Maybe it had been a mistake to let Sheila go live with her father. But what choice had I had?

Sheila had made up her mind; there was nothing I could've done. I drove off feeling empty and afraid for my baby and like the worst mother in the world. Where was the control in my life? Why did I feel like I was on a runaway train without brakes?

I drove, my car wandering across town on autopilot. The late afternoon traffic was beginning to build, but I hardly noticed. I was in a funk that had no end, a deep bottomless pit of self-pity that seemed to swallow me whole. The only thing that brought me back into the present was the awareness that I had just pulled into my backyard, the very last place on earth I'd wanted to visit.

I sat there behind the wheel, staring at the back door that led into my bedroom. Who the hell cared, I thought. What was the big, superstitious deal about not going into my own home? So Jimmy had died on my living room rug. I couldn't just run away forever. After all, wasn't that what I always did, run away? If I'd gone to court and tried to fight to keep Sheila, maybe the judge would've forced her to stay.

"Maggie, you are being ridiculous!" I said into the cool, late afternoon air. "Sheila is doing what all teenaged girls do to their mothers, she's trying to make her life your fault. Now, get a grip and get on with it!"

I grabbed the keys from the ignition, hopped out of the car, and slammed the door behind me. Now was as good a time as any to face the demon of Jimmy's deaths The band wasn't playing tonight. There wasn't even a rehearsal scheduled. What better time?

"You are a chicken girl, afraid of her own shadow. If you continue to act like the world is biting you in the ass, you'll always be at the mercy of everybody else." I was talking aloud to the neighborhood, climbing the steps to my back door, and sticking my key in the lock before I could change my mind. "We're going to go inside and clean this mess up. Then we're going to settle back in." I don't know who I thought the "we" was, but it felt good to pretend I was part of it.

I stepped inside, turned on the lights, and made myself walk straight through to the front of the house. I turned on the living room light and stared down at the floor, willing myself to look at Jimmy's bloodstain on my grandma's rug. It was still there. I don't know why that fact surprised me a little. I guessed it was my denial, still trying to trick me into the belief that this had all been a nightmare.

I pushed aside the furniture and rolled the rug up into a long thin tube. Dragging it through the house was more difficult than I'd anticipated. The old rug was heavy and seemed to resist my need to move it. But finally I dragged it out the back door, down the steps and over to the trash can. There I left it, not really sure that I was going to drag it to the curb on trash day, but relieved to have it out of the house.

"There!" I said to the empty yard and the heavy rug. "There."

I walked back up the stairs and into the kitchen, filling a pail with hot water and Pine-Sol. Mama always said Pine-Sol and a good airing would run the troubles right out of a house. I was going to give it my best shot.

I scrubbed for an hour before I got to the bedroom and saw the red light flashing on the answering machine. It was a good excuse to take a break. I hit the button and waited while the machine rewound. It was an ancient thing, a leftover from Vernell. He'd wanted to be available twenty-four hours a day to his "people," as he called them. I'd always figured if they wanted you bad enough, they'd call back. Still I found myself using the thing, just in case Sheila needed me. Just in case.

There was a series of four hang-ups and then a familiar voice, gruff and slightly inebriated.

"Like shooting ducks in a barrel, Maggie," Jerry Sizemore's voice grated. "I got some information you oughta have. I'll be at my place until I hear from you, so grab you a swimsuit and come on over here." He rattled off a set of instructions that would take me to the southeast part of Guilford County, apparently down every little side road in the county. Then there was a pause and he chuckled. "If you're thinking I'm gonna tell you this over the phone, you're wrong. And if you're thinking of forgetting to bring your suit, I'll make you sit in the tub naked. What I got on your inheritance is worth it, Maggie." I heard the clink of glass on glass and I knew he'd been pouring another shot of tequila. "Hell, girl, I ain't all that dangerous," he said. "I just like the sight of a pretty girl sitting in my hot tub while I'm discussin' business." The phone line went dead. The little man in the machine dated the call three hours ago. Damn, that Sizemore worked quick.

I put down my sponge and stared at the answering machine. I was going to have to go to him, I knew that. There was no use in trying to call him. Jerry Lee Sizemore meant what he said. I stood up and carried the dirty pail of water to the back door, opened it, and sloshed the water across my deck. Jerry Lee Sizemore was going to make a pass at me, but he was also going to tell me something important.

"No free lunches," I said to the backyard before turning around and heading inside. Jerry Lee Sizemore would be best handled with a strict, businesslike approach.

The bungalow smelled of pine. With evening's arrival, the lamps had begun to fill the rooms of the house with a warm, buttery glow. The hardwood floors gleamed and for a moment, it was as if nothing had ever happened in my home. For an instant, I was comfortable and safe, glad to be back. But then the little prickles of fear edged their way back into my awareness.

"Ah! Don't do that!" I cautioned myself. "Keep moving!"

I replayed Jerry's message, writing down the directions to his house. Then I grabbed my keys and my swimsuit and walked out the door, leaving every light in the house on. No more staying with Jack. No more running away. I was coming home tonight, this time for good.

It was totally dark when I reached Jerry Lee Sizemore's house, but there was no mistaking it. A huge Vietnam veterans' MIA flag hung attached to a big post on one side of his driveway, and the American flag hung on the other side. The property was posted with NO TRESPASSING signs, barbed wire ran along the top of the chain-link fence, and the entrance gate, which was standing open, had a huge wrought iron S welded into the centerpiece. As I drove slowly past the entrance, I noticed yet another sign, smaller than the others, mounted on one side of the gate. "This property protected by Smith and Wesson."

As I moved into the long, pitch-dark driveway, lights flickered on, lighting my way down the rutted, red-clay drive. Jerry'd rigged motion lights on every pine tree that edged the drive. His big, log-cabin style house seemed to suddenly jump out in front of me, bathed in still more lights, with a circular drive and a flagpole that was mounted dead center in front of the house.

I pulled my car up to the front steps and cut the engine, afraid to open the car door and actually get out of my vehicle. A compound like this had to have a guard dog. With my luck, Jerry wouldn't get to me before the guard dog did.

After several minutes I realized the dog wasn't coming and neither was anyone else. I opened the car door and listened. In the distance I could hear music, Cream, from the 70s. The song was "White Room." No dog came to eat me, so I got out of the car and headed up the wide steps to the front door.

YOU MADE IT THIS FAR, a sign said, SO COME ON THROUGH THE HOUSE TO THE BACK. WE'RE PROBABLY IN THE HOT TUB.

My anxiety vanished. He and his friends were all partying in the back. He wasn't lying in wait to seduce me. I just had an overactive imagination, the same problem I'd had all my life.