Then one August evening, we came upon the boys in the parking lot. Holding Hemorrhoid down in the backseat of someone's car, they were burning his back with cigarettes, clamping his mouth shut to muffle his screams. When we ran to get help, Hemorrhoid tore loose and shouted through his tears.

"Leave us alone," he had shrieked.

Oriana took her brother home and finally reported everything. Their mother forbade Hemorrhoid to return to the pool and sent him off to a camp to learn to play bridge, a different kind of torture for some people, but probably a relief to Hemorrhoid, who loved numbers. He came back more obsessive about nose hair and drink coasters, but very good at card games. I'd heard he collected playing cards picturing royalty in erotic poses and figured that was almost healthy, for him.

To Spike, I said, "It was very weird. Hemorrhoid wanted to be hurt so they'd be his friends."

Spike cocked his ear, puzzled.

I rubbed his head and thought about Orlando. What was it like for him, trapped with Hemorrhoid now that his parents were dead?

I said, "He's just a kid."

With a low snarl, Spike asked if he was edible.

"No," I said.

Trying to put it all out of my mind, I took a bath with a novel-my nightly ritual. Around midnight I slipped between the cool sheets of my bed. I lay awake, trying not to worry. Spike twitched in his sleep, and I rubbed his tummy.

Eventually, Michael slid into the bed. I hadn't heard him come in, nor had I been aware of him putting Spike out in the hall, but suddenly he was there, all warm muscle and slow attention.

"Did you have a good night?" I murmured, barely awake.

"It's getting better," he said against my mouth.

I did love him. Despite months of my holding back and pushing him away, he hadn't given up on me. He wanted me with such intensity that I sometimes felt swept into a stormy place that both frightened and excited me. I had delayed living my life almost too long. I wanted a family of my own and had recklessly, perhaps, thrown myself on the winds of chance with Michael. For better or worse, we had come together to create something that I hoped was lasting.

In the morning, Michael woke first and made love to me again while I was still deliciously half dreaming. He headed for the shower a few minutes later, and after listening to him croon some Elvis I wobbled out of bed and into my bathrobe. Outside the bedroom door Spike looked up indignantly from his basket.

"Forgive me," I said to the puppy. "I can only cope with one bad boy at a time."

He accepted my apology and permitted me to carry him downstairs. In the kitchen, I scooped him some Puppy Chow and began making coffee in the new contraption Michael had brought over when he decided my once-very-expensive pot made sludge.

The phone rang, and I picked up, knowing exactly who was calling.

"Good morning, Libby." Her kids were still sleeping off their Christmas excesses, and she was no doubt feeding the baby while waiting for LIVE with Regis and Kelly to come on.

"You didn't give me a straight answer yesterday," she said over the wails of her baby. "When can I schedule a Potions and Passions party at your house?"

"This isn't a good time, Lib."

The baby stopped crying as if he'd just latched onto her breast. "Oh, Lord," she said, "you mean That Man is there?"

"I hear you're calling him the Incredible Hulk now."

"How do you know that? Did Rawlins tell you?"

I decided not to reveal that her sixteen-year-old son was still hanging around one of Michael's garages after school.

"Nora," she said, "I don't understand. You could have any number of suitors from our social circle. That nice Jamie Scaithe would love to sweep you off your feet, and you treat him like-"

"Like the cocaine dealer he is."

"Okay, bad example. But why not a nice lawyer with a trust fund? The Incredible-I mean, That Man has a certain sex appeal, I agree, but he's just not your type, Nora. I think it all comes back to you being unable to understand your own needs." She paused long enough to draw a deep breath. "Which makes you the perfect Potions and Passions customer. As your Potions and Passions representative, I can teach you to discern and quantify your innermost desires and effectively communicate your-"

"Let's communicate about your sex life for a change," I suggested.

"Oh, all right," she said happily. "Yesterday you said you didn't want to hear another word, but if you really-"

"I'm joking, Lib."

She sighed. "You're no fun." Then, "Is he really there?"

I went looking for the oatmeal and decided to be brave and damn the consequences. "Yes, he's here."

"Oh, my God! He spent the whole night?"

"Yes. In fact, he's been staying here for a few weeks."

Suddenly understanding in a way only sisters can comprehend, she said, "You're trying to have a baby, aren't you? With him! Are you crazy?"

"No. Just afraid to wait any longer."

"Oh my God, does he know?"

"Of course he knows. He wants children, too. We both want a life, Lib. Like you."

I knew she was smiling. Libby liked nothing more than being reminded of the joys of family and motherhood. "I'm going to be an aunt? Will you have a girl? I like to spoil little girls. Lucy has discovered baseball, and I'm so disappointed she hates ballet-Oh, heavens, this means I'll be related to That Man, doesn't it?"

"Not if I don't marry him."

"You can't, of course," she agreed. "If you do, he'll die, you know. It's the Blackbird widow curse."

"I know. But I'm afraid to wait much longer. My ovaries aren't getting any younger."

"Blackbirds always have big families. It's in your genes." Libby considered the situation, then said, "Well, if he was with you last night, I suppose that's better than his alternative."

"What alternative?" I carried the oatmeal to the stove.

"Getting arrested," she said. "There was a big bust. A car theft ring. It's in today's paper."

My whole circulatory system turned cold. "What happened?"

"The police chased a bunch of crooks and caught most of them red-handed. In stolen cars-luxury cars they've been chopping up and sending overseas. A police officer was shot."

"Oh, God!"

"He's wounded, not dead yet. The good news is that if That Man was at home stimulating your womb, at least he isn't mixed up in a ring of car thieves. That's a blessing."

"Yes," I said faintly. "It is."

"So, the sex," she said. "Is he all Conan the Barbarian? Or is he aware of your need for satisfaction?"

"Lib-"

"Women have been known to fake orgasm, but men fake foreplay. Remember that singer from Dublin I dated once? He told me Irish foreplay means 'Brace yourself, Bridget,' and he lived up to that, let me tell you!"

"I am not going to discuss foreplay with you, Libby."

"Why not? Maybe it's easier to talk with pictures. The two of you should look at one of my catalogs. I know you're shy, and he's probably completely inarticulate when it comes to the erotic arts. I'm thinking Italian men might be my target customer, in fact."

Spike finished his breakfast and dashed over to scratch at the back door. In my ear, Libby kept talking, but I stopped listening. All I could think about was Michael disappearing with Danny last night. I went to the door to let the puppy outside.

"Lib, what time was the shooting?"

"What?"

"The car thieves. When was the police officer shot?"

"I don't know exactly. Let me look in the paper. It was early, I think-No, let's see. Ten fifteen."

Not long after I had walked into the kitchen. So Michael couldn't have been on the scene when it happened. Could he?

"I hear you're having your New Year's party again this year," my sister said bluntly. "Am I invited?"

"Lib-"

"Lexie says she's invited. And she's bringing people. It's a good opportunity for me to meet potential customers. I'll even bring my spinach dip."

While I struggled with the dead bolt, Spike suddenly stopped capering and glared out through the glass. He barked.

"Bring anything you want. Bring Masters and Johnson for all I care, except-"

"I think they're dead."

"I just don't want you to turn my dinner party into a taste test of edible underwear."

"But I can come?"

"Yes, all right, you can come."

"Oh, you won't regret it! I have my first shipment of products coming tomorrow."

"No products! Don't bring anything!"

She continued to babble, but I couldn't hear her.

At last I got the door open. Spike dashed outside and attacked the heap on the porch. Not another neighborly gift this time.

It was a coat, I realized. Spike seized a mouthful and began to worry it, snarling and clawing.

The coat was tied up with some kind of twine.

And inside was a person.

A dead person.

She had blond hair with white roots and too much makeup for a woman of her years. She was barefoot and bare-legged, having lost her shoes somewhere. A ratty feather boa ruffled in the breeze. She had dried blood in her hair, smeared on her face.

I felt the earth tilt. The morning sunlight darkened. Spike's bark began to echo in my head, and everything began to blur. My heart slammed in my chest as I stared at the dead woman on my porch.

In my ear and a thousand miles away, Libby said, "Nora? Did you hear me? Are you there? Nora? What's wrong?"

"It's Kitty," I gasped. "Kitty Keough. She's dead."

A soundless snowstorm whirled up around me, and I fainted.

Chapter 4.

I woke up with an ice pack on my face and Michael roughly wrapping me in blankets. His expression frightened me. In the distance, I could hear Spike barking, barking, barking.

I tried to move, but my hands were tightly captured inside the blanket. "W-what happened?"

He put me back down on the sofa, more gently than before. But his face remained taut. "It's okay. The police are here. So's your sister."

"Michael-"

Libby arrived and shouldered him aside. She had a cup of something steamy in her hands. "Let me handle this. It happens all the time. She really ought to see a doctor."

"I have seen doctors," I said, sounding infuriatingly feeble even to myself.

"A psychologist, then. Someone who can help you deal with emergencies more appropriately."

"Michael," I said again.

He said, "She's got a point. Let her take care of you while I talk to the cops."

He went away, and Libby scrunched onto the sofa beside me. Her hair was wet and hastily shoved into a clip, but she'd managed to dress in a provocative red sweater.

"My goodness, his language goes to Hades when he's angry. F-bombs all over the place!" She noted where I was looking. "I'm wearing the Brinker Bra. Doesn't it do wonders? Very Jennifer Lopez."