Marjorie's professional contribution was vital to the success of the column, Helen went on, so if Marjorie felt well enough, they could continue their working relationship.

"And I am sorry about the timing of all this," Helen added.

Marjorie's hands had turned to blocks of lead beneath Helen's touch, and for the very first time, she saw the ugliness in Helen's lovely face. That's when it started-the shift inside her. She felt her love break away, pull from the foundation like walls in an earthquake, only to be replaced by hate. Looking back, it was almost embarrassing how fast the transition occurred. And how complete it was.

The next night, Helen was dead.

You'll need to get your affairs in order.

Marjorie's head pounded. She groaned.

It had been shamefully easy to accomplish. She signed in at her obedience class, then slipped out the side door, as everyone did from time to time. When the dog has to go, he has to go, right? No one noticed that she didn't return.

She took Mark home and hailed a cab. She used a pay phone to call Helen's cell phone and relayed the news that Drew was in trouble and needed her-poor Helen was always blind when it came to him.

Helen picked her up on a North Side corner. As Marjorie explained how Drew had gotten himself in a jam in a bad neighborhood-drugs again, maybe?-Helen became so hysterical that Marjorie offered to drive. How perfect could it be?

Helen didn't suspect a thing until it was too late. The vagrant she'd hired to meet them took the first swing and Helen fell unconscious. Marjorie's turn came next. It felt satisfying. It felt final.

Early the next morning, Marjorie found the homeless man, thanked him for his efforts, and shot him. She took what remained of the money she'd paid him the night before, then threw the gun in a Dumpster across town.

Police never connected the deaths-and why would they? Helen Adams was rich and famous and her death was a front-page tragedy. The man disappeared as anonymously as he had lived.

Marjorie rose from the bed and walked to the guest bathroom. She washed her hands and tidied her hair in the mirror-and stared.

Well, she might as well have one last bit of fun. It wasn't as if she'd end up locked in a women's prison for thirty years! She knew how this sordid tale had to end-she had to put an end to the Adamses. Just like they'd done to her.

Drew was already taken care of-she'd seen to that long ago. And in just two days, she'd kill Autumn and put a bullet in her own brain in the ballroom of the Drake Hotel, in front of Malcolm Milton and everyone. Front-page news, most certainly. She'd get her glory after all.

The challenge would be in the details, she knew, in seeing how much damage she could inflict between now and then.

Marjorie chuckled at the reflection in the mirror, watching the crows'-feet deepen around her eyes. She really was an attractive woman for her age. It was a shame she'd been betrayed by her lover and by her own body at the same time. But the circumstances gave her a freedom she would not otherwise have, she supposed.

She sighed. Every once in a while she'd feel a flash of guilt for how she'd tormented Autumn since Helen died. Slashing her tires. Sending her black and shriveled roses. The letters. But then she'd notice the liquid brown depth of Autumn's eyes and the way her hair fell in messy waves against her shoulders and the guilt would disappear.

With every passing day, that clumsy, ungrateful girl came closer to ruining it all. With every day, Marjorie hated her more.

It was ironic that Autumn was in love for the first time in her life, just as her life was over. Her love for the detective was pitifully obvious, though Marjorie knew Autumn was unaware of the simple truth. All the Adamses were such emotional invalids.

She'd have her fun with Autumn through Stacey Quinn. She'd considered simply killing him outright, but there was always the chance she'd be caught and prevented from making her grand exit. No, instead she'd throw the detective a juicy bone and make things unpleasant for the happy couple.

And did she ever know just the bonehead for the job-Timothy Burke! Oh, she had to laugh. When Autumn told her about the lifelong animosity between Quinn and Burke, she could barely restrain herself. This was going to be so entertaining!

She'd never liked Burke, anyway. She'd truly enjoyed torturing him this past year, egging him on to keep trying with Audie, sending him little thank-you notes with her signature and personal invitations to her book signings.

Marjorie giggled. It was shameful how in America these days a slimy good-looking man always made it further than an average-looking man with morals, character, and brains. She preferred to see what she'd done to Tim Burke as an act of community service.

You'll need to get your affairs in order.

Tomorrow she'd pay the vice mayor a visit and set things in motion. She'd also need a gun, though she already knew how easy it was to acquire one in this town. Next she'd need to make arrangements at the kennel for darling Mark-the one thing she hated to leave behind.

Marjorie looked one last time in the mirror. It seemed strange that she appeared so calm on the surface when under the layers of skin and hair and muscle and bone there was a bomb waiting to go off, a rushing ball of pressure and chaos straining to be released.

Her life was over. At least with a bullet, she'd have control of when it happened. And control had always been important to her.

She needed to get out of the apartment before Autumn came home. The girl had gone to a baseball game with the detective and his family today and Marjorie had no idea if the happy couple planned to shack up here or at his place. Oh, young love!

Marjorie moistened several squares of toilet tissue with the rubbing alcohol she kept under the sink and wiped off the surfaces and stainless-steel fixtures until they gleamed. She flushed the tissue down the commode. As always, Autumn would never know she'd been here.

Marjorie left, relieved that her headache had lessened, comforted by the knowledge that at least one room in her apartment was exactly as it should be.

She'd die knowing at least one thing was perfect.

"You've been quiet since we left Comiskey. Was it the shock of seeing a baseball team actually win a game?"

"Shut up, Quinn."

As he chuckled, Audie snuggled closer. He'd taken her to her first White Sax game that day, and she'd spent many hours in the company of Jamie and Pat, Michael, and Sheila. She'd felt relaxed and happy and she'd laughed so hard that at times her stomach muscles complained.

They were back at Quinn's now, in his bed, and her heart was full and her body heavy with pleasure. They'd just made love-slow and tender and heartbreakingly intense. And Quinn was right. She'd been very quiet.

Because she was really starting to panic.

At the ballpark, she and Sheila had arranged a Christmas shopping excursion on Michigan Avenue. Audie had invited everyone for a sail before it got too cold. Jamie had asked Audie to consider helping at the Police Athletic League's indoor soccer clinic-in January. And she'd agreed.

Audie reminded herself many times during the day that she was in command of her heart, in command of her life.

But as they were leaving the park, Jamie hugged her tight and told her, "I'm glad my son found you. My only regret is that Trish didn't have a chance to welcome you."

Welcome you?

Oh, crap. Hell. She was in control of nothing, she realized. She had let the situation get completely out of hand.

Why was she making plans with these people? Why was she pretending that she'd still be around in the coming months when in her heart she knew it could never be? Why was she letting it drag on with Quinn when she knew the longer she waited the more it would hurt them both-hurt everyone?