He picked up a pencil and tapped on his desk while he rearranged his thoughts. He had no idea how he should play it, but he loved feeling in command. “So what are we going to do about this, Mrs. Sullivan?”

Her smile was slow, smoke drifting from her lips as though she was smoldering at the core. “Well, Mr. Cramer, Sweetie, I can make a suggestion, but I’m not sure you want to talk about it here. Buy me a drink and I’m certain we can work something out.”

Every syllable she spoke was weighted with promise. Her gaze was fixed on his mouth with a hunger he’d never seen in a woman and had certainly never experienced in himself. How could this be happening? She was his for the taking. He knew that as surely as he knew his name. Though he’d never admit it, he was a man of conventional inclinations. He was forty-seven years old, and in fifteen years of marriage, he’d never been unfaithful to his wife, not for lack of opportunity, but for lack-he saw now-of comprehension. After the first few months with Livia, the sex was workaday-pleasurable, and of course a blessed relief, but in no way compelling. Livia might not be wildly attractive, but whatever his ordinary irritations with her, she’d never denied his needs, and she’d never implied that she found sex onerous. While he wasn’t dissatisfied, he’d never understood what all the fuss was about.

In one stroke that had changed.

Here before him, Violet Sullivan, with her insolence and her boldness, had ignited him, sparking a desire so consuming he could barely breathe. He thought maybe this was what it meant to sell your soul to the devil, because he knew in that moment he’d be willing to rot in hell for her.

10

Thursday morning, I went through my usual routine, waking at 6:00 to do my three-mile jog. I prefer to have exercise under my belt before I start my day. In the late afternoon, it’s too easy to think of reasons to sit around on my buns. The morning air had a faint chill to it, and the sky was layered with salmon and amber clouds, overlapping like ribbons sewn on the borders of a bright blue tablecloth. I used the brief walk to the beach as a way of warming up before I eased into a trot. Along the bike path, the palm trees were still, no breeze at all ruffling the fronds. A fifteen-foot expanse of ice plant stretched between the bike path and the beach. Beyond that the ocean tumbled and churned. A man had parked his car in the public lot and he was tossing breadcrumbs in the grass. Gulls were wheeling in from all directions, shrieking with delight. I picked up my pace, feeling my body warm and my muscles become loose. It wasn’t the best run I ever had, but it felt good nonetheless.

Home again, I showered, threw on my jeans, my boots, and a T-shirt, and then ate a bowl of cereal while I cruised through the local paper. I reached the office at 8:30 and spent an hour on the phone, taking care of business unrelated to Violet Sullivan. At 9:30 I locked up, hauled my portable Smith-Corona typewriter out to the car, and drove to Santa Maria for my meeting with Kathy Cramer. I didn’t expect to get much from her. At the time, she’d been too young to qualify as a keen observer of adults, but I figured it was worth a try. You never know when a fragment of information or an offhand remark might fill a blank spot on the canvas I was painting bit by bit.

The Uplands, the golf course subdivision Kathy Cramer had just moved into, was still a work in progress. The course itself was an irregular series of fairways and bright greens that formed an elongated V the length of a shallow valley. A man-made lake sat in the angle between the front and back nine holes. View homes were perched on the ridge that ran along one side of the course while on the opposite hill, I could see the lots laid out and marked with small flags. Many homes had been completed, with sod lawns and an assortment of shrubs and saplings in place. Other houses were under construction, some framed and some consisting solely of the newly poured slabs. Across the low undulating hills, I could see a hundred houses in various phases of completion. Kathy's house was finished, but the landscaping wasn't in. I'd seen its twin or its mirror image replicated up and down the street-buff-colored stucco with a red tile roof. I parked at the curb, where moving boxes had been piled in anticipation of a garbage pickup. I took the walkway to the front door. The shallow porch had already been furnished with a faux-wicker couch, two faux-wicker chairs, and a welcome mat.

As I was knocking, a car pulled into the driveway and a woman got out, her frizzy mane of blond hair held back with a navy headband. She was dressed in tennis shoes and navy shorts and a matching navy jacket, with a white leotard visible where the jacket was unzipped. Her legs were as lean and muscular as a biker’s. She said., “Sorry. I hope you haven’t waited long. I thought I’d get here before you did. I’m Kathy.”