Okay. She was scared now. Something wasn't right with the way his eyes looked. Like he was drunk or something, but Aaron didn't drink. Did he?

She took a deep sniff of him and smelled liquor, and her stomach flipped. "I want you to leave, please," she said.

"Oh, I don't think so."

"I'm going to call the police."

"No you're not." He grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her over to the railing, pushing her down until she sat in front of him. He leaned into her, much too close.

"Who's 'they,' Leelee? You just said 'they' are going to be home any minute."

"Emma and Thomas-her boyfriend."

The look on Aaron's face was priceless, and if she hadn't been so scared she would have laughed at him. Aaron had always been the big man, so certain he was the one who called the shots.

"Boyfriend." The word came out in a hateful hiss of liquor breath and she had to turn her face away. "When the fuck did she get a boyfriend?"

"Nice language to use around a child, dipshit." She tried to squirm away from his grip. "Let me go."

"Who is this guy? Answer me." Aaron's fingers tightened on her arm.

"You're hurting me, loser."

"Who is he?"

"What does it matter to you?" Leelee heard her voice go high and loud and she sounded like a frightened little kid. "You don't have any business buffing into Emma's life. Now that she finally got smart and got rid of you, she's never been happier-"

Aaron's hand whipped across Leelee's face and her head snapped back from the impact.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Oh, my God-"

"I said shut up."

She couldn't believe it! This was something she'd always pictured happening in L.A. -that she'd be walking down the street and some crackhead would stick a gun in her face and threaten to kill her. But not here. Not someone she knew. Not in Wholesome World. This was too bizarre to be real.

But when Aaron's palm hit her face again, she knew without a doubt it was real. The pain was sharp, and the metal of the gun felt cold against the hot place on her cheek where he'd just hit her. And she started to cry.

"What are you doing, Aaron?" There was nothing she could do to stop the tears, and now her whole body shook. "I don't understand why you're doing this."

"Of course you don't."

"Why are you hurting me?"

"I wish I didn't have to."

She opened her eyes to find him smiling down at her.

"When's your birthday, Leelee?"

"Whaa-?" His fingers dug into her arm and he shoved the gun into the hollow below her cheekbone. What a strange thing to ask.

He continued to smile at her. "The month and year you were born."

"I, uh-"

"How old are you? You're supposed to be some sort of fucking genius, right? So answer the question-when is your fucking birthday?"

She gulped down air, and got another whiff of the liquor on him. He stunk to high heaven. She thought she might hurl. " May fifth, 1989."

Aaron chuckled to himself in a creepy, soft way that made Leelee cringe.

"Well, that answers that." He smiled at her again. "I always wondered if you might be my kid. Wouldn't that be cozy? Close but no cigar, as they say."

Leelee's throat hurt and her chest felt tight and it was the ugliest feeling she'd ever experienced in her life-ugly because she realized she was so desperate that she was actually disappointed that Aaron wasn't her dad. Because then the hole would be filled-even with a complete loser-but it would be filled at last.

She was so ashamed and so scared that she started to cry hard. Was he going to kill her now? Was he going to wait for Emma to come home and kill her, too?

But Thomas would be with Emma…

She sniffed and raised her head. "You won't get away with this. Thomas will kick your ass."

Aaron scowled at her, then checked his watch. "I said shut up."

"He's a special investigator with the state police and a rugby player and he loves Emma more than you ever did and he'll squash you like the larva you are."

That was the last thing Leelee remembered.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

With shaking hands, Emma picked up Aaron's old baseball hat and, as if she needed to know for certain, she brought it to her face and inhaled.

Yes, it absolutely smelled like Aaron to her pitiful human nose, so she could only imagine the intensity of the scent for Hairy.

The dog was a pathetic, trembling mess. His tail was still curled between his legs and his back was hunched and he was telling her… telling her that Aaron had killed Scott Slick.

Oh, God.

Emma's hands went flying through the box of junk. She didn't know what she was looking for but she needed proof that she was wrong, that Hairy was wrong, that this could not possibly be true.

She pulled out a half-dead racquetball, a sweatband, a pair of gym socks, the cuff links she gave him on their second anniversary, a birthday card she'd given him a few years ago, old patient files that he should have taken with him, a scratch pad, a few veterinary textbooks… Emma's hand went back to the pad, and flipped through the pages.

She'd found something all right, but it didn't ease her mind. Page after page contained Aaron's familiar penciled scrawl, numbers and the names of sports teams that would look like gibberish to anyone unfamiliar with bookmaking.

Unfortunately, she knew just what she was looking at. And on several pages, Aaron had written Scott Slick's name and phone number.

She had to reach Thomas. Despite everything-everything that had just happened here between them, he had to know this. Detective Massey had to know this. Aaron had to be caught.

And then the image popped into her mind: how desperate Aaron had been the last time she'd seen him, lowering himself into the Z and saying, "You have no idea what you've just done."

If he was capable of killing Slick, he was a violent man. Had that been a warning? Some kind of threat?

Emma pushed herself off the floor and punched in the numbers to Thomas's beeper, then called the state police to get a message to Regina Massey. Then she called home. When no one answered, the flesh on her arms prickled into goosebumps and her breath came shallow and quick.

Leelee.

Oh, God. Leelee!

Thomas didn't consciously know where he was headed until he pulled into the parking lot of Chesapeake Urology Associates and cut the engine.

He had no idea whether Rollo was still in his office. He had no idea how late Rollo saw patients on Thursdays. He could be at a meeting. He could already be home. Thomas had no idea.

But he needed him. Now.

Thomas whipped open the glass door and it slapped against the waiting room wall. Until he saw the startled expression on the receptionist's face, Thomas hadn't even considered that he might look like a deranged fiend, a man on the edge.

Which, of course, he was.

"May I help-"

"Where's Rollo?"

"He's with his last patient, but… Mr. Tobin?"

Thomas flung open the door that led to the exam rooms and doctors' offices and took wide strides down the white fluorescent-lighted hallway, scanning, listening, until he heard Rollo's voice from behind a closed door. He pounded on it.

"What the-" Rollo's face went from anger to shock inthe blink of an eye. "Thomas?"

"I'm sorry. It's an emergency. I'll be inyour office."

"Is it Pam? The kids?" Rollo looked like he was going to keel over, and Thomas suddenly felt like a jerk.

"God, no. Nothing like that."

The anger reappeared and Rollo lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Goddammit, Thomas, this better be good."

He closed the door in his face.