Calm down, I told myself. The coffee was brewing and smelled warm and toasty. And I was hungry. What difference would it make if I ate a doughnut. I could exercise away the calories. On my stairMaster. Besides, doughnuts were a basic food group, weren't they? Like gnocchi. Again, without wanting to, I thought of Nick. How his hand had felt on mine. Oh, the h.e.l.l with Nick. I bit into chocolate icing and, in a few bites, devoured the whole doughnut. Then, unable to contain myself, I burst into their happy conversation.

"Molly," I told her, "Uncle Mike and I have to talk." she was unimpressed. "I'm not done with my doughnut," she said.

"Molly," I handed her a napkin, "go watch television. Please." scowling, she gulped the last of her milk and took off. "What's going on, Michael?" "she's a nice kid, Zoe." "Cut the c.r.a.p."

"I stopped by to see you. To catch up. And find out if you'd decided to give back my nana's ring. Christmas is getting close-"

"Dammit, Michael. You've got b.a.l.l.s-"

"As I recall, you once liked my b.a.l.l.s-"

"I have a life here. You can't hara.s.s me like this, dropping in at all hours as if you're some long-lost relative-"

"But that's what I am. A lost relative. A relative who lost everything-even the coffee grinder."

"You can't keep doing this, Michael. Every few months, you want something else. The bonds. The silver. The sofa. Now my ring. I guess you'll want the coffee grinder, too, right? Enough. The divorce is over, and you agreed to the settlement-"

"And that's my point. I agreed. I made everything easy for you. Now, I'm asking you for something, and so far I'm asking nicely-"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said. I've asked you nicely for property that should have been mine to begin with. The only reason my nana wanted you to have that ring was because you were my wife-"

"Enough is enough, Michael. The ring's been mine for years. For decades."

"Yours? How can you say that?" His eyes bulged.

"How can you ask that? You gave it to me yourself."

"Because you were my fiancee. My wife."

"That's right."

"But you aren't now."

"Amazing. You do grasp the situation."

"Why do you want it? You don't wear it."

"Not now. I might someday, though, if I have it reset."

"You wouldn't-that setting's antique. It's exquisite-look. What if I buy it from you? How much?"

Why was I being so stubborn? The ring meant more to him than to me. Much more. But I had to draw the line somewhere. If I wanted him to back off and stop w.a.n.gling, I'd have to be firm. "Michael. You have to go. I have to get dressed."

He stood still, fuming. Refusing to leave, "Dammit, Zoe," he growled. "I've been civil. I even brought you f.u.c.king doughnuts. That's it. I'm done with the nice guy bit."

Was that a threat? From Michael? I heard Charlie whisper, "Trust n.o.body. Evil is all around." But surely he didn't mean Michael. Michael was selfish, superficial, egotistical, two-faced, immature, and asinine, but he wasn't evil. Was he?

"I thought you'd do this one little thing for me, for old times' sake. We had some good times, didn't we?"

Did we? What was he talking about? As usual, Michael and I were on different planets. I closed my eyes, saw Charlie gesturing from his car, Tamara's hands reaching for help, a finger lying in the street.

When I didn't answer, he stuck out his lower lip, a protrusion of wet flesh under a wad of wiry hair. Michael was pouting.

"Please, Zoe?" He made his little-boy face. A mistake. It didn't work with the mustache.

"I told you I'd think about it, and I will. I promise. G'bye, Michael." I moved toward the door, telling myself not to feel guilty.

"When, exactly?"

"I don't know. When I get a chance." When h.e.l.l freezes over. "soon."

"Nothing's on TV, Mommy." Molly was back. Probably she'd never left. Probably she'd been listening in the hall.

"Uncle Mike has to go," I said. "He's just saying good-bye."

She stared at him, her fingers in her mouth. "Are you really my uncle?"

Michael said, "sure," and I said, "No," at the same time. Our eyes met, sparkling with animosity.

"I want it by Christmas, Zoe," Michael's tone had become nasty. "I've promised it to Margaret, and she'll get it. One way or another."

How dare he bully me? Or promise her my ring before I'd agreed to return it? I went to the door and opened it.

"G'bye, Michael." I held the door for him, just as I had five years ago.

"I'll be in touch," he promised. "Bye, Molly." He winked and shot her with his finger. Then, finally, he was gone.

I stood at the window, watching him negotiate the icy sidewalk to get to his car. I turned off the coffeemaker and rinsed out Michael's cup, my hands recalling the hundreds of times they'd done that. The dozens of simple tasks they'd performed as part of a marriage. Lord. Why had I let Molly open the door? Michael was part of the past. We were over, finished, done. Trying to deal with him now was an anachronism. It was like raising the dead. I went to the door and bolted it, making the house mine again. Locked and secure, I was still standing there, leaning against the door, when the doorbell rang again.

THIRTY.

MAYBE HE'D FORGOTTEN HIS GLOVES. I BRACED MYSELF AND BRACED MYSELF AND opened the door. "What?" I asked. But it wasn't Michael. opened the door. "What?" I asked. But it wasn't Michael.

Nick, his back to me, was gazing down the steps, watching Michael's car pull away. Had he seen him leave? What would he think, seeing a man leave my house at not even 7:00 A A.M.? Nick's Volvo was parked behind Jake's pickup. Jake stared up at my door. What must he think, seeing all this male traffic? That I ran a brothel? Did he want to get in line? Who else was going to stop by? Nick's Volvo was parked behind Jake's pickup. Jake stared up at my door. What must he think, seeing all this male traffic? That I ran a brothel? Did he want to get in line? Who else was going to stop by?

"Nick!" Molly ran out the door barefoot and gleefully jumped into his arms. I felt a pang of guilt for letting her form an attachment. Or maybe of jealousy. Watching them, I remembered having those strong arms around me. The comfort of being wrapped against his chest. d.a.m.n.

"I knew you'd come back," Molly was saying. "When I woke up, I thought it was you. But it was Uncle Mike. Look how loose my tooth is-maybe it'll come out today-"

"Molly, you have no shoes on. Come inside." My G.o.d. She couldn't stop talking. she made it sound like Michael had been there all night. But I owed Nick no explanation, wasn't going to offer any.

I hadn't even greeted him. I didn't know how to. I was still reeling from Michael, and now there was Nick, taking me by surprise, smelling of fresh soap or shaving cream or whatever that stuff was. What was he doing here? "Okay if I come in, too?"

"Of course." I didn't look at him. Didn't dare. What was the matter with me? I was a mature woman, not some impressionable schoolgirl. And he was just a man like any other. He got holes in his socks, clipped his nose hairs like the rest of them. But seeing him was definitely knocking me off balance, and if I looked at him, my eyes might speak for themselves and give me away. so I aimed them elsewhere. At Molly.

"sweetie, what are you going to wear today?"

"You already know, Mom. We laid it out last night."

"Then go put it on."

"But I want breakfast."

"You just had a doughnut."

"I want real breakfast."

Nick stood at the door, watching us. Listening. I felt my face get hot, revealing too much. d.a.m.n. And the heat of his eyes on me. The man is not for you, I reminded myself. You can't trust him. I repeated that mentally a few times, but when he walked into the kitchen and stood beside me, my legs began to melt. Why was he doing this to me? What did he want? To apologize? To talk? Fine. When would he tell me?

"Why don't you let me help? I can make breakfast."

Get out, I thought. Don't touch my pots. I've only just reclaimed them from the last time you were here. "That's okay," I started. "I can do it-"

"Pancakes? With nuts like last time?" Molly was in heaven.

"If your mom says so."

Molly's eyes pleaded. What could I do? Fine. Okay. Let Michael bring doughnuts and Nick make pancakes. Let's stuff ourselves till we all pa.s.s out. What the h.e.l.l. I had a stairMaster.

So Nick took over the kitchen. Once again, events had taken a turn, leaving me on my own without control. But I wasn't going to stay there and watch Nick and Molly play house. I went up to shower and dress while they made pancakes, Molly flipping them herself, just as he'd taught her.

Upstairs, alone, I began to think more clearly, and I realized that Nick probably hadn't come to see me or talk about us. He'd come about the profile, Dr. Gardener's report. Of course. She'd given it to me the day before; he wanted to know if I'd read it and what I thought. He was there legitimately, about the case.

Of course. This wasn't personal; it was business. I dressed for work in a loose long black skirt and sweater, prepared to go over my list of neighbors and compare them to the profile. To keep my feelings-like the rest of me-under wraps and focus on the case. Then I saw the table so carefully set and the two of them standing so proudly waiting for me, and I realized that, for all my preparation, I had not steeled myself against two pairs of eager shining eyes.

Once again, we sat like a little imitation family, eating breakfast, chatting, being pleasant and seeming to care. Halfway through my pancakes, acting my role, I wondered. Was it for Molly's sake I went along with this charade? Or for my own?

THIRTY-ONE.

AFTER BREAKFAST, NICK AND I I TALKED ABOUT THE PROFILE TALKED ABOUT THE PROFILE. BY BY then, our technique for conversation had been well established. One of us spoke; the other listened and replied. Everything was polite, proper in rhythm and tone. No one who saw or heard us would think anything was wrong, except me. And him. After all, he knew as well as I did that we'd once talked in other rhythms using different tones; we'd used postures less stiff, made contact more physical, held gazes less veiled. Not this time. This time was an official consultation. A report. A presentation of information. He even took notes when I talked. I watched his hands as they wrote. I knew the texture of those hands. h.e.l.l, I knew the circ.u.mference of each finger and what they tasted like. But that was useless knowledge, distracting knowledge that I didn't want. then, our technique for conversation had been well established. One of us spoke; the other listened and replied. Everything was polite, proper in rhythm and tone. No one who saw or heard us would think anything was wrong, except me. And him. After all, he knew as well as I did that we'd once talked in other rhythms using different tones; we'd used postures less stiff, made contact more physical, held gazes less veiled. Not this time. This time was an official consultation. A report. A presentation of information. He even took notes when I talked. I watched his hands as they wrote. I knew the texture of those hands. h.e.l.l, I knew the circ.u.mference of each finger and what they tasted like. But that was useless knowledge, distracting knowledge that I didn't want.

"so. This handyman. Charlie. You say he's delusional. Do you think he's dangerous?"

Charlie? Dangerous? "Not that I can see."

"But possibly?" His eyes searched mine; I felt them probing. He's looking for facts, I reminded myself. It's not personal.

"Dangerous to whom? Himself? Yes, maybe. Others? Not likely. He says someone's controlling his thoughts. And that there's a conspiracy among the police, mailmen, and taxi drivers-no, among people disguised as police, mailmen, and taxi drivers."

Nick scrawled some notes on his pad. "Has he threatened you in any way?"

"No. But he says we're in danger, so he's appointed himself our guardian. He watches over us, day and night." "In other words, he's stalking you."

"No. Protecting. He says he's my only ally, the only one we can trust. Look, Charlie's old and he's got bad knees. He's not your guy."

"You're sure."

I heard the thump of a finger landing inside a plastic bag and blinked it away. "Yes."

"All right." He crossed his leg, rested an ankle on a knee. Why did my gut react to every little move his body made? "What about Phillip Woods?"

"Come on, Nick, I've told you all this. Ask Dr. Gardener, about him. she must know more about him than I do."

"When you saw him at the Inst.i.tute, he said nothing about why he wanted to see her?"

"Nick, you asked me that same question two minutes ago." He waited. His eyes took in everything, not just me. The entire room, the house, the street. "He just said that they were friends. He was dropping by to see her since he hadn't been able to reach her at her radio show."

"Just a casual visit to see a friend. He didn't seem, say, infatuated? Obsessed?"

"Obsessed? I don't know. Maybe infatuated. She told me he has a crush on her. To me, he mostly seemed distressed that she wasn't there."

"Distressed."

Oh Lord. How long was he going to drag this out? "Look, Nick, it's almost nine. I've got to get to work."

"Just another minute." He squinted at his notepad, looking over his scribbles, turning pages. "Gene O'Malley," he mumbled.

"Gymnastics coach, rejected by at least two of the missing nannies. Joe Molinari, boyfriend with a bad temper. Okay." He scanned a page. "Tell me about the phobic guy again. Victor. You said he's a loner, thirty-something. And a musician?"

"He plays cello. In the summer, when the windows are open, you can hear him playing it."

"Anything else? Do you see anyone in particular visiting him? Any women?"

"All I've seen are deliverymen."

"And he never goes outside. Are you sure?"

Why was he repeating his questions again and again? I didn't appreciate being interrogated, as if I were withholding some significant information. "Look, I've told you everything. As far as I know, Victor's been in there for years. I see his silhouette behind the shades at night. sometimes he peeks through the blinds during the day. But the man doesn't go out. He doesn't even step onto the porch. We had to leave his Christmas cookies inside the storm door." I stood, indicating that the discussion was over. "If you want, I can give you a written report tomorrow, but I've got to get to work."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it again, and stood. say it, I thought. Go on. Tell me there's something else you want to talk about. Tell me you want to see me again. To start over.

He opened his mouth again, then hesitated. "Okay," he said. "Then I guess we're done."

"I guess." I didn't flounder, didn't give a hint that my body ached to tackle him right there. If he felt nothing, then I would feel nothing, too. Except that I didn't feel nothing. I felt like screaming. Like balling up my fists and throttling him, or knocking him down, pouncing on him, and mashing my lips against his mouth. Instead, when he thanked me for my help, I walked him demurely to the door.