“See differently?” Strad says. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Maybe someone wants you to see what kind of person you really are,” Georgia says.

“Or maybe someone wants you to see the people around you in another way,” Penelope says.

I puzzle over which of my friends sent this gift. It could have been any of them. It even could have been Lily, whose meaning behind the engraved words may have been: “Take a good look at yourself. Are you really so much more beautiful than I am?”

“Or maybe someone thinks you’re vain,” Jack offers.

Strad seems a bit disgruntled at these less than flattering interpretations. He finally suggests, “Or maybe someone thinks I’m a great guy and feels compelled to shower me with gifts.”

“One gift,” I mutter. “Hardly a shower.”

“Oh, it’s a shower. I call three gifts a shower. This is the third anonymous gift I’ve received.” He plunges his hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out two silver objects: a lighter and a business card holder. They are both beautifully engraved in a similar fashion. The words on the lighter, right under his name, are “Desire Differently.” And on the card holder: “Think Differently.”

I just stare.

“I like these gifts,” he says, putting them back in his pocket. “I just wish I knew who they were from. I haven’t told anyone I was coming here today, so whoever dropped this off must have followed me here, or been hired to follow me. Unless . . . they’re from one of you,” he says, his gaze lingering on Lily.

We all shake our heads no, including Lily, who blushes slightly.

I return the scissors to my bedroom. Clearly these gifts have to come from someone in our group. If KAY’s attack is only in the form of words engraved on a beautiful gift, I can handle that. The words aren’t even an insult—just a gentle suggestion. Perhaps I’ve been overly cautious. I tell myself to relax a bit. I’ve known my friends a long time and I should have a modicum of faith that none of them would commit murder. I pause, catching an error in my thinking, which I grimly correct: or at least commit murder a second time.

As I reenter the living room, I see that Georgia has stepped away from the couch area, where the others are chatting. She is casually approaching the hand mirror, which I’d placed on a little table between two windows.

My leeriness comes swirling back.

“Georgia! What are you doing?” I bark.

She seems flustered—a rare occurrence. “Nothing, I just wanted to examine the mirror.”

“Really.” My tone reeks of skepticism.

“Don’t let her!” This is Jack.

“Step away.” I march over to the mirror. “Why are you so interested in it?”

“I’m not so interested in it,” she says. “I’m just exhibiting a normal degree of curiosity.”

I pick up the mirror and examine it. We were so relieved it wasn’t a bomb, we forgot to be thorough. I turn it over, scrutinize the intricate molding.

And then I see something.

A tiny clasp that blends in with the molding. It’s located on one side of the handle, in the nook where the handle meets the mirror. I spot an identical one on the other side. Each clasp is encrusted with one tiny red stone which I had noticed but thought was just decoration. I open both clasps and pull on the handle.

With a grave metallic sound, a steel blade slides out. What a moment ago was a harmless object of vanity is now a dagger and its sheath.

Chapter Eleven

Everyone gathers around me.

My lips clenched, I study my friends.

I see profound shock and stricken features.

I just can’t tell which one’s faking it.

“Not so close,” I say, pointing the dagger at them. I wouldn’t want anyone to grab it from my hands and stab Strad.

They back up.

“Wow, look at that,” Strad says, oblivious. “How cool!” He takes the knife and mirror from me. “It’s an even better gift than I thought. Too bad I don’t know who it’s from.”

“Yes, it’s a shame,” I say, trying to unwrap Georgia’s soul with my eyes.

She gives me a little shake of the head to deny her culpability.

Far from being too cautious, it’s clear to me I was not nearly cautious enough. Drastic revisions of plans need to go into effect immediately.

“If you don’t mind, I must put that in the bedroom,” I tell Strad, tugging on the dagger and sheath.

“Why?” he says, letting them go.

“It’s my knives and weapons phobia.”

“Why are you guys so scared of me?” he asks. “I’m not going to hurt anyone!”

“Oh really?” Georgia replies, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

I notice Lily reacting with a barely perceptible cringe.

“And I need your cell phone, too,” I tell Strad.

“And what’s your pretext for that?” he asks, plopping it in my palm.

“Disliking interruptions.” I look at the assembly. “Couch area!” I order, pointing.

They shuffle to the couch.

I carry Strad’s gift and phone to my bedroom. Despite being deeply shaken up by the dagger’s unsheathing, I’m still not sure I want to resort to my special backup safety method. So I hold off for now.

I return to the living room with a nagging feeling that I’ve overlooked something.

And then it occurs to me.

“Strad, show me your other gifts again,” I say.

“Why? You want to take those away too?”

“Please, I just want to see them.”

He hands me his silver lighter and business card holder. I scrutinize both. After fiddling with them for a few moments, I discover a very well hidden razor blade built into the structure of each one. Once the blade is slid out, it remains attached to the object, which has become its handle.

“CUCKOO!” shrieks the bird ten times in the most obnoxious manner possible. It’s ten p.m.

“You are cuckoo, Barb, to have bought that clock,” Georgia says, clenching her heart with her hands.

“Those are fantastic gifts!” Strad says, thrilled to behold the hidden weapons.

I don’t share his enthusiasm. I visualize what could have happened tonight if I hadn’t discovered those blades. Maybe after dinner, while sitting on the couch having coffee, Strad would have taken out his lighter, lit a cigarette, and tossed the lighter onto the coffee table to await his next cigarette. (I would have allowed him to smoke since our priority this evening—his protection, not our comfort—requires him to stay with us till midnight.) My friend the killer would then have gotten up to stretch his/her legs, casually picked up the lighter “to look at it,” pulled out the blade, and sliced Strad’s jugular. Same thing could have happened with the business card holder if the opportunity had presented itself.

Who knows what other weapons the killer might have stashed or smuggled in, or simply have access to—starting with his or her own body, for Christ’s sake! I hadn’t thought of it till now, but here it is: what if the killer is a secret martial arts black belt and can inflict a lethal blow in a split second?

“Sit!” I order my friends, pointing to the couch.

I carry Strad’s silver gifts to my bedroom.

It’s clear to me I’ve got no choice but resort to my special backup method now.

I return from my bedroom holding four pairs of handcuffs I bought a couple of days ago.

I drag four chairs from the dining table to my ballet bar, which is parallel to the table, a few feet away from it. The fact that the bar is sturdy, horizontal, height-adjustable, and bolted to the floor makes it perfect for what I have in mind. I lower it to child level. I position the chairs side by side, behind the bar, and instruct my friends to take their seats.

They obey, only a little surprised. I handcuff their left wrists to the bar. They will be comfortable; their forearms can rest on the bar, which hovers a foot above their laps.