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We entered a dark, bamboo-lined cul-de-sac, walked five hundred feet, turned sharply east. At the end of the path stood a one-story house only twice the size of the average suburban dream. A trellis-topped front loggia was burdened by a mass of half-dead trumpet vine. More bamboo towered at the back. The same peach walls and cerulean roof. Up close, I saw that the stucco had been sponged to a mottled finish and lacquered glossy. The worn Mediterranean villa look, complete with artificial age scars at the corners, peeled back to reveal ersatz brickwork. Huge double doors of weathered walnut looked genuinely ancient, but any attempt to evoke the Aegean or le Cote d’Azur was killed by the roof tiles—some kind of space-age composite, too bright, too blue, cheesy enough to top a pizza.

“Here we are,” said Cheryl over her shoulder. “My place.”

“Nice.”

She tossed her hair. “It’s temporary. I used to have a place of my own, then . . . What’s the difference?” She hurried toward the double doors, yanked the handle. Resistance pitched her forward, and Sage’s head bob-bled.

“Locked?” she said. “I left it open—shit, someone must’ve locked it.” Patting the pockets of the dress. “Shit, I didn’t take a key. Now I feel really stupid.”

“Hey, it happens.”

We entered a dark, bamboo-lined cul-de-sac, walked five hundred feet, turned sharply east. At the end of the path stood a one-story house only twice the size of the average suburban dream. A trellis-topped front loggia was burdened by a mass of half-dead trumpet vine. More bamboo towered at the back. The same peach walls and cerulean roof. Up close, I saw that the stucco had been sponged to a mottled finish and lacquered glossy. The worn Mediterranean villa look, complete with artificial age scars at the corners, peeled back to reveal ersatz brickwork. Huge double doors of weathered walnut looked genuinely ancient, but any attempt to evoke the Aegean or le Cote d’Azur was killed by the roof tiles—some kind of space-age composite, too bright, too blue, cheesy enough to top a pizza.

“Here we are,” said Cheryl over her shoulder. “My place.”

“Nice.”

She tossed her hair. “It’s temporary. I used to have a place of my own, then . . . What’s the difference?” She hurried toward the double doors, yanked the handle. Resistance pitched her forward, and Sage’s head bob-bled.

“Locked?” she said. “I left it open—shit, someone must’ve locked it.” Patting the pockets of the dress. “Shit, I didn’t take a key. Now I feel really stupid.”

“Hey, it happens.”