"No, no, no," Marianne said, but she couldn't keep from laughing at what had just happened. The men's room? This was pretty funny. Crazy funny – but funny. The kind of stuff college kids did.

"You really think you can get away with anything, don't you?" she asked him.

"The answer is yes. I pretty much do what 1 want, Marianne."

And suddenly he had a scalpel out, the gleaming razor-sharp blade not far from her throat, and everything changed in a heartbeat. "And you're right, this isn't a date. Now don't say a word, Marianne, or it will be your last on this earth, I swear on my mother's eyes."

"THERE'S ALREADY BLOOD on this scalpel," the Butcher said in a throaty whisper meant to scare her out of her wits. "You see it?"

Then he touched his jeans at the crotch. "Now this blade won't hurt so much." He brandished the scalpel in front of her eyes. "But this one will hurt a lot. Disfigure your pretty face for life. I'm not kidding around, college girl."

He unzipped his jeans and pressed the scalpel against Marianne Riley's throat – but he didn't cut her. He lifted up her skirt, then pulled aside her blue panties.

He said, "I don't want to cut you. You can tell that, can't you?"

She could barely speak. "I don't know."

"You have my word on it, Marianne."

Then he pushed himself inside the college girl slowly, so as not to hurt her with a thrust. He knew he shouldn't spend a lot of time here, but he didn't want to give up her tight insides. Hell, I'll never see Marianne, Marianne after tonight.

At least she was smart enough not to scream or try to fight him with her knees or nails. When he was finished with his business he showed her a couple of photographs he carried around. Just to be sure she understood her situation, understood it perfectly.

"1 took these pictures myself. Look at the pictures, Marianne. Now, you must never speak of tonight. Not to anyone, but especially not to the police. You understand?"

She nodded without looking at him.

"I need you to speak the words, little girl. I need you to look at me, painful as that might be."

"Understood," she said. "I'll never tell anybody."

"Look at me."

Her eyes met his, and the change in her was amazing. He saw fear and hatred, and it was something he enjoyed. It was a long story why, a growing-up-in-Brooklyn story, a father-and-son tale that he preferred to keep to himself.

"Good girl. Strange to say – I like you. What I mean is, I have affection for you. Good-bye, Marianne, Marianne."

Before leaving the bathroom, he searched through her purse and took her wallet. "Insurance," he said. "Don't talk to anybody."

Then the Butcher opened the door and left. Marianne Riley let herself collapse to the bathroom floor, shaking all over. She would never forget what had just happened – especially those horrifying photographs.

"WHO'S UP SO EARLY in the morning? Well, my goodness, look who it is. Do I see Damon Cross? Do I spy Janelle Cross?"

Nana Mama arrived promptly at six thirty to look after the kids, as she did every weekday morning. When she burst through the kitchen door, I was spoon-feeding oatmeal to Damon, while Maria burped Jannie. Jannie was crying again, poor little sick girl.

"Same children who were up in the middle of the night," I told my grandmother as I aimed a brimming spoon of gruel in the general direction of Damon's twisting mouth.

"Damon can do that himself," Nana said, huffing as she put down her bundle on the kitchen counter.

It looked as if she had brought hot biscuits and – could it possibly be? – homemade peach jam. Plus her usual assortment of books for the day. Blueberries for Sal, The Gift of the Magi, Goodnight Moon.

I said to Damon, "Nana says you can feed yourself, buddy. You holding out on me?"

"Damon, take your spoon," she said.

And, of course, he did. Nobody goes up against Nana Mama.

"Curse you," I said to her, and took a biscuit. Praise the Lord, a hot biscuit! Then came a slow, delicious taste of heaven on this earth. "Bless you, old woman. Bless you."

Maria said, "Alex doesn't listen too well these days, Nana. He's too busy with his ongoing murder investigations. I told him that Damon is feeding himself. Most of the time anyway. When he's not feeding the walls and ceiling."

Nana nodded. "Feeding himself all of the time. Unless the boy wants to go hungry. You want to go hungry, Damon? No, of course you don't, baby."

Maria began to gather together her papers for the day. Last night she'd still been laboring in the kitchen after midnight. She was a social worker for the city, with a caseload from hell. She grabbed a violet scarf off the hook by the back door, along with her favorite hat, to go with the rest of her outfit, which was predominantly black and blue.

"I love you, Damon Cross." She flew over and kissed our boy. "I love you, Jannie Cross. Even after last night." She kissed Jannie a couple of times on both cheeks.

And then she grabbed hold of Nana and kissed her. "And I love you."

Nana beamed as if she'd just been introduced to Jesus himself, or maybe Mary. "I love you too, Maria. You're a miracle."

"I'm not here," I said from my listening post at the kitchen door.

"Oh, we already know that," said Nana.

Before I could leave for work, I had to kiss and hug everybody too, and say "I love you's." Corny maybe, but good in its way, and a pox on anybody who thinks that busy, scarily harassed families can't have fun and love. We certainly had plenty of that.

"Bye, we love you, bye, we love you," Maria and I chorused as we backed out the door together.

JUST AS I DID EVERY MORNING, I drove Maria to her job in the Potomac Gardens housing project. It was only about fifteen or twenty minutes from Fourth Street anyway, and it gave us some alone time.

We rode in the black Porsche, the last evidence of some money I'd made during three years of private practice as a psychologist, before I switched full-time into the DC police department. Maria had a white Toyota Corolla, which I didn't much like, but she did.

It seemed as though she was someplace else as we rode along G Street that morning.

"You okay?" I asked.

She laughed and gave me that wink of hers.

"Little tired. I'm feeling pretty good, considering. I was just thinking about a case I consulted on yesterday, favor to Maria Pugatch. It involves a college girl from GW University. She was raped in a men's bathroom in a bar on M Street."

I frowned and shook my head. "Another college kid involved?"

"She says no, but she won't say much else."

My eyebrows arched. "So she probably knew the rapist? Maybe a professor?"

"The girl definitely says no, Alex. She swears it's no one she knows."

"You believe her?"

"I think I do. Of course, I'm trusting and gullible anyway. She seems like such a sweet kid."

I didn't want to stick my nose too far into Maria's business. We didn't do that to each other – at least we tried hard not to.

"Anything you want me to do?" I asked.

Maria shook her head. "You're busy. I'm going to talk to the girl – Marianne – again today. Hopefully I can get her to open up a little."

A couple minutes later, I pulled up in front of the Potomac Gardens housing project on G, between Thirteenth and Penn. Maria had volunteered to come here, left a much cushier and secure job in Georgetown. I think she volunteered because she lived in the Gardens until she was eighteen, when she went off to Villanova.

"Kiss," Maria said. "I need a kiss. Good one. No pecks on the cheek. On the lips."

I leaned over and kissed her – and then I kissed her again. We made out a little in the front seat, and I couldn't help thinking about how much I loved her, about how lucky I was to have her. What made it even better: I knew that Maria felt the same way about me.