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in an earlier era. He’d burned the CD himself, but the quality was crap given the source. Dallas didn’t mind the hiss and pop at all.
    Seven years had passed since the last time he had been by to visit Valerie and it was going to take him a few minutes to get his bearings. Up in this part of Newton, all the streets pretty much looked the same; huge old Colonials and Victorians were set back from the tree-shaded road. The homes were kept up perfectly, BMWs and Benzes in the driveways, trophy wives walking the dogs or landscaping the gardens for pleasure rather than necessity.
    A redhead in a half-tee jogged by with her retriever on a leash and smiled at Dallas as he passed in the restored, blue ’67 convertible. He shot her a pleasant grin but kept his attention on the road, looking up and down the streets he passed for Valerie’s house.
    He sniffed the air as he drove.
    His foot tapped the brake and Dallas gazed down one side street. The trees were old and leaned in over the pavement, creating a tunnel of leaves, the road below dappled by shafts of sunlight that slipped through the canopy overhead. Five houses down was a hundred-and-fifty year-old Victorian painted a sort of rust color, its shutters and trim the hue of brick.
    Dallas turned the volume down a couple of decibels and took the right onto Ashtree Lane. He slowed in front of the house, then pulled into the driveway behind a little red MG. There was a recent model Honda next to it. Past the cars he could see the carriage house that was attached to the main structure. Valerie had gutted the place and put a swimming pool inside, but externally the house looked just as it had when it was built. She had owned it once before, in the twenties, and when she bought it again she restored it completely.
    Keys jangling in his hand, he popped the trunk and grabbed the single, large suitcase he had brought with him. He whistled as he went up the walk and the stone steps and knocked on the door. A minute passed and he was about to knock again when he caught the scent of Valerie inside, moving toward the door.
    It opened, and Dallas grinned. She stood there in a white cotton tank undershirt and matching French-cut panties. Her black hair was cut short and was such a just rolled out-of-bed mess that she looked almost punk. Valerie’s face was lined and angular, her nose straight and thin, her lips perfect. She smiled at Dallas as though she might like to have him for dinner.
    “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked.
    Dallas shook his too-long blond hair back and hefted his suitcase in his hand. “Visiting.”
    “You have just totally made my week,” she said, then punctuated the sentence with a feline yawn and stretch. “Get in here,” she said with a toss of her head.
    Valerie shut the door behind him. The second Dallas put his suitcase down she threw her arms around him and gave him a quick, sweet kiss before laying her head on his chest. Dallas kissed her forehead and ran his hands over her well-muscled back.
    “So what are you really doing here?” Valerie asked.
    “Got a local gig,” he replied. “In Boston. But I couldn’t swing back up this way and not see you.”
    She drew back and stared up at him, one eyebrow arched. “Cheaper than a hotel.”
    “There’s that,” he confessed.
    Valerie knew better, of course, well enough that Dallas did not even have to argue the point. They went back a very long way, had shared a great deal. Decades might go by without their speaking, but when they saw each other it always seemed as if only a week had passed.
    “Val?”
    Dallas looked up at the voice. He had scented the human in the house the second he stepped inside. While he and Valerie were talking, the guy had come softly down the stairs and now stood just across the foyer. He was young, twenty-two maybe, with a severe cut to his dark hair and the kind of strong jaw and facial structure that you usually only saw in old war movies. The guy wore beige