After all, she told herself briskly, it wasn’t as if the job at the museum was the only job she could get. There had to be others, filled with color and art, that would speak to who she was and who she hoped to be.

The more Ashley planned, the better she felt. The more she decided on, the more she felt in control, the more she felt like herself, the stronger and more determined she believed herself to be. After a moment or two, she got up, shook herself from head to toe, and walked into the bathroom.

She stared at herself in the mirror, shaking her head at her swollen and red-rimmed eyes. “All right,” she said as she filled the sink with steaming-hot water and started to wash her face, “no more damn tears over this son of a bitch.”

No more getting scared. No more anxiety. No more gnashing teeth and nervous frustration. She was going to get on with her life, Michael O’Connell be damned.

She was suddenly hungry, and after washing away as much of her sadness as she could, she went to the kitchen, found a single pint of Ben amp; Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream in the freezer, and scooped out a large helping, letting the sweet tastes improve her mood, before she went to her remaining telephone to call her father. As she crossed her apartment, eating the ice cream out of the container, she hesitated by the window, glancing out into the night with a twinge of uncertainty. No more staring into shadows. Ashley turned away, seized her landline phone, and began dialing, unaware what pair of eyes were searching the wan light of her home for a glimpse of her form, both satisfied and yet dissatisfied with just the merest suggestions of her presence, completely at ease with the darkness, excited by how close he felt to her at that very moment. It was something that she would never understand, he thought to himself. How every step she took to try to separate herself only made him more excited and filled him with more passion. He turned the collar up on his coat and dropped back farther into a dark shadow. He could be warm right there all night if need be.

Hope was surprised to find Sally waiting for her when she arrived home that evening. They had fallen into the stiffest of patterns, marked by long silences.

She looked across at her partner of so many years and suddenly felt a surge of exhaustion and dismay cascade through her. This is it, she thought to herself. This is where we put words to an ending. A shapeless sadness filled her as she nervously looked over to Sally.

“You’re back a little early tonight,” she said as blandly as possible. “Hungry? I can put something together quickly, but it won’t be real interesting.”

Sally barely moved. Her hand was wrapped around another Scotch. “I’m not hungry,” she said a little sloppily. “But we need to talk. We have a problem.”

“Yes,” Hope replied, slowly removing her jacket and setting down her backpack. “I would say so.”

“More than one.”

“Yes. More than one. Maybe I should get a drink, too.” Hope went into the kitchen.

While Hope poured herself a large glass of white wine, Sally tried to sort through precisely where she was going to begin, and which of the multitude of troubles she would bring forth first. Some odd conflation was in her mind, joining the assault on her client account and the threat to her career with the unsettled coolness she felt toward Hope. Who am I? Sally asked herself.

She felt as she did in the days before she and Scott had separated. A sort of black, gray gloom coloring her thoughts. It took an immense force of will for her to remain seated. She wanted to rise up and run away. For a lawyer, accustomed to the world of solving sticky issues, she felt abruptly incompetent.

When she looked up, Hope was standing in the entrance.

“I need to tell you what has happened,” Sally said.

“You’ve fallen in love with someone else?”

“No, no…”

“A man?”

“No.”

“Then another woman?”

“No.”

“You just don’t love me anymore?” Hope continued.

“I don’t know what I love. I feel as if I’m, I don’t know, but fading, like an old photo.”

Hope thought this an indulgent and overromantic statement. It made her angry, and it was all she could do, given all the tension she’d been under, to keep from bursting forth. “You know, Sally,” she said with a coldness that surprised her, “I don’t really want to discuss all the ins and outs of your emotional state. So things aren’t perfect. What is it you want to do? I hate living in this minefield of a household. It seems to me that either we split up, or, I don’t know, what? What would you suggest? But I sure as hell hate this psychological roller coaster.”

Sally shook her head. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Like hell you haven’t.” Hope felt a little guilty about how good it felt to be angry.

Sally started to say something, then stopped. “There’s another problem,” she said. “One that impacts both of us, and how we live.”

Sally quickly filled Hope in on the complaint from the state bar association and with the harsh financial reality that a good chunk of their savings had-at least for the time being-been wiped out, and that it would likely take some time for her to track down the money and file the necessary documents to get it returned.

Hope listened, aghast. “You are kidding, right?”

“I wish.”

“But that wasn’t your money, it was our money. You should have consulted me beforehand.”

“I had to move with speed to avoid a real inquiry by the bar association.”

“That’s an excuse. But not one that explains why you didn’t pick up the goddamn phone and tell me what was going on.”

Sally did not reply.

“So, we’re not only on the verge of divorce, but we’re suddenly broke?”

Sally nodded. “Well, not completely, but until we get things sorted out…”

“Well, that’s great. Just dandy. Just fucking terrific. What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Hope stood up and paced back and forth across the room. She was so angry with her partner that it seemed as if the room lights had dimmed and then brightened, like a power surge in the electricity.

Before Sally could reply, I don’t know, the telephone rang.

Hope pivoted about, stared at the phone as if it were somehow to blame for misfortune, and stomped across the room to answer it. She was muttering obscenities to herself with every step, and the words managed to mark her pace.

“Yes?” she said rudely. “Who is it?”

From her spot in the armchair, and more or less miserable from the mess her life seemed to be in, Sally saw Hope’s face abruptly freeze. “What is it?” Sally asked. “Is something wrong?”

Hope hesitated, obviously listening to the person on the other end of the line. After a moment, she nodded and said, “Jesus effing Christ. Hang on, I’ll get her for you.”

Then she turned to Sally.

“Yes. No. Here. You take it. It’s Scott. The creep is back in Ashley’s life. Big-time.”

Scott arrived at their house about an hour later. He rang the doorbell, heard Nameless bark, and looked up to see Hope opening the door. They had their usual second or two of awkward silence, then she gestured for him to enter. “Hey, Scott,” she said. “Come on in.” He was surprised that Hope looked as if she’d been crying, because he had always assumed she was the tough one in the relationship with Sally. One thing he did know for certain: his ex-wife was the moody half of any relationship.

He dispensed with any greetings when he reached the living room. “Did you speak with Ashley?”

Sally nodded. “While you were driving over. She filled me in on what she told you. Now she’s stuck with no job and a mess at school.” Sally sighed. “I guess we underestimated just how persistent Michael O’Connell might be.”

Scott lifted his eyebrows. “That would seem to be an understatement. It was a mistake we probably couldn’t have avoided. But now we’ve got to help Ashley extricate herself.”