Watch Them Die

THE NEXT VICTIM

Hannah kept wondering why this was happening to her. Two people had been murdered, and somebody was telling her in advance how they would die. But why were they killed?

Someone else stepped into the rest room. Hannah heard footsteps on the tiled floor. For a moment she didn’t move. Then she opened her stall door and looked around.

The stall next to hers was empty. There was nobody by the sinks, either. She could have sworn someone was in the bathroom with her a minute ago. She glanced over toward the sinks again and noticed a small black rectangular box on the edge of the counter.

It was a videocassette.

Hannah glanced at the tape. There was no label on it, probably something recorded live or off a TV. From the tape around the spools, she could see the movie had been stopped at a certain scene. She knew when she put that video in the VCR and pressed “Play,” she would see another murder sequence.

She knew that her secret admirer was planning to kill again.

And he wanted her to see how he would do it….

WATCH THEM DIE

Kevin O’Brien

This book is for my buddy, Dan Monda

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Without my editor at Kensington Books, John Scognamiglio, I never would have gotten this book written. My thanks to John for his encouragement, his honesty, and his friendship. I’m also grateful to many of my other friends at Kensington, especially the dynamic Doug Mendini.

Many thanks also to my agents, Mary Alice Kier and Anna Cottle.

For helping me punch up earlier drafts, another great big thank-you goes to my Writer’s Group pals, David Massengill and Garth Stein; Dan Monda (again), and my dear friend, Cate Goethals.

Thanks to the gang at Broadway Video, along with several customers there, for being incredibly supportive, especially Paul Dwoskin, Tony Myers, Sheila Rosen, Tina Kim, Larry Blades, Phoebe Swordmaker, Chad Schlund, and Sarah Banach. I’m also beholden to Barbara Bailey, Michael Wells, and the folks at Bailey/Coy.

Thanks to my neighbors at the Bellemoral, especially Brian Johnson, who helped with some medical information.

I’m also grateful to my friends Marlys Bourm, Dan Annear, Dan and Doug Stutesman, Elin Shriver, John Saul and Michael Sack, and Terry and Judine Brooks, for all their support and encouragement. And a very special thank-you to the very terrific Tommy Dreiling.

Finally, thanks to my wonderful family.

Prologue

He was crushing her, but Rae didn’t complain. The last thing he probably needed right now was her barking instructions at him. He seemed so nervous and awkward. He acted as if this were their first time. And it wasn’t.

She was trapped beneath him on his unmade bed. All around the darkened bedroom, strategically placed votive candles flickered. A couple of incense sticks were smoldering in an ashtray on the nightstand. The smoky, spicy scent had become overpowering. Rae thought about asking him to open a window, but she didn’t say anything. All the windows were closed, along with the blinds.

He’d already stripped off his shirt, and now he was on top of her, unbuttoning her blouse. If only he’d climb off for a moment, she could get a breath and maybe wriggle out of her clothes herself. She wanted this to be pleasant for both of them.

He’d been so good to her lately, a godsend. Anyone else would have dismissed her as a crazy, dumb, paranoid blonde. But he took her seriously. And he wanted to protect her.

For the last six weeks, someone had been following her. Rae had even caught the shadowy figure videotaping her on a couple of occasions. Both times, she didn’t get a good look at the man. Once, he was in an old burgundy-colored Volvo outside the hotel where she worked as an events coordinator. The sun reflected off the car window, obscuring his face. But she could make out someone holding a video camera. She never saw that Volvo again.

Rae caught him filming her a second time during a date with Joe. It was just a week before Joe died. They were dining at a fancy Italian bistro, where they’d been seated by the front window. She’d heard somewhere that máitre’d’s often placed good-looking couples near the front windows because they attracted business. Rae and Joe were discussing this when she noticed the man with the video camera standing in a cafe across the street. By the time she pointed him out to Joe, her “secret admirer” had disappeared.

Joe hadn’t taken her very seriously. He never called her paranoid or crazy. He merely humored her, making maddening little remarks like This stalker character must have good taste to go after you.

Joe wouldn’t have thought it was so cute if he were the one getting those strange calls in the middle of the night. Half the time, Rae was afraid to answer the phone. And whenever she stepped outside her apartment, she was constantly looking over her shoulder.

Though he’d made certain she never really saw him, this stalker obviously wanted her to know she was being followed. He wanted her to be scared. He even let her know in advance that Joe would die. He’d left her a sign, forecasting Joe’s death from a rooftop fall.

When Rae tried to warn him that his life might be in danger, Joe had just nodded, smiled, and said he would be careful. If only he’d listened to her and believed her, how different things might have been.

The police said Joe Blankenship had been “under the influence” when he’d toppled from the roof of his apartment building. But Rae knew better. She was the only one who knew.

Whoever said “Knowledge is power” was wrong. Rae had never felt so alone and vulnerable after Joe’s death. Yet a man who truly wanted to help her had been there all the time. For a brief period, she’d actually thought he might be the one stalking her. How silly. He wanted to look after her. He took her seriously.

He talked about turning the tables on the man with the video camera. He wanted to catch him on film. Had she thought about going to Joe’s apartment building and asking if anyone had spotted a maroon Volvo parked nearby on the night Joe fell from the roof? Maybe they could recall part of a license-plate number.

He said he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. No one would harass or threaten her as long as he was around.

This was Rae’s third night in a row at his place. She wasn’t in love with him; she even told him so. Still, he made her feel safe, and that was good enough right now.

He opened her blouse, then kissed her breasts. Smiling, Rae ran her fingers through his hair. With his tongue, he drew a warm wet line up to the base of her neck. Rae shuddered gratefully. Maybe he wasn’t so clumsy after all.

Still, he was squashing her.

“Babe, could you move for just a sec?” she finally piped up. “Honey?”

With a grunt, he shifted to one side, but he just felt heavier. Pinned beneath him, Rae was sinking into the mattress. “Sweetie?” she said, hardly able to talk. He was crushing the breath out of her.

He reached toward the nightstand and flicked a switch on a cord. A strobe light sputtered on, like a series of camera flashes. It was too bright, almost blinding.

He reached for something else, something hidden between the mattress and box spring, but Rae couldn’t see it. His every movement seemed fractured by the strobe light. Rae thought he might have grabbed a condom. Whatever it was, he quickly slipped it into his back pocket.

He still had on his jeans. As he ground his pelvis against hers, she felt his erection through the layers of clothes.

Rae squirmed beneath him. “Wait,” she protested. “I’m not comfortable—”

“It’s okay to scream if you want,” he whispered. “That’s why I closed the windows.”

“I don’t want to scream,” she said, with a weak laugh. “Why would you say that? What are you talking about?”

In the staccato light, she saw his face contorted in a grimace as he writhed on top of her, A vein bulged in his neck.

Something’s wrong here, she thought. A panic swept through her. Rae began to shake uncontrollably. She felt trapped beneath his weight.

“Please,” she said, trying to push him away. “I just need you to climb off me for a second. Really…”

He kissed the side of her neck. He didn’t seem to be listening. He kept slamming his pelvis against hers. It hurt.

“Please, stop,” she cried, struggling now. “I—I just need to…to change positions. You’re crushing me….”

“Can’t move,” he muttered, his breath swirling in her ear. “You’ll ruin it.”

“Ruin it? What do you mean?”

He reached into his back pocket. His movements seemed jerky in the flickering light. Rae saw something shiny in his hand.

It looked like a knife.

Oh, dear God, no, this isn’t happening. Desperately, Rae fought to get out from under him. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t even breathe. Hard as she tried, Rae couldn’t budge an inch.

But then he shifted around, and all at once, his knees were pinning down her arms.

In the fractured light, she saw him drawing back the knife. Sweat glistened on his face. His eyes looked so cold.

Suddenly Rae realized those cold eyes had been studying her for the last few months.

And she realized she was going to die.

Terrified, she struggled beneath him, but it was useless.

“Don’t move. Don’t ruin it, baby,” he whispered, raising the knife over his head. He smiled a little. “I need you in camera range.”

The death of Rae Palmer was documented by two concealed video cameras that night.

Rae’s self-appointed director and leading man had over two hours of footage shot in the bedroom that night. Only thirty-five seconds of videotape showed the actual stabbing.

The strobe light made for a murky image at times, and the abundance of blood wasn’t quite as evident on tape. He also had to tinker with the sound to raise the volume of her screams. But all in all, he was happy with the results.

He edited the raw footage down to eleven exciting, harrowing minutes. Careful not to take anything away from Rae’s final performance, he left his likeness on the cutting-room floor. He became a mere shadowy figure in the foreground, wielding the knife. Watching the final product, he didn’t recognize himself at all.

Seeing the video was exhilarating. But he should have remembered. It had happened before. Once he’d done all the work and admired the fruits of his labor, he became overwhelmed with an emptiness, a sort of postpartem depression. There was only one way to remedy that. He knew what he had to do.

He had to find a new leading lady.

One

Hannah glanced at the videocassette in the plain plastic box. There wasn’t much tape on the spools, certainly no more than a half hour’s worth of viewing. The mystery video had been sitting in the “Return Tape Limbo” drawer behind the counter at Emerald City Video for over two weeks now. In that bottom drawer they stashed defective tapes and DVDs, lost-and-found items, and cassettes dropped off at the store by mistake.

Hannah Doyle had been working at Emerald City Video for eighteen months. In her opinion, every hour at the place had taken its toll on her appearance. Hannah thought she looked pale and tired most of the time. But the customers who saw the pretty, blond clerk with the trim figure wouldn’t have agreed with her. Though she was thirty-two years old with a toddler son at home, Hannah’s youthful looks had many people assuming she was fresh out of college. A prominent scar on her chin lent some character to her lovely face. People in the store had asked, but Hannah didn’t talk about how she got the scar.

Crouched behind the counter, she stared at the mystery cassette. She was always curious about these “wrong return” videos. Customers often asked if she’d ever found any homemade sex tapes among those mistaken returns. Hannah hadn’t. After a couple of weeks, she’d always take them home and review the tapes before throwing them out or recycling them.

If the store employees wanted to see sex tapes, they had over two thousand adult titles to choose from.

Emerald City Video was a neighborhood video store, and the neighborhood was one of Seattle’s most eclectic. Street urchins who looked as if they’d wandered in to shoplift might be renting an Audrey Hepburn movie on their parents’ account. An old lady might be patiently standing in line with Upstairs, Downstairs clutched in her liver-spotted hands, while the man in front of her checked out four adult videos.

The shop was ideally located across the street from a mini-mall that housed an Old Navy, Starbucks, and a dozen smaller stores. Emerald City Video’s storefront was all windows, allowing Hannah and her coworkers a good look at the bustling street scene. People-watching helped pass the time when business was slow. The employees didn’t have to wear uniforms either, and for that, Hannah was grateful.

There were stories painting Emerald City Video’s back room as a hot spot of furtive gay sexual activity. But Hannah had never noticed any funny business in the small alcove where they kept the adult titles. The only real trouble she’d encountered in the adult section was a few months back. A nicely dressed, pale man of forty had ducked into the alcove one afternoon, then spent two hours browsing. He finally emerged from the back room and stomped up to the counter, glaring at Hannah. “I was getting sick to my stomach back there, looking at all that filth,” he hissed.

Hannah fought the urge to roll her eyes at him. She managed to smile. “Well, all you need to start a membership here is a photo ID, credit card, and a ten-dollar downpayment that applies to your first three rentals.”

He’d stormed out of the store, but returned a week later. Now he was one of their regular customers, renting up to ten adult titles a week. He was also one of Emerald City Video’s rudest, most obnoxious customers. There was a note on his account whenever they pulled his name up: This guy’s a creep. Argues late fees. Don’t take it personally. He’s rude to everyone. Be nice.

He was one of the exceptions. Most customers at Emerald City Video were friendly. Hannah knew many of them by name now. She had a window into their lives too. She’d heard it all:

“I need to take my boyfriend off my account. We broke up….”

“I have a friend who’s going to be renting for me for the next few weeks. I have to go in for surgery on Wednesday; then I’ll be on chemo….”

“Sorry about the late fee. My mom died, and I had to go to back to Nebraska….”

“I believe my husband has an account with you, and I’d like to know if he’s been renting any adult videos, specifically gay videos….”

“We never got a chance to watch it. We both fell asleep. The baby has kept us up so late the last couple of nights….”

Hannah became sympathetic ear, nursemaid, confidante, beard, and cheerleader to scores of people. She’d even learned some sign language to communicate with their deaf customers. But she still hadn’t mastered Korean, Japanese, Chinese, or Spanish.

At the moment, only a handful of customers were in the store. Hannah’s pick, Strictly Ballroom, played on the three strategically located TVs. Her coworker, Scott, stood at his register, staring down at her. “Hannah, for God’s sake, take the damn tape home and look at it. You know you’re dying to, which, by the way, is kind of pathetic. You really need a life.”

The phone rang, and he answered it. Twenty-six, tall, and thin, Scott Eckland was almost too handsome. He had spiky, gelled black hair, deep-set blue eyes, a male model’s cheekbones, and a strong jawline. With his video store salary, he dressed in Salvation Army finds that never quite came together. Today he wore a pair of green plaid slacks and a yellow shirt that was missing all its buttons. So he’d stapled up the front. The look was a cross between cutting-edge trendsetter and total nerd.

“God help us all,” he muttered, hanging up the phone. “If I have to reserve one more of the new-season Sopranos, I’ll kill someone.” He logged the reservation into his register, then glanced at Hannah again.

Shutting the drawer, she started to slip the tape into her purse, but hesitated.

“So take it home already,” Scott groaned. “The stupid video has been here—what—two weeks? You’re not violating anyone’s privacy. And if there’s a cute naked guy on the tape, you’re giving it to me.”

Hannah dropped the cassette in her purse.

Suddenly, and in steady succession, one person after another began filing into the store, many of them dropping tapes in the return bin. “Oh, crap,” Hannah whispered. “It’s going to get crazy.”

She was right. It got crazy. The phones started ringing, too. About a dozen customers descended on the front counter at the same time. Hannah and Scott were swamped, but they managed to handle the rush without a problem—for a while at least.

Only two people were waiting in line behind the smartly dressed brunette who stepped up to Hannah’s register. With her hair pulled back in a tight bun, the thirty-something woman’s tanned face had a pinched look. She set her video on the counter. “Finkelston is the account,” she mumbled, reaching into her purse.

“Did you say ‘Hinkleston’?” Hannah asked. “H-I-N-K-L—”

“There’s no ‘H’ in Finkelston.” She spoke in a loud, patronizing tone. “There’s never been an ‘H’ in Finkelston. F-I-N-K-E-L-S-T-O-N.”

“Cindy Finkelston?” Hannah said.

Nodding, the brunette woman pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

Hannah decided she didn’t like Cindy Finkelston very much. Now that she pulled up the account, she disliked her even more. She remembered writing the note on her account: REWIND!!! And tell this slob that she returned Office Space with ketchup all over the cassette. Took forever to clean it off—Erase when done—Hannah.

Hannah started to delete the note. “Well, there’s a couple of things here,” she said gently. “Um, it says ‘please rewind.’ And you returned Office Space to us with ketchup on the tape and the box.”

“Okay, whatever.” The woman rolled her eyes. “I happen to be in a hurry.”

“Yeah, well, sorry to take up your time,” Hannah muttered. “You also have a late fee of twelve dollars.”

“I can’t pay that now,” she replied. “I don’t have the money.”

Hannah stared at the twenty-dollar bill in Cindy Finkelston’s hand. “I’m sorry, but we have to settle late charges before we can rent to you.”

“You know, I can just walk down the street to Blockbuster,” she retorted, her voice growing louder. “I don’t have to take this crap. What’s the late charge for anyway? It can’t be right.”

Hannah pulled the date from her account. “Panic Room came back—”

“I returned that the very next day,” Cindy Finkelston interrupted.

Hannah saw the line of people behind Cindy getting longer. “Actually, it was rented on August eighth, due back the ninth, and returned on August twelfth. Three days late at four dollars a day, that makes twelve dollars.”

“I thought that was a three-day rental.”

Hannah stared at her. “Which is it? Did you return it ‘the very next day,’ as you just said, or did you think it was a three-day rental?”

Cindy seemed stumped for a moment; then she became indignant. “What’s your name?” she demanded. “I want to talk to your supervisor.”

“My name’s Hannah. And the manager went home at five. She’ll be back in tomorrow when the store opens at ten.”

“Well, you just lost me as a customer,” Cindy announced—for half the store to hear. “You can close my account.”

Hannah shrugged. “I’m sorry. I can’t close your account until your late charges are paid off.”

One of the store regulars was in line behind Cindy. “Lady, just pay the stupid fee and stop giving her a hard time!”

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” Cindy growled, shooting him a look. She turned her glare at Hannah. “I don’t have to take this shit from some nobody clerk.” She shoved the cassette across the counter, and it fell on the floor by Hannah’s feet. “I’ll be talking with your superior. If I want to close my account here, I certainly can. Do you want a lawsuit? I’m a paralegal for a very prestigious firm. I’ll take legal action.”

Cindy flounced toward the door.

“See you in People’s Court!” Scott called.

“I can help the next potential witness,” Hannah announced. She still had Cindy’s account on the computer screen, and quickly typed in a note: Accept no substitutes or imitations. This woman is a genuine asshole.

She hated letting people like Cindy Finkelston bother her. She could go for days with one nice customer after another; then someone like Cindy Finkelston could bring her down in a minute. The truth be told, she was indeed “some nobody clerk,” stuck in a go-nowhere job and barely making ends meet for herself and her four-year-old son. Free video rentals were poor compensation for the time she had to spend away from her little boy.

Hannah had to remind herself that, despite everything, she and her son were far better off than they’d been two years ago. They were safe now. No one knew where they were. All things considered, she was lucky to have this go-nowhere job and her little two-bedroom apartment. Maybe she didn’t get to spend much time with her son, but at least they were together. These were precious days. She was indeed lucky.

The past hadn’t caught up with her yet.

Her name was Cindy Finkelston. Anyone who had been in Emerald City Video forty-five minutes before certainly knew that. She’d even spelled out the name for all to hear, loudly enunciating each letter. Her grand exit had been quite an attention-getter as well.

She probably had no idea that someone was videotaping her.

It was no stroke of fate that he’d had his camera with him. He always carried it around. Today his video camera was concealed in a shoulder-strap carryall that looked like a laptop computer bag. He often filmed people on the sly that way. It just so happened he’d been keeping surveillance of the video store when Hannah Doyle had her run-in with Ms. Finkelston. He hadn’t expected to find someone like Cindy today. It was almost as if Cindy had chosen him rather than the other way around.

Now he was following her, videotaping her every move. After leaving Emerald City Video, Cindy walked two blocks to the Thriftway. On tape, he caught her slipping an expensive bottle of shampoo into her coat pocket.

Her BMW was parked in a three-minute loading and unloading zone in front of an apartment building. She’d been in that space for at least an hour now. It had grown dark, and the streetlights were on.

Obviously, Cindy Finkelston lived her life getting away with as much as she could, not caring about anyone else. If she ever became the victim of some freak accident, no one would really miss her.

He was on foot, and thought he’d lose her once she drove off. But three stop signs—and one particularly irate pedestrian whom Cindy almost mowed down at a crosswalk—helped him keep a tail on her for six blocks. Still, he was winded by the time he filmed her pulling into a gated lot beside the sterile, slate-colored, five-story apartment building. He wondered about the picture quality for this impromptu night shoot, but decided to take his chances and keep filming.

Cindy climbed out of her BMW, took the stolen shampoo from her pocket, and transferred it to the bag of groceries. Once she stepped inside the lobby, he zoomed in with the camera, catching her in close-up through the glass doors as she rang for the elevator.

The camera panned and scanned across the ugly building for a couple of minutes. Then a light went on in one of the fifth-floor windows. He zoomed in again, and taped Cindy as she came to the window and opened it a crack. She stepped away, out of camera range.

He turned off the video camera. He’d taped enough of Cindy Finkelston—for now. She wasn’t really that important. He didn’t want to waste any more time with a supporting player.

His new leading lady required some looking after.

Two

Hannah had walked this way home from work hundreds of nights. It was only six blocks from the store to the front door of her building. The route she took was well traveled and well lit. Not a bad night for a walk, either. Trees swayed and leaves rustled in the chilly October breeze. The stars were out, too.

Approaching a narrow alleyway between two apartment buildings, Hannah suddenly stopped in her tracks. A passing car’s headlights swept across the dark alcove, briefly illuminating a man who stood by the dumpsters. He wore a bulky jacket and a hunter’s hat.

A chill ran through Hannah. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. Picking up her pace, she hurried past the alley and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He stood in the shadows. Hannah thought he was drinking something from a bottle. But then she realized that he was holding a video camera.

Just a minute ago, she’d been thinking about her tired feet, and getting home in time to tuck in her son before he fell asleep. She’d been thinking about a shower and the leftover pasta for dinner. But now, none of that mattered. She just needed to get away from this strange man in the hunting cap who was videotaping her.

Hannah started to run. Her apartment building was another three blocks away. She glanced over her shoulder.

He hadn’t emerged from the alley yet. Was he really recording her? Maybe he’d just found a broken video camera in the dumpster. Maybe it wasn’t even a video camera. Her eyes were tired; she could have been mistaken. After staring at the register’s computer screen all day at work, it was a wonder she could focus on anything.

Hannah slowed down for the last block. She kept peeking over her shoulder. No one was following her. She felt silly, frightened by a harmless dumpster-diver lurking in an alley. What did she expect, living in the city?

Hannah was still chiding herself and catching her breath as she stepped into the lobby. Her apartment building was called the Del Vista, one of many former hotels built for the Seattle World’s Fair in 1962. A three-story, tan-brick structure, it offered Space Needle views in many of the units, including Hannah’s two-bedroom apartment. Hannah had gotten it cheap because the previous tenant had committed suicide in the living room. Seattle housing regulations required that landlords pass along such information to potential renters. Hannah didn’t know how the poor guy did himself in. Revealing those details wasn’t part of the housing rule’s requirements. All she knew was that word of the suicide drove away prospective tenants and drove down the unit’s rental price. She never could have afforded the place otherwise.

She had nothing but junk mail. “Why be Single?” was written on one envelope. As Hannah tucked the letters in her bag, she saw the mystery video in there. She’d almost forgotten about it. Probably some customer taped a Seahawks game—or an episode of ER. Maybe it was somebody’s wedding or a baby’s first steps. If she recognized anyone in the video, she could return it to them, do a good deed.

She climbed three flights in the cinderblock stairwell that lead to an outside balcony. Approaching her door, Hannah noticed the flickering light from the TV set in the living-room window. She passed the window and waved at her baby-sitter, Joyce. A husky woman in her early sixties, Joyce sat on the sofa with a bag of Chips Ahoy at her side. She had dyed-red hair and cat-eye glasses. Joyce waved back to Hannah and started to pull herself off the couch.

Hannah beat her to the door. Joyce waddled around the coffee table. “You’re going to hate me,” she announced. “I polished off the chocolate-chip cookies. If you want dessert tonight, all I left you was Melba toast.”

“No sweat,” Hannah said. She set her purse and coat on a straight-back chair by the front door. “How’s Guy?” she asked. “Is he asleep?”

Joyce switched off the TV. “He’s waiting up for you. At least, when I checked on him a couple of minutes ago he was still hanging in there.”

Joyce retreated to the kitchen, separated from the living room by a counter. Three tall barstools were lined up by that counter, the closest thing Hannah had to a dining-room table. Her apartment had been furnished entirely with finds from Ikea and secondhand stores. It all blended together nicely. An Edward Hopper print hung on the wall—along with framed movie posters of The Philadelphia Story and Double Indemnity.

Family photos were also on display: her deceased parents; her favorite aunt, with whom she’d lost touch since moving to Seattle; and, of course, several pictures of Guy.

But there were no pictures of Guy’s father.

Hannah didn’t talk about him. He died in a car accident before Guy was born. That was the story she gave whenever anybody asked; it was the story she’d given Joyce.

Joyce Bremner lived in an apartment building two doors down the block. While walking with Guy, Hannah always used to see her in front of the building, working on the garden. A widow, Joyce had three children and seven grandchildren, none of whom lived in Seattle. She’d made it clear that if Hannah ever needed a baby-sitter, she was available.

Four nights a week Joyce picked up Guy from Alphabet Soup Day Care; then she took him home, cooked dinner, and got him ready for bed. Guy was crazy about her, and so was Hannah.

After being pleasant to people all day, Hannah had very little social energy on tap at night. All she wanted to do was see her son and spend a few minutes with him before he fell asleep. Joyce always seemed to understand that. Once Hannah plodded through the front door, Joyce stayed just long enough to welcome her home and give her an update on Guy. She also told Hannah what they’d had for dinner—usually something canned or processed; Joyce wasn’t much of a cook.

As she threw on her raincoat, Joyce revealed that SpaghettiOs had been tonight’s fare. Also, they were running low on milk, Parmesan cheese, and, of course, Chips Ahoy.

She opened the door, but hesitated and turned to Hannah. Behind her, the Space Needle was illuminated in the distance. “Before I forget, honey,” she said, her brow furrowed, “you had two more hang-ups tonight. I think it’s the same person who kept calling and hanging up yesterday. I tried star-six-nine, but both times, it told me the number was blocked.”

Hannah sighed. “Like I said last night, I wouldn’t worry about it. Probably some telemarketer.”

Joyce grimaced a bit. “Well, I thought there was someone on the other end of the line, listening to me. But—I don’t know, I’ve been wrong before, once or twice in my life.” She shrugged and blew Hannah a kiss. “Oh, well. Take care, hon. See you tomorrow.”

Hannah nodded. “G’night, Joyce.” She watched the older woman retreat along the walkway to the stairwell. The night wind kicked up.

A chill passed through Hannah. She stepped back inside and closed the door. Her son was waiting up for her. The thought of him made her smile. How did he know that she really needed to spend some time with him tonight?

Hannah padded down the hallway to his room. Guy’s nightstand lamp was still on, but he’d fallen asleep. A picture book of trucks was slipping from his grasp. Studying him, Hannah ached inside. She hadn’t gotten a chance to say good night to her little guy.

He was a handsome kid: straight blond hair, beautiful green eyes, and impossibly long lashes. Last week, she’d had him in the cart seat at the supermarket when another woman approached her, asking if she’d ever considered having her son model. “A couple of commercials, and it’ll pay for his college education,” the woman had said. She’d given Hannah a business card. She’d seemed on the level.

Hannah knew she didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell at putting Guy through college on her video-store salary. Yet she’d thrown out that business card. No matter how much money they offered her, Hannah wouldn’t let them put Guy on TV or in a magazine—not the briefest appearance, not the tiniest ad. After all, what if someone recognized him?

She gingerly pulled the book out from under his hand, then set it on the bookcase. Trucks were his latest thing. Just a few months ago, he’d been crazy about rockets and outer space. He still had a mobile of the planets hanging from the ceiling, but Hannah knew that was old hat to him by now. Various Tinkertoy trucks occupied the bookcase where model rockets, star charts, and plastic replicas of the planets had once resided.

Hannah switched off his bed-table lamp. A Bugs Bunny night-light glowed in the corner of the room. Tucking the blanket under Guy’s chin, she kissed his forehead. She’d missed him tonight, but they’d have tomorrow morning together.

Hannah’s feet started aching again as she retreated to her bedroom. She peeled off her outer clothes, then wandered into the bathroom.

Under the shower’s warm, wet current, she began to relax. She let the gushing water wash away all the stress and bitterness.

Once she’d dried off, Hannah changed into a sweatshirt and flannel pajama bottoms. She poured a glass of wine, then set some leftover pasta on the stove.

While dinner cooked, Hannah fished the mystery video from her bag and turned on the TV. She ejected a tape from the VCR: her daily recording of The Young and the Restless. All those free videos to choose from, and here she was taping silly soap operas and sneaking a peek at someone’s home video.

Hannah popped the cassette into her machine, then sat on the sofa arm and sipped her wine. “Oh, my God,” she murmured, suddenly mesmerized.

She’d gotten someone’s homemade sex tape. On the screen, a woman Hannah didn’t recognize squirmed beneath a man in bed. The picture quality was very professional, even with the dim lighting. But the shirtless man was out of focus. He seemed like a mere shadow hovering over the attractive, slim, thirtyish blonde. Hannah couldn’t tell if the woman was in ecstasy—or just uncomfortable. While writhing beneath her partner, she winced and rolled her eyes. He opened her blouse and began kissing her breasts.

Hannah watched with fascination as they kissed and fondled each other on the bed. Somehow, the man seemed to elude the camera the entire time. Hannah could see his actions, but she couldn’t see him, couldn’t even make out his hair color. He was Caucasian; that was the only thing she could tell about him. Otherwise, he was just a blur in the foreground. The woman was the star of this little movie. And Hannah got the impression that she didn’t know she was being videotaped.

The movie must have been shot with two steady, mounted cameras, then edited, because the angles changed at different times, yet all the movements matched. Whoever made this video certainly knew what he was doing.

For a moment, the woman’s face was obscured by the man as he reached toward the nightstand. He must have switched on a strobe lamp, because the scene became illuminated by pulsating flashes of light. The woman seemed disoriented.

Hannah thought she saw him pull a knife out from under the mattress. She wanted to stop the video; play it back and see if she was mistaken. She glanced around for the remote, but didn’t see it. Her living room was bathed in the stark, flickering light from the TV screen.

On the video, the man’s lovemaking had now become frenzied. Almost in sync with the frantic, pulsating strobe, he pounded against her with his pelvis. The woman seemed to be pleading with him to stop. Hannah saw him raise the knife. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “What is this?”

She watched in horror as he plunged the knife down into the woman’s chest. He did it again, and again. The pretty blonde started to scream, but then she appeared to go into shock. She stopped struggling.

He kept stabbing her. Yet the wide-eyed, dazed expression on her face didn’t change. Her body took each savage, bloodletting blow without so much as a twitch. The woman was dead.

Numbly, Hannah stared at the TV screen—and at that poor woman. The blurry form of a man finally pulled away from his victim. The blonde lay amid the bloody bed sheets, naked and perfectly still, illuminated by the staccato light flashes. Her eyes were open, unblinking.

“Jesus,” Hannah whispered. “This looks real.”

From the sidewalk, he had a view of the third-floor balcony walkway—and her living-room window. She was watching the tape, he could tell. He could see the rapid, flickering light from her TV, like a lightning storm going on inside her apartment. It was the strobe lamp in the video.

Hannah was watching the murder right now.

He wished he could see her reaction. Was she terrified? If only he were watching the movie with her: That would have been something. Like a great director, he manipulated his audience. He pulled the strings, and Hannah Doyle responded.

He wanted to be there while she responded.

Soon enough, he told himself. He would get closer to her—much, much closer.

The video was rewinding in Hannah’s VCR.

She took her dinner off the stove and threw it away. The videotape had made her sick. She couldn’t stop shaking. She kept telling herself that it couldn’t have been real.

In fact, the home video seemed eerily familiar. That death scene had already been played out by Tom Berenger and Diane Keaton at the end of Looking for Mr. Goodbar. It was the climax of Richard Brooks’s 1977 film: the strobe light, the couple in the throes of violent sex, him pulling out a knife, then repeatedly stabbing her in the chest. The video’s blond victim even had the same death stare as Diane Keaton in the original movie.

Hannah refilled her wineglass and stared at her blank TV screen. She needed to prove to herself that the tape was just a reenactment, a fake.

She took another gulp of wine, then edged up close to her TV screen. She pressed “Play.” With a hand over her mouth, she forced herself to watch.

Hannah thought she’d catch a false note. But the more she saw, the sicker she felt. It was like studying the Zapruder film. Every frame was real. Wincing, she played the stabbing in slow motion, and it didn’t look fake. She studied the dead woman, and didn’t see her draw a breath or blink.

At the end of the video, Hannah was shaking again.

It didn’t make sense. How could this reenactment of Looking for Mr. Goodbar look so real? More important, who had made the movie, and why?

Whoever had dropped off the video at the store must have been a customer. But Hannah didn’t recognize the woman in the film, and despite her constant scrutiny, she couldn’t make out the killer. He must have edited himself out.

Hannah ejected the tape. She thought about calling the police. Instead, she called Tish, the store manager, at her home.

“Tish, it’s Hannah. Did I wake you?”

“No, I’m up. What’s going on?”

“Well, I took home a video that’s been sitting in the limbo drawer for two weeks. I just looked at it, Tish. I think it’s some kind of snuff film.”

“You’re kidding,” Tish murmured.

“I wish I was,” Hannah said. “In it, this poor woman is stabbed over and over again. And it looks very real. Maybe you could take a look at it, Tish. I think it’s some kind of reenactment of Diane Keaton’s murder in Looking for Mr. Goodbar. Maybe it’s just a hoax and I’m too freaked out right now to see it. You might recognize the woman in the video; I didn’t.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing, Hannah,” her boss said. “Take it from me, I’ve been working in video stores for over ten years. Snuff films are something you read or hear about, urban legend stuff.”

“Well, I wish you’d at least look at this.”

“Okay, I’ll take a gander,” Tish said. “Bring it in tomorrow. I bet it’s somebody’s project for a film class or something. Don’t let it scare you, Hannah. Mellow out. Pour yourself a glass of wine.”

She managed to chuckle. “I’m way ahead of you.”

After Hannah hung up the phone, she studied the unmarked cassette again. Perhaps she’d see it was fake if she looked at the tape just one more time. But she couldn’t. Hell, she didn’t even want the damn thing in her apartment overnight.

Hannah stuffed the cassette in a bag and set it on the kitchen counter. Then she topped off her glass of wine and opened the Melba toast.

Hannah flipped her pillow over, gave it a punch, and turned to look at the luminous digital clock on her nightstand: 2:53 A.M. What had made her think she would fall asleep tonight?

Every time she closed her eyes, she kept seeing that dead woman lying amid the rumpled, bloodstained sheets. Hannah had been tossing and turning for the last two hours.

She finally flung back the covers and climbed out of bed. She wore a T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Rubbing her forehead, she staggered toward the bathroom next door. She glanced down the hallway.

And gasped.

A shadowy figure moved at the end of the hallway. For a second, all she saw was a blur, like that faceless killer in the video. It darted away so quickly it might have been a ghost—maybe that young man who had killed himself in this apartment.

Hannah stood paralyzed for a moment. Goose bumps crept over her arms. Her feet grew cold, and she realized the front door must be open. Had someone broken into the apartment? Was he still there?

She stepped in front of Guy’s doorway, instinctively blocking anyone from getting in. The door was closed, but she heard Guy breathing as he slept. Hannah told herself that he was all right.

Another shadow swept across the hallway wall. She was dead certain someone was in her living room.

“I have a gun!” Hannah heard herself say in a loud, shrill voice. Her whole body tingled.

Not a sound. After a minute, Hannah caught her breath, then crept toward the living room. She switched on the light. No one.

The curtains on the window were open a few inches. She noticed the headlights of a car coming down the street, three stories below. Were those the shadows she’d seen?

Hannah checked the front closet. Then she peeked into Guy’s room.

He was sitting up in bed, looking utterly terrified. “Mommy?”

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, still trying to catch her breath. “Just stay there, sweetie. Everything’s all right.”

She poked her head in the bathroom, then returned to the living room. She checked the door. “Oh, shit,” she whispered.

It wasn’t locked. She could have sworn she’d double-locked it earlier in the evening.

But that had been at least three glasses of wine ago. Just last night, she’d resolved to cut back on the chardonnay consumption.

Her heart still racing, Hannah double-locked the door. She glanced around the apartment. Nothing was missing. Nothing had been disturbed. Was she drunk? Maybe she was just a little paranoid after watching that creepy video.

She checked her purse—just where she’d left it, on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. Inside, her wallet, cash, and credit cards were still there.

“Mom!” Guy cried out. “Mommy, where are you?”

Hannah hurried back to Guy’s room. He was still was sitting up in bed, clutching the bedsheets to his chin. “There was a scream,” he murmured.

Hannah smoothed his disheveled blond hair. Her hand was shaking. “I, um, I just had a nightmare, honey,” she whispered, trying to smile. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Guy squinted at her. “What did you dream?”

Hannah shrugged. “I can’t remember now. Isn’t that silly?”

Sighing, she sat down on the edge of his bed. She kept having to tell herself that they were all right. Safe.

“Think you can go back to sleep now?” she asked.

Guy yawned, then tugged at the bedsheets. “Could you stay a little longer, and make the choo-choo sound?”

Hannah kissed his cheek. “Okay, just pretend the train is carrying you off to Dreamland.”

She swayed back and forth, rocking the bed ever so slightly. “Listen to the train,” she whispered. Softly she began lulling him to sleep with her rendition of a locomotive. “Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo-choo…”

“Are you still scared?” he muttered sleepily.

“No, I’m okay, honey,” she said, with a nervous laugh.

“It was just a bad dream, Mom.”

“Sure it was,” she agreed, patting his shoulder. “Now get some sleep. It’ll be morning soon.”

Three

For the last five minutes, they had been looking at static on the TV screen.

Hannah and the store manager, Tish, were in the cluttered closet that was the employee break room. There were a desk and chair, and several shelves crammed with old receipts, defective tapes, office supplies, and one tiny television with a built-in VCR. Tish screened allegedly flawed videos on this TV to make sure complaining customers weren’t just trying to score a free comp rental.

But this morning, Hannah and Tish were crammed in that little room, watching the Goodbar copycat video. It was a continual gray blizzard. Standing behind Tish in the chair, Hannah reached past her and tried the fast-forward button. Nothing. More static.

“Sure doesn’t look like Diane Keaton,” Tish cracked.

“I don’t know what happened,” Hannah murmured.

“Do you think you brought the wrong tape back?” Tish offered.

Hannah shook her head. “I couldn’t have. I remember last night taking it out of the VCR and putting it on the kitchen counter.”

“Well, maybe you taped over it by accident,” Tish said.

Bewildered, Hannah stared at the static on the TV screen. Had she erased the tape? She couldn’t have been that drunk last night, though she certainly had a hangover this morning.

“Well, fine,” Tish sighed, getting to her feet. “My one shot at seeing a snuff film, and you bring me fifteen minutes of snow.”

A buxom black woman in her mid-forties, Tish had a beautiful face and long, straight hair she always pulled back with a barrette. She wore a pair of jeans, boots, and an oversized purple V-neck sweater. Tish, along with her girlfriend, Sandra, had been the owner and manager of Emerald City Video for almost eleven years.

She squeezed past Hannah and started out of the break room. “C’mon, let’s get these returns checked in before the store opens.”

Hannah ejected the tape from the VCR, then wandered toward the front counter.

Tish was at the register, stacking up the returned videos and DVDs.

“You know, I woke up early, early this morning,” Hannah said. “And I thought someone was in the apartment. Maybe somebody switched the tapes.”

Tish stared at her. “You had a break-in? And you didn’t call the cops?”

“I said I thought someone was there.” She shrugged. “When I checked, I didn’t see anyone, and nothing was missing. I figured I was wrong. Only now, I don’t know.”

Tish looked at her as if she were crazy.

Hannah started filing away DVDs. She couldn’t explain it. Hell, she didn’t know what to believe. She’d had a run-in with a bitchy customer last night, gone home, skipped dinner, and downed a glass of wine. Then she’d started to look at a video, and it scared the hell out of her. Two and a half glasses of Chardonnay later, she had thought someone was in the apartment. She didn’t want to share any of this with Tish. She didn’t want her to know that she sometimes drank too much.

“I don’t get it.” One hand on the counter and the other on her hip, Tish frowned at her. “I mean, if you really think someone broke into your place last night to rip off what looked like a snuff film, maybe it really was a snuff film. You might want to contact the police.”

Hannah tried to keep busy with the DVDs. She sighed. “They’ll just say it was a hoax. It’s what you thought last night. You were trying to convince me it was someone’s project for a film class. You said so yourself; there’s no such thing as a genuine snuff film. They’re all fake.”

“Well, maybe you found a real McCoy. What’s the harm in putting in a call to the cops, huh? Let them know what happened—”

“No,” Hannah said. “It’s too late to call them now. There’s nothing to back up my story. The video’s just static now. I’ll come across as some nutcase. Please, let’s just drop it. No need to call the police, really. I don’t want you to.”

“You sure?” Tish asked.

“Of course,” she replied. Hannah finished filing DVDs and started in on the tapes. She could feel Tish studying her. After a minute, Hannah glanced at the clock on the wall, then at the door. “Time to open up,” she said. “And Howard’s waiting. He’ll want to know What’s new in new releases?”

“Yeah, goddamn pain in the ass,” Tish muttered, sauntering toward the door. “Always wants me to recommend something, puts me through the wringer, and never rents a damn thing I tell him to.” She unlocked the door and opened it. “Well, Howard, how’s my favorite customer?”

“What’s new in new releases?” the older man asked.

“Come on over here,” Hannah heard Tish say. “Let’s take a look….”

Hannah continued to file away the DVDs. She hoped she’d gotten through to Tish about not calling the police. If the video had still been intact, and they’d determined it was real, she would have asked Tish to handle everything. She’d have asked to be left out of it.

Only a week ago, she’d confirmed once again that it still wasn’t safe for her to become involved with the authorities in any way.

In the store, they’d been showing a new comedy called Way Out There. Hannah had recognized one of the actors as a fellow student from her days in Chicago’s Second City troupe. They used to hang out together.

Way Out There was still playing when Hannah took her break. She dropped ten dollars in the change box, pulled out a roll of quarters, then went across the street to the mall. From a pay phone, she called an old friend in Chicago, Ann Gilmore. Ann had also been at Second City.

Hannah caught her at home.

“Hannah? Well, hi. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m doing all right. It’s so good to hear your voice, Ann. Makes me homesick.” She meant it, too. She wished she didn’t have to call her from some public pay phone with all these people around. She covered one ear to block out the music from Old Navy next door.

“Is Guy all right?” Ann asked, concern in her tone.

“Oh, yes, he’s fine, cute as ever. I just haven’t talked with you in so long, I wanted to catch up. You know, I thought I saw Rick Swanson in this movie, um, Way Out There.”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s doing really well. We talked just about a month ago. Your ears were probably burning. Rick was going on and on about how you were the prettiest and most talented of our group.”

“Oh, please,” Hannah groaned.

“No, he’s right. I can’t help thinking, you might have gotten the same kind of break as Rick—if only things hadn’t turned out the way they had.” Ann paused. “I guess you don’t need to reminded of that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, really,” Hannah said with a pitiful laugh.

“Rick asked if I ever heard from you at all. I—um, I told him ‘no.’ I hope that’s okay.”

“You did the right thing,” Hannah murmured. “Thanks, Ann.”

“A few weeks ago, I had another visit from a private investigator, a new one this time. Apparently he talked to a bunch of people from our old group. Of course, none of us could tell him anything.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know, Ann.”

“Are you really doing okay, Hannah? I mean, are you settled wherever you are? Do you have friends and a decent place to live?”

“I’m all right,” Hannah replied. “I have friends, too, only none of them know me the way you do, Ann. None of them know.”

After she’d hung up, Hannah realized that Ann no longer really knew her either. She’d stood near the phone station in the crowded, noisy mall, and she’d felt so alone.

At the same time, she couldn’t let anybody get too close. And she was always looking over her shoulder, always wary of the police.

She couldn’t admit that to Tish. There would be too much to explain, too much at risk.

“Excuse me?”

Hannah put aside the DVDs, then turned to smile at the tall young man on the other side of the counter. “Where’s Gandhi?” he asked.

“He’s dead,” Hannah quipped. Then she quickly shook her head. “Sorry. Actually that’s in Ben Kingsley’s section. I’ll show you.”

Hannah tracked down the tape for the customer. He thanked her, then went off searching for a second movie. On the shelf above Ben Kingsley’s section were Diane Keaton movies. But Hannah didn’t see Looking for Mr. Goodbar among them. She went back to her register and looked up the movie on the computer. It was supposed to be in the store—just where she’d been looking. The video had last been checked out five months ago.

Someone must have lifted the video from the store. Perhaps they had needed to study the original for a while—in order to get everything right for the reenactment. But was it just an act?

She rang up Gandhi for the young man, probably a college student. He was also renting an adult movie called Good Will Humping, with a chesty blond bimbo by a blackboard on the cover. Nice combination, Gandhi and porn, Hannah thought as she rang up the sale.

The tall young man looked her up and down, then gave her a playful smile. Hannah pretended not to notice. She remained polite, professional, and distant. Yet, throughout the transaction, she wondered if he could have been the man in that video last night. After all, it could have been anyone.

Her very next customer was Ned Reemar, a slightly strange man of forty who came in the store every day. He always wore the same clothes: a brown shirt with a Snoopy emblem sewn over the pocket, jeans, and sneakers. He had ugly haircuts, but he wasn’t a bad-looking man. In fact, Scott once admitted he’d sleep with Ned if someone gave him a makeover. Now he regretted making the statement, and Hannah still teased him about it. Ned always talked their ears off, mostly about the technical aspects of every film ever made. That wasn’t so bad. What was unsettling was Ned’s way of picking up personal information about each one of the employees. “Is Hannah married?” he’d asked Scott months ago. “Is Scott gay? Does he have a boyfriend?” he’d asked Hannah.

“I think Nutty Ned wants to be your main man,” Hannah had later told Scott. “Maybe he’ll get a makeover—just for you.”

“Not even with a blindfold and a case of Stoli’s would I let him touch me,” Scott had replied.

Hannah had always thought Ned was a bit peculiar, but harmless. Yet as she waited on him now, and he complained about the sound on their DVD version of A Clockwork Orange, Hannah studied him with a sudden wariness.

For the rest of the day, she regarded practically every male customer with the same apprehension: the strangers, the regulars, the ones she knew and liked, and the few who were jerks. With each man, she couldn’t help wondering if there was something more behind the simplest smile, the off-hand polite comment, or even a blank stare. Any one of those men could have been the killer in that video.

Any one of them.

“Do you know what the movie is tonight?”

The man sitting next to Hannah in film class was ruggedly handsome in a Gary Cooper kind of way. He had wavy blond hair, and blue eyes that matched his pale denim shirt. Hannah guessed he was in his mid-thirties. He’d just joined the class a couple of weeks ago. She’d noticed him looking at her several times during the last two sessions. Tonight he’d sat down next to her.

Ordinarily, she might have been flattered. But not tonight.

Slouched in his chair-desk, he grinned sheepishly at her. “Hope it’s something good,” he said. “I’m really bushed. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep.”

Hannah gave him a cool smile. “It’s All Fall Down, with Warren Beatty and Eva Marie Saint. I’ve seen it before. It’s very good.”

He planted his elbow on the desk panel. His sleeves were rolled up. Hannah noticed his muscular arms, covered with blond hair. “By the way, my name’s Ben,” he said, reaching out his hand.

“Hannah.” She quickly shook his hand. Then she opened her spiral notebook and tried to look interested in it.

“If I start snoring during the movie, promise you’ll give me a nudge.”

She didn’t look up from her notebook. “If you’re so tired, maybe you should have sat in the back, where no one would notice you sleeping.”

“But I wanted to sit next to you.”

Hannah glanced up at him.

He smiled. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way of introducing myself to you for a couple of weeks now.”

“Well, that’s very flattering,” Hannah replied. Then she went back to her notebook. “Thanks anyway.”

“Ouch,” he whispered. “Shot through the heart.”

Hannah looked at him again. “Pardon?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Never mind.”

The instructor stepped up to the front of the room. “Tonight we’ll be checking out an overlooked classic from John Frankenheimer,” he announced.

Hannah tried to concentrate on what he was saying. But all the while, she felt this Ben character in the next chair looking at her. She finally turned to glare at him, but he was staring at their instructor. He actually seemed interested in the lecture.

“Frankenheimer assembled a terrific cast here,” the instructor was saying. Perched on the edge of his desk, he was the embodiment of a relaxed, confident authority figure. “They’re all at the top of their form: Beatty, Eva Marie Saint, Angela Lansbury, Karl Malden….”

His name was Paul Gulletti. He had a swarthy complexion, dark eyes, and receding black hair. He was a nice dresser, too: expensive sweaters, silk shirts, Italian footwear.

In addition to teaching a film class at the community college, Paul reviewed movies for a popular Seattle weekly newspaper. He also rented at Emerald City Video. Hannah used to think he was kind of a cocky, womanizing creep. His wife was on his account at the video store, but that didn’t stop Paul Gulletti from coming on to Hannah, her coworker Britt, and even Tish.

Hannah had been immune to his charm—until he asked her about her mini-reviews. She typed the critiques on index cards, then posted them alongside her Employee Picks for the month. Paul liked Hannah’s writing style—and her taste in movies.

“Ever think about reviewing films for a newspaper?” he asked one afternoon in the store. “The money isn’t bad….”

Paul said he received 130 dollars for every review. But he wouldn’t be reviewing movies much longer. He was preparing to direct his own independent film—as soon as the financing came through. They’d need someone to replace him at the newspaper. He said there was even more money if her reviews got syndicated in other newspapers. Was she interested?

Hannah imagined cutting back on her hours at the store and spending more time with Guy. She figured she could write under a pseudonym to keep her name out of the papers. And she loved creating those mini-reviews. It suddenly seemed possible that she could make a semi-decent dollar with her writing. Womanizing sleazeball or not, Paul Gulletti was offering her a wonderful opportunity.

Paul also suggested she take his film class at the college. “It’ll fine-tune your skills,” he said. “I think you’ll benefit from it. And I’d feel better recommending one of my students as my successor at the paper.”

Though Hannah hated giving up precious time with Guy for this class one night a week, it seemed worth her while.

She’d been in the film class for five weeks now. Clearly, she was Paul’s favorite student, and all the special attention embarrassed her. She kept Paul at arm’s length. She needed his help, but didn’t want to become another notch on his bedpost.

Paul’s assistant, an arty, edgy young man named Seth Stroud, confirmed for Hannah that his boss did indeed want to get her in the sack. “Professor G. usually picks one female student every year,” Seth had confided to her one evening after class a while back. “He leads her around, tells her she’s brilliant and he’s gonna leave his old lady for her. Then he drops her at the end of the semester. You seem nice. I don’t want Paul doing that to you.”

“Well, thanks for the warning,” Hannah had replied. “But I’m not interested in Professor Gulletti that way.” Then she’d added, “You must not think very highly of your boss.”

“Actually, he’s okay,” Seth had admitted, with a shrug. “He’s just a shit to women. Hey, do me a favor and don’t tell him I said anything, okay?”

Now, whenever Paul asked her to stay after class for something, or picked her to explain the workings of a certain film director, Hannah would steal a look at Seth. Standing at the side of the room, he’d grin and roll his eyes a little. He was an oddly attractive man in his late twenties, with rectangular designer glasses, and brown hair that he’d gelled to stand in a dozen different directions. They’d had only a few brief conversations in the past few months. But Hannah had come to like him.

“Seth, if you could get the lights,” Paul announced, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. “From 1962, John Frankenheimer’s All Fall Down.”

Seth switched off the lights, then stepped over to the projector and started the film. The MGM lion was roaring as Paul made his way down the aisle. He took the seat on Hannah’s left.

She caught Seth giving her one of his looks.

Paul leaned toward her. “I called you this week,” he whispered. “Didn’t you get my message?”

Hannah nodded. “Yes. Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. It’s been kind of crazy at work. I was hoping we could talk during the break tonight.”

“I thought you could help me with some research,” Paul explained, while the music swelled on the film’s soundtrack. “It’ll get your foot in the door with my managing editor. I’m doing an article for the newspaper on movies that broke the blacklist. Maybe we can discuss it over dinner this week?”

Hannah hesitated.

“Excuse me, Professor,” Ben piped up. “I can’t hear the movie.”

Paul frowned at him, then reached over and touched Hannah’s arm. “We’ll talk later,” he whispered.

Squirming, Hannah sat between the two men. She gazed at the screen.

At the break, Paul said he’d talk with her after class.

Hannah nodded. “Okay. But I promised the sitter I’d be back by ten.”

She wandered out to the hallway, where the other students gathered by the vending machines and rest-room doors. Ben Whats-his-name seemed to be waiting for her. “You were right,” he said. “It was a good movie. I didn’t nod off. Warren Beatty’s character was sure a jerk, though, wasn’t he? I thought Eva Marie Saint would be too smart to fall for him.”

Hannah gave him a polite smile, then stepped over to the vending machine. “Maybe you ought to bring it up when the class reconvenes for the discussion period.”

“I don’t think I’ll stick around for that.” He leaned against the vending machine. “I wasn’t exactly gaga for his theories on Casablanca last week.”

Hannah slipped some coins in the slot, pressed a couple of buttons, then fished her candy from the vending machine’s drawer. “Would you like a Good & Plenty?” she asked.

“No,” he said, frowning. “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I didn’t realize you and the teacher…” He trailed off. “Well, I heard people in class say you two were together. But I thought you were too smart to fall for a guy like him. Guess I was wrong about you and Eva Marie, huh?”

“What?” Hannah said.

“Like I said, I’m sorry.” He turned and started down the hall.

Hannah wondered how he’d gotten this misinformation about her and Paul. Had he been asking people about her?

She watched him walk away. Then he ducked into the stairwell.

Hannah decided she would take a cab home from the community college. She could hardly afford a taxi, but it was raining. Besides, she was still feeling a little leery after last night; first seeing that video, then thinking someone was in the apartment. And now, this Ben character. He unnerved her.

Paul was very curious about him. “How well do you know that guy?” he asked, pausing with Hannah outside the empty classroom. Everyone else had already left, including Seth. “I noticed him talking to you,” Paul went on. “He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? Is he a customer from the store?”

“I don’t know him from Adam,” Hannah said. “He just sat next to me in class tonight. Up until two hours ago, I never even said ‘boo’ to the guy. Do you know his last name? You must have it somewhere on a class list.”

According to the registration list, his name was Ben Sturges; phone number, 555-3291. Hannah wondered if the number was blocked. She thought about all those hang-ups she’d received lately. Could the calls be traced to his number?

Paul started telling her about his current project. “Some night this week we ought to get together for dinner or drinks and discuss it further.”

Hannah sighed. “Well, this week is kind of crazy,” she said. “But I really want to work for you, Paul. I can squeeze in the research on my own time, and then e-mail you.”

Paul frowned a bit. “Well, then I guess we’ll chat on-line later in the week. Listen, why don’t you let me drive you home?”

“Oh, well, thanks,” Hannah replied. “I don’t want you going to any trouble. I was going to take a cab—”

“Okay, suit yourself,” Paul grumbled; then he marched down the corridor to his office.

Hannah sighed. Obviously, he was ticked off at her. Otherwise, he’d have insisted on driving her home—just to be polite. After all, it was raining, for God’s sake.

She called the cab service from a pay phone by the community college’s main entrance.

Eleven blocks, and it cost her six dollars with tip. She’d have to skip lunch tomorrow. Still, the taxi ride kept her out of the rain.

Hannah stepped inside the apartment and pried off her shoes. She woke up Joyce, who had been dozing in front of the TV.

“Guy’s fast asleep, the little angel,” she told Hannah while collecting her purse and raincoat. “I put a big dent in that bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies. You really shouldn’t have bought those. Oh, and no one called tonight, not a single hang-up either. How about that?”

Hannah loaned Joyce an umbrella for the walk home. She locked the door after her, then checked in on Guy, who was asleep. After a shower, Hannah climbed into her T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, and threw on a robe. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she plopped down on the sofa and grabbed the remote. She hoped her soap opera would take her mind off everything. She pressed “Play” to make sure the tape hadn’t run out early on her program.

What came over the screen wasn’t The Young and the Restless—or the soap after it. Hannah stared at a young couple, walking down the street. He wore a seersucker suit with a narrow tie, and she had a light coat over her minidress. It took Hannah a few moments to recognize John Cassavetes and Mia Farrow outside the Dakota apartment building in a scene from Rosemary’s Baby. They walked into a nest of police and onlookers gathered in front of the building. Amid the flashing lights and chaos, Mia got a glimpse of something on the sidewalk.

Hannah knew the movie. Still, she gasped when the camera cut to the bloodied corpse of Mia’s neighbor and friend sprawled on the pavement. One of the cops said that the girl had jumped from the building’s seventh-floor window.

“What is this?” Hannah muttered. Grabbing the remote, she ejected the movie. She went to the VCR and looked at the videocassette. It wasn’t the blank tape she’d slipped into the recorder this morning. It was a store-bought copy of Rosemary’s Baby. “Where the hell did this come from?” she whispered.

“Well, it’s not mine,” Joyce told her on the phone, three minutes later. “I’ve never even seen Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t go in for those scary movies.”

“Did you take Guy out tonight?” Hannah asked, thinking they might have had a break-in, a real one this time. Maybe the last one was real, too. “Did you leave the apartment at all?” she pressed.

“No, honey. It started raining shortly after you left. We stayed put.”

“Okay, Joyce. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.”

Hannah hung up the phone, then went back to the VCR. The carpet was damp in spots, and she figured she must have tracked in some rain earlier. On top of a stack of videocassettes, Hannah found the tape she’d slipped into the machine this morning. She played it in the VCR. It was her soap opera; a new episode she hadn’t seen yet, today’s episode.

Hannah stepped back from the TV. Again, she felt the cold, wet patches on the carpet beneath her feet. Frowning, she turned and gazed back at her shoes by the front door, just where she’d kicked them off when she had stepped inside. She looked out the window at the continuous downpour.

Someone else had tracked in the rain—and not very long ago, either.

Swallowing hard, Hannah moved toward the door, along the damp trail on the carpet. She’d locked up before taking her shower. Now, with a shaky hand, she reached for the knob and pulled open the door.

“My God,” she whispered. How did it get unlocked? Was he still inside the apartment?

She hurried down the hall to Guy’s room. A hand over her pounding heart, she listened at the door for a moment, then quietly stepped inside. He was asleep, still breathing. She peeked into his closet.

Hannah checked every closet and every damn corner of the apartment. She made sure all the windows were locked, too. Along the way, she turned on several lights. She and Guy were alone in the apartment, but she still didn’t feel safe.

Hannah inspected the door. Whoever had broken in must have jimmied open the long, sliding window, then reached inside and manipulated the door locks.

Hannah wanted to call the police, but she couldn’t. They were probably looking for her, like that private detective in Chicago. She couldn’t afford to go to the police.

Instead, she finished her glass of wine and poured another. By half-past midnight, she had a tiny buzz and figured she was the worst mother in the world for getting drunk at a time like this—with her little boy asleep down the hall.

She pulled a broom and saw from the kitchen closet. After measuring the front window and the broom, she set the broom across her two barstools, then sawed off part of the handle. Maybe she wasn’t so drunk after all, because the broom handle fit perfectly in the window groove. If anyone wanted to get into the apartment through that window now, he’d have to break the glass.

He would probably be coming back for the tape—as he had last night. She was now convinced that someone had indeed broken into the apartment and switched videotapes on her.

She didn’t want to give him a reason to break in again. And she didn’t want the damn tape in her apartment tonight. After peeking out the window, Hannah grabbed the cassette, hurried outside, and moved down the walkway a few feet until she was standing directly over the dumpster—three stories below. Someone had left the lid open again.

Whoever had delivered the Rosemary’s Baby tape was probably watching her right now. She almost hoped he was. She wanted him to know that the tape wouldn’t be in her apartment tonight. She wanted him to see her pitching his video over the railing into the dumpster.

The cassette landed on top of a green trash bag in the large bin.

Hannah quickly ducked back in the apartment, and double-locked the door behind her. Then she tugged together the front window drapes, but they still had an inch-wide gap between them.

She grabbed her blanket out of the bedroom, and a hammer from the tool drawer in her kitchen. Hannah curled up on the sofa, with the hammer on the floor beside her. She listened to every little sound in the night. Whenever she opened her eyes, she glanced at the sliver of darkness and moonlight between the drapes.

Hannah didn’t really fall asleep until traces of dawn showed through those curtains.

Four

“Mom, are you awake?”

Hannah managed to get her eyes half open. It took her a moment to realize she was lying on the living room sofa. Guy stood in front of her in his underwear. He gave her shoulder a shake. “Mom?”

She cleared her throat. “Hi, honey,” she muttered. “What time is it?”

“The big hand is on the eight, and the little hand is on the seven.”

“Okay. Go brush your teeth.”

Throwing back the blanket, she climbed off the sofa. She couldn’t have gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep. She tried to focus on the door and the front window. Everything was locked up. The broom handle was still in the window.

Putting on her robe, Hannah rubbed the sleep from her eyes. With a bit of trepidation, she unlocked the door and opened it. She padded down the walkway a few feet and stared down at the dumpster, still open. She noticed the green trash bag in there, but no video. He’d picked it up.

He’d seen her throw it away last night. How long had he stayed out there? Was he still watching her?

Shuddering, Hannah hurried back inside and locked the door again. She told herself that anyone could have taken the tape. The building’s maintenance man, the newspaper deliverer, or maybe a neighbor had absconded with it.

After walking Guy to Alphabet Soup Day Care, she returned home and called the video store. She told Scott she needed a mental health day. “I think it’s sleep deprivation,” she explained. “Can someone cover for me?”

“Yeah, there’s Cheryl,” Scott said. “I hate her with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, but I’ll call her for you. Hope you feel better.”

“Thanks. Listen, can you do me another favor? Do we still have our copy of Rosemary’s Baby in the store?”

“Yeah, hold on a sec.”

Hannah waited. She wanted to know if the tape had been stolen. She hadn’t noticed an Emerald City Video label on it, but someone could have peeled it off.

Scott got back on the line: “Hannah? It’s here. Do you want me to hold onto it for you?”

“No, but can you do me one last favor? Could you go into the computer and see if it was rented recently, maybe returned early this morning? Sorry to be such a pain.”

“Want me to donate a lung to you while I’m at it? Ha, just kidding. I’m here to serve. Okay, Rosemary’s Baby was last rented two weeks ago by Laheart, Christopher. Returned on time. Anything else?”

Hannah sighed. “No, thanks. You’re a doll, Scott. I’ll be back to work tomorrow. See you then.”

After Hannah hung up with Scott, she called Joyce and gave her the night off. Then she phoned her apartment building manager. After some haggling, she persuaded him to let her change the locks on her front door, and add a second dead bolt. Then Hannah called a locksmith and made an appointment for that afternoon.

“I’m sorry.” The twenty-something Asian man with the Seattle Mariners sweatshirt shook his head at him. “I can’t give out anyone’s phone number.”

Ben stood at the counter, in front of an open sliding glass window. The man refusing to help him was alone in the community college’s administration office.

“I understand,” Ben said, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “But this woman and I are in the same film class, and last night she accidentally left her Palm Pilot on her desk. I want to get it back to her. Her name’s Hannah, but I’m not sure about the last name—”

“Tell you what, leave the Palm Pilot with us,” the clerk said. “We’ll call her.”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t have it with me right now. I—”

“Then leave us your name and a number where she can reach you.” The man slid a pen and a pad of paper across the counter at him. “We’ll phone her for you.”

Running a hand through his blond hair, Ben sighed. “Listen, I’ll be honest. I’m in the same film class with this woman, and I really want to ask her out. I was hoping you might give me her phone number—or at least her last name. Could you throw me a bone here? I mean, I look like a decent enough guy, right?”

The clerk frowned at him. “No, not really. What’s your name, anyway? Whose film class are you in?”

Ben took a step back. “Forget about it. Sorry I bothered you.”

He turned away from the counter and almost bumped into a tall, thin black woman with tangerine hair. “Excuse me,” he muttered, continuing down the hallway.

“Well, hello, Ben!” the woman called. Her tone was singsong, teasing.

He stopped and stared at her. “Oh, hi. How are you doing?” He recognized her from the class. She sat in the back row.

The woman sauntered toward him. She wore jeans, a white peasant blouse, and gobs of silver jewelry. The orange-colored hair was done in a pageboy flip with bangs. It looked like a wig. Her eyelashes were false, too. In fact, Ben had always figured she was really a man. This close, he could see her Adam’s apple.

“You don’t know my name, do you, Ben?” she asked, one hand on her hip. “Are you embarrassed at the social faux pas?”

He stole a glance at his watch. He didn’t feel like chatting, but didn’t want to be impolite, either. And there was the whole gender-bender thing that made him slightly uncomfortable, but eager not to offend. Ben tried to smile. “Well, um, I know we’re in the same film class, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“You’re Ben Sturges. I made it a point to find that out three weeks ago when you started the class. I said to myself, Dede, you are going to get the name of that gorgeous man with the blue eyes and the wavy blond hair.” She snapped her fingers. “And, child, I knew your name by the end of the break that first day.”

“Well, that’s very flattering, thanks, um, Dede.” Ben looked back over his shoulder at the door.

“Dede Liscious,” she said, patting his shoulder with her man-sized hand. “But what do you care, Ben? You only have eyes for Miss Hannah, the ice-queen blonde. Am I right?”

Ben gave her a wary grin.

“Oh, I saw you try, try, and try again with Miss Thing last night. And I couldn’t help overhearing just now. Why do you want that girl’s digits? She’s not buying or selling, honey. The market is closed. Hannah is the teacher’s property.”

Eyes narrowed, Ben stared at her.

She nodded, then placed her hand on her chest. “It’s been going on for a few weeks now, ever since she started class.”

“Well, you certainly know a lot,” Ben said, with a forced laugh. “Um, you don’t happen to know Hannah’s phone number, do you?”

She smiled. “No, Ben, but I can tell you where she works. If you want your heart stomped on by an ice queen, that’s your business. You can call Hannah at Emerald City Video. You can call her, Ben. But she won’t call you back.”

“Is Hannah working today?” Ben asked.

There were only a couple of customers in the video store. Behind the counter was a petite young woman with long, curly blond hair. She gave Ben a little flirtatious pout. “Hannah called in sick today.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “Do you know if she’ll be in tomorrow?”

The woman shrugged, and flicked her hair. “Not until Monday.”

“Oh, she’s that sick, huh?”

“No, she has weekends off. She’s probably okay. Often when Hannah calls in sick, it’s actually because her little boy isn’t feeling well or something.”

Ben nodded. “Oh, yeah. It’s been a while. How old is he now?”

“Four, I think. She brings him in the store every once in a while.”

“Have you ever met the father?” Ben asked.

“No,” she whispered. “Hannah never talks about him. Did you know him?”

Ben shook his head.

“I think he died a couple of years ago,” the young woman said.

“Oh,” Ben said. “Well, I guess Paul comes in here quite a lot.”

She frowned. “Paul?”

“Paul Gulletti. Isn’t he kind of seeing her?”

The clerk laughed. “That’s news to me. I don’t think Hannah’s dating anybody.”

“Really? Huh,” Ben said, raising his eyebrows. Then he smiled at her and casually leaned on the counter. “Listen, it’s been forever since I’ve seen her. You don’t happen to have Hannah’s phone number, do you?”

“My coworker probably has it. Want to hold on for a sec?”

“Thanks.” Ben watched her retreat to the back room.

The young woman glanced over her shoulder and gave him a big smile. She opened the door to the break room, where Scott sat at the desk, labeling a new shipment of videos.

He looked up from his work and squinted at her. “Cheryl, who were you talking to out there?” he whispered.

“I think he might be an old boyfriend of Hannah’s or something. He was asking about her—”

“Yeah, I heard. I was about to come out there. Listen, Cheryl, I don’t think Hannah would be especially thrilled that you’re telling strangers all about her personal life. Is he a customer? Did you get his name?”

Cheryl frowned. “God, do I have to get, like, a security check on somebody just because he asks a couple of questions? He’s cute, and I’m just trying to help. All he wanted was Hannah’s phone number.”

Shaking his head, Scott got to his feet. He brushed past her and stepped out of the back room. “Um, can I help you—” he started to say, making his way toward the counter. Scott stopped in his tracks.

No one was there.

She was deciding whose Sunday newspaper she’d steal this morning. Dressed in a lavender jogging suit, and with her black hair pulled back in a short ponytail, Cindy Finkelston stood at the mail table in the lobby of her apartment building. She hadn’t been jogging. Cindy had power-walked to the coffee shop three blocks away for her usual Sunday morning latte to go.

Some asshole in line at the coffee place had given her flack, because she’d cut in front of him while he was glancing out the window. She’d dished it right back to him, claiming she hadn’t known he was in line. He’d called her “rude” and “obnoxious.” But, ha-ha, she’d gotten her coffee before him.

Cindy set the hot, heavy-duty paper container on the mail table, and studied the pile of newspapers. She ignored the note that had been taped by the mailboxes about three weeks ago:

SOMEONE HAS BEEN STEALING MY VANITY FAIR MAGAZINES. THIS WAS A GIFT SUBSCRIPTION FROM MY BROTHER, AND WHOEVER HAS BEEN HELPING HIS-OR-HERSELF TO MY MAGAZINES ISN’T VERY NEIGHBORLY. IF THIS CONTINUES, I’M TAKING IT BEFORE THE CONDO BOARD.—RACHEL PORTER #401

A couple of other residents at the Broadmore Apartments had scribbled comments on the typed notice: “I have the same problem. Someone keeps taking my Sunday paper…M. Donovan #313,” and “Ditto - J. Vollmer, #407.”

Cindy took The Seattle Times, with #313 written on the clear plastic wrapping. The way she figured, if they really wanted their Sunday paper, they should have gotten up earlier. You snooze, you lose. After all, it was past eight o’clock. This was her newspaper now, and there wasn’t a single, solitary thing they could do about it.

She picked up her coffee and rang for the elevator. Cindy rode up to the fifth floor. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she pulled out her keys and unlocked her door.

Cindy stepped into her apartment, then stopped. It was too cold. She automatically glanced over at the sliding door that led to a small balcony off her living room. But the door was closed. Along the other wall, she noticed the sliding window—wide open. The screen was open too.

Suddenly, something flew down at her from above, fluttering past her shoulder. Cindy dropped her coffee—and her neighbor’s newspaper. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment. She realized it was a pigeon. The damn thing must have been perched up on her bookcase. Now it settled on the back of one of her dining room chairs.

“Goddamn it!” Cindy hissed, once she got her breath back. Coffee had spilled on her pale blue carpet.

She hadn’t opened that window earlier. What was going on?

“Filthy thing,” she muttered. “Shoo, get out!” she said, waving at the bird.

But the pigeon only flapped its wings as if it were about to take off at her. Cindy got scared and backed away. “Shit!” she muttered. She decided to let the caretaker get rid of the damn thing.

Then it suddenly dawned on her that she might not be safe in the apartment. Someone else had opened that window, and he could still be there—hiding, waiting for her.

Cindy turned toward the door and gasped.

A man stood in her path. He wore an army jacket and black jeans. A nylon stocking was pulled over his face, distorting his features. Cindy couldn’t tell what he looked like. But she could see he was smiling.

She started to scream.

All at once he was on her. He slapped his hand over her mouth. Cindy couldn’t breathe. She struggled and kicked. She tried to bite his hand, but his grip was so tight, she couldn’t even move her jaw. Cindy thought he might break her neck.

He maneuvered his way behind her. He was twisting her arm.

The pigeon took off, flying out the open window.

“Shhh,” he whispered, the nylon material over his face brushing against her ear. “This won’t work if you scream. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He lowered his hand a little from her mouth, and Cindy was able to breathe through her nose. She stopped struggling. She knew she was trapped.

“It was pretty funny with the bird flying in like that, wasn’t it?” he said, chuckling. “But you know what’s not so funny? The way you treated my Hannah at the video store the other night. You might think she’s some nobody clerk, but she’s my Hannah, you stupid, silly bitch.”

Cindy tried to speak, but again, his hand was clasped firmly over her mouth. She merely whimpered in protest. She couldn’t break free of him.

“We need to make sure you don’t scream,” he said.

Cindy noticed a second man, coming from her kitchen. His face was deformed with the same nylon disguise. They both looked like monsters, something out of a nightmare. But they were real. The pain in her arm was real. That warm, moist nylon mask scraping against her face was real.

“If I take my hand away, will you promise not to scream?” he asked.

His partner was coming toward her. Eyeing him, Cindy nodded anxiously. But as soon as she gasped some air through her mouth, Cindy started to yell.

Certainly, one of the neighbors would hear and come help.

“Shut her up,” grunted the man holding her.

All at once, his partner punched Cindy in the stomach. All at once, she couldn’t breathe, much less scream. She automatically dropped toward the floor, and curled up—fetal-like—from the overwhelming pain in her gut.

But the man still had ahold of her. “Get her feet,” she heard him tell his friend.

Suddenly, they were dragging her toward the open window. She was still breathless, paralyzed by the pain in her stomach. They had her by the arms and feet. She tried to struggle, but it was useless.

She felt the chilly wind sweep across her as they hoisted her up on the windowsill. She still couldn’t breath—or scream. Her head was swimming.

Cindy Finkelston knew she was going to die. And there wasn’t a single, solitary thing she could do about it.

“Well, what exactly did you tell him about me?” Hannah asked, keeping her voice low. There were customers in the store that Monday afternoon. She had to stifle the inclination to scream at Cheryl. The two of them stood behind the counter.

“I hardly told the guy anything. God!” Cheryl rolled her eyes. “He came in on Friday and asked if you were working. I said you were out sick, and might be back today. That’s all. Scott’s blowing it all out of proportion.”

Hannah glared at her. No one liked Cheryl very much. At twenty-one, she was younger than everybody else on the Emerald City Video payroll, yet she treated her coworkers in a fake-pleasant, condescending manner. She was a theater major, and always seemed “on.” Hannah found her obnoxiously perky and phony.

“Well, what did this guy look like, anyway?” Hannah asked, one hand on the countertop. “Can you describe him? Age? Hair color?”

Cheryl rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Okay, tell me this much. Have you seen him in the store before?”

“God, Hannah,” she said, with a stunned little laugh. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” She flicked back her long blond hair. “I really don’t remember much about him. He was here for, like, two seconds. You know, Hannah, I have guys in here every day asking for my phone number. It might not happen to you so much, because you’re older. But if I were you, I’d be flattered.”

Hannah slowly shook her head. “Cheryl—”

“Hannah, could you come in here?” Scott called from the back room.

She shot Cheryl one last, venomous look. “Give me a yell if it gets busy,” she said evenly.

Retreating to the cramped back room, Hannah found Scott at the desk with a newspaper in front of him. He was on his break. Hannah closed the door. “I want to kill her,” she whispered.

“Yeah, well, get in line,” Scott replied. He folded back the newspaper page. “I thought you’d want to see this. Did you know about it?”

“About what?” Hannah asked, taking the newspaper from him. She glanced at the headline near the bottom of the local news page, and read it aloud: “‘SEATTLE WOMAN PLUNGES FIVE STORIES TO HER DEATH.’”

“Keep reading,” Scott said.

“‘Authorities are investigating the circumstances behind the death of a Seattle woman, Cindy Finkelston, 34, who fell from her fifth-floor living-room window at the Broadmoore apartment building on Sunday morning….’”

“There is no ‘H’ in Finkelston,” Scott said. “Remember her from the other day? Miss I’ll-take-legal-action? Looks like she took a half gainer instead.”

“My God,” Hannah whispered, stunned. “How weird. I—I don’t know how to react.”

“Well, please don’t act sad, or I’ll throw up,” Scott said.

Hannah frowned at him.

“Call me a coldhearted SOB, but she was kind of a jerk. Remember how she treated you?”

Hannah anxiously scanned the article. “They don’t say if it was suicide or not.”

Scott leaned back in the chair. “No, they don’t give you much to go on. You look pale. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know about this,” Hannah murmured. “There’s something wrong. I have the strangest feeling—”

A knock on the door interrupted her. “I need help up front!” Cheryl called in a shrill voice.

“That’s really bizarre,” Hannah said, stealing one last glance at the article. She sighed, gave him back the newspaper, then reached for the doorknob. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I still have ten minutes left on my break.”

Hannah emerged from the back room to find about a dozen customers waiting for service. A couple of men were arguing who had been in line first, while another woman moved up to the counter, asking loudly if there was a section for the Beatles.

“I can help whoever is next,” Hannah announced, stepping up to her register. “The Beatles are on the top shelf in the far-right corner of the store.”

Three other people started yelling questions at her—all at once. Hannah weathered the onslaught of customers. In about five minutes, the line had dwindled down to one person: a very handsome black man in his early thirties. He set his video on the counter and smiled at Hannah. “I was watching you,” he said. “You got through that rush pretty well. Talk about grace under fire.”

“Thanks,” Hannah said. “I juggle, too. Can I have your name, please?”

“I just opened up an account here yesterday,” he said. “Tollman is the last name. Craig.”

With his chiseled features, Tollman, Craig looked like a model out of GQ. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wiry, he wore his hair so short he was nearly bald. He wore a deep blue shirt, tie, and black pants.

Hannah pulled up his account, then punched in the code for his video.

“I just moved up here from Phoenix last week,” he said, taking out his money. “Maybe you can help me. Could you recommend a nice restaurant around here?”

Shrugging, Hannah gave him his change. “I don’t get out much, but I know the Pink Door is nice.”

“Well, would you care to go with me sometime?” he asked. “For dinner?”

“You mean, like on a date?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. I’d like to treat you to dinner.”

Hannah felt herself blushing. “Oh, well, thank you.” She glanced down at the counter. “But I’m afraid I can’t.”

“We can make it for lunch—if dinner’s too much too soon. Or if you’re totally date-a-phobic, I’d love to meet you for coffee sometime.”

Hannah shoved his video in a bag. Her face still felt hot. She managed to smile at him. “Thanks anyway,” she said. “I’m very flattered, but no.”

“Maybe some other time?”

She shrugged. “I can’t make any promises. But it was a very nice offer.” She handed him the bag.

He glanced at his receipt. “Are you working Thursday?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, I might see you when I bring the movie back. Hey, you know, I never got your name.”

“I’m Hannah,” she said.

“You’ve got a terrific smile, Hannah. You know that?”

As he strolled out of the store, Craig Tollman glanced over his shoulder at her. Hannah met his gaze, and he grinned.

Through the front window, Hannah watched him walk away.

She took her break at three o’clock on Mondays. Alphabet Soup Day Care was a short walk from the video store, and at three-fifteen, they had snack-time. Parents were welcome to join in. Hannah was there every Monday afternoon for Guy—usually with some kind of special treat.

At five minutes to three, Hannah went to the store’s break room, where she fetched her coat and purse. She noticed Scott’s newspaper on the desk.

Nearly an hour had passed since Scott had shown her the article about Cindy Finkelston’s death. Hannah hadn’t given her any thought since then. She’d been too busy with customers. Now she felt a little guilty for not caring more. Of course, Scott had a point: Cindy wasn’t a very nice person. Had she really taken her own life, or was it an accident?

Hannah tried to shrug it off. Maybe there would be an update about it in tomorrow’s paper.

She stopped by the mall’s food court and bought a couple of fruit shakes to go. The banana shake was Guy’s favorite.

As she walked the five blocks to Alphabet Soup Day Care, Hannah gazed up at some of the taller apartment buildings along the way. She stopped in front of one, figuring it was as tall as Cindy Finkelston’s building. She could almost see Cindy falling from one of those windows near the top story. Then, like a dream, the images in her mind took a strange turn. She pictured Mia Farrow and John Cassevetes walking along the street below to discover a throng of onlookers and police. Hannah remembered how Mia reacted when she saw the bloody corpse on the pavement.

The bag with the fruit shakes slipped from her grasp, and hit the sidewalk with a splat. A dark stain bloomed on the brown paper bag.

It dawned on Hannah that the videotape of Rosemary’s Baby was someone’s way of telling her what would happen to Cindy Finkelston.

This person had gone to a lot of trouble to make sure she saw the tape. It had even been cued to that scene. Hannah tried to make some sense out of it all. She’d found the video in her apartment on Thursday night. Cindy Finkelston had taken that fateful fall yesterday morning, Sunday. Why would someone choose to forecast Cindy’s death for her? She barely knew the woman.

There had to be some connection to the Goodbar video. But what? She didn’t really know the victim in that one, either. Someone was singling her out to preview these “movie” deaths. But why?

Ever since the second break-in three nights before, Hannah had been sleeping on the sofa—with a hammer on the floor beside her. Even after changing the locks, she didn’t feel safe.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her every move. She was constantly looking over her shoulder. She didn’t let Guy out of her sight, and they’d spent most of the weekend inside—with the door locked.

This morning, she’d told Joyce that someone had tried to break in, and warned her to be on her guard.

“It’s those darn crack-heads ruining the neighborhood,” Joyce had lamented. “Well, don’t worry about Guy while he’s with me. I keep pepper spray and one of those electric-shock zap’m things in my purse. I’m armed and dangerous, hon. No one’s gonna tangle with this grandma.”

Just the same, on her way to work, Hannah had a hard time convincing herself that Guy was safe. After a few hours in the store, she’d almost felt as if things were back to normal. But then she’d learned that over the weekend, someone had been there asking questions about her. And now this incident right out of Rosemary’s Baby.

Frowning, Hannah bent down and picked up the soggy bag. She tossed it in a dumpster beside of one the apartment buildings, then took a Kleenex from her purse and wiped off her hands.

The sudden screech of car tires made Hannah swivel around. A white Taurus was stopped halfway down the street. Hannah felt her heart skip a beat, and she started moving away.

“Hannah?” someone called.

She glanced over her shoulder. It took her a moment to recognize the handsome black man behind the wheel. “Hannah?” Craig Tollman said, climbing out of the car. He left his emergency blinkers on and started across the street to her. “Hey, I was just driving down to see you again. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

Hannah quickly shook her head. “No, not at all.” She was hugging her purse to her chest.

“Glad I caught you,” he said. “I wanted to apologize if I came on a little too strong earlier. I hope it wasn’t inappropriate for me to ask you out.”

“No, not at all,” she repeated.

“Anyway,” Craig said. “If you change your mind about getting together, you have my cell-phone number on file at the store. You can call me anytime. Um, listen, can I give you a lift wherever you’re going?”

She shook her head again. “I’m fine. But thanks anyway.”

Craig backed away. “Okay, well, see you in the store.”

He turned around and almost walked into an oncoming car. The driver honked at him. Craig jumped back. He waved an apology at the car, then glanced at Hannah. “Nice, huh?” he called. “I have a lot of finesse.”

She managed to smile, and she watched him climb back inside his car. The one thing she could discern about the man in the video was his skin color. He was white. So why was she so apprehensive around this handsome black man? On the surface, Craig Tollman was just being friendly.

Still, she waited until Craig drove off in his white Taurus. Hannah wanted to make sure he wasn’t following her before she moved on.

“Mom, can I play with Trevor?” Guy asked. “I already had my snack.”

Hannah nodded. “Sure, honey, go ahead. I’ll stay here and have my lunch.”

Her lunch was a container of yogurt that she’d bought at a 7-Eleven near the day care center. She’d picked up a peach yogurt for Guy as well. But three people had been in front of her in line, with a clerk as “slow as molasses in January,” as Hannah’s father used to say. By the time she’d gotten to the play field near Alphabet Soup Day Care, the children had already finished their snacks.

The kids were playing on the swings, jungle gyms, and slides. There were three park benches, where some of the other mothers sat. But not Hannah. At the moment, she didn’t have the will or the energy to socialize.

Neighboring the playground was a baseball diamond. From her seat on the bleachers, Hannah watched Guy carefully maneuver his way down each plank. Then he made a beeline toward the jungle gym.

He didn’t look very much like his father, thank God. That would have been pretty awful, having this sweet little boy running around with that man’s face. Guy’s father wasn’t homely. In fact, he had a rather goofy-cute look to him: a long, narrow face with a prominent nose, and curly brown hair. His sleepy, dark brown eyes were very sexy. Hannah had fallen in love with his offbeat looks. He didn’t become ugly to her until later.

His name was Kenneth Muir Woodley, Jr.

When she’d first met him, five years ago, Hannah had been taking classes at Chicago’s Second City, and waitressing at a bar and grill called McNulty’s, near Wrigley Field. Her father had been a bartender there. He’d recently lost his battle with cancer. Her mom had fought the same fight and lost years ago, back when Hannah was a girl. She had no siblings, no one too close—except her friends from college and Second City. She was very much alone with a very small inheritance when she met Kenneth Muir Woodley, Jr.

That was the name on the Visa card she’d found on the floor by the corner of the bar. “Is Kenneth Woodley here?” Hannah called out over the noisy crowd. She was also competing with Bobby Darin’s rendition of “Mack the Knife,” and several customers who had decided to sing along with him. “Kenneth Woodley? Kenny? Ken?”

She saw him waving at her from near the jukebox. “Present!” he replied loudly. He sat at a small table, nursing a martini and reading a paperback version of To Kill a Mockingbird. He wore an airy yellow silk shirt. He looked very sexy with his curly hair and deep, dark tan. He grinned at Hannah as she approached his table.

She fanned the credit card in front of her. “I think you lost this,” she said. “That is, if you’re Kenneth Woodley.”

He pulled out his wallet, opened it up, and frowned. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Hannah smiled. “No, Kenneth Woodley.”

“God, you saved my ass, thanks.” He held out his hand.

Hannah hesitated. “Not so fast. I want to make sure you’re Kenneth Woodley. What’s your middle name?”

“Muir. And please don’t tell anyone.”

She gave him the credit card. While he tucked it in his wallet, she glanced at his book on the table. “You’re reading To Kill a Mockingbird?”

“I’ve already read it—a couple of times.” He stashed his wallet in his back pocket, then raised the martini glass. “It’s a chick magnet. I come across as extremely sensitive and intellectual when seen reading this. It really reels in the babes.”

“That’s amazing,” Hannah remarked. “Pretty sleazy, too.”

“Thank you,” he said, sipping his drink. “And thank you for finding my Visa card.”

“No sweat, Kenneth. Listen, can I get you another martini?”

“I’m fine. But I’ll tell you what I’d like.”

“What’s that?” she asked, one hand on her hip.

“I’d like to see your good deed rewarded. My credit card and I want to take you out to dinner some night this week.”

She sighed. “Well, I have no problem stepping out with your credit card. But I’m concerned about some potential trouble with you.”

He laughed. “Me? I’m a terrific guy. What do you take me for?”

Hannah tilted her head to one side and studied him for a moment. “I’d say you were a spoiled, rich party boy who deep down suffers from a lack of self-esteem and subsequently drinks too much. And I’d be making a big mistake if I went out with you.”

He took her to a fancy dinner at the Drake Hotel the following week. He was a perfect gentleman throughout the date. In fact, Ken didn’t even kiss her until their third date. They had sex that same night. Waiting for him to finally kiss her had been excruciating, and Hannah had a low resistance.

Within six months, Ken moved into her little studio apartment. They might have gotten a bigger place together. He certainly could have afforded it. That Visa card of his seemed like a bottomless source of cash. The closest thing he had to a job was charging people for chartered cruises on his small yacht. He spent most of his days on that boat; some nights too.

Ken fit in well with her friends—especially since he was always the first to grab a check at a group gathering. He was a party boy. He showered her with gifts, jewelry, clothes, and dinners at three-star restaurants. She kept wondering when his money would run out.

Hannah continued to work at McNulty’s, and her reputation was growing at Second City. She even filmed a couple of TV commercials for a local bank. It was one of the happiest times of her life, and when Ken asked her to marry him, she immediately said yes. An impromptu ceremony was held aboard a big yacht that Kenneth had chartered. About twenty friends were in attendance, and the reception went on all night.

His money ran out about five months later. He even started going through her money. Their rent check bounced twice. Hannah hocked all the jewelry he’d given her, and dropped out of Second City to take on extra shifts at McNulty’s.

They got the eviction notice the day after she came up positive on a home pregnancy test. They had no place to go—except to his parents’.

Kenneth came from one of the richest families in Green Bay, Wisconsin. It was old money, too, which made Woodley one of the most respected names among the rich country-club set. In fact, Kenneth’s parents lived in a huge, pristine-white stucco house with a view of Green Bay on one side and the country club’s golf course on the other.

Kenneth’s father had married into money. He also held the patent for some kind of machinery that all the airlines used to refrigerate and heat food. They had a factory just outside town. Kenneth Senior wasn’t a warm man. They could have used what ran in his veins to cool those refrigerating machines. The mother wasn’t much of an improvement: a skinny, graceful matriarch with stiff-looking, mink-colored hair. Every time she smiled at Hannah, the strain showed on her face.

Hannah couldn’t really blame them for resenting her. Kenneth hadn’t told his parents he was married. Introducing them to his new wife was more an act of defiance than anything else. He seemed to relish telling them she was a waitress, rubbing their noses in that fact.

His parents wanted the marriage annulled. Hannah had become so fed up with Ken that she might have agreed to it, but she was pregnant. Kenneth Senior privately offered to pay her twenty-five thousand dollars to have an abortion. When she told Ken about it, his response was: “Hey, we could live off that money for years. Want to do it?”

“Are you serious?” Hannah whispered. She kept her voice down because they were in the guest room. Never mind that they were half a football field away from Kenneth’s parents’ room. She still felt compelled to whisper. “What the hell is wrong with you? I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

“I’m just not ready to have a kid. What makes you want one all of a sudden?”

“Because it gives me hope for something,” she said. “I have to tell you, Ken, in the last few months, I haven’t had much hope for us.” She sighed. “In fact, if you want to call it quits, I won’t give you an argument. I won’t even expect you to support the baby.”

His dark eyes narrowed at her. “What the fuck makes you think you can take my kid away from me? I’ll never let that happen.”

Hannah shook her head. “Two seconds ago, you were all ready to take your father’s money and have it aborted. You just said—”

“Listen.” He stabbed his finger at the center of her chest, punctuating each word. “If…you…have…this…kid…you’ll…never…take…him…away…from…me. Understand?”

She pushed his hand away. “You’re hurting me.”

He frowned at her. “Sorry. Just so you understand.”

Hannah stared at him. She had no way of knowing that it was the last time Kenneth would ever apologize for hurting her.

Like their son, Mr. and Mrs. Woodley did a total about-face once they realized that Hannah intended to keep the baby. As long as she was providing them with a grandson, Hannah was welcomed into the family. In fact, the Woodleys didn’t let her out of their sight. They bought her and Ken a beautiful, three-bedroom ranch house, then furnished it. Mrs. Woodley introduced Hannah to the country-club set. Ken went to work for his father.

She and Ken were miserable. One evening, she pointed out to him that it had been nearly three months since they’d made love. His response was, “Yeah? So?”

“Well, don’t you think it might make things better between us if we at least tried?”

Frowning, he gazed at her swollen belly. “If I wanted to fuck a cow, I’d go over to Nellinger’s Dairy and hump one of their heifers.”

Hannah probably should have run away then. But she didn’t want to have her baby at a free clinic. She moved into the guest room. Ken found himself some diversions. He had his yacht moved up to Green Bay. He’d go sailing off without her for entire weekends. She welcomed his absence. When he was home, he sometimes took his frustrations out on her. At first, the abuse was verbal: she couldn’t cook; he’d married way beneath him; she was a pig. When she became numb to his occasional tirades, he started throwing things: a plate of pasta that ended up on the dining-room wall; a clock radio, which just missed her head. Once, he hurled a cup of hot coffee at her. Hannah managed to avoid direct contact with the mug, but it smashed on the floor at her feet and scalded her legs. She had to drive herself to the hospital, where they treated the burns.

She was back there two weeks later to give birth to their son. The Woodleys were unbearably meddlesome over the baby, even picking out his name: Kenneth Muir Woodley III. Hannah called him Guy-Guy, or just Guy. She used to like the name Ken, but didn’t anymore.

She discovered that Ken had actually been exercising some restraint during those tirades before Guy was born. Now that she was no longer pregnant, Ken didn’t have to be so careful with her. He didn’t have to hold back. His outbursts were just infrequent enough that she couldn’t predict them. Kenneth took it out on her if the baby was crying too much, or if the house was messy or smelled of baby poop. Such offenses were grounds for a black eye or a swollen lip. Want another? he’d ask, after the first blow. That question always seemed to precede a beating. Hannah only made things worse for herself by fighting back, but she fought back anyway.

She begged him: “For God’s sake, Ken, don’t you think this Ike and Tina routine has run its course? We’re both miserable. You were a pretty nice guy back in Chicago. You were no prince, but at least you weren’t mean. I know you feel trapped here. So do I. If we broke up, things would be easier for you. I’ll give you the best visitation rights in the world if you let Guy and me go.”

She was trying to reason with a total cokehead. Apparently he got the stuff from someone at work. Ken must have been hooked on it back in Chicago, too. Maybe that was why he’d gone through her money so quickly.

One of the most stupid moves of her life—right up there with first going on a date with the son of a bitch—was confiding in his mother that they should consider intervention. Of course, Mrs. Woodley fell into denial about her son’s drug problem—the same way she’d failed to notice all the bruises on her daughter-in-law. Just to make sure her boy was on the straight and narrow, Mrs. Woodley asked Ken if there was any truth to what Hannah had told her.

Hannah ended up in the hospital that night. He’d blackened both her eyes and fractured her jaw. She took seven stitches in her chin where she’d hit the edge of a glass-top coffee table during the scuffle. She also had a broken arm. Ken told everyone that Hannah had been in a car accident. He even went so far as to total her car, so he could back up his story. Ken visited her at the hospital, pampering her with flowers, an expensive nightgown, all the comforts. A nanny was hired to look after Guy.

During her stay in the hospital, Hannah decided that she had to leave him. She told her doctor that the car accident story was a cover-up. “Ken did this to me,” she whispered to him, her mouth nearly immobile due to the wire around her jaw. “You know that, don’t you?”

Her doctor didn’t look surprised; merely annoyed. “I didn’t hear that,” he replied, shaking his head. “I can’t do anything about it.”

The Woodleys were major contributors to the hospital, and Ken’s mother was chairwoman of the Cantor Ball, an annual fundraiser for the Children’s Ward. Hannah couldn’t expect anyone in that hospital to help her. All legal avenues were blocked by the family as well. No local lawyer would represent her in a divorce. And no way was the family going to let her walk away with their grandson.

She began to hatch her escape plan while in the hospital, looking out the window of her private room. She would gaze down at the water, the bayside park with all the trees, and the happy families walking along those winding paths.

The doctor had her on soft foods because she couldn’t chew well. She remembered eating a lot of yogurt—too much. At the time, Hannah thought she’d never want to see another container of Yoplait. She could only imagine eating solid foods—and being free of Kenneth Muir Woodley, Junior.

Sitting on the bleachers, Hannah watched Guy play on the jungle gym. She set aside the peach yogurt and glanced at her wristwatch; only about ten minutes more before she had to hurry back to work.

In many ways, she still wasn’t free of Ken. He still haunted her. It wasn’t intentional, but she hadn’t been with another man since him. She was afraid of getting too close to anyone, afraid of getting hurt again.

Pam, the head of the day care center, blew a whistle. All the children started to gather together to file back into the building. Hannah smiled and waved at Guy, who jumped up and down excitedly and waved back. She watched him walk away with the other children. He was the only man in her life right now.

Hannah suddenly shuddered. She realized Guy wasn’t the only man in her life at the moment. There was another man, imposing on her, playing some sort of strange, deadly game. And Hannah had a feeling that he was just getting started.

Five

He stared at the piece of wood that she’d lodged in the groove of the sliding window. It looked like the sawed-off handle to a broom or a rake. He smiled. His leading lady was very clever. She’d caught on to how he’d been breaking into her place. She’d changed the locks on him, too.

It was kind of sweet, really—her thinking she could keep him out with that puny piece of wood and a new dead bolt.

He stood on the walkway at her front door. He had a good view of the Space Needle from here, but the Needle’s lights were off right now. It was five-fifteen in the morning.

He’d last been inside her apartment five nights ago. There was something very romantic about that walk in the rain when he’d dropped off the tape of Rosemary’s Baby. He’d missed her these last few days.

He’d spent far more time than he’d intended figuring out how to break into the Broadmoore Apartments and planning his date with Cindy Finkelston. Of course, she hadn’t known about it.

She hadn’t been expecting him at all.

She hadn’t expected to die Sunday morning.

Smiling again, he touched Hannah’s front door and brushed his fingertips against the doorknob. The newspaper carrier would be around soon. And in about ninety minutes, Hannah Doyle would be waking up. She would drop off her kid at the day care place, then go to the video store. On Tuesdays, she worked nine to five.

He liked watching her at work. He had hours and hours of videotape footage of Hannah at the video store.

She might not notice him today. She wouldn’t be expecting him. But he would be watching her every move.

Guy’s class was taking a field trip to the Woodland Park Zoo. When Hannah dropped him off at Alphabet Soup Day Care that Tuesday morning, she pulled the teacher aside and asked her to be extra-vigilant with Guy. “I’ve got this—stalker situation,” Hannah explained. “I don’t think he’d go after Guy, but—well, I’ll feel better knowing you’ve got your guard up, Pam.”

Pam was a tall, athletic woman in her mid-twenties with short-trimmed blond hair. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out, Hannah,” she assured her. “Do you know what this creep-o looks like?”

“Um, no. It’s, um, a telephone talker thing.”

“Have you contacted the police about it yet? Maybe they can put a trace on your line.”

Hannah nodded. “Yes, they’re doing that,” she lied.

“Good. Can’t be too careful,” Pam said. “We have extra people for this trip. And I’ll keep close tabs on Guy. Don’t you worry about him.”

“Thanks, Pam.”

Hannah spent her break time that afternoon at the Broadmoore Apartments, six blocks from the store.

She gazed up at the row of windows along the top floor of the five-story slate-colored structure. She wondered which window Cindy Finkelston had fallen from. Did her body land in the shrubs on the east side of the building, or in the parking area along the front and west sides?

Hannah took a pad and pen from her bag as she approached the lobby doors. She studied the list of residents’ names on the keypad of buzzer codes. There were close to fifty names. Hannah recognized some of them as customers at Emerald City Video. She started scribbling down the names of Cindy Finkelston’s neighbors.

She was down to the last few when someone snuck up behind her and cleared his throat. Hannah swiveled around. Staring back at her was a tall, gaunt man in his fifties. He had a dirty-gray mustache and very thin, long hair that he’d pulled back in a ponytail. He was nearly bald on top. He wore a denim shirt and jeans, and leaned on his broom. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

“Oh, hi,” Hannah replied, caught off guard.

“Are you one of those insurance people again?”

She nodded. “Yes, um, I’m—Rosemary Farrow with Northwest Fidelity Life. The—ah, late Cindy Finkelston had an account with us. I’m a claims adjuster, here doing a little preliminary poking around. It’s very sad what happened. Are you the building manager?”

For a moment, he gave her a cool, sidelong stare. Hannah had to wonder if he’d bought any of it. Finally, the tall man puffed out his skinny chest a bit and nodded. “I’m Glenn, the caretaker here,” he said. “You’ll probably want to talk to me.”

“Oh, yes. I imagine not much gets past you, huh?” Hannah said.

“Not much at all. I knew the deceased as well as anyone else around here, which isn’t much. I don’t think too many people liked her. But I don’t believe in speaking ill of the dead, so that’s all I’m saying about that.”

“Do you know how it happened?” Hannah asked.

He glanced up at the west corner of the building’s roof. “You know, I’m the one who heard her scream. I was working around back. I heard this shriek, and then something went thump. That was her body hitting the car. There’s a gate back there, so I had to go all the way around the other side of the building. Otherwise, I would have been the first one to get to her. But a couple of neighbors beat me to it.”

Hannah gazed over at the parking area on the west side of the building. “She landed on a car?” Hannah asked; then she remembered her cover story. “Um, they didn’t mention that in the report,” she added.

Glenn nodded and reached back to scratch under his gray ponytail. “A brand-new silver Mazda. She hit the edge, then rolled off. Smashed the roof and windshield. You should have seen all the blood and glass.” He shook his head. “A goddamn mess. They finally took down the police tape and towed away the car yesterday morning.”

“What about the people next door to her?” Hannah asked. “Did they hear anything? Maybe someone was in the apartment with her.”

Glenn shook his head again. “Neighbors didn’t hear diddly. And from what I caught the police saying, it looked like she was alone in the apartment when she went out the window.”

“So they don’t think she was pushed out?” Hannah asked.

He let out a little chuckle, then pointed to the roof. “Take a look up there,” he said. “Top floor, second window from the end. See it?”

Hannah squinted up at the long, narrow window along the fifth floor. “Yes, I see it.”

“That’s where she fell from. Now, go over one window, and you see her balcony. Check out the sliding glass door, the low railing. If I was gonna give somebody the heave-ho from up there, that balcony would have been a much better place. Why go to all the trouble of opening up that window and tossing her out when you got a whole balcony to work with? You wouldn’t even have to leave the living room. It’s a short balcony. One good shove and she’s gone.”

“You should be a detective,” Hannah said, buttering him up. “Listen, I’m not supposed to ask this, but what do you think happened? Do you think it was an accident?”

Scratching his chin, he gazed up toward the building’s top floor. “Like I say, if it was anything intentional—suicide or homicide—why not use the balcony and make it easier? Why the window?”

Hannah thanked Glenn, saying that she and Northwest Fidelity Life were both grateful to him for providing his expertise. As she walked back to work, the caretaker’s remark haunted her. Why not use the balcony and make it easier? Why the window?

Hannah suddenly knew the answer, and with that realization, a shudder passed through her. Cindy Finkelston’s death sentence had been carried out to the letter.

The girl who died in Rosemary’s Baby didn’t plunge from any balcony. She fell from a window.

Sixteen residents from the Broadmoore Apartments were customers at Emerald City Video. Hannah looked up the histories on all of their accounts. Two of them had rented Rosemary’s Baby: Smith, Collyer & Jeanne had checked out the movie eighteen months ago; and Webber, Rosanne had watched it back in February. Looking for Mr. Goodbar had never been rented on either account.

It wasn’t much to go on. Hannah wondered if cross-referencing all these names was just a waste of time.

She’d been at her register, tapping into the files for the last half hour. She’d gracefully weathered interruptions from customers. But Hannah didn’t see this one coming.

“I have a DVD on hold,” the middle-aged man announced—without so much as an “Excuse me.”

Hannah glanced up at him. With his silver hair and tan, he had a certain kind of cold handsomeness. A Ralph Lauren logo was embossed on his lightweight, navy blue jacket. He must have been drinking, because he smelled like a distillery. “The name’s Hall, Lester. The movie is Sorority Sluts II: Anal Adventures.”

Nodding, Hannah kept a straight face. “All right, let me see if we have it back here for you.”

“Well, you should,” he replied, his tone a bit ominous. He drummed his fingers on the countertop. “I called earlier, and they told me it was in.”

Hannah turned to the back counter.

“Hate that guy,” her coworker, Britt, murmured as she passed Hannah with a stack of videos. “He’s such an asshole.”

All Hannah could do was nod her head, and think to herself Well, you’d know. You’re living with the poster boy of assholes. Britt’s boyfriend, Webb, was scum, a drug dealer who often beat her. Hannah liked Britt a lot, but knew she was kind of a screwup. As their coworker, Scott, once said about Britt, One minute, you want to hug her and protect her from the world, and the next you want to slap some common sense into the poor, sorry bitch.

Twenty-nine and pencil-thin, Britt had short, maroon-dyed hair, a pale complexion, and—at last count—thirteen piercings. She also had a certain gentle, vulnerable quality that was endearing. Nearly every week, she gave Hannah some little gizmo for Guy that she’d saved from a cereal box.

“Last week, he called me an idiot, right to my face,” Britt whispered. She snuck a wary glance over her shoulder at Lester Hall. “He phoned earlier about a DVD porno. It’s right there.”

It wasn’t there. Hannah checked the reservation pile. Britt must have transposed a couple of digits on the DVD’s code. An adult DVD was there for him, but it was the wrong one. Hannah looked in the drawer, and the DVD that Lester Hall wanted was checked out. “Oh, shit,” Hannah muttered.

She put on her best contrite look and turned to him. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Hall,” she said. “They put the wrong movie back here for you. The DVD you wanted is checked out.” Hannah looked it up in her computer. “We have Sorority Sluts II in VHS format, and I can—”

“I don’t want it on VHS,” he said firmly. “They told me the DVD was here. Why would they tell me it’s here when it isn’t?”

Beside her, Scott looked up from his register.

“They goofed,” Hannah explained. “The DVD back here is two numbers off. I’m sorry. If you’d like another DVD, we’ll rent it to you for free.”

“I don’t want another DVD! I wanted Sorority Sluts II. It’s not there?”

Hannah shook her head. “No, the movie back here is something called Debutante Whores.”

Scott piped up. “You know, those Debutante Whores are just like Sorority Sluts, only classier.” He paused. “Because—they’re debutantes.”

Hannah shot him a You’re-Not-Helping look.

Lester Hall glared at Scott, then at Hannah. “I don’t understand how this happened. You said my DVD was here, and it isn’t. This is fucked. How stupid are you people?”

“It was just human error,” Hannah said patiently. “I’m very sorry. We’ll credit your account—”

“I don’t want a credit. I want my movie, you stupid bitch. And I’m sick of you saying you’re sorry—”

“Hey, you know,” Scott interrupted. “Take it easy—”

“I’m not talking to you, faggot,” Lester Hall retorted.

People in the store were stopping to stare. Britt came up to the register. “I think I’m the one who screwed up your reservation,” she said meekly. “I’m really sorry—”

“I don’t want apologies. I want my fucking movie!”

“All right, this is getting out of hand,” Hannah announced. “We can’t help you, Mr. Hall. And you’re being abusive. You need to leave the store.”

“Oh, really? Are you going to make me, bitch?”

“That’s it,” Scott said. “I’m calling the cops on you.”

“No need. I’ll show him out.”

Craig Tollman stepped up to the counter beside Lester Hall. He smiled at the silver-haired man. “Let’s go.”

Dumbfounded, Hannah stared at them. She hadn’t seen Craig in a few days. She had to admire his timing.

Lester Hall was mad and drunk, but he wasn’t about to tangle with Craig. He turned to Hannah. “I want a credit on my account!” he demanded. “I should get a free movie!”

She nodded. “I’ll tell the manager exactly what happened.”

Craig nudged at him. “Now say good-bye.”

Lester Hall didn’t say anything. He stomped out of the store—with Craig right behind him.

“Thanks for shopping with us!” Scott called out, for the benefit of the other customers in the store. Some of them laughed. One person applauded.

But Hannah was staring out the window. Lester Hall retreated down the street, while Craig seemed to stand guard outside the door. He glanced in the store window, and gave Hannah a little salute.

She nodded at Craig and managed to smile.

“Do you know that black guy?” Scott whispered. “He’s a major babe. I didn’t even see him come into the store. Did you?”

Hannah just shook her head. She looked back outside, but Craig was gone. She wondered how long he’d been in the store before stepping up to the counter. How long had he been there watching her?

“You’re shaking a little, Hannah,” Scott said. “You okay?”

Britt patted her on the back. “God, you really stood up to that creep. It was all my fault. I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m the one who screwed up—”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” Hannah said, with a nervous laugh. She started collecting returns from the drop-off bin.

“Sure you don’t want to take five in the back room or something?” Scott asked.

Hannah began checking in the return videos. “I’ll be fine; nothing to worry about.” She said it again, hoping she might actually believe it. “Nothing to worry about at all.”

He watched Lester Hall climb into a black Mercedes. Then he hurried back to his own car so he could follow Lester home. Small wonder the son of a bitch was peeved about not getting his porn DVD. He lived about eight miles away—in a sprawling, white stucco ranch house on a big, secluded lot near Lake Washington.

He videotaped Lester stepping inside his house. The results on these night shots always left a lot to be desired, but the picture quality didn’t have to be perfect for Lester the Letch.

The camera panned across the house, then tracked down a slope and past a gate to a side garden. Through various windows, snippets of videotape caught Peeping Tom shots of Lester moving about the house. He took off his jacket, shirt, and some kind of corset to hold in his girth. Then he walked around in his slacks and V-neck T-shirt.

In the back, a row of bushes against the house provided some camouflage, while sliding glass doors offered a view into Lester’s recreation room—with a state-of-the-art entertainment center, a fireplace, and bar. No family pictures. The guy was probably divorced. His place looked too much like a bachelor pad for any woman to be living there.

Lester made a couple of phone calls, poured himself a drink at the bar, and finally settled down in front of an adult movie on his flat, wide-screen TV. The camera zoomed in on the girl-on-girl action. It must have been from his private DVD collection. Through the glass doors, the audio caught muffled purrs and moans from the two porn actresses pleasuring each other.

The camera’s audio also captured the sound of a car pulling up the front drive. Lester Hall must have heard it, too. He switched off his movie.

The next image caught on video was a tall brunette taking a duffel bag and a large folded-up case from the backseat of a cab. She wore tight jeans, a stylishly torn sweatshirt, and heels. The camera zoomed in for a close-up. Her hair was pulled back in a small ponytail. She’d overdone the mascara, and her maroon lips appeared swollen by collagen. She paid the cab driver and carried the bag and bulky case to Lester’s front door. The audio picked up the curious click-click of her high heels on the pavement.

Lester greeted her at the door, then ushered her inside. A series of shots into the windows along the side of the house yielded nothing but images of empty rooms. It was back in the large recreation room that Lester and his guest settled. He didn’t bother helping her with her case or the bag. But he did fix her a drink at the bar.

The woman opened the oblong case, which turned out to be a massage table. “I almost thought you weren’t gonna call,” she said, the words barely audible through the glass doors.

“It’s every Tuesday night,” he said, handing her a drink. “Shouldn’t be too tough to remember.”

“I remembered. I thought you’d forgotten.” She pulled out a folded sheet from the duffel bag and spread it over the table. Lester Hall grabbed the remote and clicked on some jazz music; then he began to undress.

So did the girl. Lester stopped to watch her shed the torn jersey top, then peel down her jeans. For a moment, she posed for him, running her hands up and down her tanned body, stopping to caress her breasts. All she wore was a red thong. She pointed to the table, whispered something, then sauntered away—most likely to the bathroom.

While she was gone, Lester finished undressing. With his barrel chest, protruding gut, and spindly legs, he didn’t look good naked. Despite the porn earlier and the girl stripping for him just now, Lester’s penis looked small and flaccid. He sipped his drink before laying facedown on the table.

A minute passed before the tall brunette returned. She pulled down the flimsy thong, then reached for a bottle of oil. She started massaging his back.

The camera zoomed in on her face. It caught a flicker of sadness in those heavily made-up eyes.

As was now his custom, Paul Gulletti took the empty seat beside Hannah in class that Thursday night. Hannah furtively glanced at his assistant, Seth, who rolled his eyes and smirked at her. He was standing in his usual spot by the windows. He strolled over to the projector and switched on the movie, Chinatown.

Ben Sturges sat in the back of the room tonight. At the beginning of class, Hannah had peeked over her shoulder at him, but he didn’t seem to notice her. The tall, black transvestite, Dede or Dodo or whatever her name was, had been bending his ear about something.

During the movie, Paul leaned over and asked if she was free for dinner one night during the upcoming week. “I was thinking of the Hotel Monaco,” he whispered. “They have a wonderful restaurant there. You’ll love it.”

Hannah tried to smile. “Well, Paul, I’d like go over my notes with you on movies that broke the blacklist. But I think the Hotel Monaco is a bit too fancy for something like that.” She shrugged. “I’ll have my notebook and a couple of library books with me. Maybe we can meet someplace for coffee instead, a Starbucks or—”

“Hannah, I’m trying to ask you out for a lovely dinner,” he whispered. “We can discuss the blacklist project some other time. I think we both owe ourselves a nice evening out.”

Hannah glanced up at the movie for a moment; then she turned to Paul again and leaned closer to him. “Um, Paul, I want to help you with your project, and I’ll gladly meet you for coffee or something. But if you’re asking me out on a date, I don’t date married men.”

He frowned a little. “Funny, I thought you were serious about wanting that job at my newspaper.”

“I’m very serious about it,” Hannah replied.

“Well, you sure fooled me,” Paul grumbled. Then he settled back to watch the film.

Hannah turned toward the screen. She yearned to tell him, You’re the one who’s not serious about this job possibility. You just want to get me into bed, you sleaze-bucket. But she didn’t risk saying it. What if he really did intend to help her out? Maybe socializing a bit with him was a part of that.

When the movie ended and the lights came on, Paul said to her under his breath, “Listen, stick around after class, okay? We should talk.”

With a sigh, Hannah nodded, then retreated to the hallway. She bought a box of Milk Duds from the vending machine.

“How are you doing?”

She turned to see Ben Sturges smiling at her.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Hannah coolly replied, taking a little step back.

He leaned against the vending machine. “I want to apologize for acting like such a horse’s ass last week. It’s really none of my business whether or not you’re—ah, involved with the teacher. I was way out of line. I’m sorry.”

Hannah glanced down at the box of Milk Duds in her hand. “Well, for the record, I’m not involved with Paul Gulletti. He’s married, and I don’t date married men.” She shrugged. “So, would you like a Milk Dud?”

He held out his hand. “Yeah, thanks.”

Hannah shook a couple of Milk Duds into his palm. She had a hard time looking directly at him. His apology was endearing, and she found him very attractive. Maybe that was why she couldn’t really trust him. It was part of her history that she had lousy taste in guys.

“Great movie, huh?” he said. “Have you seen any other Roman Polanski movies?”

“Knife in the Water, Tess, and Rosemary’s Baby.” She popped a Milk Dud in her mouth. “In fact, someone just loaned me a video of Rosemary’s Baby last week.”

“That’s weird. You have people loaning you videos? I figured you could rent them for free.”

Hannah stared at him, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you work in a video store, don’t you?”

“Yes, but how do you know that? I didn’t tell you.”

“I asked around.”

Hannah frowned. “Were you at the video store last week, asking around about me and my son?”

He shrugged. “I—I came by looking for you. I wanted to apologize—”

“And you asked about me and my little boy?” she pressed, a sharp edge in her tone. “Do you know how creepy that is? Are you following me around?”

His back against the vending machine, Ben glanced at the other students in the hallway. Hannah now noticed a few of them staring.

Ben shook his head at her. “No, I’m not following you around.”

She didn’t believe him. She stared into those cold blue eyes of his. “You’re lying,” she whispered. “I can tell. Listen, I don’t know what you want or what kind of game you’re playing. But you need to leave me alone.”

He let out a little laugh, and kept shaking his head.

“Understand?” she said loudly. “Leave me alone!”

She ran back into the classroom, and grabbed her coat.

Sitting on the edge of his desk, Paul glanced up from the Film Comment magazine he was reading. “Hannah? What’s wrong?”

Ignoring him, she hurried out to the corridor, then down the stairwell. She didn’t look back at Ben Sturges—or at the others who were staring at her. She just kept running.

He didn’t follow Hannah home from the community college. But he came by her apartment building around ten-thirty that night. From the parking lot of a neighboring building, he had a good view of her door and the living-room window. For nearly an hour, he watched. It was a beautiful, unseasonably warm night, with a smell in the air of impending rain. Her windows were open. From the flickering light inside, he could tell she was watching TV.

Her door opened. He hadn’t expected her to be stepping out at this time of night. Hannah came out to the balcony walkway for a minute. She retreated back inside, then reemerged with a straight-back chair and a glass of wine. She wasn’t going anywhere after all. She sat down, gazed out at the Space Needle, and sipped her wine. He saw her wipe her eyes several times, and he realized she was crying.

It began to rain, yet he remained, hiding behind a minivan in the lot. For a moment he thought she’d noticed him, but it was a false alarm. Around midnight, she finally went back inside, taking her chair and wineglass.

Ben stayed until he saw the light go out in her window.

He caught the bus back to his studio apartment in one of the seedier neighborhoods of town. His place was on the first floor. The iron bars somewhat defeated the purpose of his large picture window, but it didn’t matter. He had a view of a dumpster, an abandoned car, and the dirty street.

Ben didn’t bother turning on the light. He flopped down on the daybed sofa, which wasn’t so bad. The place came furnished—early fire-sale stuff. Kicking off his shoes, he glanced over at his answering machine on the beat-up old desk. The message light was blinking.

With a sigh, Ben pulled himself up and pressed the message button. “Ben? Ben, it’s Jennifer….” She sounded as if she’d been crying.

“Are you there? Please pick up. Please? Listen, I’m really worried about you….”

Frowning, he shuffled over to the refrigerator and took out a beer.

“Please, call me, okay? I miss you, honey. I want you to come home. I want to take care of you. We’ll make everything right. I think we should see somebody, don’t you? Get some help? Wouldn’t that be good?”

In the dark, dingy apartment, Ben sat back down on the bed and sipped his beer.

“I have a feeling you’re there, listening to me,” she went on. “Please pick up. Ben? Are you there?”

Six

Hannah knew Paul Gulletti taught another film class at the community college on Friday afternoons. But she hadn’t come to the college during her break to see Paul. In fact, she hoped they wouldn’t run into each other.

Sometimes, when she arrived for class early, she’d spot Paul’s assistant, Seth Stroud, in the cafeteria, sitting alone at a table with a cup of coffee and some film book.

That was where she hoped to find him today. She needed Seth’s help with something. And she didn’t dare ask Paul.

The cafeteria, with its two dozen cafe tables, a counter along the wall, and a painted mural of the Seattle skyline, wasn’t too crowded at twenty to three that Friday afternoon. Hannah could see right away Seth wasn’t there.

She slumped against the cafeteria’s arched entrance. As long as she was on her break, she decided to grab a late lunch. Seth could still show up before Paul’s class.

Hannah got a tray and went to the food counter. She was assessing the entrees on display when someone nudged her arm. Hannah turned to see the young man with spiked brown hair and designer glasses. He had a cup of coffee, a donut, and a copy of Movieline magazine on his tray.

“Hey, Seth,” Hannah said. “I was hoping I’d run into you here.”

“Yeah? Well, steer clear of the hot dogs. Might as well eat a time bomb.”

“Is the salad safe?”

He shrugged. “They can’t screw that up too much.”

She nodded at the food on his tray. “Is that all you’re having?”

“Yeah, just a snack to get me through the next couple of hours. How are you doing? You left class in such a hurry last night, I thought you might be sick or something.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Hannah said, taking a small plastic container of salad. “Let me pay for yours, okay? I want to hit you up for a favor.”

“Sounds mysterious.” He grinned. “Okay. I’ll get us a table.”

The cafeteria started to fill up while Hannah was paying for the food. She met Seth at a small table in the corner.

“So, what’s going on?” he asked.

“It’s just a little favor,” Hannah said, settling back and opening her salad container. “I was hoping you could save me from going through a lot of red tape. You know Ben Sturges, the tall, blond-haired guy in class?”

“The dude who looks like the Marlboro Man?” Seth nodded over his coffee cup. “Yeah, I know him.”

“Well, I guess he found out I work at a video store. He asked if I knew anyone who deals in out-of-print videos. I found a local dealer who has this video Ben wants, only the guy’s leaving town tomorrow. Anyway, I can’t get a hold of Ben on the phone. I have the information all written down. So I thought I’d go by his place—”

Seth chuckled. “And you’d like me to get his address for you.”

Bewildered, Hannah nodded. “Yeah. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s just smart you came to me with this instead of Professor G, because he absolutely hates that guy.”

Hannah nibbled at her salad. “Why is that?”

“Because Paul thinks Ben’s making the moves on you. And the Prof has a thing for you. In fact, he’s really kind of obsessed.”

Hannah shrugged. “Well, I’ve never done anything to encourage him. And I’m not interested in Ben Sturges, either. I’m just trying to do him a favor.” She managed to smile. “So—think you could get his address for me?”

Seth nodded. “No sweat, Hannah. What movie?”

“Hmmm?”

“What hard-to-find movie is Ben Sturges looking for?”

“Oh. Bonjour Tristesse.” In the store this morning, Hannah had waited on a customer who wanted to buy the out-of-print video. It was how she came up with the excuse for wanting Ben Sturges’s address.

“Bonjour Tristesse.” Seth nodded with approval. “Good one. Otto Preminger directed, 1958. I saw an interview with Deborah Kerr about making that. She was talking about how Preminger picked on and screamed at Jean Seberg all during the filming. The critics had roasted him the year before for casting her in Saint Joan. She was his discovery, and he was going to show them they were wrong about Jean Seberg—even if it killed her.”

“Interesting,” Hannah said, picking at her salad.

“A lot of great directors put their leading ladies through the wringer, especially when they’ve ‘discovered’ them. You know, the old Svengali and Trilby story. Maybe it’s an artist’s control thing, all part of realizing a vision.”

“Or maybe sometimes the director is just a son of a bitch.”

Seth leaned back and grinned at her. “Still, it was a pretty good movie, wasn’t it?”

Hannah nodded. “Actually, I’m a big fan of Otto Preminger’s movies.” She pushed her food tray aside and glanced at her wristwatch. “Anyway, do you think there’s time before class to give me that address?”

“Yeah, come on,” he said, getting to his feet. He grabbed his tray. “Just don’t tell Paul that I gave you Marlboro Man’s address, or he’ll have my ass in a sling.”

Hannah bused her tray after him. “So Paul really has it out for Ben Sturges, huh?”

“Oh, he’d hate any man who got close to you. Hell, he’d put a contract out on me if he knew I was sitting with you just now. Why do you think I picked that corner table? So do me a favor and don’t let on to the Prof that we broke bread together.”

Hannah frowned at him. “Paul really isn’t that bad, is he?”

As they strolled out of the cafeteria together, Seth seemed to ponder her question. He tapped his rolled-up magazine against his leg, and smiled cryptically. “Hmmm, just don’t tell Paul about us talking together today, okay? I don’t want to get into trouble with him.” He pointed to a stairwell entrance. “Why don’t you wait for me over there? I’ll be back in a couple of shakes with that address.”

Hannah retreated toward the stairwell. She watched Seth amble down the crowded hallway, and she realized he truly didn’t want to be seen with her. He was dead serious about Paul.

The Prof has a thing for you, Seth had said. In fact, he’s really kind of obsessed.

Hannah stepped back, ducking into the stairwell. She suddenly had a feeling someone was watching.

She got off the bus on Yakima Way, then glanced again at the address Seth had scribbled down for her. He’d said it was a dicey neighborhood, and he wasn’t kidding. She’d ridden the El through worse areas of Chicago. Still, it was hardly the place to be alone on foot at nine o’clock at night.

She’d gotten Joyce to stay later with Guy, and taken the bus from work. On the bus, she’d tried to ignore the foulmouthed ranting of a crazy man in the back. She wondered if this attempt to investigate Ben Sturges wasn’t a little misguided. Paul Gulletti, with his movie knowledge and his obsession for her, seemed a far more likely suspect. Hannah had to wonder if she’d get mugged tonight, investigating the wrong man.

As the bus pulled away, she felt as if her last chance for safety had just driven off. The lone corner store at the end of the block provided no refuge. Four teenagers, who looked like gang members, loitered by the entrance of the run-down establishment. One of them was tormenting a derelict who had passed out against the side of the store. A pawnshop was located across the street from the grocery, but it looked closed.

Hannah started down the block of dilapidated houses and boarded-up buildings until she found the address for Ben Sturges. The apartment building looked like a big, neglected house and had bad aluminum siding that might have been painted yellow at one time—but now Hannah couldn’t tell. The front door had a faded, handwritten “No Trespassing” sign. On the second floor, two windows had stained sheets hanging up in lieu of curtains. Hannah checked the mailbox for Apartment 1, and saw a new label on it: B. Podowski.

Frowning, Hannah checked the address and apartment number that Seth had written down. She opened the front door and stepped inside. The dark foyer smelled of cat urine, and there was a stairway with a tattered, thin carpet. On either side of Hannah were Apartments 1 and 2.

The front door opened, and Hannah backed away. A husky young black man ambled in. He wore a sleeveless sweatshirt. He scowled at her, but said nothing. He pulled out a set of keys and started to unlock the door to Apartment 2.

“Hi, excuse me,” Hannah said.

He turned to glare at her. “Yeah?”

“Does a tall, blond-haired man live here?” she asked, nodding to Apartment 1. “He’s about thirty years old.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Moved in about month ago.” The young man started to duck into the apartment.

“Excuse me again,” Hannah said. “Is his name Ben? Ben Sturges?”

The man frowned. “No, it’s Ben Something-else. Some Polock name. I don’t remember, okay? Any other questions?”

Hannah quickly shook her head. “No. Thank you very much.”

He stepped inside his apartment and shut the door. Hannah heard two locks click.

She glanced at the door to Apartment 1. She wondered why Ben Sturges, who always came very nicely dressed to film class, was living in a tenement. And why did he live there under another name? He’d moved in a month ago, the neighbor had said.

A month ago. Give or take a few days, that was when the Goodbar video had been dropped off at the store. That was when all this began.

Hannah wandered outside again, then turned to stare at the large picture window on the first floor. It was where he lived. There were bars over the window, and within the apartment, only darkness.

“So what kind of cookies do you think Joyce would like?” Hannah asked Guy. She had him in the shopping cart seat.

“Those! Joyce likes those!” he said, pointing to the Oreos.

“What an amazing coincidence,” Hannah said, grabbing a package of the cookies. “You happen to like Oreos, too, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I sure do.” Guy nodded, very matter-of-fact.

“Well, here, guard these,” Hannah said, setting the Oreos in the cart. “And don’t touch.” She paused to glance at her shopping list.

It was Saturday, her day off. She’d spent it with Guy, buying him a haircut and new shoes, Burger King for lunch, a trip to the park, and now the supermarket.

All the while she was outside with her son, Hannah knew she was vulnerable. She didn’t let Guy out of her sight for a minute. She always felt someone watching. It was bad enough walking to and from work by herself, constantly glancing around for someone lurking in the shadows or behind every corner. But the idea that he might be studying her—with Guy—terrified her.

Even in the supermarket, Hannah didn’t feel entirely safe. Still, she tried not to think about the Goodbar and Rosemary’s Baby videos and Cindy Finkelston’s death. She tried not to think about Ben Sturges or Ben Podowski—or whatever he was calling himself. And she tried not to think about Paul Gulletti. Either one of them could have been her stalker, playing this deadly game with her. Either one—or neither—could have been the intruder who had broken into her apartment twice. Perhaps it was a customer at the store or a total stranger.

She felt so helpless and frustrated. All she could do for now was make sure Guy was safe, keep Joyce on alert, and hope whoever had been behind all this was finished with her.

She’d rented Aladdin for Guy tonight, and they were going to eat in—with the door and windows locked.

“Mom, push me again, okay?” Guy said, kicking his feet back and forth.

“All right, hold your horses, kiddo,” she replied, checking her coupons. “I’m trying to score us some bargains here.”

“Well, hello.”

Hannah looked up to see Craig Tollman, carrying a shopping basket. He wore a sweatshirt and jeans, but still managed to look like a GQ model.

Hannah smiled nervously. “Oh, hi. How are you?”

“Great.” He nodded at Guy, then smiled at her. “Looks like you picked up a hitchhiker.”

She laughed. “Guy, say hello to Craig.”

“Hello, Craig,” he said politely. “How are you?” Then he turned to look at the Oreos in the cart.

“Well, I’m fine, thanks, Guy. And what have you been up to today?”

Guy didn’t seem to hear him. He touched the package of cookies.

“I think the ‘hello’ is all you’ll get out of him for now,” Hannah said. “He’s kind of shy around new people.”

Craig grinned at her. “Like mother, like son,” he said. “He has to be yours, he’s a great-looking kid.”

“Well, thanks,” Hannah said. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to thank you for handling that rude customer the other night. After saving my life, you just disappeared.”

“I wanted to make sure he didn’t try to go back in the store.”

“Well, anyway, thanks. I owe you big time.”

“Really? Then maybe you’ll let me take you out to dinner—or lunch?”

Hannah gave him a wry smile. “That was very sneaky.”

“Yeah, do you like how I just slipped it in there?”

She nodded. “Very smooth.”

“Mom, can I get out of here?” Guy asked.

“Here, let me,” Craig said. He quickly set down his shopping basket, then hoisted Guy out of the cart seat.

Hannah automatically reached out to take her son from him. She thought Guy might protest, but he seemed comfortable in Craig’s arms.

“So—you didn’t answer my question,” Craig said, rocking Guy a little. “How about dinner? If you need Guy to chaperon, the three of us could go to a family place, my treat.”

She laughed, then took Guy from him. “How about lunch? Wednesday?” Guy wiggled in her arms, and she tried to keep him still. “Um, I get a forty-five minute break at one o’clock, but I can stretch it to an hour. Meet me at the store, and we’ll go from there, okay? And it’s my treat.”

Craig nodded. “We’ve got a date.”

Lunch with Craig Tollman; it would be her first date in over five years.

Hannah didn’t linger in the supermarket. She kept thinking she’d run into Craig again in one of the aisles, and she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to make small talk again, and she couldn’t stand the silences—even when they were fueled by an unspoken attraction. If she’d ever had any talent for flirting, she’d lost it long ago. Craig made her nervous. Now they had a date. Well, she’d deal with it on Wednesday, when the time came.

Walking home, Hannah carried two well-laden bags by the paper handles—certain to break at any minute. Guy struggled with his little plastic bag containing two rolls of paper towels. He was huffing and puffing as if he were lugging a bowling ball. “You sure that’s not too much for you, honey?” Hannah asked.

“I got it,” he said, his blond head tilted down.

“Let me know if you get tired,” she said.

Finally, he slung the bag over his shoulder, which seemed less awkward for him. After a moment, he asked, “Did Craig know my dad?”

Hannah hesitated. “Um, no, sweetie. Craig’s a friend of mine from the video store.”

“How did my dad die?”

“I’ve told you before, honey,” Hannah said. “He died in a car accident a couple of months before you were born.”

Guy nodded. “Oh, yeah.” He was quiet for a while.

Hannah walked a step behind, studying him.

She’d decided while in the hospital, recuperating from the beating Kenneth had given her, that in her new life she’d tell everyone that Guy’s father had died in a car accident. After all, a car crash was the excuse Kenneth had given for how she’d landed in Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Hospital.

The worst part of her hospital stay was the separation from her little boy. Guy was eighteen months old at the time, starting to talk and trying to get around on two feet. Every day was a new adventure for him, and she missed out on that. Hannah whiled away the days in that hospital bed making decisions about a whole new life for Guy and herself.

She had to run away with her son and start fresh someplace else. Seattle came to mind. The TV show Frasier was set there, and she watched the reruns every night she was in the hospital. It seemed a good choice, and she didn’t know a soul in Seattle. Total anonymity.

She would need money, of course. Her plan was to make gradual, intermittent withdrawals from their joint account and tuck the cash away. She figured it would take about eight months to save five thousand dollars.

She’d have to change her name, erase her past, and sever all connections. Kenneth and his family weren’t going to let her steal Guy away—not without an extensive search.

The more she planned her escape, the more obstacles she saw. Sometimes it seemed utterly pointless. And there was no one she could confide in. She had people visiting her in the hospital every day: Kenneth (on his best behavior), her in-laws, and Mrs. Woodley’s country-club friends. Nearly everyone on the hospital’s staff seemed to like Hannah, and they were always dropping by her room. People kept sending flowers and cards. She’d never felt so popular—or so alone.

No one wanted to hear what had really happened to land her in that hospital, bruised and broken.

During her last week there, she was starting to eat solid foods again. One afternoon, the Woodleys came with Guy and his nanny, and some of their country-club friends. They made a big deal of wheeling her to the second-floor lounge, where an outside terrace overlooked the park and the lake. Several hospital staff members joined in what turned out to be an unveiling.

From the terrace, they all watched Kenneth, looking very dapper in his blue suit. He waved to them from the street. Then, in a showy gesture, he pulled the parachute-like draping off a new-model red Jetta. Tied around the car was one of those ridiculous large gold bows—the type rich people put around gift cars in TV commercials.

Everyone applauded. Hannah tried to smile. But she was embarrassed. A couple of the nurses with them on the terrace were struggling to support families. Here she was, getting wheeled back and forth from her private room. And her in-laws were giving her an expensive new car to replace the one she was supposed to have smashed up.

Standing beside Hannah—and wheeling her around that afternoon—was a husky, brooding, Latino orderly named Juan. He didn’t applaud with the others. Of all the hospital staff, he was the only one who didn’t seem to like her very much. He was terse and sullen around her. Juan became more talkative when someone speaking Spanish was in their vicinity. Then he’d go on and on in his native tongue, and Hannah figured he was deriding her half the time. She wondered what “rich bitch” sounded like in Spanish.

Kenneth joined them on the terrace. He gave Juan a bottle of champagne to open, then started passing out paper cups. One of the doctors pointed out that it was against hospital regulations to drink on hospital property, but he cited this as a special occasion. Everyone except Juan toasted to Hannah’s remarkable recovery.

The celebration didn’t last long. The doctors and nurses were on duty, and Kenneth and his father had to return to work. Kenneth took her new car. Guy’s nanny announced that it was time for his nap. For a few minutes, Hannah was stuck on the terrace with Juan, her mother-in-law, and a couple of the country-club ladies. They were still talking about the new Jetta.

“Well, hindsight is twenty-twenty vision,” Mrs. Woodley said. “But I wish we’d have given her a nice new car last year, instead of that horrible old hand-me-down.

“I feel partly responsible for Hannah ending up in here,” she went on. “That piece of junk used to be my car. Well, you girls remember. I always had the worst time driving it. Poor Hannah, it’s really not her fault.”

Kenneth’s mother was still going on about it after she and her friends pecked Hannah on the cheek and said good-bye. Hannah sat in her wheelchair and gazed out at the choppy gray water. The sky was turning dark. She listened to Mrs. Woodley talking to her colleagues as they headed inside for the elevator: “I never should have given the old car to Hannah. That automobile had terrible brakes….”

“That automobile also had a mean right hook,” Juan muttered.

Hannah glanced up at him. “Pardon me?”

“It wasn’t the car that put you in here,” Juan growled. “I know, Mrs. Woodley. I know. I don’t blind myself like everyone else around here. I know the truth. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Hannah started to cry. Maybe it was suddenly realizing she wasn’t so alone after all. Juan put his hand on her shoulder. After a minute, he handed her a Kleenex.

“A man who beats his wife doesn’t deserve to live,” he said.

Hannah wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“There was a girl he was seeing about five or six years ago, nice girl, very pretty. He put her in here, too; worked her over with a golf club. The family hushed it up. He’s a son of a bitch, Mrs. Woodley.”

Sniffling, Hannah shrugged. “I can’t leave, not without my son. And my husband and his family aren’t going let me take him.”

“Listen,” Juan whispered. He squatted a little, so he was face-to-face with her. “Working in this place, I’ve gotten to know a lot of people. We have all types coming through the emergency room. I have friends in high—and low—places. I know some guys who will handle it for you. They’ll work cheap, too. That son of a bitch will have a real hard time beating you when he’s in a wheelchair himself.”

“No, I don’t want that. But thanks anyway, Juan. God bless you.” Wiping her eyes one last time, she noticed a flash of lightning over the lake. “Maybe you should take me inside now, okay? I think it’s going to rain.”

Juan let out an audible sigh; then he patted her shoulder again. “Forget I said anything,” he whispered.

He wheeled Hannah back to her room. Neither of them uttered a word. He took her by the arm to help her into bed. Once Hannah settled back and pulled up the sheets, she broke the silence. “Maybe you could help me with something else,” she said. “Maybe you know—from the emergency room or wherever—someone who can make me a few pieces of fake ID?”

A brand-new driver’s license, a Social Security card, and Guy’s new birth certificate would cost twelve hundred dollars. Hannah managed to save the money from three separate savings withdrawals that month after her release from the hospital.

Kenneth didn’t notice. He was hardly around. He spent nearly every weekend sailing, and nearly every night with a young woman named Holly who worked at a florist in town. He wasn’t very discreet about it, either. Kenneth had set up a little love nest for Holly and himself. Hannah had found the canceled rent checks amid their bank statements. She didn’t really care. Holly was welcome to him.

Kenneth was dead to her. It would say as much on Guy’s new birth certificate. Father: deceased. Guy’s new name would be James Christopher Doyle. New birthplace: Evanston Hospital in Evanston, Illinois. Same birthday. Hannah’s new name would be Hannah Dean Doyle—after James Dean, and Barney Doyle, a good friend of her dad’s.

Those fake documents were like visas out of some sort of prison state. She was terrified that something would go wrong. She didn’t really know Juan that well. Maybe his contact would leave with her money. Maybe Juan would disappear, and she’d never get out of Green Bay. When he called to say the documents were ready, she wouldn’t allow herself to believe it until they were actually in her hand. She arranged to meet him in the east stairwell of the hospital during one of her follow-up visits to Our Lady of the Sacred Heart.

On the landing between the third and fourth floors, Juan slipped her an envelope. It had Guy’s new birth certificate, an Illinois state driver’s license for Hannah Dean Doyle, and a Social Security card.

Everything looked genuine. Hannah was impressed with the job they’d done. She hugged Juan and started to give him an extra hundred dollars.

“Save it,” Juan said, his voice echoing in the stairwell. “Put it in your escape fund. You can leave a little sooner. I don’t want to see you again, Mrs. Woodley, especially not in here.”

“I’m not that worried. He’s found himself a distraction in town. I hardly ever see him anymore.”

“That could change very soon,” Juan said. “Her name is Holly Speers. She was in here this week, all banged up. They put five stitches in her forehead. She was wired up on cocaine when they admitted her. She claimed she fell against a coffee table.”

Hannah numbly stared at him.

“I think for Holly, the honeymoon’s almost over. Besides, too many people know about them now. The Woodleys will be stepping in pretty soon. Your husband might be coming back to you. So—you keep that extra hundred for travel money, Mrs. Woodley. And get yourself and your little boy out of here as soon as you can.”

Juan’s prediction came true about ten days later. Kenneth started spending his nights at home again. He was on another “good behavior” streak. Hannah figured that his father must have given him a talking-to.

She slept in the guest room, which had more or less become her bedroom. Hannah had no intention of letting him touch her. She wondered how long Kenneth would go before he forced himself on her—or beat her up.

Though she saw it coming, Hannah was still caught off guard when he finally exploded. She was washing the dinner dishes on a Tuesday night. As long as Kenneth was playing the dutiful husband, she’d done the dutiful wife bit and fixed his favorite supper that evening, a special recipe for grilled halibut and baby potatoes. He’d stuffed himself. Now he was in the den, watching TV and looking after Guy. All was quiet, except for the slightly muted television. Then Hannah heard him.

“Goddamn it!” he shouted.

She heard a smack; then Guy shrieking. Hannah dropped a wineglass, and it smashed in the sink. She didn’t even turn off the water. She just ran toward the den.

“You want another?” Kenneth was yelling. Hannah had heard that question too often at the start of a beating.

She stopped in the doorway to his den for a second, long enough to see what was happening. Her son was on the floor, crying. Standing over him, Kenneth had one hand raised. In the other hand, he held an expensive miniature model of his yacht. Kenneth cherished the stupid thing. Guy must have started playing with it, which was a no-no.

“Did you hit him?” Hannah asked, her voice shrill.

She didn’t wait for an answer. She lunged at Kenneth and started beating him in the face. She was like a crazy woman. She didn’t let up until he hauled back and knocked her to the floor. All the while, Guy was screaming.

“Fucking bitch!” Kenneth growled.

Blinking, she stared up at him. He had his hand to his face. Blood streamed from his nose down the front of his shirt. Hannah didn’t even realize she’d done that to him. His prized model yacht had fallen out of his grasp and now lay broken by his feet.

“You’re dead,” Kenneth muttered. Then he stomped out of the room.

Hannah quickly gathered Guy in her arms, grabbed her purse, then hurried out the front door. Taking her new Jetta, she drove to a Holiday Inn Express on the edge of town. She parked the car in back so no one could see it from the highway. At the 7-Eleven next door, she bought a box of Huggies and some toiletries.

And so Guy spent his first night in a motel. Hannah hardly slept. She was so certain that she’d wake up to the phone ringing—or Kenneth pounding on the door.

In the morning, she drove back to the house. Not seeing his car in the driveway, she figured it was safe to go inside. She started collecting the essentials: everything from the fake documents, to a stuffed giraffe that Guy couldn’t live without.

It took her ninety minutes to pack four suitcases and load up the car. All the while, she worried that Kenneth would come home and find them. She hated leaving behind certain items: an old clock and a few other knickknacks that had been in her family forever, certain books and CDs, a couple of photo albums. She had to say good-bye forever to these mementos, and move on.

Her heart sank when she stepped into the Savings and Loan. There was a line; about a dozen people. Guy began to fuss and cry, attracting the attention of everyone in the place—including a friend of her mother-in-law’s. Of course, the woman came up to her and chatted on for a few minutes. Hannah could only pretend to listen. Every second was grueling.

At the teller window, Hannah filled out a savings withdrawal slip for eight thousand dollars. By the time she left the bank, Guy was screaming in her arms, and she was soaked with perspiration.

They drove to Milwaukee, where she sold the Jetta at an upscale used-car lot for twelve thousand dollars. She and Guy took a bus to Minneapolis. He cried most of the way. In her effort to keep a low profile, Guy wasn’t helping. No doubt all the other passengers utterly despised the two of them.

From the Twin Cities, they took the train to Seattle. Guy liked the train. For the first time in forty-eight hours he actually seemed content, and slept well. Hannah could almost convince herself everything would be all right.

In Seattle, she found a cheap hotel with kitchenettes in the rooms. Every day, she and Guy went apartment hunting. She always picked up a Milwaukee Journal at the magazine store, and searched for any articles about the disappearance of Mrs. Kenneth Woodley II and her son. She didn’t find anything.

She phoned Juan at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart.

“It’s not a good idea to call me,” he warned her. “They’re looking for you. A private detective has been asking questions around here.”

Hannah talked with an old friend from McNulty’s Tavern, a coworker named Arlette Ivey. “Some guy came by two nights ago, asking about you,” Arlette told her. “He was really obnoxious. He said you’re in some kind of trouble, and we’re all accessories to kidnapping and grand theft if we hold back any information. What’s going on, Hannah?”

“Nothing. It’s all just—a big misunderstanding. I’m all right. But please, Arlette. Don’t tell anyone I called, okay?”

Once Hannah found her two-bedroom apartment at the Del Vista, she and Guy lived like hermits. Except for trips to the park, the supermarket, and video store, she didn’t go anywhere. The only person who even knew her by name was Tish at Emerald City Video. When Hannah’s money started to run out, she went to Tish for a job.

Guy wouldn’t have to worry about money once he was an adult. Among the essentials she’d taken from the house in Green Bay was his real birth certificate. Her son was heir to the Woodleys’ fortune. She’d tell him the truth when he was college age. Until then, he was hers.

As they walked up the steps to the apartment, Hannah watched him struggling with the small bag of paper towels. “You’re doing a great job there, sweetie,” she said. “You’re really helping me out. Such a gentleman.”

“I have to tinkle,” Guy replied.

“Okay, hold on.” Hannah unlocked the door and let him run inside first. He dropped the small bag, then made a beeline to the bathroom.

Hannah hoisted the groceries onto the kitchen counter and began to unload them. Underneath the Oreo cookies, she found a videotape.

“What’s this?” she whispered.

The tape didn’t come in a box or container. It was just a cassette: Tape B of The Godfather.

With a glance toward the bathroom, Hannah went to the VCR and slipped the tape inside. She switched on the TV and turned down the volume.

On the TV screen, Al Pacino and Diane Keaton were acting as godparents at the christening of their nephew. Hannah knew the movie. But she hadn’t anticipated the very next cut: Alex Rocco, playing “Mo Green,” lay seminude on a massage table. Someone approached him. He reached for his glasses to look up at the intruder. Hannah knew the scene now. Cringing, she watched the faceless visitor shoot Mo Green in the eye.

“Mom?”

With a shaky hand, she switched off the TV. Hannah glanced over her shoulder at Guy. She quickly ejected the tape. “Did you flush, and wash your hands?” she asked.

Guy nodded.

Hannah sat down on the floor and motioned him to come to her. She put her arm around Guy, then showed him the tape cassette. “Honey, did you see someone put this in our shopping cart?”

He shrugged and shook his head.

“Did you see it in the cart? Was it in there?”

Guy picked at his nose. “Yeah. But I didn’t touch it.”

She tried to smile, but a tremor crept into her voice. “Was this tape in the cart before Craig came up to talk to us? Think real hard, sweetie. It’s important.”

He winced. “I don’t remember. Are you mad?”

“No, no,” she assured him, kissing his forehead. “It’s all right. Everything’s fine.”

Guy pointed to the cassette in her hand, then touched it. “What is this, Mom?”

“I don’t know, honey,” she whispered. She held him closer. “I don’t know what it is.”

Seven

The young woman stepped out of the taxicab. She wore tight black leather pants and a fuzzy, baby-blue angora sweater. Her chestnut-brown hair was in pigtails tonight. She pulled her folded-up massage table and duffel bag from the backseat. “Think your fucking arm would fall off if you helped me?” she muttered to the cab driver.

The audio probably didn’t pick it up. But he caught the woman on videotape as she threw her money at the driver, then kicked the door shut with her spiked boot. She carried her table and bag to the front door, then rang the bell.

It was Tuesday night at Lester Hall’s house.

He’d been watching Lester—and videotaping him—on and off for the last week. He’d already figured out how to break into Lester’s house. There were several times he could have snuck into the place and quite easily murdered Lester in his sleep. But he needed to wait until tonight.

His video camera captured Lester coming to the door and letting the girl inside. The camera shut off for a minute. The next image was rickety. His hands were a bit shaky from running to the backyard, where he now photographed them through the sliding glass doors of Lester’s recreation room. The woman was setting up her massage table. Lester stood at the bar, fixing them drinks.

One of the neighbors was throwing a party. The music and laughter drowned out what little conversation went on inside between Lester and his masseuse. He handed her a drink, then started to undress. The camera panned to her. She sipped her drink, then pulled the sweater over her head, pried off her boots, and wriggled out of her pants. She’d peeled down to just her thong before Lester even got his pants unzipped. The woman took another hit of her drink, then excused herself and padded toward the bathroom.

Lester Hall started to step out of his pants.

The camera went off.

Tarin Siegel sat naked on the toilet in Lester Hall’s bathroom. For the next ninety minutes, Lester would demand her undivided attention, and that meant no bathroom breaks.

If she had the cash, Tarin would have gladly given Lester her one-hundred-and-twenty-buck fee just so she wouldn’t have to touch his paunchy old body tonight. Lester was Tarin Siegel’s best and worst customer. Every Tuesday night she could count on him. No other client was as steady. He had a nice place, and always fixed her a drink. The fact that he was out of shape and had a couple of weird moles on his back didn’t actually matter to her. She barely noticed the bodies any more—unless the guys were cute and really fit.

But there was nothing cute about Lester. Tarin had learned early on that he didn’t like her talking during the massage part. But when it came time for the big finish, she couldn’t read his mood. Often he wanted verbal encouragement; sometimes not. Nine times out of ten, she’d make the wrong call. “Well, don’t just jerk me off, stupid, say something!” he’d complain one week. Then, during the next session, he’d grouse “How do you expect me to concentrate when you won’t shut up?”

One thing predictable about him was the way he acted afterward: sullen and mean. Once he was finished, he was finished—with her. It was like he couldn’t wait for her to leave. He was such lousy company, she preferred to wait outside for the cab to pick her up. Of course, Lester didn’t want her standing on the curb in front of his house, so she always had to hide behind a stupid hedge near his front door. Those nights when the cab was late, she absolutely dreaded having to ring his damn bell and use his phone again. Some nights, it just wasn’t worth the one hundred and twenty bucks.

The son of a bitch was out of toilet paper. Tarin sighed. Still crouching a bit, she moved over to the cabinet beneath the sink. It was a tiny, windowless powder room—no tub or shower. She found a roll of Charmin under the sink, sat back on the toilet, and loaded up the dispenser.

Tarin wiped herself, and was about to flush the toilet. That was when she heard Lester raise his voice: “Who the fuck are you?”

“You shouldn’t have called her a bitch,” someone whispered.

Though he spoke softly, Tarin could still hear him. In fact, the words sliced right through her.

“No, God, no!”

A loud shot rang out.

Tarin gasped. Her heart seemed to stop for a second.

Paralyzed with fear, she didn’t dare utter a word. Her whole body start to shake. Tarin thought she might be sick, and she swallowed hard. Tears filled her eyes, but she couldn’t cry. She had to keep very still.

She heard his footsteps. He was getting closer. Did he know she was in here?

Slowly, Tarin stood up. All of a sudden she felt naked, and she covered her breasts. She glanced over at the door, then cringed. She hadn’t locked it.

The footsteps got louder, then stopped.

Waiting for the next sound became unbearable. Her eyes riveted to the door, Tarin watched the knob slowly turn to one side.

All at once, the bathroom light went out, and she was engulfed in total darkness. She’d forgotten that the light switch for the bathroom was outside the door. At the threshold, a line of light cut through the blackness. She could see the shadows of his feet skimming across that line.

She heard him laugh, a strange cackling.

Tarin couldn’t breathe. Blindly groping in the dark, she tried to find the towel rack or something she could hold on to, something with which she could defend herself.

The door burst open, and slammed against the wall.

Tarin screamed.

The last thing she saw was a man’s silhouette coming at her. His face was swallowed up in the shadows, and he held a shiny object in his hand.

“Chicago,” Hannah said, over her glass of Diet Coke. “I’m originally from Chicago.”

Craig was asking way too many questions. It had been years since she’d dated. But she didn’t recall ever having to weather through so many inquiries about her background.

They were eating lunch across the street from the video store, at a place called Bagels & Choosers. It was an upscale sandwich shop with high ceilings, metal tables, and regional artwork hanging on brick walls. Craig looked handsome in his gray turtleneck and jeans. But that didn’t matter, because Hannah’s guard was up. At this point, she didn’t trust anyone. Still, it was a date, and she’d dressed a notch above her usual store-clerk knockabouts. Her hair was pinned up, and she wore khakis with a pink oxford shirt.

“When did you move to Seattle?” Craig asked, picking at his Cobb salad.

“About three years ago,” Hannah lied.

“Are you—um, still in touch with Guy’s father?”

She shook her head. “He died in a car accident before Guy was born.” Hannah put down her spoon. The chicken noodle soup was a bit too salty. “Listen, do you mind if we change the subject?”

“I’m sorry.”

Forcing a smile, Hannah shrugged. “It’s okay. The marriage was pretty much kaput by the time I got pregnant. I just don’t feel like discussing it. Let’s talk about you. What exactly does a Web content director do anyway?”

Craig started explaining it to her. Hannah nodded and pretended to listen. All the while, she wondered about that Godfather cassette in her shopping cart. She’d been wondering for days. It was why she couldn’t really trust Craig Tollman. Was he the one who had slipped that tape in her cart? She hadn’t had a chance to ask him yet. So far, he’d been the one asking all the questions.

“Anyway, it’s not what I thought I’d end up doing,” he was saying. “How about you? What line of work were you in before you got married?”

“Um, retail,” she lied. “I worked at Marshall Field’s.”

Hannah sat back. “Hey, speaking of shopping,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that tape you slipped into my shopping cart at the store the other afternoon.”

He squinted at her. “What tape?”

“The videotape of The Godfather—or at least its second half. It was in my shopping cart at the checkout line. Didn’t you put it in there?”

Craig shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hannah studied him for a moment. Craig seemed genuinely confused.

She sighed. “Never mind. I guess someone was playing a joke on me or something.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Listen, I should head back to the store.”

Craig got to his feet. “I just need to use the men’s room for a minute. Then I’ll walk back with you. Okay?”

While he headed toward the rest rooms, Hannah flagged down their waiter. She got the check, then stepped over to the cashier to cover it. By the register was a stack of discarded newspapers. The one on top caught Hannah’s eye. She saw a photograph, and a headline near the bottom of the front page:

RETIRED SEATTLE BUSINESSMAN SLAIN IN HOME

‘A Night of Terror,’ for Surviving Witness

Madronna Neighborhood on Alert as

Police Continue Their Investigation

Hannah picked up the newspaper and moved away from the register. She studied the grainy photo of the victim, then read the caption beneath it: L. Hollis Hall, 58, former Executive Vice President of Savitch, Inc., is survived by a daughter, 25.

She recognized the cold, crudely handsome older man in the picture. How could she forget the belligerent Mr. Sorority Sluts who had caused such a scene in the store last week?

Hannah glanced over at the rest-room area. She didn’t see Craig, so she started reading the article:

A retired businessman, L. Hollis Hall, 58, was shot to death, execution-style, by an intruder in his Madronna home Tuesday night.

Investigating officers are relying heavily on the testimony of a witness, Tarin Siegel, 31, who was also attacked in Hall’s house at the time of his death. Siegel sustained a mild concussion after being knocked over the head in Hall’s bathroom. Hall, who suffered from chronic back problems, had employed Siegel, a massage therapist, for the evening.

What Siegel called “a night of terror,” began at 9:30 P.M. with her arrival at Hall’s home in the quiet, affluent Seattle neighborhood….

Still standing near the restaurant door, Hannah skimmed over the rest of the newspaper story.

Apparently, the woman had been in the bathroom when she’d heard Hall talking to an intruder, then the gunshot. Someone had broken into the john and knocked her unconscious with the butt of a revolver.

Hannah slowed down to read Tarin Siegel’s account of what she found when she regained consciousness and staggered out of the bathroom: “I stepped back into the room where we were. I saw him lying on the massage table, and I saw all the blood….”

“My God,” Hannah murmured. “It’s The Godfather scene.” The newspaper began to shake in her grasp.

“There you are,” Craig said, touching her shoulder. “I was looking for you.”

Hannah recoiled.

He laughed. “Are you okay?”

She quickly folded up the newspaper, almost crumpling it. “I’m fine,” she answered. “I need to get back to the store.”

“Let me just take care of the check—”

“I got it already,” she said impatiently. “Let’s just go.” Tucking the newspaper under her arm, Hannah headed for the door.

As she walked back to the video store with him, Hannah’s mind was going in a dozen different directions. The last time she’d seen Lester Hall, Craig was throwing him out of the store and threatening him. Craig had been in the supermarket with her when that Godfather tape had made its way into her shopping cart. She didn’t care what he’d told her a few minutes ago. She didn’t trust him.

He took hold of her arm as they crossed the street. Hannah wrenched away from him. “I’m all right, thanks,” she said over the traffic noise. She started toward the door to Emerald City Video.

Craig stepped in her path, blocking the way. “Listen, Hannah, did I do anything to upset you?”

“No, I’m just—awfully late for work. I’ll call you. All right?” She moved around him and grabbed the door handle.

He braced a hand against the door. “Wait a second—”

“Please,” she said, losing her composure. “I need you to leave me alone. Just go! Okay?”

With a wounded look, Craig stared at her. Hannah hurried inside.

Scott manned the register nearest the door. He’d obviously heard the last part of her exchange with Craig. “Ouch,” he said. “That has to be one of the worst wrap-ups to a first date I’ve ever witnessed. What the hell happened? Are you all right?”

Through the front window, Hannah watched Craig slink away down the street. She moved behind the counter to her register. She was trembling. She set down the newspaper, and opened it for Scott to see. “Take a look at this. Isn’t this the Sorority Sluts guy from last week?”