Malibu slept all day, waking up just after five in the evening. Of course, the first thing that came to mind was Vic’s bizarre story. It hadn’t been a dream—it had actually occurred—but it had a dreamlike quality in that the longer she was awake, the more the memory of the experience drifted from her mind, until she could barely recall the particulars at all. Besides, maybe it was better to leave the past in the past. Or at least compartmentalize it. Malibu pictured herself gathering up the memory, dropping it inside a large box, and clamping a lid shut.
Her mind shifted to a more prosaic topic—getting paid for burning the cottage. Max had told her, “Come to madam’s home and she will compensate you,” but no concrete timetable had been established. Malibu couldn’t call Max and make arrange
