Michael sat down on the other side of the sofa, a couple of feet away. I reached over and pulled him by the hand. I thought he resisted, but a moment later we met in the middle and toppled over until we were spooning in front of the fire.

"Is Orlando safe here?" I asked when I had my arms snugly around him and he had relaxed, the back of his head against my chest. He smelled like firewood.

"Sure. Aldo loves this stuff."

"I'll make some hot chocolate and take it out to them in a little while."

"You don't understand the whole siege mentality. They want to suffer, take turns walking the perimeter, scavenging for rations. It gives them a story to tell later. Like those World War Two movies where William Holden has a hard time."

"A little hot chocolate wouldn't hurt."

"If it makes you happy."

"Thank you, Michael," I murmured in his ear. "For everything."

He was quiet for a while.

Then he said, "I had things to do last night."

"I missed you."

"Nora," he said.

"I know. I know you're not cut out for domestic life. You shouldn't have to phone home, to check in with the little woman all the time."

"That's not . . ." He hesitated. Then more slowly, "I'm not the best thing that's ever happened to you."

"I don't care about that."

I put my nose into his hair and we listened to the fire for a little while.

He said, "Danny Pescara was hired to kill Kitty by somebody he met in a biker bar in New Hope last week. I don't know who yet. To cut a deal with the cops, he told them it was one of us-the Abruzzo family. He claims we ordered him to do it." In a mutter, Michael added, "Like murder isn't bad for business."

"Tell me you're kidding."

"I'm kidding. It jerks my chain, though. That's the dumbest criminal act I ever heard of, and somebody actually believes we're capable of it."

"You're not upset because the police suspect you, but because they might think you were stupid about it?"

"I've got my pride."

I poked him. "Can Danny explain why an Abruzzo would want to kill Kitty?"

"Somebody at the fashion show overheard your sister say it would be great for you if Kitty was dead. I think the cops planted that idea with Danny, and he went for it. Point is, he has implicated us."

"Us?"

"Me. Or my father," Michael corrected. "Or one of my brothers, maybe, but they're not exactly in the picture right now."

Michael's half brothers played revolving door at various prisons. I had stopped keeping track of which Abruzzo was currently incarcerated. "How are the police going to prove it was one of you?"

"They have Danny's testimony. It's his word against ours."

I hugged him harder, and he covered my two hands with one of his, over his heart. I could feel it beating against my palms. I asked, "How bad is this?"

"It's not good," he admitted.

"You need time, don't you? To finesse your way out of this?"

Michael didn't answer.

I sat up.

The fire must have consumed all the oxygen in the library, because I suddenly couldn't draw a breath. Michael sat up, too, but kept his distance.

"No matter what happens," he said, "you'll always be taken care of."

"What does that mean?"

"If something happens to me-"

"You're thinking of going away, aren't you?" My heart lurched. "And there's some regulation in the Mafia rule book that kicks in? What, like Social Security for mob girlfriends?"

"Nora-"

"I can't believe this!"

"Don't."

"You, the criminal mastermind-this is the best strategy you can come up with? Making sure I'm taken care of?"

A door slammed somewhere in the house, but we didn't tear our gazes apart.

Michael said, "When you get some distance on this, some perspective, you're going to change your mind."

"About what?" I demanded.

"Us."

"Us?"

With a shutter coming down across his face, he said, "You're gonna decide I'm the guy who helped you get over your husband."

My mind suddenly became too full of details. The fire's crackle. Michael's stillness. My own erratic heartbeat. In a distant room I heard Libby's voice yell, "Yoo-hoo!" And Spike gave a yip of welcome.

To Michael, I said, "I thought you understood me. I thought you were with me in this relationship."

"Relationship?" He gave a harsh laugh. "Nora, wake up! Your friends can't wait to get a look at the freak show we've got going here. You belong with somebody else. Somebody like D'eath."

"What does Richard D'eath have to do with us?"

"He's better for you."

"So is a low-fat diet and regular exercise. Michael, I want to be with you!"

"Maybe I don't want to be with you."

I couldn't speak. Not without screaming.

"If we stay together, you're going to get pulled deeper into things you won't like," he said. "Already my father is trying to get his hooks in you. First it's gifts, and then it's something else. It'll be better for you if I go away now."

Libby burst into the room like a snowstorm and plunked a large cardboard carton on the coffee table. Oblivious to the electricity in the room, she unwound her long, festive scarf from her throat. She cried, "What a night! It's lovely outside-not a snowflake in sight. It's the kind of night that fills me with excitement! I feel completely energized!"

Michael got up and left the room.

Libby looked after him, blinking. "What's the matter? He doesn't want to see my inventory?"

"He's . . . not in the mood," I said.

"Well, that's a very bad sign. On the other hand, I know exactly how to help put the thrust back in his-"

"What have you got here?" I asked, mastering my self-control.

Orlando had followed Libby into the library and was already trying to open the carton.

Libby steered Orlando gently aside while using her other hand to fiddle surreptitiously with her bra. "That's nothing for little boys. Only big boys who are little, actually, and then these little trinkets can be a big help. It's my Potions and Passions shipment!"

I used every iota of strength to collect myself. "Orlando, this is my sister."

Libby formally shook his hand, smiling. "I have twin boys who are almost your age, but they're not nearly as handsome. How do you do? And what a wonderful job you're doing with Spike! He hasn't peed on the floor since I got here. You must be the dog trainer Nora keeps threatening to hire."

"I'm just visiting," he said.

Libby's eldest son, sixteen-year-old Rawlins, slipped through the door with his ragged backpack over his shoulder and a Pop-Tart in one hand. His face was a tackle shop of rings and metal studs. The three earrings in one ear had bits of Christmas tinsel inextricably twisted around them for a bit of holiday flair.

I gave Rawlins a hug and kiss. If I wasn't mistaken, he flinched.

His smile was uncharacteristically wan. "Hi, Aunt Nora."

To Orlando, Libby was saying, "Perhaps you'll visit my boys next. They're making an Internet Web site. Do you like the Internet? All teenagers seem to love tapping on their keyboards. Well, except Rawlins."

Rawlins actually blushed.

"I'm not a teenager yet," Orlando volunteered. "I'm only ten."

"Well, that's practically a teenager. This is Rawlins, and don't let him talk you into piercing any part of your body."

"Hey," grunted Rawlins.

"What's that?" Orlando pointed to the snack Rawlins munched.

"What are you-from Planet Nerd or something? It's a Pop-Tart."

Orlando scrutinized the food. "Is it a cookie?"

"No, it's . . . Man, you never had a Pop-Tart?"

"Got any more?"

Rawlins shrugged. "Sure."

"You boys run along while I discuss a boring subject with my sister."

Rawlins slouched into the living room, and Orlando followed with keen interest. Spike was right behind them.

"All right, tell me everything," Libby commanded. "Did you have a fight? Did he experience a nonperformance? So the Incredible Hulk isn't so incredible, after all?"

I sat down on the sofa unsteadily. "I don't want to talk about him right now. What's with Rawlins? He looks shell-shocked. What's going on?"

"It's Harcourt and Hilton," Libby said on a long-suffering sigh. She put her rump to the fire and rubbed her backside vigorously to warm up. "Honestly, Nora, I think I accidentally suckled wolves. They're picking on Rawlins."

Just as Rawlins was passing from his angry teen years into an almost appealing half-grown-up stage, Libby's twins Harcourt and Hilton were developing into cunning juvenile delinquents.

"Can't he stand up for himself?"

"He's lost his edge, I think."

"What are they doing to him?"

"They found an old journal Rawlins had hidden. They typed up some of his poetry and posted it on a Web site. Not very good poetry, I'm sorry to say. Perhaps a little too romantic for a young man, if you get my drift. And all his friends have seen it."

"I get the picture."

"So he's feeling very vulnerable. Not to mention homicidal. It's open warfare at my house. I thought I should get him away from the twins for a little while. Do you mind if he stays with you?"

"I love having him around."

"He brought his own supply of junk food. I think he's hoping to wait out Christmas vacation here. Or at least until his friends stop calling him Emily Dickinson."

"Poor Rawlins."

"He'll get over it. Now, what would you like to see first?" she asked with relish. "The contraptions for men? Or the sensual aids for women? I have more ErotaLotion, if you're feeling frisky."

"Libby-"

She opened the box and pulled out something large and rubbery with prongs and a coiled electrical cord. "Or how about this?"

"Good Lord."