"Lucky to get it back in one piece," Fran chimed in. "Nothing damaged."

"Now that's not exactly correct, dear. There were Cheeto stains on the back seat and Pepsi dribbles in the front."

"True enough," Fran agreed as we inched past a Ford Escort on the narrow street.

"What a hog!" Ruth exclaimed. "These drivers act like they own the road." She punctuated her point with a long lean on the horn.

"And how!"

"Good thing we're almost there!" I commented nervously.

When we pulled up to the triplex that housed Dr. Schmidt's office, fortunately, there were no other cars on the dark street, or Ruth would have hit them. As it was, she parked with two wheels on the grass. I scurried out of the car, grateful to touch the ground.

Fran clambered out and gestured for me to follow her around to the back of the house, where she pointed to a window six feet off the ground. "That's the one. Leads into the kitchen. I unlatched it the other day. Let's hope they left it that way. Time's a wasting. Hoist me up."

"Can't we go in a basement window?"

"No can do. Basement has a separate entrance. Might not be connected to the shrink's office. No problem, though. Give me a boost, and I'll be there in a jiffy."

"What about me?"

"No sweat. I'll bop around front and let you in. Deadbolt operates without a key."

"No, I meant why don't I go in the window first."

"No dice. Even with my butt and gut, I only weigh an even hundred." She surveyed my body as if I were a steer at auction. "If you don't mind my saying, you look a tad beefier than that."

"Only by thirty pounds," I protested. "Plus, I'm six inches taller."

"I'm thirty years older. C'mon, Kris, quit bellyaching and give me a lift."

"All right," I muttered, lacing my fingers into a cup. "But you better not forget to let me in."

"Would I do that?" She flashed an evil grin and placed her right foot into my hands. "When I say 'Go,' heave me up."

"Fine." I hunched over.

"Go!"

I lifted the lithe ex-nun high enough, but something was wrong.

"Damn! Window's stuck."

"Locked?"

"No, stuck. Push me higher. I got a bad angle."

I took a deep breath and obliged, straining my back, stretching my arms, and burning my legs.

When I couldn't stand the pain one more second, I squealed, "I'm about to drop you!"

She let out a triumphant cry. "I've got it!"

Fighting spasmodic muscles, I held on long enough for her to get her head and shoulders inside the house. Unfortunately, that left a lot of Fran Green still facing out.

"Push, Kris!"

"Push what?"

"This ain't no time to be shy. Push my rear end and pray Ruth don't come looking for us. She'll be madder than a hatter if she sees this. You don't want to tangle with her jealous side."

"This is hardly pleasurable," I growled, letting go of her foot. Gritting my teeth, I put a hand on each cheek and shoved, causing Fran to fall into the office with an ominous thump.

"You okay?" I whispered, trying to suppress uncontrollable laughter.

Looking a little wobbly, she rose, dusted off, and straightened her cap. "No thanks to you. You threw me like a shotput."

"Yeah, but you're in."

"That I am." She returned my smile. "Meet me in front."

She closed the window, and I darted around the corner, past Ruth dozing in the car. I sprinted up the porch steps, and my partner in crime opened the door.

Suddenly frozen with fear, I couldn't move forward. "I don't think I can do this."

"What gives?"

I swallowed hard. "I'm too scared."

"Well, I ain't. I'll do it myself. You hunker down and wait here on the porch."

"What if you get caught?"

"They wouldn't send a sixty-five-year-old lady who spent most of her life in the convent to the slammer, would they?"

I shot her a doubtful glance. "Maybe."

"Heck no! What a great human interest story that'd be. I'd play to the media and be out by morning. You worry too much. I'll be fine."

With that, she turned and slinked down the narrow hallway, a thin beam from her flashlight leading the way.

I sat on the cold concrete and tried to stop shaking. Clearly, I wasn't cut out for this line of work. I slumped down and tried to ignore the sounds of the nighta"crickets chirping, a siren in the distance, dogs howlinga"but the crescendo built to a deafening pitch.

I scurried into the office for shelter and almost bumped into Fran.

"There you are. Knew you couldn't miss out on the action."

"What have you found so far?"

"Pringles. Want some?" She held out the can, and a chip fell to the floor.

"Jesus, Fran, I can't believe you're snacking at a time like this." I dropped to my hands and knees and frantically searched for the missing potato piece. "If you keep this up, we'll have to vacuum."

"Soothes my nerves. There's herbal tea in the kitchen and cans of juice and crackers."

I found the lone Pringle and pocketed it. Disgusted, I said, "I didn't come here to eat."

"Plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies, too."

"I'll be right back. Give me the flashlight."

Toward the back of the house, in the kitchen, there was a full-size refrigerator, a microwave, an oak table and chairs, and a small television. Not bad. The set-up made the furnishings at Marketing Consultants look shabby, and I was embarrassed to discover the contents of the fridge and cupboards outshined the combined stock of my office and apartment.

Maybe I need to spend more time in grocery stores, I thought as I peeled back foil from a dish on the table and helped myself to a giant cookie.

I carried the purloined treat back to where Fran waited. "Which one's Dr. Schmidt's office?"

"This baby." She stepped through a doorway into a large window-less room. "Get in, and we'll close the door so we can turn on the light."

After I obeyed, she flipped a switch, and a marble floor lamp softly lit the room. Fran let out a low whistle at the sight of plush hunter green carpet, an executive-size mahogany desk, and an eight-foot-long cream-colored leather couch positioned between matching loveseats. "The doc's doing pretty well for herself. Must be beaucoup bucks in examining heads."

"Hmm," I said, distracted. I was too busy sorting out my feelings to frame a more complete reply.

Oddly enough, for the first time in days, I felt untroubled. No remorse. No guilt. No fear.

I felt like I belonged.

I lay on the couch and felt strangely at ease in the setting a dead woman had visited every Thursday afternoon from four o'clock to five. I was in a safe place. The world could rage by outside, but in here, everything was still. I could have lain there for days, without ever reaching the edge of my sorrow.

For a moment, as I rested, chewing the stolen dessert, I almost felt as if I were Lauren.

I imagined I had come in for an hour of therapy, to sort out my life, to make some sense of it, to find a peace in the world.

Then I remembered the unhappy ending: the painkillers, the isolation, the last breath, and I shivered for this woman who had tried but failed.

The sound of Fran rattling a file drawer broke into my thoughts. "Got to find her records. Lucky for us, Doc Gloria is organized. Check out all these categories: active patients, inactive, group therapy, personal growth, journals, professional associations. Whaddya think?"

"Try inactive," I suggested, wrapping myself in a blanket I found on one of the loveseats.

"Will do." She rifled through the rows of files. "Wrongo! Think it's in active, and she hasn't gotten around to moving it yet?"

"Sure."

Fran ransacked another pile. "Nope. Have to hold a seance and talk to Lauren directly if we can't find this confounded file."

"That's not a bad idea. Do you know any psychics?"

"Kidding, Kris. Put on your thinking cap and help me."

"How about the desk?" I suggested, half-heartedly. "Maybe she's been looking through it recently."

"That's the ticket." Fran took a seat behind the desk and began exploring the contents of the bottom drawer. "Pack of gum. Half-written letter to her mother. Last year's Denver Brass schedule. Birthday card."

"I don't need an inventory."

"And one file folder with Lauren Fairchild's name on top."

"You're kidding!" I sat bolt upright and cinched up the blanket.

Fran shuffled through the papers. "You ready for this?"

"No, but go ahead. Don't tell me all of it. Just read the important stuff."

"You got it." She took out a sheet, held it at arm's length, and squinted to decipher the letters. "Let's see ... looks like Lauren came in for her first visit four years ago. The doc describes her as intelligent, empathetic, intuitive, high functioning."

"Sounds good."

"Also a loner, hypervigilant, mildly depressed, subject to extreme mood swings. Distance between her and permanent partner, N-some-thing. Can't read the handwriting."

"Nicole."

"Right-oh." Fran scanned the private notes. "Night terrors about physical abuse. She's being attacked; she's attacking someone. No deep connection with anyone, except disabled niece. More and more references to guilt. Unusual attachment to Ashley, probably sees self as disabled."

"No kidding, given her childhood."

"Perhaps reliving trauma of not being able to 'save' sibling. Get this, Krisa"" Fran's voice rose with excitement before breaking off completely.

"What?"

"Here's a whole page detailing how her brother died."

Suddenly the walls seemed too close. My heart started pounding faster and louder, and panic filled me. "Someone told her about it?" I croaked.

"Worse."

I felt sickeningly hot and threw off the blanket. "Don't tell mea""

Fran's head moved in slow motion, up and down, then became still. "Lauren saw it all, Kris. Every last bit of it."

13.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I cried, darting from the office.