Cecilia smiled oddly. "No, no Marys. But we have lots of women who know Abramowitz's work."

"How many?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"I'm not sure I'm going to." Tess felt an odd power. She wasn't sure why, but she sensed Cecilia feared her. It was a novel experience, and an exhilarating one. "How many, Cecilia?"

Cecilia looked to the ceiling and ticked the names off her fingers, as if calling roll. "Well, there's Pru, Meredith, and Maria-but not Mary. Joan and Melody. Cynthia. Stephanie. Susan. Nancy and Hannah. Leslie, Jane, Ellen, and Lisa. Me-is that everyone? That's the nucleus. A few others come and go, but those fourteen are always there."

"I guess that's not a coincidence," Tess said. "That others come and go. You seem intent on keeping it private."

"It makes more sense if you know the real name." Cecilia leaned across the table, as if to take Tess into her confidence. Her mood seemed lighter, more carefree. Whatever brief power Tess enjoyed had now vanished. "Victims of Michael Abramowitz. Monday, of course, was our final meeting, our own little wake for the late, great lawyer."

"Nice try. But I saw the group's charter, remember? You left it behind at the coffeebar. Its official name is Victims of Male Aggression, and Abramowitz filed the papers. Why would he help set up a group of women who hated him?"

Cecilia gave her an appraising look. "Good question. It's the one I asked Pru three weeks ago, when I looked up the charter. She told me it was her own little joke. She asked Abramowitz to file the charter when he was in private practice, playing on the do-gooding instincts he carried over from the public defender's office, where he made a career out of putting rapists back on the streets."

"So Pru put the group together and keeps everyone else out?"

"You got it. It's not enough to be a rape victim. You have to have had the singularly unpleasant experience of watching your tax dollars at work, as Public Defender Abramowitz got your rapist acquitted."

"But that was his job," Tess objected. "What would you rather have-public defenders who just throw their clients on the rocks, or people who really try? He wasn't trying to hurt you. He was trying to help poor young men. It wasn't personal. Besides, he left the public defender's office years ago. Isn't it time-"

"To get on with our lives? Actually, for a while, I was getting on with my life. Then his face started showing up everywhere, and his voice. I saw him on television, heard him on the radio. I drove by his billboards on my way to work. That's when the group started-when all these women saw that face again, heard his voice. It brought it all back."

"Wouldn't it have been healthier to stop watching those UHF channels? Switch to NPR? Find a new route to work?"

Cecilia slumped in her chair, as if worn out by the conversation. "You're just proving Pru's point. Other people don't understand. I never thought I'd have to say this to another woman, but you just don't get it."

No, she got it. She understood their anger and frustration. But she was uncomfortable around people who based their identities on being victims-even if she herself had done it from time to time. It was counterproductive. Instead of healing, these women ended up tearing off their scabs every week. Their idea of rebellion was to serve cupcakes at a wake, celebrating the fact that someone else had carried out their pathetic revenge fantasies.

Assuming it was someone else.

"So did VOMA ever talk about killing its raison d'être?"

Cecilia rolled her eyes. "We're victims of violence, not perpetrators. Most of these women are scared to go out alone after dark."

"Well, let me ask you this: Did the group discuss the murder? Do you know where everyone was that night?"

"I know Pru was at the ball game, with two dozen kids on crutches and some other people from the accounting firm where she works. The other women were probably doing what they do most nights. Sitting up in bed, with all the lights on, afraid to go to sleep."

"What about you?"

"Home alone. The classic alibi, right? My rapist planned to use it if the case hadn't been thrown out of court. That's the beautiful thing about a defense-it doesn't have to be consistent. ‘I wasn't there.' ‘I was there, but I didn't do it.' ‘I was there, but she wanted it.'"

"How consistent is your story?"

Cecilia recited back in a bored monotone, "I was home alone. I was there, but I didn't do anything. I was there, but he wanted it."

Tess remembered-her bruised rear end remembered-how Cecilia had taken her on in the coffee bar. Abramowitz was shorter than she was, and he probably didn't spend two hours a day rowing and lifting. Yet life was unfair. A short, fat, out-of-shape man was still stronger than she was. Cecilia wouldn't have had a chance-would she?

"So what's the point of this visit, Cecilia? All you've done is convince me VOMA's members should be deposed in Abramowitz's murder case."

"I thought you knew something. I thought you wanted something. Now I'm not so sure."

"About Abramowitz?"

"No. Actually it couldn't have less to do with him." She got up to leave. "I don't expect you to understand this, but we're not really happy he's dead. At least I'm not."

"Maybe you can set up a support group for him. VOMAINSOMA: Victims of Michael Abramowitz in Support of Michael Abramowitz."

For a second little Cece, scared and vulnerable, appeared in Cecilia's eyes. She raised her hand, and Tess was glad she had a heavy oak table as a buffer between them. But Cecilia was reaching for her missing hair, looking for a strand to wrap around her finger as she thought.

"It must be nice to be so strong and to think it's because you're good, that you live right and eat right, so you deserve your health and happiness," she said, almost as if she was working this out for herself for the first time. "But there is such a thing as luck, and there's more bad luck than good in this world."

With that she walked out of the store. She was tinier than Tess remembered. Prettier, too, especially when anger swept over her features and she found the courage to make eye contact. A man looking at her might be a little slower than usual off his reflexes, especially if someone had just finished banging him around. By the time he saw that little foot heading for his ear, it would be too late.

Cecilia's visit bothered Tess-and not only because there had been some truth in her parting words. It made no sense for Cecilia to seek Tess out, only to tell her more about VOMA than she had ever known, and then insist it had nothing to do with Abramowitz's death. Then again Cecilia obviously had taken to heart the maxim that the best defense was a good offense. She might have miscalculated, thinking a preemptive strike would end curiosity rather than inspire it.

Still, Tess couldn't see a killer in that group. Whatever VOMA stood for, being a victim was the one constant. These women had built their lives around passivity and inaction.

She could feed the story to Jonathan-support group formed around slain lawyer celebrates his death with Hawaiian Punch and homemade cupcakes-and see what happened. Although leaks and balloons were the common metaphors, Tess had always thought placing a well-timed newspaper story was like testing a griddle: Toss a few drops of water on it and see if they pop. But she didn't want Jonathan to turn his attention back to the Abramowitz story. Besides, he wouldn't be interested now that he was happily frying bigger fish. Perhaps she could feed this morsel to Feeney or one of the lesser mortals at the Blight.

"She doesn't know what you're doing." Crow, interjecting again. She had forgotten he was there.