I OPENED my front door cautiously, and found myself battling the fear that always overtook me when I was home alone. I live in a little 1930s-style bungalow in a neighborhood that threatens to become more upscale, a relatively peaceful area. But the violence of the previous summer had been brought to my doorstep, and try as I might, I could not yet feel safe in my own home. The window blasted out by gunfire had been replaced, the locks improved, the wall replastered – even my grandfather’s chair had been repaired and reupholstered. I was the only item that was still damaged.

Wild Bill Cody, my gray, twenty-pound tomcat, heard the door open and came bounding in, scolding me loudly when he reached my feet. I picked him up and scratched his ears; he closed his eyes and purred loudly. “It’s your own fault, Romeo,” I said. He clawed my arm in response. I dropped him on the floor with a yelp. We were even.

He trotted after me, following me into the kitchen. I opened a can of some foul-smelling stuff he was fond of. I rinsed the cat food can and put it in the recycling bin. He was already chowing down, but he looked up and blinked his thanks.

I watched him with affection. Lately he had been shuffled around like an orphan, traveling between my place and Frank’s. At first he was a terror to transport, employing a vast array of tricks for fighting the cat carrier, and wreaking havoc on Frank’s house when we got there. Frank learned to catproof his place and Cody learned – after two or three times of being left by his lonesome – that if he was going to make a stink about it, he’d be left behind. This time he had refused to come when I called for him, so I had left some dry food and fresh water near his cat door.

Outside of shredding the newspapers I put down to shield the kitchen table, Cody didn’t interfere with my pumpkin-carving efforts. He made the biggest mess he could with the papers, decided he didn’t like the smell of pumpkin pulp, and took off. After a minute, I wondered what he was up to, and found him chewing on a candy bar. It was one that had a mint flavor – a particular weakness of Cody’s. I took it from him and got a nice scratch for my efforts. I was going to have to watch that candy bowl like a hawk.

The trick-or-treaters started arriving, and kept me busy for the next few hours. It is not a good idea to rest your hopes for the next generation on what they choose for Halloween costumes. While I knew that the boys probably wouldn’t all end up being mass murderers and leaders of evil space empires, I couldn’t help but feel dismayed about the number of princesses and ballerinas I was greeting. Just when I feared that there were no tomboys left in Las Piernas, a little girl came trundling up the steps carrying a sword, a black buccaneer’s hat perched atop her head.

“You’re a pirate!” I said.

“I’m a pirate captain!“she corrected.

I gave her six times as much candy as the usual ration, and told her to be sure to thank her parents for me.

FRANK CALLED as business was slacking off, at about 8:30, saying he wouldn’t be free until after 11:00 – could I wait? I told him I’d have a snack and wait for him to get back for dinner. I air-popped some popcorn and curled up on the couch to listen to a Kings game in progress. Cody strolled over and settled on my lap. He smelled suspiciously of mint, but I didn’t see a half-eaten candy bar anywhere.

During the second period break, I packed up my clothes for work the next day. Frank and I were alternating between houses – one week at mine, one week at his. It was an arrangement that had already grown tiresome, but neither of us had broached the subject of moving in together. Or whatever it was we were going to do next. I was happy to keep packing clothes and cat for a while.

On my way back to the living room to listen to the second period, I stepped on something soft – Cody’s candy bar. I bagged up the remaining candy and stuck it in the freezer. What worked with Frank would work with Cody. After that I was completely absorbed in listening to the hockey game. The Kings won in overtime and I was jumping up and down and whooping for joy when the front door burst open, scaring me clean out of my wits.

Frank and I stood looking at one another with startled expressions.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “I heard screaming.”

“I’m fine,” I said sheepishly.

The announcer was saying, “So the Kings win it with thirty seconds left in overtime…”

“I should have known,” said Frank, coming over to give me a hug.

I looked up at him. “You’re tired. Let’s just go over to your place and I’ll fix you something there.”

He seemed tempted for a brief moment, then said, “No, I promised you dinner out tonight, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

I frowned. It was easy to see that he was exhausted. He had worked long hours all week, and the case he was on now – the murder of a four-year-old girl – had been especially hard on him. He was usually able to distance himself emotionally from the grisly business he had to deal with at work, but this case had bothered him. He bottled up most of his agitation over it, but it seemed to me that effort was wearing him down as well, and from time to time I caught glimpses of how much it had disturbed him.

On top of the strain of this case, the last few weeks had been rough ones for another reason: Frank wasn’t getting along very well with his new lieutenant, Dave Carlson. Lieutenant Carlson was an ambitious man, and I suspected he was somewhat jealous of Frank’s popularity with both the other cops and their captain, John Bredloe. Carlson and Frank had already had a couple of minor run-ins, and Bredloe had backed up Frank both times. That didn’t score him any points with the lieutenant.

“I’m willing to take a rain check on the evening out,” I said.

“Get a sweater, it’s cool outside.”

Okay, so he wanted to go out. We went to an all-night cafe, Bernie’s, which is not far from my house. The food was good, but despite the fact there wasn’t much of a crowd, the service was pathetically slow.

“I talked to my mom,” Frank said. “She doesn’t have a problem with having you join us for Thanksgiving.”

That didn’t sound quite the same as boundless enthusiasm, but maybe he was too tired to convey her level of interest in having me there. Besides, I had made up my mind about it anyway.

“Great, I’ll be happy to be with your family for Thanksgiving. Thanks for inviting me.”

His face went quickly from puzzled to pleased. With a little food and coffee in him, Frank perked up a bit, but we were both ready to head for home. I looked around. If our waitress was in the room, she was wearing a cloaking device.

“You know, Frank, I have thought about our growing old together – I just didn’t think we were going to do it in Bernie’s.”

“Yeah, I wanted dessert, but I’m afraid to order it; we’d be here ’til I’m pensioned.”

“Don’t bother,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out a Snickers bar – the little gift I had bought for him at the checkout stand. “Have at it, sweet tooth.”

He grinned in appreciation. “You know, Irene, I think I might satisfy one other craving tonight as well.”

“You taking up smoking?”

“One more guess.”

The waitress chose this moment to reappear.

It was about 1:30 in the morning by the time we got back to my house. We captured Cody and I grabbed my clothes and overnight bag. We decided to go to Frank’s place in one car – he would bring me back in the morning.

As we made our way up the walk to his house in the early hours of All Saints’ Day, we both saw something that made us stop and stare.

Mrs. Fremont’s lights were on, and her front door was wide open. Even from where we stood, we could see the crudely drawn goat’s head on the door.