Buford. His nails. His hands. On me.

Nat grabbed the bar of soap and a white washcloth, and began washing her chest. The water was cold but she wasn't waiting for hot. The scratches stung, and she scrubbed harder, anywhere and everywhere his hands had been, the sting and the cold water a tonic. She didn't stop until her chest had gone so red she couldn't see the scratches anymore, then she grabbed a soft white towel and patted her chest dry, covering the sight, even from herself.

Nat needed a bubble bath and two great chapters to restore her to normal. She'd washed her hair gingerly because of the bump on the back of her skull, and her head had started throbbing again. She'd put Neosporin on her ugly scratches, changed into a soft white T-shirt, a blue J.Crew cashmere sweater, and jeans, then padded into the spare bedroom she used for a home office.

Books lined the room, a costly collection of first-edition mysteries, including her Erie Stanley Gardner. Nat loved to collect, getting a thrill from the penciled-in prices on the flyleaves or the occasional embossed stamp. She haunted library sales and loved when she scored the older books, from the day when people actually signed books out of the library in their own handwriting. She scanned with satisfaction her row of faded blue Nancy Drews. Today she was doing some amateur sleuthing of her own. She took a seat behind the computer and logged onto whitepages.com, selected Pennsylvania, and typed in "Ron Saunders."

Twelve listings, read blue letters in the bold boxes. She skimmed them and eliminated the addresses that were too far away. Two were from towns she didn't recognize, but one was in Pocopson, at 524 Roselawn Lane. She remembered seeing the Pocopson Township sign on the way to the prison. This was probably the C.O.'s house. The listing supplied the home phone number, too.

Nat eyed the information and imagined what was going on there, right now. Saunders had a wife, maybe children. Family and friends would be coming over to mourn. It would be a house of pain. She had a message to deliver, and for consolation, she could offer only an explanation as to why she couldn't save the man. She eyed the phone next to her computer, then picked up the receiver.

Don't pretty it up.

She set it back down again.

"Honey? You okay?" Hank burst through the door, his long topcoat flying and Paul right on his heels. He had returned her call at the end of the day, and she had filled him in about the riot, so he'd skipped a business dinner and come straight home. He threw open his arms when he saw her. "A prison riot?"

"Hey, babe." Nat set down her book, rose from the couch, and met him in the middle of the living room, where he put his arms around her and pressed her against his chest, his wool coat reassuringly scratchy, retaining a wintry cold. She sank into the security of his embrace and breathed in the night air, mixed with cigar smoke.

"What were you doing at a prison? Is this a joke?"

"I was teaching, and a riot broke out."

"YOU MEAN THE PRISON RIOT ON THE NEWS?" Paul planted his hands on his hips, his camelhair coat spread open. He was wearing an Italian suit, a silk print tie, and his most outraged expression, usually reserved for missed pass-interference calls.

Since when do you teach in a prison?" Hank held her off and eyed her cheek wound, horrified. She'd unbandaged it as per directions, to let it breathe. "Baby, who hit you? One of the criminals?"

"It's a long story." Nat wasn't going to tell him about Buford in front of her brother. She released him and tucked her hair behind her ear, so it wouldn't get stuck in the Neosporin, like lip gloss. "I was going to tell you last night I was going, but I didn't get a chance."

"WHO SENT YOU TO A PRISON, NAT? ARE THEY NUTS?"

"It's part of a clinic program. I went with the clinic director, and can you ever lower your voice?"

"I HAVE A COLD. MY EARS ARE STUFFED."

"You always talk loud, Paul."

"THAT'S HOW I ROLL. WHAT'S A CLINIC? ISN'T THAT FOR POOR PEOPLE?"

Nat gave up. "It's an externship program at school, run by my colleague Angus Holt."

"SO WHERE THE HELL WAS HE WHEN MY SISTER WAS GETTING HER HEADLIGHTS PUNCHED OUT? I SHOULD KICK HIS ASS! WHAT KINDA NAME IS ANGUS, ANYWAY?"

Nat's head started to throb again. She knew it would go like this if Paul came home with Hank. Her brothers had always been insanely overprotective, evidently saving for themselves the right to beat her up.

Hank brushed her hair back gently. "Where were the prison guards, babe?"

There weren't any? "They were busy. It's no one's fault."

"OF COURSE IT IS!" Paul waved a finger. "IT'S THIS CLINIC GUY'S FAULT OR WHOEVER RUNS THE PRISON. WE SHOULD SUE THE SCHOOL!"

Nat suppressed an eye roll. "Good idea, in my tenureship year."

"THEY DON'T DESERVE YOU IF THEY SEND YOU THERE. WE DON'T PLAY THAT." Paul flipped open his cell phone, and Nat read his mind.

"Don't call Dad."

"WHY NOT?" Paul pressed speed dial. "HE'LL CALL SOMEBODY IN LEGAL."

"I am somebody in Legal, and I'm not suing anybody. Please, Paul, hang up."

"TOO LATE. HE'S ALREADY FREAKED. HE WANTS YOU HOME."

"I am home. I live here now, having reached the age of majority."

"Honey, talk to your parents," Hank said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "They're worried. I spoke to them before I called you back."

"Who worried them?" Nat blurted out, anger flaring in her chest. She had been hoping for a quiet dinner at home and a good talk, but that idea was circling down the drain. "I didn't call them. I called you. And why'd you call them before me?"

"Don't be silly." Hank pressed the phone into her palm. "Please. Talk. It'll only take a minute."

"TELL HIM YOU'RE FINE. HE'S CONCERNED. HE LOVES YOU."

"I told them I'd call as soon as we got in." Hank looked apologetic, but Nat was upset all over again. She'd need another bubble bath to recover from everybody's love and concern.

"Dad?" she said into the cell phone.

"What the hell happened?" Her father's voice echoed Paul's, or maybe it was the other way around. "They said there was a riot in a prison. Were you caught in that? What were you doing there in the first place?"

I m fine. I just have a cut on my cheek."

A cut! How many stitches did it take? You got a good plastic surgeon, I hope."

"I didn't need stitches." Which hospital they take you to? Don't tell me one of those butchers in Philly. They only know from gunshots."

"I didn't go to a hospital. I don't need stitches. It's just a little cut."

"On your face, no cut is little. You don't want a scar. You're not one of the boys."

Oh please. "Dad, it won't scar."

"I'm calling your mother's skin doctor. Dr. Steingard, from the club. She's the best. Leave now, you can be at her office in an hour. It's in Paoli on Lancaster Avenue, the same building as the dentist. We'll meet you there."

"Dad, I'm fine. Please, don't call the doctor."

"Your mother's worried sick, between you and Paul. Go to the doctor, so she can sleep tonight. We'll meet you there, then you and Hank can come home and have a nice dinner."

"Dad, listen, I have to go. I don't need to see the doctor. Love to you both." Nat handed the phone back to her brother. "I'm not driving out to the suburbs."

Paul said into the phone, "DON'T WORRY, DAD. WE'LL MAKE SURE SHE GOES. SEE YA SOON."

"Why'd you say that?" Nat exploded. "I'm not going!"

"DON'T YOU THINK SHE SHOULD GO?" Paul looked at Hank, who turned to Nat in appeal.

"Honey, what's the harm? You'll get a specialist to look at it. If you don't need stitches, you don't have to get them."

"It's not the stitches." Nat felt like screaming. "It's that I'm fine."

"THEY'RE ON THEIR WAY ALREADY. SO WILL THE DOCTOR BE. YOU CAN'T NOT SHOW UP."