"I don't know ..."

"Look, if we can ease the pain of some folks in Lauren's life, don't you reckon it's worth it?"

"Maybe. But what if we get caught?"

"Won't happen. I'll case the joint beforehand, get a feel for it. Took a spin by there earlier. Schmidt works out of a triplex, shares it with two other head docs and a rolfer. I'll schedule an appointment with the rolfer, get the lay of the land."

"Have you ever been to a rolfer?"

"Heck no, but seems easier than therapy."

"It's too risky."

"Not on Thursday night, it ain't, not between nine and eleven."

"Why then? What if Dr. Schmidt has group therapy or comes by to meet a client?"

"She won't."

I looked at her sharply. "How can you be sure?"

"I happen to know our friend Gloria's in a bowling league on Thursday nights. It's the only time she don't take her pager with her."

"What marker did you call in to find this out?"

"Freebie," Fran said, smug. "Ruth has a friend in her league. The lady hasn't missed a match in years. I'm telling you, it's foolproof. You in?"

"No way! I'm not desperate enough to break the law."

"Forget the law. What's the ethical harm? Tell me one thing morally cuckoo about providing comfort to Lauren's loved ones. I betcha G. Schmidt, PhD, would cough up the files herself if she could, but she can't. Think of it as helping her along."

"You're amazing," I said, viewing her with awe. "I'd never do this, but if I did, I wouldn't read any other files, just Lauren's."

"Same here. You and me, we're this close to a collision." Fran squeezed her thumb and index finger to within an inch of each other. "We're on the same track, running out of rail."

"You really think someone could do it without getting caught?"

"You bet! Never seen such a cakewalk!"

Excitement crept into my voice. "What would you wear?"

"The darkest clothes I could find."

"Your habit?" I said, cracking a wan smile.

Fran laughed heartily. "If I'd kept it, I would."

"What about gloves?"

"You watch too much TV. Who cares about prints? They only count against a con who pulls more heists."

"Which you'd never do, right?" I asked nervously.

"'Nope. One-shot deal, not a career."

"Is there anything you haven't thought of?"

"Hope not. Even planned the getaway. Ruth'll give us a lift."

"Your seventy-year-old lover?"

"No, Dr. Ruth Westheimer. Heck yeah, my honey. How many Ruths you think I know?"

"The one who can't see at night? The one you told me hit a yield sign the last time she drove after dark?"

"Not to worry. She's got new lenses. You give me the green light, and the caper's good as done! We strike this Thursday, you could be calling Patrice Friday morning with the answer. Case closed, give you more time to spend with your brother."

For longer than I'd care to admit, I considered the tempting shortcut but eventually shook my head and let out a deep breath. "I can't, Fran. I wish I could, but I can't."

Deflated, she said, "Suit yourself."

After Fran left, I listened to messages on the answering machine and elected to return only Destiny's call.

She asked how I was and if I wanted to visit David. I told her tired and no, not yet. She asked if she could come over and spend the night, and I told her I'd rather she didn't. She asked what I was going to do and when she could see me again. I told her rest and I'd call in the morning.

I hung up drained, from the emotions of the past twenty-four hours and from the demands of being in a relationship.

I sat on the gray carpet, leaned against a chair, and tentatively reached under the couch to reclaim the treasures I'd hidden from Fran.

I brought the photo of Lauren and Ashley close, rubbed my eyes, and studied it carefully, mesmerized by the image that sprang from the flat surface.

The picture was of Ashley swinging, with Lauren pushing, and the photographer had managed to freeze the exact moment of Lauren letting go and Ashley flying away. Ashley, eyes wide, huge smile, hands clutching the swing, dominated the foreground, while Lauren, in motion, grinning and straining, filled in behind her.

I touched each of them, irresistibly drawn to the moment the camera had stolen. I wanted to climb in the photo and join them.

What they shared seemed sacred, and as the room went dark, I began to feel uncomfortable spying on them.

I turned on a light, and my conscience pricked: Was this invasion so different from digging into therapy records?

Probably not, but then again, neither was scanning private calendar entries, and soon I set the picture aside and began to do that, too.

I skimmed through the binder once, careful to stop before I arrived at late May, the week before Lauren's death. Somehow, I wasn't quite ready to peek into her final days, and it struck me as even more unnatural to look beyond, into a dead woman's future.

After I grew accustomed to the large, artsy loops of Lauren's handwriting and managed to decipher bits of her shorthand, I was able to piece together parts of her life from January through May.

I pulled out a blank sheet of paper and began to take copious notes, dividing her activities into weekly and monthly categories.

Weekly contained: Babysit Ashley every Friday night, GS Thursday afternoons (which had to be Gloria Schmidt, the therapist), and CF on Wednesday mornings (possibly Children First, Ashley's school).

Monthly included: Draw up work schedule; a Choices duty on the first of every month; payday, an event Lauren marked on the fifteenth with a smiley face; and period starts at about every thirty days.

A chill washed over me as I realized the dates of Lauren's menstrual flow coincided exactly with mine, and I shuddered when I realized I would be the only one alive to face the next round of tampons and Advil.

I continued to organize the other happenings, eager to spot a pattern: Dr. W, thirteen meetings from March to April, most on Wednesday afternoons, some on Tuesdays and Fridays. I reviewed these until they blurred, but none provided a useful clue.

The "2 years" duly noted on May 28, the Friday before her death, confirmed what Colleen had said about Lauren's private celebration but offered no new insight.

Hiking and soccer, flag football and racquetball, lunch with Patrice and dinner with Cecelia, meet plumber, and get oil changeda"all randomly scattered through the winter and spring.

And then came words that made my heart beat faster: Nicole out of town on business. Aroused, I flipped back to examine them again. Three in all, each with an accompanying line drawn through a four or five-day weekend, they surfaced in mid-January, early March, and late May. Suspect entries in light of Nicole scoffing at my frequent-flier suggestion and insisting she never traveled on business. Either she had lied to me or she had lied to Lauren, and I was willing to bet on the latter.

Adrenaline pumping, I stood and paced, half-planning how to confront Nicole, half-postponing delving into the last week of Lauren's life. My nervous energy quickly evaporated, and I plopped down again and re-opened the calendar to the section I had avoided.

Monday, May 31: Haircut.

Tuesday, June 1: Meet with Dr. W.

Wednesday, June 2: CF at nine, movie with Cecelia at five.

As I came closer to the last hours of Lauren's life, my hands began to shake, and I could barely move the pages.

Thursday, June 3: the big day, so noted in underlined, capital letters. Kill self. It didn't say that, but it may as well have. Her "To do" list was comprised of the following tasks: Lunch with Patrice and Ashley; pick up dinner and tape, Tattered Cover, get gas.

Below it lay a "To pack" list: boots, backpack, blanket, Walkman tape, book, windbreaker, water bottle. So organized was Lauren that she had included the most important ingredient as the final item on her list: pills.

Nothing had been left to chance.

This was confirmed on the pages, which didn't contain a single scribble, following Lauren's birthday, "the big day." If there had been a shred of doubt as to whether her suicide had been planned, none lingered after I thumbed blank page after blank page. Lauren must have known she would kill herself on June 3, because no life existed after that fatal day. No dental appointments, haircuts, oil changes, periods, or paydays. Nothing!

Clearly, she'd made a commitment to die, but why?

The more I discovered, the more I wanted to know answers to questions that could never be asked.

How far in advance had she plotted the suicide? Could anything have changed her mind? Why did she celebrate a two-year anniversarya"of what? Who was Dr. W? Were they having an affair, as Nicole suspected?

And I had even tougher questions.

What did Lauren see when she woke up mid-scream in the middle of the night? Was it something from her childhood? How had she managed to survive those years? Why did she take Patrice to the doghouse the day her mother killed her ten-month-old brother, and what did she think about while they huddled together? Did she believe she had saved her sister's life, and did she miss the brother who never grew? Did she forgive her mother or ever again feel safe?

Then suddenly, my mind took a dangerous turn, and I wanted to know things about Lauren that had nothing to do with the case.

Who was her first love, and when did she know she was a lesbian? What was her favorite part of her body and of other women's bodies? Why had she chosen Nicole, or Cecelia, and what type of woman was she usually attracted to?

I felt desperate to know more.

I wanted to get inside a woman who was no longer alive, to touch her.

Nothing else mattered but knowing!

That's when I decided to break into the therapist's office and read Lauren's records.

9.

The next morning, Fran Green wisely didn't ask, and I didn't volunteer, a reason for my change of heart. We simply agreed to pay an illicit visit to Gloria Schmidt's office on Thursday night. Fran promised she'd take care of everything; my only obligation was to wait in front of my apartment building at nine, sharp. She and Ruth would find me, she said.

That business concluded, I called Destiny to see if she wanted to go to the hospital. Having slept a solid ten hours, my coping mechanisms felt somewhat back intact.

Unfortunately, Destiny was either out or ignoring the phone, so I dialed Ann instead and asked her to accompany me.

She immediately declined, prompting me to ask, "Are you ever going to visit him?"

"Probably not."

"Why?"

"Because I have no desire. I'd probably scream if I went to see him now. All I want is for him to let go, to let us go. He's had enough pain for one lifetime, and he's caused enough. He's like an open, throbbing sore, this ugly, oozing reminder of the past."

"What a horrible thing to say!" I exclaimed, responding to the coldness in her tone, as much as to the statements.

"It's true. Everything we were subjected to as kids, you can see in David: the violence, dysfunction, depression. What little our parents had to give, Kris, they gave him. They still do. They took care of him, and instead of taking care of us, they expected us to take care of him, too."

"You can't blame him for that."

"Didn't you ever wish you had epilepsy?"

"Of course not!"

"When I was in fifth grade, I told my friend Heidi I wanted to have it. Maybe then, someone would have noticed I was alive. Without it, I was invisible and worthless. A bomb could have exploded in my bedroom, and no one would have noticed."

"I know we didn't get enough love and attention, Ann, but what did you expect Mom and Dad to do? David didn't fake those seizures."

"Even so, what did epilepsy have to do with the special meals Mom fixed him every time we had to eat something with gravy on it?"

"What do you mean?"

"He hated gravy, so Mom made him a grilled cheese or hamburger, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"And what did she do for you when we ate shrimp?"

"Nothing. I made my own peanut butter sandwich."