'Really.'

'I guess you don't remember. It's understandable; you were pretty distraught. But I took the call. In fact, I was here for quite a while after your husband's accident.'

Harper didn't remember, couldn't recall any faces other than Hank's. And there he was again, in the hedges, banged up and bloodied.

'How's he doing, by the way?'

'Hank?' Stupid question. What other husband did she have? 'He's coming along.'

Detective Rivers watched her, but not unkindly. 'You know, Mrs Jennings a Harper a Ithaca's a pretty small city. And, in the summer when most students are gone, it's generally quiet. But today, in twenty-four hours, we've had a suicide, a mugging, a murder.'

Harper huddled into the parka.

'We have two healthy young people dead. True, one's a suicide and one's a homicide. But both were violent. And both of the deceased are connected to you.'

Harper stiffened. 'What are you saying, Detect-'

'Relax.' Her tone softened. 'I'm not saying you're responsible.' She put her hands up as if to ward Harper off. 'I'm just saying that this is Ithaca. Oh, it's not Eden. We get our share of crimes: date rapes, kids driving under the influence, fights at bars, stolen IDs, drug overdoses. A few suicides every year. Once in a while, we get homicides. Matter of fact, you might remember Jimmy Moran killing his wife and her boyfriend back in December. And I mentioned earlier the recent rapes, arsons and deaths associated with those pills you gave me.'

'That waitress a did she have pills on her, too?'

'No. At least, we didn't find any.' Detective Rivers tilted her head. 'But my point is, two violent deaths within a day? Not in Ithaca. That's not normal. And even less normal are two violent deaths and a mugging on the same day that both of the dead victims have spent time in the company of the mugging victim-'

'Now wait a I had nothing to do with that murder. I didn't even know that waitress-'

'Still.' Detective Rivers pursed her lips, nodding. 'It's odd, don't you think?'

Harper didn't answer. But yes, it was odd.

'Assuming that you had nothing to do with either death, here's my point. Given the unlikelihood that the victims' connections to you are coincidental, and given that you've already been attacked once, you might opt to exercise extreme caution.'

'Sorry?' Harper blinked.

'OK. Try this. These incidents are too close to you for comfort. I wish our department had spare officers to keep an eye on you, but we don't. The best I can do is have a car drive by now and then. But, until we figure this out, I don't think you should be alone. Do you have a friend you could stay with for a while?'

Harper sat speechless. Hours ago, Leslie had given her the same advice.

'Do you? A girlfriend maybe?'

Harper thought of Vicki. But she didn't want to go there. 'I don't know.'

Detective Rivers let out a sigh. 'Well, think about it, OK? I understand that, being a combat veteran, you probably assume you can take care of yourself. But that didn't work too well for you earlier today. If I were you, I'd avoid being alone. I'd keep my eyes open and my backside covered.'

'But I don't understand. Why would someone want to hurt me?' She pictured a hooded figure on a bicycle and felt the open-mouthed pull of the gorge.

'I don't know. But somebody already has. And we have to assume he'll try again.' Detective Rivers stood, put a card on the coffee table. 'Harper, you think of anything, need anything, call me. I'll look in on you as frequently as I can. But, even with police drive-bys, you need to be careful. Lock your doors and windows when I leave.' The detective's eyes insisted on compliance.

Harper walked her to the door and double-locked it behind her. Then she went back to the kitchen and locked the door, threw the uneaten noodly peanut thing into the trash and downed another shot of Scotch.

In the morning, leather bag secured behind her, Harper was a bit hungover as she piloted the Ninja to visit Hank. She rode around campus along Thurston to East, over to Hoy, damp morning air clinging to her skin. The clouds had thickened; maybe it would finally rain, breaking the heatwave.

Harper left the cycle in the lot, following her usual routine as if it were just another hot summer day. As if she weren't looking around, eyeing strangers. Pedestrians. Drivers. Detective Rivers' warning had intensified Harper's state of alert. Why was that guy in jogging gear lingering at the corner? Was he really reading that magazine? And that woman in the Bimmer a was she staring?

Harper walked across the parking lot, braced for a fight, assuring herself that Detective Rivers was wrong. It was merely a coincidence that she'd seen both Graham and Chelsea shortly before their deaths. Nobody could reasonably think that the suicide and the murder were connected to each other, much less to her. Still, she was watchful. And bothered by something else.

Trent's insinuation plagued her. The idea of Hank and Vicki was absurd; Hank wouldn't cheat. And, if he would, it wouldn't be with Vicki, his best friend's wife and his wife's best friend. So why was she bothered?

Entering the building, her mind bounced from one troubling topic to another. Preoccupied, she signed in at reception, greeted Laurie and hurried to the elevator. When the doors opened on the third floor, she almost barreled into Ron Kendall's partner, Dr Steven Wyatt.

Dr Wyatt was the senior of the two, more heavily established in the medical community and a principal force in the establishment of Cayuga Neurological Center. Obviously, though, his stature as a physician hadn't heightened his self-esteem. A tall, stout, socially inept man, Dr Wyatt struggled to conceal his baldness with an ill-fitting toupee, darker and straighter than the sideburns protruding from it.

'Mrs Jennings.' The line of Dr Wyatt's mouth barely moved when he spoke.

'Hello.' Harper tried to pass.

Dr Wyatt, though, didn't move aside or step into the elevator. He stood stiffly, eyeing her closely. 'Are you doing very fine today?' He cleared his throat, as if to erase his bungled phrasing.

Harper didn't want to discuss how she was doing. Stepping around him, she forced a smile and a 'yes, thanks, and you?' and kept moving, head down so she'd make eye contact with no one else. She didn't slow down until she got to Hank's room, but, even as she entered 307, she felt Dr Wyatt's probing gaze following her, piercing her back.

As soon as he saw her, Hank's eyes sparkled their usual affectionate light. His kiss felt the same as usual. And he wore his usual hearty grin, unmarred by guilt or deceit. Harper snuggled against him, fitting herself into the crevice between his torso and his undamaged arm, breathing in synchrony. She was with Hank a her Hank. And the troubles of the outside world faded a wars, suicides, murders. Cheating.

But there had been no cheating. Trent's ramblings had been merely boozy banter. Harper nuzzled, secure and hopeful. Soon Hank would be well enough to come home. The recent crimes would be solved. Life would resume where it had left off.

'News?'

News. Oh dear. He wanted to know what was going on. But it wasn't right to burden Hank with accounts of murder and suicide. There was one incident that she could tell him about, though.

'Trent came by.'

Hank frowned.

'He asked how you're doing.'

'Now. Why.'

'He's writing an article. He needs notes from your files.' She waited, slowing down, giving him time to respond.

'Trent.' That was it, Hank's entire comment. It had taken all that time for him to say one syllable.

'So, your notes a are they on a jump drive? Or did you print them out?'

Hank twisted his mouth, frowning, agitated. 'Not.'

Not. Not printed? Not in the computer? Or maybe he did not remember?

Hank moved away, pointing at her chest with his stronger hand. 'Notes. Trent. Not. No.' His voice was firm, his eyes steely. But why wouldn't he want Trent to have his notes? They'd worked together for years, shared credit on articles.

'Friend. Trent. Not.' Hank's eyes gleamed. Understandably, Hank would feel that way; Trent hadn't come to see him in weeks.

'He is your friend, Hank. He just can't face you.' Harper waited, choosing her words. 'Trent's been drinking a lot. He blames himself for your accident.'

Hank's expression didn't soften, and she wondered what he understood. The doctors couldn't be sure, and Harper worried that his comprehension wasn't much better than his speech. Hank glowered, his face dark with anger or frustration. Or something else. Fear? But fear of what?

'Vicki. Trent. Cheat.'

Cheat? Vicki? Trent? What? Cheat? Clearly, he'd used the word by chance. He wasn't a couldn't be a telling her that he'd had an affair with Vicki.

Hank nodded, emphatically. Somberly.

'You mean Trent cheated on Vicki?'

'No.' He shook his head. 'Me. Screw.'

Harper stopped breathing. She blinked, chest searing, not willing to decode any more of Hank's phrases. Had he just confessed to an affair? So casually, without a trace of shame? With no apology? Quite the contrary; he seemed earnest, eager to talk. He uttered a syllable, stopped mid-word, started again, sputtered with frustration.

Harper almost asked him a almost said, 'Hank, did you and Vicki have an affair?' She started to ask, but stopped at 'Hank', not ready to hear his answer. Instead of finishing the question, she looked at the door and stood. It was almost time to go anyway. But Hank grasped her arm.

'Hoppa. Wait. Hear.' Or here.

She sat again, eyes on the door.

'Not. Trent. Me. Push.'

Harper's mouth went dry. For the first time, Hank was talking about his fall. She spoke slowly. 'I know Trent didn't push you. It was an accident.'

Hank tried again. 'Screwed Vicki. Push me. Trent new.' Or knew? He was breathing hard, watching her urgently, but Harper didn't want to understand what he meant. In fact, she tried not to grasp his apparent assertion that Trent had pushed Hank off the roof because Hank had screwed Vicki.

'Not let. Trent. Hoppa look. You find. Why.' Hank was insistent. He slapped the armrest as punctuation. Or frustration. 'You see.'

He was combining words. Another sign of progress. First, Hank had talked about his fall; then he was making phrases. Harper should be elated, but she wasn't. She wanted to slug him.

Hank watched her, his expression open and guileless. Clearly, she was misinterpreting his meaning. She must be. There were other explanations for 'screwed Vicki'; had to be. Even if she couldn't imagine what they might be.

'Not Trent. You find.' Hank resisted her embrace, hell bent on telling her something, twisting his tongue to form a sound. 'Ah. Coo. Mal.'

Had Hank just said Acumal? 'Acumal?'

Hank nodded. Acumal. The town in the Yucatan where they'd spent their honeymoon.

'Trent. Not. You see. You. Ah coo mal.'

Harper had no idea what he meant. Unless it was that he didn't want Trent to know about their honeymoon? 'Hank, I don't understand.'

Hank kept trying. Repeating, 'Ah. Coo. Mal. Save.'

Finally, she couldn't stand it any more. 'Enough. Please, Hank. Stop.'

Questions filled his eyes. 'Hoppa?'

'I'm sorry. I don't get what you're trying to say.' Go on, she told herself. Get it over with. Ask him if he cheated. But Hank's eyes were concerned, full of affection. Her question got stuck, wouldn't come out. And the words that did surprised her.

'Dammit, Hank. Dammit, dammit.' Tears swelled in her eyes; she turned away.

Hank put a hand on her cheek, guiding it back so she'd face him. 'Mad. You?' He wiped a tear.

'No, I'm fine.'

'Me, Hoppa. What. Tell.' He waited.

'Tell? OK.' Her tone was sharp, her mind on Vicki. 'Hank, you're not the only one who got hurt when you fell. We both did. This is a struggle for me, too.'

Hank looked down, shoulders sagging, jaw muscles tight. He didn't try to speak, simply sat.

Harper felt as if she'd slapped him. 'I'm sorry.' She hesitated to touch him. 'I just meant this has been tough on us both.'

Hank sat still for another moment. Then slowly, he put a hand out and gently moved Harper's head to his shoulder. They stayed that way, wordlessly holding each other until the orderly came to take Hank to physical therapy.

Harper's entire body felt bruised, and her leg was so stiff that, even though she despised the haze caused by medication, she allowed herself a pain pill. She popped one with a gulp of to-go iced chai from the coffee shop, where she avoided the eyes of the cashier, afraid to see grief for Chelsea, the murdered waitress. Then, with time to spare before her recitation, she parked the Ninja down the hill from campus and climbed, listing the good things in her life. Her chai. The panorama. Air that was free of dust and smoke. Her survival, and Hank's.

At the top of the hill, she didn't stop to enjoy the view; she detoured to Hank's office in Snee Hall, hoping to find his laptop and notes. And to figure out why Hank didn't want Trent to have them.

The office was locked, so she had to find Marcia, the department secretary, and ask for a key. By the time she finally got the door opened, the pill had started to kick in; she was tempted to curl up on the reclining chair and nap. Instead, she opened the blinds, letting in daylight, and looked around. Dust floated in the sunbeams, coated every surface. The room hadn't been touched; the desk calendar was still opened to April. A pile of phone messages still waited to be answered. A Cubs hat hung on the coat rack, ready for Hank's head. Photos dotted the walls: Hank on geologic studies with Trent; Hank with grad students. There were shots with Harper, too, snorkeling on their honeymoon, camping in the mountains, building their deck, soaking in the hot tub. From all corners of the office, pre-accident Hank beamed at her, sturdy and confident, without the faintest idea of what was to come.

Harper couldn't breathe, had to leave. Without even looking for the notes, she located Hank's laptop, stuffed it into her sack and fled the office, leaving it to the dust.

About forty minutes until recitation. She still hadn't finished her remarks about Graham, and the dean was coming. She'd have to introduce him. Harper walked to her office, trying to come up with appropriate words.

Nothing.

The air was hot and breezeless again, the sky filled with dark swollen clouds. Harper looked up, wishing for a storm.

Oh, get on with it, she told herself. Just begin. OK. 'Good morning.' Excellent. She was on a roll. 'We have a guest today.' Brilliant.

Harper climbed the steps to her office without a clue what to say. Apparently, the pill she'd taken had numbed her brain more than her pain; her leg still throbbed, but she couldn't think. Maybe she'd just say, 'Dean Van Arsdale is here to talk to us.' Was that too blunt? Did his ego require more fanfare?

'Loot?'

Harper turned to the voice. Anna was waiting outside her office door. She covered her mouth, gaped at Harper's face. 'God. What happened?'

'Just an accident.'

'On your motorcycle? Did you crash?'

Harper smiled at Anna's earnestness. 'No. Not on my motorcycle.'

'But you're OK?'

'Yes. Fine. What's up?'