Or what was more to the point: it was stolen. As much as she hated the idea of dealing with the gun, the notion that someone had come into Nikki’s apartment and taken it… that gave her the creeps.

It was like what happened in Duran’s apartment, when Bonilla’s body disappeared.

It made everything seem precarious and insubstantial, a kind of existential first draft subject to constant, but invisible amendment. It made her queasy to think about it, as if her mind—her world—was a staging area for someone else’s possibilities.

Ramon reminded her about the mail (which in fact, she’d left upstairs), and then, when she came back down, waved her on her way. She thought about going to her own apartment, if only to pick up Nikki’s ashes, but decided it was just too dangerous. In the end, she got back to Bethany just after six.

Duran was in a good mood. She told him about cleaning Nikki’s apartment and the rifle’s disappearance, but not about her meeting with Slough. She sent him to the supermarket for a prepackaged salad and some Paul Newman dressing. They cooked the steaks out back on a Weber Grill, and opened the bottle of Glass Mountain Cabernet that he’d bought earlier in the day.

He was in an expansive mood, looking forward to the answers that the operation must certainly provide. And he’d had an insight: for as long as he could remember, he’d felt uncomfortable whenever he left his apartment. He told her about the panic attacks that he’d suffered, and the agoraphobia he sometimes felt. “It’s gone, now,” he said. “It hasn’t been there for days—not since we went to the Comfort Inn.”

“And what do you think that’s all about?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But you saw all that stuff in the apartment next door, right?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he asked, “what if that was having… I don’t know… some kind of effect on me?”

She looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just know that I feel a lot different. Better. More myself.”

She nodded thoughtfully, but couldn’t resist: “And that would be… ?”

Duran smiled. “Whomever.”

She was in bed when she heard it, and it was amazing that she did. If the sea had not been so calm and flat, the sound of the surf would have masked it. But the night was breathless, the sea inert, and she was restless and half-awake, her mind at the races.

The sound that woke her—a faint but distinct metallic squeak—seemed to rise through the floorboards. And for some reason, it alarmed her. Someone’s under the bed, she thought. But, no, that was crazy. Lying there in the dark, unmoving, yet straining to hear, she realized that the sound had come from farther away. Someone’s in the basement.

Then a long time passed—a minute or two—when nothing could be heard. She’d almost decided that she was imagining things when, suddenly, she realized that someone was standing outside her bedroom door. How she knew this, she couldn’t have said. There wasn’t any sound. There was nothing with the light. It was just… a fact.

And then the door was opening. She kept her eyes closed, but she could feel the other person watching her. Duran? Had to be. And yet, it didn’t feel like Duran. She’d just had dinner with him, and whatever else you might say about the guy, this wasn’t his style at all. It was someone else. But who?

What seemed like a long time passed—though she had no way of knowing if it was one minute or five. She thought she heard another sound—not from the door, but from the basement again. Was she hallucinating? Maybe. Maybe not. Whatever… It was driving her crazy to stay so still. And yet… it was her only advantage—the secret that she was awake.

After a while, she slotted her eyes in a glance, fluttering her lashes in a semblance of REM sleep. The look revealed a slash of light where the door met the jamb, and a backlit shoulder. Then the door eased shut with a whispered snickkk and the light was gone.

And that was it. She could hear the sea, the listless thudding of the surf. She could even hear the distant thrum of traffic from the A-1, six blocks away. She listened for footsteps in the house, for sounds from the basement, for the sound of the front door closing. But there was nothing, just the white noise of the surf and distant traffic. She might just as easily have been in a sealed vault.

So she lay there, watching the minutes tick by on the luminous dial of her bedside clock. Finally, when six minutes had passed, she heard the faintest crunch of gravel from outside the window. Getting to her feet, she ran to the window, inserted a finger between the flexible slats of the blinds, and peered out toward the sound that she’d heard.

It was coming from up the block. Footsteps on the gravelly walk. The thunk of a car door. And an engine, growling to life. Straining her eyes to peer through the watery moonlight, she saw the glint of metal as a car ghosted around the corner of the alley and disappeared.

“D’you hear something?”

She turned like a dervish, startled to see Duran standing in the doorway to her bedroom. He was barefoot and looked sleepy, although she noticed that he was dressed.

“There was someone here,” she said.

“In the house?”

“In the basement,” she told him. “And then in the house. I think he was after the computer.”

Duran nodded.

“Well?”

“What?”

“Did he get it?” What was the matter with him?

“I don’t know. I’ll take a look.”

Then he gave her a sort of loopy grin—Oh for chrissake, she thought, I’m in my underwear—and went into the living room. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, as Duran called out, “It’s right where it was—on the table!”

Coming into the living room, she saw that the house was as she’d left it when she went to bed. Nothing had been moved, or touched, as far as she could tell. Going to the window, she saw that the car was in its parking place, just as it had been. “Maybe I was mistaken,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” he told her. “I heard something, too.”

“I thought it was in the basement, but… now, I’m not sure.”

They looked in all the rooms again, but nothing seemed to be disturbed—or even touched. Finally, Duran slipped into his shoes and grabbed a coat. Together, they went outside and around the house to the metal doors that gave access to the basement. “We might as well take a look,” he said, and lifted one of the doors.

“That was the noise!” she whispered, as the doors opened with a distinct creak. “That’s what woke me up.”

“Hnnnh,” he said.

She followed him down the steps into the darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, he began walking forward, waving his arms in search of the light cord that hung from the ceiling. Finding it, he snapped on the lights, and glanced around.

It was more of a cellar than a basement, with a spooky-looking crawl space angling off under the front porch. Aluminum-tube deck chairs with webbed seats were folded and stacked against one wall. Ropes, and a few garden tools hung from another, along with a selection of mildewed life jackets and beach toys.

“I don’t see anything,” she said.

“Me either.” They walked past the furnace, then the water heater. The ceiling was so low that Duran had to duck, swags of cobwebs catching his hair. Peering into the crawl space, Duran cocked his head, and reached out to put a hand on her arm.

“What?” she asked.

“Do you smell gas?”

“I’m kind of stuffed up,” she told him. “All the dust at Nikki’s.”

Duran grunted. “I think it’s gas,” he said. And a few seconds later. “It is gas.”

“Let’s call the real estate agent,” she suggested, turning toward the door. “Gas scares me. They should fix it.”.

Irritated, she pulled sharply on the light cord and started up the steps.