Before. Back when she was alive, when he hadn’t—

Wait.

He dropped the bottle in a trash can, took a seat on a nearby bench. Slapped at his cheeks, ran his hands through his hair, the gel in it gritty with sand. A panel truck with pictures of dancing tortillas rolled by. He took a breath, deep, and held it.

This didn’t make sense.

He was the first to admit that his memory was suspect. But it had been coming back, and increasingly rapidly. Whatever had happened to his mind, it seemed to be temporary. Brought on by exhaustion and substances and shock and physical strain, it was passing. Not as fast he might like, but steadily. That memory of the beach, for example, it was real. He could remember her crawling on top of him, her hair making a sun-stained cave of their faces. She had smiled at him, and said that she liked it like this, just the two of them in the whole world, and when he’d pointed out that they were on a crowded beach, she’d said, “I don’t see anyone else.”

That was real. That had happened.

And the pictures in their house. The two of them in love, the two of them getting married, the two of them playing at Halloween and Christmas, the two of them skiing. No pictures of anyone else, just the two of them.

He took the lemon skin lotion from his bag, spun the top off, inhaled deeply.

Hell, when he had been lost completely, when he couldn’t remember his own name, she had smiled at him from the television and guided him home. They had been happy. Successful. And blessed with the kind of love that made rom-coms into box office smashes.

The tabloids had it wrong. He’d always hated them. Hated that they not only aired dirty laundry, but they hung the clean stuff and tried to tell you it was filthy. All those lurid hints of fights and affairs, implications half-excused by the use of the word “allegedly.” Laney had always had more patience for them than he had, and thank god, since she was the one they liked to write about. Sexy actresses trumped writers every time; he’d seen ten thousand magazines talking about Angelina, but had yet to see Joss Whedon on the cover of the Star.

But it wasn’t just tabloids you read. It was CNN too, and a dozen others.

Besides, there was the guilt. The guilt he’d felt since the moment he’d awakened. The guilt that played out in dreams, that had chased him on his ride back west, nipping at his soul in every quiet moment.

It could be nothing. Maybe it was just loss, and sadness, and a feeling that he hadn’t been able to protect her. But maybe not.

Daniel sighed, rubbed at his eyes. Everything was fluid. Everything was possible.

He needed more answers. And the only way he could think of to get them was one hell of a risk.

“I

think I’m going to write a book,” Peter McShane said, gesturing with half a bagel. “Practical tips for aspiring bad guys.”

Detective Roger Waters raised an eyebrow, flipped a page in the folder. “Chicken Soup for the Criminal’s Soul?”

“Chapter One. When committing a crime, remember to plan your escape. While Jet Skis and hang gliders offer some amusement, the discerning bad guy opts for a car. When choosing a car for your escape, or ‘getaway vehicle,’ ” McShane said, making air quotes, “you are advised not to use your parents’ Audi. Should you fail to observe this basic precaution, you waive the right to look surprised when we show up at your home.”

Waters laughed. “You serious?”

“Yep. The white boys snatched that girl out of Torrance, took her to a burnout, had her chained to the pipes? Used Mommy’s car. Boo-ya, two masterminds down.” Specks of bagel fell on his shirt. “How about you? Anything on Luscious Laney? Still like the husband?”

“Yup.” Waters tossed the folder on his desk, leaned back with his fingers laced behind his head. “You know the T-shirt at their house?”

“The bloody one.”

“Got the preliminary lab work back. A-positive, same as my victim. Husband is B-pos. It’s not his. We won’t know DNA until the lab gets around to it next decade, but now in addition to a runner with a half-million-dollar motive, I’ve got a man’s shirt, same size as my suspect, found in his closet, covered in blood that matches the victim’s type.”

“So, how’s it play? They have a fight, he stabs her—”

“Shoots her. Husband has three guns. But she manages to get away in her sporty VW—”

“Except he chases her down, runs her off the PCH.”

“And you know the best thing? He’s back in town.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. According to his credit cards, Hayes made it all the way to Maine. So I sent a telex, not expecting anything, but some kid from the Washington County Sheriffs spotted the car, tried to arrest him. Botched it. Asshole fired on my suspect too, you believe that?” Down the hall, the lieutenant was guiding a well-dressed woman into his office. She tried to smile, but didn’t quite pull it off, too much concern on her face. A missing child, maybe. Parents usually had that panicked expression. “Hayes flees. And yesterday a neighbor spots him climbing the fence to his house in Malibu.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. We rolled up, but he was gone by the time we got there.”

“Why climb the fence?”

“How should I know.” Waters picked up a pen, spun it between his fingers. A phone rang, and he heard someone answer LosAngelesSheriffsMajorCrimesMetroDetail. “Gets weirder. Other day, LAPD gets a call from a woman named Sophie Zeigler. Someone broke in, came at her in the shower, held her at gunpoint. You know what he’s asking? Where my suspect is. And Sophie Zeigler? She’s Hayes’s attorney.”

“He lawyered up?”

“No, she’s a Hollywood player, negotiations, that sort of thing. But who’s the guy that broke in?”

McShane finished the bagel, wiped his hands. “Accomplice.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. The husband hired this guy to help, then welched on paying before he skipped town.”

“Ah, the humanity.” McShane stood up. “What a piece of work is man. How noble in . . . something or other.”

“You might want to polish that up for the final draft of your book.”

The other cop gave him the finger, and Waters grinned, turned back to his desk. Opened the folder, flipped to the photos of her car. Familiar by now, but still, Christ, what a mess. The Volkswagen upside down, half-submerged, the surf smacking against it in ropes of spray. The top opened like a can of soup. All the glass broken out, the sides crumpled. The next photo was of the barricade, the metal scarred with paint from where the Bug had hit, the bent section stretching outward as if pointing the way to the sea. Then the cliff itself, a hundred feet if it was ten, and steep. A ribbon of ripped up earth and torn vegetation marked the car’s route—