Plan B was hoisting her up on blue granite, hiking her skirt, sliding off her panties while managing to unzip himself, placing both hands on her shoulders, and plunging in like an enemy.

In the beginning, she'd been excited by both A and B.

Later, she lost her taste for B.

Later, all he wanted was B.

Suddenly, the remains of the salami and the bread and the mustard and the mayo looked like lab supplies. Pushing the plate away, she picked up the phone.

This time, a man with a cultured, middle-aged voice answered.

“Dr. Boehlinger.”

Remote but calm. So they hadn't found out.

Petra's heart was racing; would telling the mother have been worse?

“Doctor, this is Detective Connor of the Los Angeles Police De-”

“Lisa.”

“Sir?”

“It's Lisa, right?”

“I'm afraid so, Doctor. She-”

“Dead?”

“Unfortunately, Doc-”

“Dear God- goddamnit, goddamnit, that bastard, that goddamn bastard, that bastard!”

“Who, Doc-”

“Who else? Him, that piece of garbage she married. She told us if anything happened it would be him- oh God, my little girl! Oh Jesus! No, no, no!”

“I'm sorry-”

“I'll kill him. Oh Jesus, no, my little girl, my poor little girl!”

“Doctor,” she said, but he kept on. Ranting and cursing and pledging vengeance in a voice that managed, eerily, to remain cultured.

Finally, he ran out of breath.

“Dr. Boeh-”

“My wife,” he said, incredulously. “She's out tonight, goddamn Hospital Auxiliary meeting. Usually I'm the one who's out and she's in. I knew Lisa was worried about him, but how could it come to this!”

Then silence.

“Dr. Boehlinger.”

No answer.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

More silence, then a very small, strangled “What?” and she knew he'd been crying, was trying to hide it.

“What?” he said.

“I know it's a horrible time, Doctor, but if we could talk for a-”

“Yes, yes, let's talk. At least until my wife comes home- then… Jesus… what time is it- ten-forty. Just got home myself. Saving fools' lives while my little-”

Petra nearly recoiled from the loud, terrible laugh on the other end. Needing to reel him in, she said, “Are you a surgeon, sir?”

“Emergency room surgeon. I run the ER at Washington U. Hospital. How did he do it?”

“Pardon?”

“How? Method. Did he strangle her? Usually husbands shoot or strangle their wives. Least that's what I've seen-how the hell did he do it?”

“She was stabbed, sir, but we don't know yet who-”

“Oh yes you do, Miss- I don't remember your name- you certainly do know, I'm telling you, so you know. It was him. Don't doubt it for a goddamn minute. Don't waste your time looking anywhere else, just haul in that piece of garbage and you'll have it solved.”

“Sir-”

“Don't you understand what I'm telling you?” Boehlinger shouted. “He beat her- she called us and told us he beat her. A goddamn actor. One step above a whore! Too damn old for her, but when he hit her, that was the last straw!”

“What did Lisa tell you about the incident?”

“The incident!” he roared. “He went crazy over something and hauled off and hit her. She said it would be on TV, wanted us to know first. She said she was frightened of him- it's the same old story every week in the ER, but to have your own daughter- you said you were a detective, right? Miss…”

“Connor. Yes, sir, I am. And I know about domestic violence.”

“Domestic violence,” said Boehlinger. “More PC crap. All we do is rename things. It's wife beating! I've been married thirty-four years, never laid a finger on my wife! First he woos her like Prince Charming, then it all goes to hell in a handbasket and he's Mr. Hyde- she was frightened of him, Miss Connor. Scared clean out of her mind. That's why she left him. We begged her to come back to Ohio, not to stay in that psychotic swamp of yours. But she didn't want to, loved the movies, had her goddamn career! Now look where it got her- oh Jesus God, my little baby girl, my baby my baby my baby!”

Sharla Straight, queasy, still half stoned, sat on the couch in the trailer's front room as Buell “Motor” Moran ate cold beef stew out of the can and finished the last beer. She was still sore. He'd been rough with her, doing her from the back, clawing her buttocks. Her thoughts cleared partially and she pictured Billy's face.

Her sweet little- Motor grunted and destroyed her thoughts.

He liked doing it that way because he could stand, not put weight on his hands or strain his back. The only benefit to her was she didn't have to see his face.

Even from the back, he smelled. Like unwashed clothes.

Her whole life smelled like unwashed clothes.

Her head hurt; tequila wasn't good for her, specially the cheap stuff Motor got at the Stop & Shop. Beer was better, beer and weed the best of all because it made her feel far away from things, but they were out of weed and he hogged all the beer.

He was a hog- one big mean, hairy pig, even bigger than Daddy. Remembering his nails digging into her hips, knowing they were black around the edges, she kept thinking: Dirty, he's dirty, I'm dirty.

Did she have to end up like this, or was there some other way?

She didn't know, she just didn't know.

The hot, dead haze that passed for air in the trailer felt smothering. The piece of cloth she'd nailed up to cover the small window over the bed had fallen half loose, but all she could see was a square of black. Everyone in the park was asleep, must be late- what time was it, anyway?

What time was it where Billy was? If he was somewhere and not-

Four months since that terrible day, and when she let it, the memory stuck her like a knife.

Worrying about him lying in some ditch.

Or cut up by some sicko.

Or run over by a truck on some lonely road. That small, skinny white body, so small, he'd always been so small, except when he was a baby and had that fat face… 'cause she nursed him, she didn't want to stop nursing him, even when nothing came out and her nipples bled, but the nuns made her stop, one of them, the tall one whose name she forgot ordering her, “Stop, girl. You'll have plenty of opportunity to sacrifice.''

Billy gone. It had taken her almost two days to realize it was really true.

He wasn't there when she and Motor got home that night, but sometimes he took walks by himself, so she just fell asleep, not waking up till ten and then she figured he'd gone to school. When it got dark the next day, she knew something was wrong, but she was already stoned and couldn't move.

The next morning, no one to bring her instant coffee, she realized it had been way too long. Like a big knife, the panic cut through her and she started screaming silently to herself, Oh no, can't be- where, why, who, why?

She never said anything out loud, never showed the way she felt to Motor. To anyone.

That day, after Motor went out, she left the trailer for the first morning in maybe a month, the sun hurting her eyes, aware now that her dress was dirty and one of her shoes had a big hole in it.

Looking all around Watson; walking till her feet hurt.

A real hot day, plenty of birds out, people she never really looked at, cats and dogs and more people. She covered every field and grove, the stores, the Stop & Shop, the Sunnyside, even the school, because maybe he just spent the night somewhere and went to school by himself, even though that made no sense at all- why would he do that?

But lots of times things didn't make sense; she'd learned a long time ago not to wait for things to make sense.