"You want to know where we went wrong?" he said crisply. "You want to know why it started out seeming so right, and then the world ended, not with a bang, but a whimper? I can tell you why, Rainie. It ended because you have no faith. Because one year later, the new, improved Lorraine Conner still doesn't believe. Not in me. And most certainly not in yourself."

"1 don't have faith?" she countered. "I don't have faith? This from the man whose only way of coming to terms with his daughter's death is to turn it into murder."

Quincy recoiled sharply. "Strike one to the woman in blue jeans," he murmured, his expression growing hidden, growing hard.

Rainie wouldn't back down, though, couldn't back down. She'd only learned one way to deal with life, and that was to fight. "No hiding behind your wry observations, Quincy. You want me to see you as human? Then act human. For God's sake, we're not even having a real argument yet, because you're still too busy lecturing me!"

"I'm simply saying you have no faith – " "Stop psychoanalyzing me! Be less therapist, more man – "

"Man? Last time I tried being a man, you looked at me as if I was going to hit you. You don't need a man, Rainie. You need either a blow-up doll or a damn saint!"

"Son of a bitch!" Rainie opened her mouth to yell further, then suddenly froze. She knew what he was talking about. That night, their last night together nearly eight months ago in Portland. Going to Pioneer Square. Sitting outside at Starbucks and listening to some a capella group perform. Talking, relaxing, having a nice time. And afterwards, going to his hotel because she still had the dingy apartment. She'd been thinking that she'd been so lonely. She'd been thinking that it was so good to see him again.

She'd moved closer. Inhaled the scent of his cologne. How much she loved that fragrance. And she'd felt him grow still, his body nearly breathless as if he understood that even exhaling might frighten her away. He'd gone still, so she'd kept approaching. She'd smelled the skin at his throat. Explored the curve of his ear. And then, something had taken hold of her. Desire maybe – she had so little experience with the real thing. She'd just wanted to touch him, more and more, if he'd stay, just like that, not moving, not breathing. She'd unbuttoned his shirt. She'd smoothed it from his shoulders. He had a hard chest, sculpted by a lifetime of running. The whorls of chest hair felt spongy against her palm. She placed her hand over his heart and felt it race against her touch.

On his collarbone and upper arm. Three small scars. Souvenirs of a shotgun blast, not all of which had been absorbed by his vest. Tracing those scars with her fingertips. Quincy, the super agent. Quincy, the superhero. Marveling…

His hand had suddenly snapped around her wrist. Her gaze jerked up. For the first time she saw his expression, dark and glittery with lust.

And the moment flew away from her. Her body froze, her mind rocketed back and she was thinking of yellow-flowered fields and smooth-flowing streams. She remained touching his body, but it was harsh now, a sick imitation of the real thing. The way she'd been taught in the very beginning.

Quincy had pushed her away. He'd told her to give him a minute. But she hadn't. She'd been humiliated, embarrassed, ashamed. And being Rainie, she'd told him it was all his fault, then left without saying another word. In the following months, it had been easier for her to simply let the phone ring. If he did catch her at home, she was always too busy to talk.

He was right; she was the one who'd stopped returning his calls. But he was supposed to know better. He was supposed to understand and still come after her. Except he hadn't.

"I'm supposed to be patient," Quincy said, as if reading her mind. "I'm supposed to be persistent. I'm supposed to be tolerant of your mood swings, your temper, your troubled past. I'm supposed to be everything, Rainie, but frustrated and angiy – "

"Hey, I'm dealing with a lot of things – "

"And so am I! We're all dealing with things. Unfortunately, you seem to think you're the only person who's allowed to be petty Well, I have news for you. I buried my daughter last month. My coworkers are now conducting surveillance on her grave. And no matter what I do, I can't reach my ex-wife, whose family connections might have enough power to call it off. I'm not just mad, Rainie. I'm pretty damn pissed off."

"Well, there's your problem, Quincy – you're mimicking me when we both know I should be mimicking you."

"I can't be perfect for you right now, Rainie."

"Dammit, I am not that needy!" Rainie scowled at him. Quincy merely shook his head.

"You have to have faith," he said quietly. "I know it's hard, but at some point, you have to believe. Some people are evil, some people will hurt you, but not everyone will. And trying to stay safe by going at it alone doesn't work in the end. Isolation is not protection. I know. I thought it would be easier if I never opened up to my family, if I never got too close. Then I lost my daughter, and it hasn't been any easier at all. I am falling apart."

"Quincy – "

"But I am going to put myself back together," he continued as if he hadn't heard her. "I am going to find the son of a bitch who did this. And if I have to be angry to do that, I'll be angry. And if I have to stop sleeping and start swearing and behave like an utter jerk, I'll do that, too. I'm coping, Rainie, and nobody ever said coping had to be pretty. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to try to reach Bethie again."

Quincy turned away. He started walking back to his car. Rainie knew she should say something, but what came out didn't make much sense.

"Just because you survive, doesn't mean you'll end up happily-ever-after," she yelled at him. "Just because you cope, doesn't mean you'll win. Bad things can still happen. There's the jackals, you know. And, and…jackals everywhere…"

"Good night, Rainie."

He wasn't going to stop. It was her turn to make the effort; fair was fair. Funny, she'd never thought about it until now, but in her family, no one was ever encouraged to stay.

"It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks," she muttered in her own defense. But Quincy was already gone and there wasn't anyone else left to hear.

The hour was growing late, dusk beginning to fall. In his car, Quincy used his cell phone to call his ex-wife. But once more he got the machine.

Rainie didn't have a cell phone. She went into the restaurant and used the pay phone in the lobby.

"Hey, Big Boy," she said a moment later. "Let me buy you a drink."

Virginia

By nine P.M., Rainie was edgy and tense. She'd returned to her motel for a quick shower before meeting Officer Amity – who was now suggesting that she call him Vince. In her room, she discovered a phone message from the same lawyer who'd called that morning. Some attorney named Carl Mitz was all hot and bothered to get in touch with her. He'd left numbers for his pager and his cell phone. Rainie studied the numbers without calling any of them.

Prospective clients were never this eager. Prospective clients made it their business to make you find them.

Rainie put the message aside. She showered. She washed her hair. She stood for a long, long time with the hot water beating down on her neck and shoulders. Then she put on the same old clothes and headed for the bar.

Officer Vince Amity was already there. He'd also showered and now wore a black western dress shirt tucked into a faded pair of jeans and finished with a pair of scuffed-up boots. The shirt stretched across broad shoulders. When he stood, the jeans barely contained the bulge of his thighs. A fine specimen of a man. The proverbial hunk of burning love.