“Good Lord,” she breathed. “Ellis!”

“What?” Booker demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Julia chuckled. “I just saw our Ellis, outside in the moonlight, making out with a strange man.”

“I thought you said this was a chick thing. No guys allowed.”

“I did. They weren’t,” she said.

“Julia,” Booker’s voice was plaintive. “Have you heard a single word I’ve just said?”

She was staring down at Ellis, who was walking towards the house at a fast clip. She was in her pajamas, for God’s sake. And even from where Julia stood, with the moonlight making things absurdly bright, she could see the bemused smile on Ellis’s face. Well good for Ellis. But who on earth was the man? He stood for a long while on the deck, staring at the house. Julia hadn’t turned the light on in her room, so she was sure he couldn’t see her, but just in case, she took a few steps away from the window.

“I hear you, Booker,” she said sofly. “But I can’t talk about this any more. Love you. G’night.”

He was still sputtering when she disconnected. Julia heard the downstairs screen door open and close, and then the sound of the front door closing. Ellis’s bare feet trod lightly on the stairs.

Julia stayed at the window, peering out. Finally, the man walked slowly up the boardwalk towards the house. Julia held her breath. Delicious! Was he going to follow Ellis into the house, sneak into her bedroom for a secret tryst? Wait. He was heading towards the garage. What? When he stood for a moment under the garage light she saw his face clearly. It was the garage guy, Ty Bazemore. Ellis and Ty! What a lovely, unexpected development, Julia thought.

*   *   *

Maryn awoke with a start, and sat straight up in bed. For a moment, she struggled to remember where she was. The air in the room was hot and stagnant. Her sweat-soaked nightgown clung to her body. Then she heard the crunch of tires on the crushed shell driveway outside, and with a jolt, she knew exactly where she was.

She glanced at the cheap clock radio on the nightstand. It was 2 A.M. A car was rolling slowly down the driveway. Bile rose in her throat, and for a moment, she felt paralyzed. Then she got up, knelt down, clawing at the thin mattress, until her fingers closed over the pistol she’d hidden there. She ran to the window opposite her bed and peeked out between the faded cotton curtains. She exhaled slowly. It was the red Bronco, the one driven by the man who rented the garage apartment.

Maryn watched as he pulled into the garage. A moment later he walked out of the garage, illuminated by the motion-activated light at the edge of the porch. He was dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt, and wore a green baseball cap with the bill pointed backwards. His name was Ty, Dorie had said, and he was a day trader. He looked tired as he slowly climbed the wooden staircase on the exterior of the garage.

She stayed at the window, watching, until she saw the lights switch on in the garage apartment. She could see him through the uncurtained windows, walking around. He went to a table near the window and looked out. She backed away from her own window, not wanting to be seen. She looked down at the .32 still clenched in her right hand.

It was Don’s pistol. He’d given it to her not long after they first started dating and she was living in that rat-hole apartment on Pinelawn. Her car had been broken into and her cell phone stolen, and he was insistent that the neighborhood wasn’t safe. Which it wasn’t.

The next night when he came over, he had a brown paper bag which he carefully set down on her kitchen table.

She gasped when he pulled the gun from the bag. She’d never been around guns. Her father never owned one.

“Don’t be afraid, baby,” Don had said gently. He showed her how to load it and unload it. Then they’d driven out to the country. He set a row of beer cans on a tree stump, and he showed her how to aim and fire.

“Don’t I need a permit for this?” she asked, after he was satisfied that she knew how to use the thing.

“Nah,” he’d said. “I’ve got a permit, and anyway, if you ever have to use the damned thing, you’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

She’d thought it was sweet, that he wanted to protect her.

When he insisted that she move out of the apartment and into the condo in a complex he owned closer to town, it was so she’d be living someplace nicer. The rent was twice what she could afford on her salary at the insurance company, but since Don owned the condo and had no intention of letting her pay rent, that wasn’t a problem. It hadn’t dawned on her that it was more convenient for Don, her living there. He came by most nights, bringing takeout Chinese or a steak that they’d grill on the little enclosed patio off her living room.

They’d met at the office. Don had grown up with the Prescotts, and now he was the firm’s accountant. She never would have met him at all, except that one day, two years ago, Marie, Robby Prescott’s administrative assistant, had jury duty, and Maryn was drafted to answer the boss’s phone. As luck would have it, that was the day Don Shackleford showed up to take Robby Prescott to lunch.

It was a chilly fall morning, and he wore an expensive-looking cashmere coat over his suit. She was on the phone when he entered the office, and he stood impatiently at her desk, tapping his fingers on the papers in Marie’s in-box, glancing at his watch, which had annoyed her. Was he tapping to let her know what a big, important man he was? Too important to be kept waiting? So she let him wait, pretending to be listening long after her call had actually ended, just so he knew she was busy too.

“Yes?” she’d said coolly, looking up as though she were seeing him for the first time.

“I’m here for Robby,” he said impatiently. “Where’s the other girl?”

“Marie? She has jury duty.”

“And you work here too? What’s your name?”

“Maryn,” she said. “I work in claims processing.” She said it with the faintest hint of a smile. “I’ll let Mr. Prescott know you’re here.” She got up from her desk, stuck her head in the boss’s office, and quietly let him know he had a visitor. Prescott was on the phone, but mouthed he’d be out when he was done.

When she got back to her desk, Don had seated himself on a leather wing chair opposite her desk. “He’s on a call, but he’ll be out as soon as he can,” she told the visitor. She went back to her computer, to the file she’d been working on, but she felt his eyes on her. He was checking her out, which was fine, because she was checking him out too.

And she liked what she saw. Don Shackleford was in his early forties, with thick white-blond hair, a deep tan, ice blue eyes above pronounced cheekbones, and a wide mouth and perfect teeth. He wasn’t particularly tall, maybe five-eight, and he had a thick neck and athletic build. She noticed right off that he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

Maryn wasn’t surprised when Don was back the next week. This time, he hunted her down at her own desk, on some pretext that they both knew was absurd. He asked her to lunch, and she refused, saying she had plans. What about next week, he’d persisted.

“Next week when?” Maryn had asked, not caring.

“Any day next week,” he’d said. “Or the week after that. Come on. You know you’re going to go to lunch with me. Why not make it sooner than later?”

“Next Friday,” Maryn told him. “But I only get an hour. Come by for me at one.”

That next Friday, she’d worn her best outfit, a Marc Jacobs pantsuit she’d bought—the tags still on it—at an upscale consignment shop in Philly. The red jacket fit her like a glove, and she’d worn high-heeled black boots that made her only two inches shorter than him.

“You look good,” Don said, holding the door of his silver Carrera. They’d gone to the Valley Brook Country Club for lunch, and they’d dined in the men’s grill, where all the men sitting around in golf clothes greeted Don like they’d known him for years. He saw their questioning glances at Maryn, but he didn’t bother to introduce her. “Horny old bastards,” he said with a laugh.