I'm staring at the phone.

"What?"

"I know what you did," Max says again.

"What? You know what I . . . what do you mean?" My mind is still half tangled in the dream. "Where did you go?"

A dream. That was just a dream. There was no limo, no Max who disappeared, no Vincenzo with a gun pointed at my head. No Gino telling me he knew what I did.

Just Max. On the phone.

"Who the hell is Brad?" Max demands, his voice as cold as Vincenzo's eyes.

"Why are you asking me about Brad?" I ask, my mind finally clearing. "It's none of your business who Brad is."

"Oh, I'll make it my business. What were you doing out with that guy tonight? Who is he?"

"I was on a date," I say, matching Max's cold tone with my own. "Not that it's any of your business who I go out with."

I can hear loud music, people's voices in the background. I look at my watch - it's 2:00 a.m.

"Are you out at a club?"

"I own a club."

"But you're out with Gabe and Martina tonight. At someone else's club."

"That's right. It's business. And your friend Martina just mentioned to me that you are out on a date. With some guy named Brad."

"I was out on a date with a man named Brad. Not that it's any of your business," I repeat. "Right now I'm at home in bed and you just woke me up."

The silence is so cold my hand gripping the phone turns to ice.

"Is he there with you? Did you sleep with him?"

Now I'm getting seriously angry.

"Who the hell are you to ask who I slept with? I'll sleep with whoever I want. We're not together anymore, Max." I pause. "How did you find out? Are you having me followed?"

"Martina told me a few minutes ago."

Right. He just said that. I'm so flustered, I'm not thinking straight.

"Well thank you to Martina," I say sarcastically. And I'm wondering, why would she do that?

I take a deep breath. "It was just a date, Max. A first date. Dinner. I'm not in the habit of having sex with guys on the first date, and I certainly am not bringing men home to my grandparents' house to have sex with them."

"I could have had you on the first date," Max says, and I hear a slight easing of the tension in his voice.

"That's just because I was drunk," I lie, remembering that first night at the club when I'd gladly have slept with him, done anything he wanted, but instead he'd tucked me into bed and fed me breakfast.

"No, it's not."

"What difference does that make?" I run my fingers through my hair, feel the beginnings of a tension headache. "You made the decision not to be together anymore. You told me to see other people. That you were doing the same. And now you're jealous."

"Of course I'm jealous," he says in that same cool tone. "I'm in love with you. But that's not what this is about."

"Oh really? Then what is this about?"

"It's about your safety. I promised to protect you, and I can't do that if you're going to put yourself in danger by going out with random men, and not giving me a chance to vet them first."

"To vet them?" I have to force myself to keep from shouting at him. I don't want my grandparents to overhear this. I assume they are in bed by now, just down the hall.

"What are you going to do, run a background check on every man I decide to go out with."

"I'll do a lot more than that," Max says, his voice menacing.

"Really. Well suppose I don't like the idea of you screening my dates, Max. I don't want you in my life anymore." I sigh, soften my voice. "I don't want you in my life because it hurts too much."

His voice gentles. "I don't want to hurt you, Hadley. I just want to keep you safe."

"Safe from Brad?" The image of soft-spoken kind-of-nerdy Brad the travel writer being dangerous is almost laughable.

"Yes, from this Brad and any other guy you decided to date. He could be one of Gino's men. Or have been sent by a rival of Gino's. Have you forgotten that you were assaulted in a bathroom in New York? That a man tried to force you into a car here in Miami?"

"That was the FBI," I remind him.

"Brad could be the fucking FBI. How the hell would you know who he is? Are you out of your mind taking a stupid risk like this?"

"For God's sake, Max. He's just a guy I met at the gym, that's all."

"That's all. Some random guy hits on you at the gym and you're happy to get in his car and go anywhere with him."

"Okay, first of all, I did not get in his car. I met him at the restaurant. I drove my own car. And after dinner he walked me to my car, and I drove home. Plus, it wasn't like that. Brad didn't hit on me. We talked a couple of times at the juice bar after working out, and he's just a nice guy. When he asked me to dinner, I said yes."

I'm not sure why I'm explaining all this to Max. He doesn't own me.

"Did he kiss you, Hadley? Did he put his hands on you?"

A mixture of guilt and anger washes over me.

Anger wins.

"You need to stop this right now, Max. I'm hanging up."

"You know better than to hang up on me. I'll just drive over there, and embarrass you in front of your grandfather. When I tell Andrew about the incident in the club in New York, he'll agree with me that you're being naive. And taking an unnecessary risk."

"By living my life?"

"By going out with someone who hasn't been checked out. Now if you want this conversation to be over, give me Brad's full name and all the details you know about him. And don't see him again until I give you the green flag."

"I don't think this is about my safety at all. It's about you being jealous at the thought of me with another man."

"It can be both, Hadley. But your safety is the most important thing. So start talking."

I give in and tell him Brad's full name, his occupation, whatever information I can remember from what he told me about where he grew up, his family. And I realize he told me quite a lot over our casual conversations in the juice bar, and at dinner tonight.

Hopefully it's enough information to satisfy Max.

Even though I don't believe for minute that Max sees Brad as some kind of threat. He doesn't like me going out with someone else and, remembering how I felt when I thought he was having sex with Angelica, I guess I get it.

Knowing that it doesn't make sense for Max and me to be together doesn't stop me from wanting him.

It doesn't stop me from hating the idea of him being with someone else.

* * *

Between the nightmare Max interrupted and my conversation with him, I have a hard time falling back to sleep. Once I finally do get to sleep, I don't wake up until almost 9:00 a.m., which is unusual for me.

I go downstairs and find my grandparents out on the back terrace, my grandmother wearing a big straw hat while she tends to her gardening, and my grandfather is sitting at one of the small tables reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.

They look so . . . content.

My plan is just to retreat quietly back inside, but my grandmother looks up and sees me.

"Laura! Come on out and join us."

"Good morning," I say to both of them. "I guess I overslept a bit this morning."

"Nonsense," Patricia says. "It's the weekend."

I notice that she glances over at my grandfather, and he nods his head, confirming that yes, it is the weekend.

And I have a new appreciation for how lost she'd be without him. He's right. If she were moved to one of those memory care facilities, away from her home and Andrew and everything else familiar to her, I imagine she would just fade away.

I'm no longer angry at him for being deceptive when he convinced me to move to Miami. When two people have shared a love like theirs for almost half a century, there's probably not much they wouldn't do for each other.

"Young people are supposed to stay up late and sleep in on the weekends," she continues, smiling at Andrew like her mind is suddenly filled with memories of all the fun things they did together when they were young. I remind myself that she was only 18 when they got married.

"Can I help you with the flowers?" I ask her.

"No, I'm done here." She smiles brightly. "Instead, why don't we go inside and I'll make you your favorite breakfast."

"You don't have to do that," I say, with a helpless look at my grandfather. Can she even use the stove? Is it a risk that she'll forget what she's doing and burn herself?

"Nonsense. I'm happy to." She stands up, taking off her gardening gloves, and brushing some flower petals from her slacks, and the three of us go into the kitchen together.

Andrew stays close by her when she's at the stove, joking about being her sous-chef, and assembling ingredients for her.

She makes breakfast for all three of us, even though I imagine she and my grandfather - habitual early risers - already had breakfast several hours ago. If they did, she doesn't remember.

When she sets my plate down in front of me, I can barely suppress a squeal of delight. I'd forgotten. My mother made this same breakfast for me so many times when I was little, and I'd somehow forgotten. And I never knew it was her favorite as well when she was growing up.

It's two slices of bread, each with a round hole in the middle that she made with a biscuit cutter, and in each hole is an egg, with the yolk intact. She fried it on the stove, and flipped it once, gently, so the yolk didn't break. On the side are little circular hash browns the size of coins, baked in the oven from a bag in the freezer. And a dish of fresh strawberries for a nod to "healthy."

"It's my favorite!" I tell her as she carefully transfers the bread and eggs to the other two plates, and my grandfather adds the potatoes from the baking sheet that's now cooling on a wire rack.

"Of course it is, dear," she says, smiling indulgently, "that's why I made it."

And I get this surprising lump in my throat as I'm flooded with a sense of love that spans generations. From my grandmother to my mother to me. I've never had this multi-generational connection before, and it feels nice. For a moment I imagine my own future child sitting at this same table, eating "egg in a hole" like we are now.

The thought also brings me sadness. My mother has been gone most of my life, and by the time I have a child sometime in the future, it's likely my grandmother will be gone as well. Dementia is a terminal illness, and there is no cure.

I notice my grandfather watching me, and I push those thoughts out of my mind and dig into my breakfast. My grandmother's delight as I finish every bite is just so sweet.

The effort of working in the garden and making breakfast has worn her out, and she soon goes upstairs with my grandfather to lie down for a while, leaving me to sit with my thoughts.

There's work on my desk at the office, but nothing so urgent that I have to go in over the weekend, so I decide instead to go to the gym and get in a workout. Maybe give Martina a call and see if she wants to meet me there, if she doesn't already have plans with Gabe.

Then I remember the tentative plans for lunch with Angelica, and check my phone for a reply to my text.

Nothing.

I'm also a little surprised I haven't heard from Brad to confirm plans to see each other again later this week.

I text Martina, and she says she just woke up and is hungover from last night, but will text me later. That's right. She and Gabe were out at a club with Max when he called me and woke me up sometime after 2:00 in the morning.

I get dressed for the gym and bring a change of clothes. I'll try calling Angelica after my workout and see if she still wants to meet up. I'm curious why she wants to have lunch with me, and it's frustrating that she's the one who contacted me and asked if we could meet, and now I can't reach her.

Once I get to the gym, I try to put everything else out of my mind and just concentrate on my workout. Brad isn't here, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

Probably more relieved. I had a nice time with him at dinner, and the kiss had . . . definite potential. But at the same time, I feel like I'm not ready to move on.

When I finish my workout - plus a killer spin class that leaves my legs trembling and my lungs burning - I call Angelica. There's no reason for me to shower and change here, if I'm just going back home afterwards.

The phone rings a few times, and then someone picks up, but it's not Angelica.

"Hello?" says a male voice. "Who is this?"

Max.

He pauses. "Hadley?"

"Yes, um, Max? I thought I was calling Angelica's number."

"This is her phone. How did you get her number?"

He sounds strange. Not angry so much as . . . worried, maybe? Definitely frustrated and impatient.

"Hadley?" he prompts.

"She gave it to me. We're supposed to have lunch today."

"Have you spoken with her today?"

"No, she didn't text me back. Max, what's the matter?

"What's the matter," Max says, "is she's missing."