aside. Leaf-carved sunlight spilled across his hands. The avocado tree was densely branched, most of them small, none of them easily reachable. Clusters of dark fruit swung, and he remembered that when they fell the backyard smelled like a Mexican restaurant.
Daniel jerked a bath towel from a hook and wrapped it around the computer, then leaned out the window to drop it to the grass. It landed with a thump, and he winced, partly for the computer and partly for himself, then tossed the moisturizer, put one foot on the ledge, and ducked through the window frame. Behind him he heard the yelling grow suddenly louder, and then pounding footsteps, the horse-hoof sound of men running. Well, this should be fun.
He leapt into the tree.
Vertigo only had him for a moment before he felt the leaves slapping at him, the thin branches whipping his face and hands. He squinted as much as he could, kept his arms out and swinging. The air that rushed by was cool and sweet. He could smell the ocean, taste the bitter leaves. Then his hand hit something, and he grabbed, got it, slowed himself, lost it. Tilted back, arms wobbling and flinging wild, panic hitting as his forward vector gave way to gravity, and down he fell, ripping through in a maelstrom of green leaves and blue sky and blinding sun. The ground met him hard, right on his ass.
The suddenness of the pain, the sheer physicality of it brought tears to his eyes, little kid tears for a little kid injury, but he didn’t have time. He snatched up the computer and the moisturizer and limped along the wall of the house, ducking beneath the windows.
As he hauled himself over the fence, he could hear the cops inside the house, yelling to one another that a room was clear. His breath was shallow and his heart was racing and pain ran up and down his spine in pulses as he snuck away from his own home like a thief.
For all that, he wanted to laugh, wanted to yell and dance. Through the looking glass? Down the rabbit hole?
Oh, hell yes.
“W
hat are we doing today?” The woman—she’d said her name was Sherri—hid bad skin under a thick layer of makeup.
Her hair was elaborately fried.
“I want a change.” Daniel met her eyes in the mirror. “Big or little?”
“Go nuts.”
The stylist smiled and led him to the shampoo bowl. After he’d made it back to his car, the urge to go through the laptop right there had been damn near irresistible. But the police would be after him, and he had to deal with that.
Apparently you’re a writer. Television, but still. Used to figuring out the intricacies of plot, of anticipating your characters’ next moves. So what would your move be if you were making this up?
Which was how he’d ended up in this hair salon in Santa Monica, sitting still for damn near two hours. Thinking, I’m married. My name is Daniel Hayes and I’m a successful writer married to a gorgeous actress and we’re in love and have a house in Malibu and a perfect life.
And: If that’s true, why are the police chasing you from one end of the country to the other? Why did you try to kill yourself in Maine? Why on the beach where you got married? Where’s your wedding ring? Hell, where’s your wife?
Meanwhile, Sherri went at his hair like it had stolen her parking spot. She scissored and razor-cut and twisted foils and dabbed coloring. Under her ministrations, his affable, longish brown hair vanished, replaced by a rakish faux-hawk, sandy with blond highlights, gelled and twisted and pointed different directions. He didn’t look like a movie star, but his hair sure did.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t recognize myself.”
“That was the point, right?”
Down the block the smell of tomato sauce from a restaurant
tightened his stomach, but he walked past to the tanning salon on the other side. A bell on the door jingled as he stepped in. “Do you guys have that spray stuff?”
They did.
Next was clothing. A squirrel-cheeked girl told him they’d be closing in fifteen
Daniel jerked a bath towel from a hook and wrapped it around the computer, then leaned out the window to drop it to the grass. It landed with a thump, and he winced, partly for the computer and partly for himself, then tossed the moisturizer, put one foot on the ledge, and ducked through the window frame. Behind him he heard the yelling grow suddenly louder, and then pounding footsteps, the horse-hoof sound of men running. Well, this should be fun.
He leapt into the tree.
Vertigo only had him for a moment before he felt the leaves slapping at him, the thin branches whipping his face and hands. He squinted as much as he could, kept his arms out and swinging. The air that rushed by was cool and sweet. He could smell the ocean, taste the bitter leaves. Then his hand hit something, and he grabbed, got it, slowed himself, lost it. Tilted back, arms wobbling and flinging wild, panic hitting as his forward vector gave way to gravity, and down he fell, ripping through in a maelstrom of green leaves and blue sky and blinding sun. The ground met him hard, right on his ass.
The suddenness of the pain, the sheer physicality of it brought tears to his eyes, little kid tears for a little kid injury, but he didn’t have time. He snatched up the computer and the moisturizer and limped along the wall of the house, ducking beneath the windows.
As he hauled himself over the fence, he could hear the cops inside the house, yelling to one another that a room was clear. His breath was shallow and his heart was racing and pain ran up and down his spine in pulses as he snuck away from his own home like a thief.
For all that, he wanted to laugh, wanted to yell and dance. Through the looking glass? Down the rabbit hole?
Oh, hell yes.
“W
hat are we doing today?” The woman—she’d said her name was Sherri—hid bad skin under a thick layer of makeup.
Her hair was elaborately fried.
“I want a change.” Daniel met her eyes in the mirror. “Big or little?”
“Go nuts.”
The stylist smiled and led him to the shampoo bowl. After he’d made it back to his car, the urge to go through the laptop right there had been damn near irresistible. But the police would be after him, and he had to deal with that.
Apparently you’re a writer. Television, but still. Used to figuring out the intricacies of plot, of anticipating your characters’ next moves. So what would your move be if you were making this up?
Which was how he’d ended up in this hair salon in Santa Monica, sitting still for damn near two hours. Thinking, I’m married. My name is Daniel Hayes and I’m a successful writer married to a gorgeous actress and we’re in love and have a house in Malibu and a perfect life.
And: If that’s true, why are the police chasing you from one end of the country to the other? Why did you try to kill yourself in Maine? Why on the beach where you got married? Where’s your wedding ring? Hell, where’s your wife?
Meanwhile, Sherri went at his hair like it had stolen her parking spot. She scissored and razor-cut and twisted foils and dabbed coloring. Under her ministrations, his affable, longish brown hair vanished, replaced by a rakish faux-hawk, sandy with blond highlights, gelled and twisted and pointed different directions. He didn’t look like a movie star, but his hair sure did.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t recognize myself.”
“That was the point, right?”
Down the block the smell of tomato sauce from a restaurant
tightened his stomach, but he walked past to the tanning salon on the other side. A bell on the door jingled as he stepped in. “Do you guys have that spray stuff?”
They did.
Next was clothing. A squirrel-cheeked girl told him they’d be closing in fifteen
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