But I know that isn’t true. A cold knot twists the pit of my stomach.

How do you know about Avery and me? What do you know about us?

Again, the shrug that ripples his shoulders and seems to shake off my questions. But after a moment, he does reply.The supernatural community is close-knit. We hear things. If you took the time to learn more about us, you’d know that.

I’ve been a vampire for less than three months, but I’ve learned one important thing. Secrecy is the key to staying alive. I thought the only ones who knew of my nature were Culebra and Williams and now, Frey. And the half dozen or so members of a shadowy group known as the Revengers who seek out vampires to kill them. But Avery set the Revengers upon me and they haven’t bothered me since his death. The realization that there are others out there who know what I am scares me more than a little.

Frey picks up on all this.No one who knows of your true nature would try to hurt you. Avery was an anomaly. An aberration.

That observation provokes a bitter laugh.Frey, the truth is, anomalies and aberrations are what we are, too, you and I. The only way I can face each new day is to keep reminding myself that I have a family who loves me and of the good I can do with these powers. I suspect it’s the same with you, since you are a teacher.

His eyes warm, and his mouth curves in a wry smile.That’sthe first personal thing you’ve said to me. I think you are beginning to trust me, Anna Strong.

I’m not and it’s not at all what I intended. I hold up my hands.

Don’t kid yourself. I’m not that easily won. And we seem to be getting sidetracked from the reason I’m here.I gesture to the book in his hand.You said that book was a book on locator spells. Could we use it to find Trish?

We can try. I need something of hers to hold while I work the spell. Do you have anything with you?

Only a photograph. Her mother gave it to me last night. Will that do?

Frey shakes his head. Only if she was the last one who touched it.

I’d already reached into my purse to withdraw the picture. With a shrug, I slip it back inside.Okay. Maybe the picture won’t work. But I’ll get something else. What type of thing works best?

Anything personal.Frey turns to return the book to the shelf.Nail clippings. A lock of hair.

Trish’s hairbrush. Carolyn brought it over to my parent’s house last night. Did she leave it? I don’t remember. But I’ll certainly find out.

I’ll get you something. Can I come back later?

Of course. I want to find Trish, too. Come back as soon as you can. I’ll be home all evening.

He follows me as I retrace my steps to the front door. I’m searching the bottom of my purse for the car keys when my cell phone rings. I snatch the keys up with one hand, and the phone with the other.

“Hello?”

“Anna?”

I recognize David’s voice. “Hey. Sorry I’ve been gone so long. What’s up?”

There’s just the briefest of hesitations before he says. “Can you get out to the beach house?”

My heart jumps. The last time he asked me that, the place was burning to the ground. “Jesus. What’s wrong?”

He hesitates again and another spasm of alarm races up my spine. “David? What’s going on?”

He exhales loudly into the phone. “It may be nothing. I just got a call from that dentist who lives next door to you at the beach. He left a message at the office this morning, but when he hadn’t heard from you, he called my cell. He says he saw a light in the cottage last night. He went to investigate, but the door was locked. The place seemed secure so he didn’t call the police. He thought you should know because of what happened before. If you want, Max and I can meet you there. We’d go ourselves but at the moment we’ve got our hands full with Jake.”

When he mentions Jake’s name, I hear a scuffling in the background and something that sounds like “fuck you.” There’s a moment of dead air and then David is back. “Anyway, we’re on our way to SDPD to turn him in.”

I hitch my purse up around my shoulder. I don’t have to ask why my neighbor called David and not me. He’s the type that refers to women as “little ladies”. “Finish up with Jake,” I tell David. “I’ll go on out to the cottage.”

“Do you want to wait for us?”

“No.” I know from experience how long the paperwork can take. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll see you and Max back at the office.”

I hang up and turn to Frey. “I have to go. I’ll try to get back tonight, but it may be late.”

He nods and opens the front door to allow me to pass through. “I hope there’s nothing wrong at your home.”

He has picked the story out of my head. I should be used to it by now, but it irks me. It’s dumb and childish, but I turn the tables. I look him square in the eyes, smile, and conjure up the image I remember from a long ago trip to the zoo. It involved a randy old lion and his less than enthusiastic cage mate.

I don’t get the reaction I want. In fact, Frey’s reaction is far from embarrassment. Sexual energy blazes out and I feel my own face flush hot.

I hear him laugh as he shuts the door.

It’s late afternoon and I luck out by hitting the freeways in that all too brief period between the lunch crowd exiting Mission Valley and the downtown commuters heading home. Under these conditions, Mission Beach is only a twenty minute drive from Frey’s condo. I make it in fifteen.

I’ve lived in Mission Beach most of my life. The community is an eclectic mix of old, new, and no money. The differences are reflected in the architecture, and nowhere is that more obvious than where I live. Isthmus Court is bordered on one side by the boardwalk that runs along the beach and on the other by MissionBeach’s main thoroughfare,

Mission Boulevard

. My cottage, a gift from my grandparents, was the only original bungalow on the block-until it burned to the ground three months ago. My neighbor lives in the type of monstrosity that new money seems to love-a big stucco box that rises three stories on its tiny lot. When I decided to rebuild, I used his architect. I was in a hurry to get going, I wanted my home back, and though I wasn’t sure how it would work out, the guy surprised me. It turns out that he hates the cookie-cutter look of the new stuff as much as I do. He was delighted to do something different.

So here I am, approaching the newly fenced yard surrounding my place. To my neighbor’s great disappointment, the only concession I made in the rebuild was to add a second story master bedroom with a wrap around deck. Otherwise, the red clapboard cottage retains all the simple charm of the original. And the house is small enough that I have a front yard and a patio in back. A rarity in this neighborhood.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost four and there are no workmen in sight. They’ve no doubt left for the day. I use my key and step inside.

The place smells of new paint and freshly sawed wood. A glance around the living room confirms that the floorboards are finished. The polished oak floors gleam in the late afternoon sun. I retained the Craftsman touches of the old place, too, built in bookcases, wood framed windows.

In the kitchen, the cupboards are hung. The pungent odor of stained wood fills the air. I get a thrill when I see the contractor’s note on counter. “All done, Ms. Strong,” it reads. “Welcome home.”

I find myself smiling until the reason I’m here reasserts itself in my head. If someone is trespassing I’ll damn well find out. I’m not going to lose my home again.

It’s time to check upstairs. I leave my handbag on a kitchen counter and go on up. It’s carpeted here and I detect different odors-glue, paint, wool. Something else. It stops me dead at the doorway, tenses my muscles, and raises the hair on the back of my neck.