"No."

"Listen, I understand how you feel, but this needs to be reported. That's what they're there for. And most of the guys are really good guys."

"Except for Nate."

"Believe it or not, he's a good guy, too. Just a little rough around the edges."

She wiggled the first key, finally freeing the mechanism.

"Are you inside?"

"They have three new locks now, remember?"

He swore under his breath.

A half-minute later, she pushed the door shut behind her, flipped all the locks, and sank onto the floor. "Okay. I'm in."

He sighed. "That's good. Now call the cops. Okay?"

She slid her eyes closed. "Okay."

"And if anybody shows up in the meantime, you sic the dog on them, you hear? I'll be right there."

"Logan?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

A hum of silence. "You're welcome."

Quietly, she hung up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

Within minutes, she was surrounded. First the police arrived and walked her to her car. Then Logan showed up in shorts and T-shirt. The Bosticks, passing by on their way between parties, stopped to see what all the commotion was, and Mrs. Bostick ended up hugging Rylee so hard she could barely breathe.

All the attention numbed Rylee-apart from her ankle, which felt like an acupuncture experiment gone wrong.

Once the reports were made and the police satisfied, Logan pressed his car keys into her hand. "You drive mine and I'll follow in yours."

Dazed, she stared at the keys. "Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you home."

She blinked. "Okay."

But it was more than okay. She hadn't realized until that moment that she didn't want to go home alone.

They walked to his car, where she settled into the leather driver's seat, cocooned by the flared wings on either side. The swell of the wheel felt firm under her hands. He bent down, raising and lowering the seat with the touch of a button until it was adjusted just right. Then he pushed a numbered button on the door until it beeped.

"What was that?"

"I stored your seat settings in memory," he said.

"Oh." Stored settings. That seemed significant.

Logan snapped the door shut, motioning her to power down the window. As she did, Mr. Bostick appeared at the curb, offering to have his shop take a look at Daisy's busted window in the morning.

"I'll take care of it," Logan said. Then he looked at her. "I'll be right behind you."

He tapped the roof twice, then jogged toward her injured Civic, the keys dangling from his fingertips.

She buckled up, then pulled onto the street, the reassuring burn of Daisy's headlights in the rearview mirror. The dash of Logan's BMW glowed orange in the darkness, the air-conditioning cold enough to freeze lava.

She shifted into third. She'd learned to drive a stick from her grandmother, who'd taken her to the abandoned high school parking lot one summer weekend for some sink-or-swim tutelage. After a gazillion stalls, she'd finally gotten the hang of it.

Remembering Nonie's patience, she smiled. Back then, Nonie had seemed a bit absentminded, nothing more. She'd never have imagined how much things would change. Nor how fast.

Now, she had . . . no one.

Everyone she could have turned to, everyone she could have relied on, they were gone. They'd left her, willingly or not. Her dad was off living a new life, probably never sparing a thought for her.

Her mother was in the grave. And Nonie, the way she drifted in and out of sanity, might as well be gone most days. She had friends-she had Liz, anyway-but Liz didn't understand. No, all she had was her clients-and remembering Mrs. Bostick's bear hug and her husband's offer to fix Daisy, she told herself they were enough.

But she hadn't called one of them. She'd called Logan.

He'd come running, too. Rushing from his home, running interference with the police, and now following her home.

She glanced again in the rearview mirror. She had every intention of living her entire life without a man, never again relying on anyone who could walk away. But there was something to be said for a little coddling.

Hitting the blinker, she took the ramp toward Folly Beach, Daisy right on her tail.

His steering wheel had more buttons on it than her entire car. One side managed the cruise control, the other music. She switched on the stereo.

The car boomed with sound, picking up right where Logan had interrupted the song. After a few bars, she still couldn't place it. Nasally vocals charged with attitude, a pounding, unsynthesized beat.

They whizzed down Fleming Road, passing one apartment complex after another-each a bit shabbier than the last. Hers loomed on the right, a two-story brick building modeled on a drive-in motel, with all the doors opening to the outside.

A metal staircase at the end of the building went up to the second-floor porch, which was cluttered with brown ferns and dirty grills, chained bicycles and folding lawn chairs with frayed seats. Thanks to the manager's loose grasp on the concept of maintenance, most of the sconces beside the doors were burned out. Liz and the tenant two doors down from her were the only ones with working outdoor lights.

The gravel crunched beneath the tires as she pulled to a stop. Before she could get the door open, Logan was at her side. He took her hand as she exited, his eyes roaming the apartment block and the empty lot across the street. He frowned.

"Upstairs," she said, looking up.

Liz's curtains flickered.

Logan saw the movement and tensed.

"Wave to Liz, Logan. It'll make her day."

He obeyed, but the gesture was stiff. The surroundings were clearly not to his liking. They weren't to her liking either, but she'd learned to put up with them. Liz pulled the curtain wider, smiled, and waved down at them.

They climbed the stairs, then picked their way through the accumulated debris on the wide balcony. Logan skimmed his hand along the railing, then paused, holding up his fingers for inspection.

"Here we are," she said, stopping at her door. After turning the key in the lock, she had to butt it open with her hip. "It sticks sometimes."

He rattled the doorknob, staring like he'd never seen one before.

Crossing the threshold, he closed and opened the door a few times.

Before she knew it, he was on one knee, peering into the gap between the knob and door.

"This thing's a joke," he said. "And you don't even have a deadbolt or a chain."

Dropping her purse on the kitchen bar, she flipped on the lights.

"I don't need a deadbolt, Logan. There's nothing worth stealing here."

He closed the door one final time. "Living on Fleming Street, you should have four deadbolts."

She hurried through the den, grabbing her gym shorts off the back of a chair, scooping up a pair of Latisha Petrie's hand-me-down red stilettos.

"Where's your dog?" He still had his hand on the doorknob, ready to flee, perhaps, if the need arose.

"No worries. I don't have one." She scurried into her room, grabbing a pile of dirty clothes from the floor, then dropped everything on the dresser and closed the bedroom door behind her.

"You're kidding."

She shrugged. "Much as I'd love one, my work schedule would keep him penned up all the time."

It wasn't just that, though. It was the expense. And if she had any extra money at all-which she didn't-she needed to spend it on her car.

He frowned. "Then you absolutely need a deadbolt. Promise me you'll get one."

"We'll see. You thirsty?"

He sighed. "I guess."

He stood at the threshold, giving the room a once-over. His long navy athletic shorts hung on his hips. His nicely shaped calves belonged to a man who'd climbed a million stairways and run a million miles. On his feet, he wore what looked like the original pair of Reeboks-pieces of them, anyway.

She pulled two glasses from an upper cabinet. "Do you like Kool-Aid?"

"Kool-Aid?" He rubbed his chin. "I don't think I've had any since fifth grade. What flavor is it?"

"Black cherry."

"Sounds great. Can I help?"

"No, no. I just have to pop the ice out of the tray. Make yourself at home."

He took her literally and flipped through cd jewel cases, shook random paperbacks to see if anything would fall out, and then discovered her box of dvds. The Sound of Music-played so often the disc had permanent scratches-got a cursory look, then he went back to the books, pulling out a copy of Last of the Mohicans.

"Not one of your favorites, I guess," he announced, holding up the bookmark that had been tucked near the front of the book.

"It's nothing like the movie." She gave him a guilty shrug.

He returned it to the shelf, then eyed her couch as if he feared a stray spring might be lurking under the upholstery.

She smiled. The overstuffed couch was out of date, but he had no reason to fear. It was still in good shape. Most of her furniture was left over from the house she and Nonie had shared. There were a few flea market finds sprinkled in, things she'd intended to repaint or refinish or at least wipe with a damp cloth, only she'd never found the time.

He paused over the shrine of family photos she kept on the top of an old buffet. He picked a frame up and turned it toward the light. "These your parents?"

She nodded. "They're gone now. My dad . . . my dad left when I was a girl. My mom . . . Well, she was very down after that and . . .

died shortly after."

His eyes softened. "I'm sorry."

She came around the bar and handed him his Kool-Aid. "It's just me and Nonie now."

He replaced the photo, then pointed at another. She and Nonie on the beach in winter hats and scarves. Maybe six . . . no, seven years ago.

"Is that her?"

"Yes."

"I'm looking forward to meeting her." He touched his glass to hers and took a deep swallow of his drink, his Adam's apple rolling with each swallow.

She sipped at hers.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"Yeah." To her surprise, she really did. "Thanks for coming out and following me home and everything."

"Anytime." He made no move to go.

She looked at his drink. "You want some more?"

"Sure."

He followed her, leaning on the bar while she opened the fridge and poured another glass.

"Right before I left the office today, I found out that George refused Karl's offer of representation."

She looked up sharply. "What?"

"Yep. Said 'thanks, but no thanks.' "

She gaped at him, stunned. "Why would he do that?"