"I think it was that trout I had on the plane." He wasn't about to tell Craig that the scent of hay had hung thick and heavy in the fall air the day he found his father's body. In fact, he hoped to keep reminiscing to a minimum for the duration of the trip.

"So, are we close to your old house?" asked Craig eagerly.

So much for idle wishes. "No. We won't be going by it. It's on the other side of Bay's Haven."

"Well, you'll have to take me out there later." Craig stuck his hand out the window and played with the breeze. "They did say they'd have a rental car available for our use, right? I like a limo ride as well as the next guy, but they're buggers to park at the mini-mall."

A smile tugged at Sloan's lips in spite of himself. "Yeah. This Mrs. Middleton I've been e-mailing assured me she'd try and have something nice and sporty available."

"Like a Porsche or a Beemer?" Craig sounded like a toddler asking for a lollipop.

"Hardly. I think we'll be lucky to get a Neon or Geo."

"Ugh. You sure know how to spoil a guy's fantasies."

"Hey man, I resent that. I make my living off of fantasies."

"True. But we're not in Tinsel Town anymore, Toto. In fact I've never seen so much empty space. Hard to believe this is one of the most populated regions of Canada."

"Yeah." Sloan gazed out across the endless fields dotted with quaint farmhouses, lone maple trees and stands of birches. He could just make out a hint of blue beyond the dense line of evergreens to the north. "It feels kind of empty after the sardine-land of LA and Burbank."

"I don't know. I think I could get used to it. At least for a while." Craig riveted an intense stare on his friend. "What the hell did you do for fun around here, anyway? Catch frogs, put them on rocks and watch them dry out in the sun?"

Sloan laughed for the first time since they'd disembarked the plane in Toronto. "You'd be surprised how much fun that can be. But we did manage to get a little more...innovative when the need arose."

"Oh? Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly."

"Okay." And Craig left it at that. For now.

Fifteen minutes later the stretch turned down Killdeer Drive and rolled to a stop in front of Bay's Haven's finest guest house-The Wee Inn.

Across the street at the Eventide Cafe, a lone figure sat and sipped from a glass of imported beer. His eyes remained riveted on the long, black car as it vomited its passengers onto the street. The half-eaten club sandwich on his plate was suddenly forgotten.

He had requested a sidewalk table, and lingered over his lunch for the sole purpose of catching a first glimpse of the return of Bay's Haven's prodigal son.

The sight of Sloan hit him like a fist to the gut. When Bree had informed him of her plans he had sighed and smiled, and bent over backwards to play his role as the congenial family friend. He had honored her requests, but all the time he had secretly hoped it would all fall through. Sloan's exodus had been a dream, his return a nightmare.

"What does he know?" he whispered into the breeze.

He gripped his glass a little harder for fear it would slip through his sweaty fingers. He hated this-the waiting and the wondering. The not knowing was the worst. He liked to know all the variables, calculate all the angles. And he liked to make a decision and act on it swiftly. But Sloan was a wild card in an otherwise well-ordered deck.

Sloan might be completely ignorant of the secrets that haunted Bay's Haven like restless ghosts in a ruined castle. He might be. And then again, he might not.

Had Sloan's mother followed through on her threats to tell him everything? Perhaps she had only hinted at things that could damage her as much as any of them. Perhaps she had only shared enough to ease her own tortured conscience. But if that was the case, how much, exactly, had she revealed? Or had it all been a grand bluff? The Carvers always were adept at lying. All of them.

But if he didn't know, then why had he left? And why had he come back?

The questions were so thick that they clogged the airways and restricted the lungs. Questions and uncertainty could paralyze as surely as exposure. Something had to be done.

He picked up his sandwich and tore off an enormous chunk. He chewed methodically.

Sloan was still standing there, taking in the sights of his old hometown, his black-clad silhouette as trim and lithe as when he was eighteen. Resentment mingled with the uncertainty, coiling inside his stomach like a pair of hissing snakes. He pressed a hand to his gut, as if to still the writhing reptiles. But they would not be appeased.

But what to do? How to proceed without undue risk to himself or the business?

He drained the last of his beer and considered...

For now, uncertainty was the enemy. He had to establish the extent of the threat. There had to be a way to discern exactly how much Sloan Carver knew, and from there the course would become clear.

He would wait and watch. He would bide his time until an opportunity presented itself. And then he would decide. And then, if necessary, he would act.

If all went well, perhaps Sloan wouldn't have to die.

Sloan stood in the dappled sunshine beneath a weeping willow tree. He slipped his Ray Bans into place and let his eyes roam up and down the main drag of his hometown, surprised at the nostalgia that washed through him.

A row of carriage lamps lined the worn cobblestone sidewalk. Beds of petunias and impatiens surrounded their polished black bases, and antique wrought iron benches invited shoppers to sit and admire the view of the bay that was visible at strategic points between the trees. He could make out the familiar signs that advertised everything from fudge to dried flowers. He thought the display in the front window of Simon's antiques across the street hadn't changed in the eight years since he'd been home. But several doors down he noticed a sign that was not so familiar-Bree's Way.

Bree. So that meant she was still here. And if she had stayed, did that mean all the others were here too? Of course, he knew Troy was still here, deftly managing Marquis Jewelry. But was Franki still selling cottages to doctors and lawyers who had no time to use them?

Was Sloan the only one who had shed the trappings of their old life? And if so what did that make him? The only sane one? Or the only fool?

"Hey, Lucy!"

Sloan noticed a hand waving in front of his face. "Lucy?"

"You know...in the sky with diamonds?" explained Craig. "You were on some trip. I must have asked you if you were ready to go in three times."

"Oh." Sloan finally noticed that their bags had miraculously disappeared from the sidewalk. "Sorry. I was just-"

"I know what you were. I go home sometimes, too." Craig's smile was warm and nostalgic, as he no doubt considered the throng of relatives he had left behind in New York. "Passover and Hannukah," he mused as he motioned for Sloan to precede him into the front lobby. "I can never quite get through them without shedding a tear or two onto my mother's ample bosom."

Sloan had to chuckle. "Only you would refer to your mother that way."

"Well she has one, you know. I'll bet yours does too. Mind you I'm guessing, seeing as how I've never met, or even seen a picture of the woman."

Sloan's good humor dissolved like the froth on a wave hitting the sand. But he managed to keep up a thin facade. "My mother's breasts are none of your concern."

"Right. She has that European lover to look after them."

Sloan groaned and was thankful for the bright greeting of the hostess behind the desk. "Can I help you, sir?"

Sloan's Ray Bans remained firmly in place. "A room for Sternberg?"

He had used Craig's last name in a desperate attempt to remain anonymous for as long as possible. His caution did not stem from the fear of being recognized, and consequently mauled by a throng of arduous fans. Bay's Haven was hardly littered with starry-eyed teens who idolized talented screenwriters, after all. His fears ran far deeper than that.

The perky redhead tapped away at her computer, and soon they were being led up the stairs by a crisply pressed bellhop. Sloan finally removed his sunglasses to better view their surroundings. Plush Oriental runners muffled their footfalls as they proceeded down the narrow, winding hallway. Dark mahogany wainscoting and flocked wallpaper were accented by burnished brass fixtures and antique door pulls.

Craig tossed him a surreptitious glance. "What did you say this place was called again?"

"The Wee Inn."

"Uh-huh. Just as I thought. I was afraid the name would be all too accurate."

"Don't judge a hotel by its hallways," cautioned Sloan as the porter slipped a key into the lock of room 314.

The door swung open and they stepped inside.

Sloan watched Craig as his eyes swept around the lavishly appointed suite. A small sitting room complete with divan and Queen Anne-style secretary's desk, was flanked by a pair of surprisingly spacious bedrooms. Two four-poster beds were visible through two sets of wide French doors.

"Wow," breathed Craig, obviously completely taken with the transition from the small narrow hallway to this mammoth executive suite.

For Sloan, however, the decor was dwarfed by the intruder who sat on the far side of the room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he growled, as he lined the palm of the bellhop and motioned him out the door.

The large, burly figure continued to lounge on the antique love seat. His size thirteen foot bobbed lazily, but he had fixed his small, close-set eyes on Sloan like a near-sighted prophet watching the arrival of the Antichrist.

"Nice to see you too, Sloan," he drawled. "It hasn't been nearly long enough."

"Get out."

Derek Waters shook a head that wouldn't have looked out of place on a prize bull. "Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"You're not that old, and you were never my friend. Now, I don't know how you got in here, but-"

"Do I make you nervous?" interrupted Franki's younger brother.

"No. You make me nauseous."

Derek grinned. "Ah. Here I thought we had come to an understanding."

"If you can call a restraining order an understanding, then I guess that's what we came to."

The hulk crossed the room. "Don't want to be rude to a guest, even if he is a friend of yours, Carver."

He extended a hand to Craig. "Derek Waters."

Craig shook it with a wary glance in Sloan's direction. "Craig Sternberg."

Derek frowned. "Sternberg. That's Jewish, isn't it?"

"Never could put anything over on you, Derek." Sloan stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Now, at the risk of repeating myself-get out."

Derek ignored him. "Jews have always fascinated me. You know, all that stuff about Allah and those little hats..." He shrugged and glanced at Craig's head. "You're not wearing a beanie. Does that mean you're not a devout Jew?"

At the reference to Allah, Craig's mouth had quirked into an unreadable expression. "I'm not sure what you mean, exactly."

"Well... Were you baptized as a Jew?"

To his credit, Craig didn't bat an eyelash. "No. I sort of skipped that part. And, no, I don't actively practice Judaism. If that answers your question."

"So...does that mean you eat pork and everything?"

"Everything but the hoof," said Craig with an air of authority. "But only from kosher pigs, of course."

Sloan had to restrain a snort.

"Really," said Derek, obviously riveted. "That's fascinating. But there's one more thing I just gotta know." "Yes?"

He leaned in and whispered covertly, but loud enough for Sloan to hear. "Did you...you know...have your cap sized?"

Craig blinked, apparently confused by the question. And Sloan decided it was high time to put an end to the twenty questions.

"Can we get back on track here, Derek? You obviously didn't come down here to brush up on your Hebrew."

Derek shifted gears like he was driving a Porsche. He whirled away from Craig and rammed a beefy finger into Sloan's chest. "Damn right. I came here to tell you to stay the hell away from my sister."

"So, what else is new." He took a step back, away from that accusatory appendage. "But I can hardly come home and ignore one of my oldest and dearest friends, now can I? Franki would shoot me right between the eyes if I didn't talk to her at the party." He groaned softly. "God, don't tell me they invited you."

Derek sneered. "You think I'd come?" He stepped closer and Sloan could smell a recycled version of the Lakeside Diner's famous garlic burger. "Don't worry, I'm planning on giving that bash a wide berth. But if you hurt her again, you can rest assured I'll be the one shooting you between the eyes."

"I never hurt Franki. Her crush on me was all in your head."

"You do live in a fantasy world, Carver. It just about killed her when you chose Bree over her. And then when you left like that, without a word..." His lips curled into a hideous sneer. "I don't want to have to pick up pieces like that again." He held up a stubby finger. "Francie just broke up with this flaky artist, and she's real bummed about it. So she's vulnerable. Don't you be leading her on, making her think she's got a chance with you again. She doesn't need the heartache."

"You're crazy, Derek. Franki has always known we're just friends. Besides-"

"Besides," interrupted Craig. "This Franki doesn't have a prayer. Sloan is very taken."

Sloan's head swivelled around and his eyes silently queried his friend.

But Craig didn't meet his gaze. Instead, he slipped an arm around Sloan's waist and sidled in all snug and cozy. "And I'm extremely jealous."

Sloan's revulsion was overshadowed by a sudden urge to laugh. Uproariously. However, despite his mirth, he managed to stay in character and maintain his decorum.

As Derek looked on with mute astonishment, Sloan draped an arm around Craig's shoulders.

"Yes, and as to your earlier question?" Sloan bobbed his eyebrows and fought the unseemly urge to speak with a lisp. "I can personally vouch for the rabbi's surgical skills. He does absolutely beautiful work."

Craig smiled demurely and Derek stepped back, looking like he had just been struck between the eyes with that fateful bullet. "Y-you're kidding," he stuttered. "That's not possible. Y-you always had to fight 'em off with a stick. You c-could've had your pick of the entire cheerleading squad."

"Overcompensation. A common symptom of denial," said Craig, and at that moment Sloan actually thought he could kiss him.