I don't lie down, don't try to sleep.

Instead, I spend the night pacing. Something has gone terribly wrong. What it is, I can't say. I only know it involves Williams and Underwood.

And that is not good.

Lance thinks I've lost my mind. I've called him three times in the early morning hours. I tell him I just want to hear his voice. In reality, I'm terrified he won't pick up. Irrational, maybe, but I don't stop until he tells me he's on the way out the door to the last photo shoot and that he'll be headed for the airport by noon. He'll call me when he lands in San Diego and I'll pick him up.

I'm making yet another pot of coffee when the doorbell rings.

It's seven a.m. Too early for visitors. Not that I ever get visitors. Not the drop-in kind. To get visitors you have to have friends.

I can count my friends on three fingers.

Frey will be getting ready to go to school.

David is out of town.

Lance, ditto.

My stomach twists. Not vampire senses, but human gut reaction tells me whoever is on the other side of the front door is not here to deliver flowers.

I flip the coffeemaker on, cross the room to the front door.

I realize how anxious I am when my shaking hand slips off the doorknob at my first bungling attempt to open the door. I take a firmer grip, literally and figuratively, and pull the door open.

Detective Harris nods in greeting. Behind him, a uniformed policewoman stands off to the side.

Harris and I stare at each other a moment before he says, "Sorry for the hour. I have some news. Do you mind if I come in?"

I open the door wider, the only invitation I'm capable of extending. My throat has gone tight and dry. Harris comes inside, the policewoman doesn't. She moves to stand beside the door as I push it closed.

My first thought, Harris is human. It must be human circumstances that bring him here. "God. It's not David, is it? Has there been an accident?"

He shakes his head. "No. Not David." He pulls a small notebook from a pocket in his jacket, opens it, glances down at the page, then up at me. "You were in Palm Springs recently?"

Now I know how wrong I was. Whatever happened, it has nothing to do with the mortal world.

I nod. Wait.

"Did you see former police chief Warren Williams while you were there?"

"Yes."

"Under what circumstances?"

"He was staying at the home of a mutual acquaintance."

"And who would that be?"

"Julian Underwood."

Harris already knows the answers to these questions. I know because he doesn't once consult his notebook or jot anything down. I wait for the question he doesn't know the answer to.

"How did Williams seem to you when you saw him at Julian Underwood's?"

I frown. "How did he seem? He seemed fine."

"Not depressed? Anxious?"

Hardly. He'd just secured the pact we'd spent the last year battling over. Can't bring that up. "What's this about? Has something happened to Williams?"

Harris flips his little notebook closed, focuses on my face. "We found his car in the desert. Burned. We found a gun and a spent cartridge. His wedding ring. His watch. It looks as if he armed an incendiary device to torch the car, got back inside, set it off, and shot himself."

There is so much wrong with that scenario that my head swims with the enormity of it. I can only stare at Harris, objections ricocheting around my brain like buckshot against metal. He, in turn, stares back at me. Watching. Waiting. Wondering. Patience personified.

Irritating as hell.

I blow out a puff of air. "Does Mrs. Williams think her husband was suicidal?"

In my head I'm screaming, of course not. He was a vampire. A two-hundred-year-old vampire. His mortal wife would know more than anyone that a vampire that old doesn't commit suicide. He'd outlive any problem he's likely to encounter-or do away with it.

I'm hoping my face doesn't betray my thoughts. Hoping I've scrubbed away all emotion except concerned curiosity.

Harris sidesteps the question. "Mrs. Williams thinks you may have been the last person to see her husband. Which is why I'm here. When did you return to San Diego?"

"Yesterday. Around nine in the morning."

"Did you come back alone?"

"No. I was with my boyfriend, Lance Turner, and another friend, Daniel Frey."

"And they'll corroborate this?"

"I can give you their phone numbers."

"What did you do after you got home?"

"Went to the office. David was there and our new partner. You know her. Tracey Banker."

"You were there the rest of the day?"

"Until five or so. Then I went home." I hold up a hand. "And no, I have no one to corroborate that I stayed home last night. I was alone."

Harris shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Forensics puts the time of death at around mid-morning yesterday. I'll take those numbers now, if you don't mind."

Forensics? An immolated vampire would leave nothing but ash. A stopped watch maybe? The clock in the car?

Harris has the notebook open again and a pencil poised. He's looking at me, waiting for me to move. I reach for my cell phone, call up the numbers for Lance and Frey, recite them.

Harris copies the numbers but I can tell from his expression, he's only going through the motions. He doesn't consider me a suspect in spite of what Mrs. Williams might have implied.

And I'm sure she implied a lot.

He starts toward the door, pauses, turns back around. "Warren Williams may have been relieved of his post, but he was a good chief and a good cop. Mrs. Williams doesn't believe her husband committed suicide. I get the impression you don't, either. I know he considered you a friend so I'll tell you, we're not closing the books on his death until we're sure one way or the other. If you think of anything to help in the investigation, I hope you'll call."

I watch Harris stride down the walk to a waiting car, my thoughts and emotions so jumbled, I'm having trouble making sense of either. I close the door, walk zombielike to the couch and sit. Long after Harris leaves, I remain there, head back, legs outstretched, too shocked to do more than stare at the ceiling.

I can't wrap my head around the idea that Warren Williams is gone. He's been a constant source of irritation and I keep waiting for a sense of relief to overtake the sense of shock.

It's not happening.

What is happening is a strong sense of doubt.

Is he gone?

Or is this a trick? It's not entirely inconceivable that Williams concocted some elaborate ruse to disappear off the radar. Maybe he got tired of his mortal existence, his mortal wife, and set up an escape route. It's what a vampire would do if he wanted to start over.

But the timing is wrong.

I can see Williams bailing on his career, even his wife, but not on me. As long as I've known him, he's played up this destiny thing. He has made it crystal clear that he considers it not just mine, but his destiny, too, to shape and direct. Even his wife said so, at Ortiz' funeral. Williams obviously shared with her his vision for the future-my future, our future-and there's no fucking way he'd kill himself before he saw it through.

Unless he didn't kill himself.

Unless he's out there somewhere, waiting for the right time to contact me.

Unless this is part of a grand plan to isolate the two of us.

He might even have some idiotic idea that I'll fake my own death, too, and give myself over to him. He's egocentric enough to consider it. And it certainly sounds like a plan Underwood would agree to.

Underwood.

I should have thought about Underwood sooner.

Dread twines in my gut like a strand of thorns.

Why didn't I think about Underwood sooner?

Williams wouldn't have faked his own death. He'd have no need to. Just as Underwood had no need for Williams once I'd agreed to trade my family and friends' safety in exchange for cooperation.

Jesus. It's so clear.

Williams is dead.

Underwood killed him.

It would make perfect sense in Underwood's twisted head.

Underwood and Williams might have been working together to get my cooperation but once they had it, what use was Williams to Underwood? He saw that there was no love lost between the two of us. Maybe he even planned to kill Williams as a show of faith.

I can hear him saying it: Here, Anna, I've slain the dragon that has hounded you and yours for the last year. You are free of his badgering, his interference. It's my gift to you.

Underwood has been vampire for five hundred years. He must know more about the Chosen One than Williams ever did. Perhaps he and Williams didn't see eye to eye on how best to indoctrinate me.

He didn't seem pleased that Williams accepted my terms so easily-my cooperation in return for Lance's safety and that of my family and friends. Could that have been what caused the falling out? Was Underwood so distrustful that I'd honor our agreement that he decided to renegotiate on his own?

Oh my god.

The thought makes me lunge for the telephone on the side table. The first call I make is to my family in France. My niece, Trish, picks up, her voice full of cheerful surprise. Yes, she assures me, everything is fine. My mother is in the garden picking herbs for dinner and my father is in the living room reading the paper. Do I want to talk with them?

I tell her no, that I just wanted to say hello. I ring off with the promise to call again soon for a real chat.

Next I call David. His sleepy voice reminds me that it's only a little after seven and why am I calling so early? In the background, an equally sleepy female voice asks who it is. Except I realize it's not sleep I'm hearing in her voice. When David asks again in a husky, slightly winded tone why I'm calling, it dawns on me that it's not sleep I interrupted.

Mumbling an apology and a stupid excuse about needing an address I'll track down at the office, I disconnect.

My family is fine.

David is fine.

David is more than fine, actually.

Lance will be on his way home in a few hours.

If Underwood doesn't intend on using them for leverage against me, what does he intend to use?

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