“That’s where you live,” Anna said.

“It’s most of the way across the city from here, but you can use the buses now, can’t you?” Smiling-and still crying a little-Rosie nodded.

“You may give that address to some of the friends you’ve made here, and eventually to friends you make beyond here, but right now nobody knows but the two of us.” What she was saying felt like a set-piece to Rosie-a goodbye speech.

“People who show up at your place will not have found out how to get there at this place. It’s just how we do things at D and S. After twenty years of working with abused women, I’m convinced it’s the only way to do things.” Pam had explained all this to Rosie; so had Consuelo Delgado and Robin St James. These explanations had taken place during Big Fun Hour, which was what the residents called evening chores at D amp; S, but Rosie hadn’t really needed them; it only took three or four therapy sessions in the front room for a person of reasonable intelligence to learn most cf what she needed to know about the protocols of the house. There was Anna’s List, and there were also Anna’s Rules.

“How worried are you about him?” Anna asked. Rosie’s attention had wandered a little; now it snapped back in a hurry. At first she wasn’t even sure who Anna was talking about.

“Your husband-how worried are you? I know that in your first two or three weeks here, you expressed fears that he would come after you… that he’d “track you down,” in your words. How do you feel about that now?” Rosie considered the question carefully. First of all, fear was an inadequate word to express her feelings about Norman during her first week or two at D amp; S; even terror didn’t completely serve, because the core of her feelings concerning him were lapped about-and to some degree altered-by other emotions: shame at having failed in her marriage, homesickness for a few possessions she had cared deeply about (Pooh’s Chair, for instance), a sensation of euphoric freedom which seemed to renew itself at some point each day, and a relief so cold it was somehow horrible; the sort of relief a wire-walker might feel after tottering at the furthest edge of balance while crossing a deep canyon… and then recovering. Fear had been the keychord, though; there was no doubt about that. During those first two weeks at D amp; S she’d had the same dream over and over: she was sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the porch when a brand-new red Sentra pulled up to the curb in front. The driver’s door opened and Norman got out. He was wearing a black tee-shirt with a map of South Vietnam on it. Sometimes the words beneath the map said HOME IS WHERE THE HEART is; sometimes they said HOMELESS amp; HAVE AIDS. His pants were splattered with blood. Tiny bones-finger-bones, they looked like-dangled from his earlobes. In one hand he held some sort of mask which was splattered with blood and dark clots of meat. She tried to get up from the chair she was in and couldn’t; it was as if she were paralyzed. She could only sit and watch him come slowly up the walk toward her with his bone earrings bobbing. Could only sit there as he told her he wanted to talk to her up close. He smiled and she saw his teeth were also covered with blood.

“Rosie?” Anna asked softly.

“Are you here?”

“Yes,” she said, speaking in a little breathless rush.

“I’m here, and yes, I’m still afraid of him.” That’s not exactly surprising, you know. On some level I suppose you’ll always be afraid of him. But you’ll be ail right as long as you remember that you’re going to have longer and longer periods when you’re not afraid of anything… and when you don’t even think of him. But that isn’t exactly what I asked, either. I asked if you’re still afraid that he’ll come after you.” Yes, she was still afraid. No, not as afraid. She had heard a lot of his business-related telephone conversations over the last fourteen years, and she’d heard him and his colleagues discuss a lot of cases, sometimes in the rec room downstairs, sometimes out on the patio. They barely noticed her when she brought them warm-ups for their coffee or fresh bottles of beer. It was almost always Norman who led these discussions, his voice quick and impatient as he leaned over the table with a beer bottle half-buried in one big fist, hurrying the others along, overriding their doubts, refusing to entertain their speculations. On rare occasions he had even discussed cases with her. He wasn’t interested in her ideas, of course, but she was a handy wall against which to bounce his own. He was quick, a man who wanted results yesterday, and he had a tendency to lose interest in cases once they were three weeks old. He called them what Gert had called her self-defense moves: leftovers. Was she a leftover to him now? How much she wanted to believe that. How hard she had tried. And yet, she couldn’t… quite… do it.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“A part of me thinks that if he was going to show up, he would have already. But there’s another part that thinks he’s probably still looking. And he’s not a truck-driver or a plumber; he’s a cop. He knows how to look for people.” Anna nodded.

“Yes, I know. That makes him especially dangerous, and that means you’ll have to be especially careful. It’s also important for you to remember you’re not alone. The days when you were are over for you, Rosie. Will you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“And if he does show up, what will you do?” “slam the door in his face and lock it.”

“And then?”

“Call 911.”

“With no hesitation?”

“None at all,” she said, and that was the truth, but she would be afraid. Why? Because Norman was a cop and they would be cops, the people she called. Because she knew Norman had a way of getting his way-he was an alpha-dog. Because of what Norman had told her, again and again and again: that all cops were brothers.

“And after you called 911? What would you do then?”

“I’d call you.” Anna nodded.

“You’re going to be fine. Absolutely fine.”

“I know.” She spoke with confidence, but part of her still wondered… would always wonder, she supposed, unless he showed up and took the matter out of the realm of speculation. If that happened, would all of this life she had lived over the last month and a half-D amp; S, the Whitestone Hotel, Anna, her new friends-fade like a dream on waking the moment she opened her door to an evening knock and found Norman standing there? Was that possible? Rosie’s eyes shifted to her picture, leaning against the wall beside the door to the office, and knew it was not. The picture was facing inward so only the backing showed, but she found she could see it anyway; already the image of the woman on the hill with the thundery sky above and the half-buried temple below was crystal clear in her mind, not the least dreamlike. She didn’t think anything could turn her picture into a dream. And with luck, these questions of mine will never have to be answered, she thought, and smiled a little.

“What about the rent, Anna? How much?”

“Three hundred and twenty dollars a month. Will you be all right for at least two months?”

“Yes.” Anna knew that, of course; if Rosie hadn’t had enough runway to assure her of a safe take-off, they would not have been having this discussion.

“That seems very reasonable. As far as the room-rent goes, I’ll be fine to start with.”

“To start with,” Anna repeated. She steepled her fingers under her chin and directed a keen look across the cluttered desk at Rosie.

“Which brings me to the subject of your new job. It sounds absolutely wonderful, and yet at the same time it sounds…”

“Iffy? Impermanent?” These were words which had occurred to her on her walk home… along with the fact that, despite Robbie Lefferts’s enthusiasm, she didn’t really know if she could do this job yet, and wouldn’t-not for sure-until next Monday morning. Anna nodded.