She didn't argue.

Outside, the afternoon felt heavy and damp. Rush hour was in full swing, and exhaust rode the salt-air cocktail coming off the harbor. Though it was May, the city already smelled like summer.

Emma and I walked side by side down the ramp. Before parting, she hesitated, then opened her lips to speak. I thought she was going to explain the phone call. Instead, she wished me a pleasant weekend, and trudged off down the sidewalk.

The car was an oven. Lowering the windows, I popped in a Sam Fisher CD. People Living. Melancholy. Volatile. A perfect fit for my mood.

Crossing the Cooper River, I could see thunderheads elbowing for position on the eastern horizon. A storm was gathering. I decided on a quick stop at Simmons's Seafood, then dinner chez moi.

The store was deserted. Steel cases offered the remains of the day's catch on crushed ice.

Every cell in my hypothalamus sat up at the sight of the swordfish.

So did the conscience guys. Overfishing! Population decline! Noncompliance!

Fine. Wasn't swordfish supposed to be mercury-laden, anyway?

I looked at the mahimahi.

No protest from the bully pulpit in my forebrain.

As usual, I dined al fresco, watching nature perform a light show in three acts. I imagined the playbill.

Scene I, sunlight dissolves and night slowly edges out day. Scene II, veined lightning sparks a fandango in black-green clouds. Scene III, fade to gray as rain pounds the dunes and wind thrashes the palms.

I slept like a baby.

And awoke to sun lighting the blinds. And banging.

I sat up, trying to pinpoint the noise. Had one of the hurricane shutters torn loose in the storm? Was someone in the house?

I looked at the clock. Eight forty.

Slipping on a robe, I tiptoed to the stairs, descended three treads, and crouched so I could see the front door. A head and shoulders were silhouetted in the frosted oval window.