Now, I pinned the paper to the floor with the point of the pen, and raked it out. It was a sheet covered with tiny black handwriting.

I peered at it and switched on the desk lamp to see it better. It was a log of the comings and goings at Tamsin's house. Nothing much, it seemed, had happened at Tamsin's that particular day. The Lynd-Egger couple had gone to work, come back home. Various lights had gone off and on. Tamsin had swept the back porch, and Cliff had spent five minutes in the little tool closet by the back porch some time after that. The date was the night before Jack and I had heard Tamsin yell on her front porch.

I was sure the rest of this log, which was a terrible document in and of itself, had been taken by the police. Perhaps Gerry had ripped this day's observations out to discard because nothing much had happened, and I hoped that the other notes he'd made proved of more value. The person stalking the counselor—it was hard not to think of this person as some kind of evil entity, since he was so invisible—hadn't liked anyone else stalking them, I was willing to bet. Gerry's obsession with the stalker's obsession had led to his own death.

As I locked the door behind me, my job completed, I suddenly realized that Gerry must have found out, there at the end, who the stalker was. I hoped, after all he'd sacrificed for the knowledge, he'd had a moment's satisfaction. Had he been dreadfully surprised ... or had the killer's face been well known to him?

I was glad to lie down when I got home, but it was a good, tired feeling; not exhaustion. I watched a few shows on television: a biography of an actor I'd only heard of in passing, a documentary on the CIA. It was embarrassing to realize that the phone ringing actually woke me up.

"Yes?"

"Lily." Jack.

"Hi."

"I won't be home tonight. I'm going to start this job right away. If the CEO likes the job I do, there'll be more business from this firm."

"What does he want you to do?"

"She." I felt embarrassed. "She wants me to do very thorough background checks on the applicants for this very sensitive job." He was telling me the essence without the particulars, but that was all right with me. "Have you been taking it easy?" Jack asked, suspicion evident in his voice.

"Well, I did do a little work today."

"You know what Carrie said, Lily!"

"I just couldn't stand it any more. I had to do something or die of boredom."

"Lily, you have to mind the doctor."

"Yes," I said, keeping my voice gentle.

"I love you."

"I know. I love you, too. I got to go, Jack. Someone's at the door."

"Answer it while I'm on the phone."

I went to the door and looked through the peephole Jack had installed for me. "It's Bobo, looks like."

"Oh, okay," Jack said, relieved. I cocked my head as I opened the door. Jack, who was sometimes jealous, had never gotten the fact that there was actually something to be jealous of with Bobo. I was grateful for his lack of acuity where this particular Winthrop was concerned. I sometimes felt very guilty when I caught an unexpected glimpse of Bobo and experienced a definite physical reaction to the sight of him.

"Bye, Jack," I said, and he told me he would see me the next day.

I waved Bobo inside, feeling unusually curious about what he would have to say. This time, sure I was safe from— well, safe—I let him in and shut the door behind him.

"Are you okay with... ?" he tried just waving his hands a little, not wanting to come right out and say it.

"With you having sex with a friend of mine?"

"Yeah, that."

"Of course, Bobo. You're over eighteen and so is Janet." Not for anything in the world would I have explained my more complicated feelings. I would hardly admit them to myself.

But, as he often did, Bobo surprised me. And this was why I never quite lost a link to this unusual golden boy, this was why despite the difference in our ages and our lives there was a relationship between us. "It's not just that, and you know it," he said, his anger evident in the way he was standing, the tension in his arms.

I held up my hands in front of me, palms outward. I meant him to stop; we were not going to get serious, here. I'd had enough of that the night before. My long talk with Tamsin Lynd still griped me.

"You have to tell me if it's true."

Suddenly, everything grew clear. "You heard I was married."

"Yes. Is it true?"

"Tell me you didn't take Janet to bed out of spite."

"Is it true?"

"Yes, it's true."

"How long?"

"A month."

"Why were you keeping it a secret?"

"It isn't anyone's business," I said, not caring if I sounded harsh.

"But it is," he said. "It is. You should have told me."

I lost my temper. "Why? Were you going to marry me?"

"No! But a married woman, you shouldn't even think about her!"

"So, if I'm married, I'm sacred to you, you can't lust after me."

"That's right! That's exactly right!"

"Then end this, right here and now. I am married."

"Can you give up thinking of me? Has being married made any difference to you? Because I know you. I know you think of me."

"Bobo, this is too weird. Neither of us has any business thinking of the other. This is all wrong."

"And now you're married."

"Yes."

"You love him?"

"Of course. More than anything."

"But—"

"But nothing. This—we have to seal this off. This is over."

"We've said this before. Or you have."

"Are you saying I'm encouraging you in this idea you have, that we should go to bed together?"

"No, I'm not saying that. What I'm saying is, I can tell in your eyes that you know that if we did it would be great, that you want to fuck me as much as I want to fuck you."

"But we can't do that, because there are trails leading up to and away from any act of sex."

He took a deep breath. "That's right."

"So we won't talk about this again."

"No," he agreed, more slowly, with less conviction.

"I don't want to answer this door when my hair has gone gray, to find you still talking about it."

He laughed a little. "No," he said. "I have to get on with my life."

"And Jack and I have to get on with ours."

"Lily," he said. He reached out and brushed his knuckle down my cheek. "Do you love me just a little?"

"Yes," I said. I owed him that. "Just a little."

I closed the door.

My unremembered dreams must have caused me to toss and turn in the night, because I woke up tired the next day. I took a cup of coffee out onto the tiny back porch and sat listening to the birds. My rosebush, growing up a cheap plastic trellis to one side of the porch, was in bloom. The rose had been chosen for smell, not appearance, and I closed my eyes to enjoy it to the fullest. My neighbor, Carlton Cockroft, waved at me from his back porch, and I raised my hand. We knew it was too early to talk to each other. The slope up to the railroad tracks was covered with flowering weeds that were full of bugs of all sizes and dispositions. I didn't know much about bugs, but I could appreciate their industry and appearance when they weren't in the house. I watched a butterfly, and a small bee, as each made the rounds of the flowers. When I'd had enough of that, I unrolled the small local paper that I'd gotten from the end of the sidewalk.

MAN STABBED BY STRANGER read the lead headline. I began to read what I assumed was going to be an account of Gerry McClanahan's murder, which had occurred too late to be featured in yesterday's paper. Stabbing is rare in Shakespeare, and stabbing by a stranger almost unheard of. Most killings in Shakespeare are male-on-male violence, of the Saturday-night-drinking-binge variety. I was actually shaking my head, anticipating the national news stories about Gerry's double life, when my eyes caught the name in the story.