“I—All right.” Taking out her phone, Cate called up the number, gave it to Michaela.

“If you get another, I need you to inform me.”

“I will. I’m sorry. I’m used to telling Detective Wasserman. I didn’t think past that.”

“No problem. You said your mother’s voice is on some of them?”

“All, actually. Sometimes my voice—from a movie or my voice work.” When her fingers wanted to twist together, Cate stopped them, ordered them to still. “I can tell you it’s amateur work, poor overdubbing, a lot of noise, lousy splicing and editing. Still, they’re effective.”

“Other than these calls, have there been any threats, any attempts to harm you?”

“No, not me. The first year I lived in New York, two men attacked and beat up a boy I was seeing. They used racial slurs, they used my name when they hurt him. Detective Wasserman and—she’s now Lieutenant Riley—investigated the attack, and I told them about the calls. They did what they could.”

“Did they identify and apprehend the assailants?”

“No. Noah, the boy, couldn’t remember what they looked like, wasn’t sure he’d even seen them before they jumped him.”

“All right.” She’d get details from Wasserman. Michaela rose. “I appreciate the time, and the information. I need to follow up with Red.”

“You tell him I’ll be over to see him for myself, see if he’s faking to get a bigger share of pie.”

With a grin for Hugh, Michaela nodded. “He does love his pie.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Cate got up, squeezed her grandfather’s shoulder, then walked with Michaela outside.

“My grandfather’s going to New York in a couple days, to visit Lily, take some meetings. My father’s in London. I think they’re all safer away from here.”

“Do you feel safe here?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’d stopped thinking about it. But this is home now, and I need to stay.”

“Whether I’m right or wrong, I’ll keep you updated.”

“Tell Red . . . tell him we’re thinking about him.”

As Michaela drove away, Cate looked toward the garage, toward the old California bay. One day, she thought, one moment, one innocent game.

How was it that day, that moment, that game never seemed to end?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

She took the walk with Hugh through gardens so happy in spring they seemed to dance, but walked the beach alone to give herself time to think. To let the salty breeze off the Pacific clear her head.

Hide-and-seek, she thought again. Just a game. But then again, she’d done just that ever since. She’d hidden—or been hidden in Ireland. She’d hidden behind the walls of her grandparents’ estate, behind studio security. She’d sought, yes, she had sought, but she’d hidden in the crowds and anonymity of New York.

She’d keep seeking—that was life. But she was done hiding.

She’d told Michaela this was home. She’d meant it.

L.A. would never be home, for so many reasons. New York had been a needed transition, an education, a place to come into her own.

Ireland was, and would always be, a comfort.

But if she stuck a pin on a map to choose a place to plant herself, to be herself, know herself? It would stick right here, here with the sea thrashing on the rocks, rolling green to blue. Here, with the kelp forest of her own pretty beach waving, the magic of seeing a whale sound or a sea otter sleek under the waves.

Here, with the cliffs and the hills, the chaparral and redwoods, the sight of a California condor winging across the wide, wide bowl of the sky, or a peregrine dive out of it.

Here was family—real family—and the chance to create the rest of her life. No one would drag her away from it again, no one could force her to cut and run again.

So she walked back to her house, did what made her happy.

She made bread dough, set it to rise. While it did, she closed herself in her studio to work for an hour, to do what actors did—become someone else for an hour.

She dealt with the dough, set it for a second rising, set her phone alarm to remind her before walking to the main house and enlisting Consuela.

If she was making dinner for a man she’d just slept with, it was going to be a damn good dinner. And that was no time to attempt to make tiramisu for the first time, on her own.

She ended up with a happy hour with Consuela in the guesthouse kitchen with Consuela instructing, approving (or clucking her tongue), and guiding her through a process that didn’t seem nearly as anxiety-ridden as she’d expected.

Consuela nodded (approval) at the loaves of bread cooling on the rack. “You do well making your own. It’s . . .” She paused to think. “Therapeutic. That’s a good word.”

“It is for me.”

“Next time, you make the tiramisu the night before. It’s even better. Now, be sure you set a pretty table. He will bring you flowers.”

“I’m not sure about that. It was a casual invitation.” Before I really woke up, she thought.

Consuela folded her arms. “He will bring you flowers if he is worthy. If they’re short, you put them on your pretty table. If they’re tall, you put them there.”

“I was going to go out and get some.” At Consuela’s fierce stare, Cate felt her shoulders hunch. “But I won’t.”

“Good. When he makes you dinner, you take wine. When you make for him, he brings flowers. It’s correct. You have sex with him?”

“Consuela!”

The housekeeper waved away Cate’s laughing exclamation. “He’s a good man. And muy guapo, sí?”

Cate couldn’t deny Dillon was very handsome. “Sí.”

“So I’ll put clean sheets on your bed, and there you can put your own flowers. Pequeña,” she added, using her hands to indicate small size. “Bonita y fragante. You go cut from the gardens while I change the sheets.”

Experience told Cate that arguing with Consuela wasted time and breath and never resulted in a win. She went out to the gardens with her directive of pretty and fragrant for a small bedroom arrangement.

Baby roses, freesia, some sprigs of rosemary seemed to hit the mark—and met with Consuela’s approval. And Cate pleased her by wrapping a loaf of fresh bread in a cloth and making it a gift of appreciation.

By the time she had her sauce simmering, Cate realized she’d spent the bulk of the day not thinking about the bombshell Michaela had dropped that morning.

So a good day, she decided as she set that pretty table. A good day at home, a good day just being Cate. She put some music on, opened some red wine to let it breathe.

Looking around, she caught herself nodding like Consuela. It made her laugh at herself as she went up to fulfill the housekeeper’s last directive. She needed to change into something pretty, but not fancy, to make herself very attractive, but not too sexy.

She opted for a blue shirt, soft in both color and texture, stone-gray pants that cropped just above the ankle. She added dangles to her ears for pretty, and Darlie’s bracelet for luck.

As she braided her hair—low, loose—she went over the conversation she needed to have with Dillon. The honest, she thought, the practical, and the realistic.