It's late afternoon and I luck out by hitting the freeways in that all too brief period between the lunch crowd exiting Mission Valley and the downtown commuters heading home. Under these conditions, Mission Beach is only a twenty minute drive from Frey's condo. I make it in fifteen.

I've lived in Mission Beach most of my life. The community is an eclectic mix of old, new, and no money. The differences are reflected in the architecture, and nowhere is that more obvious than where I live. Isthmus Court is bordered on one side by the boardwalk that runs along the beach and on the other by Mission Beach's main thoroughfare, Mission Boulevard. My cottage, a gift from my grandparents, was the only original bungalow on the block - until it burned to the ground three months ago. My neighbor lives in the type of monstrosity that new money seems to love - a big stucco box that rises three stories on its tiny lot. When I decided to rebuild, I used his architect. I was in a hurry to get going, I wanted my home back, and though I wasn't sure how it would work out, the guy surprised me. It turns out that he hates the cookie-cutter look of the new stuff as much as I do. He was delighted to do something different.

So here I am, approaching the newly fenced yard surrounding my place. To my neighbor's great disappointment, the only concession I made in the rebuild was to add a second story master bedroom with a wrap around deck. Otherwise, the red clapboard cottage retains all the simple charm of the original. And the house is small enough that I have a front yard and a patio in back. A rarity in this neighborhood.

I glance at my watch. It's almost four and there are no workmen in sight. They've no doubt left for the day. I use my key and step inside.

The place smells of new paint and freshly sawed wood. A glance around the living room confirms that the floorboards are finished. The polished oak floors gleam in the late afternoon sun. I retained the Craftsman touches of the old place, too, built in bookcases, wood framed windows.

In the kitchen, the cupboards are hung. The pungent odor of stained wood fills the air. I get a thrill when I see the contractor's note on counter. "All done, Ms. Strong," it reads. "Welcome home."

I find myself smiling until the reason I'm here reasserts itself in my head. If someone is trespassing I'll damn well find out. I'm not going to lose my home again.

It's time to check upstairs. I leave my handbag on a kitchen counter and go on up. It's carpeted here and I detect different odors - glue, paint, wool. Something else. It stops me dead at the doorway, tenses my muscles, and raises the hair on the back of my neck.

It's nothing I can see. The room is empty. But there are footprints on the carpet. Not the prints of work boots. Bare feet.

And the smell is the must of unwashed hair and skin.

The footprints track across the carpet and out the sliding glass doors to the deck. There are no curtains up yet so I have a clear view outside. There's no one out there. But the door is unlocked and when I lean over the railing, I realize how easy it would be for someone to climb down onto the garage roof below and jump to the ground - especially if they're in a hurry to get out. The back leads to an alley. An easy, convenient escape route.

I'm wondering how I can remedy that when a small movement catches the corner of my eye. It's a reflection in the side window of the garage, fleeting, like a cloud passing over the sun. But it's enough. Perhaps my barefoot intruder hasn't left after all.

I lock the door to the deck and move quickly outside. There are no windows facing the rear of the house from the garage so it's not hard to sneak around to the front. I haven't installed the security code on the garage door yet since I haven't been using it. When I hit the open mode and the door slides up, someone small and blonde dashes around me, racing for the alley.

But quick as she is, I'm quicker. I reach an arm around her waist and whirl her around.

My brother's eyes, big with alarm and panic, flash up at me.

It's so disorienting, I almost let her go.

Almost.

Trish struggles, but she's no match for my strength. I hold her against my chest, saying nothing, waiting for her to calm down.

At last she does. The energy drains from her like water down a pipe. She sags against me, resigned. After a long moment, she draws herself up and pulls back.

I let her go, dropping my hands from her shoulders, but staying close enough to thwart another escape attempt. She's small boned and fragile, wearing jeans that sag around her hips and an oversized sweatshirt. Her hair is loose around her face, dirty and uncombed. Her nails are unpolished, bitten to the quick.

She blows out a breath and swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. But she doesn't look up at me. "You know who I am?"

"Yes."

Again, the quick intake of breath, the forceful exhalation. This time, though, she squares her shoulders and those luminous eyes meet mine. "Are you going to take me back?"

I know what I should say. I know what I should do. But something in this girl's quiet desperation sounds an alarm that pushes all those rational responses out of my head. I rack my brain for something that would put a teenager at ease. I can only come up with a lame, "Are you hungry? We could go down the street to the Mission for something to eat."

She starts to nod, but the gesture turns into a shrug. "Ryan is getting food. He'll be back in a minute."

"Ryan?" Suddenly I'm hit with the suspicion that maybe Trish isn't as innocent as I've assumed.

My tone must reflect this because Trish frowns. "It's not like that . He's been helping me. He got me away from - "

She stops short. "God. What's the use? If you're going to take me back to my mother, let's just get it over with."

Her eyes dart over my shoulder, flashing an unintentional warning. I whirl around as a blur of teeth and fur launches itself at me. A dog. A large dog that seems bent on tearing my throat out.

Instinctively, the animal in me responds. It's no match. The dog is a German shepherd mix, eighty pounds or so, but in the time it takes me to reach out an arm, I've locked my hand around the dog's throat. I use its momentum to throw it to the ground, my own teeth gnashing in conditioned reflex before reason takes over. I lean over the dog, exerting just enough pressure to render it helpless. When the adrenaline stops pumping, I glance back at Trish and the boy who seems to have materialized from God knows where to stand beside her. Their faces are stamped with the same emotions - shock, fear, no understanding of what they just witnessed, and no clue how to react to it.

"I assume you're Ryan," I say, breaking the stalemate. "Want to call off your dog?"