That was where he'd raped her. He asked her where I was during the attack. Somehow knew my name. Somehow knew Pat would not be back until much later. At one point, he asked about the tip money I had on my dresser and took that. She did not struggle. She did as he said.

He had her put on my robe and left her there, blindfolded.

She started screaming, but the boys in the apartment above us were playing loud music. No one heard her or did anything if they had. She had to go through the front of the apartment, outside, and up the stairs, banging on their door until they answered. They held beers in their hands. They were smiling, expecting more friends. She asked them to untie her. They did. And to call the police.

Lila would tell me all of this in the coming weeks. Now I tried hard not to look at the blood, at my bed, at the possessions he had gone through. My clothes in the closet spilled onto the floor. Photos on my desk. My poems. I grabbed a flannel gown to match Lila's, and some clothes off the floor. I wanted to take my old Royal typewriter, but this would seem silly and selfish to everyone but me. I looked at it and looked at the bed.

As I was turning to leave, a gust of wind from the window slammed the door shut. All the hope I had had of living a normal life had gone out of me.

The detective and I drove to the Public Safety Building. We took the elevator up to the third floor and exited into the familiar hallway outside the bulletproof glass that looked onto the police dispatcher's station. The dispatcher pressed the button for the security door and we entered.

"Through there," a policeman said to the detective.

We walked toward the back.

The photographer was holding up his camera. Lila stood against a wall holding a number in front of her chest. Hers, like mine, was written in bold Magic Marker on the back of an SPD envelope.

"Alice," the photographer said upon seeing me.

I placed the duffel with our clothes in it on an empty desk.

"Remember me?" he asked. "I took evidence in your case in eighty-one."

"Hello," I said.

Lila remained against the wall. Two other policemen came forward.

"Wow," one said. "It's great to meet you. We don't get the opportunity to see many victims after a conviction. Do you feel good about your case?"

I wanted to give these men a response. They deserved it. They usually saw only the side of a rape case that Lila, forgotten against the wall, represented: fresh or weary victims.

"Yes," I said, aware that what was happening was all wrong, stunned by my sudden celebrity. "You guys were great. I couldn't have asked for better. But I'm here for Lila."

They realized the strangeness of it too. But what wasn't strange?

They posed her and while they did, they talked to me.

"She doesn't really have any marks. I remember you were real messed up. Madison worked you over good."

"What about the wrists?" I said. "He tied her up. I wasn't tied up."

"But he had a knife, right?" a policeman asked, anxious to review the details of my case.

The photographer went up to Lila. "Yeah," he said. "Hold up your wrist in front. There, like that."

Lila did as instructed. Turned to the side. Held her wrists up. Meanwhile the uniforms surrounded me and asked me questions, shook my hand, smiled.

Then it was time to make phone calls. They set Lila and me up at a desk in the opposite corner. I sat on the top of it, and Lila sat in front of me in a chair. She told me the number of her parents and I dialed.

It was late now, but her father was still up.

"Mr. Rinehart," I said, "this is Alice, Lila's roommate. I'm going to put Lila on now."

I handed her the phone.

"Daddy," she began. She was crying. She got it out and then handed the phone back to me.

"I can't believe this is happening," he said.

"She'll be okay, Mr. Rinehart," I said, trying to reassure him. "It happened to me and I'm okay."

Mr. Rinehart knew about my case. Lila had shared it with her family.

"But you're not my daughter," he said. "I'll kill the son of a bitch."

I should have been prepared for this kind of anger at her attacker, but instead I felt it to be directed at me. I gave him Marc's phone number. Told him we would be sleeping there that night, and that he should call with his flight arrival time. Marc had a car, I said; we'd meet him at the airport.

Lila went with the police to fill out an affidavit. It was late now, and I sat on the metal desktop and thought about my parents. My mother was just now back working again after having a two-year increase in panic attacks. Now I would ruin that. Logic was beginning to leave, draining away from me. With blame so heavy and nowhere to place it but the fleeing back of a rapist Lila could barely describe, I took it on.

I dialed.

My mother answered the phone. Late-night calls meant only one thing to her. She waited at home for the news of my death.

"Mom," I said, "this is Alice."

My father picked up.

"Hi, Dad," I said. "First, I need you to know that I'm okay."

"Oh, God," my mother said, anticipating me.

"There's no way to say it but flat out. Lila was raped."

"Oh, Jesus."

They asked a lot of questions. In answer I said, "I'm fine." "On my bed." "We don't know yet." "Inside the interrogation room." "No weapon." "Shut up, I don't want to hear that."

This last one was a response to what they would say over and over again. "Thank God it wasn't you."

I called Marc.

"We saw him," he said.

"What?"

"Pat called and I went over and we drove around looking for him."

"That's crazy!"

"We didn't know what else to do," Marc said. "We both want to kill the bastard. Pat can't see straight he's so mad."

"How is he?"

"Messed up. I dropped him off at a friend's house afterward. He wanted to stay with us."

I listened to Marc's story. They both had a few shots, then drove up and down the nearby streets in the dark. Marc kept a crowbar in the car. Pat would scan the lawns and houses as Marc slowed down and then sped up. Finally, they heard yelling, and then saw a man running out from between two houses. He ran onto the sidewalk and then, seeing Marc's car, turned quickly and headed back down the block, slowing his pace to a walk. Marc and Pat followed him. I can only imagine what they said and what they were planning.

"Pat was scared," Marc said.

"It might not have been him," I said. "Did you ever think of that?"

"But they say criminals sometimes stick around," Marc countered. "Besides the yelling and then the way he acted."

"You were following him," I said. "Marc, you can't do anything-that's the deal. Beating someone up doesn't help anyone."

"Well, he turned around and charged the car."

"What?"

"He just came at us, yelling and screaming. I almost shit my pants."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"Yeah," he said. "I think so. It had to be him. He stood in the headlights yelling at us."

By the time Lila and I were driven to Marc's apartment on the other side of campus, I was too overwhelmed for further talk. I wanted to keep Lila safe from knowing about Marc and Pat's actions. I could understand it, but I didn't have much patience with it anymore. Violence only begat violence. Couldn't they see it left all the real work to the women? The comforting and the near impossible task of acceptance.

Inside Marc's bedroom Lila and I changed into our flannel gowns. I turned my back while she changed and I promised I would guard the door.

"Don't let Marc in."

"I won't," I said.

She got into bed.

"I'll be right back. I'll sleep on the outside edge, so you'll be safe."

"What about the windows?" she asked.

"Marc has bolts on them. He grew up in the city, remember?"