Cast the First Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 1)

The kitchen is as I left it, twenty-two years ago, with last night’s containers in the trash. Chou’s take out—how I loved their Kung Pao Chicken. I walk over and open the fridge. Mostly empty save for a half of a six pack of Coke, a corked bottle of Cabernet, and a piece of blueberry pie from Betty’s Bodacious Bakery down the street.

My stomach roars and I take out the foam container, pour myself a half glass of the wine and let myself sink into the tangy sweetness of Betty’s fantastic pie, well missed.

I lick out the container, and love every minute of it. Taking my wine out to the front room, I stare down at the street.

Rain has started to fall, a patter on the windows, hazing the street lamps, a rhythmic beat that presses the fatigue further into my bones.

Yeah, maybe it’s time to sleep. To wake up, roll over and pull Eve into my arms, press my lips against her skin, inhale. Today she was beautiful and young and everything I remembered about the woman I love and I’m suddenly hungry for her.

If I had my car, I might even drive by that old bungalow on Webster. Because a guy can be a stalker in a dream and not call it creepy.

I finish the wine, set the glass in the sink, and head to my bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt, pulling off my dress pants. I stand in front of the mirror a second.

Flex.

Oh, I miss this body.

I climb into bed, thunder rolling over me, a slash of light from the storm breaking the dark veneer of the room. But I close my eyes.

Sink into my pillow. Because it’s been a good, very good dream. A reminder of the way my world was with Eve before the cracks appeared.

I swear I’m only out for moments, when I hear the banging.

It beats with the hammer in my head.

“Rem!”

I know the voice, and in the cling of slumber I wonder what Burke is doing here, at my house at this ungodly hour. But even as I roll over, flinging an arm over my eyes, I can see the dent of light, the graying of morning.

I pat the bed. Eve is up and has been for a while because the sheets are cold from her absence.

“Rem!” He bangs on the door three more times. I sit up—which turns out to be a bad move because my entire brain shifts in my head like sloshing water.

“Coming!”

I groan because my head really hurts. I scrub a hand down my face, then open my eyes.

Everything inside me goes cold.

I’m not in my bedroom, the sun cascading through a stained-glass transom at the head of my bed. Eve is not standing at the doorway, yelling at Burke to let me sleep in, and Ashley is not pushing past her to bounce in, pounce on me, her hands finding my face for a good morning smooch.

I stumble across the bedroom floor, then to the front door of the apartment and pull it open.

It’s just Burke, standing there in a puddle of early morning light, sliding in across my tiny apartment living room. Young, with hair, that stupid soul patch, and he looks a little like he’s going to hit me, something gnarled and dark in his expression.

“What—what are you doing here?”

“How did you know?”

“Know what—?”

He strides past me then whirls around. “Get ready. We gotta roll.”

I press my palm to my temple, head still feeling thick as tar. C’mon, I had a half a glass of wine, for Pete’s sake.

And that was yesterday, in my dream.

Except…