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attacking them. He had described his spying as a form of “intimacy.” She was relieved when her surveillance revealed no lurking figures.
    Next door to the café was a Mexican restaurant with enough people still dining to make Elizabeth feel as if she wasn’t alone. Their laughter kept reaching out to her. She watched as diners happily sipped colorful margaritas. Her vantage point offered her a good spot to take in the Southern California ambience. The Pacific Ocean was close enough to be seen and heard, and the night was balmy, with a gentle ocean breeze.
    A voice interrupted her reverie, startled her: “Last chance for java.”
    The last call for caffeine was made by what she guessed was a full-time surfer and part-time help. The young man’s long, brown hair had sun-streaked strands of gold running through it. The way he walked and talked and breathed was an endorsement of insouciance. Probably his only worry in the world was whether the waves would be breaking in the morning.
    “I’ll pass.”
    The young man appeared happy with her choice, and Elizabeth relinquished her cup to him. She reached for her purse and pulled out her car keys. Out of habit, she positioned her longest key between her index and middle finger and made a fist. She stood up, and then her reactions took over. Shame was there. She’d had too many nightmares not to react to him, too many evenings of waking in a soaked nightgown thinking about him. Her hand shot up toward his face, the key brandished like a knife.
    “Don’t,” he said.
    Don’t scream,
she remembered.
    Elizabeth was slow to lower her arm. To let go of her memories. “You’re late,” she said.
    He nodded.
    No explanation, she noticed. She wondered if he had purposely waited for the café to close before showing up.
    “If you still want to talk,” he said, “there’s a bar nearby.”
    Probably a dark bar, she thought. And people who were drinking would be unreliable witnesses.
    “I don’t like bars,” she said. “And I’d prefer talking where it’s well lit and there’s lots of foot traffic.”
    Caleb didn’t answer immediately. It wasn’t clear whether he was unhappy with her alternative or just trying to think of the right spot. “D. G.’s,” he finally said, his hand pointing the direction. “It’s a doughnut shop just down the street.”
    She nodded, her eyes never leaving him. “Wait here,” she said, “until I get in my car.”
    Elizabeth walked past him, went down the steps, then paused at the street. She looked both ways, then looked behind her to make sure Caleb was still standing there, before hurrying across the street to her car.
    She drove over to a small strip mall and slowly circled the parking lot. The doughnut shop met her requirements. It had ample lighting and a glassed expanse that allowed good visibility for looking both in and out. On one side of the doughnut shop was a restaurant and on the other side a bar. Across the street was an upscale pool hall. She watched young bodies bending over the tables and lining up their shots.
    The aroma coming out of D. G.’s reminded Elizabeth how hungry she was. The array of sweets displayed behind the counter didn’t do anything to abate her hunger. A young woman, vivacious even with a hairnet, smock, and smudge of flour on one of her red cheeks, helped Elizabeth decide between a buttermilk bar and a raised glaze with chocolate frosting.
    “When in doubt,” she said, “get both!”
    A young man was also working behind the counter. “Brandy knows from experience,” he said, “that one doughnut just isn’t enough.”
    “Guilty as charged,” Brandy said with a laugh.
    “And here I always heard that people who worked with sweets got sick of eating them,” Elizabeth said.
    “I wish,” said Brandy, laughing.
    Caleb entered the shop as Elizabeth was paying. He walked by her and chose to sit at the table farthest from the counter. It wouldn’t have been Elizabeth’s choice, but it still