'Hank. I read Vicki's emails.'

His eyes darted away and he released her arm. Was that a confession?

'What went on, Hank?' Harper insisted. 'I deserve to know.'

Hank stared into air for a long moment before meeting her gaze. When he did, his eyes seemed wounded. And the slightest bit altered, as if belonging to a Hank impersonator. Someone who was almost but not quite Hank. 'Hoppa.' He shook his head. 'Mail not. Write.' Or male not right? 'Hay. Den.'

Hayden. Dr Hayden, head of the Geology Department? What about him? Hank's mouth twisted, forming another word. 'Bee leave?'

Harper didn't know what he was saying or what she believed. She wanted to trust him. But trust was beyond her. Hank held her shoulder with his good hand, tightening his grip until it began to hurt. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't release her.

'Hoppa. Bee leave.' His tone was grave. 'Oowife. My.' For once, his eyes were not laughing. They held on to hers, much as a cat's might hold on to its prey's. Hank's grip tightened. For a heartbeat, Harper felt afraid.

She sat still, a captive of her husband's eyes. Finally, Hank released her, and they sat silently, watching first each other, then the walls, each knowing that something between them had shifted and that there was nothing either of them could do about it. Harper got up and told Hank she'd be back in the morning, but he didn't respond; he stared stubbornly at the wall.

For the second time that night, Harper left without a kiss. When she passed the guard, he called to her, 'Did you find it?'

Find what? 'Oh, yes.' She nodded, but didn't remember a had no idea a what he meant.

A sunbeam carved its way through the crack in the curtains and landed on her forehead, spotlighting her eyes. Harper moaned and opened one of them. The drapes were unfamiliar. So was the wallpaper. Harper closed her eyes again. Maybe she was dreaming. But when she opened her eyes again, the drapes and wallpaper had not changed. For a few confused eye blinks, Harper couldn't figure out where she was.

Slowly, though, with a wave of disgust, she remembered. In the middle of the night, she'd gone back to the bitch-slut's house and finally fallen asleep. The clock on the nightstand said eleven forty-nine. What a almost noon? In a heartbeat, Harper was on her feet, limping on her sore leg, cursing, looking for clothing, grabbing her bag, rotating without efficiency and without being fully awake until she remembered that, oh a hadn't the day before been Wednesday? Yes. Bloody Wednesday. The day of the murders. Of dinner with Ron. Of discovering her husband's affair. Which meant today must be Thursday. Which meant she had no recitation. Which meant she hadn't overslept.

Harper stood in the middle of Vicki's guest room, checking the clock, the window. Seeing another police car parked in front of the house. Feeling a sickness in her bones: her encounter with Hank, his lack of repentance. How was she supposed to deal with that? What did people do when they found out their husbands had had affairs with their best friends? Murder was far too mild. She was thinking of other alternatives when her phone rang.

Caller ID announced MOTHER. Damn, not now. She couldn't talk to her mother now, couldn't put on a front and pretend that she was fine. She let it ring; her mother must have heard the story of her dead students on national news, must be worried. Mom would smother her with well-intended but useless advice full of irrelevant tangents about a neighbor's son who'd known somebody in college who'd taken drugs, or a distant relative of a friend who'd killed himself. She would ramble on, sharing stories. It was how she expressed affection. Suddenly, Harper missed her, needed to hear her voice. She grabbed the phone.

'Mom?' Harper listened for her mother's smoky voice, which over the years had descended in pitch to a throaty baritone. But there was only empty air. Her mother had hung up.

Harper closed her eyes, felt alone. Never mind, she told herself; it's OK. You'll talk to her later. Meantime, she needed to collect herself. She'd survived worse things than an affair. She was tough. Army tough. She'd be fine.

She limped to the shower, turned on the water, stepped inside. Beginning her day. Afterwards, she'd dress, go assure the policeman in the cruiser that she was fine, and later see Leslie. She'd function. Even so, washcloth in hand, she stood with her face up, directly under the shower nozzle. That way, with water cascading over her face, Harper wouldn't have to admit even to herself that some of the stream was salty, coming from her eyes.

The Sleep Clinic was almost empty when Wyatt caught up with Ron and pulled him into a corner, demanding to know what had happened at Harper's house. Ron dodged. He didn't want to deal with Wyatt.

'You saw it on the news. What more do you need to know? It was a mess.'

'But you were there?'

'Don't act surprised, Steven. You sent me there.'

Wyatt sputtered. 'Damn it, Kendall. What the hell were you thinking? What if somebody had seen you? You could have been charged with murder. This whole thing would be exposed, the trials cancelled. Forget the trials a the entire Center could have been brought down, our careers with it.'

Ron kept his voice calm. 'How was I supposed to know people were going to be murdered there? Steven, you yourself insisted that I find out how she's involved.' He had anticipated Wyatt's reaction, had resolved not to get riled. He'd prepared what he would say, how he'd say it.

'But I didn't tell you to break into her house-'

'I didn't break in. The back door was open.'

Wyatt crossed his arms, scanning the mostly empty Sleep Clinic. Just three occupied cubicles. Two sleep apnea patients, one narcoleptic. He was fuming; Kendall was too impulsive, had become a liability. When this crisis resolved, he'd have to deal with him.

'Did you see what happened?'

Was Wyatt kidding? 'Of course not. When I heard people coming in, I hid. When things got quiet, I left. The dead girl was on the porch.'

Wyatt drew a breath, eyed Ron pointedly. 'Did you kill her, Kendall?'

Ron remained calm. 'If I did, Wyatt, do you think I would tell you?'

They glared at each other. 'Assuming you weren't seen, then. What did you find?'

'Nothing. Not a thing.'

Silence, except for Wyatt's wheezy breath. 'She's involved in this, Ron. It's obvious. Everything connects to her. Even if the drugs aren't in her house, she must know where they're stashed. Maybe she's got a key to the place. Or maybe they're up in her attic. Did you check her attic?'

'No. I didn't check her attic. I figured it was time to leave when I saw the dead kid.'

'Well, then, how do you know she doesn't have the drugs? Stop thinking with your dick, Kendall. That woman has something or knows something. Why else did those kids go to her place? Why was the killer there? All of them were there for the same reason you were. To find the goddamned drugs.'

Ron didn't reply.

Wyatt faced the door. 'Christ. This is out of control.'

He was right.

'And it's only going to get worse until we recover the pills. Too much is at stake.'

Ron still didn't answer. What was the point? Wyatt was stating the obvious.

'So. You're convinced she doesn't know anything.'

'I am.'

'Well, how about this?' Wyatt squinted, thinking. 'Maybe she does know something, but she doesn't know that she knows it.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

'Maybe that kid who committed suicide said something to her before he jumped. Or maybe he had a key, like I said, and slipped it to her without her noticing. And maybe those kids found it, but whoever killed them took it from them. In which case, the killer has access to the pills-'

Ron rubbed his eyes, fatigued. A key? Harper would certainly have told him about it; after all, she told him about finding a scrap of paper. Ron interrupted, 'So bottom line, Steven, what do we do now?'

Wyatt hissed, inhaling sharply. 'If I'm right, the killer has what we want. So, we find the killer, we find the drugs.'

Great. 'And how do we do that?'

'Dammit, Ron. I don't know. Ask your lady friend what she had that's missing, so we'll know what to look for. And find out who those dead kids hung out with. We'd better find this guy before he starts selling those drugs. Or, God help us, who knows what will happen.'

Wyatt was right. There was nothing else to say. Ron started for the door.

'And, Ron? If we want to save the trials a let alone our jobs a we'd better find him a and the drugs a before the police do.'

Ron kept moving, furious with Wyatt. The man seemed to hold him responsible for everything a the theft, even the murders. Which stunk, since Wyatt had seniority over him. So, unless he could somehow come out the hero in this mess, his status at the clinic a hell, his entire career a was in jeopardy.

Wyatt remained in the hallway, rubbing his forehead. His head ached, and he was feeling the effects of high blood pressure. The stress was making him ill, but he had to keep up appearances, behave normally. He ought to check on the narcoleptic. She should be waking up any time now, and she needed a scolding for not taking her medications.

For the first morning since he'd been at the clinic, Harper didn't visit Hank. Even if she hadn't overslept, she wouldn't have gone. She needed time. Wasn't ready to see him. Leaving Vicki's, she saw a note with her name on it in the kitchen, but she didn't read it, didn't even touch it. She asked the policeman to drive her back home to get her Ninja. Then, promising to be careful, she got on her motorcycle and escaped. Harper rode randomly through sticky hot air until it was time for her appointment with Leslie.

She arrived early, but Leslie was ready for her, handed her a mug of sweet chai.

'You've been crying.'

She had been. More in the last few days than in the last decade. But she shook her head, no. 'Just allergies.'

Leslie smiled. 'Don't lie to your shrink.'

Harper sipped chai to hide a wobbly chin. When she was able, she answered. 'Hank.' But her throat closed, unwilling to let her speak. So she paused, started again. 'Hank was having an affair. With Vicki.'

Leslie didn't react. Holding her mug in both hands, she settled into the big green leather sofa. 'How do you know this?'

'Email. On his computer.'

Leslie waited. 'And you're sure?'

Harper nodded, choosing anger over grief. 'God, Leslie. After everything we've been through. His accident. And all the hell that's happened these last few days a all that's not enough? I also have to find out my husband was fucking my so-called best friend? Really?' She paused, nostrils flaring, jaw tightening. 'So I guess I must be real superficial and self-centered, because here I am, worrying about their affair, obsessing on it. A waitress was murdered. A student killed himself, and two others got murdered right in my own fucking house, and what am I doing? I'm picturing my husband in bed with my friend-'

'Harper. Stop right there.' Leslie's tone was firm. She waited for Harper to catch her breath.

'Let's put this in perspective. You've had one shock after another, not just these last few days, but over a period of years. You've suffered significant traumas, which is why you came to me.'

'What's your point?'

'Finding out that Hank cheated is another trauma. But this one isn't like the others.'

'You're right. Nobody died. So why am I fixated on it when so many worse things have happened?'

'Harper, in its way, Hank being unfaithful a if indeed he has been a would be more traumatic to you than anything you've been through. It would hit you right in the gut, and not because you're selfish or superficial, but because, unlike the other events, it involves not physical but emotional injury. And not just any emotional injury. It involves betrayal. Betrayal by the people closest to you, the people you've trusted.'

Harper replayed that idea in her head. It seemed obvious. Betrayal by someone she loved was worse than a bomb set off by a stranger.

Leslie gave her time before continuing. 'Harper, we've talked about how you feel responsible for others. How, consciously or not, you blame yourself for what happened in Iraq, your parents' divorce, Hank's accident, even your students' deaths.'

Another pause, waiting for the concept to settle. 'But Harper, as we talked about last time, the flip side of guilt is powerlessness. Being guilty implies that you had control; that it was in your power to prevent an event. But if your husband had an affair a and I mean if a then you had no power. No control. No ability to prevent it. And, for you, Harper, powerlessness is the worst of all scenarios. Being powerless, being a victim a it's unacceptable. Intolerable.'

Harper's head hurt, partly from her wounds, partly from trying to grasp what Leslie was saying. She didn't quite get it, didn't try. Instead, she changed the subject to her latest trauma: finding Larry and Monique.

Leslie checked Harper's eyes and the newest injuries to her head. 'You should have gone to the hospital.'

'And you should know why I didn't.'

Leslie sighed. Sipped chai. Asked Harper to repeat what had happened at the house. When Harper finished, Leslie was still waiting, expecting more.

'And?'

And? Harper blinked. And what? Wasn't the murder of two students enough?

'Flashbacks?' Leslie persisted. 'In all of this violence and mayhem, didn't you have flashbacks?'

Actually, she'd barely avoided some. She recalled grabbing the twist out of Ron's Martini glass. 'I used a lemon a few times. It helped. Ice, too. I was able to ground myself.'

'Good. That's good.'

Silence. Leslie watched her, sipped. 'Harper, I mentioned that I want to try something new today. Grounding techniques like lemons can help you manage flashbacks, but there's a technique that some say has actually helped reduce them. Even stop them.'

Harper put her mug down. 'I thought PTSD was permanent.'

'So far. But every day there are new discoveries about how the brain works.'

Indeed, Harper thought. Drugs were being developed that could help brains learn. Or cause them to commit suicidal rapist serial killings.

'Is this a drug?'

'No a oh, no. It's based on eye movement. Let me explain.'

The technique was called EMDR, for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. The theory was that PTSD arose because the brain had inadequately processed the memories of traumatic experiences, and that stimulation of both sides of the brain through rapid eye movement, coupled with other processes, could help the brain fully process and integrate those memories, thus easing or even eradicating symptoms.

'Rapid eye movement?'

'It's a normal process that happens in sleep. When we dream.'

'So this is like hypnosis?' Harper was skeptical.

'No. You'll be fully conscious, aware of your location and of your safety.'

'Sorry. I don't get how it works.'

Leslie smiled. 'The idea is that PTSD is linked to a dysfunctional memory. Simply put, your memories got incompletely or inaccurately recorded, so your brain got stuck on them. We're going to help you retrieve the missing parts of those memories. Parts that haven't appeared in flashbacks. For example, think of a car crash. The driver is too freaked out during the crash to record every detail. But, revisiting the crash in a relaxed situation, he might recall details, such as the color of the other car or what was on the radio during impact. By retrieving more details, you'll attain a broader view of what happened. Get it?'

Sort of. 'But won't remembering details only bring on more flashbacks?'

'Doubtful. Your flashbacks are triggered by feelings of imminent danger and specific sensations a smells, sounds and sights that you associate with what happened in Iraq. Here, you're in no danger. You won't hear explosions or smell fire. There's no sun or sand or flies or guns or screams. No triggers, no flashbacks.'

Harper shifted, folded her arms. 'I'm not sure it will work.'

Again, Leslie smiled. 'Well, we won't know unless we try.'

And so they began. First, Leslie asked Harper to identify a place where she felt safe, and to relax and think about it. If she had to, during the therapy, she could always return to that place. Harper thought of her grandmother's kitchen, the aroma of mince pies baking, and allowed herself to drift.

Then Leslie used her hands to direct Harper's eye movements from side to side, quickly. And she asked her to return to Iraq, to the morning of the explosion that had wounded her. Leslie guided Harper to the checkpoint where she and Marvin had been on patrol. And Harper's memories began. Marvin was talking about a movie. The morning was hot. Dry. She had cramps. Felt sore and bloated. Wasn't really listening to Marvin. The others on patrol were in the intersection by the orange cones, facing away. A local boy came along, waving. The woman, Sameh, approached, heading for the market. For about twenty seconds, Harper pictured the scene. The boy hanging around the soldiers, the sun glaring through the dusty haze, buildings the color of sand, conversational clatter from the market. Her cramps so bad that she didn't notice a car approaching from the north.