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own, Don.”
    There was a long pause.
    A blizzard of trumpet notes escalated into a wail that sustained itself for so long Grant suddenly felt the need for a deep breath.
    “Have you been drinking tonight, Grant?”
    “Little bit.”
    “Let me come get you.”
    “Don’t worry about it. Sorry to wake you.”
    Grant ended the call.
    He needed a new plan.
    The light above the sink flickered several times.
    Went out.
    Miles Davis gone silent.
    Grant struggled onto his feet.
    “Paige?”
    The shower cut on, the cramped little bathroom filling with the noise of moving water as the pitch-black disorientation set in.
    Where was the door again?
    He stumbled forward into a towel rack as the toilet flushed of its own volition.
    In a span of seconds, he lost all perception of space.
    Need to get out of here.
    He moved in another direction and ran into the sink.
    The faucet turned on.
    It felt like the room was closing in on him, the walls contracting, the ceiling pressing down, a completely illogical panic building, accompanied by a shortness of breath.
    And then the lights kicked on.
    He was staring at himself in the mirror and his chest was heaving and all that running water had silenced itself so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined the noise.

Chapter 9
    Paige was at the sink when Grant emerged.
    He walked over and grabbed a towel off the door to the Sub-Zero fridge.
    “You lose power out here too?” Grant asked.
    “Yeah. Happens occasionally. Old house, comes with the territory I guess.”
    “You should get that checked. You’d be surprised how many old houses in the city burn down every month because the wiring is for shit.”
    The left sink brimmed with dishes that had just begun to smell.
    They fell into a familiar pattern—Paige washing, Grant drying.
    Steam peeled off the surface of the murky dishwater and fogged the window behind the sink.
    It felt good to have his hands doing something, and the strangeness he’d encountered in the bathroom was fading away like the memory of a dream.
    As his sister handed him a plate, he said, “Can I be honest with you?”
    “I hope so.”
    “I’m worried about you.”
    “You should have that put on a T-shirt.”
    “You don’t look well, Paige.”
    “Ouch.” She handed him the cast iron skillet. “Oil this for me.”
    Grant grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the windowsill and sprinkled a few drops across the surface. Then he tore off a paper towel and began to massage it into the iron.
    “I swear I didn’t come over to fix things, but I can’t ignore it either.”
    Paige let a plate slide into the dishwater and turned to him.
    “And here I was just beginning to think that maybe this was the start of something different. Good job. You really took my guard down.”
    “You look terrible, Paige. You’re pale, thin, weak. You can barely walk.”
    “I’m tired.”
    “Are you eating?”
    “Did you just see me eat?”
    “Then what’s going on?”
    Paige braced herself against the counter and stared at the wall. Grant recognized that stony expression. Total system failure. Whenever Paige felt cornered, she went on lockdown, and there was no getting back in.
    The chime of the doorbell cut through the jazz, snapping Paige back into the moment.
    She went over to the Bose, muted the speakers, and headed up the hallway into the foyer.
    Grant hung back.
    A client dropping by?
    Paige said, “Can I help you?”
    A man’s voice crackled over the intercom. “I’m looking for Grant Moreton.”
    “Just a minute.”
    Paige turned and stared down the corridor. Even in the lowlight, he could see the rage in her eyes.
    “Someone’s here for you,” she said.
    He started down the hall.
    “How would anyone know you’re here?”
    Grant passed the staircase and moved into the foyer.
    “No idea.”
    Keep digging that grave.
    “Is this another cop?” she asked.
    “Of course not.”
    Grant slid the chains out of their guards and unlocked the multiple deadbolts.
    “Don’t