he small historical district of Hyde Park lay nestled at the bottom of the Boise foothills. In the seventies, the district had suffered from neglect brought on by an exodus to the suburbs and the popularity of strip malls. But in recent years, its businesses had been given a face-lift and a fresh coat of paint, and they had benefited from the resurgence of life back into the city.

Three blocks long, Hyde Park was surrounded on all sides by one of the oldest residential neighborhoods in town. The residents themselves were a diverse mix of bohemia and affluence. Rich, poor, young, and those as old and humped as the cracked sidewalks. Struggling artists and prosperous yuppies lived side by side. Run-down purple houses with orange sunbursts around the windows sat beside restored Victorians, complete with pocked carriage blocks next to the curb.

The businesses were as eclectic as the residents. The shoe repair shop had operated in the district since before anyone could remember, and down the block, a guy could still get his hair cut for seven bucks. A person could grab a taco, pizza, espresso, or a pair of edible undies at the Naughty or Nice lingerie boutique. You could pull into the local 7-11 and buy a Slurpie and a National Enquirer after you filled your car with gas, or walk half a block and shop for books, bicycles, or snowshoes. Hyde Park had it all. Gabrielle Breedlove and Anomaly fit in perfectly.

The morning sun poured over the district and in through Anomaly's front windows, washing the room with light. The large windows were crammed with a display of Oriental porcelain plates and washbowls. A two-foot goldfish with its great fantail cast irregular shadows on the Berber carpet.

Gabrielle stood in her darkened store, squeezing several drops of patchouli oil into a delicate cobalt vaporizer. For almost a year now, she'd been experimenting with different essential oils. The whole process was a continuous cycle of trying, failing, and trying again.

Studying chemical properties, mixing the oils into the little bottles, using her burners and blending bowls, it all made her feel a bit like a mad scientist. Creating wonderful aromas appealed to her artistic side. Her belief was that certain aromas could potentially heal the mind, spirit, and body, either through their chemical properties or by triggering warm, pleasant memories that calmed the soul. Just last week she'd successfully created her own unique blend. She'd packaged it in beautiful rose-colored bottles, then, as part of her marketing ploy, she'd filled the store with the gentle fragrance of citrus and voluptuous flowers. She'd sold out the first day. She hoped to do as well at the Coeur Festival.

Today's blend wasn't unique but was reputed to have calming effects. She screwed the dropper lid back onto the brown patchouli bottle and replaced it in the wooden box containing her other oils. She reached for the sage oil and carefully added two drops. Both oils were supposed to help reduce stress, promote relaxation, and relieve nervous exhaustion. This morning, with an undercover cop due in her store in twenty minutes, Gabrielle needed all three.

The back door to Anomaly opened and closed, and dread settled in the pit of her soul. She glanced over her shoulder toward the rear of the store. "Good morning, Kevin," she called out to her business partner. Her hands shook as she replaced the bottle of sage. It was only nine-thirty in the morning, her nerves were already shot, and she was exhausted. She'd been up all night trying to convince herself that she could lie to Kevin. That by allowing Detective Shanahan to work undercover in her store, she was really helping to clear Kevin's name. But she had several big problems: She was a notoriously bad liar, and she didn't honestly think she could pretend to like the detective, let alone imagine herself as his girlfriend.

She hated lying. She hated creating bad karma. But really, what was one more lie when she was about to create karmic retribution of seismic proportions?

"Hey there," Kevin called from the hallway and flipped on the light switches. "What are you cooking today?"

"Patchouli and sage."

"Is it going to smell like a Grateful Dead concert in here?"

"Probably. I made it for my mother." Besides aiding in relaxation, the scent reminded her of pleasant memories, like the summer she and her mother had chased the Grateful Dead throughout the country. Gabrielle had been ten and had loved camping in their Volkswagen bus, eating tofu and tie-dyeing everything she owned. Her mother had called it their summer of awakening. Gabrielle didn't know about their awakening, but it had been the first time her mother had claimed psychic powers. Before that, they'd been Methodists.

"How's your mother and aunt doing on vacation? Have you heard from them?"

Gabrielle closed the lid to the wooden box and looked across the room at Kevin, who stood in the doorway of the office they shared. "Not for a few days."

"When she gets back, will she and your aunt stay at their house in town for a while, or go spend time up north with your grandfather?"

She suspected Kevin's interest in her mother and aunt had less to do with genuine curiosity and more to do with the fact that they made him nervous. Not only were Claire and Yolanda Breedlove sisters by marriage but they were also best friends and lived together. And sometimes they read each other's minds, which could be spooky if you weren't used to them. "I'm not sure. I suspect they'll land here in Boise to pick up Beezer, then drive up to check on my grandfather."

"Beezer?"

"My mother's cat," Gabrielle answered, guilt knotting her stomach as she gazed into her friend's familiar blue eyes. He'd just turned thirty but looked about twenty-two. He stood a few inches shorter than Gabrielle, and his blond" hair was bleached by the sun. He was a bookkeeper by profession and an antique dealer at heart. He handled the business side of Anomaly, freeing Gabrielle to express her creativity. He wasn't a criminal, and she didn't believe for one second that he would use their store as a front to sell stolen property. She opened her mouth to voice the lie she'd practiced at the police station, but the words got stuck in her throat.

"I'll be in the office working this morning," he said, then disappeared through the doorway.

Gabrielle reached for a lighter and lit a tea candle in the little vaporizer. Again, she tried to tell herself she was actually helping Kevin even though he wouldn't know it. She wasn't really sacrificing him to Detective Shanahan.

She still couldn't make herself believe it, but it didn't matter. The detective was due in her store in less than twenty minutes, and she had to make Kevin believe she'd hired him to do odd jobs over the next few days. She stuck the lighter into the pocket of her gauze skirt and walked past the front counter, cluttered with impulse items, to the office. She glanced at Kevin's blond head bent over some papers on his desk, and she took a deep breath. "I hired someone to move those shelves from the side of the store to the back wall," she said, forcing the lie past her lips. "Remember we talked about it before?"

Kevin looked up, and a frown creased his brow. "I remember we decided to wait until next year."

No, he'd decided that for them. "I don't think it can wait that long, so I've hired someone. Mara can help him," she said, referring to the young college student who worked part time in the afternoons. "Joe will be here in a few minutes." Forcing her guilty gaze to remain on Kevin was one of the hardest things she'd ever done.

Silence filled the room for several excruciating moments as he frowned at her. "This Joe's a member of your family, isn't he?"

Just the thought of Detective Shanahan swimming in the same gene pool disturbed her almost as much as posing as his girlfriend. "No." Gabrielle straightened a stack of invoices. "I assure you Joe isn't family." She pretended an interest in the paper before her. Then she choked out the most difficult lie of all. "He's my boyfriend."

His frown disappeared, and he just looked puzzled. "I didn't even know you had a boyfriend. Why haven't you ever mentioned him before?"

"I didn't want to talk about it until I was sure of my feelings," she said, piling one lie on top of another. "I didn't want to create bad juju."

"Oh. Well, how long have you known him?"

"Not long." That much was the truth, she supposed.

"How did you meet him?"

She thought of Joe's hands on her hips, thighs, and between her breasts. Of his groin pressed into hers, and heat rose up her neck to her cheeks. "Jogging in the park," she said, knowing she sounded as guilty as she felt.

"I don't think we can afford it this month. We have to pay for that shipment of Baccarat. Next month would be better for us."

Next month might be better for them, but not the Boise P.D. "It has to be done this week. I'll pay for it myself. You can't object to that."

Kevin sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "You want it done pretty badly. Why now? What's up?"

"Nothing," was the best answer she could think up.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Gabrielle looked into Kevin's speculative blue eyes and not for the first time she thought about just coming clean. Then the two of them could secretly work together to clear Kevin's name. She thought of the confidential informant's agreement she'd signed. The consequences of breaking that agreement were very serious, but damn the consequences. Her first loyalty was to Kevin, and he deserved her honesty. He was her business partner, and more importantly, her friend.

"You look all flushed and bothered."

"Hot flash."

"You're not old enough for a hot flash. There's got to be more to this than you're letting on. This isn't like you. Are you in love with your handyman?"

Gabrielle barely contained a horrified gasp. "No."

"Must be lust."

"No!"

A knock shook the back door. "There's your boyfriend," Kevin said.

She could tell by the look on his face that he really did believe she had the hots for her handyman. Sometimes Kevin thought he knew everything, when he was mostly clueless. But what she knew of men told her that was generally the case with all of them. She set the invoices on her desk and walked from the room. The thought of posing as Joe's girlfriend was disturbing. She moved through the back storage area, which doubled as a small kitchen. She opened the heavy wood door.

And there he stood in worn Levi's, white T-shirt, and black aura. He'd had his dark hair trimmed, and a pair of aviator sunglasses covered his eyes. His features were unreadable.

"You've come on time," she spoke to her reflection in his glasses.

One dark brow lifted. "I always do." He reached for her arm with one hand and shut the door behind her with the other. "Is Carter here?"

A thin slice of air separated the front of her peasant blouse from his chest, and her head was enveloped with the scent of sandlewood and cedar and something so intriguing that she wished she could name so she could bottle it.

"Yes," she said and removed his grasp from her bare arm. She slid past him and down the alley to the far side of the Dumpster. She could still feel the impression of his fingers on her skin.

He moved with her. "What have you told him?" he asked in a low-pitched voice.

"What I was told to tell him." Her own voice was barely above a whisper when she contin-ued, "I told him I hired my boyfriend to move some shelves."

"And he believed you?"

Talking to her own reflection unnerved her, and she lowered her gaze from his sunglasses to the dip of his top lip. "Of course. He knows I never lie."

"Uh-huh. Anything I should know before you introduce me to your business partner?"

"Well, kind of."

His lips compressed slightly. "What?"

She really didn't want to admit that Kevin thought she was in love with him, so she prevaricated just a little bit. "He thinks you're madly in love with me."

"Now why would he think that?"

"Because I told him you were," she said, and wondered when lying had become so fun. "So you better be extra nice."

His lips remained in a flat line. He wasn't amused.

"Maybe you should bring me roses tomorrow."

"Yeah, and maybe you should start holding your breath."

Joe scribbled down a fake address and Social Security number on a W2 form and soaked up his surroundings, noticing everything without looking at anything. He hadn't worked undercover for almost a year, but working under-cover was like riding a bike. He hadn't forgotten how to con a con.

He listened to the soft tap of Gabrielle's retreating sandals as she walked from the room, and the annoying click-click-clicking of Kevin Carter's pen as his thumb pumped the end of his Montblanc. When Joe had first walked in, he'd noticed two tall file cabinets, two narrow floor-to-ceiling windows on Gabrielle's side of the room, and a stack of assorted junk on her desk. On Kevin's desk sat a computer, wire in basket, and a payroll book. Everything on Kevin's side of the room looked like it had been strategically measured, then placed with a ruler. A real uptight control freak.

When he finished with the W2, Joe handed it to the man sitting directly across the desk. "I don't usually fill one of these out," he told Kevin. "I usually get paid in cash, and the government never has to know."

Kevin glanced over the form. "We do everything nice and legal around here," he said without looking up.

Joe leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. What a lying little shit. It had taken him about two seconds to determine that Kevin Carter was guilty as hell. He'd arrested too many felons not to know the signs.

Kevin lived way beyond his means, even for the got-to-have-it-now nineties. He drove a Porsche and wore designer everything, from his shirts to his Italian loafers. Two Nagel prints hung on the wall behind his desk, and he wrote with a two-hundred-dollar pen. In addition to Anomaly and his appraisal business, he had several enterprises around town. He lived in a chunk of the foothills where a man's value was judged on the view of the city through his living room window. Last year he'd reported a combined income of fifty thousand to the IRS. Not hardly enough to sustain his lifestyle.

If there was one common thread that pointed to criminal behavior, it was excess. Sooner or later all crooks get cocky enough, doped up enough, or in debt enough to ignore moderation.

Kevin Carter was a living poster boy for criminal excess, and he might as well be walking around with a neon sign pointed at his head. Like the many others before him, he was foolish enough to flaunt his excess and cocky enough to believe he wouldn't get caught. But this time he was in over his head and had to be feeling the pressure. Fencing antique candlesticks and gravy boats wasn't quite the same as fencing a Monet.

Kevin set the form aside, then looked up at Joe. "How long have you known Gabrielle?"

Now, Gabrielle Breedlove was a different story. At this point, it didn't matter if she was guilty or as innocent as she claimed, but he would like to know what made her tick. She was much harder to peg than Kevin, and Joe didn't know what to make of her—other than the fact that she was nuttier than a jar of Skippy. "Long enough."

"Then you probably know she's too trusting. She'll do just about anything to help the people she cares about."

Joe wondered if that help extended to helping those she cared about fence stolen property. "Yep, she's a real sweetheart."

"Yes she is, and I'd hate to see anyone take advantage of her. I'm a pretty good judge of character, and I can tell you're the kind of guy who works just enough to get by. Probably not a lot more."

Joe tilted his head to the side and smiled at the little man with the big complex. The last thing he wanted was to alienate Kevin. Just the opposite was true. He needed to get the guy to trust him, convince him they were buddies. "Oh yeah? You can tell all that after knowing me for five minutes?"

"Well, let's face it, there can't be a lot of money in being a handyman. And if your business was doing well, Gabrielle wouldn't have fabricated a job for you here." Kevin wheeled his chair backward and stood. "None of her other boyfriends have needed jobs. That philosophy professor she dated last year could have used a personality, but at least he had money."

Joe watched Kevin walk to a tall file cabinet and open a drawer. He kept quiet and let Kevin do all the talking.

"Right now she thinks she's in love with you," he continued as he filed the W2. "And chicks don't think about money when they've got it bad for your body."

Joe stood and crossed his arms over his chest. That wasn't exactly what he'd been told by the lady herself. So much for her claim of never lying.

"I was a little surprised when you walked in here this morning. You're not the kind of guy she usually dates."

"What kind is that?"

"She usually goes for the squirrely New Age type. The kind of guys who sit around meditating and discussing crap like the cosmic consciousness of man." The drawer slid shut, and he leaned a shoulder into it. "You don't look like the kind of guy who likes to meditate."

Now there was a relief.

"What were you two talking about in the alley?"

He wondered if Kevin had listened at the back door, but he supposed if he had they wouldn't be having this conversation. Joe let a smile slowly curve the corners of his mouth. "Who said we were talking?"

Kevin smiled back, one of those I'm-in-the-guys-club-too smiles, and Joe left the office.

The first thing that Joe noticed when he walked to the front of the store was the smell, It smelled like a head shop, and he wondered if his confidential informant took frequent trips on the ganja train. It would explain a lot.

Joe's gaze roamed the room, and he took in the odd assortment of old and new. In one corner, fancy pens, letter openers, and boxes of stationery sat on a pigeonhole desk. He glanced at the center counter and a display of antique jewelry in a glass case next to the cash register. He took a mental note of everything before his attention was drawn to the ladder placed by the front window and the woman standing at the top.

Bright sunshine lit her profile, filtered through her long auburn hair, and turned her yellow gauzy shirt and skirt transparent. His gaze slid down her face and chin to her slim shoulders and full breasts. Yesterday, he'd been mad as hell, and his thigh had ached, but he hadn't been dead. He'd been very aware of her soft body pressed tight against him. Of her breasts as he'd checked for concealed and a few minutes later as they'd walked to his car, the cold rain drenching her T-shirt, chilling her flesh and hardening her nipples.

His eyes moved to her waist and the flair of her hips. It didn't look like she was wearing anything beneath her skirt but a pair of bikini panties. Probably white or beige. After tailing her for the past week, he'd developed an appreciation for her nicely rounded behind and long legs. He didn't care what her driver's license said, she was close to six feet tall and had the legs to prove it. The kind of legs that just naturally hooked around a man's waist..

"Do you need some help?" he asked as he moved toward her, raising his gaze up the lush feminine curves of her body to her face.

"That would be great," she said, pulling her mass of hair over one shoulder and looking down at him over the other. She selected a big blue-and-white plate from a stand in the window. "I have a customer who will be here sometime this morning to pick this up."

Joe took the plate from her, then stepped back as she climbed down the ladder.

"Did Kevin believe you're my handyman?" she asked barely above a whisper.

"More than just your handyman." He waited until she stood before him. "He thinks you want me for my body." He watched her run her fingers through her hair, tangling all those soft curls like she'd just got out of bed. She'd done the same thing yesterday at the police station. He hated to admit it, but it was sexy as hell.

"You're kidding."

He took several steps toward her and whispered in her ear. "He thinks I'm your own personal boy toy." Her silky hair smelled like roses.

"I hope you set him straight."

"Now, why would I do that?" He leaned back and smiled into her horrified face.

"I don't know what I ever did to deserve this," she said as she took the plate and walked around him. "I'm sure I've never done anything bad enough to deserve this kind of rotten karma."

Joe's smile died, and a chill bit the back of his neck. He'd forgotten. He'd seen her standing on that ladder, with sunlight spilling over every soft curve, and for a few minutes he'd forgotten she was crazy.

Gabrielle Breedlove looked normal, but she wasn't. She believed in karma and auras and judging a person's character by the stars. She probably believed she could channel Elvis, too. She was a kook, and he supposed he should thank her for reminding him that he wasn't in her store to stare at her behind. Thanks to her, his career as a detective was on the line, and he had to come through with a big bust. No doubt about it. He removed his gaze from her back and glanced about the shop. "Where are the shelves you want moved?"

Gabrielle set the plate on the counter next to the cash register. "There," she said, pointing to the metal-and-glass shelving system bolted to the wall across the room. "I want those moved to the back wall."

Yesterday, when she'd said shelves, he'd assumed she'd meant display cabinets. With the mounting and patching involved, this job would take him several days. If he painted, he could stretch it into two, maybe three, days of searching for anything to nail Kevin Carter. And he would nail him. He didn't doubt it for a minute.

Joe moved across the room to the glass shelves, glad the job would take a while. Unlike the portrayal of police work on television, cases weren't solved in an hour. It took days and weeks, sometimes months, to gather enough evidence for an arrest. There was a lot of waiting involved. Waiting for someone to make a move, mess up, or get ratted out.

Joe let his gaze skim across colored glass and porcelain, silver and pewter picture frames. Several woven baskets sat on an old trunk beside the shelves, and he reached for a small cloth satchel and held it to his nose. He was more interested in what might be inside the trunk than what was on it. Not that he really expected to find Mr. Hillard's paintings so easily. It was true that he'd sometimes found stashes of drugs and stolen goods in obvious places, but he figured he wouldn't be that lucky with this case.

"That's just potpourri."

Joe glanced over his shoulder at Gabrielle and tossed the small satchel back into the basket. "I'd already figured that out, but thanks anyway."

"I thought you might confuse it for some kind of mind-altering drug."

He looked into her green eyes and thought he detected a glint of humor, but he wasn't sure. It could just as easily be a spark of dementia. His gaze moved past her to the empty room. Carter was still in the office. Hopefully, busy setting himself up. "I was a narcotics agent for eight years. I think I know the difference. Do you?"

"I don't think I should answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate me." An amused smile lifted the corners of her red lips. She obviously thought she was a riot. "But I will say that if I ever did use drugs, and keep in mind that I'm not confessing anything, it was a long time ago for religious reasons."

He had a feeling he was going to be real sorry, but he asked anyway. "Religious reasons?"

"To seek truth and enlightenment," she elaborated. "To break the boundaries of the mind in search of higher knowledge and spiritual fulfillment."

Yep, he was sorry.

"To explore the cosmic connection between good and evil. life and death."

"To seek new life, new civilizations. To boldly go where no man has gone before," he added, keeping his tone bland. "You and Captain Kirk seem to have a lot in common."

A frown flattened her smile.

"What's in this trunk?" he asked.

"Christmas lights."

"When was the last time you checked?"

"Christmas."

Movement behind Gabrielle drew Joe's attention to the front counter, and he watched Kevin walk to the cash register and pop it open. "I have a few business errands to run this morning, Gabrielle," Kevin said as he filled the drawer with money. "I should be back by three."

Gabrielle spun around and looked at her business partner. Tension choked the air, but no one besides her seemed to notice. It clogged her throat, but for the first time since she'd been arrested, relief lifted her spirits a little, too. There was an end to this madness in sight. The sooner Kevin left, the sooner the detective could search, and the sooner he would find nothing. The sooner he would leave her store and her life. "Oh, okay. Take all the time you need. If you get really busy, you don't have to come back at all."

Kevin shifted his gaze from Gabrielle to the man standing directly behind her. "I'll be back."

As soon as Kevin was gone, Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder. "Do your thing, Detective," she said, then moved to the front counter and began wrapping the blue plate in tissue paper. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him pull a small black notebook out of the back pocket of his Levi's. He flipped it open and slowly walked through her store, thumbing past one page and pausing to scribble on another.

"When does Mara Paglino come to work?" he asked without looking up.

"One-thirty."

He checked the marking on the bottom of a Wedgwood butter dish, then flipped the notebook closed again. "If Kevin comes back early, keep him out here with you," he said as he walked to the office and shut the door behind him.

"How?" she asked the empty store. If Kevin came back early, she didn't know how—short of tackling him—to keep him from discovering the detective rifling through his desk. But it really wouldn't matter if Kevin came back early and caught Joe red-handed. Kevin would know. He was so over-the-top neat that he always just knew if someone had touched his things.

During the next two hours, Gabrielle's nerves coiled tighter and tighter. Every tick of the clock pushed her closer to a complete breakdown. She tried to lose herself in daily routine, she failed. She was much too aware of the detective searching for incriminating evidence behind the closed door of her office.

Several times she walked toward the office door with the intention of sticking her head inside and seeing exactly what he was doing, but she always lost her nerve. Every little sound made her jump, and a knot formed in her throat and stomach, preventing her from eating the broccoli soup she'd brought for her lunch. By the time Joe finally emerged from the office at one o'clock, Gabrielle was so tense that she felt like screaming. Instead, she took deep breaths and silently chanted the soothing seven-syllable mantra she'd composed eighteen years ago to cope with the death of her father.

"Okay." Joe interrupted her attempt to find her quiet center. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

He must not have found anything incriminating. But Gabrielle wasn't surprised; there wasn't anything to find. She followed him to the back room. "You're leaving?"

He looked into her eyes, and one corner of his mouth lifted. "Don't tell me you're going to miss me?"

"Of course not, but what about the shelves? What am I supposed to tell Kevin?"

"Tell him I'll start tomorrow." He took his sunglasses from the pocket of his T-shirt. "I need to put a wiretap on your business phone. So come in a little early in the morning. It won't take me but a few minutes."

"You're going to bug my telephone? Don't you need a court order or something?"

"No. I just need your permission, which you're going to give me."

"No, I'm not."

His dark brows lowered and his eyes turned hard. "Why the hell not? I thought you said you didn't have anything to do with the theft of Hillard's Monet."

"I didn't."

"Then don't act like you have something to hide."

"I'm not. It's a horrible invasion of privacy."

He rocked back on his heels and looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Only if you're guilty. Giving your permission could help prove you and Kevin are innocent as babes."

"But you don't believe that, do you?"

"No," he answered without hesitation.

It took a great deal of effort not to tell him exactly where he could shove his wiretap. He was so sure of himself. So absolutely certain, but so mistaken. A wiretap would gain him nothing, and there was only one way to prove him wrong. "Fine," she said. "Do whatever you want. Put up a video camera. Wheel out the polygraph. Bring out the thumbscrews."

"The tap will be sufficient for now." He opened the back door and shoved his sunglasses on the bridge of his straight nose. "I save my thumbscrews for kinky informants who get off on that sort of thing." The sensual lines of his lips curved into the kind of provocative smile that could make a woman almost forgive him for handcuffing her and hauling her to jail. "Are you interested?"

Gabrielle looked down at her feet, away from the mesmerizing effect of that smile, horrified that he could affect her at all. "No, thank you."

He hooked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze,back to his. His seductive voice brushed across her flesh. "I can be real gentle."

She looked into his sunglasses and couldn't tell if he was joking or if he was serious. If he was trying to seduce her or if it was just her imagination. "I'll pass."

"Chicken." He dropped his hand and took a step backward. "You let me know if you change your mind."

For a few moments after he left, she stared at the closed door. A funny little flutter tickled her stomach, and she tried to tell herself it was because she hadn't eaten. But she didn't really believe it. With the detective gone, she should have felt better, but she didn't. He'd be back tomorrow with his wiretap, eavesdropping on conversations.

By the time Gabrielle left for the day, she'felt as if her brain had swelled and her head was about to explode. She didn't know for certain, but she thought she just might be developing a stress fracture at the base of her skull.

The drive home, which normally took Gabrielle ten minutes, was accomplished in five. She darted her blue Toyota pickup in and out of traffic and was never so glad to pull into the one-car garage in the back of her house.

The brick house she'd bought a year ago was small and crammed with bits and pieces of her life. In a bay window facing the street, an enormous black cat stretched amongst peach-colored cushions, too fat and lazy to summon a proper greeting. The sun's rays poured through the multiple panes of glass, spreading cubes of light across the hardwood floor and floral rugs.

The sectional couch and chairs were upholstered in pastel green and peach, while lush plants flourished about the oblong room. A watercolor portrait of a black kitten poised on a wing-backed chair hung over a polished brick fireplace.

When Gabrielle had first laid eyes on the house, she'd fallen in love with it. It, like the previous owners, was old and crafted with the kind of character that could only originate through vintage. The small dining room was fitted with built-in cabinets and led to a kitchen with long cupboards reaching from the floor to the ceiling. She had two bedrooms, one of which she used as her studio.

The pipes groaned. The hardwood floors were cold, and water dripped in the bathroom sink. The toilet ran continually unless she jiggled the handle, and the windows in her bedroom were painted shut. Still, she loved her home both despite its faults and because of them.

Shucking her clothes as she went, Gabrielle headed for her studio. She hurried through the dining room and kitchen, past the little bowls and bottles of essential sunscreen and other oils she'd prepared. By the time she reached the studio door, all she wore was a pair of white bikini panties.

A paint-splattered shirt hung on an easel in the center of the room. Once she'd buttoned it halfway up her chest, she began collecting her supplies.

She knew of only one way to release the demon rage that surrounded her and blackened her aura. She was long past meditation and aromatherapy, and there was only one way to express her anger and inner torment. Only one way to get it out of her system.

She didn't bother to prepare the canvas or sketch an outline first. She didn't bother to thin the heavy oil paint or attempt to lighten the dark colors. She didn't even have a clear idea of what she intended to paint. She just painted. She didn't take the time to carefully calculate each brush stroke, nor did she care that she was making a mess on the drop cloth.

She just painted.

Several hours later, she wasn't surprised to see that the demon in her painting bore a striking resemblance to Joe Shanahan or that the poor little lamb, bound with silver handcuffs, had silky red hair on its head instead of wool.

She took a step back to critically eye the painting. Gabrielle knew she wasn't a great artist. She painted for the love of it, but even she knew this work wasn't her best. The oils had been applied too heavily, and the halo surrounding the lamb's head looked more like a marshmallow. The quality wasn't nearly as good as the other portraits and paintings stacked against the white walls of her studio. And as she'd done with the others, she'd left the painting of hands and feet for another time. She felt lighter of heart, and a smile lifted her cheeks. "I like it," she announced to the empty room, then stabbed her brush into some black paint and added a gruesome set of wings to the demon.