She gave me her address and I got her into the car along with the bag of prescriptions she had, driving a little more slowly because of the rain. We eventually arrived at a blue camelback shotgun in Gentilly, set back from the road a bit. We made it to the porch and I peered around the neighborhood while Simone unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Quiet place from the look of it.

Once inside, we both sort of paused, and she laughed. First time I'd heard her do that and it relieved me; things couldn't be too bad if Simone could chuckle.

"Let me get us a few towels," she murmured. "I have a couple of menus in the kitchen if you want to consider what to order."

I nodded, my attention on the living room. Comfortable neutral sofas, but the throw pillows were works of art done in flashy fabrics and patterns. Looked home-made. I was also drawn to the photos on the lowboy, well-aware I might not get a second chance to see them.

One was a snapshot of a showgirl all right, fancy spangles and mile-long legs. I judged it to be from the Sixties from the look of the Las Vegas background. Simone sure had her mother's coloring but not the height. Next photo was of a trio of folks, and the middle one was Simone, who was probably about twelve in it. A hint of braces and long braids while her mother looked elegant in a fancy dress. The man with them . . . was Frank Sinatra.

"He was okay." I turned and saw Simone looking at me and felt guilty, but she handed me a towel. "People ask me and the truth is, he wasn't particularly good with kids. He liked me because of mom, and because I told him he should do a Christmas album."

"Good advice."

Simone smiled briefly. "We got free copies of the first pressing."

I took the towel and did a quick pass over my head and shoulders, leaving it draped there. "Probably worth a good bit now."

"Yeah." She shrugged. "If you need to go . . ."

"Said I was going to make sure you ate," I reminded her. "And I keep my word."

She looked down and sighed. "Okay, menus are this way."

I followed her into the kitchen and the first thing that struck me was how neat it was. Nothing out of place—hell, nothing out period. No coffeemaker or toaster or knife block. I didn't even see dishtowels, which set off little alarm bells in the back of my head. Simone tugged open a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of paper—folded carryout menus.

"I like the orange chicken from Wonton William's," she told me as she handed the pages over, "but the China Castle has some pretty good appetizers."

"Whatever you want," I told her lightly. "I'm payin'."

"Dwaaayne," she looked at me mulishly, but I shook my head. Moving slowly, I took a hold of the refrigerator handle and opened it, peering inside. Two bottled waters, and a mesh bag or oranges were the only things in there in the empty whiteness. I'd had my suspicions but the reality stunned me.

Straightening up, I opened a random cupboard to find precisely three cups. Most of the others were full of books. A little more desperately I checked the lower cabinets, looking for pots, pans, appliances . . . any sense of normality.

All empty.

When I turned to Simone, she was rose-faced, biting her lips. "Umm, as I told you. I don't-"

"Cook," I finished numbly. "Dear God, Simone this is-"

"Pathetic?" she supplied in a self-mocking tone. "Crazy even? Yes well I don't remember inviting you to go prying around and I now I don't really have much of an appetite, Agent Pride." Her voice trembled a little, and I realized how badly I'd blundered here.

I took a step back. "I'm sorry," I murmured quietly. "You're right. I got nosy and there was absolutely no call for me to do what I did. You've got every right to smack me on the nose with a rolled up newspaper at this point."

A tiny corner of her mouth went up, but the rest of her expression was still sad. It hit me then, how badly I'd violated her privacy. I looked at the floor. "I'm an idiot more often than I should be, Simone and I apologize."

I heard her sigh and risked looking up; she reached for the towel around my neck and pulled it off. "Thank you," Simone told me, "for acknowledging it anyway. I grew up . . . backstage. And one thing you don't do there is cook. You sew; you play cards; you read or apply makeup but you don't risk sets and costumes with open flames. So my mother didn't learn to cook and I didn't either. There were always buffets and casino restaurants around so food wasn't an issue, Dwayne. I've lived most of my life this way."

"I see." And I did, actually. Never thought about what it must have been like, but hearing her words made it a whole lot clearer.

"And now after all this time . . . I'd look like an idiot, enrolling in some Home Ec course," she continued ruefully. "A middle aged woman amid teenage girls. On the whole it would be easier to just keep doing what I do."

"I don't think anyone teaches Home Ec anymore," I told her. "You'd need to go to culinary school, or . . ." I trailed off as the idea dawned on me.

Simone caught on as well. "Or someone could teach me?" She laughed. "Not likely."

"Hold on—I could do it," I found myself volunteering.

The look Simone gave me was hard to define; astonished, skeptical, and amused all tinged with wariness. It reminded me of certain cases, certain women who've been battered and had just been offered a chance of escape.

"Why?" She finally asked.

A hundred different responses rose up on the tip of my tongue, most of them glib, but I went for the most honest response I could; I owed her that. "Because you want to learn," I told Simone. "I can see it in your face."

"Yes," she agreed, slowly, "but I meant, why you? I'm sure you've got better things to do than take the time to teach me something like this."

I thought about that, flipping through the menus for a moment. "Well, I'm pretty good at it, for starters. Haven't poisoned anyone yet."

That got a smile as she leaned back against the counter. "Given that last meal . . . I divided the leftovers out so I could make it last. Three great lunches."

Genuine praise; it made me blush, and I grinned. "Thank you kindly but you've got the potential to do it too. I know you do."

"More faith than fact," she countered, her expression going a little sober now. "But I don't want to be a charity project. I don't want to be pitied, Dwayne. You may be a Pride but I've got some of my own."

I nodded slowly. "I understand. No rush to make a decision anyway, unless it's about what you want to order here."

We settled on the orange chicken, rice and some mixed vegetable dish, and while we waited I asked her for a tour of the place. Not a bad little house all told. The guest room turned out to hold a sewing machine and I spotted a dressmaker's dummy in the corner so sewing clearly wasn't just a hobby here and I said so.

"I do all right," she shrugged. "Don't have the patience or talent to make a living at it, but I do make most of my own clothes."

"It's a handy skill," I agreed. "Maybe we should trade off."

"You want to learn to sew?" she giggled, and I was a little charmed by that.

"Well no, not particularly, but you're probably good at a few other things, right?"

"Huh," she mused, and just then the doorbell rang. I followed her back out to the living room and intercepted Simone's attempt to pay; she gave me an exasperated look but I'm immune to those; Laurel's training mostly.

We settled in around the coffee table and got everything distributed before she spoke again. "Well, not sure what else you might be interested in. I can show you how to parade across a stage and pose dramatically, I can give you basics on how to tap dance or belly dance, and do some simple magic tricks, or play nearly every variation of poker."

"Is that a fact?" I grinned "More backstage training?"

"Growing up on the Vegas Strip training," Simone countered. "Also, I can teach you how to keep a phone sex conversation going but I'm pretty sure that's not quite what you'd consider a skill."

I fumbled my chopsticks, feeling my face heat up. "What?"

"Summer job," she told me, looking pink herself. "Paid better than being a blackjack dealer. Sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm not always . . . good at conversation."

"It's all right," I assured her, still slightly stunned, "although you are certainly full of surprises."

"Maybe," Simone stifled a yawn and I realized she probably needed rest, so when we'd finished eating I helped box the leftovers and let her show me out to the porch.

"Thank you," she told me, nervously stroking her good hand over her cast. "I appreciate the help and the food, Dwayne. And the offer, silly as it is."

"It's not silly and it's still open," I assured her. "Think it over because I'm serious. Get some sleep now, and heal up, all right?"

She nodded and smiled; man it was a great smile. I waved and got in my car and drove off, feeling a little strange . . . but in a good way.

About halfway home I got a call from Loretta. "Yeah?"

"Dwayne, I'm looking at Simone's records from her ER visit," she began quietly. "There's a notation on the X-ray that states her arm's been broken before—at least twice, as well as her wrist."