"Oh, no, honey," one emaciated woman said, leaning forward to touch the bony knee of another. "Those krispy kremes at the Super Fresh aren't made there. You have to eat them hot, right out of the oil, to have the real krispy kreme experience. The nearest store is down in Virginia, in Fairfax County."

Oh, Bingers of Baltimore. Maybe someone ate the other letters.

VOMA was in the last classroom on the left. After glimpses at the sullen or tearful faces in the other classrooms, Tess had expected VOMA to be even more downbeat, if possible. Instead a party was in full swing. A portable stereo played bluesy music, and a couple of women were dancing, moving with a loose and sexy grace. Others gathered around a card table with bowls of M amp;M's, a plate of brownies, a tin of frosted cupcakes, and a cut glass bowl of bright red punch. Only one woman, a tall redhead, stood apart disapprovingly, her arms crossed and her mouth severe. Tess had a strong sense of déjà vu. Third grade, the class Valentine's Day party. But instead of candy hearts with Hep Cat and U Drive Me Crazy, there was a bourbon bottle on the table.

The women seemed embarrassed when they finally noticed her in the doorway. Someone snapped off the stereo and the others fled to their metal folding chairs as if Tess were an inspector from the national office of VOMA. They folded their hands in their laps and looked down, taking the posture Tess had expected to find. Only the redhead, an Amazon who had a good three inches over Tess, remained standing. Unused to looking up into a woman's face, Tess disliked her instantly. She reminded her of every class secretary she had ever voted against. Confident, with a hint of head nurse about her, always ready to give one an enema.

"Are you looking for the bingers?" Big Red asked. "They're in 211. We're 221. A lot of their people come here by mistake."

Her sense of mission protected Tess from obsessing over the insult, real or imagined.

"No, I'm looking for Victims of Male Aggression." The women stared back blankly. "This is it, right? VOMA?"

"Oh." The redhead considered Tess carefully. The other women kept their eyes downcast and hands folded, as if embarrassed by the card table of childish sweets. Or perhaps the bourbon was outlawed, given that half the people on the floor could lose all twelve steps if they knew a fifth was in room 221.

"I'm Pru," the redhead said brightly, sticking out her hand. "And if we seem caught off guard, it's because you've caught us in a rather…out-of-the-ordinary meeting. One of our members, little Cece, is getting married, and we wanted to throw a wedding shower for her."

"Does that mean your next regular meeting won't be until next week? Should I come back then?"

"Well, it depends. Do you have a referral?"

"A referral? No, I saw the group's listing in the City Paper's calendar and thought it might help me. You see, I've just come to accept that I was the victim of an acquaintance rape in college-"

"Date rape!" Pru interrupted. She seemed relieved. "Your therapist needs to put you in touch with another group. You do have a therapist? Because VOMA is only for women who have been through the criminal system, the double-raped as we call them. Did you press charges? Can you still take him to court, or has the statute of limitations passed?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Then we're just not for you," Pru said, shaking her head adamantly. "You need the DAR."

"The Daughters of the American Revolution?"

"No, DAR, Anonymous. Date-acquaintance rape. I think they meet at one of the local elementary schools."

"Union Memorial has a space for them," offered a petite woman with brunette hair cropped so close that Tess wondered if she had recently undergone chemotherapy. "They meet the first Wednesday of the month. The hospital switchboard should have the phone number."

"Thanks, Cece." Pru turned back to Tess, who had the distinct impression the woman wanted to put her hands up to her chest and give her a gentle shove. I guess I've outstayed my welcome. Then again, Tess had the sense she had never been welcome here at all. Pru had wanted her to leave from the moment she saw her.

She looked around the room one more time, taking in every detail. Fifteen women, all white. Typical of segregated Baltimore. Statistically black women were the more likely victims, but white women formed the groups. Tess swept her eyes over all the faces; without names she would never keep them straight. She'd remember Pru, of course; she may even have a few nightmares about her. And the little one, Cece, whose impending marriage they were celebrating. She had a strange look on her face, sort of terrified and determined at the same time, but Tess assumed most brides-to-be looked the same. And a rape victim going through chemo would probably have more fears than average.

She waved good-bye, wishing she could fake a few tears. Of course, trying to fake one's way into a support group was arguably much worse than running an exclusive one, but Tess was still inexplicably angry at VOMA for rejecting her. Groups for rape victims should welcome everyone.

"I guess I'll go check out the Bingers," she said as she left. "But they'll probably kick me out because my devotion is to Goldenberg Peanut Chews instead of doughnuts."

Tess ran down the hall, enjoying the loud, smacking noise her shoes made on the old linoleum. Once outside she got in her car and pulled up to the corner, then turned off the engine and waited for the meeting to break up. She still wanted to find the woman quoted in the clipping. Pru, of course, would not help, although she wouldn't be surprised to find out the woman was Pru. Mousy, distracted Cece-that was another story.

All the support groups left at 9 P.M., but it was easy to spot the women from VOMA. They carried flashlights and cans of mace, held stiffly in front of them like bayonets, then linked arms, walking the member who was parked farthest away to her car, working back toward the old school. Cece drove off in an old Mustang. Tess quickly jotted down the tag numbers, which would get her the address from the MVA in case she lost her tonight. Then she pulled out behind her.

Cece headed downtown, stopping at a coffee bar. Although Baltimore was generally known as a place where trends came to die, the city had anticipated the national mania for coffee. Tess watched from the street as Cece ordered a cappuccino from the counter and took her steaming cup to a shadowy corner, wedging herself in as if she didn't like to have her back to anyone. She pulled some papers from her purse and studied them. Tess waited two minutes, then sailed in and ordered a decaf latte, ignoring Cece. If she sees me first, Tess reasoned, it will seem more like a coincidence. She sat at the counter with her profile turned toward the young woman, staring intently into space, but Cece never lifted her eyes from her work. It wasn't part of Tess's plan to dunk her biscotti, miss the glass, and spill the whole operation, but it worked. Cece's eyes met hers. She then looked away, skittish and uncomfortable, gathering up the papers spread out in front of her.

"You're the one getting married, right? Cece?" Tess said, walking up to her table.

"Cecilia. Cecilia Cesnik. Cece's a nickname I'm trying to outgrow, only no one will let me." She blushed and looked down at the table.

If Tess hadn't met her through VOMA, she would have assumed Cecilia was one of those people who had never overcome the adolescent habit of finding everything about themselves embarrassing. There was a lot going on behind the delicate face-edginess, fear, irritation at having her solitary moment disturbed. In Cece's case-Cecilia's case-it was probably her history as a rape victim that made her want to disappear.