“Brown rice takes ten minutes.” The Chinese woman was as friendly as a viper and just as pretty. If she thought Delilah would change her mind to white rice with her look, she was out of luck.

“That’s ok. I’ll wait.”

Delilah sank onto one of the red plastic chairs near the door. This business trip was her first to San Francisco. As an independent contractor, she normally performed special audits up and down the East Coast and rarely travelled further afield.

When the head office’s regular statistical checks had revealed that certain ratios in the San Francisco branch were off, they’d decided to use somebody who hadn’t had any prior contact with the West Coast staff and hired an outsider. It was smart. Auditors could become too cozy with the staff they were auditing. A regular change of auditors was generally a good idea.

If anybody could find out where the problem was buried, it was Delilah. Her specialty was forensic accounting. It wasn’t quite as exciting as police work, but it was probably the most exciting field in the accounting world, if there was such a thing. An oxymoron to some, but not to her. And besides, she was making a very decent living as an independent consultant.

This investigation should not present itself with too many difficulties. Certain ratios between assets and depreciation were off the charts and suggested that either somebody was completely incompetent or was trying to cheat the company. How, she didn’t know yet, but she would find out soon.

Delilah was tired and knew she needed a good night’s sleep, but she also dreaded going to bed. Some of her old nightmares had come back again and mixed with new ones. She hadn’t had any in a few months, but upon her arrival in San Francisco a few days ago, her bad dreams had started to reappear.

They were normally always the same. The old French farmhouse they’d lived in over twenty years ago when her father had taken a two-year overseas assignment as a visiting professor. The lavender fields surrounding the property. The crib. The silence. And then the faces of her parents. The tears on her mother’s face. The pain.

But this time the dreams had blended into other, more incomprehensible ones.

The Victorian house looked foreboding in the heavy rain. Light came from one of the windows; other than that it was dark. She ran faster and faster. Toward the house, to safety. She didn’t dare look behind her. He was still there, still following her. Hands clamped over her shoulder. Then suddenly her fists pounded into a heavy wooden door. Something gave way. She stumbled forward and fell. Into warmth, softness, safety. Home.

“Mongolian beef, brown rice.” The woman’s voice pierced through the recollection of her dream. Delilah paid her tab and took the food. She stopped dead at the door.

Damn!

It had started raining in earnest. She had left her umbrella in the apartment, thinking she wouldn’t need it today. Instead of opting for her trench coat, she’d only put on a light jacket. Well, that turned out to be a bad choice.

Everybody had told her how unpredictable San Francisco weather could be, and now she would find out for herself. The weather report had indicated no rain until the weekend. Could she sue the weatherman? Probably not.

She had no choice but to brave it. Delilah knew she wasn’t far from the apartment, only about three blocks. Staying close to the buildings, she started running along the sidewalk then made a turn into the next street, and another one a block further. The apartment couldn’t be far now. She looked around, but in the heavy rain she couldn’t recognize anything. Was it another block more?

Her clothes were already soaked, and she would have to jump into the shower to get warm again. Where the hell was she? She turned another corner and found herself on a small side street. It didn’t look familiar at all, but that wasn’t her biggest problem, neither was the relentless rain. The problem was the guy coming toward her. Even though she couldn’t make him out well, she would bet her retirement fund that he wasn’t there to lend her an umbrella.

His imposing frame was silhouetted against the dim light of a streetlamp behind him. The chill of his look seeped into her body as a faint glimmer of light coming from a window appeared on the left side of his face. The scar puckering his skin didn’t inspire confidence.

Delilah turned back to where she came from. Before she was able to take two steps, a hand clamped over her shoulder, jerking her back. The sudden jolt made her lose her balance. She slipped on the wet sidewalk, her legs buckling beneath her. Her food dropped onto the ground as she tried to fight for balance and brace her fall.

The guy’s hand on her shoulder gripped harder as she screamed and tried to shake him off, crashing onto the sidewalk in the process. He bent down to pull her up. She yanked her head around. For the first time she could see his face clearly, clear enough to make an identification if need be. He was Caucasian and in his forties. Violence, and the intention to unleash it on her, was clearly written on his face.