She went into the bathroom, blew her nose, and washed her hands. In the mirror her face and neck were red, as were her eyes. She thought she looked older as well, the strain causing her mouth to grow tight and harsh, her forehead creasing in despair.

She walked back into the living room, and only then noticed the envelope she'd tossed on the couch. Grateful for any distraction, she opened it and removed a stack of photocopies. Tainter peeked out at her from under the couch, then approached and cautiously rubbed against her legs.

She sat at the kitchen table and began to peruse the pages with a growing mix of fascination and horror.

ROYA LOOKED UP at the ceiling. "Wow. What was Rachel hollering about?"

Helena shook her head. "I don't know."

"Should we check on her?" Roya asked.

The ceiling creaked as Rachel moved above them. "No, just ... let her chill," Helena said.

"I need a napkin," Josh said. "It scared me so bad I spilled coffee all over myself."

Roya went to help him while Helena sat on one of the empty stools. It was the point after the lunch rush when the staff usually ate, but Helena was not hungry. Instead she was confused in ways she never expected.

The Arlin Korbus affair was not that long ago, so it wasn't a surprise that Rachel might be experiencing some post-traumatic shock. Still, screaming and passing out seemed much more indicative of a physical problem than an emotional one. Besides, Rachel was smart. If she was truly having issues related to the kidnapping, she'd seek help.

So what if this was a sign of something unrelated, like a brain tumor? Come on, that's a Lifetime movie, not real life, Helena berated herself.

She got herself a glass of ice water and went to the window, where she could watch traffic zip past on East Washington. With all the chaos and weird behavior, Helena still hadn't told Rachel about Ethan's visit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

ETHAN LOOKED ACROSS the bistro table at Julie. "I really don't think," he said carefully, "that this is a good idea."

She wore a sleeveless blouse that emphasized her bust, and tight slacks that did the same to everything below her waist. Her hair was loose, the way he always liked it, and she wore far less makeup than normal-also a concession to his opinion. He knew all this was entirely for his benefit, but it affected him despite his best efforts. He wasn't going to make it easy for her, though. He wore old jeans, a faded polo shirt, and his workout sneakers. He continued, "We have too much history to just reboot this relationship. We both said things we can't take back."

She stirred her drink with the swizzle stick. They sat on the outdoor patio at the university's Memorial Union, in shade made pleasant by the breeze off the lake. A bluegrass band, of all things, trilled away on a stage by the water, but it was far enough away that they could converse over the music.

She said carefully, "I can't deny I meant those things at the time, Ethan. But that was then. We're different people now."

He laughed despite himself. "After what, a year? Don't be silly. I'm not a different person."

She raised her eyes to his. "Maybe I am. I haven't had a serious relationship since we broke up, and I don't want one. I want you. On your terms."

"My terms?"

She nodded. "Anything you want. Anything."

The emphasis on that word sent a thrill up his spine at the possibilities. There had been certain things that were off-limits when they'd dated before. "I appreciate that, but it still seems like picking up the snake again after it's already bit you."

"I don't bite," she said. Then, with a devilish smile, she added, "Hard."

"Ha," he said flatly. "And I have had a serious relationship. One that isn't"-he searched for the right phrase-"done for certain yet."

"With that waitress?"

He sighed. "Yes. With Rachel. Who is not a waitress."

"I thought she told you to go away."

"She said she needed time. After what happened to her, I can understand that."

"Has she called you?"

"No."

"It's been two months. Nearly three."

He shrugged. "There's no timetable on these things."

"Call her, then. Settle it. If she wants you back, I'll step aside gracefully. If not ... I promise I'll make you glad you gave me a second chance."

"I'll think about it. Now let's just listen to the music, okay?"

He turned toward the band, away from Julie, and got a little rush of satisfaction at her exasperated sigh.

IT WAS DARK by the time Rachel finished reading the papers from the envelope. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she wondered if any of it could possibly be for real. And if so ... which parts?

The envelope had contained pages photocopied from an old book on Native Americans. A few pages of one chapter related tales about the Lo-Stahzi handed down through the Karlamiks and the other Plains tribes. The illustrations were crude woodcuts, done in a style popular two centuries earlier. She'd long ago consulted this same book in the campus library, attempting to understand her spirits. Little of it had seemed relevant then-and certainly not the tales of pagan bloodthirstiness attributed to the tribe.

Now, though, she had to reconsider. According to the text, the Lo-Stahzi worshipped the spirits in the lakes, even making human sacrifices to them in times of dire need. The spirits in turn guaranteed bountiful fishing, protection from other tribes that used the waters in attacks, and peaceful travel between this world and the next.

But the lakes were not all beneficent. Things lurked in them-things the spirits could use in any way they saw fit. And over some things, it was implied, the spirits had no influence at all.

So which was it? The old Lo-Stahzi woman in her vision had said the spirits were once human, but the book implied they were not. The book listed a half-dozen nonhuman spirits, such as the Geen-Po-Vis-a spirit of sickness that emerged in times of drought, when the water level dropped and fish began to die. That made sense, of course; lake shores lined with rotting fish would be a breeding ground for disease. It definitely wasn't supernatural.

And then there was the H'tik-jo-colph.

This spirit came from the water and laid claim to the young women of the tribe. Once he had taken them, no other man could ever wed them. He was not a rapist, like an incubus, but rather a cruel seducer. He placed them under a spell that took their "capacity for happiness"-a euphemism if she ever saw one. And the description perfectly fit Betty McNally's description of Kyle Stillwater.

So was Stillwater an evil human spirit, as the old woman said? Or was he a supernatural being who'd never been human, as Betty McNally's research proposed?

In order to make sense of it all, Rachel tried to put the events in a cause-and-effect order. First she had asked the spirits to help Patty, and they did. But doing so left them too weak to contain the spirits in Lake Wingra, according to the old woman. And according to Betty McNally, the evil ones then turned the tables and contained them.

But how? Did Garrett Bloom's murder have something to do with it?

The old woman said that the evil spirits must be defeated. Betty had said that Kyle Stillwater must be summoned to do their bidding. Whichever story was true, they seemed to agree on that: Someone must deal with the H'tik-jo-colph. But how do you kill a spirit?

She dug out Betty McNally's card and called the number on it. She got voice mail.

"This is Rachel Matre. I've looked over the information you sent. I need to know what to do now. Please call me so we can talk."

She waited an hour, but there was no return call. During that time she paced, took a cold shower, fought the urge to touch herself, and finally began to drink again. She stopped when her head grew fuzzy, and then she switched to black coffee.

Finally she sat on the edge of the bed, looked at Tainter, and said, "I can't do it. I know what I said, but I can't. I need help from someone I trust. And ... dammit, I love him. Does that make me a bad person?"

Tainter purred and rubbed her bare ankle. She reached down to pet him.

"I'm going to blame it all on you, then," she teased. Then she got dressed.

IT WAS AFTER ten when Rachel stood in front of the house. She'd parked on the street and got no farther than the sidewalk before her stomach knotted in uncertainty.

She'd often wondered what sort of house Ethan would live in, and the sheer normality of it took her by surprise. The windows were dark except for the blue light of a television leaking around the bay-window curtains. The shrubs along the sidewalk were neatly trimmed, and the lawn had a uniform look and texture that spoke of chemicals and seeds carefully applied. No stray dandelions or thistles marred its surface, just as only the faintest road film dulled the shine of the truck in the driveway.

She clenched her fists. It was late-probably too late, in every sense, for what she was doing. She was making herself a liar, a hypocrite, and worse: a weak-willed woman. She couldn't blame Tainter for that. Or was she doing the opposite and at last standing up for what she wanted and needed?

The reasons didn't matter. Only the need. Not the physical one this time, but the one that made her crave a safe place to let down her guard and be weak for a time.

Each step grew heavier and more difficult. The sidewalk gave way to the driveway, which became the short walk to the porch. The two steps up seemed insurmountable, but she managed them and stood before the door. The bell had a faint light inside the button. She held her thumb lightly over it for what seemed like millennia before mustering the courage to push it.

The muted buzz was decidedly anticlimactic.

Seconds went by. Each felt like a year. Then she jumped as the porch light came on, and she felt the whoosh of air-conditioning as the door opened.

And there he was.

He wore running shorts and a tank top. His chin was stubbly, and his hair was mussed. He looked beautiful.

"Rachel," Ethan Walker said blankly.

She tried to speak, but no words could do the moment justice. She stepped close and put one hand on his chest as if afraid he might vanish like a bubble.

He didn't move.

She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. "I should say something profound, but nothing fits the moment."

"I love you," he blurted.

She looked up at him and saw the truth of his words in his eyes.

He laughed nervously, and the words tumbled out. "Sorry. I suppose I should say *How are you?' first, but I've been wanting to say those words for so long they just jumped to the front of the line." Then he shrugged, bashful and adorable. "I hope that fits the moment."

She smiled. "I stand corrected."

The kiss made everything-every doubt and uncertainty-vanish. The weeks of loneliness were simply washed away. It was like she'd never been out of his arms, had never not been kissing him, had never been anything but rolling around with him on the foyer floor by the light of his aquarium. He kicked the door shut and, breaking the kiss as seldom as possible, they both undressed. They made love with an urgency verging on violence, but although he was stronger, she met him thrust for thrust, moan for moan, touch for touch. It wasn't about reaching orgasm for either of them, it was about making up for all the time they'd missed. And for the first time in weeks, Rachel no longer cared if she ever came again. As long as she could make this man happy, she was content.

When they finished, she lay beside him on the rug and said breathlessly, "I think we scared your fish."

"They'll forget it in thirty seconds or so," he said, his face sweaty and his hair even more mussed.

She rose on her elbows and traced a fingertip down the bridge of his strong nose. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

She sighed. "Staying away. At least for so long."

He gazed into her eyes and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. She leaned into it and sighed. He said, "Is this a bad time to ask why?"

"Honey, it's the best time to ask for anything."

"Why, then?"

She licked her lips. They tasted salty. "I was just ... afraid."

"Of what?"

The words came out as she formed them. "I just couldn't believe you'd really share me with ... with them. I couldn't imagine any man being understanding enough to do that. In my experience, you're all territorial, controlling, and jealous. At least, the ones I usually pick are."

"I know a few women like that too."

She rolled onto her back. The foyer's light fixture had faint cobwebs that needed dusting. "I know that. I'm not saying it's rational. I mean, I couldn't even tell my ex-husband about them, so he thought I was just frigid."

He caressed her nearest breast. "I think it's safe to say you're not."

"But I was with him, because I knew he'd be insanely jealous if he knew the truth."

"I'm not him."

"I know you're not. I was just afraid that I hadn't looked closely enough at you, or that ... you'd change."

She began to cry. They weren't tears of failure or weakness but of relief at finally understanding what had kept her from him for so long. She rolled against him, and his arms held her close. He kissed the top of her head.

"I can't predict the future," he said. "I will change, and so will you. But at the risk of quoting Whitney Houston, *I will always love you.' "

She began to giggle through her tears. "And you'll share me?"

He nodded. "You didn't keep it a secret, and you didn't lie about it. I can't swear I'll always feel good about it, but I'll work through any problems that crop up."

Rachel wiped her eyes. "I told Julie Schutes I'd stay away from you forever, you know."

"You did? When?"

"This morning."

He smiled. "You did a terrible job of it, then."

She laughed. "I did, didn't I? Well, live and learn." She kissed him again, and if he'd been able to perform again so soon, she'd have done anything he asked. Instead she broke the kiss and said, "Think we could get a drink of water? I'm thirsty."