"But now the world feels like the opposite, doesn't it, Matt?"

He nodded.

"Instead of believing the bad is a nightmare from which you'll awaken," she went on, "you think it's the good that's an illusion. And that's what this call on your camera phone did. It woke you from the good dream."

He could not speak.

"I know that I'll never get past what happened," Sonya McGrath said. "It's simply not possible. But I thought… I hoped maybe you could."

Matt waited for her to say more. She did not. She rose suddenly, as if she had said too much. They headed together for the exit. Sonya kissed him on the cheek and when they hugged, they both held on longer than usual. He could, as always, feel the devastation emanating from her. Stephen's death was there, in every moment, in every gesture. He sat with them, their forever companion.

"If you need me," she whispered, "you call. Anytime."

"I will."

He watched her walk away. He thought about what she had said, about the fine line between the good dreams and the bad, and then, when she finally disappeared around the corner, he turned away.

Chapter 12

WHEN MATT REACHED Rolanda's desk, she said, "Cingle's waiting in your office."

"Thanks."

"Midlife wants me to buzz him the very second you arrive." Rolanda looked up. "Have you arrived yet?"

"Give me five."

She turned back to the computer terminal and started typing. Matt entered. Cingle Shaker was standing looking at the window. "Nice view," she said.

"You think?"

"Nah. That's just my idea of small talk."

"You're very good at it," he said.

"I thought you were just a paralegal."

"I am."

"So why the fancy digs?"

"It was my brother's."

"So?"

"So Bernie was a big rainmaker here."

"So?" Cingle turned toward him. "I don't want to sound cold, but he's dead."

"I think you were being hard on yourself before. You really are good at this small talk stuff."

"No, I mean, he's been dead for, what, three years now? I can't believe they let an ex-con paralegal keep a space like this."

He smiled. "I knew what you meant."

"So what gives?"

"Maybe they're being respectful to my brother's memory."

"Attorneys?" Cingle made a face. "Please."

"Actually," he said, "I think they like having me around."

"Because you're such a nice guy?"

"Because of the ex-con angle. I'm a fun oddity."

Cingle nodded. "Kinda like having a lesbian couple at your hoity-toity soiree."

"Something like that, but even more exotic. It's funny. In some ways I'm the ultimate curiosity. Whenever they're drunk, they all ask me, on the sly, of course, what it's really like for a guy like them to go to the"- he made quote marks with his fingers-"Big House."

"You're like a local celebrity."

"In a bizarre way, yeah."

"And that's why they don't throw you out of the office?"

He shrugged.

"They might also be afraid of you," Cingle said. "You already killed one man with your bare hands."

He sighed and took his seat. Cingle took hers.

"Sorry," she said.

He waved her off. "What's up?"

Cingle crossed her long legs. It was for effect, he knew that, but he wondered if it had become something of an unconscious move on her part. "So tell me," she said. "Why did you want the license plate traced?"

He spread his hands. "Do we really have to go through the meaning of 'personal' again?"

"Only if you want me to tell you what I know."

"So you're resorting to blackmail now?"

But he could see that she was serious.

"I think he was following me," Matt said.

"Why do you think that?"

"Why do you think? I went a few places, his car was there."

"And you just happened to pick up on that?"

"His license plate was close to my initials."

"Excuse me?"

Matt explained about the license plate, about the three letters being similar to his own initials, about the way the car raced off when he approached. Cingle listened without moving.

When Matt finished, Cingle asked, "So why is Charles Talley following you, Matt?"

"I don't know."

"No idea at all?"

He did not repeat himself. He knew all about men who doth protest too much. Silence was the best response here.

"Talley has a record."

Matt was tempted to say "So do I," but he knew better. Having a record- a record worth Cingle's attention- meant something. The fact that it didn't in Matt's case only proved the rule by the exception. Matt didn't like thinking that way- hadn't Lance Banner used that same prejudice?- but you'd be hard-pressed to argue with the reality.

"Assault," Cingle said. "He used brass knuckles. Didn't kill the poor bastard but scrambled his brains to the point where it would have been more merciful if he had."

Matt thought about that, tried to make it fit. "How long did he get?"

"Eight years."

"Long time."

"Not his first charge. And Talley was far from a model prisoner."

Matt tried to put it together. Why would this guy be following him?

"Do you want to see what he looks like?" Cingle asked.

"You have a picture?"

"His mug shot, yeah."

Cingle wore a blue blazer with jeans. She reached into the inner jacket pocket, plucked out the photographs, and sent Matt's world spinning all over again.

How the…?

He knew that her eyes were on him, gauging his reaction, but he couldn't help it. When he saw the two mug shots- the classic front view and turn-to-the-side profile- he nearly gasped out loud. His hands gripped the desk. It felt as though he were in free fall.

"So you recognize him," Cingle said.

He did. The same smirk. The same blue-black hair.

Charles Talley was the man from the camera phone.

Chapter 13

LOREN MUSE WALKED through a time machine.

Revisiting St. Margaret's, her high school alma mater, the clichés applied: The corridors seemed tighter, the ceilings seemed lower, the lockers seemed smaller, the teachers shorter. But others things, the important stuff, did not change too much. Loren fell into a time portal as she entered. She felt the high school tingle in her belly, the constant state of insecurity; the need for both approval and rebellion churned inside of her.

She knocked on Mother Katherine's door.

"Come in."

There was a young girl sitting in the office. She wore the same school uniform that Loren had so many years ago, the white blouse and tartan skirt. God, she'd hated that. The girl had her head down, clearly post-Mother Katherine berate. Her stringy hair hung down in front of her face like a beaded curtain.

Mother Katherine said, "You may go now, Carla."

Shoulders slumped, head still lowered, Carla slinked off. Loren nodded as she passed, as if to say, I feel for ya, sister. Carla did not meet her eye. She closed the door behind her.

Mother Katherine watched all of this with a look both bemused and disheartened, as though she could read Loren's mind. There were stacks of bracelets, all different colors, on her desk. When Loren pointed to them, the bemusement vanished.

"Those bracelets belong to Carla?" Loren asked.

"Yes."

A dress code violation, Loren thought, fighting off the desire to shake her head. Man, this place will never change.

"You haven't heard about this?" Mother Katherine asked.

"Heard about what?"

"The bracelet"- she took a deep breath-"game."

Loren shrugged.

Mother Katherine closed her eyes. "It's a recent… the word would be fad, I believe."

"Uh huh."

"The different bracelets… I don't even know how to say this… the different colors represent certain acts of a sexual nature. The black one, for example, is supposed to be… uh, for one thing. Then the red one…"