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walls. She recalled the number of the Griffith room and thought it was at the end of the east wing, a corner suite.
    Annie reached the beginning of the path.
    â€œAlex, please.” The husky voice belonged to Marian. It rose from beyond the patio wall.
    Annie took one step, another, came close to the wall that extended from the corner.
    A man spoke. “I thought you were a free spirit . . . Louanne.” The tone was easy, amused.
    â€œDon’t call me Louanne.” Marian’s voice was harsh.
    â€œWould you rather”—the voice was silky—“have me call you Mom? Is that what the kid—”
    â€œShut up, Alex. Someone might hear you.”
    A careless laugh. “They might. They’ll hear me tonight. I trust you’ll be on the front row.”
    â€œWhy are you doing this?” The words were sharp, insistent.
    â€œFor my art, darling. Readers have asked and asked about the characters and now it’s time for me—”
    â€œYou can’t.”
    â€œI can.” He sounded untroubled. “But maybe I won’t tell everything about you. For now. Just enough to give a hint of good old-fashioned scandal to come. I have to keep some spicy parts for the book. But I can mention enough to get everyone talking. That will make the book sell.”
    â€œIt won’t sell.” Marian’s voice was flat. “Nobody cares about any of us.”
    â€œSorry about that. But people care about me. The last time I was on
The Diane Rehm Show
, the phones rang off the hook.”
    â€œAlex”—she sounded like a woman holding on to a lifeline as a huge wave loomed—“don’t do it. Leave us alone.”
    â€œTrying to make me feel bad? It won’t work. You know the old saying, take what you want and pay for it. Afraid you’ve got a bill coming due. You’ve always been tough. We’ll see how tough you are. Will Louanne jut out that sharp little chin and spit in the wind? Or will she throw her bags in a trunk and ride out of town, leaving everything behind?”
    Annie touched the smooth stucco of the wall. She felt frozen in place. She wanted to help but there was no help she could give. Louanne was one of the characters . . .
    â€œDid I ever tell you how much I hate you—”
    â€œYou didn’t always hate me.”
    The note of amusement and satisfaction jarred Annie.
    He continued in that light, faintly mocking tone. “Once, you couldn’t get enough of me. Do you know why I bothered with you? I owed Craig one. He shot me down with the boss. I damn near lostmy job. How do you think I liked it when a slobbering drunk got all righteous about my getting a free weekend at a casino, girls included? Do you think I won’t enjoy his finding out the truth?”
    â€œCraig pulled himself together. Because of David. He’s been sober for years. Alex, please—”
    â€œGood for him. It’s even better that he’s sober. Cold, hard truth packs a punch when there’s nothing to dull the edges. His reaction should be interesting. Maybe I’ll pay him a visit, tell him how the cookie crumbled, how his wife—”
    There was the sound of a slap.
    Annie pressed against the intervening wall. She hadn’t seen Marian, small, desperate, at-bay Marian, lift a hand and strike Alex Griffith, but she knew what she had heard.
    â€œNot the way to win friends, Marian.”
    â€œYou have no friends. You will never have friends. Everyone knows who you are, what you are.” Marian’s husky voice was cold, scathing. “You’ll poke and prod and stab until we all bleed and then you can write another book, be richer and richer. When you were a kid, did you tear the wings off butterflies to see what they’d do, how they’d writhe and struggle until they died?” Her voice grated like a car fender scraping a wall.
    â€œI like watching people.” There was no