His face and body might be Earl, but his grin was vintage Dewey, though crooked now as one side of his mouth began to puff out.

Her kitchen was a pleasantly impersonal room with carabiner wind chimes hanging above the tidy sink. Even at night, the white walls and yellow countertops appeared sunny and cheerful. Phoebe rummaged through a first-aid kit until she found a disposable ice pack and twisted it to break the seal between its chemicals.

While she waited for it to chill, Dewey began to shed his "Earl-ness," removing the prosthetic weight from around his belly, the mouth device that changed his jaw line and teeth and pulled off the bulbous nose. Flecks of the adhesive he'd used to keep it in place stayed on his skin, and he looked like a deflated clown with Earl's clothes hanging off his lean and rangy frame.

She tipped his chin toward the light and dabbed away the blood. She started to apply the pack, but Dewey took it from her, holding it gingerly to his rapidly swelling lip.

"Next time I come at you from behind, I'll wear a bell."

"Next time don't come as Earl." She straddled a chair as her knees went from fight to flop. "You been Earl all along or you just look like him for tonight?"

"If you don't know, I ain't gonna tell you." His grin widened toward unrepentant, but quickly shrank into a wince.

"You just did." She was gonna have to find a way to exact justice from his sorry hide. "What's so important you had to scare ten years off my life to tell me?"

His suddenly sober expression told her it was bad.

"Ollie's dead."

Beyond bad. She was glad she was already sitting down. "What?"

Despite her turbulent past, Phoebe and all of Phagan's young thieves were careful to avoid violence. Dewey had been known to joke that a gun added a nickel or more to your basic B E time, but their caution had more to do with their refusal to embrace the methods of those who had afflicted them in the past. Each job, each game, to disarm their target covertly, electronically if possible. Their first action was usually an attempt to remove their source of income, followed by trying to restrict their freedom by tipping off Phagan's Fibbie-who they all knew by name and reputation, but not by sight.

Their success rate was remarkable, despite the Fibbie's unrelenting pursuit, and had been, until now, casualty free. Until Phoebe's turn to avenge the past, until her game. She tried to pull up Ollie's picture in her head, but how could she? In their shadowy, chameleon world, reality was whatever they each decided it was. Her lips numb, Phoebe said, "Harding?"

"His pit bull, Stern, probably."

They'd done their homework on Barrett Stern before starting the game, but apparently they hadn't done it well enough.

Phoebe shook her head, rejecting the reality of his death, not Dewey's guess on who might have killed him. "This Wasn't Ollie's game."

"He wanted in."

"He didn't want to die." Phoebe looked at Dewey, feeling the pain of loss from the present and the past combine inside her like the chemicals in the ice pack interacting. Phagan's first rule was never to let the past intrude on the present, but it was hard to manage when she was facing that past head on.

"He knew the risks."

Risks Phagan wouldn't let her take. The gallantry factor. No feminists in Phagan's world. That was about to change. Pain, rage, and frustration combined to form a new emotion: resolve.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"Phagan sent me a new kid. He's pretty good. Lots of potential. He could do what Ollie was going to-"

"We're out of time. My egg is hatching as we speak. We can't push back the time-table now." She looked at him. "There's only one person who can do it. Me."

It was Dewey's turn to shake his head.

"Yes. I planned it. I've played it more than anyone."

"In virtual reality," Dewey objected. "It's not the same thing."

"It's my game. Harding's my target. My risk." She stood up and crossed to the refrigerator, anxious to avoid his eyes for a few minutes. They were far too penetrating and might see the profound, poisonous terror welling up from deep inside her.

"Phagan-"

She cut him off. "-will know I'm right."

"You think so?"

She turned in time to catch a slight, crooked grin turning up the side of his mouth that Wasn't puffy. "I know so."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Doesn't matter." She lifted her chin. "I'm going all the way with this one." She popped the top on the soft drink she'd taken out and drank deeply.

He stood up, too. "Okay. We move on Harding's RABBIT Sunday night." He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more.

"What?"

"Phagan gave me the green light to up the ante-and the heat on Harding if You're up for it."

Phoebe tensed, powerless to stop herself. "When?"

"Harding's got his engagement party tomorrow. Rumor has it he'll be announcing tomorrow, too." He waited several seconds before adding, "I'm going to try to get you an invite. If you can you face him?"

Face him. Face Peter Harding in person. Could she do it? She was stronger than that girl who had run from him was. Run from what he'd done to her sister. She could feel the roots she'd put down in Phoebe's life anchoring her on one side, while the sucking mire of the past pulled at her from the other. It was like being a schizophrenic Pandora facing that closed box, debating whether to open it.

Phagan thought she was strong enough for the game. And Phagan was always right. No reason not to believe him now. It was time she stepped onto this path and faced her demons. A sort of peace pushed back her fear.

"I've been waiting seven years to face him." Dewey didn't look convinced, so she added, "I'll do what I have to."

He flicked her cheek gently. "You always do, darling."

He hefted the spent ice pack, then tossed it into the trash and took a handful of pistachios out of his pocket. He deftly shelled them, tossing the hulls in after the ice pack.

"You staying the night?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Kevin, the new kid, isn't ready to be left alone all night." He finished his pistachios and brushed his hands down his pants, then gathered up his Earl accoutrements. He hesitated, then said, "I'll beep you if-"

"I know."

When she'd let him out, she padded down the hall to her room, not expecting to sleep, but her body was wiser than her mind. It ejected thought and surrendered to the sleep it needed, sending her deep and sound until close to eight, when the sun found a space in her blinds and put a beam of light across her face.

For a moment she lay there listening to a robin's cheery sounds outside her window while last night's events crept back to the forefront of her mind. With a quick movement she tossed back thought and blankets, stripped off the tee shirt she'd slept in, replacing it with bike shorts and a brief top. When her hair was secured in a rubber band, she left, passing through the kitchen like a comet. She needed to clear her mind for what was ahead. Forward motion always helped her more than twisting in the wind of thought.

On the street, her feet pounded the pavement. She ran hard until halfway up the first hill, then settled into a steady rhythm. This was a dangerous time for her. That the past was stalking her future gave fuel to her run.

She had to control the game or lose it all.