LITMIR.BIZ

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your nightstand?”

      “I don’t know, do I?”

      “I didn’t go near your drugs.” He paused. “Okay, I did, to read the labels. You’re taking diuretics?”

      “I am?”

      “You’re not. I had to prove a point.”

      “What do you know? I’m sitting next to a flea.” She didn’t give a shit if she took the wrong pills, but he wouldn’t understand.

      Mitch laughed emphasizing the elongated dimple carved in his right cheek, a trait Zoey always found masculine and sexy. Slightly stimulated, she turned away.

      Fluffy clouds thinned across a powder blue palette, and at ground level in the side mirror, Telluride minimized. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, enraptured by darkness.

      “Your hero,” Mitch said, apparently unaware she’d been sleeping.

      She jerked awake and followed his finger. He pointed to an Austin stone mansion with iron gates and a freshly paved driveway.

      “Kane Ballentine,” he said, “the neighbor who brought you to the hospital. That’s his house.”

      “You met him?”

      “He came to visit while you were getting an MRI. He wanted to make sure you were all right.”

      “How thoughtful.”

      “It’s because of him you’re alive.”

      “Yippee. I’m thrilled. Stuck on this dingy planet and I have him to thank. Joy.”

      “You’re warped. Where was I? He said if you needed anything not to hesitate to ask.” Mitch tapped the wheel with his thumb. “He wore a Rolex. Seemed like a nice guy.”

      “Who the hell cares?”

      “I do. Contrary to your illusions of independence, you’ve taken full advantage of our closeness. You’ve called every other day, lawn mower broke, can’t find your house key, too buzzed to drive, and I’ve been there for you. But that’s about to change. You’re out here in the middle of bumfuck by yourself and, sorry to sound fatherly, but I’m glad your neighbor isn’t a prick.”

      “The neighbor you barely know is a nice guy, and I’m warped. That’s it, I’m buying a Rolex.”

      “While you’re at it, buy a new camera and take some pictures. It relaxes you.”

      “I am relaxed.”

      “No you’re not.”

      “I am. Pain pills, babe.”

      “Not the same, you’re masking—”

      “Let’s not go there. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mitch. You have your job and girlfriend and a life, and I have memories of a job, a man and a life. It sucks and I don’t know how to change it, but I know without a doubt that I don’t want to be pushed, bullied or manipulated into giving up the only thing getting me through the day.”

      “And you don’t see a problem with that?”

      She angled her head, moving her ponytail in front of her injured shoulder. “Of course I do, but it’s where I’m at. I don’t want to hear another negative comment about my bad habit. I’m not stupid. I rely on my pills too much. I know this. And when I’m ready to deal with it, you’ll be the first to know.”

      “I worry about you.”

      “I know. Don’t. I’ll be fine.”

      Mitch drove up the sandy maroon road toward her house. He swung a left, parked in front of the closed garage and turned off the motor. He gazed at her face. “Have I told you today how beautiful you are?”

      “No. And don’t bother. I’m listening, though.”

      “You do, you look great. A little starved, but great.”

      “Starved?”

      “You’re too skinny. Eat something.”

      “You can drop a note in the suggestion box on your way out.” She tore at a split fingernail.

      “Now, if you were a rabbit,” Mitch cocked his head at both clustered and scattered vegetation on the hilltops. “You’d have plenty to eat. Bergamot, wallflowers, wheatgrass, juniper.” He smiled. “Why don’t you let me pick you a salad?”

      Zoey put on her shoes.

      “Hey,” Mitch said. “Scenic atmosphere for a photographer.”

      “Isn’t it?” she said, relieved he’d stopped talking to her as if she were a hungry five-year-old. Her shoulder throbbed. She used her left arm to exit the vehicle. She ignored the pulse under her bandage and viewed the immense landscape. Layers of greens—emerald, lime, moss—slathered over uneven terrain gave the property incredible dimension. She couldn’t see her neighbors. According to assessment records, each home had a minimum of ten acres. As much as she’d adored the city, the seclusion appealed to her dour side.

      Mitch hopped out from the driver’s seat and slammed the door. With the duffle bag slung around his shoulder, he said, “You can sit on the deck with a cup of tea and watch the meanderings of nature.”

      “Ooh, fun.”

      “Consider it a healthier sedative. And the house,” he went on, eyeing the two-story home. “Not too shabby.”

      The second level was constructed of white cedar, which sat atop a base of ash brown, beige and white checkerboard bricks. Three rooftop peaks mirrored mountain tips, and scores of windows funneled natural light into every room. Not that it mattered anymore, but low electric bills came to mind.

      “Oh,” she said, shifting to reality, “there’s a trunk in the garage. Would you bring it in some time before you leave?”

      “Where is it?”

      “In the bed of Amos’s truck.”

      “What’s in it?”

      “I don’t know. Like the truck, it came with the house. It’s locked.”

      “A locked trunk left behind by an uncle who did himself in. Proceed with caution.”

      “Why?”

      “Ask Pandora.”

      “Do you have a fucking Off button?”

      Mitch bypassed the dining room entrance on the left and made his way to the cedar deck. He climbed the single stair and peered out toward the woods. “Hey, Pottymouth, where did Dr. Frankenstein resurrect you?”

      She joined her ex and gazed at the grassy slope and dark forest. Minor slivers of levity were shrouded by the memory of chasing a devastating illusion, and then the fiery fist. Her stomach coiled.

      “You can’t see it from here,” she said. “And I don’t remember exactly, but I think I was ten or so feet up the hill from the tree line.”

      “Unbelievable,” he said, scratching his chin. “I know where not to stand when it’s raining.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      Mitch dug out her keys and opened the door. “Finally, home sweet home.” He tossed her bag on the floor.

      “Doesn’t feel homey.”

      “A few coats of paint will warm it up.”

      “Maybe,” she said, observing the interior she barely remembered.

      Two camel-colored leather sofas faced each other, with a coffee table in between. To the left, a potbelly fireplace, dining table, kitchen counter. From where she stood, she could see the entire space. Strangely, she felt the house could see her too. The ogling deer heads, possibly, or all the windows.

      “It’s

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