She got up and tugged open a dresser drawer. In the dark she felt around for clothes-panties, a T-shirt, yoga pants. She pulled on the most comfortable clothing she owned and went into the kitchen. Just the thought of food repelled her, but her body needed nourishment.

She jerked open the refrigerator and searched its contents. Diet Coke, cottage cheese, a tub of pasta salad from Whole Foods. Her gaze settled on a pack of shaved ham, and she decided to make a sandwich. She lined the ingredients up on the counter and started going through the motions.

David was dead. He'd been a lying, cheating son of a bitch, but now he was dead.

Courtney pitied his wife. She hadn't at first. When she'd first discovered the woman's existence, she'd felt nothing but anger toward David. In fact, anger was putting it mildly. She'd been practically blind with rage.

Hence the Porsche Carrera incident. Trashing David's car hadn't been one of her smarter impulses. Ever since then she'd been on a turn-over-a-new-leaf kick that included giving up smoking, partying, and men.

The smoking and partying had been surprisingly easy, but the men part was giving her trouble. Especially today. How else to explain a flare of attraction for a man who was completely and utterly not her type? She went for flashy guys. Guys with either looks or style or both. And with the exception of David-who had had looks and style, but no heart-they tended to be creative types, as in musicians or writers or aspiring artists.

Jacked-up military men were not her scene.

Courtney pulled out two slices of bread and noticed a spot of mold on one of the edges. She sighed. She'd been working extra hours this month, trying to put a dent in her credit card bill, and she'd hardly had time to get to the grocery store. She poked her head back in the fridge.

I'll blow his fucking brains out.

Goose bumps sprang up all over her arms as she remembered the twisted mouth, the spittle flying at her as he barked orders.

Her gaze landed on an expired six-pack of yogurt. Behind it was a salad kit full of wilted greens. She opened her pantry and pulled out the trash can.

Thunk. The yogurts were history. Thunk. Thunk. Ditto the expired mayo and a case of food poisoning disguised as ranch dressing. Thud. Year-old Pillsbury biscuits. Thud. Thunk. A tub of margarine and the Chinese mustard that had accompanied the egg rolls at last year's Christmas party.

She pitched and tossed her way through the entire refrigerator, and when she was done, she stepped back.

Diet Cokes. And a jar of jalapenos.

Courtney snagged a soft drink and took it into the living room. She slumped onto the sofa and stared blankly at the darkened television screen.

The doorbell rang, and she shot off the couch.

Who would be here? It was almost nine. It wasn't Fiona, because her sister always parked in the driveway and came to the back.

She tiptoed to the front door and peered through the peephole.

Amy Harris.

Courtney's shoulders sagged. God, she was losing it. She flipped the bolt and swung open the door.

"Hey," she said.

It wasn't just Amy, but her son Devon, too. The eight-year-old wore a Houston Rockets T-shirt and looked sullen. Courtney immediately knew the reason for her neighbor's visit.

"Sorry to drop in," Amy said. "But I was wondering if you might do us a favor?"

"Let me guess," Courtney said. "Someone needs a trim?"

Devon scowled down at his basketball shoes. He hated haircuts, but he was too proud to admit it.

"Would you mind?" Amy asked, mussing her son's hair. "It's getting so shaggy, and I can never seem to get off work in time to take him."

Courtney stepped back to motion them inside. They'd been through this before. Typically, it irked her when friends asked for free cuts, but tonight she didn't mind. She didn't particularly want to be alone right now, and a cut would get her mind off everything.

Amy steered Devon into the kitchen. Courtney pulled out one of her four dining chairs and retrieved the bean bag cushion she kept on the top shelf of her broom closet for occasions like these. She tossed it on the wooden seat.

"Hop up."

Devon complied, still looking mulish.

"Are you sure it's all right? I hate to bother you."

"It's no bother," Courtney said, although usually it was. She couldn't count the number of times she'd been to parties or friends' houses and someone had nudged her in the ribs and asked, 'Hey, did you bring your scissors?' It was incredibly rude, like her walking up to some doctor and asking if he'd mind giving her a quick checkup before the burgers came off the grill.

But Amy was different, sort of, because she had a nice kid and she was even more broke than Courtney.

"If you're okay here, I've got to run back and check something on the stove."

Courtney waved her off. "I've got it."

When she was gone, Courtney stepped back and looked Devon over. His hair was long all around, and she guessed he hadn't had it cut since the last freebie a couple months ago.

"What'll it be?" she asked gruffly, because that's what worked with this kid.

"I want a Mohawk."

She opened the drawer where she kept a spare pair of scissors. "That probably won't go over too well with your mom."

"So?"

"Sit up straight." She filled a spray bottle with warm water. "Sounds like you're mad at her."

He grunted.

"Shoulders back." It was difficult to get an even cut when the client was slouching, which was one reason she disliked working with teenagers.

That, and the ones who could afford the rates at Bella Donna were a bunch of spoiled brats.

She misted his hair. "How 'bout just a quick trim today?" she suggested, even though he needed way more than a trim. She avoided the word cut around kids because they seemed to take it literally, like she was going to cut them.

Devon nodded, visibly relieved.

"If you get your mom's permission, I'll give you a faux-hawk for Halloween."

He eyed her skeptically. "Is that, like, a wimpy Mohawk?"

For the first time in hours, she felt herself smile. "Not wimpy, just temporary. You comb all the hair up in the middle and spray it. Then it goes back to normal after you wash it. We can do some hair paint, too, if your mom says yes."

Devon brightened considerably at this prospect. For the next few minutes, Courtney snipped and combed as he debated possible colors. When her floor was littered with three-quarter-inch brown locks, she dusted off his neck with a dish towel.

"All done."

He hopped down from the chair. "Thanks. I'm gonna go tell my mom about Halloween."

And he was out the door, without even remembering the Tootsie Pop she usually gave him.

Courtney reached for her broom and began sweeping up hair. She captured some dust bunnies, too, and tried to recall the last time she'd cleaned her house.

The bell rang again.

She grabbed a Tootsie Pop from her pantry before going to the door. Out of habit, she checked the peephole.

It wasn't an eight-year-old boy but an oversize detective.

Was he here to arrest her? Her pulse started to race. Maybe she should pretend she wasn't home.

But then she spotted the bag in his hand and pulled open the door.

"I didn't know detectives made house calls," she said.

His gaze skimmed over her, lingering on her navel. She remembered she was in a midriff shirt and yoga pants.

"Come in." She gestured with an exaggerated motion to conceal how naked she suddenly felt. She wasn't even wearing a bra.

He stepped into her house, and she closed the door behind him. She considered locking it, then noticed the gun at his hip and decided she didn't need to. But then the ski mask flashed into her mind, and she flipped the bolt anyway. This guy was armed, but he might be a lousy shot.

"Detective Hodges, right?"

"Will." He eyed the lollipop in her hand. "Am I interrupting dinner?"

"Not yet." She forced herself to keep her arms at her sides instead of crossing them insecurely over her chest.

He held out the black leather handbag. It dangled from his thick fingers, and she could tell the simple act of holding a woman's purse made him uncomfortable.

She took it from him. "Thanks."

"No problem." His gaze roamed the room, picking up details.

Her mammoth Visa bill sat open on the coffee table. Courtney strode into the kitchen, casually snatching it up as she went. She tucked the bill inside her purse and deposited everything on the kitchen counter.

"Any word on my car?" Not that she ever wanted to see it again, but she was searching for conversation.

"No."

"You want a drink or something?" She opened a cabinet and pulled down two glasses.

"No."

She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was hovering beside her CD tower, reading titles.

He looked up. "Thanks, but I'm still on the clock."

"I'm not." She fished several bottles out of her cabinet and poured two fingers of Grey Goose into one of the glasses, followed by a splash of lukewarm cranberry juice.

She went into the living room and made herself comfortable on the couch. Having a cop in her house didn't faze her at all. She was perfectly at ease, not a thing to hide.

He wore charcoal slacks and black dress shoes along with a plain white shirt. The top button was undone, and she could see the white T-shirt he wore underneath. Very wholesome. Not a scrap of individuality to the entire ensemble.

She took a sip of her drink and placed the glass on the table. "A little late, isn't it? Don't you need to get home to the wife?"

He glanced over, his face unreadable. "I'm not married." He nodded at the oil painting above her stereo cabinet, a desert landscape. "You paint this?"

"Fiona's the artist in the family. You've met her, haven't you?"

He grunted, which she took for a no.

"You will," she said. "They're always calling her in on murders and robberies, that kind of thing. She gets a lot of sexual assaults, too. She's good with people."

He didn't respond. But then, he hadn't come here to talk about Fiona. He sat down on the sofa arm, and Courtney's heart started pounding.

"I have some follow-up questions."

"Fire away." She tucked her feet beside her and noticed his noticing her toenails. Men liked red. She didn't know what it was.

"You said something earlier about your phone. How he asked you for it, and you reached in the purse for your defense spray."

"That's right." She smiled cooperatively.

"So how'd your phone get in the backseat?"

"Huh?"

"Your cell phone. It was recovered from the floor of the backseat."

Courtney thought back to the struggle. She'd given him the phone. Just before he'd forced the gun into her hand...

"I don't know."

His eyebrows arched.

"What? How should I know how it got there? Maybe he went through my purse after I ran away."

"With a face full of Mace?"

She surged to her feet. "He could have done anything, for all I know! Or maybe he had an accomplice. A getaway driver. You ever think of that?"

He cocked his head to the side and watched her. He was calm. She was not. She was getting far too emotional about a little blip in her story. She forced her shoulders to relax and tried to make her face neutral.

"What else can I answer for you?"