I pull my rented metal detector out of the back of the Jeep, turn it on, and start around the cement truck. The workers wave at me, and I wave back. I hold my breath when I near the pool and walk quickly past it. I don’t want to remember that part of my night with Marchant. I’ve metal-detected my way almost to the pond when I notice, in the low light of dusk, one of the girls waving at me from near the maze. I squint and see it’s the nicest one, Loveless.

I wave back, and she jogs over, meeting me in the soft, shin-length grass surrounding the pond. “Hi. How’s it going?” I ask her as we meet beside the sunset-streaked water.

“March gave us the week off, but I wanted to check on him before I left.” She smiles. “And I hear we have you to thank for his continued existence. You’re a hero.”

I shake my head. “It was fortune, I think. I had lost my grandmother’s ring, so I was hanging around trying to find it.”

She nods at the long wand in my hands. “Still looking?”

“Yep. And I wanted to see your maze again. I do interior design, but I’ve got a client on the books in May who is interested in a formal garden. I figured I might walk through it another time.”

“That thing makes me nervous.”

“Nervous?”

She laughs. “Have you ever seen ‘The Shining’?”

I nod. “I guess I see how it could be creepy.” I look in that direction, seeing the cottages beyond the maze. “So is the brothel shut down? There’s another one in town, right?”

Loveless nods. “A few of the girls are taking clients out of the cottages, but it’s mostly shut down. We don’t do business in town. It’s a different place.” A less exclusive one, from what I’ve heard. “I’m going to visit my Dad, now that everything’s more settled here.” She glances at the cottages and bites her pretty, glossed lip. Then her eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry to be nosey, but do you know Marchant very well?”

I shake my head.

She shrugs. “He keeps to himself, but he’s a good boss. I feel sorry for him, losing so much. He’s worked hard to make this place what it is. You want to walk with me to his cottage?”

“I think I’ll do a little more searching before it gets to dark.”

I do, but I don’t find the ring. Not that I ever stood a chance. If it was in the house, it’s under tons of rubble. I put the metal detector up and wonder if I should go. I had hoped—stupidly, I guess—that I’d bump into Marchant, but since I didn’t, I’ve got to decide if I feel brave enough to knock on his door.

Feeling like Little Red Riding Hood, I head back past the pool and pond, aiming toward the cottage I heard was his. As I walk through the oak grove, I see Loveless on her way back to the parking lot.

“How is he?” I ask.

She shrugs. “He didn’t answer his doorbell.”

“Oh. Well, have a safe trip.”

“You too.”

“It was nice meeting you.” I’m surprised to find that’s sort of true. I sit by the pond until she’s gone, and then I stand up and watch the workers as they move about the cement truck. I’m not going to see him. Obviously. I was probably stupid to think I would. I should probably just go, but seeing how bad this place looks, learning that Marchant is probably in rehab, I feel compelled to leave a note.

I pull a notepad from my purse and write:

Marchant—

I’m sorry about what happened. I hope your re-building process is as quick and painless as possible.

Suri Dalton.

I’m tucking it into his door when it opens.

MARCHANT

I’m shirtless in my most beat-up pair of khaki pants, and I’m in no state to talk to anybody, but once I get a glimpse of Suri Dalton, I can’t help myself. I wrap my hand around the doorknob and look down on her through the window in my door. She’s thoroughly fuckable in black shorts and a cream tank top.

My discharge paperwork says I claimed to have come from Suri Dalton’s hotel room the night of my admission.

It probably isn’t true. I have a memory of kissing her in the bathroom at the Wynn, but knowing what I know of her, I’m pretty sure she didn’t fuck me the night of the fire.

The first thing I remember after walking out the ER’s sliding glass doors is catching a ride with a woman on a motorcycle. She took me to The Deuce Longue, on The Strip, where I saw coverage of the Love Inc. fire on the news, got pissed off, and hit the bartender in the face. I don’t remember any of that, but I have the police report. Apparently I told the cops I wasn’t sure if I was really Marchant Radcliffe.

They asked me for ID, and I said I wanted a ride to the local morgue, because I was no one. They decided to take me to the hospital. When I arrived, I got a shot of sedatives and told someone to call Rachelle so she could verify that Love Inc. had not burned. Rachelle called Dr. Libby. We talked for a while, and I told her I stopped taking my Lithium weeks ago. March 15, to be exact. I woke up feeling like shit and I flushed it down the toilet. She understands why. She knows what that date means to me.

I stayed inpatient for five days, long enough to try ECT twice and decided I didn’t like it enough to try it a third time. Long enough to get my medicine figured out and get me within a few days of Dr. Libby’s return. Long enough to remember bits and pieces of what I can only assume was a fantasy.

I remember a mole on her belly. Does she really have a mole there?

I shouldn’t open the door now, but I do. It’s like fucking magic: Suri Dalton, flesh and blood, sharing air with me. She looks me over, head to toes, and frowns.

“Marchant…hi. I—” Her voice lilts a little and she blinks a few times. “I was here, looking for my grandmother’s ring, which I didn’t find, and I wanted to stop by and…bring you this.” She holds a sheet of paper in front of my face. I read it once, then twice, so it sinks into my sluggish brain. “Speedy and painless…” I give her a tiny smile. “I’d drink to that.” Except, of course, I’m back on the wagon.

She looks me over again. “How are you? You seem…tired.”

I rub my eyes. “Yeah. Long day.” I don’t know what else to say. Hi, I had ECT less than twenty-four hours ago and I can barely remember my middle name. Apparently sex with you was a key part of my psychotic delusion.

I take the note. “Thanks.” I let my eyes meet hers. “How’d you know I was here?”

“Lucky guess.” She smiles, and it’s so perfect I can feel an ache through the thick cloak of my medicine. I tap my fingers on my leg, and suddenly I feel illuminated. Like the blood is pumping through my body again. Like I’m alive. It takes me a moment to adjust, and when I do, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Hunter wants to hear from you.” Suri’s thin brows scrunch a little. “He’s worried.”

I hold out my arms. “Still kicking.” Except I realize there are track marks on the inside of my elbows. And I’m probably giving her a good look at my tattoo. Fuck.

I scrub my hand back through my hair. “I’m fine,” I tell her. I look down at a bowl on a table in my foyer. My housekeeper, Mrs. Everett, likes to fill it with Starburst—my favorite candy. I pluck out a red one and eat the damn thing in front of her. I don’t know why. I’m nervous maybe.

“You doing okay?” I ask after I swallow.

“Can’t complain.” She runs her palm over her hair. “I’m flying back to Napa tomorrow.”

I want her to stay, but that’s delusional. Irrational. I have a hazy memory of something unpleasant going on between us in the hospital in El Paso when I was manic Marchant. I bet I was an asshole.

I force a smile. “I hope you have a good flight.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like there’s something else that I should say to her, but I can’t think of it. They told me this was normal after ECT—memory problems; particularly problems with short-term memory. And for all that I hated the anesthesia IV and I hate the way it makes me feel like my insides were scooped out and there’s nothing in me now, I’m not manic anymore.