I turned down my covers, checked that my alarm clock was set, and gratefully crawled into bed. I reached over to switch out the lamp.

I'd kill the woman, too, I thought, feeling a wave of weariness sweep through my body. The woman I'd never seen. The bikers I'd never actually seen, only heard, felt.

But Pardon Albee—could Friedrich really believe I'd kill someone like that, someone I knew in the ordinary course of my life?

Of course he could.

I wondered what weapon had been used to kill the landlord. I hadn't seen much blood, though I hadn't examined Pardon very carefully. Since I'd been taking Goju from Marshall for two years or more, I thought maybe I could kill someone with my hands if I needed to—that had originally been my reason for studying a martial art.

That, too, would enter Friedrich's picture of me: a very fit woman ... in conjunction with a middle-aged, nosy, presumably heterosexual man who lived very close to me... . Put like that, it seemed pretty obvious to me that I must have killed Pardon in my sleep.

Starting tomorrow, I decided as I rolled onto my left side, I have to find out who killed the landlord. In the stage before sleep, it seemed that simple.

- |

I was on my way into the house to shower after my morning workout at Body Time—Marshall's assistant had opened the gym this morning, to my relief— when I saw Marcus Jefferson and a little boy. My hair was wet with sweat and big dark patches spotted my gray T-shirt and shorts. I was about to unlock my front door when I heard someone call my name.

"Good morning, Lily," Marcus said from the sidewalk. It was the first time I had ever seen him smile, and I understood the attraction he has for Deedra. Marcus is well-muscled and tall, the color of coffee with one tablespoon of milk. His brown eyes have a golden cast. The little boy looked even more attractive, smiling and immaculately dressed, with long, curly eyelashes and huge dark eyes.

Though I longed to go right inside and get in the shower, out of courtesy I strolled down my driveway to the sidewalk and squatted down in front of the child.

"What's your name?"

"Kenya," the boy said with a beaming grin.

"Kenya, that's a nice name," I said. "How old are you?" I supposed I was asking the right questions, since Marcus and the child both seemed pleased.

The boy held up three fingers. I had to repress a shudder at seeing how tiny those fingers were. The terrible vulnerability of children frightens me so much, I am leery of liking one. How could I ever be vigilant enough to protect something so frail and precious? Yet other people don't seem to share this terror, are foolish or defiant enough to have children and expect those children will live to adulthood without being harmed.

My face had gone wrong, I could tell. The child's uncertain eyes and faltering smile recalled me to my senses.

I yanked my lips into a grin and very gently patted the boy's shoulder. "You'll grow up to be a big man, Kenya," I said, and rose to my feet. "Is this your son, Marcus?"

"Yes, this is my only one," he said proudly. "My wife and I have been separated for a few months, but she and I agree that I should spend as much time with Kenya as I can."

"You must have worked four to midnight," I said, pretty much at a loss for conversation topics.

Marcus nodded. "I came home and got some sleep; then I got Kenya from his mom before she left for work—she works at the welfare office."

"So, what are you two going to do today?" I asked politely, trying not to look at my watch. Thursday mornings, I have to be at the Drinkwaters' at 8:30.

"Well, we're going to McDonald's for breakfast," said Marcus, "and then I think we'll go to my place and play Candy Land, and maybe we'll watch Barney. That suit you, sport?"

"McDonald's, McDonald's," Kenya began to chant, pulling on his father's hand.

"I better take this boy to get some food in him," Marcus said, shaking his head at the boy's impatience. But he was grinning at the same time.

"I guess," I said, "you couldn't have him here, with Pardon being the way he was about the apartments being adults only."

"I had Kenya over one time, and Mr. Albee let me have it," Marcus said, watching the child trot down the sidewalk. "I'm wondering what the next owner will do. Would you know who that's going to be?"

"No," I said slowly. This was the second time the subject had come up. "No, I have no idea. But I'm going to try to find out."

"Let me know," Marcus said, and raised a hand in good-bye.

"Cute kid," I said, and watched the young man trot to catch up with the little boy before I turned to go into my own house.

Mel and Helen Drinkwater have me in once a week for an all-morning cleaning job. They are both in their fifties and work, he as county supervisor, she at a bank, and they are not messy people. But they have a large old house and their grandchildren, who live down the street, come in and out several times a week.

Helen Drinkwater is a woman who likes things done exactly to her taste, and she has a room-by-room checklist of things I should accomplish in the three and a half hours I am there. At first, Mrs. Drinkwater actually tried to get me to check things off the list and leave a checked list in each room, but I wouldn't. In fact, as I was learning the Drinkwater house, the list was helpful, but it would have felt like a paint-by-numbers kit if I'd checked the little boxes.

Mrs. Drinkwater (I have sworn never to call her Helen) hadn't said a thing. I'd left the list in the exact middle of the room each time I'd cleaned the house the first few visits.

Then Mrs. Drinkwater had left a pile of dirty clothes by the washer with a note asking me to "pop these in the washer and dryer for me." The first time it happened, I had fumed and done it; the second time, I left a note myself, which said, "Not on any of my lists," and after that, Helen Drinkwater had not added to my duties.

The two-story turn-of-the-century family home looked especially pretty in the clear, warm morning light. The house is pale yellow, with white trim and dark green shutters, and it is set far back from the street. Of course, a house like this is in the oldest surviving section of Shakespeare, and it has at least half an acre of woods behind it, which the Drinkwaters have left untouched.

This morning, I had a lot to think about. Marshall had said he was separated from Thea, and he'd said it as if that was significant to me. As I scrubbed the second-floor bathroom, I wondered if Marshall still had that spark of feeling for me after last night. The few times in the past I'd felt more than calm acceptance of a man, all I'd had to do to make him run was to tell him what had happened to me. Except one man, who'd gotten so excited that he'd tried to force himself on me. I'd hurt him, but it had taken time and a struggle. After that, I'd been ready to try martial arts, which has turned out to be the most pleasurable element in my life.

These thoughts tapped at my consciousness like raindrops hitting the sidewalk, thoughts that were significant but not wholly engrossing. I was also thinking about the Drinkwaters' bathtub ring, and what to do with the comic book I'd found behind the toilet. So it wasn't until the floorboards downstairs creaked a second time that I came to attention.

I became absolutely still, the sponge in my hand held motionless an inch from the surface of the sink. I was looking into the mirror over the sink, but I was not seeing myself. I was trying to make sense of the floorboards.

The Drinkwaters always leave the kitchen door unlocked when they depart at 8:15, knowing I will be here at 8:30. I lock it behind myself when I get here, though daytime burglaries are unknown in this section of Shakespeare.