Her hands come out from beneath her, flailing wildly, trying to whack at the weight on her back. But her arms don't bend that way, and he's still beating her face and the world is now starting to spin. Her head goes back, her head goes forward. Her head goes back, her head goes forward…

He is sliding down her back. He is rubbing against her and there is no mistaking his arousal. “I'm going to fuck you good,” the man says. He laughs and laughs and laughs.

Jillian finally twists beneath his body. She beats at his thighs. She knits together the fingers on her right hand and tries to jab them into his ribs. And he whips her head from side to side to side until she can no longer feel the sting. She is in a dark, black place with a weight crushing her body and a voice stuck in her head and he is going to fuck her good.

His left hand curls around her throat. It starts to squeeze. She tries to claw at his wrist, but encounters only latex.

Oh no. Trish. Oh no.

She must get him off. She can't get him off. Her lungs are burning. She wants to fight. She wants to save her sister. Oh please stop, please.

Somebody. Help us.

The lights grow brighter behind her eyes. Her body slowly, surely, goes limp. The man finally loosens the grip his legs have on her ribs. His weight comes up off her body slightly.

And she jabs her hand forward as hard as she can and nails him between the legs.

The man howls. Rolls to the side. Clutches his balls. Jillian twists her shoulders, grabs at the floor, and tries to find something to pull herself free.

And then the weight is completely gone. The man is gone. He is curled up on the floor and she's gotta move. Phone, phone, phone. The kitchen counter. It's on the kitchen counter. If she can just get to the phone, dial 911.

Jillian pulls herself across the hardwood floor. Gotta move, gotta move. Trisha needs her. She needs her.

Come on, Jillian.

And then, before she even feels him, she hears him coming again.

“No,” she whimpers, but she's already too late.

“Goddamn, fucking bitch! I'm gonna KILL you! I'm gonna SNAP your goddamn neck, I'm gonna pop out your fucking eyes. Goddamn…”

He slams down upon her back and grabs her throat with his steely hands. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Can't swallow. Can't breathe.

Her chest, growing so tight. Her hands, plucking at his gloved hands. No, no, no.

Come on, Jillian. Come on, Jillian.

But he is too strong. She realizes this as the world begins to spin and her lungs start to burst. She is proud. She is smart. She is a woman who believes she controls her own life.

But he is brute strength. And she is no match for him.

She is sinking down. She wants to say something. She wants to reach out to her sister. She is so sorry. Oh Trish, oh Trish, oh Trish.

And then, all of a sudden, the hands are gone.

“Fuck!” Fast footsteps run across the room. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. A distant boom as the external door bursts open.

Jillian draws a ragged, gasping breath of air. Like a drowning victim bursting free from water, she bolts upright, desperately dragging more oxygen into her lungs.

He's gone. He just… gone.

The room is empty. It is over. She's alive, she's alive. She is not stronger. She is not more capable. But she is lucky.

Jillian pulls herself unsteadily to her feet. She staggers across the room. She falls onto the bed next to her sister's form.

“Trish!” she cries out.

And then, in the unending silence of the room, she realizes that she is not lucky at all.

Seven A.M. Monday morning, Jillian Hayes remained prostrate on her bed. She stared up at the ceiling. She listened to the sound of her mother's muffled snoring down the hall, then the faint beep, beep, beep of Toppi's alarm clock going off for the first time. The adult-care specialist hit snooze right away. It would take three or four more alarms before Toppi actually got out of bed.

Jillian finally turned her head. She looked out the window of her East Greenwich home, where the sun was shining bright. Then she looked at her dresser, where the manila envelope still lay in plain sight.

Seven A.M. Monday morning. The Monday morning.

The phone next to her bed bleated shrilly. Jillian immediately froze. It might be another reporter demanding a quote. Worse, it might be him. He probably hadn't even started the ride to the courthouse yet. What did he wake up thinking about on a day like today?

The phone rang again, loud and demanding. Jillian had no choice but to snatch it up; she didn't want it to disturb her mother.

“Did I wake you?” Carol asked in her ear.

Jillian started breathing again. Of course it was Carol. Good ol' Dan was probably up and out already. Heaven forbid that even on a day as important as this day, he stay at home with his wife. Jillian said, “No.”

“I couldn't sleep,” Carol said.

“I now know every pattern on my ceiling.”

“It's funny. I feel so nervous. My stomach is tied in knots, my hands are shaking. I haven't felt like this since, well”-Carol's laugh was brittle-“I haven't felt like this since my wedding day.”

“It will be over soon,” Jillian said quietly. “Do you think we should call Meg?”

“She knows about breakfast.”

“All right.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“A camel-colored pantsuit with a white linen vest. I laid it out last night.”

“I went shopping. Nothing in my closet felt right. Then again, what do you wear for this sort of thing? I don't know. I found this butter-yellow Chanel suit at Nordstrom. It was nine hundred dollars. I'm going to burn it when the day is done.”

Jillian thought about her camel suit, then the coming day. “I'll join you,” she said.

Carol's voice grew soft. “What did you do with the clothes you were wearing that day?”

“When the police finally gave them back, I took them to the dry cleaners. And I've never… I've never picked them up.”

“We'll be thinking about Trisha today.”

Jillian's throat grew a little tight. “Carol… Thank you.”

And then, of course, the most important question, the question the whole phone call had been about.

“Do you know… Do you know what will happen?” Carol asked.

Jillian's gaze went back to the manila envelope on top of her dresser. Then she glanced at the clock. Seven-ten A.M. At least one hour to go.

“No,” she said honestly. “But I guess we're about to find out.”