It rained that night. I didn’t notice at first because it was so dark outside and I was so tired, but then I noticed the streaking down the great windows and saw, when I shaded my eyes and pressed my face to the glass, the way the cedars on the cliffside were bending in the wind.

The lights flickered, and Kristen gasped an uneasy “Uh-oh.”

“No worries,” said Simon. “The landlord said they lose power here all the time. AC burnout in the summer, snow on power lines in the winter, storms in the fall. Flooding, downed trees. You know the drill.”

“Maybe we should have come in the spring,” said Kristen, who sounded spooked.

“It’s fine,” said Simon. “There’s a generator and lots of gas. Eight hours of power in one tank, if we need it. Sound good?”

Kristen leaned into him and smiled vaguely. She looked unsteady, and I wondered how much she had drunk. The look she gave him was more than flirty. It was secretive.

“Sounds good,” she said and drifted away, her private smile still in place.

Simon watched her, his eyes dropping unconsciously to her ass as she walked away, then turned back to the window and stared fixedly into the rain-swept night.

“Did someone go out?” he asked, still looking out the window.

“Huh?” said Melissa, who had been drowsing absently on the couch, her long legs stretched out in front of her.

“The gate’s open,” said Simon. “I closed it when we came in. Has someone been out? Come on, people, let’s try to be a little careful.”

“You’re afraid we’ll fall prey to Zorba the Ripper?” asked Melissa.

Gretchen laughed, a high, unsteady laugh, too loud and long, until Melissa gave her an arch look and said, “No more voddy for you, little Gretchen.”

“I’m fine!” she sang back. “Totally down, right Marcus?”

“I’m sorry?” said Marcus.

“I’m down. You know. Down.”

“I don’t know what you . . .”

“You know,” she said, her eyes unfocused. “It’s a street thing, dog. ‘I’m down with OPP, yeah, you know me . . . ,’” she sang, flashing ludicrous gang signs.

“Oh boy,” said Marcus. “You need to go to bed.”

“Just tryin’ to keep it real, homes.”

“OK,” said Marcus.

I moved quickly, getting up and sliding in between them and taking hold of her hands. I couldn’t see Marcus’s face, but I didn’t need to. I could hear the tightening in his voice.

“Come on, Gretchen,” I said. “Bedtime.”

“Okeydoke,” she said, beaming sweetly, her eyes vague, head lolling. I hauled her to her feet, but she shook me off and made a show of taking a few steps unassisted. I threw Marcus a glance. He was watching Gretchen leave, scowling. When he caught me looking, he rolled his eyes.

“That’s my girl,” said Melissa absently, though I wasn’t sure which of us she was commending. Her attention was on Simon, who was still scowling into the darkness outside.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said.

“Not worried about us,” said Simon, terse and frowning, oblivious to the almost-drama with Gretchen. “Worried about the house. We paid a significant deposit to cover any damages. I’d rather not lose it because we invited the local hooligans onto the property.”

“I don’t think there are any hooligans round here,” said Melissa. “Goats, maybe.”

Again, Gretchen’s manic laugh.

“Jeez,” said Melissa to her, “Marcus is right. You need to go to bed.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Marcus. “I’m beat.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

I couldn’t see Marcus’s face properly, but I thought he flinched or blinked or . . . something.

God, I thought. What if he thinks I’m fishing for an invitation, a drunken quickie for old times’ sake?

I nearly made a show of changing my mind and pouring myself one last drink, but I already felt wobbly and a little nauseous and wanted nothing more than to get into bed. It was only midnight, but I had been traveling all day and suddenly realized that the time difference made it seven in the morning. No wonder I felt like an extra on The Walking Dead. I turned to say my good nights, but Brad and Kristen were already asleep—or pretending to be—on the loveseat, and Simon was still staring out the window down to where the open gate was swaying back and forth in the wind. When I looked back to where Marcus had been, he was gone. I took my time, washing my glass out and wiping the sticky counter down so that I wouldn’t bump into him on the landing.

Unless he wanted me to and was deliberately hovering outside the bathroom . . .

I pushed the thought away decisively.

I was right to. I saw no sign of him upstairs and moved quietly to my room, unlocking the door and closing it behind me with something like relief. I couldn’t afford to confuse my life further by getting entangled with Marcus again, even if he wanted to, which seemed unlikely. And besides, I was here all week. Plenty of time for that kind of bad decision.

I stepped out of my clothes and left them where they fell, suddenly so tired I couldn’t think. The bed was soft, softer than I generally preferred, but tonight that didn’t matter. I was, for the first time in years, asleep in under a minute.

I woke with a start. It was still dark, and I had no idea what time it was or, for a moment, where I was. It took me a second to orient myself: the bed, the window, the door.

The door.

My blurry eyes latched onto it as my brain connected the dots, trying to recall what had woken me. A knock? Footsteps in the hallway as someone blundered to the bathroom? Or the door handle?

I had locked it when I came in. I was almost sure.

I lay where I was, huddled in the duvet like a child hiding, and then I got up, flinging the covers aside and stalking across the room with a muttered curse of decision. I tried the handle.

Locked.

I went back to bed and lay very still for a long time.

Eventually I fell asleep again and heard nothing more till I woke and found the room full of soft light. It was muted by the drapes, but it was clearly morning. Or afternoon. I had no idea. The room felt muggy, the air stale. I peered through the drapes, squinting at the brightness of the sun outside, to see if there was a window I could open. They all had little locks, the kind that required a screwdriver-like tool to unfasten before you could unlatch them. There was no sign of it.

I flung myself back into bed and fished blindly for my watch on the nightstand. I had to hold it right up to my face, and I sighed, recalling the whole swimming-with-glasses fiasco.

Idiot.

I had reset my watch on the plane as soon as we touched down. Now I stared at it, trying to make sense of how long I had been asleep.

Jesus.

Almost eleven hours! I stared at the ceiling and gauged how tired I was, how hungover, and found that however long I had slept, I still felt woolly headed and exhausted. I listened to the house, trying to detect the sound of movement, water running through pipes, distant laughter.

They might have all gone to the beach or into the town.

I felt a pang of disappointment. However intimidating I sometimes found them—well, most of them—I didn’t want to be left out. Perhaps if I went down now, without showering, I could catch them.

And meet Melissa the Radiant with her British TV star sidekick, oozing perfection over spinach and egg white omelets? I don’t think so.

The bath was wet, and there were half-empty mini bottles of shampoo and body wash, one of which had its prime ingredients—ginseng and extract of pomegranate—laid out in faux French. Well, maybe it was actual French, but you know what I mean: the kind of French chosen to feel chic (!) without actually being a barrier to anyone who didn’t speak French. Basically, just English words with a few accents and a couple of letters rearranged, like in some restaurants that offer salads with “bleu” cheese dressing, which they then pronounce blue. Anyway, I took some, and my irritation at the Frenchified marketing made me feel less bad about using it without asking. It smelled nice—not synthetic, like you might expect—and I gave it a closer look, upending the bottle to read the embossed stamp in the base: FABRIQUé à PARIS.

So . . . not your Great Deal knockoff after all. Awesome.

I dried myself off, donned a towel, and made the sprint back to my room, whose stale air was even more obvious now that I had been out of it. I needed to find one of those window keys. As I had crossed the landing, I’d heard desultory conversation from below. Brad, I thought. So at least some of them were still there.

I put on another sundress and tried to recall if anyone had floated a plan for the day. I couldn’t remember. The whole evening was foggy and vague. Either I had been really tired, or I’d drunk more than I thought. Probably both.

I drifted down slowly, cautiously, keen to see who was there before they noticed me, though I wasn’t sure why. Brad and Kristen were sitting at the kitchen table, and Melissa was going through a cupboard on the far side by the stove.

“Morning,” I said.