She shrugged. "Didn't want to be presumptuous." She was leaning on the torn arm of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, her dark skin beautiful even in the clinical halogen glow. She was yoga fit but carried enough extra weight to curve where she was supposed to. Her high cheeks tended plump, and an emerald glittered in the side of her nose. She was Indian before it came into style, growing up right here in Brentwood, and she spoke with a casual L.A. intonation that caught most people by surprise.

In the year that we dated, just before her money really started flowing in, we never really discussed my life from before I moved back to L.A. Induma had something of her parents' Buddhist restraint. She never pushed for more answers than I offered and was glad to give me space as long as I adored her-which wasn't hard-and as long as I was honest. And I was honest, but at the same time I let myself off the hook for lies of omission.

Standing the front door on end, I pushed it to the frame.

She gestured at it. "How will I get out?"

"Oh, yeah, right." I placed it a few inches offset from the jamb.

"Wendy called, said you no-showed for your interview. I figured something was up."

"I'm sorry-I meant to call."

She glanced at the phone, still in pieces on the kitchen counter. Her mouth tightened, but she didn't comment. "The nice hysterical woman downstairs gave me a version of what happened. It sounds like you're in the middle of whatever you've spent your life afraid you'd be in the middle of."

I said, "Yes."

"Come here." She rested a hand on my cheek, tilted my head to get a better look at the wound. Her concern turned to anger. "Is there someone- a lawyer, cop, whoever-you know who can help you navigate this?"

I thought about it. "No."

"Is there anyone you'd want to call?"

"Bugs Bunny."

Her burgundy lipstick set off her smile, the perfect whiteness of her teeth. "What's he do when he gets in a jam?"

"Cross-dresses."

"Hmm. Maybe it's time to look for some new allies. Or new candor with old ones." She leveled that cool stare at me, in case I hadn't figured out that it was a challenge.

I cleared my throat, then cleared it again. "If I gave you an address, could you look online and find out about whoever's renting the place?"

"Probably." She cocked her head, grinned pertly. "What address?"

"It belonged to the guy who was killed last night at San Onofre."

"Okay," she said, processing. "Okay. Guy have a name?"

I jotted down the address on a junk-mail flyer and handed it to her. "I was told it's Mike Milligan."

She took the paper with a flick of her hand. "I'll help you on two conditions. First, you're coming over for dinner tomorrow night. I'm making puliyogare."

"Will Alejandro be there?" Her boyfriend was dense and exceptionally good-looking, so of course I was mortally jealous of him. She nodded, so I said, "Fine. Second condition?"

"You tell me who you really are."

Her directness put me back on my heels. "This is something that happened to me. That's happening to me. But it's not who I am."

If the vehemence of my voice startled her, she didn't show it. "Okay," she said. "But there was always a part of your life that you avoided. You can't deny that. It's why we never got past where we did." She kept her eyes on mine, unafraid to press the point. "And now? This?" She gestured to the turmoil of my condo. "It's a whole different thing. I need to know what I'm prying into for you, what's really going on. I never got to know all of you when we were together. And that was fine. But if I'm gonna help you, I need to know now."

My apartment felt suddenly stuffy, and I realized I'd broken a sweat. "I… I can't do that."

"New alliances, pal. They come at a price." She extended the paper, holding it pinched between her thumb and forefinger, ready to drop.

I'm not sure how long I stared at her, but she didn't lower her gaze. I'd always told myself that if I had my past to relive, I'd make different choices. I looked around at the mounds of hurled clothes, the clumps of couch stuffing, the strewn papers, the offset front door. Maybe this was, bizarrely, my shot at a fresh start.

I crossed and sat on the gutted couch. Induma shadowed me, sitting also and leaning against the arm to face me. My throat was dry and my thoughts jumbled, but patience was one of Induma's virtues.

I made a few mental runs at the beginning before I forced it out. "My stepfather was murdered when I was seventeen." Saying it aloud gave it a profound power that I couldn't have imagined. But I was talking. The words poured out. I told her everything. The Zapruder tape and Isabel McBride on the pitcher's mound and the way the calluses on Frank's heels scraped the floorboards as he died. I told her about the dark sedan trolling the street, the phone call telling me to come outside, my trip to the Metropolitan Detention Center, the envelope stuffed with traveler's checks.

And then I told her the rest.

Chapter 13