unlocked and open slightly, so the pressure from the tip of his finger caused it to swing wider on its hinges, revealing David standing in the kitchen lighting a piece of paper on fire and then blowing it out and waving it in the air to dispel the smoke. “Sumner! Excellent.” David smiled at him pleasantly. “You're just in time to help me save Maxi from an attempted suicide.”

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Chapter Thirteen “What?” From where he stood at the door, Sumner could see that the television in the living room was on. There was wine on the table, and Max's head was visible above the back of the couch as though he'd fallen asleep there. The easel that held his defaced portrait sat next to the television like an accusation. “Max can be overly dramatic.” David sighed. “It goes with the territory of grand artiste and enfant terrible.” Sumner rushed past David and peered over the couch as he made his way into the living room. “Max?” No answer. “Max, what did you do?” Max appeared unconscious; he sat upright on the couch with his feet on the floor, but his knees were relaxed and open and his arms lay limply by his sides. His head rested at an odd, uncomfortable angle, as if he were hanging there by it, as if it were the only thing keeping him seated, caught as it was on the soft, cushiony leather pillows that formed the back of his couch. “Max. Max, can you hear me?” Sumner sat beside him and gently touched his arm. He got no response, so he took Max's hand in his. To David, who remained in the kitchen, he called, “What did he take? Do you know?” “No.” If it seemed odd to Sumner that David would stay in the kitchen burning something while Max lay unconscious in the living room, he ignored that in favor of seeing to Max. “When I got here, I noticed that he was depressed.” “Max.” Sumner cupped Max's face in his hand and peered at him. “Max, open your eyes.”

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Sumner reached into his jacket pocket for his phone to dial 911. He glanced up to see David coming out of the kitchen. When he looked back, Max's eyes fluttered open briefly, then closed again. “Did you call for an ambulance?” He didn't even glance up at David. “I'm getting help, Max; you need to just hold on.” David's icy voice froze him. “Give me the phone, Sumner.” Sumner finally looked up into the muzzle of a gun. He did exactly as he was told. David frowned down at him and put the phone in his jeans' pocket. Sumner's heart sank. “Max is your brother. He trusts you.” David motioned with the gun. “Sit on the coffee table.” Sumner sat. The wood surface groaned beneath his weight. David held the gun on Sumner as he reached over the kitchen counter for Max's wicked-looking santoku knife. “When you weren't here, I thought I'd have to improvise,” David said matterof-factly as he put the gun into the waistband of his jeans and moved to stand behind Max. Sumner thought he saw an opening, but when he moved, David pressed the knife to Max's throat from behind. “It's not my best event, improvisation. I like to work from a detailed plan.” Max didn't flinch from the knife, the tip of which drew a tiny bead of blood from the skin of his neck. Sumner stayed where he was, his attention drawn back to David. “What are you talking about?” “I expected you, as Max's worshipful acolyte and erstwhile Hardy Boy, to be here, guarding him against killing little girls in his sleep.” David's face registered surprise. “I guess that”—he jerked his chin toward Sumner's portrait—“was a little too much, even for you, wasn't it?” “I admit I was shocked by Max's portrait of me in more ways than one.” Sumner tried to think beyond the threat. He tried to imagine what he would do if he

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had brains and nerve instead of the terror that seemed to be roaring through his blood, paralyzing him. “You have a habit of running first and then thinking things through.” Sumner laughed mirthlessly. “Yeah. I guess.” “Sorry about that.” David regarded him strangely. “But that portrait is too good to waste. Which means plan A is still in play for the moment.” Sumner glanced at Max and noticed his Adam's apple bob. “What is plan A?” He thought he probably didn't want to know, but the words had come out and he couldn't take them back. “Max Lancaster, celebrated artist, paints a fatal portrait of his lover, Sumner Ellison, then turns his art into reality. Afterward, he attempts suicide. His brother, as his faithful protector, rescues him. There's a damning letter, which I attempted to burn, in which he confesses all. Experts will weigh in on somnambulism and homicide. His past will be called into question. Elena's murder will be reviewed. The legal process could take years, maybe even decades.” “In the meantime, his paintings will skyrocket in value and you'll control his finances,” Sumner finished bitterly. “Yes, I will.” David seemed pleased with himself. “You killed Elena.” Sumner and David locked eyes. “Yes.” David's serious face betrayed a hint of satisfaction. The barest lift of one side of his mouth in a predatory smile. “I did.” “Cruz thinks you killed the other girl to make Max appear innocent.” David barked a laugh. “Hardly. I can't tell you how pissed off I was when that happened. I had Maxi exactly where I wanted him, and along comes this…stupid coincidence.” Sumner eyed the knife in David's hand. “I'm not going to stand still while you try to cut my throat. Even if you kill me, this will never work.”

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David's expression hardened, and the point of the knife sank a tiny bit deeper into Max's neck. “Everyone knows Max sleepwalks. That he's killed in that state. Thanks to you, the police have made the connection to certain youthful animal…mishaps. I'm wearing Max's clothes. My DNA is everywhere here. Everyone will believe I came in on the scene like always and found it—” “You've done this to him before,” Sumner said suddenly, almost rippling with shock. “When he was a boy, did you…? You killed the damned bird, didn't you?” Almost instantly David's body language changed, as if a string that bound him snapped or a great weight was lifted off him. He smiled broadly, relaxed, and gestured toward Sumner with the knife when he said, “You're the first person who ever made that connection. Fuck, it's been such a long damned time, and nobody ever guessed.” “But surely your parents—” David rolled his eyes. “My parents were so deeply, deeply disappointed in Max that day. Their perfect, golden boy. Suddenly he was an object of fear, of loathsome impulses. And Max was riddled with guilt.” David sighed with ecstasy. “Oh, how I loved to watch him flail.” Sumner watched a single tear glide past Max's closed eyes and down his cheek. He clenched his jaw shut. He was determined to keep David talking until he could figure a way out of this mess. “So you killed the bird?” David tensed. “That was an accident, but yes.” “But you let your brother take the blame.” “I was a kid.” David shrugged. “Max had everyone he ever met in the palm of his hand, and suddenly he wasn't so golden anymore. You can't imagine what a relief that was! He walked in his sleep, and he never remembered what he'd done. It seemed like the perfect way to—” “And you continued until your parents bought the security system for your house,” Sumner guessed. “You made yourself Max's keeper and convinced him that you were looking out for him, when all the while it was you…”

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David's voice hardened. “All right, you've had your Hardy Boy moment. All has been revealed. But tomorrow, Max will have cut your throat and attempted suicide, and I'll be the one who saved his ass, again.” “Such a good brother,” Sumner sneered. “I am a good brother, or he'd have been dead years ago.” David took the knife from Max's neck and advanced. He growled, “Time to make life imitate art.” Sumner leaped to his feet and searched for a weapon. His gaze found the wine bottle, and he picked it up by the neck. David lunged toward him, swinging the knife. Sumner backed away, though in the open room, with David between him and the hallway, there was nowhere to go. “David, wait! Don't do this. He trusts you.” David rounded the couch with the speed of a desperate man. He lifted his arm and came at Sumner again, swiping at him and feinting until David was sure the knife had to connect with his skin. The satin-smooth steel surface winked as it caught the light, arcing down, lethally close. Sumner brought the bottle up and blocked its trajectory. Although his motion deflected the blow, the blade slashed at Sumner's shoulder. It swiped through his thin jacket—through his cotton shirt—as it cleanly slid into the skin. Red blood welled, warm and wet, but by then Sumner was so terrified he barely felt the pain. Holding the bottle up between them, part shield, part bludgeon, he gambled and moved into David's space when David clearly believed he would step back and away. It gave him a temporary advantage, and he used it to push hard, hurling David to the ground. David scrambled up, but instead of climbing to his feet, he grabbed for Sumner's, bringing him down, slashing at him as he scrambled over him. Sumner shoved with all his might, and they rolled. Sumner caught David's wrist, stopping the knife's momentum when it was only inches away from his skin, and slammed it on the wood floor as hard as he could. When he heard it clatter free, he gripped David by the neck and bashed his head down, once, twice. He heard the satisfying

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sound of David's skull connecting a third time, but at the same instant he heard a pop. Sumner jerked as if he'd been tased, but the reason for it didn't register until he was satisfied that David lay motionless beneath him. Blood trickled onto the floor by David's head from a wound behind his ear. Sumner rose to his knees over David's prone body and looked down at himself. Blood oozed from a hole in his shirt on his left side, above the waistband of his jeans. He sank to his ass on the ground, stunned. He'd been shot. David Lancaster shot him. Sumner shook his head to clear it. He smelled his own sweat and David's, and smoke from the gun as he removed it from David's limp hand. Moving again with effort, he crawled toward Max. He realized too late that his phone was in David's pocket. He'd have to use Max's phone. Sumner reached Max and collapsed. He breathed in Max's scent, paint and alcohol and man, and pressed a kiss to his throat. A grunt from Max made him turn around. Sumner saw David lurch to his feet again, then steady himself and move painfully until he loomed over both of them. He'd taken up the knife and was only a heartbeat away from bringing it down toward Max's chest. Sumner raised the gun he still held and fired once. He watched a bright bloom of red soak David's shirt. David stared at it stupidly for a minute before he let out a surprised burst of air. Sumner had been wrong. Cadmium red medium was all wrong. Too light, too orange, not nearly vibrant enough for the splash of color that seeped from David's chest even as it leeched the color from his skin everywhere else. Sumner thought— absurdly—that he'd have to mix the perfect shade, and it could only come from Grumbacher Red, which was more vibrant, something far richer and deeper than any of the semiopaque cadmium reds.

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David sank to the floor. The stench of blood hung coppery in the air, while the color, the shade of red that pooled now on the floor where David lay, seemed to grow dark and thicken around him. Sumner turned to Max, who gazed at him in horror. Crawling for Max's cordless phone, Sumner managed to press 911, but there was no dial tone and nothing happened. He stared at it stupidly, willing it to work for a long time until he remembered it had been disconnected. Dimly he watched Max move toward him on the floor. Max threw an arm around his waist and pulled him insistently toward…something. He let Max half drag, half shove him toward the door of the apartment. Both men inched along in an agonizingly slow crawl. Max's golden face was close to his, so very earnest now as he tried to help Sumner reach the door of the loft. Eventually Sumner had no strength to go farther, and he stopped moving. He watched numbly as Max continued past him, not understanding why Max would leave him but glad that Max was alive and unharmed. Pleased that David could never hurt Max again. Sumner felt the strong undertow of blood loss. His wounds started to burn in the aftermath of battle. While the adrenaline dissipated, throbbing pain dug its talons into him and ripped him apart. Max looked back at him with tenderness. With sadness and hope and concern and—maybe—something very like love. Sumner's heart seemed to swell and bob along on a crest of hope, then sank again as darkness claimed him.

*** Max crawled past Sumner, unable to say one word to reassure him. Something was wrong with his body. Something David put into his wine had rendered him groggy and unable to move. The best he could do—even now—was to combat crawl along on the floor. For a while he'd been unconscious, but he'd opened his eyes when he heard Sumner's voice, only to watch that horrific fight. To hear the unthinkable revelation that David was responsible for all of this. Everything. His brother Davy,

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the man he'd considered his best friend, killed Elena. He was trying to kill Sumner. And for what? For money. If he stopped to dwell on it, he'd be sick. He'd wanted to rail at David, to scream at him. He'd wanted to tear him apart. Everything he'd believed— everything he knew about his life—had been a lie. Max wouldn't be rid of the rancid taste of betrayal until—he'd never be rid of it. But he had to find help or Sumner would die. That thought made him strain every muscle, digging into the floor until his nails bled and his elbows were scraped raw as he dragged himself out of the apartment. Sumner needed him. The boy placed his life on the line simply by befriending him. He'd shown him more loyalty—even though he'd surely had his doubts—than anyone Max had ever known. As Max crawled through the door, he wondered what he could possibly have done to make David hate him that much. How had such ugliness existed under David's skin and not corrupted the beautiful, smiling face he'd shown to the world? Max's breath hitched in a sob as he began an uncomfortable descent down the flight of concrete stairs that led to the parking lot outside. He continued to crawl, his only goal to get as far away from the building as he could. Rough pebbles dug into his skin, and spatters of rain and sweat stung his eyes and the nicks on his neck. “Come on… Somewhere,” he said out loud, forcing a voice from his raw, dry throat, “around here—” The monitoring bracelet on his ankle emitted a piercing series of shrill, whistling beeps, causing the lights in the apartment over his to go on. A window opened, and Nonna's head stuck out. “Max Lancaster?” she said, seeing him lying on the ground. “Call 911,” he ground out. His voice was faint but working at last. “Paramedics!”

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Rain spat down intermittently on Max as he lay looking up at a sky congested with fulsome, inky gray clouds. Nonna hurried from the building, her long darkand-silver braid bouncing off the soft velour of her elegant robe until it spilled over her shoulder to tickle him. “I called emergency, Max.” Her worried brown eyes met his as she knelt with difficulty by his side. “Sumner,” Max told her with difficulty. “Hurt badly. My apartment. David's dead.” “Max.” Nonna stared at him, aghast. “I didn't kill Elena,” he whispered. “I didn't.” “I know.” She took his hand. Her warmth penetrated through the numbness. “I know that.” “I didn't.” Max started to cry. “I didn't know for certain until tonight.”

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Chapter Fourteen Max sat outside the ER waiting for word on Sumner. His head ached, and his mouth felt filled with cobwebs. He hadn't been able to rest. Six long hours had passed since they'd been brought in. He'd alternated his gaze between the commercial vinyl floor tiles and the other people in the room. Some of them waited with sick children; some merely sat, either ill themselves or simply forlorn, as if giant hands had placed them there and they had yet to figure out why. Eventually he registered the presence of Lieutenant Cruz, looking at least as tired as Max felt, when he dropped heavily into the chair beside him. Max didn't feel up to saying, I told you so. At any rate, Cruz had been so determined in his belief that Max killed Elena that Max wondered if he would accept the truth even now. “Hello, Cruz. You're up late. Or is it early?” “I'm sorry about your brother.” “Are you?” Max asked him. Each word scraped, rough and sharp, past his throat and through his lips. Cruz tensed. “It might surprise you to know that I'd be just as happy to have no crimes to solve, even though I'd be out of a job.” Max had nothing to say to that. The horror hadn't begun to catch up with him. Davy was dead. His entire existence had been a lie. What could seem real after that? “I imagine this must be tremendously painful for you,” Cruz said gently. “It's okay if you don't want to talk about it right now.”

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Max lifted his gaze from the floor to Cruz's face and looked for any sign that the sincerity in his voice might be false. When he found none, he said honestly, “I don't understand.” Brown eyes met Max's and remained placid. Eyes used to dealing with aftermath. Detached, yet caring. “What don't you understand?” Max crumbled inside but was proud that outwardly it only manifested itself in a tiny hitch in his voice. “I don't understand anything. How much of my life has been a colossal lie?” “Ellison stood toe-to-toe with me at every step in the investigation.” Cruz's eyes held warmth. “I'm not an easy man to face down, either. He told me he was in love with you. For what it's worth, I'm pretty certain that was the truth.” Max rubbed the grit from his eyes with the heels of his hand. “You wouldn't know the truth if it fell on your face and bit off your nose.” Cruz's bitterness surfaced briefly. “I guess you think that's pretty fair. In your entire life, you've probably only met one person who was as skilled a liar as your brother, but I meet them every day. Forgive me if I didn't just take your word that you didn't kill Elena Genovese. Most people I talk to say, Oh, right, you caught me, when I confront them.” Max said nothing. “I'm in a position to make amends a little here.” “How could you make up for—” “None of the people in this hospital will give you jack shit unless you're Sumner's immediate family, and I just talked with his surgeon. He says that Sumner's in serious condition but they've stabilized him. The bullet went completely through on the left side near his hip bone. He's a very lucky man. It's going to be a long time before he's running a marathon, but there's no major damage.” Max let out the breath he'd been holding. “Thank you.”

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“Yeah, well. I have some clout here because of the case and the fact that my wife is an ER nurse.” Cruz frowned. “I'm going to need to know exactly what happened.” “I was drugged, so I'm not really sure.” “I know. Sux.” “Yep. Sucks for me. Again.” “No.” Cruz huffed a laugh. “Succinylcholine. Also known as sux. At least that's what they think from your description of the symptoms. It's a paralytic. Tox will have to get back to me on exactly what, but they think you were given succinylcholine and it made you unable to move. It doesn't last and doesn't produce unconsciousness, though, so it's possible that your brother administered something along with it. You say he poured you wine? From your own bottle, right?” Max nodded. “The wine may have been enough. I hadn't slept much, so I might have dozed.” Cruz shrugged. “We'll find out.” “My brother said he loved to watch me flail.” Max's eyes burned. “I'm sorry.” “Can we talk about this later?” “Yes.” Cruz took his wallet from his jacket pocket and removed a card. Before he handed it over, he held it thoughtfully. “How about you call me tomorrow at the office? Maybe now that Sumner's out of danger, you should go home and—” “I'm staying here. I'll be fine. I just need to…” Sumner realized what Cruz meant about immediate family. “They won't let me see him, will they?” “After he's conscious, when he can consent, they will. In the meantime, ask for Marisol Cruz. She'll keep you updated, and she'll let the staff know. I told her I'd deputized you.” “Thanks for your help, Cruz.” Max offered his hand. Cruz gripped it firmly.

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“I know you don't believe this, Lancaster, but it would be my best-case scenario if all I had to do every day was smooth things over and help people out.” Max sighed. “I believe you.” The weariness he felt made him hold on to Cruz's hand longer than he would have normally. To his surprise, the lieutenant allowed it, finally dropping his hand after a warm squeeze. Cruz got to his feet heavily. “I'll be seeing you.” “All right.” Max watched him walk out the double doors and into the morning sun, wondering how the night could have given way to morning without him being aware of it. Max closed his eyes and let every sound flow over him. He could paint a picture from the sounds in that room. They ricocheted off the glass, off the floor tiles, from one wall to another. He wondered if it was fanciful to assume he could get the image just right from the way the different surfaces bounced sound, the same way he used reflected light. Max spent the rest of the hour listening. He only opened his eyes when his ears perceived something that related to him, as when something was so close that it seemed to encroach on his space. In one case, a toddler who'd lost hold of a ball came to retrieve it from under his chair. Max barely opened his eyes before moving his feet to let him crawl through to get it. Much later, shoes with squeaking synthetic soles approached him at a determined pace. He opened his eyes to see a sweet, thirty-something face peer down at him. “Mr. Lancaster?” A woman with a terrific smile stood over him. “Sumner Ellison is asking for you.” Max blinked up in surprise. “What time is it?” “Nearly three. I hated to wake you, but I knew you would want to know as soon as Sumner was conscious. He's indicated he'd like to see you.” Max got slowly to his feet, boneless and wobbly still. Something on his face must have told her he wasn't too steady because she came to his side and gripped

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his arm firmly to support him. “Take your time. There will be aftereffects from the drugs you were given.” “Thank you.” When he'd gotten his bearings, she led him to intensive care, where Sumner recovered from his surgery, monitored by every machine possible. Max leaned over the railing and looked closely at his face. His color was better, of course. The last time Max had seen it, in his apartment, he'd been chalk white. For a brief time, before the paramedics arrived, Max had thought Sumner couldn't possibly survive. He'd lost a lot of blood. Even though the EMTs assured him Sumner was still alive, even though Cruz reassured him, something tightly wound in Max had failed to uncoil until right then, the moment he could see Sumner for himself. Sumner's breathing was deep and steady, but his eyes were closed. Max looked back at the nurse who'd brought him in. “He asked for me?” She smiled kindly. “Yes. He's been in and out. More out than in, really, but that's to be expected. For the first while, he's better off if he sleeps.” “I see.” Max ran a forefinger down the length of Sumner's forearm. Sumner's lashes, dark and smudgy against the bruised-looking skin, fluttered and revealed his eyes. “Hello,” Max said stupidly. “Hi.” Sumner's eyes closed again. Max took Sumner's cool hand in his. “I'm here.” It encouraged him when Sumner's hand squeezed back. “I'll be here.”

*** Cruz's office was something of a disappointment to Max. He didn't know what he expected: retro metal fans and Venetian blinds, perhaps. Maybe a battered desk covered with stacks of files and a round trash can filled with empty coffee cups. Cruz sat behind a neat laminated wood desk in an ordinary office chair. He had no windows at all. One wall was covered with soccer team pictures showing what had to be Cruz's offspring, boys and girls, along with their teams, spanning a number of years. Very homey.

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As best he could, Max went over every detail of his encounter with his brother, from the moment that he found David Lancaster in his closet to the conversation he'd overheard after the drugs in his wine took effect. “He drank the wine too.” Max frowned. “He poured it though, and you said he handed you the glass.” “Yes.” Max sat numbly. “I don't suppose it matters that I heard him tell Sumner he killed Elena. There's no way to prove that now.” “We'll be going over the evidence again. This time we'll include your brother's things, his financial records, his phone records. We'll find something. No one commits a perfect crime.” “He very nearly did,” Max said bitterly. “I was ready to confess to anything rather than harm more people. If not for Sumner, I would have begged you to lock me up.” “It's never that simple. I thought I had the right man, but I never bought that sleepwalking thing. I was fully prepared to believe you'd had a psychotic break or dissociative identity disorder, but not that you're some somnambulist who kills birds and ballerinas while you're asleep. No way.” “I believed it.” “I could see that. And I wanted to probe it. I thought maybe you were accessing memories of what another personality was doing. That's what we get for watching too much television. The answer is usually a lot simpler than the ones I've imagined when I finally find out the truth.” “Simpler,” Max echoed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way.” Cruz looked at his hands. “You say that you overheard David admit to killing Elena?” “Yes. And my macaw. And he confessed to making me think, all these years, that I'd done it. He said…” Max's voice broke. “He said he'd enjoyed that.” Cruz's face was hard.

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“Yes.” Max swallowed. “My parents died believing that I was a monster.” “Sumner corroborates your story, but I'll be happy when we find conclusive physical evidence from Elena's murder. We've impounded your brother's car and have the techs going over all his clothing. We'll set the record straight, Max.” “I hope to hell you can, but everyone who ever cared about it, except for Elena's family, is dead.” “You're not dead.” Max blinked in surprise. “No.” “Sumner's not dead. That's at least two people who are going to want to see you exonerated.” Max picked at a thread on the hem of his long-sleeved T-shirt. “Elena was only killed because of her relationship to me. I don't feel exonerated. I feel sick.” “Elena's family doesn't hold you responsible. It will be good for them to have closure.” “It would be better if they had Elena.” “I wish I could bring them all back. As it is”—Cruz spread his hands helplessly—“I can only try to catch the bad guys. This one shook me up. I've worked in the city, in San Jose and Los Angeles. You expect to deal with this kind of thing there. I came here to get away from it.” Max fought the absurd desire to apologize. “At any rate, we'll be looking to tie up loose ends on the Genovese murder and concentrating on the other murder, the copycat.” “If it hadn't been for—” Cruz held up his hand. “Don't start. It's about Isabelle Allen now, not you.” He rose to his feet and came around his desk. “I'll see you out.”

*** Max left the police station, got into his car, and began the drive to the hospital. The marine layer lay thick and heavy, close enough to the ground that every so

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often he couldn't see beyond the puffs of fog moving in from the sea. There'd be clouds later, bringing in some rain. Sea Crest clung to its quiet beauty even if its wholesome, peaceful image was only a facade. The hospital parking lot was nearly empty when he arrived. The building rose from a tangle of vines, a compact granite and glass structure built in the late '80s. He'd seen it only from the emergency room doors when he'd been brought in two nights before, but now, walking through the front doors as a visitor, he saw it had a nicely furnished foyer and a place to check in. Volunteers chatted behind the desk, but they ceased their talk when he approached. Max had no doubt his fame preceded him. It wasn't every day that Sea Crest's very own diminutive hospital was called on to care for the victims of a spectacular fight between a senator's aid and a famous artist that led to two gunshot wounds, one corpse, and an unconscious man with an electronic surveillance device on his ankle. He stopped at the tiny gift shop and paid for a bouquet of flowers—irises and lilies and purple statice—then followed instructions to the elevators, where he pressed the button and waited. Doors opened silently on an empty car, which he took to the third floor. Sumner had been so subdued the day before, drifting in and out of consciousness. He was grateful for the pain relievers, but he was quiet and withdrawn. Max was fully aware that he'd brought nothing into Sumner's life but pain. Yet somehow, now, he'd gotten it into his head that he could turn that around. That he could change things by choosing that very minute to begin making an oasis of beauty for the one person who had remained steadfastly convinced of his innocence when things got really tough. Max figured it couldn't hurt to prove that he had something besides the ugliness of murder and death to offer. He loved Sumner. He didn't plan to allow the terrible consequences of his brother's crimes to obscure the fact that he was in love with Sumner Ellison.

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Sumner looked up and smiled when Max entered his room. “Are those for me?” He held out his hands. “Who else?” “You could give them to Marisol Cruz. She's been checking every so often to make sure I'm not in any pain. She gives me drugs. She's my new best friend.” “She's a delight,” Max agreed, still grateful for her attention and help the day before. “I'll get her some flowers of her own, though. These are for the man I love.” “Oh.” Sumner's mouth framed that O and stayed that way, surprised, as Max leaned in to taste it. “You—” “I love you.” Max pressed his cheek against Sumner's bristly face and simply breathed him in. “Love you. I. Love. You.” Max drew back to see Sumner's face. Sumner brought the flowers up to cover his expression. Max thought it looked pleased. “They're nice,” Sumner said in a small voice. “You're nice,” Max told him. “I'm so grateful that you found me.” “I'm not nice. I left you alone when you had no one. I just drove off without a backward glance, and you could have—” “Shh.” Max took Sumner's hand. “You saved my life. You're my hero.” Max winked. Sumner squeezed his eyes shut and sank back against his pillow. “I'm so sorry, Sumner. For everything.” Sumner shook his head but said nothing more. “Maybe we can start over?” “Yeah?” Sumner's eyes fluttered open. “Maybe.” Max swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I hate my loft.” Sumner gave a halfhearted groan. “Me too. I never want to go back there, Max.”

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“Guadalupe is packing everything. The paintings will go to a storage locker for my agent. Everything will be boxed up until I find a new place.” Sumner nodded. “I see.” “It's okay to move, I think, and it might be nice to look for a house. I mean… I don't want to go back to the loft, so I have no choice, but a house…with some land around it, maybe. A garden.” “Yeah?” “I want to grow something. I want to take care of something. I just can't…” He lifted both hands in a gesture that said he didn't have the right words yet for what he wanted. Sumner took his hand and pulled him closer. “I know. It's all right. You'll figure it out.” Once again Sumner was consoling him. Max sighed and began to draw a series of spirals on the back of Sumner's hand with his fingers. “You have plans?” “Mmhmm.” Sumner's lips curved into a half smile. “Anything you'd care to share?” “Sure.” Max stopped his finger midcurve and waited. When Sumner said nothing, he asked, “What?” “You asked if I wanted to share my plans.” “And?” “Yes, I do. I'll share everything. My plans. My time. My whole future, with you.” Max grinned and leaned over, his mouth inches away from Sumner's. “Little presumptuous.” Sumner lifted his hand and pulled Max's head down, closing the distance between them for a long, heart-melting kiss. He spoke against Max's lips. “I've earned it, don't you think?”

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Epilogue Max stood alone on the deck as choppy waves pelted the boat and spray blew into his face. He knew it should hurt. It hurled itself at him like needles, sharp and cold, but he felt little besides the blank misery surrounding him. Sumner, uncomfortable and slightly seasick, had gone below, hoping to head off full-blown motion sickness with a scopolamine tablet and a can of ginger ale. “If you're ready, Mr. Lancaster…” Captain Fleisher gave him a kind nudge. “We can begin the service.” Max glanced back toward the cabin, where Sumner was emerging, slightly green but wearing his game face. “We ready to go?” Sumner asked. He used his funeral voice, his manner echoing the caution people employed a lot lately when Max was around. Max couldn't decide whether he appreciated it or it irked him. On the one hand, he really wasn't feeling social, but on the other, it made him feel handled. Sumner's gentle manipulations came with a smile of such dazzling warmth, though, that Max had discovered he wanted Sumner to handle him—at least a little—for the rest of his life. “Yes.” Max put an arm around Sumner's shoulder, and Sumner shivered and huddled in gratefully. That was the enigma of Sumner. That he could seem to be young and fragile, that he could crave Max's love and his approbation, and still be the rock on which Max planned to anchor his future. It didn't surprise Max, really. After all, his fascination with ballerinas was based on his appreciation of both their ethereal beauty and their iron will. Sumner was like that, deceptively strong.

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The service had to be a simple one. Only Max and Sumner chose to attend. No one would speak. Max had nothing to say, or perhaps he had too much. Whatever Max could say about his brother wouldn't begin to cover the magnitude of loss that stabbed at him or ameliorate David Lancaster's shocking betrayal. But Max had the sense—or at least he had the hope—that once he'd laid David to rest, he could move on. The disposal of David's ashes coincided perfectly with sunset. Even though the sea was choppy, the fiery red-orange glow on the horizon was stunning. As if it were part of the service, when the captain lowered the basket holding David Lancaster's cremains, the sun blazed a shimmering path to the boat—a great sparkling line on the water—at the end of which the gallons of flower petals Max provided bobbed and blew apart like fireworks. It hurt Max's eyes, but he couldn't look away. They stayed until the flower petals had scattered so far beyond the boat they could no longer be seen, and then Sumner indicated to the captain that it would be all right if he fired up the engine again for the trip back. Max stayed at the railing, looking back until there was no longer light enough to see. “It shouldn't be like this,” Max said quietly when Sumner pressed close. “No,” Sumner agreed. “It shouldn't.” “I still don't really understand it. My childhood was just a series of fun house mirrors. How will I ever believe in anything again?” “I don't know.” Sumner slid his arms around David's waist. Max tenderly cupped Sumner's face with both hands. “I believe in you.” Sumner lifted his lips into a smile. “Do you?” “Yes.” Max gazed deeply into Sumner's eyes. “With all my heart. I love you.”

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“Max.” Together they watched as the bow of the boat cut through the water toward home.

Loose Id Titles by Z. A. Maxfield Blue Fire Crossing Borders Drawn Together Family Unit Fugitive Color The ST. NACHO'S Series St. Nacho's Physical Therapy

Z. A. Maxfield Z. A. Maxfield is a fifth generation native of Los Angeles, although she now lives in the O.C. She started writing in 2006 on a dare from her children and never looked back. Pathologically disorganized, and perennially optimistic, she writes as much as she can, reads as much as she dares, and enjoys her time with family and friends. If anyone asks her how a wife and mother of four manages to find time for a writing career, she’ll answer, “It’s amazing what you can do if you completely give up housework.”