The hutch in the dining room had been emptied out; china dinner plates and long-stemmed wine glasses, some broken, littered the floor. The kitchen was a mess. The freezer had been emptied. Her stash of rum-raisin ice cream, Dove and Snickers bars dotted the floor, defrosting alongside frozen lima beans and packages of Lean Cuisine. The shelves of the cupboard held only a few cans of soup or beans; everything else a pasta, cake mixes, jars of spaghetti sauce a lay helter-skelter on countertops. Canisters of flour and sugar had been dumped on to the floor.

Harper felt as if she'd been sucker-punched. Who had done this? And why? Her den was topsy-turvy like the living room. Completely ransacked. Down the hall, she opened the door to Hank's office and stopped, gawking.

Every drawer had been pulled from the desk and emptied on to the floor. Every book had been removed from the shelves. Papers were strewn everywhere a files, journals. The desk chair was upside down, the couch overturned. Artwork, paintings and photographs had been ripped from the wall. The room a the only finished room in the house a had literally been torn apart.

Harper cursed, livid, holding on to the wall. Her head throbbed, leg ached, stomach churned; even so, the feeling she was most aware of was rage. Police were still in the house; she heard them upstairs in her bedroom. Oh God. Had the intruders gone through her clothes? Her lingerie? Her old uniforms? Hank's things? Had they opened her jewelry box, stolen his grandmother's pearl-and-emerald engagement ring? Outraged, she headed for the stairs, but stopped, dizzy. About to be sick again.

'Mrs Jennings?'

'Harper?'

Vicki and the police were calling her. Harper didn't answer a didn't dare open her mouth. As fast as she could, she ran to the bathroom across from Hank's office, trying to make it to the toilet. Realizing that, if she didn't, it didn't much matter; the house was already a catastrophe.

Hand over her mouth, Harper lunged over the bowl just in time. It wasn't until she stood up, wiping her face with a washcloth, seeing cough medicine, toothpaste, the entire contents of the medicine cabinet, strewn everywhere, that she looked in the mirror and realized, without making a sound or even a flinch, that she wasn't alone.

In the mirror, she saw someone huddled in corner by the laundry basket, hiding behind the bathroom door.

Harper held the washcloth at her face, not even breathing, watching the dark sneakers in the mirror. For a few measured heartbeats, she stood that way, waiting, watching. If he moved, she'd tackle him, flatten him. Put him in a headlock. Yell for the police; they were right across the hall. But what good were the police? They'd obviously failed to notice this rather significant detail in the bathroom. Never mind. For now, she had to be cool; she had the advantage of surprise, didn't want to blow it. The guy was behind the door, unaware that she'd seen him. Even so, she shouldn't be too confident; if he'd killed Monique, who was large and formidable, he must be strong. And he might still have the knife. Probably, she shouldn't attack. Probably, she should pretend she hadn't seen him, leave and tell the police he was in there.

Yes, that was the best idea. Walk away. Quickly. And send in the cops.

OK. On the count of three, she'd leave. She counted, making no sudden movements. One. She put the washcloth down, leaving Hank's shaving cream, razor and deodorant in the sink. Slowly, checking the mirror one last time, she turned toward the door. Two. Her bad leg felt like cement, but she stepped forward, keeping the sneakers in her peripheral vision. When they didn't move, she dared another glance at them, saw blue jeans above them. And something else on the tile floor beside the jeans. Something wet. And red.

Harper didn't get to three. She swung the door back, and there was Larry, propped up against the wall, Harper's nail file protruding from his neck.

Harper and Vicki sat at the kitchen table opposite the two detectives, who, in Harper's vision, occasionally split into four. The boy with no face appeared and disappeared as pieces of Marvin sporadically decorated the walls. Harper pressed an ice bag against her lump, focusing on the cold, not only to ease her pain but also to push away flashbacks. Other people a police, people from the coroner's office, investigators, insurgents, suicide bombers and God knew who else a wandered in and out of the house.

Detective Rivers had blasted two uniformed officers for not finding the body, had apologized profusely to Harper for the inexcusable oversight, had offered again to have her taken to the hospital. When Harper again refused, Boschi asked if any of her possessions had been stolen. Harper blinked mutely. How the hell was she supposed to know if anything had been stolen? She'd only been in the house for a couple of minutes, and every single one of her possessions had been turned upside down or tossed on to the floor.

But the detective asked again.

'I don't know.' Harper knew she was in shock. She'd stopped shivering, but all of her, even her blood, was cold. Her thoughts were muddled and slow.

Detective Rivers asked another question: Did Harper have any idea what Monique or Larry had been doing at her house?

Harper imagined the two of them, Monique waiting on the porch as Larry snuck around, searching. But, suddenly, it wasn't Larry prowling around in the house; it was Trent Manning. After all, just a couple of days ago, she'd caught Trent rifling thought Hank's office. Maybe Trent had come back, desperate to find Hank's papers. Maybe Trent had found the students at the house and confronted them . . .

No. Trent couldn't have killed anyone. Certainly, not over Hank's notes. And if he were going to, it wouldn't be by stabbing; he'd probably pass out if he saw blood. But if not Trent, who could have been there?

Harper didn't get it. Why would Larry and Monique come over? It had to connect with Graham. Again, she replayed Larry's visit to her office, asking her for Graham's book bag. Larry and Monique must have thought she had something of Graham's a something to do with the stolen drugs. And they'd come looking for it. But what was it? And why would they look in her house? Larry had known she'd given Graham's things to the police.

The detective touched Harper's arm. 'Harper? Are you all right?' She was attractive, Detective Rivers. Chocolate skin, round eyes. She was trying to be patient.

Vicki took Harper's hand. 'Would you like a drink, Harper? Some Scotch?'

Harper shook her head.

'She really should go to the hospital.' Boschi chewed. 'She's not right.'

'I agree, Harper. You should get looked at.'

Harper put a hand on her thigh, remembering the pain of her operations. And the terror of the vigil she'd spent beside Hank's bed. No, no hospital.

'Well, then? Do you know why?'

Why? Why what? What was the question? Rivers repeated it. Did she know why the kids had been at her house? Oh, right. That question.

'No,' she answered. 'But I think it was about Graham. The stolen pills.'

'How did you know about that?' Boschi's tone was pointed.

'About what?'

'That they had pills on them.' Rivers' gaze zeroed in on Harper.

'We found a vial in Larry's pants pocket, another in Monique's bag.' Boschi frowned. 'How did you know that?'

'I didn't.' But now that she did, Harper was certain that the pills were at the root of the deaths, and she told the detectives about Larry.

Boschi frowned, chewed hard on his gum. Maybe he didn't believe her. Maybe he thought she was a thief, a drug dealer, a killer. Harper's head hurt; she closed her eyes and saw Monique on the swing and Larry slumped against her bathroom wall. Damn. Why were they dead? They were just kids.

Just kids. But Graham, Monique and Larry weren't typical. All three had participated in research studies at the clinic, and all three had been in possession of stolen pills. Harper tried to remember who else she'd seen at the clinic. Larry and Monique. Jeremy. And Esoso and his room-mate . . .

Wait. Maybe Larry and Monique hadn't been at the house alone. Maybe a whole swarm of students a a gang including Esoso and Jeremy a had been there. Certainly, the place looked like an entire horde had invaded it. Maybe something had gone wrong, and the gang killed Monique and Larry? But what about Chelsea? Would they have killed her, too?

Harper's head pounded. She was making up scenarios based on nothing. Her students weren't killers. But who else had a reason to ransack her house and kill Monique and Larry? Who else even knew about the drugs? She could think of no one. Well, except Ron. And Dr Wyatt. And the other researchers at the clinic. And, of course, the FDA.

Eyes open again, she clutched an ice bag, refusing to duck for cover even when Marvin exploded right next to her. Think of the coldness, the ice, she ordered herself. You're in the kitchen. Count the tiles on the floor, or the dishes tossed there.

Detective Rivers was watching her. 'Is it?'

Apparently, Harper had missed yet another chunk of conversation. 'Sorry?'

'Your phone? Is that your phone?'

Harper hadn't heard it. Anyhow, it had stopped. It was probably her mother. Or Leslie. It didn't matter.

The detective leaned closer, studying Harper's pupils. The boy with no face kicked her hard under the table, but she didn't react. Harper sat stoic and unmoving, her face inscrutable, watching bodies fall, hearing men scream.

Trent was out cold, reeking of booze on his living room sofa. Harper sank on to an adjacent easy chair, listening to him snore. Her house was a crime scene, and Detective Rivers had positively forbidden her to stay anywhere alone, had even threatened to put her into protective custody. She'd avoided that by agreeing to let rotating cruisers keep an eye on her, packing a small bag and promising to stay at Trent and Vicki's. The snoring, though, amounted to torture, and Harper couldn't decide which was worse a a serial killer or Trent's snoring a when Vicki rescued her, taking her by the hand into the kitchen.

'Hungry?' Vicki asked. 'I need to eat.'

Eat? Harper's stomach had been empty since she'd lost her lunch hours ago, but she hadn't even thought about food. Suddenly, though, she saw a cake on the table and was voracious. 'What's that?'

'Red velvet cake. I baked this morning.' Vicki baked when she was upset. 'Ham sandwich OK?'

Harper nodded, eyes on the cake.

Vicki set an empty glass in front of Harper and poured a few fingers of Scotch. 'Drink.'

Harper already had double vision and a double concussion. Scotch wasn't a good idea.

'Go on. Drink.' Vicki sounded like a drill sergeant.

Harper didn't.

But Vicki did. She lifted her glass. 'To better days.' She drained it.

What the hell, Harper thought. 'Amen.'

The booze burned her throat but warmed her insides. Vicki topped off the glass and refilled her own, gulping most of it before getting out the bread and ham. Leaving Harper alone with the cake.

Her stomach was empty. And cutting seemed like a waste of time and clean knives. She reached out a finger.

'Harper, wait a I'll cut you a piece-'

'Don't bother.' Harper's mouth was full. She gouged out another piece, moist and rich and gently chocolate. Vicki's baking was always perfect. In fact, everything Vicki did was perfect. Her home was immaculate. Her clothes high fashion, her red nails flawless. Did Hank think so, too? Had he been impressed by Vicki's perfectness? The idea infuriated Harper, and she dug her unmanicured fingers back into the cake, withdrawing a shapeless blob of reddish brown and ivory, shoving it into her mouth. She chased the cake with Scotch. Yum. When she set her glass down, she realized that she saw only one hand holding a single glass a no doubles. Good. She was recovering. Maybe liquor was helping.

At any rate, she was calming down, had stopped shivering. Vicki brought their sandwiches and sat, eyeing the damaged cake, swallowing Scotch. 'Really, Harper? Taking your frustration out on baked goods?'

Harper bit into her sandwich.

'Well, if it helps, have at it. Because, I mean, two murders? At your house? Oh God, what a horror.'

Harper chewed, saw Monique on the porch, Larry on the bathroom floor. Graham on the Arts Quad. Her eyes welled up. The food clogged her throat, so she washed it down with Scotch. And then she let go and sobbed.

The tears wouldn't stop.

'The shock is wearing off.' Vicki hugged her. She spoke with authority, as if she knew about shock. 'Reality is hitting you.'

Vicki was right. Except that reality wasn't just hitting her, it was beating her to a pulp. Harper used a mustard-stained napkin to smear tears off her face. She needed to get hold of herself and think. Why had Larry and Monique been killed? How were their murders connected to the stolen drugs? Why had they been at her house? And what had the guy on the bike and whoever had ransacked her house been looking for? Did they think she had the drugs?

She put down the napkin, unable to figure anything out. All she knew for sure was that, for all her training and military expertise, she'd failed to protect anyone. Not Marvin, Sameh, the boy or the others in Iraq. Not her husband, her students or herself here at home.

'Go ahead, Harper. Cry. You have every reason to feel sorry for yourself.'

Wait. What? To feel sorry for herself? Harper stiffened, stunned at the thought.

Vicki offered a box of tissues. Harper pulled one out, blew her nose and swallowed the tears.

'I'm fine.'

'Oh, please, Harper. Stop pretending. As far as I know, you haven't let go since Hank's accident. Frankly, sorry as I am about those poor kids, it's a relief to see you fall apart.'

To see her what? Harper bristled, squared her shoulders. She was army strong, didn't fall apart, never had. Well, not since middle school. Never would. At least not in front of others. Unless she was having a flashback. Or dampening Ron Kendall's handkerchief. No, even at her worst, Harper kept on, dependably, reliably responsible, functioning regardless of her personal feelings, keeping them to herself. She didn't fall apart; wasn't even now. Why didn't Vicki know that?

Harper took another bite of honeyed ham, chewed with a stuffed nose and washed down her mouthful with yet another gulp of Scotch.

'Why don't you let go, Harper? It's just me here. Don't you trust me?'

Harper thought about it, hesitated too long, recalling Trent's suspicions. And Hank's declaration: 'Vicki. Screwed.'

'Oh God, you don't.' Vicki's hand covered her chest, wounded. 'Really? Why not? What did I do?'

'Vicki, please.' Harper was in no condition to discuss it.

'I care about you, Harper. I'm here for you. But once again you're shutting me out-'

'You're right. Sorry.' Harper cut her off. 'Look, we talked about it at lunch. I haven't been much of a friend. I just don't have the energy right now.'

'OK. I get it.' Vicki sighed, pouting. 'I don't want to guilt-trip you.'

Silence. Except for the snores resonating in the adjacent room.

'Listen to him.' Vicki swished her drink around in her glass. The walls were shaking. 'Even when things were good, I couldn't take that snoring. I moved him into the guest room years ago. It's one thing I won't miss when he moves out.' She didn't sound happy.

'You're really splitting up?' Harper blew her nose. 'After so many years?'

'Yup. We are.' Vicki swallowed more Scotch. 'It's not a marriage anymore. Especially since Hank's accident.' She chewed her lip. 'I started to tell you before. Trent can't even . . . perform.'

'Depression maybe?' Harper offered. 'I've heard that can happen when men get depressed.'

'Maybe.' Vicki's eyes were glazed now. 'But Trent's just . . . It's like I'm invisible to him.'

They sat for a while, listening to him. Harper held more ice against the lump on her head and considered Vicki's situation, feeling invisible in a sexless marriage. 'So that's why you had your affair?'

Vicki's mouth opened. She looked surprised. 'Uhawell, no. That a the affair a was before Hank's accident, back when Trent was still . . . functional.' Her eyes drifted, staring into the air. Troubled.

'So? Did you love him?'

The question jangled Vicki. 'Who? Trent?' She poured more booze.

'The guy you had the affair with,' Harper persisted. 'Did you love him?'

Vicki's lips curled into a kind of grimace. 'I did, yes. Still do, in a way.'

Harper's hands tightened around her glass. Was it Hank? Was Vicki in love with Hank? She looked at the remainder of the red velvet cake, considered what it would look like smeared across Vicki's face. Stop, she told herself. You don't know for sure.

'How did it start?'

'Uh uh, Harper.' Vicki suddenly slurred her words, sounded hammered. 'I don' wanna talk about it.'

Harper clenched her jaw, deciding it was better not to hear the details. 'But it's over?'

Vicki took yet another swig. 'Yup. Over.'

Of course it was over. Hank was in the clinic, unable to talk, much less romance anyone. Still, Harper couldn't stop herself. She needed to know. 'Who was he, Vicki?'