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things to leave.
    Once out of KXLA's gated compound she drove
her butterscotch Mercedes 320E west on Sunset Boulevard, the smarmy
stretch bordering the station crowded with bail bondsmen,
pawnshops, and sex stores. At Highland Avenue she turned right to
head north into the Hollywood Hills, the commercial district slowly
giving way to residential streets. At a red light at Franklin, as
she gazed absently at a middle-aged couple entering the crosswalk,
the woman gasped and threw her hand to her mouth in a telltale
gesture of recognition.
    "You're Natalie Daniels!" the woman
sputtered, abandoning her companion to approach the car. "I love
you! I watch you all the time!"
    Natalie nodded, as she always did, and
smiled, as she always did.
    The woman's voice turned reverent, which
never failed to amaze Natalie. It was as if she were a demigod in
anchor's clothing. "Will you sign an autograph?"
    "Of course, I'd be delighted," Natalie
replied, as she always did. The light turned green but she ignored
it, as did the woman standing in the street fumbling in her purse
for a scrap of paper.
    The transaction accomplished, the couple
scurried away, the woman clutching her companion's arm and
jabbering excitedly. Natalie smiled and rolled through the
intersection toward home.
    That made her feel better. It was a cheap fix
but certainly the one big thing she'd miss if she weren't an
anchor. Who then would she be? Her husband had walked out on her.
She'd never had a child. Her parents were dead. It was all she had,
at the end of the day.
    She drove swiftly the short distance to
Nichols Canyon Road, then hung a right. The narrow road, heading
ever upward, was well illuminated by a waxing moon. After all these
years its hairpin curves were nearly as familiar to her as her own
skin. Near the crest she slowed to turn left into the gated
driveway of an imposing Mediterranean-style home. Nestled in a
wooded enclave, it was all white stucco and terra-cotta tiled roof,
with San Diego red bougainvillea climbing up the exterior and
geraniums cascading from window boxes. She'd loved it the moment
she and Miles had seen it, a decade before.
    Natalie parked and eased her aching body out
of the soft leather seat, walking around to the passenger side to
retrieve her briefcase. Then she heard a rustle and a shadow fell
across the driveway. She spun around, her heart pounding. There was
someone there.
    A man.
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    Monday, June 17, 11:46 PM
     
    "Miles?"
    "Natalie." He stepped forward on the stone
path that curved to the front door.
    She could see him clearly now that he had
moved out of the shadows cast by the palm trees. The same Miles as
ever, dressed in shades of gray: charcoal trousers, smoke-colored
cashmere turtleneck. Same dark eyes, same thick black hair flecked
with silver. He looked solid, dignified, respectable: like a
well-to-do professor.
    "What are you doing here? And at this hour?"
She busied herself with gathering up her briefcase. She hadn't seen
him since he'd left, four months before. Maybe he wants to come
back? She slammed shut the Mercedes' door. You don't want
him back . Carefully she locked it. Are you sure?
    "I've been waiting for you," he said. He
motioned up the walk to the house. "I was hoping we could
talk."
    Wordlessly she brushed past him. She fumbled
for her key, and as usual when she wanted it quickly, it had buried
itself deep in the nether regions of her purse.
    "Here. Let me." He relieved her of her
briefcase. "I notice you changed the locks."
    She recoiled. "You tried to get in?"
    He laughed. "It's chilly out here."
    She felt a flicker of annoyance. Same old
Miles. He'd dumped her but still considered the house his. Finally
she located her key and inserted it in the lock, pushing open the
thick oak door and setting off an insistent beeping from the alarm
system. Miles followed her into the beamed two-story foyer, their
heels clicking on the terra-cotta Spanish tile.
    She punched in the security