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deep breath and then released it again, slowly. She thought of each light as representing a family, or, at the very least, a life in progress. If some part of her felt just the slightest bit sad because there was no one at her side to share this with, to slip his arm around her shoulders and pull him close to her, she refused to acknowledge it.
    She’d never been one to dwell on the negative.
    The positive side was that she had this and it was hers to enjoy.
    Her eyes were drawn to the red light.
    The flashing light reflected in the window was almost hypnotic. She stared at it for a few seconds, watching it pulse, before she realized that the light was coming from behind her rather than from some dwelling below.
    Turning, she saw that the red light on her answering machine was blinking rhythmically like the eye of an asymmetric cyclops.
    The sight pulled her back into the real world.
    The sigh escaped her lips before she was completely conscious that the sound had come from her. She really was very tired.
    Dutifully, she went over to the telephone on the counter that separated the living room from the alcove that was her den. Elisha stared down at the answering machine for a long moment.
    Ordinarily, she would press the button that enabled her to retrieve her messages. But it had been a very long day. She didn’t want to make it even longer. So rather than play the messages that she was way too tired to attempt to listen to and digest, she repeatedly pressed a button on the center of the receiver. The action yielded the telephone numbers that her caller ID had registered. She knew that if there was a message from Sinclair or from one of a handful of other writers who were considered hot properties she was going to have to answer it.
    Like it or not, panic or a minor crisis would be involved, both of which she would have to handle because that was her job.
    Scanning the numbers, she breathed a sigh of relief. From the looks of it, a total of three calls had come in while she was attending the book party. Two were labeled “out of area,” which, more than likely, meant they had either come from telemarketers or one of her credit-card companies, hoping to convince her that they were offering her a deal she couldn’t refuse.
    The one that came between the two “out of area” calls had an area code she was familiar with and a phone number she knew by heart.
    Henry.
    She knew for a fact that she had mentioned the book party tonight because she’d invited him to come along. Her younger brother must have forgotten. That was so like Henry. A thousand things on his mind and he could only keep track of nine hundred and fifty.
    Henry and the girls were the only family she had, now that both her parents were gone. Her brother was undoubtedly calling to invite her over for dinner the way he did at least once a month. Ever since his wife, Rachel, had died. In the beginning, she’d invited Henry and the girls over to her apartment, but for her, cooking meant opening a frozen package and sticking it into the microwave. And Henry didn’t particularly like eating in restaurants.
    So they had begun taking meals at his place. Henry did the cooking. Henry did everything he set his mind to. He always had.
    She was proud of the way he’d soldiered on these last five years, never missing a beat. Not that he had much choice in the matter, really. He had two daughters to raise, Andrea and Beth. Andrea was fifteen and Beth was ten. And both were a handful in their own way. Between seeing to their needs and his job, Henry was left with very little time to spend on self-pity.
    Still, she knew other men might have folded under the stress. Not Henry. He overcame every obstacle. Her brother was one of the good ones and, although he was four years younger than she was, he was one of her heroes.
    Not that she would ever tell him.
    She looked at the urgent blinking light again and shook her head.
    â€œSorry, Henry,