Vicki raised her manicured pointer finger, scolding, her voice a sing-song. 'Uh uh. No, no. Can't tell you.'

'Why not?' Harper's tone had a razor edge.

'Because,' Vicki's eyes watered boozily, 'he's married.'

Harper felt the blood drain from her face. 'So?'

Vicki shook her head, no. 'It'd be bad if I told.' She met Harper's eyes. 'Very bad. Cuz you know him.'

Confront her, Harper told herself. Ask if it was Hank. 'I know him?'

Vicki nodded slowly. 'Yep, you do.'

Harper watched Vicki drain the rest of her drink. 'Was it Hank?'

Vicki coughed, choking, spitting out Scotch. 'What?'

'Was it?' Harper's voice was surprisingly matter-of-fact, but she wasn't going to back down. 'Did you have an affair with my husband?'

'With Hank?' Vicki's mouth hung open. Then she began to laugh, maybe too hard. 'Wait a zat what you think? Oh my God. How could you think that?' It wasn't an answer.

'Well?' Harper persisted, a little less calmly.

Vicki's eyes floated from her empty glass to the bottle to Harper. 'Me. With Hank? God, Harper. That's ridiclus. Doesn't d'serve 'nanswer. Hank thinksh . . . He thinksh yer th'only woman in th'world. Th'sun rises and setsh on you. B'sides, I'm your friend.'

Vicki went on, vehemently, drunkenly denying the charge. Harper had finally managed to ask the question, and now she wasn't sure she believed the answer.

Abruptly, Harper cleared her plate and said her head hurt; she wanted to lie down. In fact, she suspected Vicki of lying about Hank and couldn't bear to look at her. So, even though it wasn't yet eight o'clock, she thanked Vicki for feeding her and letting her sleep over, and said goodnight.

Leaving Trent to the family-room sofa, she moved into the guest room he normally occupied. Vicki trailed after her, offering to help her change the sheets or run a bath, but Harper insisted that she just needed to rest, could take care of herself.

The guest room smelled like air freshener. Harper opened a window and sat beside it, inhaling the summer evening air, aching with every breath. She had three dead students, a battered head and an aphasic, possibly adulterous husband. And she couldn't even go home because her ransacked house was a crime scene that she couldn't enter. Harper hurt all over a her skull, her cheek, her leg. Her heart. She wished she could cry but couldn't, especially after Vicki had accused her of feeling sorry for herself. So, dry-eyed, she stared into the darkening sky and realized that she'd missed her nightly visit to Hank. Who might have had an affair with Vicki. She thought of calling, asking the nurse to tell him she had a cold.

Then again, it wasn't that late. She could still get there before nine, the end of visiting hours. Quickly, a little dizzily, Harper took a shower, changed her clothes, grabbed her leather bag and headed outside. She didn't bother to tell Vicki she was leaving, didn't want to explain. Silently, avoiding the police cruiser idling protectively across the street, Harper snuck out of the house into the screaming of crickets and the shadows of oncoming night. She might not be able to bring back her dead students, but at least she could find out the truth about her husband, for better or worse.

She didn't take the Ninja. Partly because she'd been drinking, partly because its noise would announce her departure, mostly because she'd left it back home in her driveway. Besides, Vicki's house on Fairmount Avenue was above College Town, less than a mile from the clinic; it would be tight, but she could make it in time if she walked fast.

On the way, she rehearsed what she'd say to Hank. She'd keep it simple, asking questions with yes or no answers. Just a blunt: 'Did you and Vicki have an affair?' No. Too polite. 'Were you screwing Vicki?' Better.

The streets were duskier, more deserted than usual. Clouds hid the moon, and the red sunset bled across the sky. Breezes brushed her shoulders, tickled her neck as she hurried through the wooded, undeveloped area near the clinic. She felt off balance and dizzy. Too much Scotch, too many head injuries. She leaned against a tree, steadying herself, listening to rustling leaves, then to stillness.

What was she doing? Nobody a not a single person a knew where she was. And the killer was still out there; someone who knew her, who knew where she lived. What if the killer were watching her now? Following her? What had she been thinking? Why had she ventured out alone?

Her phone rang, startling her. Harper started walking again, reaching inside her bag, pulling it out. Distracted, she didn't watch where she was going, didn't see the root of an oak in her path. She went down hard, slamming the dirt and dropping the phone, which smacked something solid and stopped ringing on impact. Damn. Now what had she done? On her knees in dirt, head throbbing, her bad leg protesting, she scrambled in the dusk to find her lost, probably broken phone. She rooted around inside her leather sack for a penlight that she was almost certain was in there somewhere, wrapped her fingers around a thing that felt right a no, it was a ballpoint. Finally, after fingering countless pens, highlighters, pencils and tampons, she found it and flashed a feeble beam of light around, hunting, annoyed with herself for stumbling. Searching, she decided that the call had probably been Vicki, looking for her. That she'd better hurry if she wanted to get to the clinic before nine.

Wait a was that her phone, under that tree? She reached for it, touched a rough, square stone. Hard and cold, covered with slimy moss. She looked again, felt more dirt, fingered snaky vines and stems. Where was the damned thing? It had to be there. Shadows surrounded her. And noises. Sounds of night creatures that normally calmed her alarmed her now. Branches cracked. Something screeched; something scurried. Was that a breeze on her neck? Or was someone behind her? Harper whirled around, aiming the light into the shadows, stabbing the darkness with a frail beam. Was someone there? Had someone moved in the thicket? She remembered Monique, the stains on her pink shirt; Larry, the nail file in his neck.

'Who's there?' Her voice sounded raspy and thread-like, not as she'd intended.

There, behind the tree. Something had definitely moved. She stiffened, kept perfectly still. Nothing. A limb rattled above her head. Harper jumped to her feet, took a fighting stance, legs tensed. But the limb was silent again. It was nothing, she told herself. A bat or an owl. Behind her, something swished in the bushes. A fox, she reasoned. Or raccoon looking for dinner. Nothing lethal. Even so, she waved the light with anxious hands, looking for a murderer.

Cut it out, Harper told herself. Get on with it and find the damned phone. Rotating, trying not to lose her balance, she cast the frail beam in a circle around her feet. And there it was. Not a yard away, at the edge of the path. She scooped it up, brushed it off, tested it for a dial tone and, without taking the time to see who'd called, dropped it back into her bag, hurrying ahead. As she walked, Harper looked around to see if anyone was behind her. On a bike to grab her, or on foot to bash her on the head. She watched, making sure that the sounds she heard were merely those of the woods at night, but saw no one.

Except for Sameh and the boy with no face, Harper was alone.

Eight twenty-seven. Limping and winded, Harper waved at the guard and stopped at reception to scribble her name in the visitor's book. And then, without catching her breath, she hurried to Hank's room. By clinic time, it was late. He'd be in bed, probably watching television. Probably wondering where she was. The closer she got, the more anxious she was to find out the truth. No matter what it was, she told herself to give him a chance. If he admitted his mistake and begged for forgiveness, she might not strangle him.

When the elevator reached his floor, she dashed past the nursing station, not even slowing down when a nurse called out. 'Harper? Wait. He's been waiting for you-'

'I know. Thanks.' Harper hurried down the hall to his door, dizzy, head pounding. Just a few more steps. Finally, she grabbed the handle, flung the door open.

'Hank,' she began. 'I have something to-'

She stopped mid-sentence. Hank wasn't in the bed. The bed lamp was the only light on, so the room was dim. Hank was standing at the window, looking out at the driveway below.

He turned, scowling. 'Waiting.'

He walked toward her slowly, on his own. No walker. Not even a cane. He wobbled unevenly, but then so did she.

'Hank.' Her jaw dropped. 'Look at you, how you're walking-'

'No. Look. You.'

He glowered so darkly that, as he neared her, Harper took an unintended step back.

'Tell.'

Tell? 'Tell what?'

'Not.' He pointed to the television. 'Killed.'

What? This wasn't the conversation she'd planned.

'Killed. Saw. Home. You.'

Oh God.

'Tell. Me. Hoppa. Killed.' He put his hands on her shoulders and faced her, studying her severely, waiting. 'What.' His gaze held her eyes, seared her face.

Harper stood dumbstruck. Hank had seen the news. The story about Larry and Monique must have been the lead; the reporters had been standing in front of their house. Understandably, Hank was upset. More than upset. His eyes were on fire. Why hadn't she anticipated his reaction? It hadn't even occurred to her that, of course, he would watch television, find out about the murders. And that when she'd been late for their nightly visit, he must have become frantic about her safety, unable to ask anyone how or where she was.

Harper didn't know how to answer him. Didn't have the energy to explain. Instead, she threw her arms around him, pressed herself against him, tried to hold on. But Hank would have none of it. He moved her away, resisting the embrace.

'Tell.'

'Hank. Don't worry. Everything's OK-'

He leaned over, glowering. 'Stew. Not.' He shook his head, frustrated. 'Pid. Me.'

Harper juggled the syllables, felt a pang. 'No, you're not stupid.'

'Else. What.' He glared, unforgiving.

What else? He wanted to know everything? Oh God.

'Lies. Tell. Hoppa.' He took her head in his hands, pressing on her lump, radiating pain. Harper refused to wince, hoped he couldn't feel the swelling.

'No, Hank. That's not fair. I haven't lied to you.'

'Jump.'

What? He knew about Graham? How?

'What jump?' She played dumb. Maybe she was misunderstanding him.

'Dead. Jump. Him.' Again, he pointed to the television. Damn.

He knew about Graham. And who knew what else. What had they said on the news? Had they connected Graham's suicide to the murders? They must have. Larry and Graham were room-mates, both dead within days. Both her students.

Hank waited; her skin sizzled from his glare.

'Can we sit down?'

He didn't move, didn't sit, but at least he released her head.

'Hank, I haven't lied to you. But you're right. I haven't told you everything that's happened. I didn't want to upset you.'

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

'I thought you needed to concentrate on your recuperation. I didn't want to distract you. What would be the point? Why trouble you with things that . . .'

She stopped. They both knew what she'd been about to ask: Why trouble him with things that he couldn't do anything about? Essentially saying that Hank couldn't function the way he used to. That Hank couldn't protect her or their home. That he was too damaged even to handle the truth.

Her aborted sentence and its unspoken ending jarred him, and he moved away, sat slumped on the side of the bed, not looking at her.

Harper didn't go to him. 'Hank-'

He put up a hand, stopping her. 'Get. It.'

'I didn't mean-'

'Now. Not. Say.'

She regretted her words, understood his lonely frustration. And she ached, physically ached, for the comfort of his body, his strong familiar arms. Pained, unable to give or receive solace, she watched him for a while. Then, without a kiss, without even mentioning Vicki, she went to the door, her throat too tight even to say goodnight.

Again, passing the nursing station, Harper heard her name.

'Was he OK?' one of the nurses, Linda, called from the desk. 'I tried to warn you; Mr Jennings has been inconsolable ever since he watched the news. Usually, we think it's good for the patients to watch, you know, to keep in touch with what's going on, but we had no idea.'

Harper was in no mood for conversation. She kept moving, but the nurse kept talking.

'It's sounded awful, what happened. On the news, they said those kids were your students. Do they know who did it?'

'I'm sorry.' Harper hurried to the stairway, avoiding the wait for the elevator. She made it to the lobby at about the same time she realized that she didn't have the stomach to go back to Vicki's or the ability to go home. That's when she saw Ron, sitting on the sign-in desk, watching her. Frowning.

'I thought I'd been stood up.'

What? Harper was baffled.

'It's after nine. We were supposed to meet at eight thirty.'

They were? Oh God a yes, they were. She'd completely forgotten. She'd agreed to have dinner with him. He had something to explain to her. Something about the drugs.

'Oh Lord, Ron. I'm sorry-'

'I've been calling, but you didn't pick up.' His eyes were strained. Tired? 'And when you didn't show, given all that's happened, I figured-'

'Sorry.'

'No, don't apologize. Are you all right? After what you've been through, it's amazing you're even standing.'

Ron knew what had happened? Oh, of course, he did: the news. That's how Hank knew. That's how, apparently, everybody knew.

'I figured you'd come to see your husband, so I checked the sign-in book and saw your name. So I waited. Thought you might need to eat.' He studied her face, knitting his eyebrows. Looking her over, head to toe.

Harper looked down, saw the knees of her khaki capris covered with dirt and moss stains from her fall. Her nails were filled with soil from crawling in the woods, searching for her phone. And who knew what her face looked like? She'd showered before leaving Vicki's, but no one would guess. She was a disaster.

But Ron didn't seem to notice. He was concerned about the murdered students and the upheaval at her home. And most of all, about her state of mind. His arm coiled around her, leading her to his car, and, before she knew it, they were seated at a corner table in a restaurant where the lights were so low nobody could see what a mess she was. Especially not Ron.

Ron listened attentively, and Harper didn't hold back. Words spilled; sentences poured. She repeated her theory that Larry had stolen the drugs. That Graham might have been his partner. Or maybe Monique. Or both. She reeled at the number of students who were dead, but kept control, swallowing her emotions with hot tea.

As she spoke, though, control became more difficult. When her voice wavered, Ron took her hand and assured her that the crimes would be solved. 'This will work out,' he promised. 'The murderer will get caught.'

Harper tilted her head. 'How can you be sure?'

'Think about it. The guy is out of control, killing too many too fast. In just a couple of days, he's murdered a waitress and two students. He's losing it; he'll make mistakes. They'll catch him.'

'You think it's just one guy?'

Ron hesitated. 'Yes, of course.'

Harper wasn't sure. 'Well, he better pray the cops find him before I do. The dude went into my house. He killed my students. On my property. This is personal; between him and me, it's war.' Harper spoke too loud. A man at a nearby table twisted his neck, looking at her.

Ron peered at her through the candlelight. 'Harper, I'm worried about you.'

He was? Really? Harper swallowed more tea. 'Don't be. I'm fine.' But she was still off balance, and her pulse was racing.

'How's your head?'