Kara woke late that afternoon, feeling as though she were awaking from a bad dream. Scattered images lingered in her mind: waking up in a sterile room, being strapped to a bed, Dale Barrett draining her of blood, a nightmare image of Alexander, his mouth stained with crimson.

Fever dreams, she thought, looking around. But this was no dream. She was in a strange bed, in a strange room, clad in a hospital gown.

She sat up, realizing that, in her drugged state, she had confused dreams with reality. But that still didn't tell her where she was.

Slipping out of bed, she drew on the robe hanging on the back of the door, then padded out of the room and down the stairs. The house was empty, silent. She peeked into the parlor, admiring the oak floor, the paneled walls. The furniture was sparse: a curved sofa with a high back, a single chair covered in a dark green print. An enormous bookcase took up one entire wall. An entertainment center stood oppositethe sofa, complete with a TV and a stereo.

There was a small bedroom furnished with a bed and nothing more, a small old-fashioned bathroom with a claw-footed bathtub, and a large kitchen. There was a coffee maker on the counter, along with an unopened can of coffee, a box of filters, and a small box of sugar.

Her stomach growled as she plugged in the coffee pot and filled the container with water. The refrigerator, which was the oldest one she had ever seen, was empty save for a carton of milk, a package of bacon, a dozen eggs, a jar of blackberry jelly, and a carton of butter. There was a loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter. Uncertain of where she was, she hesitated to make herself something to eat. And then she saw the note, propped against a vase that held a single red rose.

Kara,it said, I know you have many questions, and I regret that I cannot be there to answer them. However, a business appointment calls me away. I'll be gone until late this afternoon. You must not go home under any circumstance, or let your family know where you are. Please make yourself at home and I will explain everything when I return. It was signed, Alexander.

Kara read the note twice, her confusion mounting. Why shouldn't she go home? Nana must be worried sick. She glanced around, only then remembering that Alexander had no phone. Well, she could walk. It wasn't that far. Of course, she wasn't exactly dressed for a stroll.

First things first, she mused. She was starving. She smiled as she saw that Alexander had set the table for her. There was a frying pan on the stove, and she fixed a quick breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, and washed it down with a glass of low-fat milk.

She would have washed the dishes,but there was no soap. Frowning, she went through the cupboards, surprised to find they were all empty. No dishes other than those on the table. No packages of cereal or rice. No canned vegetables or fruit. No snacks of any kind. No condiments other than the salt and pepper on the table. Nothing.

She stared at countertop where she had left the dishes to dry. One plate, one knife, one fork, one spoon, one spatula, one frying pan, one cup, one glass. None of the items in the fridge, and those had been few, had been opened. Not the milk, not the butter, nothing. It was as if all the food in the house had been bought for her use. Did he never eat at home?

Still frowning, she went into the den and knew immediately that this was where he spent the majority of his time. He had told her to make herself at home, and so she wandered around the room, admiring a delicate sculpture, a Greek urn that was obviously an antique, the smooth symmetry of a piece of jade, the intricate pattern on a piece of Indian pottery, the muted colors in an exquisite tapestry that also appeared to be very old.

She perused the books in the bookshelf. There were numerous volumes on history, both ancient and modern, several dictionaries, a thesaurus, and a variety of books that dealt with paranormal themes, everything from time travel and reincarnation to werewolves and vampires. One shelf held the complete works of A. Lucard.

Turning away from the bookcase, she paused to study the painting over the fireplace. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. The man, who stood with his back to her, seemed small and sad as he stood atop a lonely mountain. It was a remarkable painting, the sunrise vibrant with color, so alive she could almost feel the heat of the sun's rays. She would not have been surprised to see the man move.

"Amazing," she murmured.

Alexander's desk was located beside the fireplace. She hesitated a moment, her conscience battling her curiosity, and then she sat down in his chair.

She didn't know what secrets she hoped to find in the desk, but the drawers revealed nothing unusual, only the items one would expect to find in a writer's desk: paper clips, pencils, stamps, envelopes, extra computer disks, a letter from his editor informing him that The Hunger had been sold to China, Russia, England, Australia, and Poland.

With a sigh, Kara sat back in the chair. The arms seemed to wrap around her, and for a moment she imagined that it was Alexander holding her.

Abruptly, she leaned forward and switched on the computer. It took only a few moments to find his files, to locate the book he was currently working on.

Feeling as though she were eavesdropping, yet unable to turn away, she read quickly through the first few chapters. It was an interesting story, told in the first person, totally unlike anything else he had written. By the time she reached Chapter IV, she was totally engrossed in the story.