'I'll be OK. Really. I've been hurt a lot worse than this.'

Rivers shook her head.

'I'm a vet.'

'Yeah?' The detective looked surprised. 'Really? Where?'

'Iraq. Mostly north of Baghdad.'

'Huh. Interesting.' She smirked. 'You don't seem military.'

Whatever that meant. 'I've got the scars to prove it.' Harper rubbed her aching leg.

'My whole family's army. Four generations. We were in the First and Second Wars. Korea. Dad was Nam. I got a baby brother in Afghanistan.'

'How's he doing?' Harper didn't know what else to say.

'Still breathing. At least he was on Saturday. He calls my mom. So what were you? Army? Guard?'

'Army. I got out as first lieutenant. ROTC in college.'

Detective Rivers nodded. 'So I was right; you were never a grunt.' She pulled on a pair of latex gloves, unzipped the book bag and began digging around. 'A vet, huh. Well, even for a seasoned war vet like you, Mrs Jennings, that scene today has to be tough. It sure is for me. In fact, for me, today is as bad as it gets. When I see a dead kid, especially a suicide, I wonder why I do this. There's got to be better ways to earn a buck.'

Harper agreed. Seeing dead kids sucked. She blinked, erasing the boy with no face.

'So. Why'd you look inside?'

Inside? Harper blinked, confused.

'You opened the book bag. Why?'

Oh, the book bag. 'I was looking for an ID. To make sure whose it was.' Actually, she couldn't remember.

Detective Rivers eyed her, all business, like an MP. 'And that's how you found the gun.' She sifted through textbooks, notepads, half-eaten snacks. 'So the guy who mugged you, he took the gun and the money. Anything else missing?'

'A bottle of pills. It was there earlier, but I didn't find it with the other stuff.' Harper put the ice against her temple, pressing on the pain.

'Pills?' Detective Rivers cocked her head. 'What kind of pills?'

'I don't know. The label didn't have a name. It just had a code on it. RKM . . . 93? Something like that.'

The detective's eyes riveted on Harper. 'You're sure. RKM93?'

Harper pictured the vial. 'No. Not positive.'

'Did the label have a pharmacy name?'

'No a just the name of the Neurological Center.'

Detective Rivers set the bag down, drew a deep breath. 'Who else knew about this bag? Did you tell anyone that you had it? Or what was in it?'

Harper hesitated. She'd already considered Ron and Larry and decided that neither would hurt her. Even so, she had to answer. 'I discussed the pills with my husband's doctor at the Neurological Center. And Graham's room-mate knew about the money. I don't know if he knew about the gun.'

'Forget the gun.' Detective Rivers snapped. 'I'm interested in the pills.'

'The pills?'

Detective Rivers pursed her lips. 'This isn't public information, Mrs Jennings, OK? Back in May, we had a coed jump into the gorge. A week later, a kid drove his Wrangler into the lake. Same weekend, we had a series of rapes; all four victims accused a student in College Town. And a few weeks later a you must remember a we had an arsonist setting residence fires along Dryden Road. An exchange student a an English kid a died in one. We're pretty sure he was the arsonist.'

Harper didn't remember the incidents; for the last several weeks, she'd been completely absorbed by Hank's condition. But she didn't see what the detective was getting at. The sad reality was that some students suffered depression and committed suicide by jumping off bridges. And students drove recklessly, sometimes drunk, and had terrible accidents. And, statistically speaking, out of the tens of thousands of people on campus, someone was sooner or later bound to be a rapist or an arsonist. So what was the point here? Why was Detective Rivers seemingly recounting every tragic incident that had occurred to students in Ithaca that spring?

'Thing is, it could be pure coincidence. But in investigating each of those events, we found bottles of pills from the Neurological Center. They had no name, just a code number. RKM93.'

Harper blinked, heard gunfire, hunkered down. What were those pills? Did Ron know about the other incidents? He must. The police would have told him. But why hadn't he told her about them? Maybe, she reasoned, because he knew the pills had nothing to do with them.

'Well, if you knew the pills came from the Center, why didn't you talk to people there? They'd tell you what they were.'

Charlene Rivers smiled. Her smile was a grim-looking thing, twisting downward at the sides. 'Good idea, Mrs Jennings. In fact, we did. I did. Personally.'

She paused, losing the smile. 'They told me the drug isn't related to the deaths. It's some new wonder drug, a miracle designed to enhance learning or improve memory. Something like that. They said a few thousand people had been testing it. It's actually in final trials, and the FDA is about to approve it.'

'Really?' If it were such a miracle drug, so widely tested, then wouldn't Ron have recognized its code on Graham's vial?

'Mrs Jennings, did you know they pay people to test experimental drugs? Kids here on campus, for example. If they're over eighteen years of age, kids can get paid to take drugs. Perfect, huh?'

Detective Rivers didn't expect and Harper didn't give an answer. She was pondering why Dr Ron Kendall hadn't recognized the code on the vial. Or had pretended not to.

'So. Graham Reynolds. Another dead kid carrying RKM93. In two months, in addition to the fires and rapes, we've got, what, four bodies?' Detective Rivers zipped the book bag closed. 'Could be a coincidence.' She removed her gloves. 'Probably is. I mean, over the past six months, hundreds of people around here have been taking this drug, and we're talking about what a seven or eight incidents? Do the math. It's not all that high of a percentage. Still. It makes you think.'

But Harper couldn't think. Her head was bruised and her mind was tangled.

'Mrs Jennings, lots of violence is associated with those pills. Suicides, arsons, rapes. So those pills trouble me. We don't know for certain that they played a role in your attack. But just in case there's a connection, I think you should take extra precautions. For your safety.'

Precautions? Harper pictured firearms, helmets.

'For starters, don't wander around alone. In fact, don't be alone.'

Harper sighed. 'Don't worry, Detective. I'll be fine.'

Detective Rivers eyed her, unconvinced, and she took down Larry and Ron's names, mentioning that she'd already met Dr Kendall. She asked if Harper remembered anything else about her assault and filled out a report detailing what had happened on the bridge. Harper held on to melting ice cubes, focusing on their numbing coldness to ground herself in the present, resisting flickering images of Sameh and Marvin, ignoring explosions that threatened to storm her mind.

Detective Rivers had been reluctant to drop Harper at the parking lot; she'd wanted to take her to the hospital. But Harper had been adamant. She rode home on her Ninja and trudged into the house, dropping her heavy leather sack on to the kitchen counter, checking the clock. She had barely half an hour to clean up and get to her appointment with Leslie. Head pulsing, she plodded to the first-floor bathroom and ran the shower above the claw-footed tub.

Wincing as her wounds met water, Harper considered the possibility of ever again taking an actual bath. She pictured sinking into bubbles scented with jasmine, leaning back against the porcelain, soaking until the water got cool. Someday she'd do that. But not yet. For now, she'd stick to the comfort zone of her combat shower. Habit and training allowed thirty seconds to get wet, sixty to scrub, ninety to rinse. Rinsing, standing under warm streaming water, Harper closed her eyes. Graham stared up at her from the depths of the gorge. She turned off the water, stepped out of the tub, wrapped herself tightly in thick terry cloth.

Even later, when she was dry and dressed, she couldn't shake the sensation that the ground beneath her was giving way and that she faced an impending endless fall.

By the time Chelsea Johnson got off work, she'd almost forgotten about the guy. He'd said he'd be waiting for her, but lots of guys hit on her and she hadn't taken him seriously. Even so, there he was, leaning against a blue Chrysler convertible, gazing up at the sky.

She snuck up behind him, making her first mistake, and covered his eyes with her hands.

'Guess who-'

He spun around before she finished asking, smacking her head, yanking her by the hair. 'Jesus. Don't ever do that.' He released her hair.

'Hell with you a I was just fooling around.' There were tears in her eyes. She was done, turning, walking away.

'Hey, wait.' He put a hand on her arm. 'You all right? Chelsea? Look, I didn't mean to snap. It was just a you know a a reflex. Involuntary. You shouldn't sneak up on somebody.' Gently, he led her back to the car, opened the passenger door. 'Come on.'

Chelsea hesitated. Her chin wobbled.

'Please?' He had a puppy-dog smile. Sad, pleading eyes. A few zits, but he was buffed, and his eyes just wouldn't let go. She got in, making her second mistake, and when he helped with her seat belt, she let his arm brush against her breast.

'What's with the seat?' Green plastic lined the passenger side.

'Sorry. My buddy got drunk and tore up the leather. I'm having it fixed, but meantime this'll do.' He popped a pill and handed her a flask.

Chelsea sipped, tasted fruity punch.

'You like it?'

Chelsea drank some more, nodded. 'It's sweet. What's in it?'

Larry grinned. 'My specialty. A little of everything.'

She took another long swig, her final mistake. 'So where we going?' She shouted to be heard over the music.

The top was down; his hair ruffled, dancing in the wind. 'Buddy of mine has a place by the lake.' He reached over and gave her left breast a squeeze.

Chelsea smirked, pushing his hand away, shaking her pointer finger. College boys were nothing new to her. She knew how they liked to party. Fact was, Chelsea liked to party, too, but she'd been around enough to know how to pace herself. If she wanted Mr Chrysler to stick around, she'd have to be careful about how hard and fast she played. She leaned back, drinking some more. It had been a long day at the coffee shop, and, now that she was sitting down, she felt it. Her feet throbbed; legs ached. The wind in her face made her eyes burn; she shut them, taking sips from the flask, listening to the music, the engine and the wind. Drifting.

The truth was that Larry had planned to mess with her, not necessarily to kill her. That part solidified when she fucking snuck up on him, startling the shit out of him. What was she a a moron? From then on, everything about her irritated him. Her coarse, trailer-trash voice. Her cheap rhinestone nails. And all those rings; did she think she could mesmerize men with the motions of her fingers? Like a damn belly dancer? Even her tits pissed him off. They were puffy round ones, and she used them as a lure, pushing them up, showing them off. She was so damned transparent. And so stupid. Even after he slapped her, she got into the car, simply because he looked sad.

When she finally fell asleep from his drug-laden elixir, he realized he'd had it in the back of his mind to kill her all along. Prepared for it. Lined the passenger seat with plastic. Brought equipment. So his conscious mind was moving slower than the rest of it. Fascinating. His mind knew things before he did. He chuckled at that and thought about the waitress slumped next to him. From watching her in the coffee shop, he knew a lot about her: how she moved; how she smelled; how her little nose scrunched up in a pout she undoubtedly thought was cute; how she repeated the same insipid stupid sing-song comments to customers all day long, day after day; how she primped at her reflection in the window when she thought no one was looking. He knew, too, that she would have resisted when he tried to fuck her, hoping to pressure him into more than a one-time hook-up. And the idea of her resisting him a that made him mad. By the time they got to the lake, he was so angry and actually bored with her that he didn't even want to nail her anymore.

Instead, he undertook a more ambitious project.

A while later, woozy and confused, Chelsea forced an eye open. Saw darkness. Wait a where was she? Crickets were chirping. In a car? The college boy a his car. She blinked, swallowed. Drank something warm. Blood? What? Her mouth felt swollen; she moved her tongue, felt a loose tooth. What had happened? An accident? No, the car was parked, surrounded by trees. And the dark, hazy sky. She couldn't get air, choked on the razor sharp pain across her throat. Oh God. She tried to move but couldn't; opened her mouth to cry out, but made only bubbling, gurgling noises. Where was the college boy? He could help her a take her to the hospital. She tried to look for him, but couldn't turn her head. Had no strength.

When the car door opened, Chelsea Johnson was barely conscious. If her throat hadn't been cut, she might have screamed as her date gathered her in plastic and hoisted her over his shoulder. If she hadn't been tied so tightly, she might have clawed at him as he dumped her in the woods. But unable to scream or to claw, Chelsea fell to the ground beside the lake, dying silent and alone.

'Did you have your lemon with you? Did you bite it?'

Leslie's red hair glowed in the lamplight, and her brown eyes held steady, as if nothing in the world were as important as what Harper had to say. In Leslie's comfy office, together on a pillow-laden green sofa, they sipped tea with honey, and Harper talked about her day, working a twisted narrative backwards. She started with an explanation of her wounds and an assurance that she was really OK; ended with a description of the flashbacks that followed Graham's suicide. It was the flashbacks that Leslie wanted to discuss first.

'No lemon. But I had a pencil, and I pressed the point into my hand until it just about impaled it.'

'But pain didn't help.'

No. 'Leslie, this wasn't an ordinary flashback. It was like a' Good Lord, what had it been like? 'a like channel surfing in my head. One show changing to another every few seconds. Only they weren't shows. They were real. Sniper fire. Hank falling. Graham falling. Marvin blowing up. Bam bam bam.' Harper held her head.

Leslie reached out, gently touched Harper's arm.

In the few months Harper had been off-and-on seeing her, she had come to trust Leslie, thought of her as not just a therapist but also a friend. The friendship, she knew, existed only within the walls of Leslie's candle-scented, plant-filled office. Even so, Harper relied on it. In some ways, she'd been more open with Leslie than with anyone ever, including Hank.

Leslie's voice was soft, validating. 'So, with the channels abruptly changing, you must have become disoriented. You couldn't possibly anticipate what would come next.'

'Well, yes, except-'

'Except that you knew how each episode would end?'

'Exactly.'

Leslie leaned close, watching Harper's eyes. 'So tell me how you felt.'

'How I felt?' What? Were there even words to describe it? 'I don't know. Frantic? Powerless? I couldn't change what I knew was coming. Couldn't help anyone.' But those words didn't even touch how she'd felt. Didn't address the urgency or the danger. Didn't include the tangibility a the sounds, the smells.

'It sounds terrifying.' Leslie released Harper's arm, sat back.

Terrifying? Yes, Harper supposed it had been. But that word didn't touch it, either. 'So what do I do, Leslie? Is this how I'm going to be? Is this my new normal?'

'You know I don't use that word, Harper.' A big, generous grin reminded Harper that they both knew there was no such thing as 'normal' in a complex, ever-changing world. 'But that type of multi-tiered flashback hasn't been typical for you. So, for you, no, I wouldn't consider it "normal".'

Leslie let Harper absorb the comment before continuing.

'Let's think about what set it off. The suicide of your student. An unthinkably violent and unexpected event. Completely out of nowhere. Maybe your reaction to something so atypical was similarly atypical?'

Harper smiled. Of course. Leave it to Leslie to make sense of what had happened: her mind had responded to sudden violence with its own sudden violence. It seemed obvious now; the morning's flashbacks were an aberration, a one-time deal. Her shoulders released some tension. 'So I'm not necessarily getting worse?'

Leslie shook her head, no. But she shifted positions, sitting face to face with Harper. 'I don't like "better" or "worse" any more than I like "normal".'

'I know, but-'

'Because PTSD isn't about good or bad or sick or well.'

'I know.' Harper had heard this speech before. Many times. She continued it for Leslie, hoping to shorten it. 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is not a disease to be cured; it's a condition to be managed. And I'll probably have to live with it forever.'

Leslie nodded. 'Sadly, that's true. For now, the best we can do is manage it. Has the Effexor helped you?'

Harper shrugged. 'I haven't been taking them lately.' In fact, she'd stopped taking the pills weeks ago when her flashbacks had seemed to ease.

'Are you sleeping?'

Harper never slept through the night. Hadn't in years, not since Iraq. 'Same as usual.'

Leslie sipped tea, pressed her lips together, thinking. 'OK. Let's go back to this morning. You pressed on a pencil point to cause pain. But that didn't ground you.'

'Right.'