They climbed down and went to inspect the adjoining bathroom. "There's a room right across the hall for you," Dawson said.

"Thanks, but I'll sleep on one of the lower bunks."

He shot the beds a dubious glance. "You sure? The other room-"

"No sense in messing up two."

Although he looked like he wanted to argue further, he didn't. "Fine. I'm going to get dry. Make yourself comfortable."

A half hour later and now much more comfortable, she descended the open staircase which was dimly illuminated by night-lights that had been placed on every third tread. She'd towel-dried her hair and changed into the clothes she'd brought with her. In her haste, and in the dark of her utility room, she'd grabbed the first articles her hands had landed on, which turned out to be a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and a fleece hoodie. They were mismatched, but she didn't see what possible difference it made.

When she reached the bottom step, Dawson asked, "Everything all right?"

Her eyes searched the vast great room and spotted him in the semidarkness, sprawled in an easy chair. The lamp at his elbow cast only a faint glow.

"Sorry if I startled you," he said. "This is the only socket working in this room, and the overhead light is out."

The overhead light in the kitchen had been turned off. Had it been left on, it would have shed light into the living area. She chose not to remark on that. Nor did she comment on the disappearance of the liquor and pill bottles that had been conspicuously on the kitchen island when they arrived.

"There wasn't a glass in the bathroom," she said. "In case the boys wake up in the night and want a drink of water, I came down to get one."

"Come sit. Before hiding the incriminating evidence of my vices, I poured you a whiskey."

His right hand was dangling over the arm of the chair. In it, he loosely held a tumbler. Another one sat on the end table beneath the lamp. The amber contents reflected the light.

When she hesitated, he said, "Bourbon is all I have. Is that okay?"

"My father was a southern gentleman. What do you think?"

He smiled. "I think he probably spiked your baby bottle with it." He tilted his head toward the chair next to his. "Come on. You looked pretty wound up when I got to your house. This will relax you and help you sleep."

Said the spider to the fly, she thought.

But she joined him anyway. The chair was soft, cushy, and enveloping. Pulling her feet up, she tucked them against her hip.

Noticing her striped socks, he said, "Fetching."

"I'm afraid the whole outfit leaves much to be desired."

He looked her over and seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but changed his mind. Instead, he picked up the glass of whiskey on the table and extended it to her. "Drink up."

She took a sip and sighed as the liquor spread a pleasant warmth through her middle. Letting her head fall back against the cushion, she sighed, "Lord, what a day."

"Mine didn't have many highlights, either."

"What happened?"

"Work-related hassle." He made an offhanded gesture and took a sip of his drink.

"You went to the village?"

"I didn't want to be caught in short supply."

"Of batteries?"

"Of booze." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "I was almost out."

"Thanks for sharing."

"You're welcome."

He smelled of soap. His hair was dry, brushed back away from his face, making the sun-lightened strands distinguishable from the darker ones beneath. He'd put on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, which, like the one from the beach, was practically threadbare. But at least this one had sleeves that partially covered the bite-worthy biceps. The lamplight cast the features of his face into harsh relief, emphasizing the sharp angles, the spikiness of his eyelashes. It also glinted off the tawny hair on his legs.

Her teeth clinked against her glass when she took a hasty sip.

He said, "May I ask you a question? A harmless one."

"Chocolate or vanilla? It's a tie. My most favorite is peach."

He grinned. "Not quite that harmless."

She weighed the pros and cons of letting him pry further into her life, and specifically into her life with Jeremy, and finally consented to at least hear the question. "Then I'll decide if I want to answer it or not."

He waited a second or two, then asked if she had a picture of Jeremy's parents.

"His parents? No."

"If you did, would you show it to me?"

"The point is moot, I don't have one."

"Did you ever see one?"

"No, because, remember, everything was destroyed in the house fire."

"Did he ever take you to Ohio to tour his hometown, show you the site of the home that burned, visit the cemetery where his parents were buried?"

"They were cremated. He didn't keep their remains. He wasn't sentimental or nostalgic. He told me that, when he left Ohio, he left for good and never had a desire to return, not even to high-school class reunions."

"Did he say why?"

"The memories were too sad. He dealt with them by severing any and all ties."

"He didn't have one single shred of something that linked him to his parents? Nothing to indicate what they and his childhood had been like?"

"Why are you fixated on this?"

"I'm interested."

"But why? It's ancient history. And what does his childhood have to do with anything else?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. His parents could have impacted him in ways that even you're unaware of."

"I don't think so."

"Of course they did."

"How do you know?"

"Because parents do."

"Did yours?"

"Yes." He shot the rest of his whiskey and set the tumbler on the table. "Just like you'll influence Hunter and Grant, like your dad influenced you. From something as simple as what goes into a good meat loaf to the not-so-simple. Religion. Culture. How you should vote. Every damn thing you think or believe, your reactions, your behavior, were partially shaped by who and what your parents were."

"Genetics versus environment isn't a new controversy."

"I don't think it's one versus the other. I think it's a blend."

"Why are you so hung up on Jeremy's blend?"

"Because when I write about somebody, I want to know these things."

He had admitted to carefully observing individuals in an effort to learn what made them tick. Gauging by the stories she'd read online, he did more than that when he wrote about a person. He provided his readers a cross-section of their mind and soul. Which was disconcerting.

"Are you going to write about me?"

"I don't know yet."

"If you do, will you dissect me and hang me out there for all to see?"

"In order to do that, I would need to know things about you."

"You already do."

"Not enough. Not nearly."

"What else could you possibly wish to know?"

He stared into her eyes for a ponderous moment, and that should have warned her of what was coming. It didn't. She was totally unprepared.

"I want to know about your father's suicide."

Chapter 11.

For several seconds she was too stunned to move, then she bolted from her chair and marched across the room. He caught her just as she stepped onto the bottom stair. Hooking her upper arm with his hand, he brought her around to face him.

"Let go of me!"

"Calm down."

"Go to hell!"

"Keep your voice down. You'll wake up the boys."

"You bet I'll wake up the boys." She jerked her arm free. "I'm taking my sons and getting far away from you, and I don't care if we have to wade to Savannah tonight!"

She shoved his chest and pushed herself out of his grip, then turned and started up the stairs. But on the third one, her socks caused her to slip. She fell forward, catching herself on the step above her, but knocking one knee hard against the edge of the tread. She clasped her knee and sat down on the step, rocking in pain.

"Dammit! Are you okay?"

He sat down on the step beneath her, bringing his face level with hers. His concern looked genuine, which only made her more furious. She placed her elbows on her knees and lowered her face to her hands. "Get away from me."

He didn't, of course. He just sat there, silent and unmoving, for as long as she did. Finally, when she had composed herself, she lowered her hands and wiped her tear-dampened palms on the legs of her pajamas. Looking anywhere except at him, she noticed the overturned tumbler in front of the chair where she'd been sitting.

"I dropped my glass. The bourbon spilled."

"Who gives a fuck?"

The vulgarity was unexpected, and she realized immediately that he'd used it intentionally to shock her out of her anger. It worked. She laughed, or choked out a laugh.

He motioned toward her knee. "I'll be happy to kiss it and make it well."

His genial smile completely defused her anger. She gave another involuntary laugh, then shook her head with chagrin. "Ah, Dawson."

"What?"

"I didn't want to like you."

"Then we're even. I didn't want to like you, either." The admission surprised her, and it must have shown. Leaning back, he rested his elbows on the step on which she sat and stretched his long legs out in front of him. "I resented this story being thrust on me."

"Was it thrust?"

"Yes. In the sense that I couldn't say no."

"Why?"

He closed one eye in a grimace. "That's complicated." He didn't divulge why.

Absently she rubbed her sore knee. "From a layman's standpoint, Jeremy's story has a lot of intriguing elements. Why weren't you interested?"