"Hey, Clay," Rip says. "Why are you back in town?"

"Because I live here," I say.

Rip's visage calmly scrutinizes me. "I thought you spent most of your time in New York."

"I mean I'm back and forth."

"I heard you met a friend of mine."

"Who?"

"Yeah," he says with a dreadful grin, his mouth filled with teeth that are too white. "I heard you really hit it off."

I just want to leave. The fear is swarming. The black BMW suddenly materializes. A valet holds the door open. The horrible face forces me to glance anywhere but at him. "Rip, I've gotta go." I gesture helplessly at my car.

"Let's have dinner while you're back," Rip says. "I'm serious."

"Okay, but I really have to go now."

"Descansado," he tells me.

"What does that mean?"

"Descansado," Rip says. "It means 'take it easy,'" he whispers, clutching the child next to him.

"Yeah?"

"It means relax."

It happens again. While waiting for the girl to come over I'm reaching into the refrigerator for a bottle of white wine when I notice that a Diet Coke's missing and that cartons and jars have been rearranged and I'm telling myself this isn't possible, and after looking around the condo for other clues maybe it isn't. It's not until I'm staring at the Christmas tree that I finally hear the bones tapping against the windowpane: one strand of lights not connected to the other strands has been unplugged leaving a jagged black streak within the lit tree. This is the detail that announces: you've been warned. This is the detail that says: they want you to know. I drink a glass of vodka, and then I drink another. Who is this? I text. A minute later I receive an answer from a blocked number that annihilates whatever peace the alcohol brought on. I promised someone I wouldn't tell you.

I'm walking through the Grove to have lunch with Julian, who texts me that he's at a table next to the Pinkberry in the Farmers Market. I thought you said I was a total mistake, he typed back when I e-mailed him earlier. Maybe you are but I still want to see you was my reply. I keep ignoring the feeling of being followed. I keep ignoring the texts from the blocked number telling me I'm watching you. I tell myself the texts are coming from the dead boy whose condo I bought. It's easier that way. This morning the girl I called over when I got home from the W Hotel was asleep in the bedroom. I woke her up and told her she had to get out because the maid was coming. At the casting sessions it was all boys and though I wasn't exactly bored I didn't need to be there, and songs constantly floating in the car keep commenting on everything neutral encased within the windshield's frame ( ... one time you were blowing young ruffians ... sung over the digital billboard on Sunset advertising the new Pixar movie) and the fear builds into a muted fury and then has no choice but to melt away into a simple and addictive sadness. Daniel's arm around Meghan Reynolds's waist sometimes blocks the view at traffic lights. And then it's the blond girl on the veranda. It's almost always her image now that deflects everything.

You knew that Meghan Reynolds was with Daniel," I say. "I saw them last night. You knew I'd been with her over the summer. You also knew she's with Daniel now."

"Everyone knows," Julian says, confused. "So what?"

"I didn't," I say. "Everyone? What does that mean?"

"It means I guess you weren't paying attention."

I move the conversation to the reason I'm here in the Farmers Market with him. I ask him a question about Blair. There's a longish pause. Julian's usual affability gets washed away with that question.

"We were involved, I guess," he finally says.

"You and Blair?"

"Yeah."

"She doesn't want you to talk to me," I say. "She warned me, in fact, not to."

"Blair asked you not to speak to me? She warned you?" He sighs. "She must really be hurt."

"Why is she so hurt?"

"Didn't she tell you why?" he asks.

"No," I say. "I didn't ask."

Chapter 3

Julian gives me a quick glance tinged with worry, and then it's gone. "Because I started seeing someone else and it was hard for her when I broke it off."

"Who was the girl?"

"She's an actress. She works in this lounge on La Cienega."

"Did Trent know?"