Waking Up to You Overexposed - By Leslie Kelly Page 0,3

in minutes.

Until now.

He lay there in the stillness, blinking, looking up at the ceiling that still didn’t look familiar, though he’d slept beneath it for four months now. A long silent moment stretched out, broken only by the faint far-off howl of a coyote. Coming from L.A., he still hadn’t grown used to the silence up here in Northern California. Sonoma was known for its famous wines, but its landscape was pretty spectacular, with thousands of acres of untamed wilderness. The estate on which he lived sometimes felt like it was in the middle of a deserted island.

Which was exactly the reason he’d come here, chucking his old life and heading north, choosing the wine country both because of his family’s ties to the area and his own love of the region. Being away from the seething mass of humanity in L.A. had sounded like a good way to regroup, regain his sense of self. He also wanted to regain his sense of right and wrong, which had started to slip away as he’d fallen further into the trap of career and ambition. He needed to take a year or so, to drop out of the world, do penance for the wrongs he’d done and to figure out what he was going to do next. One thing was for sure—it wasn’t returning to the Los Angeles County D.A.’s office.

“Been there, done that, never going back,” he whispered. His job as a prosecutor had demoralized him, savaged his optimistic streak and left him with a strong distaste for his chosen profession.

Glancing at his clock and seeing it was almost three, he settled back into his small, lumpy bed, which had come with the furnished cottage. But right before he closed his eyes again, he noted the shadows playing across the ceiling. That’s what had awakened him. Not a noise, a light.

When he’d gone to bed at 1:00 a.m., it had been pitch-black outside. The sky had been overcast for a couple of days, leaving the stars and moon—usually brilliant up here away from the city lights—hidden behind a bank of clouds. He could hear the soft fall of rain now. But there was light coming from somewhere. It was noticeable against the utter blackness, and sifted in through the uncurtained window.

He got up, walked over and looked toward the main house. A warm, golden beacon shone from within, shattering the darkness.

Strange. He didn’t think he’d left a light on, and the house was supposed to be empty. The owner, Buddy Frye, was lying in a hospital waiting to have surgery for his broken hip. Frye lived alone, with Oliver occupying the groundskeeper’s cottage nearby. Nobody else was within a few miles. Oliver had talked to his boss’s daughter earlier, and she’d said she would try to catch a flight from Florida in the next few days. But no way could she have made it this soon. So who was skulking around in the house?

He hadn’t been away from L.A., and his job prosecuting some of the most violent criminals in the country, long enough to assume the visitor was simply a friendly, concerned neighbor. Huh-uh. Buddy was pretty new to the area. He didn’t socialize a lot; much of the community thought he had to be crazy to buy an old ruin of a vineyard estate that had been on the market for three years.

There had been reports in the news lately about break-ins in some of the outlying areas, even some squatters taking advantage of the abandoned foreclosures. And while Buddy didn’t have a lot worth stealing in that glorious old ruin he called a home, no way was Oliver about to let the man get victimized while he was lying helpless in a hospital.

He reached for the jeans he’d taken off a few hours ago. They were crusted with dirt from the long day he’d put in yesterday. He hadn’t even had time to change into something else before racing after the ambulance that had taken his kindly old boss to the emergency room. But hell, if they were good enough for the doctors and nurses at the Sonoma Valley Hospital, they were good enough for Mr. Prowler.

He left his small house, following the illumination. His bare feet slipped in the wet grass, and the cold rain jabbed his chest since he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Passing the toolshed, which stood between his place and the main house, he reached out and snagged a rake. He didn’t want