"Why do you people insist on speaking of trust as if life were a Disney movie? Kimberly, my mother beat me as a hobby. My father was basically a sperm donor, who fucked the town whore and moved on. Seventeen years later, my mother's current boyfriend decided she wasn't good enough and turned his attention on me. I have trouble trusting people? Hell yes, I have trouble trusting people. My mother was a mean, ill-tempered drunk. And I still loved her. That's not Disney; that's a complicated world."

"My father doesn't drink."

"Give him a few days," Rainie said sourly. "He also didn't curse or plot revenge until three days ago, and he's doing a fine job of that now."

"He would never hurt you," Kimberly said seriously.

Rainie groaned. "God save me from psych majors. Kimberly, look… I know your father is a good guy. I know he's different from the others. But knowing isn't always knowing, if that makes any sense. I mean, it's one thing to grasp something intellectually. To tell myself that Quincy 's different, that he's okay, that he won't hurt me. It's another thing to change a lifetime way of thinking. To emotionally, really… believe. To genuinely feel safe."

"I tell myself logically that my mother is dead," Kimberly said abruptly. "But emotionally, I don't believe it yet."

Rainie nodded slowly. Her voice softened. "Yeah, it's kind of like that."

"I tell myself it's not my mother's fault, or Mandy's fault, or my father's fault," Kimberly said. "But I'm mad at all of them. They left me. I'm the strong one and I'm supposed to take it, but I don't want to be this strong. I'm angry at them for that."

"I keep having this dream," Rainie said. "Two or three times a week, always the same dream. This baby elephant is running across the desert. His mother is dead; he's all alone and desperate for water. Then these other elephants come, except instead of helping him, they beat him into the ground because he's a threat to their own survival. He gets up though. He fights to live and staggers after them. Finally they find water. I relax. In my dream, I think the baby is going to be all right. His struggle has now paid off. He will live happily ever after. Then the jackals come and tear him apart. And I wake up with little baby screams still echoing in my head. I don't know why I can't stop dreaming it."

"We read this study last year," Kimberly said, "about how children go through phases when they will want to hear the same story over and over again. According to the scientists, there is an issue or theme in the story that the children identify with. When they have resolved the issue, they don't need to hear the story anymore. But until then, night after night, they'll request the same tale."

"I'm a four-year-old?"

"You identify with something in your dream. Probably the baby elephant."

"The baby elephant dies."

"But he fights to live."

"Nobody helps him. He's desperate to join the herd. He would've been better off alone."

"He's following instinct. It's everyone's instinct to be part of something. In evolutionary terms, we are stronger together than alone."

"But not in my story. In my story, the baby elephant's desire to be with other elephants kills him."

"No, Rainie. In your story, the baby elephant's desire for companionship keeps him alive. What's he running across the desert for? Why does he get up each and every time? He's not fighting to live simply to live. He's a herd animal. He's fighting to join the other elephants, he's living off the hope that if he keeps on fighting, he will get to belong. The drought will end and they will accept him. Or he'll prove his mettle and they will accept him. Either way, he'll end up with his herd. You did the same, Rainie. Your mother hit you, but you still kept believing it would get better. Otherwise you would've succumbed to alcoholism by now, or even committed suicide. You didn't. Why didn't you?"

"I'm stubborn," Rainie muttered. "And stupid."

Kimberly smiled. "But in your own way, you're also hopeful. You're just not comfortable with that part of yourself. I understand. I'm hopeful I will kill Tristan Shandling. I'm not comfortable with that yet either, but I figure I have a few days."

"Kimberly," Rainie said gently. "Word of advice – don't go there. Tristan Shandling is a piece of shit. You play by his rules, and you won't ever get yourself back. He will have molded the start of your career, and you'll never get to know the kind of officer or agent you would have become. You'll simply be what he made you."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do. I'm a murderer, Kimberly. Thanks to Ronnie Dawson, I'm free and clear in the eyes of the law, but years ago I killed someone. I'm a murderer. And I'll never know what else I could've been. Yeah, I pretty much hate that. Then again, the other person's dead. That's gotta suck, too."

"I didn't… I didn't know."

Rainie shrugged. "Life's about baggage. Think twice before you hang a boulder around your neck."

"But he's going to keep coming," Kimberly insisted. "You know Shandling is going to keep coming and coming until either he, or us, winds up dead. The shark is in the water, Rainie. Now, we need a bigger boat."

Thirty minutes later, Kimberly was asleep on the sofa, her long blond hair pooled around her. The sun was beginning to wane, the white walls of the hotel room becoming washed in shades of gray. Outside the air was probably stifling. Inside it was cool and for a while Rainie simply leaned against the windowsill, six stories above, looking out at nothing in particular. Jet lag was catching up with them. Kimberly was probably down for the night. No sound came from Quincy in the bedroom.

The room was quiet. It hadn't occurred to Rainie until now how much she both craved and abhorred silence.

Maybe she had a father. It was hard to imagine. Her mother had told her once, with Molly's stunning indifference, that her dad could be any one of over a dozen men, and that she'd already forgotten all of their names. Men came, men went, Molly said. Don't be a fool and expect something more.

Thirty-two years later, Rainie's father remained a perfect blank in her mind. He had no eye color, no hairstyle, no distinguishing features. He was a black silhouette, like the mystery person with a white question mark in the middle they showed in magazines. I gave you life. Do you know who Iam?

No, she didn't.

Maybe she had a father. Or maybe it was a lie and this was all Tristan Shandling. She had to have faith. Cynicism was more likely to keep her alive.

Rainie pushed away from the windowsill. She crossed the room and opened the door to the bedroom. The blinds were drawn. The room was swathed in black intersected by faint beams of fading light. Quincy sprawled in the middle of the bed, his left arm flung across the dark floral bedspread, his right arm crooked over his head. He'd taken off his shoes and tie. His firearm and shoulder holster were positioned within easy reach on the nightstand. Otherwise he'd fallen asleep fully dressed.

Rainie entered the room. She closed the door behind her. Then finally, fully clothed herself, she crawled onto thebed. Quincy didn't stir.

Thecollar of his white dress shirt was unbuttoned. Shecould just make out the first whorls of dark, springy chesthair. She had once run her fingers through that light matting of hair. She had pressed her palm over his breastand felt the strong rhythm of his heart.

" Quincy," she murmured, so he wouldn't startle awakeand try to shoot her, "it's me."

He sighed heavily in his sleep. Then he rolled over on his rightside, away from her.

She sat beside him. She inhaled the faint, soapy scent of his cologne. A year later she still didn't know its name and she wondered why she'd never asked him. Back when they'd tried dating, she would return home with that scent still lingering in her nostrils. She'd fall asleep smelling Quincy, and burrow deeper into the covers like a contented cat. When she woke up the next morning, alone, fragrance gone, she'd always felt a stab of disappointment.