“What’s this all about?” Pritchett asked him.

He had been a fool. He had trusted her, had let himself get lulled into careless affection for her.

Based on Toua’s statement and case reports, they arrested Caroline Yip, and, knowing that with no record she’d make bail, they issued a restraining order against her.

It had been a decent ruse, and it might have worked, everyone believing the MOD were on another search-and-rampage mission but had been spooked by something-a noise, a neighbor-into leaving before they could gut the house of its possessions, except for one small but critical error. Can’t Stop. Won’t Stop, besides being unusually well-punctuated with apostrophes and a period, had been sprayed with blue paint. The MOD were Bloods-red bandanna. Blue was the color of the Crips, their rivals.

In the end, the charges against Caroline were dropped. She had no alibi for the hours after the restaurant closed at 10:30, but there was little evidence to prosecute her, no prints, no eyewitnesses of a woman with long hair on a bicycle, nothing incriminating found in her house like a spray-paint can or soiled clothes.

Nonetheless, Caroline Yip chose to leave town. Toua saw her as she was packing up a U-Haul van to drive to California.

“She used you, you know.”

“I think if anyone did, you used me,” Toua said.

“You have a funny way of interpreting things. Don’t you get it? She faked it. She set me up. Set you up. Hasn’t that occurred to you? Marcella invented this insidious plot to frame me and run me out of town.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Who knows. What makes one person want to destroy another? Huh? She has everything, yet it’s not enough.”

“There’s no point in pretending anymore.”

“She’s a vulture. She has some sick bond to me. She needs to humiliate me. She needs my misery. She can’t function without it.”

“You need help.”

She slammed the doors to the van shut. “I feel sorry for you,” Caroline said. “You missed it. It could have been something real, and you missed it.”

He watched her maneuver the van down the driveway and onto the street, then headed inside the studio to pack his own possessions. He had things to do. First on the list, he needed a bed for his new apartment.

Could Marcella Ahn have been that smart and calculating? He hadn’t looked at the water bill very closely. She could have doctored it. She could have known all along that he’d been on the MOD task force. She could have wrecked her own home, orchestrating everything to this outcome.

He picked up his duffel bag. He didn’t want to believe it. Believing it would mean that Caroline was right, he’d missed his chance to emerge from the deadness he felt. It was easier to believe, all things considered, that he’d been betrayed by her. She was a devious person, a liar, conniving and malicious, rent with envy, hopelessly bitter. It was comforting to think so. He could live with that kind of evil. It had a passion and direction he could understand, even a touch of poetry.

THE COLLAR

BY ITABARI NJERI

Roxbury

Hey. You better snap the fuck out if it,” Nina told him, popping her fingers in a circle around his head. “She’s not your friend. She’s the en-na-mee,” Nina half sang. Didn’t think she had to emphasize the obvious to a thirty-two-year-old ex-Marine on his way to a doctorate from M.I.T. But the more she heard, the more she wondered about the terms of discharge and criteria for admission.

Isaac faced an assault charge that was aggravated, Nina discovered, by stupidity: violation of a restraining order.

“You don’t know to cross the street if you see her?”

“She was boarding the same bus.”

“What’s your point?” That’s all they had at Dudley Station, transfer point to anywhere in Boston -buses. “Take another one.”

And his stab at “resolving things”-on the crowded #1 to Cambridge -happened after the arraignment.

At the arraignment, his best friend showed up with both sets of grandparents, a trio of uncles, and a chorus of cousins.

“I didn’t know she had that many relatives in America,” the ex-corporal droned, still shocked and awed.

Nina tilted her close-cropped curls and smiled, picturing it. “You think she flew some in from Johannesburg?”

“And she was wearing her collar.” Isaac said it in a slow monotone matching the zombie gaze that was pissing Nina off. “I’ve known that girl three years and I ain’t never seen her wear her collar.”

The divinity school grad had a tongue-twisting South African name. Isaac called her Sindi for short. Nina Sojo liked Collar, and couldn’t help smiling a little when she thought of her. Collar wanted blood.

They were sitting at Nina’s dining table. A used Queen Anne repro someone had painted high-gloss white. The chairs too. Isaac drew his finger down the side of an ice-filled glass of lemonade. He examined the trail.

“Do you want me to help you find a lawyer or not?”

He winced, but kept looking at the glass.

Nina pulled back, slow and haughty. Frowning deepened the groove between her brows. It was the only line in her bare moon face. She never wore makeup offstage.

The Boston Yellow Pages was sitting there on the table. She’d been looking up lawyers. Now she stared through him, picked up the directory, and gave him her half-bare back. The crisp white top was sleeveless and gathered in a tie under her holstered breasts. The naked skin from there to her hips was the color of dark honey. The jeans gripped just below her waist. Everything looked tight. But unhike those tits, lay Nina flat, and the twins danced the slide. Shock at her body’s betrayal lent Nina Isaac’s zombie stare. She’d had to smack herself one morning while looking in the mirror. It is what it is, she finally told herself. The change had happened between cities and lovers. Vancouver and Boston. The economist and the chemical engineer. The engineer hadn’t minded: Isaac made clear the pussy was good. “Hot and wet. Just the way I like it.” But post-forty pussy stayed in the house. You didn’t date it. You could take it to Starbucks, but not to see Monster’s Ball. “You kidding?” Isaac had shook his head at the accusation. “Oh. Okay. I tell you what: let’s flip the script and do the movie. Cause it’s not like you really hittin’ that other thang too good. Know what I’m sayin’?” She had counted on the lockdown to make him want it. When he did: “Uh-uh. You don’t know how to treat me.” That was February. It was June now. Pussy was still on strike.

She pushed the phone book onto a loaded shelf, then rummaged the refrigerator to make a doggie bag for Isaac’s cousin Devon.

Two sets of tall bookcases standing back-to-back divided the kitchen area from the rest of the bright, loftlike unit. She’d moved in two days after 9/11. The space was a quality reno off Moreland in one of Roxbury’s historic districts. Unpacked boxes draped with white sheets were still ghostly roommates after nine months. The stacked cartons formed an undulating cityscape and dividing line. On one side: her Yamaha Clavinova and shelved music collection. On the other: a computer workstation near the dining table that doubled as a desk, two halogen torch lamps, and Isaac on her futon. Staring at the ceiling lights and fake-wood trusses. Or just in that direction.

Isaac asked her something she pretended not to hear.

About now, she was feeling the Newark brother who’d put those bookshelves together. Always helpful, fun over a beer, and a professional cook who had dinner waiting when she came home. And the dick was good. Just too much insecurity attached. He never finished high school. Dropped out to raise two younger brothers who did. She thought all that admirable and said so. But Chef was always comparing himself to someone like Isaac. Dr. M.I.T., the chef called him.