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.

Someone had gotten in the house in that fifteen minutes.

I shut my eyes to listen harder. I tried to pull off my rubber gloves without making a sound. I set them in the sink. He'd not yet started up the stairs; I could improve my position.

There wasn't time to take off my shoes. I stepped silently out of the bathroom, trying to remember where the creaking boards upstairs were. If I could flatten myself against the wall at the beginning of the hall, which leads off at right angles from the stairs, I would be ready to strike when the intruder reached the top.

I crept closer to the stairs, flexing my hands to loosen the muscles. My heart had begun pounding heavily, and I felt a little light-headed, but I was ready - I would not be afraid; I would fight.

I should relax; I felt the tightness of my muscles; it would slow me down ... so many things to think of.

He was on the stairs.

My hands clenched into fists and my leg muscles were hard and tense. My blood pounded harder through my heart.

A little noise, like material brushing against the wall. Very close.

Then there was a tiny sound I couldn't interpret. I felt a frown pull my brows together.

Had it been something metal?

And another creak of the stairs.

Surely - the creak had been from a lower step?

I shook my head, puzzled.

The next sound was from even farther, off the steps entirely, all the way into the kitchen... .

Getting away, the son of a bitch was getting away!

I flew down the stairs, ignoring something white as I pelted down, rage lifting me out of myself so that I barely felt my feet touch the floor. But I heard the slam of the back door as I came through the kitchen doorway, and though I was only seconds behind him, it was enough for the intruder to conceal himself in the woods in back of the Drinkwaters' house.

I stood in the door for a minute or more, panting. For the first time, I understood the phrase "spoiling for a fight." Then common sense prevailed and I retreated, locking the kitchen door behind me.

I suffered an immediate reaction to the adrenaline my body had pumped into my blood to prepare me for action; at every step, I felt my flesh sag on my bones. With a terrible reluctance, I went to see what had been left on the stairs. A spotless white handkerchief was tented over something about halfway up. I reached out slowly and pulled off the handkerchief.

Shining in the sun pouring through the stained-glass window at the landing was a set of cheap metal toy handcuffs. By them was a plastic gun.

I sank onto the stairs and buried my head in my hands.

Three days ago, my past life had been a secret, or so I'd thought.

Now Claude Friedrich knew about my misfortunes. I'd told Marshall. Who else knew?

The life I had so carefully constructed was falling apart. I tried to find something to hold on to.

And I recognized, once again, the bleak truth: There was nothing but myself.

I searched the house. I talked to myself the whole time, telling myself that after it was searched and safe, I would finish cleaning it, and I did. It was a tremendous relief to leave the house and return to my own. I called Helen Drinkwater at work and told her that on my drive to work, I'd seen a suspicious man at the edge of the yard.

"I think you shouldn't leave it unlocked even for the fifteen minutes before I come," I said. "So either I have to get there while you're there, or you need to give me a key." I could feel the woman's suspicions coming over the phone line, along with a tapping sound. Helen Drinkwater was tapping her teeth with a pencil. Mrs. Drinkwater doesn't actually like to see me; she just likes to enjoy the results of my having been there. Before this morning, that had suited me just fine.

"I guess," she said finally, "you better come earlier, Lily. You can just wait in the kitchen until we leave."

"I'll do that," I said, and hung up.

The vicious game played with me today would not be repeated. I lay down on my bed and thought about the incident. It could be that the intruder had not known I could hear the little sound of the boards creaking; perhaps he'd just anticipated that I'd start down the stairs at some later time and find the cuffs and gun. Of course the intruder hadn't planned on any kind of confrontation; that was plain from the way he'd rabbited out the back door. But somehow, it made a difference whether or not the intruder had intended me to be aware of his presence before he left the house.

I would have to think about it. Maybe ask Marshall.

And that brought me upright on the bed instantly. I slapped myself on the cheek.

Marshall was on the edges of my life; he had probably left it completely after our conversation the night before. I won't start to think of him as part of my life, I promised myself. He'll go back to Thea. Or he's completely gone off me, since I told him about the scars. Or his common sense will tell him he doesn't need someone like me.

After that, I swore off thought for the day. I ate a hasty sandwich, then left the house.

I have two clients on Thursday afternoons, and I felt it had been a very long day when I left the last one, a travel agent's office, at 6:30. The last thing in the world I wanted to see was Claude Friedrich at my doorstep.

You'd think he has the hots for me, I thought sardonically.

I parked the car in the carport and walked around to the front door instead of entering by the kitchen door, as I usually did.

"What do you want?" I asked curtly.

He raised his eyebrows. "Not very polite today, are we?"

"I've had a long day. I don't want to talk about the past. I want my supper."

"Then ask me in while you fix it." He said this quite gently.

I couldn't think of what to do, I was so surprised. I wanted to be alone, but I would sound peevish if I told him to go away - and what if he didn't?

Without answering, I unlocked the door and walked in. After a minute, he walked in behind me.

"Are you hungry or thirsty?" I said, fury just underneath the words.

"I've had my supper, but I'd appreciate a glass of tea if you have some," Friedrich rumbled.

Alone in the kitchen for a moment, I put my arms on the counter and rested my head on them. I heard the big man's footsteps sauntering through my spotless house, pausing in the doorway of my exercise room. I straightened and saw that Friedrich was in the kitchen, watching me. There was both sympathy and wariness in his face. I got a glass out of the cabinet and poured him some tea, plonking in some ice, too. I handed it to him wordlessly.

"I'm not here to talk about your past. I've had to check up on everyone connected to Pardon, as you can understand. Your name rang a bell. ... I remembered it, from the newspapers. But what I'm here to talk about today ... a client of yours was in to see me," Friedrich said. "He says you can verify his story."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Tom O'Hagen says he came in from playing golf on his day off, Monday, at about three o'clock."

He waited for my reaction, but I had none to give.

"He says that he then went over to Albee's apartment to pay his rent, found the apartment door ajar, looked inside, and saw that the area rug was rumpled up, the couch pushed crooked, and no one answered his call. He left his rent check on the desk right inside the door and left."

"So you're thinking Pardon may already have been dead at three o'clock."

"If Tom's telling the truth. You're his corroborating witness."

"How so?"

"He says he saw you going into the Yorks' apartment as he came down the stairs."

I thought back, trying hard to remember a perfectly ordinary day. I hadn't known until I was coming home from my night walk that it would be a day I needed to remember in detail.

I closed my eyes, attempting to replay that little stretch of time on Monday afternoon. I'd had the bag in my hand with the supplies the Yorks had wanted me to put in their apartment, anticipating their return. No, two bags. I'd had to put them down to fish out the right key - poor planning on my part. I remembered being peeved at my lack of foresight.

"I didn't hear anyone walking across the hall, but I did hear someone coming down the stairs, and it may have been Tom," I said slowly. "I was having trouble getting the right key separated from the bunch on my key chain. I went in the Yorks' place, put down the bags... put some things in the refrigerator. I left the other things out on the kitchen counter. I didn't need to water the asparagus plant because it was still very wet, and the shades in the bedroom were already open - I usually open them for the Yorks - so I left." I replayed locking the door, turning to leave... .

"I did see him! He was walking away from Pardon's apartment to go to his own and he was hurrying!" I exclaimed, pleased with myself. Tom O'Hagen isn't my favorite person, but I was glad I was able to verify his story, at least to some extent. If it had been Tom I'd heard coming down the stairs, and then I'd seen him again leaving Pardon's in the two or three minutes I'd spent in the Yorks' apartment, surely he wouldn't have had time to kill Pardon. But why would Tom have been upstairs? He has a ground-floor apartment. Deedra? Nope. She'd been at work.