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a bunch of clean-cut Canadians that had turned into their only monster hit. Way before her time, she knew all that because Malcolm had told her. A lesson, Grace realized, years later.
    Life could only be predicted to a point.
    “Plus,” he’d told her, “when the basso does that talking bit, it’s funny as hell.”
    The song ended with cha-cha-cha finality and Grace got out of the car humming off-key. Even to her own ears her singing was annoying!
    Chuckling, she retrieved her bag and her briefcase from the trunk, exited the garage dancing along the five feet of walkway that led to her front door.
    Key-turn, disable the alarm, home sweet home.
    As always, she’d left the house dark except for the single weak bulb that yellowed the deck girding the house’s ocean side. Sagging planks of redwood hovered ten feet above sand, supported by creosote-swabbed pilings. The feeble glow highlighted the water beyond, showcasing the wondrous fact that Grace was living at the edge of a continent. Just enough light for her to wind her way toward the space she’d designated as her sleeping area.
    Along the way, she disrobed, reached her bed naked, chilled, cheered by a day lived to the fullest.
    Instant sleep would’ve been easy but she followed routine and called her service for messages.
They
always mattered.
    Nothing. Terrific. She reminded the operator that next week, the office would be closed.
    “Got that right here, Dr. Blades. You have a nice time.”
    “You, as well.”
    “Thanks for saying that, Dr. Blades,” said the operator. “You’re always thoughtful.”
    —
    Slipping on her yellow silk kimono, Grace managed something approaching a short ponytail from her new hairdo, stretched for a few minutes, and did forty girl push-ups. Brushing her teeth she made a circuit of her house. Quick trip, the place was a six-hundred-twenty-square-foot box on a thirty-foot lot, dwarfed by every other home on La Costa. But Grace was one of the few full-time residents; for the most part the trophies all around her remained empty.
    In a past life, the house had served as servants’ quarters for a vast estate. A minimal assemblage of wood and glass, it sat on now-precious Malibu silica, arbitrarily divided into sitting area, kitchenette, a slot for her narrow bed. Only one walled-off area: a fiberglass booth that contained Grace’s bathroom, barely large enough for the clawfoot-tub/hand-shower combo she’d installed soon after taking ownership.
    Beyond that, she’d done little to the place, opting for white on white on white because choosing a color scheme was a needless hassle and any other hues seemed intrusive when a blue ocean filled your windows. Even the floor was white, covered with remnant carpeting she’d installed herself, way too plush to be fashionable but she liked the way it kissed her ankles.
    Not much detail to the structure but an asymmetrical beamed ceiling, twelve feet at its apex, tossed in a little visual interest and created the illusion of more space. Even without that, Grace wouldn’t have minded the meager area; she was comfortable doing the mouse-hole thing.
    Nurtured by memories of hiding in plain sight.
    The house’s current market value neared three million bucks but that was a useless statistic; Grace had no intention of ever leaving. Nor did she intend to entertain visitors. Another reason not to waste time and money on interior decoration.
    During the four years Grace had lived here, no one had intruded save for the occasional plumber, electrician, or cable installer. After initial friendliness, Grace avoided them by retreating to the deck and reading.
    That hadn’t stopped one of the cable dudes who’d showed up last year—a surfer-type with a nasal voice—from flirting with her with what he thought was smoothness. She’d handed him a beer then propelled him straight out.
    Tough luck, Hotdog.
    Home was where the heart was and Grace’s heart was a hunk of muscle that worked just fine on its