A strange silence descended over the group. For the first time, alone with confirmation that Eddie Como had indeed been fatally shot, the words began to penetrate, grow real, become the new state of the universe. They looked at each other. No one knew what to say. No more Eddie Como. It defied the imagination. For the last year he had been the center of their world. Everything they hated, despised, feared. Weekly they met simply to talk about how mad he had made them, or how determined, how confused, how heartbroken, defenseless, shattered. Was there a thought that went through any of their heads that did not connect back to Eddie Como? A resolution that did not start with him? A good day, a bad day, a good episode, a bad episode that wasn't directly attributed to him? Meg could not remember her life. Carol couldn't turn off her TV. Jillian couldn't relax, and one way or another it all had to do with Eddie Como. Except now he was gone and the world kept turning and the other patrons kept eating and…

“I don't think we can talk about it,” Jillian said shortly.

“We need to talk about it,” Meg said quietly.

“We have to talk about it!” Carol seconded more vehemently. “We'd better talk about it! I for one-”

“We can't,” Jillian interrupted forcefully. “We're suspects. If we talk about the shooting, or the fact that he's dead, later someone-hell, maybe Ned D'Amato-could construe that as conspiracy.”

“Oh for the love of God!” Carol cried. “The College Hill Rapist is dead and you're still making up rules and setting agendas. Give it a rest, Jillian! We have spent the last twelve months gearing up for a trial that will suddenly never happen. Oh my God, I don't know where to begin.”

“We can't-”

“Let's vote.” Carol was emphatic. “All in favor of dancing around Eddie Como's grave, raise their hands.”

Carol raised her hand. After a second, Meg's hand also went into the air. She gazed at Jillian apologetically. “When the news report came on, I was so sure they were wrong,” she said quietly. “How could someone as evil as Eddie actually die? Did the shooter use a silver bullet? But then the cops came, so I guess this is all really happening, and well… I think I'm a little confused. He's dead, but in my mind, he can't be dead. Everything's different, but everything's the same. It's… surreal.”

Jillian frowned. She still smarted from Carol's agenda comment. But then…

Her skin felt funny, too tight for her bones. The air felt strange, too cool upon her cheeks. Meg was right. Everything was different, yet everything was the same, and had there been a night in the last twelve months when Jillian had not gone to bed wishing for Eddie Como's death, praying for Eddie Como's death, willing Eddie Como's death with every fiber of her being?

She had won. The Survivors Club had won. And then she finally understood what was wrong. Eddie Como was dead. But she didn't feel victorious.

“Perhaps… perhaps we can talk about how we feel,” Jillian said slowly. “But no getting into specifics of the shooting. Agreed?”

Meg nodded. More reluctantly, Carol followed suit.

“Well, I for one am happy!” Carol stated immediately. “I'm bursting! Hell, yes. This is a great day in America. The bastard finally got what he deserved! You know what we need? We need champagne. We need to celebrate this properly, that will put it in perspective. Where is that waitress? We're going to get ourselves some champagne, and why not, that piece of chocolate cake.”

The waitress magically materialized. Carol ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon, then the entire chocolate cake.

“Don't worry, we'll pay for it,” she told the waitress. “We're not trying to abuse anyone's generosity, we just need a good toast. Do you have any strawberries, honey? Put a strawberry in each glass. That'll be perfect. And then the cake. Don't forget the cake. My God, that looks luscious.”

Carol was waving her hands about enthusiastically. Her blue eyes were overbright again, her expression at once glowing and brittle. Meg and Jillian exchanged looks across the table.

“Now then,” Carol said in her overloud voice. “Bubbly is on the way. In the meantime, let's tick off all the ways our lives will be better. I'll start. One, we no longer have to worry about testifying at trial. No horrible recaps, no vicious cross-examination, no showing crime-scene photos of our own bodies to complete strangers. Survey says, no trial is a good trial. Thank you, Dead Eddie. Oh look, here's the champagne.”

The waitress was back. She had the Dom Pérignon and yes, glasses with fresh strawberries. She popped the cork, poured the three glasses and began dishing out the cake.

Jillian accepted her glass, already picturing the headline. Eddie Como Is Shot, The Women Eat Cake. But then, in the next instant, Carol's mood infected her as well. What the hell were they supposed to do? Cry in their coffee? Wring their hands? Maybe this wasn't sane and maybe it wasn't socially acceptable, but they'd had lots of moments less sane than this one. And they had endured plenty of things that should not be socially acceptable.

Trisha tied up, stripped naked, then viciously assaulted as her throat swelled shut, as her lungs gasped for air. Trisha struggling furiously. Trisha trying to scream. Trisha, dying, with her last conscious moments being a strange man looming over her body…

“Okay,” Jillian said. She held up her champagne flute. “My turn. Here's to no more phone calls in the middle of the day, no more notes in the mail, no more twisted video displays. Thank you, Dead Eddie.”

“Here's to no halting our lives every ten years for parole hearings,” Meg said. “No worrying that if we don't halt our lives and relive our rapes for some parole board, he will end up back on the streets. Thank you, Dead Eddie.”

“No more fear that somehow he'll get out and attack someone else,” Carol continued.

“No more fear that somehow he'll get out and attack one of us,” Jillian amended.

“No more fear!” Meg said.

They drank. The champagne tasted startlingly good. Brought color to their cheeks. What the hell. Jillian poured another round while Carol dug into her cake.

“Good thing the cops left,” Meg said somewhere around the third glass. She had barely eaten a bite for breakfast, and the champagne was going straight to her head.

“Oh they'll be back,” Carol said. She'd stopped drinking champagne after the first glass and instead gone after the cake. Her lips were chocolate stained. She had a smear of frosting on her cheek, two more smudges on her hands.

“The new one is cute,” Meg declared. “Those deep blue eyes. And that chest! Did you see his chest? Now there is a man who looks like he knows how to serve and protect.”

“You said that about Fitz, and Fitz is not cute. You just like uniforms.” Carol finished off her piece of cake, and immediately dished up another.

“I thought he looked familiar,” Jillian mused.

“In this state, everyone looks familiar,” Carol said.

“Not to me!” Meg cried gaily and held out her empty glass for more champagne.

“Maybe you should slow down a little,” Jillian cautioned her.

“Sensible Jillian. Always in control. You know what this group needs? We need a party. With a male stripper!”

“I don't think a rape survivors group should hire a stripper.”

“Why not? Man as an object. It might do us some good. Come on, Jillian, you've had us read all the traditional books and discuss the traditional methods. Why not go off the beaten path for a bit? It's been a year. Let's go wild!”

Meg looked at Carol for support. This was the problem with a three-member support group, Jillian had realized in the beginning. Two people could always gang up against one. In the beginning, it had been Jillian and Carol determining things for Meg. But lately…