Harper waited.

'It's called Rapid Eye Movement Therapy.'

Harper had heard of Rapid Eye Movement. 'Wait. REM. Does that have something to do with sleep?'

'Yes, REM occurs when people dream. But we'd do this while you're awake. It sometimes helps PTSD symptoms.'

Leslie had a cancellation the next afternoon, wanted Harper to come and talk about it. Maybe, Harper dared to think, just maybe there was hope for ending her flashbacks. And if there was hope for her flashbacks, maybe there was hope for other things, too. Like for Hank. Their future. Harper started her bike and rode home, humming oldies, resting her mind, focusing on the open road.

Halfway through her rendition of 'Stand By Me', Harper pulled into the driveway, parked her Ninja, hung her helmet on the bike and her sack on her shoulder. Walking to the house, she glanced at the porch and was surprised to see someone there, sitting on the swing. Wearing all pink. Monique? But what was Monique doing there? As far as she knew, her students didn't know where she lived, let alone feel free to drop by uninvited.

'Monique? Is that you?' Harper called from the path.

Monique didn't answer. She didn't seem to hear.

Harper continued toward the house, watching the person in pink, seeing the bandage on her arm. Yes, it was definitely Monique. She was slouching, asleep.

'Monique?' Harper called gently, not wanting to startle her. It wasn't until she climbed the steps to the porch that she noticed a puddle clotting on the blue wooden slats, not until she rounded the banister that she saw a large dark stain along the neckline of Monique's no longer pink shirt.

'Monique-' Harper dashed over, trying to rouse the tall, muscular girl, feeling for a pulse. Then, backing away, she tripped down her porch steps into the overgrown grass, pawing through her bag for her phone even though Monique was beyond help. Monique was dead. Murdered, and the killer might still be around.

Harper rooted around in her bag, fumbling under students' papers and Hank's computer while she scanned the property, the copse of trees beside the house. Was someone lurking there? Across the street, in those hedges a did something just move? Harper spun around, braced for ambush, hearing sniper fire, smelling blood.

But where was her damned phone? Frustrated, Harper dumped her entire sack on to the ground. Out came Hank's computer, student papers, faculty memos, Graham's list of numbers, baby wipes, cloves, keys, wallet, the lemon. And half hidden by a water bottle, her cell phone. Her throat tight, heart pounding, she dialed 911, eyeing Monique, seeing Hank unconscious on the hedges. Harper blinked to make him go away. But he didn't. He stayed there, his body splayed atop the dogwoods.

No, she insisted, and she reached into the weeds for something yellow, picked it up, but by then Sameh was crossing the road, walking toward Marvin. Lemon in one hand, phone in the other, Harper ran to warn them, dodging sniper fire. But where were they? Oh God. She smelled burnt flesh, felt stickiness on her belly.

'Nineaoneaone. What is your emergency?'

What was her emergency? Seriously?

'I need help-' Harper crouched for cover, had no breath.

'Tell me your name? Where are you, ma'am?'

Where? Rapid gunfire, swarms of flies and smoky dust concealed her exact location. But she was holding a lemon. A lemon? Where was her gun? Why was she holding a lemon? Bite it, Leslie's voice urged. What? Bite the lemon? What for? But she did. She opened her mouth and shoved the thing in, skin and all. And bit down, hard.

Sour juice and bitter rind jolted her taste buds, shocked her into the moment. Harper blinked, looking around. Christ, how had she gotten behind the hedges?

The voice called out. 'Ma'am? Are you there?'

Harper's lips puckered from the lemon; her words were distorted. 'My student a someone killed her.'

Dazed, Harper emerged from the bushes and stood, recovering, before deliberately approaching Monique. Making sure she was really dead.

'Where are you, ma'am?'

Climbing on to the porch, Harper started to give her address, but didn't finish. She couldn't. She saw a sudden white flash, felt the impact of something slamming her head, but she didn't have time to process either before everything went dark.

'Ma'am?'

Harper had been conscious for a while, but she hadn't let on. She'd stayed flat on the porch with her eyes half shut, playing possum, assessing her situation. Was she a prisoner of war? Was the enemy still there, watching her? The person talking to her a was he really an American? If so, why didn't he address her by rank and title? Cautiously, she opened an eye, looking for a weapon. Seeing only a doormat and blood-spattered blue paint.

Blue paint? Wait. She remembered something about blue paint. Something . . .

'Mrs Jennings? Can you hear me?'

A shoulder descended into view. Wearing a white shirt. With a red cross on it. A paramedic?

Harper blinked. Took a breath. Tried to sit up, thought better of it. Grunted.

'Don't get up. Stay still.'

Harper stared.

'It looks like somebody slammed you with a two by four.'

A what? 'Where?'

'You're at home, ma'am. On your porch.'

The answer confused her. She'd meant where on her body. She hadn't yet located a source of pain; everything hurt. Somewhere, her cell phone was playing a jingle, announcing a call.

'Just lie still. We'll take care of you.'

'No. I'm fine,' Harper tried to say, but her voice was muffled, her words lacked form. Like Hank's, she thought. Hank? Was Hank calling? No, she remembered; he couldn't be. Oh God, would she be like him now, brain-damaged, unable to talk? What a perfect couple, talking nonsense to each other. The medic messed with her, shining a light in her eyes. When he turned away, Harper tried again to sit, wriggled up, made it this time.

'Ma'am, you need to lie down.'

But Harper wouldn't. She looked around, orienting herself. Remembering. Someone had killed her student. On her front porch. And then they must have attacked her. In just a couple of days a within heartbeats of each other a two of her students had died. Who was doing this? And why? Harper lifted a hand to the side of her head, found a lump. OK, she thought; it's not so bad. She struggled to her feet; the paramedic tried to force her back down.

'Please, ma'am. Stay still. You have a concussion.'

Another one? How many could she get in a week? Was there a limit? A world record?

'But I have to go-'

'No, ma'am.' He interrupted, pressing on her. 'You don't need to go anywhere.'

The guy was pissing her off.

'Yes, I do.' Harper pushed him away.

He took a stance as if he might actually try to overpower her. Wobbly, she faced him, preparing to take him down. Somewhere, her phone was ringing again.

'Mrs Jennings?'

Harper turned too quickly, sent her brain spinning, She nearly fell over.

'What are you doing on your feet?' For a moment, Detective Rivers appeared to have two heads, both of which glared. 'You need to lie down. At least sit.' Detective Rivers a both of her a took Harper by the elbow.

'I told her to lie down. Her skull might be cracked.' The paramedic tried to redeem himself. There were two of him, as well. 'I advised her not to move-'

'I got this. Give us a sec.' The Detectives Rivers led Harper to the steps, sat her down.

Harper looked out at the overgrown yard, covered with police cars and ambulances. Cops, medical workers and crime scene investigators scurried around; a gaggle of gapers stood at the curb; a television crew or two had set up near the street. It was just like the commotion after Graham's suicide, except that this time it was her front yard. And everything was blurry. Harper shivered, cold. In shock.

Detective Rivers handed Harper her phone. 'You were holding this.'

Harper remembered a lemon. 'I was calling the police-'

'You called nineaoneaone. It seems you got knocked out in the middle of the call.'

A man whose Yankees T-shirt was tucked into his jeans walked over, and Rivers introduced Detective Boschi. He was chewing gum.

'I'm cold.' Harper's teeth chattered. 'Can I go inside for a sweater?'

Rivers asked the paramedic for a blanket. Detective Boschi led her to the gazebo beside the house, away from the commotion. The gazebo hadn't been used all year, though, and spiders had taken over. The detectives swung sticks around, clearing away webs, and, finally, they led Harper in, sitting with her on the benches inside.

Shivering despite the blanket and the heat, Harper told them how she'd come home to find Monique dead on the porch, how she had no idea why the young woman was there. She omitted the parts about the suicide bombers and the lemon. As she talked, the detectives made occasional side comments, drawing comparisons, making references to other cases. Harper tried to follow but couldn't. Maybe the spider webs had penetrated her head. Why was it so hard to think?

The detectives huddled together, conferring, and the paramedic came back and checked her pulse, speaking in a soft slow voice as if she were a child. 'Try to relax, ma'am.'

Harper obeyed. Trying to relax, she watched television crews filming reports from the curb and police investigating on her porch. And while the paramedic studied her scalp, she listened in on the detectives.

'. . . wounds are similar,' Rivers said. 'She was slashed like the waitress.'

'Yeah,' Boschi agreed. 'But this doesn't look like a rape. And there's no mutilation or signs of struggle.'

Harper's arm tickled; she looked down, saw a brown spider. Brushed it off. Looked down to see where it landed. And saw spiders everywhere. Red, black, brown, yellow. All shapes, all sizes. She looked up, found dozens, hundreds more, crawling. Spinning webs. Harper was on her feet, slapping her clothes, shaking the blanket, jumping into the grass.

'Harper?' Rivers called.

'Spiders!'

Knee high in weeds, with double vision, Harper watched four detectives leap out of the gazebo, joining her.

Boschi brushed off his arms. 'Porch is free now.'

Blood still pooled near the swinging bench, but Monique's body had been removed. The detectives sat Harper on a wicker love seat at the other end of the porch, away from the blood.

Boschi leaned against a window frame. Harper noticed that the screen was loose; another thing she'd have to fix.

'You already know,' Detective Rivers began, 'this isn't the first murder of its kind around here.'

Harper tried to ignore the tickling along her back and between her breasts. No spiders, she assured herself, had crept under her clothes.

'But, more to the point, it's not the first connected to you.'

Or inside her thighs. Harper pressed her legs together, trying to smash anything walking there.

'First there was the waitress,' Rivers prompted. 'Chelsea, remember?'

Did she think Harper could forget?

'Now there's this young woman. Monique.' Detective Rivers frowned. 'And again, the victim knew you.'

Harper shivered.

'So. Three deaths in two days. And, as a bonus, you got mugged twice in the same time period. So, it's not rocket science to conclude that you and/or people you know are being targeted.' She paused for emphasis.

Harper repeated the last sentence in her mind. And couldn't quite grasp it.

'Frankly a' Rivers crossed her arms a 'we're not sure yet what we're dealing with. But you should be aware that many serial killers follow patterns in choosing their victims.'

Whoa a serial killers? Harper looked up; the trees, the sky, everything a even her thoughts a were floating clockwise. Was someone she knew a serial killer? Who? Larry popped to mind. After all, Monique had been his girlfriend, Graham his room-mate. Maybe he'd known Chelsea, too. He volunteered at the Neurology Center, probably went to the coffee shop there. Larry might be connected to all three of the dead.

Harper pictured him a a wiry kid with shaggy hair, bad skin, big eyes. He'd been looking for Graham's book bag, his money and pills. But could he kill? She didn't want to think so. And Monique had been inches taller, had bigger bones; in a fight with Larry, she'd probably win. Besides, Larry couldn't be the only one with connections to the victims a lots of students must have known all three.

But Detective Rivers wasn't finished. '. . . whoever the killer is, he knows you. You are clearly on his radar.'

Without warning, something came up Harper's throat, acidy sweet. And she smelled something metallic and overpowering. Monique's clotting blood? Harper needed to get to the bathroom, fast. She stood and took a step, but tottered unsteadily. No way she'd make it inside. Instead, she turned and thrust herself against the railing, letting half-digested chili fly into the grass. Sweating profusely, she felt less shivery as the paramedic reminded her that nausea was a symptom typical of concussions.

Harper sank back on to the wicker seat, asking again if she could go into the house, wash her face, lie down. Rivers looked at Boschi.

Boschi shrugged. 'The house has been checked out; it's safe. But before you go in, you need to know. Somebody's been in there.'

What did that mean? Had she been robbed? Vandalized?

Boschi chomped on his gum. 'I'll go in with you. You'll need to make sure nothing's missing. Make a list of things that are gone-'

'Harper! Harper!' Vicki stood at the curb, yelling. She'd seen live coverage of the murder on the television in her office waiting room and sped over; now she was annoying police, shouting across their barricade. At Harper's insistence, Detective Rivers let her through. She ran over, hugging Harper, asking questions.

'What happened? Are you all right? Christ. Look at all the blood-'

'Mrs Jennings? Are you ready?' Impatient, Boschi held the door open.

Harper brushed away another invisible spider and took hold of Vicki's arm. 'Come with me? They said someone's been inside.' She stepped to the door.

'Who did this?' Vicki whispered. 'Do you have any idea?'

Harper shook her head, but again thought of Larry. How he'd pressed her for Graham's money and pills. And for that list of numbers, whatever it was. She ought to look at it more closely, still had it in her bag.

Harper was distracted, thinking about Larry. So she was startled when Vicki gasped, 'What the hell happened?'

Then, looking around her living room, Harper had a pretty clear idea.

The house was a shambles. Drop cloths had been removed and thrown about, cushions tossed off the sofa and chairs upended. Harper moved slowly from room to room, still off balance, holding Vicki's arm and the walls for support.