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and asked her to check on an injured dog in the backyard. She’d been disoriented and reluctant to go outside after dark but after a few minutes he’d convinced her—nearly had her in tears over the poor animal, in fact. She’d fallen straight down the stairs onto the sidewalk. The tumble looked serious and for a moment Matthews was worried—if she died Hanson might schedule the funeral around his patients’ sessions. But he waited until the paramedics arrived and noted that she’d merely broken bones. After Hanson had left a message canceling her regularsession Matthews had called Megan and told her he was taking over Hanson’s patients.
    Now Matthews started the Mercedes and switched cars—parking Megan’s in the space his had occupied—and then sped out of the parking lot.
    He took his soul’s pulse and found his mood intact. There was no paralysis, no anger, no sorrow dishing up the fishy delusions that had plagued him since he was young. The only hint of neurosis was understandable: Matthews found himself talking silently with Megan, repeating the various things he’d told her in the session and what she’d said to him. A bit obsessive but, as he’d occasionally said to patients, So what?
    Finally, he turned the Mercedes onto the entrance ramp to I-66 and, doing exactly fifty-eight miles an hour, headed toward the distant mountains. Megan’s new home.

Chapter Four
    The woman walked inside the house of which she’d been mistress for three years and paused in the Gothic, arched hallway as if she’d never before seen the place.
    “Bett,” Tate said.
    She continued inside slowly, offering her ex-husband a formal smile. She paused again at the den door. The Dalmatian looked up, snarling.
    “Oh my, Tate . . .”
    “Megan gave her a bone. She’s a little protective about it. Let’s go in here.”
    He closed the den door and they walked into the living room.
    “Did you talk to her?” he asked.
    “Megan? No. Where is she? I didn’t see her car.”
    “She’s been here. But she left. I don’t know why.”
    “She leave a note?”
    “No. But her house keys’re here.”
    “Oh. Well.” Bett fell silent.
    Tate crossed his arms and rocked on the carpet for a moment. He walked to the window, looked at the barn through the rain. Returned.
    “Coffee?” he asked.
    “No, thank you.”
    Bett sat on the couch, crossed her thin legs, clad in tight black jeans. She wore a black silky blouse and a complicated silver necklace with purple and black stones. She sat in silence for a few moments then rose and examined the elaborate fireplace Tate’d had built several years ago. She caressed the mortar and with a pale pink fingernail picked at the stone. Her eyes squinted as she sighted down the mantelpiece. “Nice,” she said. “Fieldstone’s expensive.”
    She sat down again.
    Tate examined her from across the room. With her long, Pre-Raphaelite face and tangle of witchy red hair, Betty Susan McCall was exotic. Something Virginia rarely offered—an enigmatic Celtic beauty. The South is full of temptresses and lusty cowgirls and it has matriarchs galore but few sorceresses. Bett was a businesswoman now but beneath that façade, Tate Collier believed, she remained the enigmatic young woman he’d first seen singing a folk song in a smoky apartment on the outskirts of Charlottesville twenty-three years ago. She’d performed a whaling song a cappella in a reedy, breathless voice.
    It had, however, been many years since any woman had ensnared him that way and he now found himself feeling very wary. A dozen memories from the days when they were getting divorced surfaced, murky and unsettling.
    He wondered how he could keep his distance from her throughout this untidy family business.
    Bett’s eyes had disposed of the fireplace and the furniture in the living room and were checking out the wallpaper and molding. His eyes dogged after hersand he concluded that she found the place unhomely and stark. It needed