I pull the covered dish out of the refrigerator and take it to the microwave. I work the corners of the cardboard take out box loose and hold it up to savor the sweet aroma of meat sauce laced with garlic.

A wave of nausea hits, so overpowering the container slips from my hand. The lasagna splatters across the counter in a greasy smear.

Shit.

I grab for a sponge and start mopping up, but the smell assaults me again. I can barely stand to scrape the mess into the garbage disposal but the thought of leaving it is even worse. I gag and choke, but finally the last of it whirls down the drain and I draw a cautious breath.

What the hell was that? I've never known lasagna to go bad.

I'm still hungry so it's back to the refrigerator. But nothing else appeals. I close the door and think. What do I want to eat?

A steak. Rare. My second favorite food in all the world.

I do an abrupt about face, snatch up the newspaper and my purse, and head out the back door. There's a dive right down the street that serves the very best steaks in town.

I've taken a seat on the patio facing the boardwalk. One of the things I like most about living on the beach is the constant, ever changing, ever surprising, variety of people drawn to the water. It's the greatest show on earth. The ocean is truly the great leveler.

It strips inhibitions, frees the psyche. All bare toes look the same buried in beach sand.

It's why I can sit here in baggy scrubs and bad hair and not draw the least bit of attention.

And, most importantly, it's why Jorge, my server, doesn't look askance at my garb or at my face as I place my order.

It also confirms my suspicion that my metabolism must be much better than I ever expected. I know I'm in good shape, I exercise and watch my diet. Still, I'm healing so quickly, there's hardly a bruise or scratch left.

How can that be?

Right now, I don't care. I'm hungry.

But there's something else nagging at me. Mentally, I feel good—really good. I know that's not logical or reasonable. Maybe David is right. I am in shock. Or maybe this is some kind of hysterical euphoria brought about because I survived Donaldon's horrific attack. I should ask someone. But Dr. Avery never mentioned that tardy counselor again, nor did he leave me her name or number with my discharge papers.

Another peculiar thing.

Jorge is back with my glass of wine and the promise that my steak would be forthcoming. It shouldn't take long. After all, I ordered only steak—bloody—no salad, no potatoes or veggies. I feel the need for protein, pure and simple. His simple acceptance of my order as nothing out of the ordinary is another confirmation of the wonders of beach life. No raised eyebrow, no frown of confusion to mar that wonderful, dusky-hued Latin face.

I think I love him.

I take a sip of wine, sigh, and sit back. The newspaper is at my elbow and I open it, scanning the headlines, wondering what I've missed in the last twenty-four hours. Not much, it seems. I page through the sections one by one. I'm almost through Section C, local news, when a small article at the bottom of page 8 catches my eye. It's about Donaldson and my heart stops. I'm afraid it's going to be about the attack and that my name will be mentioned. I know the rape laws prohibit that, but it takes me a minute to swallow that fear and start reading.

The article turns out to be very different than I expect.

Donaldson is now a fugitive wanted for not only the suspected embezzlement, but sexual battery and murder.

Murder?

I read on. According to the article, Donaldson evidently returned to the apartment in Chula Vista where he killed the woman he had been staying with. She was found with her throat cut. She had been beaten, sexually molested, then washed and left drained and lifeless in the bathtub. It is presumed Donaldson has taken her car and headed to Mexico. A description of the car and license plate number followed, along with a warning to the public that he is considered armed and dangerous and should not be approached.

I lay the paper down and take another sip of wine.

Did he attack his girlfriend before or after he attacked me? An icy finger touches my spine. What did Dr. Avery say? It looked like he tried to cut my throat. I could very well be dead, too.

And yet—

There's nothing in the article at all about what happened to me outside that bar. In fact, it suddenly dawns on me that I haven't been contacted by the police about it, either. Bail enforcement agents are not beloved by most cops, but I was the victim of a crime. I should at least be interviewed. And then there's the matter of my car. It must be in an impound lot somewhere, and once it's been processed for evidence, it should be returned to me.

Why didn't I have a message from the police asking me to get in touch? Did David take care of all that and forget to tell me? Or did he and Dr. Avery convince the cops there was nothing I could contribute—except the physical evidence they collected, of course—until my memory returns?

At least one thing is cleared up—why Jerry didn't mention Donaldson when he called. Because of the new crimes lodged against Donaldson, the court will already have revoked his bail. Jerry would no longer be liable for the bond. Donaldson will be heading straight for jail.

Once he's caught. The longer he's in Mexico, though, the less likely that is.

Jorge appears with my steak, and I dig right in. The succulent meat is tender and bloody—not usually the way I like it. I'm more of a medium well-done gal. But today, rare is the ticket and it's great. Must have to do with losing so much blood.

I sigh contentedly and chew, letting my thoughts wander to more mundane things as I eat. Laundry to be done, shopping, bills to be paid. I make a mental list of what to do in what order, finish the steak, soaking up all the juices with a slice of bread, wipe at my lips with my napkin and motion to Jorge to bring the check.

I realize as I offer him my credit card that it's been a good twenty minutes and I haven't once thought about what happened in that parking lot. This ambivalence isn't natural and while part of me is grateful that I'm not falling apart, a saner voice of reason knows that something is definitely wrong.

I just can't figure out what it is.

I leave the restaurant and stroll back along the boardwalk to my street. It's late afternoon and the sun has finally burned through.

There's something about the quality of sunshine on the beach that's different than anywhere else. Reds and blues and greens show truer, which explains why so many beach houses are painted in shades of the rainbow. The clean, clear colors reflect that glorious sunshine and make you happy just to look at them.

I'm feeling that happiness now, basking in it, letting the warmth of the dry summer sun soak deep into my bones. This is the way it's supposed to be in July. Maybe we've finally broken out of that damned—

But something else gets broken, too. My pleasant reverie. I'm almost home and there's someone leaning against the front gate. He's dressed in ragged cutoffs and a tank top, but that mop of red hair is unmistakable even from a distance.

Dr. Avery is making a house call.

He pushes off from the gate when he sees me and joins me at the boardwalk. “I love your place,” he says enthusiastically.

He's grinning and looking around, which gives me a chance to give him the once over. The last time I saw him he was in doctor garb, covered from head to toe. Now, however, in this outfit, I'm treated to a display of muscular arms, powerful shoulders, and long, sturdy legs all tanned bronze. It takes me a minute to work my gaze from this tall, unexpectedly athletic form back up to his face. He's wearing black aviator Ray Bans which shield his eyes, but his mouth reflects unabashed humor as he watches me check him out.