“Yo, wait a minute-”

“Let me finish. Then, almost a year later, about the same time they killed my husband, they try to kill me. The same way, even. But they hit Brent by accident. Right before it happened we were dancing around on the curb.”

“What did they rule your husband’s death?”

“An accident. He was riding his bike by the river. It was an accident, that’s what we all thought at the time.”

“Why do you think it wasn’t?”

“Because of what happened to Brent, Tom! The same thing!”

Lombardo blinks, dully. “He wasn’t on a bike, was he?” He pops his toothpick back into his mouth and reaches for his notebook.

I grab his hand. “No, Brent wasn’t on a bike. He was walking.”

“You said it’s the same thing. It’s not the same thing.”

“But it is. They were both hit by a car. A hit-and-run.”

“It’s not the same thing. One is on a bike and the other is walking.”

“All right, it’s not the exact same thing.”

“You can say the exact same, you can say the same. It’s not the same thing.” Flustered, Lombardo smooths down his nylon windbreaker.

I feel like screaming. “But they’re both hit-”

“There are other differences.”

“What?”

“Different time of day. Different place. With the construction on Walnut, it was probably an accident.”

“But it makes sense!”

Lombardo looks at me gravely, like I’m crazed from my recent widowhood. “Mary, you’re upset. Let me take care of-”

“For Christ’s sake, will you fuckingthink! ”

“That’s it! Stop talkin’ like that!” He jabs the air between us with his toothpick. A nurse, walking by, looks back with concern.

Suddenly, the double doors to the operating room swing open and the surgeon, an older man, walks out. I stand up, and Lombardo surprises me by taking my arm. I search the doctor’s eyes for a sign about Brent, but there is none. He tugs down his green half-mask and walks over to us, heaving a sigh.

The sigh, I recognize. The sigh, I know. It happened just this way the last time. Oh, no.

“I’m sorry. We did everything. The injuries were extensive. There were massive chest and skull fractures. The carotid artery was severed. There was just too much bleeding.”

Oh, no. Just what they said with Mike. Chest injury. Skull fracture. Brain lacerations. The medical mumbo-jumbo that provides the background noise for the worst news of your life.

“We fought very hard. So did your husband,” he says.

My husband. Not my husband. Oh, no.

“It wasn’t her husband,” says Lombardo. “It was her secretary. A male secretary.”

“I’m sorry,” the doctor says awkwardly. “Well, your secretary fought very hard. I’m very sorry.”

I nod and feel Lombardo’s solid grip on my arm. He leads me to the elevator, and we leave the hospital. Jack and his friends, smoking nervously at the hospital entrance, take one look at us and know Brent is dead. I go over to Jack, but he breaks down and his friends close around him. They sob openly, this pale group of too-thin gay men. The two security guards exchange glances, but there’s no compassion there.

Lombardo leads me to his squad car and drives to my apartment. Neither of us says anything on the ride home. I leave Brent at the hospital, just like I left Mike at the hospital. My husband, not my husband. I hear the voice, faint and far away, from within:

I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. I tried, it says, and then deserts me.

“Mary?”

It’s Lombardo, opening the car door for me. He helps me out of the car and walks me up to my apartment. “You’re gonna be okay, you’ll see. Just get some rest.”

“Would you look inside my apartment? Just to make sure?”

“Sure. Sure.” I hand Lombardo the key and he walks in. He finds the light switch and I hear the floors of my apartment groan, unaccustomed to such a heavy tread. In a minute he’s back at the door. “Everything’s okay. There’s nobody here.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll do some checkin’ about your husband. When AID investigates, they make a report. Those guys are real thorough.”

I nod. Lombardo gives my shoulder a squeeze and climbs down the stairs. Cautiously, I go into the apartment. Alice sits on the windowsill, her hidden body making a hump in the tangled blinds. I walk over to the window and peek through the blinds.

The car that killed Brent isn’t on the street. I watch Lombardo’s squad car pull away from the curb. When I turn around, the red light on the answering machine is flashing. I pound thePLAYBACK button with a clenched fist.

The first message is silence, thenclick.

Fuck you! Fuck you! I scream in my head.

The second message is Ned. “Are you out there gallivanting around? Call me. I’m Cooooool.” There’s the sound of mechanical laughter, thenclick.

It has to be him. It just has to.

He’s trying to mind-fuck you, Brent says.

He’s too cool, Judy says.

Nine times out of ten, it’s an old boyfriend, says Officer Tarrant.

I check my watch. It’s 4A.M.

I’m going crazy.

I’m going to see Ned.

Watch your step, Mary.

Irun to Ned’s house without stopping, driven by a force and a strength I can’t control. I reach his door in no time and pound on it with my fist.Boom-boom-boom, right next to the brass house number, 2355. Its jagged edge rips the side of my hand.Boom! Blood runs out, but I don’t feel it.

Open the fucking door, Cool.

Boom-boom-boom!My blood stains the number.

The door opens. It’s him in sweatpants and a T-shirt that saysANDOVER. He rubs his eyes and smiles sleepily. “Mary, this is a pleasant surprise.”

So cool.

I push him back into the house and slam into the middle of his big fatANDOVER, bloodying it. “Where the fuck were you tonight, Cool?”

He looks astonished, his eyes wide. “Mary?”

I grit my teeth and shove him again. “Where were you tonight?” I advance on him, and he steps backward. “Answer the question, Cool! Why is it you never answer the fucking question?”

“Mary, what is-”

“Tell me!” I smack him across the face. My blood sears a perfect cheekbone. His hand flies to his face, and he edges against the stairwell.

“I…was here!”

“Doing what?” I smack him again, so hard the blood from my hand spatters in a tiny fan across his T-shirt.

“Mary, stop it!”

“You killed Brent! And Mike!” I start to slap him again, but he catches my wrist in midair.

“Mary, no!” He wrenches my arms together.

“You did it! You!” I scream, kicking and clawing at his arms and legs. I can’t believe what’s happening, that I’m struggling in his arms, that I’m raging. He wrestles me to the floor, pinning me there, pressing my wrists back into the rug.

“Stop it now!” he cries out.

“You! You!” I hear myself, shouting over and over, then the huff of my own panting. I can’t seem to catch my breath. I feel I’m coming out of a fit.

“Stop it, Mary!” he shouts.

“You!”

“No!”

“Cool!”

“Ned-my name is Ned! I’m not Cool, I don’t know who that is. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I would never hurt you, you know that!”

“Let go of my wrists!”

“Not until you’re calm.”

I look up at him, on top of me, looking down. His face is barely visible in the half-light. Flecks of blood mingle with his freckles; the two are hard to distinguish. I can make out his eyes, his green eyes, oddly bright and feral. His eyes are full of pain. He’s not the killer, he can’t be. He’s hurting for me, I see it there, in his animal eyes. “Brent’s dead,” I whisper.

“Your secretary?”

“A car hit him. It wasn’t an accident.”

“My God. And you think I did it?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Never, Mary. Never.” Still straddling me, he releases my wrists.

I don’t move, I can’t. I feel utterly drained, shaken to the core. I want to surrender myself to the force out there that wants to hurt me, wants to punish me for what I’ve done. It should have been me it claimed. Not Brent, and not Mike. “It’s because of me.”